Toward Night's End Read Online Free PDF

the fingers. Each one ended just at the top knuckle. An accident? Johnstone didn’t think so, because human fingers are not all the same length. If he had stuck his hand in some type of machinery, what were the chances that it would slice off all the digits at the top knuckle? Not a deformity, because there was scar tissue on each tip. The more he looked at the hand, the more sure he was that the fingertips had been purposely cut off. The question was, by whom? And did that have anything to do with his murder?
    “Poor bastard,” said Stanton, a young uniformed policeman.
    Johnstone didn’t say a word. He continued to study the hand, as if it held the key that would unlock the murder investigation. Finally, Johnstone put the hand down and stood up. He looked at the Bainbridge cop, a young man who looked like he should still be in school. But Johnstone knew that was only because he was getting older. “Body was found here?”
    “That’s right. A woman walking her dog.”
    Johnstone looked around. They were on the north tip of the island, which was fairly desolate. But it was clear from the well-worn pathway that people walked along the beach area.
    “Got tire tracks too,” Stanton announced.
    Johnstone looked up sharply. “Where?”
    “This way.” The cop led him across the dry, brittle grass. They walked about fifteen yards. The cop stopped and pointed. Johnstone saw the deep tire impressions on the hard sand, carefully stepped around the area, and once again kneeled down.
    “You sure this is tied to the body?” Johnstone asked.
    “Well, I would think so, after all.” The answer caused Johnstone to shoot him a puzzled look, so the cop was quick to add, “People never drive out this far. I mean, they park back there.” He now pointed to the end of the paved road where his own car was parked. “Plus we had rain two days ago. A lot. Those were made after the rain, I would think.”
    Johnstone just nodded. Although he would never say it, he was impressed that the young officer could back up his theory with some logic. “Anyone see anything? A car out here? Maybe one from the mainland? Everyone knows each other out here, right?”
    “Well, not everyone. But yeah, we tend to know each other a bit. Or at least know of each other.” When Johnstone just continued to look at him, he added, “It’s just me on this case, right now. Besides, there aren’t any homes right around here, as you can see.” Johnstone continued to gaze at him, so he quickly added, “But I’ll ask.”
    “Why are you the only one handling this? Surely murder is fairly important. Even for islanders,” Johnstone said.
    “It is, it is. But, well...We got a man missing. Jap. The Army’s pretty upset. They’re worried that he’s you know, well, one of them.”
    “Them?”
    “Like the real Japanese. That he’s plotting to help them attack us here. Maybe take over the island. Or bomb Seattle.”
    Johnstone thought about upbraiding the young kid on what constitutes a “real Japanese,” but he let it slide. Instead, he asked, “When did he go missing?”
    Officer Stanton shrugged. “Last night, I guess. Was supposed to come home, but didn’t.”
    “Where was he supposed to have been?”
    “He’s a fisherman. Uses a neighbor’s truck to haul the fish he catches. Takes it into town,” he explained.
    “What kind of truck are we talking about?”
    The young cop pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. He quickly flipped through it. “Belongs to Porter. Russell Porter. He owns it. A Ford. Fifteen-foot cargo truck.”
    “Pretty good size.” Johnstone gazed back at the tire tread marks. Then turned to Stanton and said, “Call this Porter and see if he’ll bring his truck down here.”
    “It’s missing,” Stanton said. “The Jap never brought it back.”
    Johnstone stared at the officer for a minute. “You say he takes his catch to Seattle?”
    “Yeah.”
    “But that means he’d have to unload his boat, put his catch