Desperate Acts

Chapter Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

Marc was still numb when he crossed Front Street and began drifting westward along the broad, grassy expanse that paralleled the shoreline of the bay and permitted the town's worthiest ratepayers an uninterrupted view of blue water, bluer sky, and the picturesque island-spit. Fishing boats with big-bellied sails still plied the lake, and several had already returned from an early-morning excursion to sell their catch to the fishmongers, whose wooden stalls dotted the beach and whose cries sang the virtues of perch or whitefish or, on a lucky day, sturgeon. Marc did not hear them as he wandered among those who had come down to the shore to buy their breakfast, take the "sea" air, or simply appraise the scenery from one of the many benches or tree-stumps set out for that purpose. Marc sat down on one of these at the foot of York Street, and tried to think.

Robert's proposal had been delivered in the form of a request, but it was no such thing. To ask someone to choose between saving the life of one man, innocent or not, at the expense of the well-being of all those in the province who wished their children and grandchildren to have a country worth living in - was no choice at all. And Marc was not just any man; he was a barrister. He was ethically bound to offer his client the best defense possible - and that, with the assistance of Beth and Cobb, he had been able to do. After consulting with Robert this morning, his intention had been to go straight to the jail to bring Brodie the good news that he now had every reasonable chance of being acquitted, for his barrister had moved Heaven and Earth to produce five suspects with motive and opportunity - and now they had supporting evidence strong enough to convince a judge and jury. But that defense, the only viable one, was no longer an option. Somehow he would have to stand by and watch Brodie be convicted. Somehow he would have to find the courage to look him in the eye afterwards.

Marc knew it was too early to catch Cobb in The Cock and Bull, so he remained seated on the bench and waited for him to come down Bay Street along his regular day-patrol. He didn't have to wait long. Cobb spotted him first, and crossed Front Street, dodging horse-carts, pack-mules and pedestrians heading towards the Saturday market.

"Mornin', major," he said, coming up to the bench. "Somebody die?"

Marc motioned for Cobb to sit beside him. "No, but somebody we know is about to."

From that cryptic remark, Marc went on to tell Cobb exactly what had transpired in Francis Hincks' library. Cobb listened with increasingly large intakes of breath and rueful shakes of the head.

"So all the diggin' we done to help Brodie is fer nothin'?" he said when Marc had finished.

"Yes. And I've got till Monday morning to develop a new defense, and even if I manage to get my mind to work, I don't think it's possible to come up with one." He grabbed Cobb by the shoulders, and shouted, "Goddammit, Cobb, it's not right! How can we live in a country that lets innocent young men go to the gallows like lambs to the slaughter!"

"Jesus, major, I ain't the hangman!"

Marc stopped shaking his partner and dropped his hands disconsolately to his side. "I'm sorry, old friend. You've worked harder and risked more than any of us."

"Risked the family jewels," Cobb said.

Marc smiled weakly. "So you did."

"I ain't never seen you as low as this. You're givin' me a fright. We ain't done yet, are we? All we gotta do is get that peahead, Peck, to remember who made the death-threat. If you know who the killer is, you c'n call him to the stand first an' have a free run at him. You could even call Nestor right off an' scare the bejeezus outta the killer before he gets up there. That way, we won't be ruinin' anybody who don't deserve to be ruined, an' there'll be enough evidence to back you up - so it won't look like a political hatchet-job."