A/N: Here we go.

Big Swamp

Chapter Twenty-Four: Trophies

"Let's use the woods, stay in them past the house, then we'll have to break cover to cross to the boathouse." I whisper.

A wind's beginning to blow, damp, and turning the leaves so that their undersides show milky green.

The temperature's dropping, been dropping. It's cooler, if not cool.

Sarah looks at me and nods resolutely. "Sounds good."

I reach out and stop her before she gets far into the underbrush. "Sarah, how did you find me at the cabin?" The question's been nagging at me.

She turns, crouches down and I crouch with her. We're no longer visible from the road.

"When Peppers showed up at the Hall, and I...disarmed him, fast and clean...I asked him about you. I was terrified he'd found you first." I see that on her face. "But he wasn't about to lie to me."

Her teeth show but not in a smile. "He hadn't found you, although he'd looked for you first. You must've been hunting him while he was hunting you.

"I grabbed my phone and called Ellie, but she didn't know where you were. She told me to call Father Casey. He didn't know either. By that time, Peppers was panicking, my foot on his throat and his shotgun in his face. Father Casey told me to call Hannah."

I see a flash of hurt pride on Sarah's face at that, at having to call Hannah to find out where I was.

"She was kind to me. She told me you'd talked to her dad. She asked him and he told her he gave you directions to the cabin. Then I crammed Peppers in the truck…"

"You're amazing, you know that?"

The hurt look disappears and she starts moving again, but not before she whispers back: "You'll do too."

We sneak through the woods, skirting the house. We can see it. No one seems to be around. It's gotten overcast enough, dark enough, to seem like dusk, although that's still an hour or two away. Despite the dark, there are no lights on in the house. But, after the mess at the cabin, I'm not making any more stupid moves. I'm assuming that Peterson is in the house or in the boathouse.

The woods next to Peterson's house thin as we near the lake. Landscaping has pushed the edges back too, to make for more yard, so as we near the water, staying in the woods takes us farther from the boathouse. I stop us at a point that seems far enough from the house without becoming too far from the boathouse.

As I turn to look at Sarah, I feel the cold, small shock of a raindrop, fat and heavy. Lightning flashes out over the Lake, and it's momentary light shifts the colors of the woods. More drops follow. It's fixing' to be a downpour, a frog strangler — as folks in the South say. I motion for Sarah to follow and we run together across the open yard. Sheeting rain begins. We jump up onto the raised walkway that leads to the boathouse and run beneath the overhang at the door. I take my gun from my holster. Sarah presses herself against my back, warm, and panting, as I turn the knob. It opens.

I don't know if that's a bad sign or a good one. It feels portentous (there's another expensive word).

The boathouse has walls on three sides — the front, the side facing Peterson's house, and the two adjacent sides, left and right. But there's no back wall. Instead, the roof extends out over the water, and the floor stops beneath it, creating a sheltered pier.

A small motorboat, black and sleek, floats on the choppy water. The wind has strengthened and the water's surface moves.

Sarah leans against the door and shuts the door with a soft click. I'm studying the interior of the boathouse..

Fishing gear is hooked on one wall, poles, nets. Beneath the gear is a crude wooden table with a tackle box standing atop it. Reels and snarls of fishing line and other bits spot the table around the box.

The opposite wall is covered with life-preservers, life jackets, and old buoys. Beneath them, on a green tarp, is a small boat engine. It's cobwebbed and marooned in a black pool of its own oil, the oil blacker against the green tarp. Heavy ropes, sloppily coiled, look like fat snakes waiting for the engine to bleed its last..

The corners of the ceiling are all thickly cobwebbed. Pulleys hang from the extended ceiling, down above the motorboat, ropes hanging from them.

No hammer's in view. But rain hammers on the boathouse's tin roof.

Sarah's moved beside me, and she's studying the interior too. "Why would Peterson keep the murder weapon all these years, Chuck?"

I shrug. "I suspect he's as crazy as the rest of his family, that he's just hidden it better over the years. High-functioning crazy, sort of like Patty. And of course, if we find the weapon, it may prove nothing. But still…"

I cross to the dusty tackle box. It seems the likeliest place. I place my gun back in my holster. The box is metal, red but rusting, and the latch broken. I open it and the lid creaks. Inside the box is a tray, divided, and in the tray are lures and line, hooks and sinkers, no longer separated, if they ever were, but strewn together.

I remove the tray — it's jammed in the box and I have to give it a sharp yank — and beneath, wrinkled and dusty, it is a black trash bag. It's got something in it. I take the bag out and put it on the table. I realize, when I look into the now-empty tackle box, that it's bolted to the table.

Sarah's watching me intently. I unwind the bag, it's wrapped around its contents, then pull the top of it open. Open, the bag exhales a stench. Sarah wrinkles her nose. "What is that?"

I take a breath and reach into the bag. "Ouch!"

I pull my hand out. I've got a jagged cut across my palm. It's not deep, but it hurts.

"Chuck!" Sarah says but I put my hand in the bag again, more carefully. I feel around carefully. I remove an old hammer from the bag. It's rusty, but one end of it still looks stained. I put it down as carefully as I can.

Sarah points at the stain. "Could that be…"

"Maybe…" I reach in again and this time remove a cat food can, its lid still partially attached. The lid is what cut my palm. The stench is coming from the bits of food still in the can. I put it down beside the hammer, take the handkerchief from my pocket, and wrap it around my hand.

Sarah looks at me, lost. "A cat food can?"

"A second murder weapon."

"Huh?"

"It's how Peppers murdered Jane."

"I don't understand, Chuck.:

I take a breath, tie off my handkerchief. "Peppers knew about Jane's heart condition. He'd been around the Hall a few times — I suspect he spied on her — and he figured out something no one else seems to have noticed. Of course, at the end, Jane was living alone; her housekeeper, Edna, was no longer coming regularly.

"Anyway, Peppers figured out that Jane, now almost completely mad, was living on cat food, eating with her cats. There was nothing else in her fridge, but no one thought about what that meant. Peppers used a very precise drill at Briggs and Stratton to puncture that can, a tiny hole, and he injected a high dosage of potassium — that's my guess — into it. Then he snuck into the house and put it on top of her pile of unopened cans, and waited for her to eat it. She did, and, as he and Wade planned, it caused a fatal arrhythmia, killing her. Killing her, and a few of the old, I'm guessing tamer, cats, who ate it with her. She fought off the other cats, made them wait. That'd been going on for a while. Crazy. So crazy no one imagined it, imagined her death could be foul play."

"No one except you, Chuck," Sarah's voice is emphatic, admiring. "You have an unusual mind."

"No one except me and the person who sent Langston Graham to me. He's the one who hired me to dig into Jane's death, but he told me he was doing it for someone else."

We stand completely silent for a moment and I'm again aware of the pelting rain.

"So," Sarah whispers, gesturing to the hammer and the can, "are those the son's mementos of his parents?"

"Yeah."

"And I'm going to add to my collection, looks like."

Sarah and I both spin. Wade Peterson's standing inside the open door. He's soaked, a puddle's forming around his feet, and he has a gun in his hand.

I've done it again. A stupid move after all.

He points it at Sarah. "Put the shotgun down." His voice is high, excited.

One danger of being the sort of detective I am, the sort who also writes detective stories, who cares about stories, is that you can get lost in the story, lose track of other things. But Sarah got lost in the story too, I guess. Neither of us heard Peterson come in, although the rain pounding the roof helped him with that.

Sarah lays the shotgun on the floor. Peterson turns his gun on me. "Now, put yours on the ground too."

I do, sliding it carefully from the holster. He walks forward — motioning for us to back up. He kicks our guns backward with his foot, one at a time, putting himself between us and them.

Peterson motions to the table. "Put my treasures back in their bag. Although 'treasures' isn't the best term — I regard them as my trophies."

TFYWIF, right, right.

I turn and carefully put the hammer and can back in the trash bag. I face Peterson again after I've done it. He seems noticeably calmer once I have. His voice sounds more normal. "Good, good."

"Trophies?" I ask, my tone neutral. Sarah looks at me; she wonders what I'm doing. "Trophies of your dad's murder, your mom's?"

Peterson spits down into the puddle gathering around his feet.

"Dad? Mom? That bum, that feckless drifter? That crackpot tragedy, the cat lady? — I deserved better parents, much better." His voice is cold, dry. "At least most people weren't sure Diamond was my father. I was stuck with Jane. And she couldn't quit that loser, Diamond. She pined for him for goddamn ever, then she found him where I hid him, followed me. I used to go every now and then to stomp on his grave. Pray his soul to hell. She was going to tell someone about him, lead someone to him. She couldn't control herself or her mouth."

What a piece of work this man is. He's not the glory of dust. Patty can surely pick them. But she's a piece of work too. Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither. I shake my head. No time for quotations in my head. Hannah's right: words are going to do me in.

"Now, tell me how you found my trophies."

My hole card. I've been holding it. I see Sarah tense subtly. I tell him the truth, waiting for a reaction. "Patty and Peppers, they told us the hammer was here. We found them together in Peppers' love nest. I don't think they knew about the can. I'm guessing Peppers'd be unhappy to know you kept that."

"Patty...and Peppers? Love nest?" He mouths 'love nest' soundlessly a couple of more times. Understanding dawns in Peterson's eyes. "That goddamned whore!"

For a moment, Peterson's focus is not on us. Peppers stole one of Peterson's trophies.

Sarah moves before I can. She leaps forward, lands, then kicks the gun from Peterson's hand. It all looks like one smooth, blurry motion, its analog continuity lost in my digital description. Peterson's gun flies across the boathouse and lands on one of the coiled ropes.

Peterson turns, runs out the open door, splashing out into the rain.

I've scooped up my gun. I aim it carefully — I have the handkerchief wrapped around my hand — and fire. Lightning cracks just as I do.

Peterson screams, the sound thin in the roll of the thunder, grabs his leg, and falls in the wet grass. I haven't wasted my time on those trips to the shooting range.

Sarah turns to me with a sharp nod. "See? You'll do. And you are not boring."

My hand hurts and I holster my gun. Wade's writhing in the rain, grasping his calf. It starts raining even harder.

I give Sarah a weak smile. "Come on, let's make sure he doesn't bleed to death, and then call the police. We've got a lot to tell them."

I see my 'we' register in her eyes. "Yes, we do."

"Don't worry, I can tell the story without bringing your dad into it."

She grabs my hand. "Thanks, Chuck. He's going to be unhappy enough once he knows I told you about his con — when he knows it's over."

I face her, peering into her blue eyes, bright even in the gloomy boathouse. "Are you going to stay, Sarah?"

It's the question I've feared since I met her. I've dodged it for days.

She nods her head. "I told you I'd stick, Chuck."

We bind Peterson's leg — he's not in serious danger although the pain's obviously intense.

I call Barry Ziff. I explain things to him briefly, figuring he'll know who else to call. He does. After leaving me holding for a minute, he tells me an ambulance and a state trooper and a country sheriff's unit is on the way, and that he will be too.

We're unable to leave Peterson's house until deep in the night. By then, I'm sick of questions, explanations, sick of uniforms and titles, sick of flashing lights. The rain's stopped, at least, but everything's wet, and the flashing lights of the ambulance and the other cars are reflected and refracted by all the water.

Ziff threatens to charge me with something for not reporting Diamond's body immediately, but he never tells me exactly what the charge will be and, later, he seems to have forgotten all about it.

The ambulance takes Peterson away, followed by a phalanx of official cars. Eventually, it's only me and Sarah and Barry Ziff. His car's parked behind Peterson's yellow caddy. He's mercifully turned off the flashing lights.

"So, Bartowski, I haven't gotten a chance to tell you, but we found the car that hit Morgan."

"Where?"

"At a dump of a body shop near La Grange. The car was brought in by a woman in a tiny skirt, very tanned, in sunglasses. A man in a pickup drove her away after she dropped it off. I'm sure that was Patty Peterson and that it was Peppers who picked her up. The car, the Chrysler, belonged to a friend of Patty's, some socialite in La Grange, who was driving Patty's car. Evidently, Patty told her some story about needing to borrow the bigger car. It sounds like the friend took Patty to mean a larger backseat…"

"So, Patty hit Morgan?"

"Either her or Peppers. I figure it was him."

I nod. "Now that you say it, I do too. Morgan wasn't chasing the Diamond murder, he was chasing the Peterson murder, Morgan just didn't know it. Peppers probably did it with Patty's help. He probably told her Morgan was on to their blackmail scheme."

Ziff perks up. "What do you mean, Morgan was chasing the Peterson murder?"

I sigh. My feet are soaked and I can't think about anything except being stretched out with Sarah in a warm dry bed. I don't want to think about anything else but I need to explain this last thing.

"Patty didn't know about Jane. But Morgan was following up on some thefts at Briggs and Stratton. I believe those thefts were Peterson's, and that the only one that really mattered was the theft of a can of tuna."

"Tuna?" Ziff looks at me like I'm insane but I see the inference tick over in Sarah's head.

"He practiced on the tuna can with the drill! At Briggs and Stratton." Sarah says softly, "then he stole the other things to conceal that."

"Yes, I'm guessing he got the idea there one night and was eager to start, but on the clock, and so found the tuna can. He took the other things as misdirection, and because he wanted them, I think. The clothes, and stuff, although I have a hard time imagining him reading Harry Potter." I look at Ziff who's still trying to catch up. "Peppers was punching out of his weight class. He's creepy, a creepy petty thief, and a creepy Peeping Tom at heart. But Wade and Patty, each in his or her own way, convinced him to dream bigger dark dreams than his usual ones. — By the way, Barry, Morgan wasn't paid to look into the matter at Briggs and Stratton. Strictly amateur stuff, friend-doing-a-friend-a-favor thing."

Barry shakes his head; he's tired too. "Whatever you say. I've got to go. The sheriff and the state patrol and I still have to sort this all out in terms of jurisdictions. A unit picked up Patty and Peppers at the cabin. The hammer and cat food can are on the way to my lab. — Still can't believe Peterson kept them. Makes no damn sense."

"No," I agree, shrugging, "and yet it does. Trophies."

Ziff stares at me, still shaking his head. "Trophies? If you say so, Bartowski."

Sarah drives us back to the Hall.

On the way, I call Ellie and give her the briefest explanation I can. Once Ellie's sure that we're both okay, she lets me off the phone. The last thing she says is that she wants us at the house early for breakfast. We agree.

At the Hall, Sarah's dad's Mercedes is parked in the back. No lights are on. As far as we know, he has no idea what's happened — and we decide there's no reason to wake him. We tiptoe inside, then up the stairs to Sarah's room.

We peel off our wet shoes and socks, our damp clothes. Sarah enters the bathroom; the shower starts. I lay down beneath the sheet and look around her room. The room's furnished with antiques. My guess is that the furniture was Jane Peterson's, rented with the house. It hadn't occurred to me that Sarah would be living among Jane's things. It's strange to be in the room after what we've done today. I fold back the sheet, stand up and walk out onto the balcony.

"Chuck?" I turn. The shower's stopped; Sarah exits the bathroom. She's in the peach nightie I saw her wearing last night.

She pads to me, untellably lovely. I've never been in love before, never known its full resurrective power. Jane is gone, but Jane loved constantly, truly, if tragically. From this balcony, she pined for David Diamond, sang to him, and wept for him. I open my arms and Sarah walks into them. I turn, arms around her, and we both look out at a mute resonance of stars, heavenly fireflies.

We don't speak. We stand together, letting go of the day, holding on to each other.

After a while, we go to bed. I want desperately to make love to her, but, once we're in the bed together, and we're warm and dry and full of stars, all I manage is to hug her close before I drop into a deep and dreamless sleep.

A/N: One chapter to go.