by Marlowe Benn
He was speaking to Jerome. They had made a plan? There was a promise?
His eyes darted toward Julia. “Julia, you blessed little fool.” Was it surprise in his voice or only dismay? “You’re bleeding, my dear.”
Julia glanced down. Blood trailed into the remains of her broken shoe. She swiped carelessly at the gash, smearing her stocking. She wiped her hand on her ruined dress, annoyed with the distraction.
“You little fool,” he repeated. “Why couldn’t you believe me? If you’d just been patient, trusted me for another few days, she could have been safe forever. Now you’ve brought a madman into my home.” The rebuke fell like lead on her shoulders, crumpling her resolve.
It was an unbearable thought: Had she made a spectacular botch of things? Was Jerome a madman? Maybe he’d fed her nothing but lies, using her to penetrate Wallace’s stronghold. If so, she’d played into his hand, led him straight to Eva. Had Julia done what she most wanted to prevent: put Eva’s life in danger?
But no, she’d swear Jerome’s urgent wish to come along sprang from love, not revenge. And Eva’s scratched initial seemed meant to drive attention to that long-ago rape, as if it were the key to her present dilemma. Jerome had had no part in the Harlem cabaret scene until a few months ago. Wallace, on the other hand, had known Eva from her earliest days in the city.
His gaze settled on Jerome. He said again, “Put down your gun.”
Eva craned her neck to see over Wallace’s shoulder. The tendons in her neck bulged with the strain. Her face rose close beside his. Emotions and understanding seemed to slide from one to the other as if the membrane separating their fates were porous or disintegrating. “I know you’re scared, sweetie. You think I betrayed you. But I swear I haven’t. I never said a word.”
“A word about what?” Jerome’s voice cracked. “What are you talking about?”
Julia felt her own muscles tighten in the effort to silently beg him to lower his arm. Didn’t he see that the gun ruined everything? He’d achieved his aim. They were paying attention, ready to listen to whatever he had to say. The only thing that gun could accomplish now was needless bloodshed. She wanted to be the wise and fearless one to step forward and break the murderous anger that gripped Jerome, but she couldn’t. Even if she could be that wise and unafraid person, she was locked on the periphery of this struggle. This was a fight, a story, that stretched beyond her understanding. She could feel the currents, swirling and treacherous, but could only guess at their depths.
“Oh, sweetie,” Eva began to whimper, but Wallace cut her off.
“You’re meddling with things you don’t understand, Crockett. Put down your gun, and we can explain everything.”
“Put it down, Jerome. Please put it down,” Julia urged, soft as a lullaby. Possibly it was only in her head.
“He hasn’t hurt her,” Austen said. “That’s what matters. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
Jerome widened his stance. The gun stayed pointed at Wallace’s chest. “Get away from her.”
On a soaring high note, the Mozart recording ended. It began to thump.
“Sweetie, he hasn’t hurt me. He’s helping me—us both.” Eva’s eyes gleamed with tears. “You just have to trust him a little longer. Like with the manuscript—and now, soon, he’s going to help us get away. Please, sugar.”
“Eva, baby! I never had that manuscript. Why don’t you believe me? Last I saw, Timson slammed it inside that safe. How the hell would I have it?”
The rhythmic scratch of the record seemed to count out the progress of his thoughts. “Christ. You don’t think I killed him?”
At his plaintive, almost incredulous words, the muscles in Eva’s cheeks sagged. Julia saw confusion there, sliding into doubt. Eva did think Jerome was the killer—or she had until that moment. It made sense. It had always made sense. He had every reason to despise Timson, and every reason to want to retrieve that manuscript at any cost. So why had her certainty just wavered?
“Don’t give us that crap. She knows, Crockett,” Wallace said sharply. “I’ll do what I can to get you kids out of this mess, because Timson was a snake and he deserved that bullet, but I won’t keep lying for you. I told her what I saw. I told her about the loot I saw in that satchel—”
“But I only saw—” Julia blurted out, remembering that blessed letter from Eliot. Her words shriveled to ash when Wallace shot her a venomous look. Shock flared in her brain.
“In that sorry satchel of yours,” Wallace continued. “The stuff you took from the safe.”
Jerome swallowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I saw it, son.”
“Don’t call me son! And get your hands off her.”
“Do what he says, sweetie,” Eva begged, a new fear edging into her voice. “It’ll all be jake. Please don’t hurt me.”
Jerome’s shoulders heaved. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “God, no. I want to get you out of here. It’s him I want to hurt.” The gun rolled and then righted again.
“Put your gun away, Crockett,” Wallace said softly.
Julia saw nothing but Eva’s mobile, eloquent face. It cowered at Jerome’s next words.
“It’s not my gun! Stop saying that. You don’t think—? Eva! You know I’ve never even held a gun before, not until your pal there gave me this one.”
Eva’s eyes slid to the gun now wobbling in Jerome’s hands. He shifted it like a hot coal from right to left and back again. She followed its jerky path as if she could fling it aside with the sheer power of her gaze, and then her beautiful face melted into pure and utter grief. Her eyes rose, enormous pools of it.
What had she seen? What did she know? Julia struggled to understand.
With a cry Eva seized Wallace’s elbow. Their arms and feet tangled in a brief dance of strength and will. One moment they faced Jerome together, and the next they struggled against each other. Before Julia could register this sudden realignment of fear and trust, Eva was caught tight, pinioned against Wallace’s chest. She gripped his wrist, but it did not move. Nor did the black revolver in his hand, pointed directly at Jerome.
“My God,” Julia breathed. For an instant the revolver jumped toward her. Wallace quickly retrained it on Jerome, but in that split second Julia understood. Not everything but enough. Or rather her muscles understood—her blood, her stomach, her heart. Her mind would find the words and the sense of it later. My God.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Wallace said calmly. “Eva least of all. But if you refuse to see reason and common sense, perhaps you’ll understand this.”
Without moving his eyes, he said, “Julia, please step back. You and your friend.”
Julia couldn’t move. She was afraid to breathe, afraid a feather would jar Jerome’s trembling finger. Now he was the one in danger. They all were. They had been from the start, from the moment a bullet had entered Leonard Timson’s brain. She tried to speak, to muster a squeak of bravado, but her throat had closed.
Wallace shrugged. No doubt his aim was perfect. And with Eva now shielding him, he held the advantage. Jerome would never fire, never risk hurting Eva. Wallace was using that certainty to ensure Jerome’s death. The Wallace Julia had known was shrewd and unflappable, the consummate business and political leader, but here was a cornered animal, fighting to survive.
“Lay down your gun and give yourself up, Crockett,” Wallace said. “Think about it. You’d never get away. We have two impeccable witnesses who’ll verify everything, and my staff will confirm that you broke into my home. You might get away with one murder, but never two.”
“Murder?” Jerome repeated. The word broke in his throat.
Eva sobbed, the howl of a trapped and wounded animal.
A howl sounded inside Julia too. Something momentous had just leaped into the room, but before she could grasp its contours, Wallace spoke again.
“I will ask you one more time.” His eyes bored into Jerome’s face. “Drop the gun. Bend yo
ur knees slowly, and lay it on the floor. If you make any other move, any other movement at all, I will take it as an attack. I must warn you I’m a very fine shot. Especially in self-defense when threatened in my home by an armed fugitive.”
Julia agonized, willing obedience into Jerome’s listing arm. The plea seeped from her pores: Just bend your knees. Put it down. Let it go, Jerome. Let it go. It’s your only chance.
Her agony, though, came in knowing he had no chance. Proud, righteous Jerome was doomed. Even if Wallace let him live, he’d be torn to pieces by the law. The only small victory Jerome might claim now was in shaping the story of what Wallace would call his crime. Wallace was already rehearsing his version of events, justifying the bullet before he fired it. By yielding peacefully, Jerome could at least die with a modicum of honor. Julia would testify to that—if the shooting stopped before the rest of them were dead too.
Time swelled. It was probably only one or two seconds, but the harrowing moment pressed air from her lungs, bled light from her vision. It seemed to last forever, that unblinking stare between two guns not ten feet apart, one trembling and the other steady.
A noise. Shouts. Clattering voices. Then running feet, what sounded like a thudding herd from the entry hall behind them. Eva’s eyes lifted in terror.
Jerome’s head swung to see.
“Drop it, boy!”
Eva jerked, her entire body twisting to get free, but Wallace reclutched, cinching his forearm like a rope across her ribs. With a powerful heave she seized his hand, pulling it and the gun into her stomach. She gave a terrible shriek.
A blur of motion. The shatter of a gunshot. A starburst of blood.
Eva and Wallace jackknifed together. They doubled over, Eva folded inside his crumpling body. They fell as one to the carpet.
CHAPTER 32
Fury struck Julia, knocking her sideways. She stumbled hard against the corner of the living room portal and fell. Austen disappeared into the hallway, his head cracking against the wainscoting. Three cops swarmed past her, sticks already raised. One hit Jerome’s jaw, bouncing his head back in a spray of blood and sweat. The gun skipped away across the carpet as Jerome collapsed beneath the frenzy of blows. Grunting with exertion, one of the cops drove his boot into his belly. His mouth yawned wide—pink and wet and silent.
“Stop!” Julia had never heard herself scream. Her ears rang with the terrible sound. “Stop!”
She tried to crawl toward the melee, but a cop shoved her away. She clawed at his arm. She’d have bitten it if she could. “Stop!”
Another gripped her shoulders, pulling her back. “Calm down, lady! You’re safe now.”
She tried to twist free. “No! Stop!”
Austen’s voice from somewhere echoed her, before he was violently sick.
The pounding gradually stopped. She squirmed free of the cop’s grasp.
Time shimmered like light on a hot horizon. Two minutes? Ten? An hour? Julia pulled herself upright onto hands and knees. She saw only carpet. Every breath brought the hot reek of blood. Voices hummed and spiked. She remained on all fours, head down, waiting for her throat and her stomach to unclench.
She lifted her head and sat back on her heels. Austen was upright, barely, his face in his hands. He staggered into the hall.
A few feet away, Jerome was propped against the other side of the portal. His eyes were tightly shut. Chin lolling above his chest, he was groaning. His shirt was splattered with blood, and a stream of pink saliva oozed from his mouth. His wrists were shackled behind his back.
“It wasn’t him.” Julia’s words were hoarse and muzzy.
“Let us figure out what happened here, Miss Kydd.” The voice was familiar. Her head flopped to the right. Sergeant Hannity.
“He never fired.”
“We’ll get your statements in a minute,” Hannity said. “I can’t wait to hear what the hell you two were doing here.” He jabbed a thumb toward Jerome. “Meanwhile, this johnny stays put.”
Julia tried to protest again, but Hannity cut her off. “Save it for Mr. Kessler, miss.” He hurried forward to meet the assistant commissioner.
Kessler’s voice approached from the foyer, speaking in a rapid-fire command. The room stirred as men Julia hadn’t noticed turned at his entrance.
“Good Lord.”
She recognized Philip’s voice. He squatted beside her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. His hand on her forehead helped quell the dizzy tumult.
Kessler spoke sharply. “I’d hoped the sergeant was mistaken when he said you were here, Miss Kydd. You’d better have a very good explanation.”
“Christ,” Philip said. “Give her a minute.”
Kessler ignored him and followed Hannity into the living room, where several uniformed policemen milled about, their banter low and matter of fact. “So, Sergeant, what do we have here?”
“Can you stand?” Philip asked quietly.
She nodded, with only a little queasiness. She heard more than she understood. Too much still rang in her ears—the shot, and especially Eva’s scream. She rested on her knees for several seconds. Then Philip helped her up.
“Why are you here?” she mumbled. Her face felt numb, her mouth stiff with tension. Her shoulder pitched against his ribs.
“Hannity had a man watching this place,” Philip said into her ear. “He notified Kessler when you and Crockett went inside. He telephoned me, and we hustled over here. This is serious, Julia. Wallace’s death will cause a terrible stir when word gets out.”
Julia forced herself to look at the lifeless couple. Eva lay curled facedown, the lower half of her dress crimson. Her arms and a gun would be buried somewhere beneath her, in the remnants of her lap. The police had turned Wallace over, or maybe with her last strength Eva had heaved him off. He lay sprawled on his back, a glistening cavern where his groin had been. Only arteries could have gushed so much blood.
Julia began to shake. After being unable to see beyond their two faces, now she couldn’t look at either one. This was a scene, a tableau, seared in memory and meaning. Maybe with time she could pull them back into the living souls they had been, souls she’d cared about deeply in different ways. Now she could only shake, like a machine laboring to function.
Philip steadied her shoulders and turned them away. He nudged her with something in his hand. Her broken heel lay in his palm. “There’s a chap with a bad headache in the kitchen, muttering about a lady in distress,” he said under his breath. “He mentioned someone sounding eerily like you.” He slipped it into his pocket.
A coughing moan pulled her eyes back to Jerome. His head hung down, mouth working to spit out blood. But when Julia moved toward him, a policeman blocked her. “Stay back, miss. Sarge?”
Hannity looked over.
“What about them two?” The guard gestured toward Julia and Austen, who had sheepishly reappeared under the portal’s arch. “Where you want them?”
“There must be a bedroom or something. Have Pensky get their statements. Separate rooms. I want to talk to them too.”
Hannity’s broad face wrinkled in distaste as Jerome snuffled, unable to wipe the bloody mucus running from his nose. “That boy’s going downtown.”
Julia slapped the guard’s hand from Jerome’s shoulder. “No!”
Hannity stared in surprise.
“You can’t arrest him.” Julia realized she was shouting and lowered her voice. “He never fired.”
Silence. Kessler turned.
“Why do you say that, Miss Kydd?” he asked from across the room with schooled quiet.
“I saw everything. Wallace had hold of Eva. She turned his gun and fired it into them both. Jerome didn’t shoot anyone.”
The hum of voices down the hall stilled.
Kessler excused himself from the conversation by the windows and came closer. “The men on the scene swore they saw Crockett shoot,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll be taking your statement shortly. Until then, please kee
p your voice down. You’re distracting my men.”
Julia protested. “You’re making a terrible mistake. You must believe me.”
“You’ve abused my confidence before, Miss Kydd. Why should I listen now to your ravings?”
The words stung. “Because I know what happened. I can tell you who killed them”—she waved feebly at the bodies, not ready to speak either Eva’s or Wallace’s name—“and who killed Leonard Timson too.” In that instant she realized it was true. She did know.
Kessler bridled in disbelief, but Philip stirred. “Let her speak.”
“If you’ll give me time to settle my thoughts, I can explain everything. Please. Tonight?”
Kessler was about to repeat his scorn when Philip produced a small cough. “You’re making an ass of yourself, old man,” he murmured. “She knows a far sight more than you think.”
Julia did not allow her gaze to stray from Kessler’s face. He fixed her with his hard gray eyes.
Philip sighed at Kessler’s resistance. “Quel enfant terrible,” he said. “What can one do?”
“So where do you want him?” asked Jerome’s guard as another officer handed Kessler a note.
He read it and looked up. “Downtown.”
“No!” Julia didn’t care how shrill she sounded. “I told you! Check his gun.”
Kessler grimaced, but he allowed a nearby fellow in white gloves to examine the gun that still lay on the rug where it had flown from Jerome’s hand. After a minute the man shrugged. He wrapped the weapon in a handkerchief and handed it to Kessler. “She’s right, sir. No one’s fired this baby in some time. Couldn’t have. It’s not loaded.”
Not loaded? Wallace had given Jerome a gun without bullets? If the police had found his hiding place and he’d so much as lifted that weapon, he’d have been riddled with lead. Another, more sickening realization dawned on her. That entire scene she’d just witnessed, every moment of heart-stopping fear, had been a sham. Wallace had known that gun was empty. He’d let everyone believe Jerome posed the threat, that a peaceful resolution lay only in Jerome’s hands, when he himself had held the only killing instrument. He had goaded Jerome, wanting just one flinch to justify shooting him. Julia felt the bile rising again in her throat. It was all too monstrous to comprehend.
