The Man in the Tree by Damon Knight Page B

you."

"Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."

The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.

"Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette

out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you

about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till

tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all

right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."

Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts

yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."

"Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the

woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.

"Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice

answered.

"This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"

"Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already,

and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.

"I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across

his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me

feel like hell."

"It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask

them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can

get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And

then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."

The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know

Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the

back. Eileen, bring your book."

In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right,

the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning,"

Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."

Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan

called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route

one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional

question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again.

About six o'ciock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after

seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement,

three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a

moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.

"Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to

me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"

"Must of stole it somewhere."

"Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree

house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in

his hand? Or else he can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on

Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand,

pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in

the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun,

or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back

and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River

police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction,

Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without

a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."

"You accusing me of something, Wayne?"

"No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone,

and you're a liar."

Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."

"That's right."

Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and

then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a

woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and !eft the room.

"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."

"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "

"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."

"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."

"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone