Chapter 32

I’ve had surprises in my life, but that one was a real humdinger. Joe and I had been saying that doctors don’t simply happen by. Yet here one was. And it was a doctor I didn’t particularly want to see at that moment.

Could he have heard Joe and me talking? All our doors and windows were open. Had he overheard our speculation about his connection to the death of Curley McWhirley? The thought paralyzed me.

He spoke. “Hello, Mrs. Woodyard.”

“Good morning, Dr. Davis. I didn’t hear you.”

“I wanted to speak to your husband.”

“Certainly.” I squawked, “Joe!” And my squawk made me realize I was scared to death.

“Joe!” I squawked again. Then I pushed the screen door open, and I forced my voice to be calm and quiet. “Please come in.”

I might have been scared, but I had to act as if this were a normal call and that Dr. Davis was a normal caller. I fixed my mind on that goal, and I led the doctor through the kitchen and the dining room. I didn’t stop until we reached the living room. Then I invited him to sit down. He didn’t sit.

I even waved the carafe I was holding. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I just wanted to ask your husband a few questions.”

There was no sign of Joe in the living room, so I decided that he must have gone into the bedroom. Should I call him out, squawking again? Or should I hope he realized that something’s wrong and has taken shelter somewhere else in the house? There was no reason for both of us to die in this encounter with Dr. Davis.

What a dumb idea, I told myself. No one was going to die. The doctor was acting like a perfect gentleman. I was the one who was lacking poise. And I wasn’t going to kill anybody.

“I’ll try to find Joe,” I said. “I guess he’s dressing.”

I went into the bedroom from the living room. I was closing the door behind me when I realized that Dr. Davis was with me, accompanying me on a trip to haul my husband out of the bathroom.

That wasn’t polite. In fact, it was downright rude.

I stopped and turned to face Dr. Davis. I tried to make my words sound just slightly miffed. “I’ll find Joe and bring him out, Dr. Davis. You can wait in the living room.”

We stood eye to eye. Neither of us moved. Then I squawked again. “Joe! Joe!”

Davis put his hand over my mouth, and he grabbed my arm with his other hand. “Please be quiet,” he said. “We’ll wait here until your husband comes.”

Almost immediately the door to the back hall opened, and Joe stood in the opening. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Can’t a guy shave?”

Then he saw what was going on.

For a moment the three of us stood immobile. Then Dr. Davis clutched his fist over my mouth more tightly. He spun me around, still with his hand over my mouth, and pulled me against his chest.

And I realized that a pistol was against my temple.

“Let her go,” Joe said. “I’ll do anything you want. But let Lee go.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Davis said. “I’m afraid you both must obey me.”

“Dr. Davis,” Joe said, “let’s discuss this logically.”

“It’s too late for that, Mr. Woodyard. You and your wife should close your windows before you discuss sensitive matters.”

“But . . .” Joe spoke again, but I had the feeling he didn’t really have a good idea about what to say.

And at that moment a very unwelcome sound entered the mix.

“Joe! Lee!” It was Digger. He banged on the back door. Then he yelled.

“It’s Digger! I’m back! That guy found the cutoff! The call was canceled!”

For a brief moment my heart jumped with hope. Then it sank. I realized in dismay that all our bedroom curtains were closed. Joe and I were confronting a criminal in the one room in our house that no one could see into.

Digger banged on the door again. Then he yelled again. Bang. Yell. Bang. Yell.

Dr. Davis, Joe, and I all stood immobile. Or almost immobile. Dr. Davis’s lips did move. Using the pistol for emphasis, he mouthed one word.

“Quiet.”

We obeyed. And after a few minutes that seemed like an hour, Digger went away. He muttered and swore, but he did nothing more. His footsteps gradually faded. We heard his truck start. His tires crunched down the drive.

Digger was gone. The only person likely to drop by and help us had left, never realizing how much we needed that help.

Dr. Davis gave a sigh. “Now, Mrs. Woodyard, I’ll let go of you. You move over by your husband and take his hand. Both of you continue to face me. Holding hands.”

I obeyed, turning around and moving to Joe’s side. He took my hand and squeezed it tightly. I squeezed back.

Dr. Davis sighed again. “I think we need one more thing, Mr. Woodyard. The keys to the house across the way. As I walked into this room, I saw a bunch of keys on the dresser. Is the key to that house among them?”

Joe nodded. “It has a cardboard tag.”

“Ah, good.” Davis backed up.

I could feel Joe’s muscles tense. After all, he had been a state champion wrestler. If Davis was even slightly distracted, I knew Joe would jump him. And I hoped he would tear him limb from limb.

I let the hand Joe was holding go limp. If he needed to move quickly, I didn’t want to slow him down.

But Dr. Davis didn’t have even a moment of distraction. He walked backward toward the dresser, and when he reached it, he felt around its top and picked out the key with the cardboard tag. Lifting it in front of his eyes, he read the label.

“Ah,” he said. “‘Bailey house.’ I think that would be a much safer place for us to confer.”

“Why?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Privacy. That idiot plumber is likely to come back. So let’s head to the door to the living room. And as you pass the dresser, Mrs. Woodyard, you may place that carafe on it.”

I had completely forgotten I was holding that darn carafe. I stared at it. Could I throw it at him? Could I pour coffee down his back?

But Joe was shaking his head. And I knew he was right. If I tried to lift my arm, Davis could fire before I could get the carafe in tossing position. And he was moving away from me. I wasn’t going to be close enough to pour the hot coffee on him.

So the three of us went into the living room in a carefully contrived arrangement of captives and captor. And, yes, I remembered to put the carafe on the dresser.

“Just go out the front door,” Dr. Davis said. “We’ll walk down the driveway to the Bailey place.”

And that’s what we did. Joe and I, each afraid of causing injury to the other, led the way to the Bailey house. Dr. Davis followed. An elaborate series of movements allowed him to open the front door. We went inside, still edging gingerly around, and we somehow got down the basement stairs. Joe and I ended up standing on the sandy floor, with Dr. Davis facing us. His back was to the door that led to the outside.

And never, never, did Dr. Davis let the hand holding the gun drop down or lose its aim toward the two of us.

After everything was arranged to suit him, he spoke.

“And now,” he said, “I need to know where those shoes are.”

Shoes? For a moment I was baffled. Of course I remembered them almost immediately, but why did Dr. Davis want them?

Joe put on his professional voice and said, “We don’t have the shoes, and I recommend that you tell your story to the authorities. I’m sure McWhirley’s death was merely an accident.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Woodyard. No, I’m committed to this plan of action. And it means I need the shoes.”

“I told you we don’t have the shoes,” Joe said. “We don’t even know where they are.”

I couldn’t stay silent. “If you listened to us talk our ideas out, you know that we didn’t say anything about where the shoes are.”

“And ‘ideas’ is the right word,” Joe said. “We were simply tossing out ideas about what might have happened. We have no proof of anything.”

He lowered his voice and spoke in a confidential manner. “Even if everything we said were true, Dr. Davis, we have nothing to substantiate our speculations. As a lawyer, I’d advise you to simply ignore such talk.”

Davis sighed deeply. “The problem with that, Mr. Woodyard, is that gossip is the enemy of professional men. I don’t have to be convicted to be ruined. That ‘talk’ you mentioned could do it. I need those shoes. Now!”

Joe spoke again. “We’re at an impasse,” he said.

Or I think that’s what he said. Actually I was too distracted to be sure. Something was happening behind Dr. Davis, and I couldn’t tell just what it was.

I was getting only glimpses through the ground-level windows behind the doctor. Something was moving out there. Something? Or was it someone? Was that a shoe, walking past? Was it the leg of some blue jeans? Who could be there? Was it all my imagination?

Meanwhile, Joe was still talking, talking in a soothing voice, the one he used when he wanted to wear a witness down until an incriminating answer was blurted out.

And I was becoming more and more terrified. Who was outside? Was it a friend? Or was it another foe?

Joe’s calmness wasn’t working on Dr. Davis. The man was getting angrier and angrier. Joe moved slightly in front of me—a heroic gesture, but one that was even more frightening. Then the doctor raised his pistol.

“I can’t take this!” he said. “If you can’t tell me, I’ll just have to end the situation!”

He pulled the hammer of the pistol back.

And an ungodly noise broke loose.

Somebody yelled like a banshee, then howled like a wolf. Two heavy pieces of metal clanged in unearthly rhythms. I screamed.

Joe threw my hand down and rushed the doctor. A pistol shot echoed off the walls of the basement. The old high school wrestler grabbed his opponent in a headlock. The pistol flew across the room. I rushed after it and picked it up.

Joe and Dr. Davis fell in a heap of arms and legs in the middle of the floor, and the outside door to the basement flew open.

It was Digger. He ran to me, and his lips moved.

Of course, thanks to the gunshot, I couldn’t hear a thing he said. I just pointed at Joe, wrestling with Dr. Davis as if he were still sixteen.

“Help Joe! Help Joe!” I doubt Digger could hear anything either.

It was several minutes before my ears began to work. And the first thing I heard was a siren.

It sounded beautiful.