Joe Bain Read online

  Joe Bain

  Copyright 1964, 2013 by Jack Vance

  Cover art by Howard Kistler

  Published by

  Spatterlight Press

  ISBN 978-1-61947-076-7

  2013-06-24

  Visit jackvance.com for more

  Spatterlight Press releases

  The Fox Valley Murders, 1964. The Pleasant Grove Murders, 1966. The Genesee Slough Murders, 1966.

  This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong, and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

  Source: Harrison Watson, Jr., Digitize: Mark Adams, Richard Chandler, Mike Dennison, Billy Webb, Dave Worden, Format: Mike Berro, John A. Schwab, Diff: David A. Kennedy, David Reitsema, Hans van der Veeke, Tech Proof: Joel Riedesel, Hans van der Veeke, Text Integrity: Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, Derek W. Benson, Joel Hedlund, Damien G. Jones, Hans van der Veeke, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Andreas Irle, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Karl Kellar, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Marcel van Genderen, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Mark Bradford, Deborah Cohen, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Errico Rescigno, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Kristine Anstrats, Erik Arendse, Mike Barrett, Michel Bazin, Scott Benenati, Angus Campbell-Cann, Deborah Cohen, Christian J. Corley, Greg Delson, Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Marcel van Genderen, Yannick Gour, Erec Grim, Jasper Groen, Jurriaan Kalkman, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, Chris LaHatte, Gabriel Landon, Roderick MacBeath, Michael Mitchell, Till Noever, David Reitsema, Steve Sherman, Willem Timmer, Hans van der Veeke, Dirk Jan Verlinde, Suan Hsi Yong, Fred Zoetemeyer

  Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

  THE COMPLETE WORKS

  of

  Jack Vance

  Joe Bain

  THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION

  Oakland

  2012

  Contents

  The Fox Valley Murders

  The Pleasant Grove Murders

  The Genesee Slough Murders

  The Fox Valley Murders

  Chapter I

  Arriving at the outskirts of Marblestone, Joe Bain swung into the driveway of the service station operated by his old school chum Walt Hobius. Walt, relaxing in his office with a newspaper, jerked erect, clearly startled at the sight of the black and white patrol car. He put down his newspaper, stepped outside, peered into the car with a quick intent glance which instantly noted all there was to note. “Hey, Joe. I thought Cucchinello had got awful skinny.”

  “Cooch has had it,” said Joe. “Died night before last. I’m acting-sheriff. For a while anyway.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Walt in a soft marveling voice. “Joe Bain, Sheriff. Well, well, well.” And he gave his head the slow skeptical shake of one who marvels at the incomprehensible vagaries of fate. “I guess I should say congratulations.”

  Joe alighted from the car, looking down at the gilt emblem which read, Sheriff, San Rodrigo County, State of California. “Thanks. Not that I wanted the job, or anything else, at old Cooch’s expense.”

  “That’s the way it goes,” said Walt with intense conviction. “One man’s gain is another man’s loss. You can’t get around it, that’s the law of life.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” said Joe. “What’s new around town?”

  Walt turned Joe his characteristic sharp quick look, as if for every overt act he suspected a deeper more important meaning which in the name of sanity and self-interest must be elucidated. “Nothing much of interest. Ausley Wyett’s back. The girls are wearing iron pants.”

  “You seen anything of him?”

  Walt gave a short resentful nod. “He’s got himself an old Jeep station wagon and comes in for gas. That’s all I see of him, that’s all I want to see of him.” Walt’s eyes glittered as he warmed to the subject. “He’s got real gall coming back here in the first place!”

  “I guess he got lonesome for home,” said Joe. “Sixteen years is a long time.”

  “Not long enough! Not for what Ausley did!”

  Joe refused to argue Walt’s perfervid opinions. “The main thing is, he’s out, legal and otherwise, and there’s no use raking up old scores.”

  Walt tilted his head to the side. “I suppose Ausley feels the same way?”

  Joe shrugged. “As to that, I can’t say.”

  “Which is maybe why he watered Bus Hacker’s gas tank?”

  “Eh?” demanded Joe. “What’s this?”

  Walt pointed to an old brown Plymouth sedan. “There she sits. About a gallon of water in the tank. Now I got to drain it off, blow the line, clean the carburetor.” Walt’s small tender mouth quivered with rage.

  “If you’re real busy, I better get along,” said Joe. “Now that I think of it, you looked pretty peaceful when I drove in.”

  Walt gave a sour grunt. “Cranky old barstid, let him wait. He’s always wanting something or other.”

  “There’s ingratitude,” said Joe ingenuously. “Seems to me you broke into the garage business working on the old No. 2 bus. Bus Hacker has been the making of you!”

  Walt once more inspected him sharply, then turned away as if the conversation no longer were interesting. He grumbled, “I’ve got better things to do than clean up after Ausley.”

  “Somebody catch Ausley in the act?”

  Walt held out his hands. “Who else would pull a trick like that?”

  “Why should Ausley?”

  “Revenge.” Walt seemed surprised that Joe should ask. “What else?”

  Joe looked off up the road. Ausley was acting strangely, no doubt about that … Peculiar. Very peculiar.

  “A lot of people around here don’t feel too Christian about Ausley Wyett,” said Walt. “I’ll give you a hint. You’d be doing Ausley a big favor if you got him to sell up and leave.”

  “You know better than to say a thing like that, Walt,” replied Joe in a mild voice. “Ausley is a free man. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Give him the word! You’re sheriff, aren’t you?”

  “Acting-sheriff.”

  “Same difference. I’m telling you facts. Ausley just isn’t liked around these parts. If he goes mooching around like nothing happened, he might just run into an accident. At least, that’s the talk I’ve heard.”

  Joe turned back to the patrol car. “You tell these talkers they better keep things on a conversational level; otherwise there’ll be big trouble for all concerned.”

  Walt turned away, marched to the lube rack. Joe got into the car. Walt called across the graveled driveway: “You’d be doing him a favor!”

  Joe started the motor and continued into town.

  Marblestone, to the south of San Rodrigo County, in the shadow of the Coast Range, centered on a eucalyptus-shaded square known as ‘the Park’, in deference to a half-dozen benches, a few clumps of oleander, a decaying band-stand. Opposite, across Main Street, was the business district: Olin’s Drug Store, the Town Club, the post office, the Ace Barber Shop, the general store. West of the park were Marblestone’s two churches: the Methodist, patronized by the gentility of Marblestone; and the Baptist, preferred by the mountain folk. Down School Street was the Fox Valley Elementary School; along Quarry Road, just south of the park, was the Fox Valley Community Center.

  Joe Bain parked in front of the general store and sat for a moment. The town was quiet: a warm summer silence disturbed by not even a voice nor the hum of another car. Joe alighted and stood on the cracked concrete sidewalk under the massive old oak tree, which was something of a town landmark. Nothing had changed, not even the blue EDGEWORTH CUT PLUG advertisement nailed to the trunk; the years which had passed were dreams. Joe looked along Main Street which upon leaving town became Destin Road. A quarter-mile south began the white-washed fence enclosing Charley Blankenship’s cherry orchard. A line of poplars in the distance indicated the intersection of Destin Road and Mitre Canyon Road, whereupon Destin Road became Destin Lane, terminating at the old Destin mansion. Behind the poplars glinted Bus Hacker’s white cottage. In Joe’s memory the distances were longer, the air more limpid, the leaves a brighter green, the sunlight a richer gold — but essentially nothing had changed. Sixteen years ago Tissie McAllister, age thirteen and a half, had walked that road, on just such a day as this. She was later than usual, having stayed after school to rehearse a scene from the commencement play; and there were no other children on the road.

  On that bright afternoon Tissie McAllister had not a care in the world. She loved her parents and was loved in return. Her hair was a glossy golden brown; she had long-lashed gray-green eyes, a cute pug nose, a mouth that seemed always on the verge of twitching into a grin. She was the prettiest girl in the eighth grade, and daily was becoming more aware of her attractions. Today she wore a
pleated green skirt with a white blouse, white shoes and white bobby-socks. On her left wrist swung a charm bracelet, the latest ornament being a miniature hourglass, with real sand, a present from her boy-friend Tommy Hobius. At a party last Saturday Tommy had kissed her five times and somewhat more after the party. Tommy’s older brother Walter had tried to kiss her too, but he’d been drinking beer, and Tissie had avoided him, though rather thrilled that she had attracted his attention. Walter’s reputation was not good. He was a friend of the even more notorious Joe Bain, the tall hell-raising lad from Castle Mountain, who had run away from home and now lived in San Rodrigo where he consorted with Mexicans and fruit tramps. Tissie secretly admired Joe Bain, who was romantically wild and gallant. She also had a crush on Cole Destin, who was engaged to her sister May. Cole was blond and proud, and drove a blue convertible. He and May went everywhere together, arriving home at all hours, and Tissie sometimes wondered what they had been up to. Tissie felt that her parents were over-tolerant; but then Cole Destin was a great catch for May, as everyone, including Cole Destin, was well aware.

  Another week of school — then commencement, and the whole glorious summer ahead. Lazy mornings, swinging in the hammock, swimming in the quarry, long twilights. And boys. Tommy mostly. He was a sophomore at San Rodrigo High, which Tissie would attend next year, riding the No. 2 school bus, driven by Bus Hacker. She’d have preferred to go by the No. 1, which Tommy and Walt and the Marblestone kids rode, but that was out of the question, since the No. 2 bus passed directly in front of her house.

  Tissie passed the cherry orchard, and Mr. Blankenship peered owlishly at her from the verandah of his house. Tissie disliked Mr. Blankenship; he reminded her of a big white worm. She had nonetheless eaten many of his cherries. It was a dangerous sport, as Mr. Blankenship kept handy a shotgun loaded with rock salt and had been known to use it, notably on his nephew Walt, causing an enormous family row.

  Beyond the Blankenship orchard was the Wyett property — the pig farm, as it was known locally. Poor silly Ausley. He always had been tall and awkward, with lank brown hair, knobby knees and wrists, a good-natured, if somewhat moony, face. Tissie’s sister May couldn’t stand the sight of Ausley. One time at a Community Center dance, May had been trapped into dancing with Ausley, who — according to May — had done something unspeakable out on the dance floor. May refused to particularize, and referred to the event only through the medium of grimaces and shivers. Tissie had never quite understood the nature of Ausley’s offense. She herself found Ausley rather amusing. Whenever he came upon her in the store he bought her candy or an ice cream bar, which Tissie was forced to accept, rather than seem rude.

  The Wyett place was vast, extending a mile up Mitre Canyon Road and far back into the hills. The old marble quarry with the pond where young folk sometimes swam was on the Wyett property.

  The Wyett house was fifty yards back from the road: hardly more than a large cabin built of unpainted boards, with a roof of tar-paper. Here Ausley lived with his half-crippled father who occasionally could be glimpsed hobbling between house and barn and pigstyes. Tissie often thought that if she owned the Wyett property she’d burn the house, barn, and styes to the ground, plant trees on the site, and then build a beautiful home up by the quarry. Whoever married Ausley would own lots of land, and perhaps be rich as well, for popular rumor imputed a miser’s wealth to Jake Wyett … To be married to Ausley would be utterly weird, thought Tissie. She toyed with the idea, laughing to herself at her own nonsense. If she were Mrs. Ausley Wyett, she wouldn’t let Ausley in the house. He’d have to eat outside under the trees, except on his birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving, when he could come in. Married people usually slept in the same bed, and, Tissie supposed, did that. Sleep in the same bed with Ausley? Tissie gave a little amused shudder. No, thank you. He was nice, though.

  As she passed the driveway Ausley looked out the barn, and seeing her, loped down to the road. “Hey, Tissie!”

  Tissie paused. She really didn’t want to talk to Ausley, but her parents had trained her to be polite. And also, she was a kind-hearted girl who didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. “Hey, Tissie,” panted Ausley. “Six kittens. Mother cat bust loose last week, and now everywhere you look — kittens.”

  Tissie was stirred. She loved kittens, and was appalled by the probable fate in store for the newcomers. “Are you going to keep them?”

  “Nope. I’ll drown ’em in the horse-trough. Pa said to give ’em to the pigs.”

  “Oh, Ausley! How terrible!” Tissie’s heart contracted. “The poor little things.”

  Ausley grinned. “They’re no good for nothing. Just yell and fight. The old man had to go to the hospital at Pleasant Grove, otherwise they’d be gone already.”

  Tissie was far less concerned for Jake Wyett than for the kittens. “Why don’t you try to find homes for them?”

  “You can have ’em. Take the lot.”

  Tissie deliberated, the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth. Ausley cocked his head, looked at her with an intent appraisal. Tissie moved a little away.

  “Well?” asked Ausley. “You want the little varmints?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t keep all of them. My mother wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why don’t you pick out two or three you like?”

  Tissie hesitated. “Where are they?”

  “In the barn.”

  “Well — I’ll look at them.” She turned in through the gate, walked with prim determined steps toward the barn. The doors were open, sagging on rusted hinges. Tissie heard the sound of an engine; standing in the dark aperture, she turned to see Cole Destin drive by. “Cole!” She called and waved, but Cole apparently did not see her. She looked after him a moment. The school bus from San Rodrigo High was coming up Mitre Canyon Road, still a long way off.

  Ausley went into the barn. Tissie followed him in. “Where are they?”

  “Over here in the manger, with mama cat.”

  Tissie looked down at the kittens, who were nursing, nuzzling, toddling back and forth, eyes still glued shut.

  Tissie sighed, bent forward. “Oh … They’re so cute.”

  Ausley stood behind her. “You want ’em?”

  “I’d love them. But they’re too young. I couldn’t take them now. They’d die. Won’t you take care of them, just for a while?” She looked pleadingly up into Ausley’s face.

  “All right. If I can keep the old man away from them. I guess I can. He won’t be back for a few days.”

  “Thank you, Ausley.” Tissie turned to leave the barn.

  Medical testimony at the trial was to the effect that Teresa McAllister had been savagely raped, with resulting hemorrhage. The hemorrhage was not the cause of death, though it might well have been. Teresa McAllister had been garroted with a length of baling-wire.

  Charles Blankenship testified that he had seen Teresa McAllister walk past his house at approximately four o’clock. She had been alone; she had not returned along the road. Sometime later — twenty minutes? half an hour? he could not be sure — he had heard a scream from the direction of the Wyett barn. At first he had been alarmed, then decided that he had heard one of the Wyett pigs squealing.

  During cross-examination the defense attorney asked: “You heard this sound, which you decided was a squeal?”

  Blankenship:

  A scream, I decided it was.

  Defense Attorney:

  At the time you heard it, you thought it was a scream?

  Blankenship:

  That is correct.

  Defense Attorney:

  When did you change your mind and decide it was a squeal?

  Blankenship:

  Right away. That is, I thought that it must be a squeal.

  Defense Attorney:

  Then the cry actually might have been the squealing of a pig?

  Blankenship:

  No sir. As I think about it now, no pig ever squealed like that.

  Cole Destin testified that he had driven past the Wyett house a few minutes after four and had noticed Ausley Wyett and Teresa McAllister walking toward the barn. She was going of her own volition, without any evidence of duress, otherwise he naturally would have stopped his car and intervened. He was sorry he hadn’t done so; he’d regret his negligence till the day he died. The judge ordered the last comment stricken from the record.