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“Really?” said Bell. “The 1891 Russian Army Mosin is about as accurate as a pocket pistol. The short-barrel Cossack version is worse— You were never the assassin. Why are you trying to protect a hired hand with your own life?”
“What hired hand?”
“It’s not in your character to protect the assassin. You are not an honorable man. Will you look me in the eye and tell me you’re an honorable man?”
“Honorable never put game on the table.”
“Then why are you protecting your hired killer?”
“There is no hired killer. I did my own killing.”
“And poisoned Averell Comstock and threw Lapham off the monument?”
“I did what I had to do to advance in the company.”
“You’re trying, and failing, to protect a hired killer.”
“Why would I bother?” asked Matters.
“Only one answer makes sense.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The assassin is your stepson.”
“My stepson?”
“Billy Hock.”
“You could not be more wrong.”
“Your stepson who ran away and joined the Army.”
“I never thought of Billy as my stepson. He was my son. Just as both my daughters are my daughters.”
“Call him what you will,” said Bell, “he became the finest sharpshooter in the Army. You made him a murderer.”
Matters’ expression turned bleak. There was no more anger in him. “My son is dead.”
“No, your son is your own personal murderer.”
“I know he is dead.”
“Your daughters don’t know. The Army doesn’t know. How do you know?”
“I found his body.”
38
The tall detective, who was leaning close to interrogate the handcuffed criminal, rocked back on his heels. He stared, eyes cold, mind racing. He paced a tight circle, cast an eye on the still-unconscious Rivers, gazed across the pond, and down at Matters. The man was as skilled a liar as Bell had ever encountered. And yet . . .
“If Billy was dead, why would Edna and Nellie tell me that he ran away from home and joined the Army?”
“That was my story. I told them that. It was better to let the girls think he died a soldier.”
“How did he die?”
“He drowned in that pond.”
