Eagle spoke for the first time. “Matt, it looks like whoever did this spent the night here—or most of it, anyway. It started snowing at my house just after midnight, and it stopped around seven this morning, while I was having breakfast. That means your man—or woman—got here before it started and left after it stopped; otherwise,
there’d be tire tracks coming and going. Wolf, is there a bedroom in the office building?”
“No,” Wolf replied. “Wait a minute, there’s a back door and a walk leading to the main house. Maybe there are some footprints there.”
The group walked back into the office and Wolf led them to the back door. He switched on the outside lights and opened the door. The walkway leading up to the main house had been shoveled nearly clean.
“I’ll see if we can get some kind of footprint from what’s left of the snow on the walk, and we’ll go over the main house for fingerprints, too,” the sheriff said.
They went back inside, and a deputy met them. “Sheriff,” he said, “we’re making casts of those prints, but I can give you an idea right now.”
“Shoot,” the sheriff said.
“The tires are Goodyear snow and mud tires; they’re standard on half a dozen different new four-wheel-drive vehicles—Cherokees, Broncos, et cetera—and every tire shop in town carries them. The footprints are from some kind of snow boot; I’ve seen ’em before, and they’re common, too.”
“Man or woman?” the sheriff asked.
“They’re about nine and a half inches long, so the size would work for either a large woman or a man. I stood next to them and compared ’em with the depth of my tracks; they’re shallower—I weigh a hundred and eighty; whoever wore the boots, I’d put at one-thirty to one-sixty.”
“Good work, boy.”
“Oh, and something else; the Winchester had been wiped real good. No prints.”
The sheriff nodded. “Mr. Willett, how much do you weigh?”
“A hundred and sixty pounds.”
“Uh-huh. Let me have a look at your shoe soles.”
Wolf displayed a leather boot with a Vibram sole.
“Uh-huh, a different boot from the print.”
Another deputy called the sheriff aside and spoke with him briefly.
The sheriff returned. “Your story checks out with a lady at your house,” he said to Wolf. “About the time you left, I mean. Considering what time you called us and the time we got here and the car tracks and footprints, I think we can rule you out as a suspect, Mr. Willett.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Wolf said.
“So am I,” Ed Eagle echoed.
“I’ll admit, I’m kinda disappointed,” the sheriff said. “You looked real good there for a while, considering you’ve already been charged with three other murders.”
“Matt,” Eagle said, “I’d like to point out that the murders at Mr. Willett’s place have a similarity to this one, in that both were committed with weapons already on the premises—assuming that the Winchester was the weapon used here.”
“That’s a good point, Ed.”
“Can I speak to you in private for a moment, Matt?” Eagle took the sheriff aside. “Are you entirely satisfied that Willett is not a suspect in this murder?”
“I believe I am,” the sheriff replied. “Of course, there could have been an accomplice who left Willett here after the shooting, but that doesn’t really make much sense.”
“I’d like to point out that Shea was one of Willett’s closest friends; Willett had been his patient at one time, and Shea had already told me that he’d be happy to testify on Willett’s behalf, if he’s tried on the other murders.”
“No apparent motive, then,” the sheriff said.
“What I wanted to talk to you about is, when you start talking to the press about this, I’d appreciate it if you’d go out of your way not to imply that Willett is suspected. I
don’t want the papers to crucify an innocent man.”
“All right, Ed, I’ll be careful talking to the press.”
“Thanks.” Eagle rejoined Wolf. “Sheriff, is Mr. Willett free to go now?”
“I guess he is,” the sheriff replied. “I may want to talk to him again, though.”
“He’ll be available at all times,” Eagle said. He shook hands with the sheriff and led Wolf to his car. “Go on home and relax; you’re out of this one.”
Wolf got into his car, then rolled down the window. He looked thoughtful. “Ed, three of the people closest to me have been murdered now. What do you think is going on?”
Eagle shook his head. “I wish the hell I knew, my friend. But I’ll tell you this: I think you ought to have somebody up at the house with you. I can get somebody to do that.”
Wolf thought about it, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“All right, whatever you say, but I think it might be a good idea to keep that gun of yours handy.”
Wolf nodded, then seemed to think again for a moment. “Ed, have you seen Julia’s sister recently?”
A little chill went through Eagle. “Yes. Last night, in fact. She was at my house.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Around midnight, I think.”
“Had it started to snow yet?”
“No.”
“I just wondered,” Wolf said. He started the car and drove away, leaving Eagle staring after him.
Barbara Kennerly was a big girl, Eagle remembered—five ten and a hundred and thirty-five, maybe; she drove a Cherokee; and when he had kissed her goodnight, she had been wearing snow boots.
W
olf drove back to Wilderness Gate on automatic pilot, numb with shock and grief. He pulled up at the house, and Jane greeted him at the door.
“What’s going on?” she whispered, indicating that Sara, who was setting the kitchen table, should not hear.
“I’ll tell you later, when we’re alone,” he whispered back.
Jane had dinner in the oven, and Wolf was surprised that it was after nine o’clock. He picked at the food while trying to make cheerful conversation with Sara.
When they had finally tucked the little girl into bed and left Flaps to guard her, Wolf poured them a drink and took Jane into the study. He took a deep breath. “There’s been another murder: Mark Shea.”
Jane nearly choked on her drink. “Is that what the sheriff’s office was on the phone about?”
“Yes. I arrived at Mark’s house and found him dying.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
“Wolf, what is going on here? I mean, how many more of your friends are going to die before this is over?”
“I don’t know, but I think it would be best if you and Sara were on the noon plane from Albuquerque tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go and leave you in this state.”
“Thank you, love, but we don’t want Sara to know about this, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m going to be fit company for anybody until this is over.”
Jane looked sad. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“I wish you could help, but nobody can until we find out who’s doing this and why. Believe me, I hate to see you go; these few days have been the happiest I’ve had since I left you in L.A.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, kissing him.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without you, being in this house alone at Christmas. I’m going to hate being alone again, too.”
“Well, just as long as you miss the hell out of me.”
“I will, I will.” He pulled her into his arms.
In the middle of the night, Wolf woke and couldn’t go back to sleep. He extricated himself from Jane’s arms and, careful not to wake her, got into a robe and slippers and went into the study.
The moon was high, and there was no need for a light. He poured himself a brandy and stretched out in the Eames lounge chair, looking down over a snow-covered Santa Fe gleaming in the moonlight.
He hadn’t said anything to Ed Eagle, but he felt strongly now that Mark Shea had known more about the murders of Julia, Jack, and Grafton than he had previously been
willing to say. There was nothing else the psychiatrist could have meant when he said he had some things to tell Wolf, things to get off his chest.
Who would have wished the deaths of, first, his wife and his partner, then his friend and doctor? He wrestled with this for a long time, then gave up. He knew no one who was the enemy of any of them, no one who would profit from the death of any of them, let alone all of them.
He had to consider, too, whether he himself was in any danger. After all, Grafton may have died because somebody thought he was Wolf Willett. Suddenly he was frightened again. He went to the hall closet and retrieved the pistol from his coat pocket, then slipped it into the pocket of his robe. It weighed heavily there, felt odd, unnecessary. He had bought the thing while in some paranoid delusion of having to defend the house, and now it looked as though he might need it to defend his life.
He poured himself another brandy and sat down. The moon had set now, and only the quiescent lights of the town could be seen. He was tired and thought of going back to bed; instead, he dozed.
Some time later, he jerked awake. A noise had woken him—or had he dreamed it? He reconstructed the sound from his memory; it had come from the kitchen door. He got up and padded into the kitchen. The noise came again, but fainter this time. His hand closed on the pistol.
He tiptoed to the door and peeped out through the glass pane next to it. He could see nothing; he heard only the sound of a light wind through the piñon trees above the house. He grasped the knob and turned it as silently as he could. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped outside, the pistol before him.
A shock sent him back through the door; he had
stepped into loose snow on the doorstep. He walked out again, avoiding the pile; it hadn’t been there when he’d returned to the house earlier.
The wind blew again, and a handful of snow went down his neck. He danced around, pulling at the cord of his dressing gown, shaking the snow away. Then he looked up. A limb of a ponderosa pine extended over the kitchen door. The wind had blown off its load of snow and deposited it on the doorstep; that was the sound he had heard.
He walked quietly back through the house, still squirming from the cold dampness on his back and in his slippers. In the bathroom he dried himself with a towel, then crept back into bed with Jane. She accepted him as if he’d never left, came into his arms and rested her head in the hollow of his neck. The only sound he heard before falling asleep was a tiny groan of contentment from her.
The following morning, he put Jane, Sara, and a great many shopping bags into a taxi and sent them to Albuquerque Air-port. He watched the cab disappear down the road to Santa Fe. He had never felt more alone.
E
d Eagle was up early the day after Christmas. He had breakfast, then got into the Bronco and drove into Santa Fe. The snow of Christmas Eve had frozen solid, and the streets were icy. Those drivers who had ventured out drove with exaggerated care, and so did Eagle.
He made his way to the east side, through the warren of streets with their adobe houses, some of them antiques, the others designed to seem antique. He found the little apartment house where Barbara Kennerly lived, parked the car, and walked through the archway toward the staircase that led up to her apartment.
As he approached the stairs, Barbara came down, wearing a heavy coat over a nightgown and snow boots.
“Well, good morning,” she said, surprised. She picked up a newspaper and brushed the snow off it.
“Good morning,” he replied. “I was in the neighborhood. Will you buy me a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.” She smiled. “But the place is a mess. Come on upstairs.”
He let her precede him up the steps, which had not been cleared of snow, and he looked closely at the tracks she made. The imprint of the soles was familiar.
She opened the door and waved him in. “You haven’t seen my place, have you?”
“No,” he said, stepping inside. He found himself in a small living room; he could see into the bedroom, only a few steps away, and a tiny kitchen was on the other side of the apartment. “I like it.” He sat down on the sofa.
“It suits me, for the time being,” she said, shrugging. “There’s enough room for one, and the furniture’s not too bad. I’m going to need some pictures, though; I’ve already started looking.” She busied herself in the kitchen and returned with two cups of coffee. “Listen, Ed, I’m sorry about leaving you on Christmas Eve, but I just felt like sleeping alone. Can you understand that?”
“It’s all right, Barbara. I’m accustomed to spending a lot of my time alone. I’ve made a point for a long time to spend Christmas Day by myself.”
“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t.” He changed the subject. “I like the boots. Where’d you find them?”
She held one up for inspection. “A Christmas present to myself. I got them at the Overland Sheepskin Company.”
He knew the place; he’d bought boots there himself. “I like fur boots,” he said. “Do they have them in men’s sizes?”
She laughed. “These are a man’s size nine,” she said. “I’ve got a big foot.”
He was stuck for something to say. “They look warm,” he managed.
“They are,” she said, kicking off the boots. “Just the thing for going out in the snow for the papers.”
“Yes.” A long silence.
“Ed, what brings you over here to see me so early in the morning?”
He shrugged. “The office is closed today. I just thought I’d drop by.”
“Come on, Ed,” she coaxed. “Something’s on your mind; why don’t you tell me about it?”
He couldn’t bring himself to question her as he had intended to, and he looked for another subject. “Barbara, I’ve wanted to talk with you about Wolf Willett’s trial.”
“Is he going to be tried?”
“I expect so, and his case has become more complicated with the death of Mark Shea. Did you know Mark?”
She shook her head. “I saw him at Santacafé a couple of times; he came in for lunch. I never actually met him, though. I heard about his murder on television last night. Have they caught anybody?”