“If I’d told her, she would’ve known there was something wrong here. She could’ve done everything differently. Made you all be more careful. Insisted on locking up the guns earlier. Cat might still be alive.”
“Jesus, Axbrewder!” Hardhouse swore, “that was bright. What do you use for brains?”
Talking at the same time, Mile made a reference to “criminal negligence.”
I didn’t listen to them. I was listening to Queenie.
“In God’s name, why, Brew?” she protested. “Why didn’t you tell her?”
Momentum is a wonderful thing. Since I’d already started, I found it almost easy to keep going.
“I was angry.” A pitiful excuse, but there it was. “I was tired of being treated like the team cripple—like the only difference between being shot and being drunk was how much blood I lost. And,” I insisted, “I hadn’t recognized Smithsonian’s voice yet. I didn’t realize”—a small understatement—“the scale of the problem. I thought I could take care of it myself.”
Hardhouse sniggered quietly.
“Do you hear me, Axbrewder?” Mile shouted. His face had gone an apoplectic red. “Ah’ll break you for this! Ah’ll have you up on charges, criminal charges! You’ll lose your license. Ah’ll make sure you never work again, goddamn sure!”
“If you get out of this alive, you’re welcome to try.” After what I’d just been through, I could face down a slob like him any day of the week. “But I should probably tell you that I haven’t had a license for years.” Deliberately I picked up the .45. “I killed one too many people.”
“Until Ginny gets back”—if she got back—“I won’t take any grief from you. You’re going to do what I tell you. Exactly what I tell you. And you’re going to keep that fat lump you call a mouth shut. I’m wounded and sick, and I haven’t exactly covered myself with glory so far. But I’m a pro. Like Abel. I’ve been shot at, and I’ve killed people. I’m familiar with it.
“That makes me the best hope you’ve got.”
To my astonishment, Westward spoke first. “You don’t need the gun, Axbrewder.” The way Lara held his hand seemed to give him confidence. “Just tell us what you want. We’ll do it.”
I scanned the group. No one argued. Faith didn’t raise her eyes, but she nodded as if she were thinking about something else.
So I told them.
16
What I told them wasn’t anything special. Stay together. Lock your door if you absolutely have to be alone. Keep your windows covered and latched. If you see Simon, call for help. If he grabs you, don’t resist. Dead hostages aren’t worth much, so he won’t hurt you unless you force him to.
Survive until Reeson gets back with help.
The one thing I didn’t mention was weaponry, self-defense.
Mile noticed the omission right away. As soon as I stopped talking, he demanded, “What about them guns? We got to have ’em. We got to protect ourselves.”
I let out a thin sigh. Some problems never go away. They just keep coming back, stupider each time.
“If by ‘protect ourselves’ you mean we got to start shooting at everythin’ that moves, you’re wrong. That’s my job. I wouldn’t give you a gun even if Simon wanted you personally. I don’t trust you.”
I guess circumstances had finally pushed him past the point of cowardice—or point of discretion, anyway. He bounced out of his chair and stood in front of me, jowls aquiver.
“Now you listen to me, Axbrewder. You’ve gone too far. Ah don’t forget we’re in this mess on account of you. Ah don’t forget your negligence has already got one of us killed. There just ain’t nothin’ Ah can do about that right now. But if you think Ah’m goin’ to sit here on mah hams and let you risk us some more, you best think again. It’s your job to protect us? Fine. Ah don’t trust you. You got a drinkin’ problem, and a hole in your guts, and you admit bein’ irresponsible. You ain’t no protection at all.
“Ah mean to get me a gun, Axbrewder. You get it for me, or Ah’ll get it mahself.”
I shook my head. “No, you won’t.”
“Why not?” He did his best to bristle at me, which made him look like indignant Jell-o.
“Because if you do”—slowly I aimed the .45 at his face—“I’ll blow your fucking head off. It’s me Simon wants, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let a chicken-shit like you do his work for him.”
Mile’s features wobbled on their bones, and his skin went pale. Involuntarily he brought up his hands to ward me off. A step at a time, he retreated to his chair.
I held the .45 so that everyone could see me release the slide. “We’re all scared.” To myself, I sounded positively reasonable. “That’s natural enough. But scared people are trigger-happy. Leave the guns to Ginny and me.”
Assuming, of course, that we’d ever see Ginny again.
No doubt sensing that I needed the support, Sam got to his feet. “I’m willing,” he said to the group. “Brew has made some mistakes, but he’s still a professional. I’m ready to trust him.”
“As I am,” Connie seconded promptly. And Mac displayed his new initiative by agreeing with her.
Since no one else put in an objection, I was elected trustworthy by default.
That was a relief of sorts, but I didn’t dwell on it. “All right,” I said, doing the best Ginny Fistoulari imitation I could muster. “Life goes on. That means we need lunch.” I had no idea what time it was, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to inject a note of normalcy into the situation. “Faith, how soon can you get us something to eat?”
Apparently Reeson’s absence was the only fact that had any personal impact on her. “Half an hour,” she murmured, just distinctly enough to be heard.
“Good.” I put the .45 away. “In the meantime, let’s make sure our windows are covered and latched. Truchi, I want the outside doors locked. No one goes out,” I told the group. “You might not be able to get back in. And you don’t want to risk being exposed.”
Westward gave me a humorless smile. “That’s what they do in all the novels. They turn the lodge into a fortress. Then they discover that they’ve locked the real killer in with them.”
I was too tired to argue with him. Fortunately I didn’t have to. “This isn’t a novel,” Hardhouse put in. “Right now, a fortress sounds like a good idea to me.”
Maryanne, Sam, and Lara shared his opinion. Mile probably did, too, but he had guns on the brain and couldn’t think about anything else.
I shrugged. Faith, Truchi, and Amalia left the den. Murder on Cue’s guests stood up, too nervous to remain seated. Unexpectedly helpful, Hardhouse offered to carry Buffy back to her bed.
Sam and Queenie came over to me. In an undertone, he asked, “How are you doing?”
“Who knows? I’m relying on you to keep me on my feet.”
“I’ll do what I can. But I don’t want to help you overdo it. That could turn into a perverse form of suicide.” Then he asked, “Did you take your pills?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Queenie,” Sam ordered, as if he were back in surgery, “go get Brew’s pills.”
His tone didn’t bother her. “Where are they?”
“You’ll find them,” I said. The truth was that I couldn’t remember where I’d left them.
When she walked away, Sam and I were alone—except for Rock. Everyone else had gone to check on their windows.
Rock moved closer. Obviously, he wanted to talk to me. I looked at him wanly. “Yes?”
As if he feared eavesdroppers, he breathed, “I didn’t want to say this in front of the group. But I think you’re wrong.”
Sam went rigid with attention. I didn’t have the strength.
“What about?” I asked.
“About Simon.”
Oh, good. Just what I needed.
But Rock didn’t go on. I had to prod him. “Don’t make me guess. I’m in no mood for it.”
“It’s the timing.” He stared hard at my feet. “When
did you kill this Muy Estobal?”
For some reason, I was vague on the details. “Last week.”
“Is that the only reason el Señor wants you dead?”
“Far as I know.”
“Then—” Rock hesitated, not as if he were unsure, but as if he wished he had the will to look me in the face. “It isn’t Simon.”
I held my breath.
“I signed a contract with him—Murder on Cue hired him and Cat—over a month ago.”
Well, shit. Shit on everything.
I felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to sit down.
Simon, I’m sorry.
“In other words,” Sam said in case I needed the explanation, “it would be an absolutely staggering coincidence if a professional killer who works for el Señor just happened to accept an acting job from you over a month ago and then turned out to be in the right place at the right time to attack Brew.”
Rock nodded rather helplessly.
“Why didn’t you want anybody else to know?” Sam pursued.
“Because it doesn’t mean there isn’t a killer after Brew. It just means the killer isn’t Simon. Or any of us. Everyone here signed up weeks ago. You and Queenie were the last, and you sent in your money two weeks ago. Only Brew and Ginny got involved at the last minute.
“I don’t know Lawrence Smithsonian well. We’re acquainted, that’s all. And I thought he had a good reputation. He always took our camps”—Rock swallowed—“about as seriously as I did. I have no way of knowing whether he works for el Señor.
“But Simon isn’t the killer.”
Sam accepted this. “That makes sense.” He definitely liked mysteries.
“Come on.” I lacked the courage to explain what I had in mind, but I knew what to do. “I don’t want to go outside alone.”
Before either of them could ask any questions, I lumbered off in the direction of the kitchen.
Faith Jerrick was there, stirring a pot of something. I ignored her. She’d locked the back door, but the dead bolt didn’t need a key from the inside. I turned it and went out.
“Don’t lock the door,” Sam told Faith as he and Rock followed.
Outside. Down the steps. Around the corner of the building to the wall of the wine cellar.
The wind was blowing harder, but it hadn’t completely filled in the marks outside the lodge—or Ginny’s trail toward the trees. It still hadn’t covered up the broken boards of the hole that let Simon out. I didn’t have to dig for them.
“Brew,” Sam kept asking, “what’re you doing?”
I ignored him, too.
The stains of oil and weather made it easy to piece together the way the boards used to fit in the wall. And when I did that, what had happened became obvious.
Pressure notches marked the outer edges of the boards—the kind of notches you get when you break boards out of a wall with a crowbar.
Simon hadn’t escaped by himself. This hole had been made for him.
Wind curled around me, into my clothes, into my heart. I felt as bleak as the winter, chilled to the bone, dying for spring. Sam said something. Rock said something. I didn’t hear them. I was exposed out here, an easy target, but I didn’t care. Pieces of things that I should’ve thought of earlier fitted together like the boards, and they told the same story.
Sam took my arm, shook me to get my attention. “Brew?”
Like the wind, I said, “Simon is dead.”
Then I said, “He was framed.”
So that we wouldn’t recognize the danger in time. And maybe so that Ginny could be lured away.
Sam forced me to hear him. “How do you know?”
I showed him the boards. “Someone broke into the wine cellar from the outside.”
“Maybe he has an accomplice.” The mystery lover talking.
“No. For the same reason we know he didn’t do it.”
And I could prove it.
How did I manage to be so goddamn stupid?
“You’re all innocent. None of you came in at the last minute. He was framed.”
Unless—
My head reeled. I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance much longer. For some reason, I had the .45 in my hand again. Maybe that was why Sam held onto my arm. I jerked out of his grasp and jabbed the muzzle up under Rock’s chin.
Sam could’ve stopped me. He was strong enough. But apparently he’d reached a decision about me days ago. He held back now for the same reason that he’d helped me earlier.
Despite the cold and the wind, Rock’s face turned as white and gray as stale dough. He tried to back up, but I had my fist in the front of his shirt.
“No—” he gurgled.
“Listen to me, Rock.” I dug into him with the sight of the .45. “This is your last chance to tell the truth and get away with it. After this, it’s going to cost blood.
“You like messing up mysteries. You told me that yourself. You like helping the killer get away. If you’re doing that now, say so. Before anyone else gets hurt.” Even though it was too late for Ginny, far too late. “If you’re lying about Simon—if you helped him escape—and I find out about it the hard way, I’ll make damn sure some of the blood that gets spilled is yours.”
“No. No.” His voice cracked. “Are you crazy? I wouldn’t do that. I mess up Buffy’s mysteries. I change the clues. Yes. Those are games. The people who come to our camps are just playing. Nobody ever gets hurt. I wouldn’t have anything to do with a real killer.
“Take me inside.” He shivered with cold and urgency. “I have all the registrations and contracts in my briefcase. I’ll show you when they were signed. Ask Buffy. She knows when I hired Simon. She interviewed him.”
So much for that theory. I let him go. I hadn’t actually believed that he was involved. But the alternatives were worse.
Much worse.
“‘Mess up Buffy’s mysteries’?” Sam asked in a strained tone. “‘Change the clues’? What kind of camp is this?”
Rock wheeled on him. Appalled or angry, he yelled, “I don’t like mysteries!” Almost immediately, however, his passion collapsed into chagrin. “Anyway, Buffy knows about it,” he said like a shamefaced kid. “Houston told her.”
I flapped a hand at him—I wanted them both to shut up.
Rock stumbled past Sam and leaned against the side of the lodge as if his heart were going bad on him. Sam moved toward me. I stared out along what was left of Ginny’s trail. The trees looked too black to allow survival. If I were him—whoever he was—I wouldn’t shoot her until she reached the trees. Then I could leave her body where it fell without being seen.
“You can’t go after her,” Sam said abruptly. “You aren’t strong enough.”
As if we were talking about the same thing, I replied, “He was framed. We locked him in that little room and left him to die.”
“You can’t stay out here,” he added. “You’re too visible. With the right rifle, he can pick you off whenever he wants.”
“He didn’t even have to follow us,” I went on. “He knew we’d come here.” A hit man I wouldn’t recognize if he walked right up to me. “Smithsonian told him. For all we know, he was already here when we arrived.”
“That doesn’t change anything.” Sam put as much bite as he could into his voice. “We still have a professional killer to worry about. We still need to take care of ourselves. If we want to stay alive.”
“Cat is dead because I was irresponsible. Simon is dead because I was stupid.”
At least that got his attention. “What? You mean you could have figured out he was in danger? You had some way of knowing he didn’t shoot Cat?”
I sat down in the snow. I’d lost my balance anyway, and I needed rest. My whole body felt like it was on fire. Fever or guilt, I couldn’t tell the difference. Sam hunkered in front of me, deliberately blocking the line of fire from the trees. I handed him the .45. Then I scooped up snow in both hands and rubbed it over my face.
Snow.
It wasn�
��t cold enough, but it helped.
That was it. Snow. The snow on Simon’s windowsill.
“Yes,” I murmured to Sam. “It was right there in his room, but I didn’t see it.”
He’d said that he always kept his window latched.
“When we went into his room, we found the rifle in his closet. Which doesn’t make sense in the first place. It’s too obvious. But there was something else. His window was open. There was snow on the sill. Snow on the floor. But not a lot. An inch, maybe. And it was messed up. It showed that someone went in or out. Or both.”
“So?” Sam asked.
“Let’s go inside,” Rock pleaded from the wall. “I’m freezing.”
“So it doesn’t fit. Suppose he unlatched his window before he went for his ‘walk.’ He’d have to leave it open at least a bit, or else he wouldn’t be able to raise it from the outside. So he went out. Then he came back in through the window, got the rifle, and went out again. He located me and Cat in the parlor. He shot her. Then he returned through the window.
“At that point, he was in a hurry. But once he’d ditched the rifle he had plenty of time. He could’ve closed the window behind him when he left again. The snow might melt before we checked his room. Assuming he wanted to make us think he’d left the window open all along for fresh air, he should’ve closed it down to a crack. Then there would’ve been less snow. And he wouldn’t have denied leaving the window open.”
Sam nodded intently.
“But what if he was telling the truth?” I went on. “Then it fits.”
“I’m going inside,” Rock said in a miserable tone. I heard him slog away.
Wet cold soaked into my pants, but I didn’t care. It helped me cool down.
“The killer was watching the lodge. He already had the rifle with him—he’d already taken the guns. He saw me and Cat in the parlor. He saw Simon go out. He went inside. In a hurry, so that he wouldn’t miss his chance. He threw open Simon’s window and jumped out. Ran around the lodge and shot Cat Then he rushed back into Simon’s room, ditched the rifle, and went out through the window again. Leaving the window open because he was still in a hurry. And because he wanted to draw attention to Simon. Now there’s an inch or so of snow on the sill and floor, and it’s messed up.”
The Man Who Tried to Get Away Page 21
