BURYING ZIMMERMAN (The River Trilogy, book 2) by Edward A. Stabler Read Free Book Online

issued an uncomfortable sigh, slumped back into the cushion,
and started fanning her flushed face with her hands. My mother
helped her stand and guided her out of the room, cutting Bullard's
audience in half. He apologized for upsetting the ladies and
oriented himself toward my father and me.
    "Drew must not have known, and let's presume
Henry didn't either, that Garrett had a loaded shotgun in the wood
cellar. It could have been hung from the ceiling or propped against
a post. Drew wouldn't have seen it, and it was probably easy for
Garrett to shift and lean a bit until it was within reach. Maybe he
says something that causes Drew to scan the room for a second or
two. Then in one motion he's raising the gun and shooting Drew in
the chest. From eight feet away, that one blast would be
enough.
    "So now Drew is mortally wounded, probably on
his knees or worse, but he still has a revolver. As Garrett is
climbing out, Drew leans toward him. Garrett reaches for the gun,
but just as he grabs it Drew pulls the trigger. The bullet strikes
Garrett in the collarbone and knocks him back into the cellar, with
Drew's gun in his hand.
    "Now Garrett is stunned and bleeding on the
cellar floor. But pretty soon he tries to get back on his feet. He
tucks the gun into his waistband, puts a foot in the notch, and
gets both hands on the frame of the trapdoor. He can't put much
weight on his right arm since his collarbone's shattered, but he
gets ready to push himself up to the floor with his left. Maybe he
sees Drew lying in the background, but he's focused on the trapdoor
frame, and he doesn't notice the blade until it flies down on his
fingers.
    "Drew must have been able to crawl to the
fireplace and get the hatchet from the kindling pile. And then he
struck a clean blow... and took off all four fingers on Garrett's
left hand.
    "Garrett falls back into the cellar and this
time it takes him longer to get up – neither of his arms is worth
much now. As he rolls onto his knees, Drew pours kerosene on him.
And before he can stand, Drew throws down the burning lamp. Garrett
ignites, and the last thing Drew can do before collapsing is empty
the kerosene can onto him as he burns."
    Bullard paused to rest, and after acting out
the struggle, his hands descended to his sides.
    "Are you still looking for Henry Zimmerman?"
my father asked. He had sat through Bullard's presentation while
sagging deeper and lower into his chair, face propped between his
forefinger and thumb, a distant look in his bespectacled eyes. Now
he straightened, put both hands on his knees, and spoke for the
first time since Drew's death with a vestige of authority. "How do
you know he wasn't involved in the killings? The story we just
heard sounds like something from a Wild West show."
    Bullard nodded solemnly to show he
understood. "We're still looking for Henry. I told his parents that
he's wanted for questioning, and they claim to have no idea where
he is. But Henry will turn up, and we'll find out what he knows."
He plucked his hat from the chair and put it on. "Two guns, two
shots fired, and two bodies," he added. "I'd say that's pretty
simple. Closer to an old-fashioned duel than Buffalo Bill."
    Bullard had made it clear on a previous visit
that nothing more was expected from me. While being questioned at
the scene, I'd produced the handcuffs from my coat and shown that I
was unarmed. A search of the burned cabin and its surroundings had
turned up no more guns or bodies, and the wounds on both victims
were accounted for. It became clear that Bullard was writing the
case up as he had presented it to us.
    Though he had grown up on the canal and in
Williamsport, by the time Gig Garrett returned from Alaska in 1902
he was considered exotic, alien, and worthy of suspicion – linked
to both Jessie's death and the fatal stabbing of a miner in
Alaska.
    By contrast, Drew had spent his whole life in
Cabin John and across the bridge in Glen Echo, and he worked for
the Baltzley brothers,