EPILOGUE

December 18, 1937

Doctor Everett Stewart sat rigidly on the hard surface of the fire place hearth, preferring the cold brick outside the perimeter of the flames to the soft overstuffed chairs that were arranged in a semi circle facing him.

At each quarter hour a giant grandfather’s clock across the room chimed the passing and he checked it against the watch in his vest pocket. Outside the snow was falling. It had been building since midnight. It was now eleven-thirty in the morning and over six inches of white, fluffy snow had accumulated on the ground.

“As long as the wind doesn’t come up, we’ll make it back okay, Doc,” the driver of the taxi had said. “Otherwise, you can forget it for sure.” So far the wind had not come. The snow lay flat across the yard outside the window and packed heavily in the trees. So far. But this was Iowa. Whoever heard of a windless snowy day in Iowa? As the snow piled higher and higher on the windowsill, the doctor realized that he might never make it back to Twin Forks.

And if he did, he might be too late. . . all because of this damnable meeting.

At twelve noon he was to appear before “the Honorable Judge Mark Durham,” grandson of the respected Sam Durham.

As he sat in the judge’s library outside the private study, he wondered if the young man would make him wait until noon. It was not customary to stick to time schedules. Not if the meeting was urgent. And he wondered if the grandson would be similar to old Sam Durham. He’d know soon enough. Maybe too soon. At eleven forty-five he checked his watch against the great clock and looked at the huge double doors to the study, as if they had a time lock and would not open until precisely the right moment.

This was not far from the truth, he thought. The doors had closed on him twenty-one years ago, through mutual agreement, and each day since then all concerned parties knew the doors would not re-open until a time only destiny would determine. Frank Gardner’s death. What he had not expected was that destiny would take Sam Durham’s life before Gardner’s. But, true to form, Sam Durham had anticipated even this and left his grandson the inheritance of a secret. Or, a covenant.

As he waited, he picked up the newspaper again and reread the front-page story. It was a fresh copy of the Twin Fork’s “Clarion”.

“Famous Axe Murder Mystery — Unsolved Forever?”

That was how it was supposed to be. A few questions. Romantic gestures and querying news stories. But no answers. A brief period of renewed but futile interest. And then it would be over. Over forever, finally.

Only one other detail was out of order: Frank Gardner was dying — but not yet dead.

“A memoir may exist. . . the possibility of a death bed confession.”

But who would substantiate the memoir or be able to pass on a private confession to the public?

There was little doubt in the doctor’s mind why the junior Durham had sent for him. As the large hand of the clock neared the vertical position, he found himself, to his own surprise, wishing that the time would pass more slowly. Hoping the telephone would ring and the voice of an old woman standing in the dark entryway of Gardner’s mansion would sadly announce that “the Senator” had died in his absence. The moment they had all been waiting for had finally come and the fears he felt now had proven useless and unnecessary. “The Senator” had died in his sleep, silently.

There was a loud click followed by the sound of one of the large doors of gleaming black walnut sliding open. The doctor looked up, startled, surprised to see how similar young Durham’s appearance was to his grandfather’s thirty years earlier. He tried to retain his composure as he rose, walked toward the ominous black doors, and entered.

“Forgive me, Doctor Stewart, but we have come across some — unusual information — and I thought we should get together.”

Doctor Stewart nodded in agreement and sat down in a hard leather chair in front of Durham’s desk His mind was befuddled. He had agreed — to what? It had been a long time since he had carried on a conversation that required any degree of wit or guarded reaction. Twenty-one years ago he had announced his semi retirement, keeping only those patients he had already taken on. Now he was old and most of his patients had died of the same disease. Frank Gardner was one of those who remained in what could only derisively be called his “practice”. Over the years his mind had slowed, his reflexes had become dull.

And yet, here was Mark Durham. A different Durham, but the same. A businessman in a dark, pinstriped suit and a large diamond ring that sparkled beneath a broad chandelier overhead. It was the same chandelier that had been here before, except light bulbs had replaced the tubular vases where candles once stood. Time, Stewart thought, had changed the Durham family only where convenient.

Behind the wide expanse of the desk that indicated no workload, Durham rested his elbows on the sides of his chair as he puffed on a giant cigar, the kind that are flown in from the east in tubes of grease.

“So.. .Frank is dying. Is that correct? All I know is what I’ve seen in the papers. I’d rather hear it from you then some wet-nose re porter picking up rumors on the street.”

“It would appear that he’s dying.”

“When?”

Doctor Stewart was startled. He wondered if it was the question that startled him or the matter-of-fact attitude displayed by young Durham. He had never been like the Durhams or the others. Actions had been forced upon him.

Conspiracy. Conspiracy.

The word pounded in his mind. Here was Durham speaking to him like they were continuing a conversation cut short yesterday, not almost a quarter century ago, two generations removed.

“I can’t be precise. He’s been getting worse the past few months — and a few days ago he went lower than ever. I gave him some medicine to soothe the pain and let him sleep and then, yesterday, his servant summoned me. I would guess he’ll be dead within three days.”

“Three days.” Durham stood and looked out the window with his back to the others. The snow was falling harder than ever now, diagonally across the window. The wind was picking up.

“How did news leak out he was dying?” Durham asked. “I needed assistance. A neighbor lady was kind enough to help. She sat with him for a few hours yesterday morning and must have guessed the seriousness of his situation.”

But Durham was not satisfied. He turned. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“I saw no reason. I mean —“ Doctor Stewart faltered as his voice cracked, “I just didn’t think about it.”

“No, I suppose there was no overt reason to inform me,” Durham agreed. “At least none of which you were aware.” he went to the deacon’s bench in a corner of the room and returned laboring under the load of a heavy cardboard box.

It landed with a dull thud on his desk. Durham met Doctor Stewart’s inquiring gaze. “The transcripts. They’ve been re quested,” he said simply.

“The trans. . .“ The doctor felt his heart leap. For the first time the real issue was about to enter the conversation.

“Which ones?”

“All of them,” answered Durham. “The murder trial, The slander suit. . .your coroner’s inquest.”

Silence followed as the younger man allowed time for the full impact of the news to sink in on Doctor Stewart. The possibilities — so vague —— and astonishing.

“What are we going to do?” Doctor Stewart asked in a hoarse whisper.

“People will wonder what happened to them.”

Durham shrugged. “We’ll destroy them, of course. There’s a pile of records down there in metal boxes — like this one.” He indicated the brown box he had just placed on the table. It was soiled and the top flaps were chewed and dog-eared. The bottom was moldy and wet, would give way if the box was picked up by the sides and not supported from the bottom.

“It took two hours to find it,” Durham continued. “No one would miss it if it were gone. And if they looked for it — they just wouldn’t find it.”

Doctor Stewart peered into the box. On top of the official papers was a small card with a picture of a handsome, powerful-looking man with immaculately groomed brown hair combed back from a high, wide forehead. Piercing, stem eyes looked out at him from the sides of a long, Roman nose. A beard and moustache were trimmed to perfection and added credence to the strict pose.

Beneath the picture in large bold type were the words: FRANK F. GARDNER — FOR SENATOR.

Doctor Stewart stared at the picture, his eyes transfixed on the image. He has lost track of all time, the face on the card reminded him. Of reality. Slowly he had watched Frank Gardner slip from youth to old age, good health to tragic illness. Not until now did he realize how pronounced the transformation had become.

The doctor returned the picture.

“We can burn them tonight. Everything. And no one will be the wiser. Every shred of evidence will be destroyed,” Durham said.

Doctor Stewart disagreed. ‘Their absence alone will be evidence that there’s a cover-up.”

“So what?” Durham argued. “It just adds to the mystery. People will love it. But the proof will be gone. That’s what counts.”

The young Durham put a match to a half-smoked cigar, speaking between puffs of gray smoke.

“A wire requesting the transcripts was sent to the attention of the County Attorney of Davies County,” Durham smiled. “It was sent by Lona Gardner. Apparently she has presumed that the Durham family doesn’t pull much weight around here anymore.”

Durham slapped the flat of his hand against the decaying box. “The point is we can destroy all of the junk before it can destroy us! And we damn well better do it tonight.”

Why, Doctor Stewart wondered, was Durham so intent upon destroying the transcripts. The young man acted as if he had more to lose under close scrutiny than himself. Was he now over reacting to a fear that had built up inside of him over the years? A guilt complex that enlarged his sense of personal persecution.

The feeling was not unknown to the doctor.

Durham turned toward the doctor. “I’ve been trying to imagine why she wants these transcripts. What possible motive could she have? It would seem that she would have more to lose than anyone by rejuvenating the investigation, especially since there’s only an outside chance that the investigation would put Frank Gardner in a somewhat better light. A very far outside chance.”

“Anything it would add would be conjecture only — having to deal with. . .“ The doctor glanced out of the corner of his eye at young Durham. How much had his grandfather passed on to him? How much did he really know?

If ever there was a time for honesty, he thought, this was the time. Tactfulness was too often misunderstood and, in this situation, a mistake in judgment could be fatal.

“...having to deal with the last days of the slander trial,” the doc tor continued boldly.

“It hardly seems likely that she would suddenly be moved to action now by something that happened over twenty years ago. I was considering a more recent occurrence, what, I don’t know, that may have happened,” Durham said.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“No. I cut you off and I’m sorry for that. Please continue so we can at least ponder your hypothesis.”

Doctor Stewart took a deep breath, “I was summoned to the Gardner mansion the day before the trial. Lona, as you may know, left town on that day. .

“Yes. My grandfather told me she disappeared — leaving her father in the clutches. It looked like she’d deserted him, and did more for the case against him than all the witnesses or evidence. That was the same day Albert died, wasn’t it?

He sat back in his chair, relit the cigar, and gazed contentedly for a few brief seconds at the ceiling. Those days provided a pleasurable memory — one of his grandfather’s finer accomplishments. If there were masters of deceit, Sam Durham had been the headmaster. He enjoyed his work.

A manipulator of people.

The swivel chair creaked as he turned to look out the window.

“You were saying, doctor ...“

‘The night before the last day of the slander trial, I was called to the Gardner mansion. Lona was still there. Albeit Gardner was out, but Frank and Dorothy were present, along with Martha, of course.”

Repeating the names was difficult for Stewart. A few weeks ago he had climbed the cemetery hill in attendance at a funeral of one of his few remaining patients. It was a climb he had grown accustomed to over the years. When the funeral party left the gravesite, he had continued up the hill and found himself by the large plot re served for the Gardner family. Martha Gardner had died a few months earlier. Beside her was the stone that bore her son’s name. The son’s death preceded the mother’s by nineteen years. Albert would have been fifty-five, now. And then Dorothy Davies Gardner lay beside Albert. Something they could never do in life. Her date of death followed her husband’s by thirteen months. Beside these were two more carved stones: Frank F. Gardner and his daughter, Lona Gardner.

On these two stones the dates of death were yet to be filled in. Ironically, as if the cemetery personnel had played a cruel joke on the dead, within eyesight of the Gardner plot were the graves of the eight axe murder victims of 1912. Most prominent was a large stone monument with six deep letters carved on its side: PORTER. A long rectangular block of stone, slightly tilted at the top, eighteen feet long and two feet wide extended from the larger stone with the names of the dead. A few feet away were two more graves. All eight markers had that same date of death. The graves brought back memories that filled his sleep with nightmares. Vividly.

“I arrived in the middle of a terrible argument between Lona and Dorothy. It had something to do with Lona leaving.”

Durham wrinkled his brow ponderously. “And you think the happening of that night would have something to do with her renewed interest in the murder case?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I’ve had — that’s stayed with me all these years. That Lona knows something she decided to conceal, for reasons of her own. Then things got hectic. Albert had been badly injured. Frank was in low spirits. I spent the rest of the night trying to save the boy’s life.”

“As you know. . . I failed.”

“There’s no sense dwelling on the past,” Durham’s voice was firm and disapproving. He had been studying the doctor’s face: measuring each word and the sound of his voice. “It’s the future we’re concerned with now. Specifically, what happens in the next three or four days. A deathbed confession, we can take care of. Your presence in the home should be enough. You do have him sealed off, I assume?”

The doctor nodded.

‘The memoirs bother me. Do you believe they exist?”

“I know they exist. Along with reams of newspaper clippings, he had notes of his memoirs stacked on his table. They are there.”

“Have you read it? Does he go into . . .detail?”

The doctor shrugged. “I didn’t dare read them. A neighbor claims that Frank told her he was working on them. That they’d ‘set the record straight’, whatever that means.”

Durham’s eyes widened. “Then you can destroy them.”

“Probably,” Doctor Stewart agreed.

“If Frank Gardner dies before someone else gets to them,” Durham continued.

Behind his desk, Durham rubbed his chin while he considered the possibilities.

If the doctor knew of the memoirs, then so must Gardner’s daughter, Lona. His eyes strayed to the large, deteriorated card board box on the desk in front of him. In neatly wrapped packages were the court dockets that, in a nutshell, recorded the history of the Twin Forks axe murders from the first day of the discovery when Martha Pinkerman became worried about the “strange quiet” at her neighbor’s house, to the final day of the slander trial three and one-half years later.

And now Lona had requested copies of them: was willing to pay eight hundred dollars to a typist who could reproduce them by the end of the week. Why?

One thing seemed certain to Durham, a deathbed confession or a memoir from Gardner would only be slightly harmful without more substantial evidence to back it up. Gardner had been suffering from a growing paralysis for many years. It had moved to his spinal column, a direct route to the brain. Whatever he said or wrote could be watered down as the ravings of an old man who was legally insane. Conversely, if Lona tried to cause problems, she, too, would have little to go on without some kind of contribution from Frank Gardner himself. Across the table, the doctor’s eyes were fixed on the box of court testimonies.

“Our problem may be even more serious than you think, doctor. I’ll bring you up to date on Lona Gardner’s movements. That detective the Porters had hired...”

“Morgan.”

“Detective John Morgan. He died eight years ago down in Louisiana. Two days after his death, someone broke into the shack he was living in, ransacked it, and according to a local prostitute, stole a stack of old papers and newspapers Morgan had kept with him. I had sent a man down to do the same thing, but someone beat us to it.”

“The detective’s notes on the case?” Doctor Stewart reacted to the news with a rush of fear. All these years his concern had been centered on one man, Frank F. Gardner. Now, to think that others might have been a greater worry — his heart pounded like a man who had calmly survived an accident just minutes earlier and didn’t break into fear until after, when the message of peril reached his brain.

Frank Gardner had been obsessed with keeping track of the detective, and reveled each time the news showed that Morgan had slipped lower and lower into poverty and oblivion.

“That was eight years ago,” Stewart whispered. That someone had been collecting material about the axe murder case not just recently, but as long as eight years ago, was a frightening realization.

Durham slid open the bottom right drawer of his desk and pulled out a thin yellow file folder. It contained a twenty-page typewritten report, stapled at one corner, which he handed across to the doctor.

“I hired a detective to find out who stole the papers,” Durham offered in summation.

“The investigation ended at 210 Parker Place, New York City. Lona’s residence.”

Doctor Stewart thumbed through the pages and laid the report on the desk, hands shaking. “Is there more?”

Durham placed the crisp papers back in the file and placed the file back in the drawer. He took his time answering, pulled out a fresh cigar, snipped off an end with expert smoothness, and struck a match. “If she has that, then she probably has managed to collect other information. The point is — what’s she up to? And can we afford to find out? Is she trying to hurt us or protect her father’s name?”

As Durham posed the last question, the jangling of a telephone came from the library. It stopped. A maid in a light blue dress with white laced sleeves entered the double doors after knocking.

“Doctor Stewart’s driver is on the line, Mr. Durham.”

“Come on up,” Durham said into the telephone. “The doctor will be waiting.” He turned to the doctor, “Your driver is worried about getting back, so you’d better go now. He’ll be out front in five minutes.”

Doctor Stewart rose slowly from his chair. “Little difference it will make. There’s nothing I can do for Frank. There never has been. It’s a helpless feeling — to watch a man die.”

For the first time since the doctor had entered the study, Mark Durham stepped from behind his desk and extended his hand. Doctor Stewart took it reluctantly.

“It’s important that you are with him. I don’t have to tell you how this territory would be affected if a deathbed confession or a memoir was known. It would be 1912 all over again. Everything we’ve worked for — our families, our reputation — everything is at stake. We must be positive that you and only you have access to Frank Gardner.”

“What about. . . the others?”

“Not to worry. Now that we’ve talked, I’m sure everything will be fine. I can take care of them. If I need your help, I’ll call you. Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”

“But . . .“

Durham turned toward the door. “Don’t worry, doctor. Three days from now, everything will be just fine. Finished. The great mystery will go on forever.”

“Over, at last,” Doctor Stewart spoke as if in prayer.

“At last,” Durham gave the benediction.

Five minutes later Doctor Stewart got into the taxi that was to take him back to Gardner’s mansion. The wait would be easier now. Knowing that Durham was not worried calmed his nerves. The snow was lighter, but the wind had picked up to twenty miles an hour, which was worse than more snow. Out in the nine miles of open country between the County Seat and Twin Forks, the wind could easily drift over the narrow roads, making them impassable. It was futile to hurry only to sit at Gardner’s deathbed for hours on end. As the taxi plowed through the new snow in Judge Durham’s driveway and onto the street, the doctor peered through the frosted glass at the white columned house that was barely visible one hundred feet away. He wished he had Durham’s faith that after all these years the axe murder case would come to a close, and they would emerge unscathed. He leaned back in the rear seat, a tired old man.

But Doctor Stewart had forgotten, or not imagined, that young Durham had inherited a great deal of Sam Durham’s personality. The reason he was rich and powerful was not because he had faith in humankind, but because he never left anything to chance. His grandfather had taught him long ago that the only thing that could not be trusted was another man’s emotions. The heart cannot be calculated.

Durham walked out of the study to one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. New wood had been added while he had talked with Doctor Stewart. It popped and crackled. The flames were warm on his legs as he stared at them contentedly. It had been almost twenty-one years since his grandfather had spoken with Doc tor Everett Stewart. A lot can happen to change a man in that long of time. He had to be sure. That was the reason for summoning the doctor in this miserable weather. But it had been worth it, for now he was sure: Doctor Stewart was the same man his grandfather had known in 1912. Age had made him older — but he was still a coward.

He would allow one hour for the taxi to reach Twin Forks. Four more hours for Doctor Stewart to sit by the deathbed of the man who could destroy him. And then he would place the telephone call ordering the doctor to kill the patient.

It would be so simple.

Death is simple.

And then the good doctor would destroy the memoirs. If they were nowhere to be found, then the mansion itself would bum to the ground. A dangerous undertaking? No. No action was too strong. The transcripts could be destroyed. Gardner’s mansion could mysteriously, conveniently, catch on fire. Some would say that Gardner himself, in his insanity, had started the fire and then died in it, flames of hell scorching his body. A just reward. Even the visitors from New York could be taken care of if Lona Gardner decided to cause too much trouble. After all, this was the Twin Forks axe murders. An unsolved crime that had become folklore. People would delight in the added mystery. It would add to their confusion. Nothing. Absolutely nothing was impossible.

And chance could play no part in this, he thought, as the wind outside increased and the flames in the fireplace grew higher as he began the task of feeding it the transcripts. The man must die — without mercy. He relished the prospect, for Frank Gardner was a threat to the Durham family, and the family was everything. Five hours from now he would call the old doctor and drop the bomb shell. “I know that my grandfather instructed you to kill Albert Gardner. I know you killed Martha Pinkerman in the same way. So now I’m ordering you, kill Gardner tonight and destroy those memoirs.” There would be no guilt, for he did what he did out of necessity.

Frank Gardner would be the first to understand.

##########

Other books by Stephen Bowman

Fiction:

Operation Monarch

Inspired by a true story, Operation Monarch uncovers a global conspiracy involving child abuse and political espionage.

Nonfiction:

When The Eagle Screams – America’s Vulnerability to Terrorism

Stephen Bowman was the first American author to predict that terrorism was on the way to American shores. When The Eagle Screams explores the causes, the government’s probable response and the predictable progression of conflict worldwide.