Free Foursome by Jeremiah Healy Page A

and his hand to position the fish’s tail under the clamp, releasing his elbow to allow the clamp to hold the fish.
    Gates smiled at the dog. “Runty, he gets excited when he sees a smallmouth, John. He doesn’t bother my chickens, but these bass, they drive him nuts, don’t they, Runty?”
    A quick yip.
    Gates started the knife quickly on the fish. “So, what do you need to know?”
    I looked over to the west shore. The Shea house and its lawn stuck out of the surrounding forest like the proverbial sore thumb. “It would help if you could tell me what you saw and heard that night.”
    “At the house, or before, now?”
    “Before.”
    “Before. Well, I’d left old Runty here in the camp to go out and try some night fishing.”
    “You fish at night a lot?”
    A rueful grin. “When your client and his friends were up, I did.”
    “Noisy.”
    “Some. But, hey, it’s their summer place, so I figure they’re entitled. Besides, night fishing is usually pretty good. Anyway, I’m out in the canoe, toward the north end of the pond and behind one of the islands, when I hear this screaming. Well, when you’re on the water, and behind an island, it’s tough to tell just where noise is coming from sometimes. So I pull out into the open a bit, and I can tell it’s coming from down our end of the pond. I put the electric on ramming speed and get myself down here fast as I can. Now, I was some distance from the house, but I’d guess it was only ten, twelve minutes till I got there. I beached the canoe by the boathouse and headed up the lawn, calling out for people, see if I got an answer. And I didn’t, except for Ma.”
    “What’d she say?”
    “She yelled for me to get the hell up there, onto the deck, I mean. So I managed to do that, and—Christ. …”
    Gates took a deep breath and set down the knife, busying himself with the clamp and turning the fish over to go for the fillet on the other side.
    He had the fish repositioned, but didn’t pick up the knife right away. “There’s this woman, the wife in the other couple, flat on the deck with an arrow through her, eyes open. …”
    Gates shook his head, finally starting in again with the knife. “Her husband’s across the threshold of the center door, feet on the deck, another arrow in him. Then inside, Ma’s got her shotgun on Shea, and there’s this crossbow, all bloody, at her feet, and Shea’s on the floor, like holding his wife, who’s also got an arrow—Christ, John, it was like what one of those Indian massacres must have been like, you know?”
    “The crossbow was at Ma Judson’s feet?”
    “Yeah. I heard from Patsy—that’s our sheriff?”
    “I’ve met her.”
    “I heard from Patsy that Shea’s fingerprints were all over the bow, but you must know that, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Well, Ma tells me to call the sheriff. So I use the phone in their great room and reach a deputy, and he says he’ll radio the sheriff, get her over right away.”
    “What did you do then?”
    “Tried not to throw up. That’s what surprised me the most, I suppose. It … the whole scene, it got worse the longer I was there. I thought the initial shock of seeing everything would be the worst, but it wasn’t. It was waiting there for Patsy to arrive that got to me.”
    “Did you see anybody else around the house that night?”
    Gates stopped with the knife again. “No. It was a nice night, and I watched the sunset from the dock with a beer just before I went out. I don’t recall seeing any other boats or anybody else around your client’s place. I wasn’t out by the island too long when I heard the screaming start.”
    Gates seemed to finish with the bass. He used his elbow to release the fish’s tail from the table, leaving two sizable fillets. Then he stabbed the fish carcass six or seven times before shoving one of the stones through the mouth and down into the gullet. Gates carried the carcass by the lower jaw to the edge of his dock, flinging it