Coven. Part 21

CHAPTER 20.

"Museums? No," Professor Fredrick said. "None within hundreds of miles, I'm afraid."

Lydia had come to Fredrick at 9 A.M. sharp. Fredrick was Exham's chairman of the archaeology department. She'd wanted to know where a three hundred year old cutting tool could be found near the campus. And he'd told her. Nowhere.

"May I see those photographs?" Professor Fredrick asked. The shots were microphotos she'd taken of the impactations at the stables.

Fredrick lit a pipe with a face on it. "There's no scale here," he remarked. "How long would you say this strike mark is?"

"A little over ten inches."

"That's a long blade for an ax. It's perfectly flat too. But the angle width of the cutting bezel interests me more."

"Sir?"

Fredrick pointed to the grainy shot with his pipe end. "I mean the angle at which this tool was honed" -he squinted- "you can see that the left side of the blade is a flat plane, while the right bears the honing surface."

Lydia had already noted this.

"And your police scientist told you-"

"It was an estimation," she clarified. "There were no exact cla.s.sifications in the indexes. This ax is definitely iron, and definitely forged over three hundred years ago. That's all we know."

"This isn't an ax," Fredrick said.

"What?"

"It's plain to see. It's not an ax. It's not a mattock, an adze, or a froe either."

"Then what is it?"

Fredrick's brow rose over his aging face. He tapped his pipe into a glazed Babylonian bloodtap turned ashtray. "The tool you're looking for is a beam hewer. It's the only tool within your estimated time period that had this kind of cutting edge."

Lydia frowned. "What the h.e.l.l is a beam hewer?"

"A tool used by colonists to turn round logs into square beams. There were many different types of hewers, mind you, but only the beam hewer possessed a planed left blade side, so the scores of the dogged log could be sliced off evenly."

Scores of the dogged log, Lydia thought. "I'm not exactly an expert on beam hewers, Professor."

Fredrick laughed, for the first time displaying a comprehension of humor. "Beam carpenters were the most vital tradesmen of the early colonial period. The procedure involved the following steps. One, a tree was cut down. Two, the felled tree was held to the ground by a d.o.g.g.i.ng clamp. Three, the dogged tree was scored with axlike tools called adzes. Four, the scored tree was hewn-four flat planes were cut along the scores. The beam hewer had the appearance of an oddly shaped ax. The cutting edges were commonly a foot long, to clear each score."

Lydia tried to picture an ax with a foot long cutting edge. "They were huge, you mean."

"Yes, and heavy-twenty to thirty pounds. The left blade sides were perfectly level, or 'basilled,' so as to cut the scores off flat. A good beam carpenter could turn a thirty foot tree into an evenly sided beam in about an hour."

Fredrick rose to take down some books. Lydia understood that he'd been on digs all over the world. Years of blazing sun had cragged his face, toughened his skin to leather. He slid aside a small statue of Chinnamasta, the Bengalian G.o.ddess of decapitation, and presented to Lydia an old book opened to a block of pictures.

"That," he said, pointing to one, "is a typical beam hewer."

Lydia nearly s.h.i.+t her police pants.

"And that," he paused to add, "is me."

The ghostly field photograph was dated March 19, 1938. "New Excavations at Kent Island," it read, and the text: "Soph.o.m.ore F. Fredrick displays one of dozens of newly disinterred artifacts found at Maryland University's latest Kent Island dig, a beam hewer probably forged by William Claiborne's blacksmiths in 1632. Note the hewer's extraordinary size."

In the picture, a young and dusty Professor Fredrick smiled as he held up the hewer for the camera. Its handle was nearly as long as Fredrick was tall, and its cutting edge easily cleared a foot. The bizarre blade was configured like an upside down, L. Lydia had never imagined a cutting tool so large.

"The hewer's impractical size was necessary. Too small and they would not be able to cut each score in a single swipe. Needless to say, next to flintlocks, the beam hewer was the weapon of choice during Indian attacks."

"I can see why," Lydia commented. The look of the thing was terrifying enough, but worse was the rest. This was the same sort of instrument that had been used on Sladder.

Fredrick puffed smoke. "May I ask the nature of your inquiry?"

"Sure," Lydia said. "The weapon that made these strike-marks murdered a man."

"Oh, dear," Fredrick said.

"But knowing what it is isn't good enough, not with something this old. I need to know where a person could get one."

"Well, I've told you, there aren't any museums in the vicinity. Exham is a remote town; who needs museums here?"

No museums, Lydia thought. No beam hewers.

"Except, of course," Fredrick continued, "the artifacts owned by the college."

Lydia stared. "You mean there's a museum here? On campus?"

"No, but there are exhibits. The archaeology department sponsors several digs per year. Several battles of the Revolution were fought nearby, and early colony settlements were scattered all over Exham. We've got more musket barrels, bent bayonets, and crushed powder horns than you can shake a stick at."

"Fine," Lydia said. "But do you have any beam hewers?"

"Why, of course," Fredrick answered.

Lydia wanted to shout the next question into his face, but she managed to calm herself. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"You specifically asked me about independent museums, not college archaeological properties."

Lydia's heart quickened. "Professor Fredrick, are you telling me that there are beam hewers on this campus right now?"

"Yes," he said. "Several, as a matter of fact."

"Where?"

"The main administration lobby. My department maintains a fine display of local artifacts there. It's an impressive exhibit; I'm sure you've seen it. There are three or four hewers on display."

Lydia's scalp seemed to be tingling. Tensely she stood up and said, "Professor Fredrick, thank you very, very much."

Wade scrubbed toilets and mopped floors, oblivious. He smiled, whistling, and thought of his night with Lydia Prentiss.

It had been wonderful, which sounded corny, but it was true. He'd driven her home at 7 A.M. He could tell by the way she kissed him that this was more than a one night stand. The look in her eyes had finished him. This girl loves me, he thought in a crash of incredulity. She hadn't said it, of course. But Wade knew, and that shock of knowledge was all it took to show him how significantly his life had changed literally overnight. His past's romantic demons had fled like blown leaves; Lydia had exorcized them. No more macho rich kid in a Corvette. No more beaver patrol. No more reducing the society of women to physical tidbits for his indulgence. The burden of his sins was gone. Wade the Conqueror had been conquered. By Lydia.

I'm in love, he thought giddily. How do you like that?

What a stark, blazing realization. He felt glittering in the rush of love. Nothing could spoil the moment of this beautiful truth.

Or at least almost nothing- Plunk.

He looked down and saw that he'd stepped in the mop bucket. It tipped over when he lifted his foot out. Then he slipped.

Splap!

Now he lay belly down in the puddle. His temper struggled. When he tried to rise, he slipped again and fell on his back. He got up, swore, and kicked the bucket. The bucket bounced off the wall, hit him in the head, and knocked him in the water again.

Splat!

Laughter cracked down the hall. Wade, wet and red faced, looked up. Chief White was standing in the doorway.

"I seen a lotta dumb a.s.s hobn.o.bbin' in my day, but I ain't never seen a grown man get his a.s.s whupped by a bucket."

"What do you want!" Wade yelled.

"Get in the car, St. John. We'se goin' for a ride."

Wade sat in back, behind the screen, as White drove his souped Buick cruiser. Am I in trouble? he wondered. The mop water stank in his clothes. But the situation stank worse.

White had developed a nervous tic. He chewed a cigar b.u.t.t and steered wringing his hands. Earlier, Lydia had made Wade and Jervis promise not to speak of the business at the Erblings' dorm. She wanted to follow up on it herself, a.s.semble more pieces before informing White. She'd implied that White had been covering things up lately, before Lydia could investigate them properly. Wade knew White was a crank, but maybe it was something more than that.

White spat out the chewed b.u.t.t and parked at the campus substation. He shuffled Wade in and slammed him down in a chair.

"Why the Gestapo treatment, Chief? Is kicking a campus owned mop bucket a felony? What am I looking at, five to ten?"

White sat at his desk. "You're a two bit pain in my a.s.s, St. John. You know that?"

Two bit? What an insult. "What's this all about, Chief?"

"It's about your pal Tom McGuire, that's what!"

Wade tried to show no reaction. Had Lydia changed her mind about informing White of the break in at the Erblings'?

"The G.o.dd.a.m.n punk robbed the Town Pump last night," White spat. "The owner made his vehicle and got his plates, then picked his face out of random student photos. Positive ID."

"Tom's got plenty of money," Wade said. "He doesn't rob liquor stores. That's ridiculous."

Or was it? Jervis claimed he saw Tom breaking into the Erblings', which was ridiculous too. Then there was always the Spaten cap Wade had found at the campus clinic.

"He beat up on the owner and stole two cases of beer."

"Oh, yeah?" Wade challenged. "What type of beer."

White grimaced at the police report. "Spaten Oktoberfest."

Not good, Wade thought. "All right, even if he did rob the Pump, which he didn't, why drag me down here?"

"'Cos you and him are buddies. You must know somethin' about it."

"Look, Chief," Wade lied, "I haven't seen him for days."

"Bulls.h.i.+t! You were at the inn with him two nights ago!"

"That was the last time I saw him," Wade lied. "I haven't seen him since then. I haven't even seen his car in the lot."

White grimaced further. "Well, he ain't gonna be hard to find, not in that mint white Camaro of his, and vanity plates. Got an APB out on him now. He tries to cross the line in that car, the state boys'll be on him like bugs on flypaper. And what about this other motorhead friend of yours? Jervis Phillips."

"Jervis isn't a motorhead, Chief. He drives a Dodge Colt. And what about him?"

"He's friends with McGuire too. Might know somethin'. But we can't find him either. You know where he is?"

"Sorry, Chief," Wade lied again. "Haven't seen him."

"Right, and if I was the devil I could stir my coffee with my d.i.c.k. Holdin' back knowledge of a crime, or harborin' a criminal, can make you an accessory. Keep that in mind." White pointed the cigar like a gun. "And another thing, boy, and I ain't foolin' around. I hear you been datin' one of my officers."

Wade looked ashamed. "It's true, Chief. Porker and I have been seeing each other for months now. The wedding's in September."

"Don't get funny with me. You stay away from Prentiss, or else next time I'll be the one moppin' the floor-with you."

"I'll never speak to her again," Wade lied. G.o.d, it's fun lying to police! "I won't even look at her."

"And next time you see that candy a.s.s drunk Jervis Phillips" -White banged his fist on the desk- "tell him to come down here."

"I will, Chief."

White lit a cigar, pinch browed. He waved Wade away with the smoke. "Go on now, get your rich kid face out of my office."

Wade faltered at the door. "Say, Chief, it's going on ninety outside, and it's a mile back to the center. How about a ride?"

"I ain't a f.u.c.kin' limo. Use your LPCs."

"LPCs?"

White unreeled a sudden belt of laughter. "Yeah, boy, LPCs. That's leather personnel carriers."

White's Deep South donkey laughter followed Wade out into the sultry day. The heat was bad, the humidity was worse. He was stuck in his own sweat in minutes. A cold Adams right now would go just fine, but he still had work to do at the center, more toilets, more floors...