“I didn’t see.” Her eyes were about to melt with fear. Nevertheless she stopped babbling. “Honest to God, Brew, I didn’t see. I didn’t see it happen. The hall’s too dark. She was like that when I found her.
“Joseph and I finished the rooms—the ones she told us to search. We didn’t find anything. He sent me to tell her we were done. He went to help Rock and Connie.
“I heard her fall. The way she groaned—God, I thought she was dead! But I didn’t see it happen. He was gone when I got here. I didn’t see anyone. There isn’t enough light.”
That left Connie and Rock.
Constance Bebb, who might not be able to drive a five-inch blade hard enough.
Roderick Altar, who might not know how to drive it at all.
“Whose is it?” Hardhouse put in tightly. “If we knew that, we might be able to figure out who did it.”
Ginny coughed something that sounded like, “How?”
The pressure he put on her shoulder showed in his voice. “Whoever searched the room where that knife was is probably the killer. If we find out whose knife it is, we’ll know who searched that room.”
Which made sense, but I didn’t care. I had other priorities. Another hint—
Just to be on the safe side, I waggled the knife and asked Lara, “Is this yours?”
She didn’t look at it. “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t like knives. I don’t know whose it is.”
I let her go. “All right,” I grated. “Go get Sam. Make him come. Tell him to bring his bag. Hit him if you have to.”
She glanced at her husband for confirmation. When he nodded sharply, she moved away.
Another hint. Not a piece of evidence, just an idea. Imagine someone—Connie, Rock, I didn’t know who—searching rooms. Pretending to hunt for a killer, but really on the skulk for some way to attack Ginny without getting caught. Would this someone be willing to wing it—to take a chance on a random knife and unpredictable hallway lighting? Or would he require a more reliable combination of means and opportunity?
Would whoever had shot Ginny come back to the lodge without being sure that he could get in?
One interesting difference between professional and amateur killers is that professionals don’t like chance.
I didn’t get to pursue the question, however. Before Lara reached the doorway, Sam came into the hall from the den.
He had his bag with him.
Connie held him by one arm as if she were leading him along.
As soon as I saw him, I forgot knives and hints. Suddenly I cared about nothing except what Sam could do for Ginny.
He came forward with the unsteady gait and aimless movements of a man who’d lost his essential balance. In some way, he seemed dependent on Connie’s grip. But none of us had to tell him what Ginny needed. As he reached her, he said in a husky voice, “Get some light.” Then he pushed Hardhouse aside to kneel beside her.
No one else moved, so Hardhouse went looking for a light switch.
To no one in particular, Connie said, “Mr. Altar and I heard Mrs. Hardhouse cry out. We didn’t know what had happened, of course, but we could guess that Dr. Drayton would be required. It was difficult to persuade him to leave his wife. But Mr. Altar volunteered to stay with her while I brought Dr. Drayton here. He’s there now.”
Alibis again. Connie and Rock could vouch for each other. If they weren’t both guilty, they were both innocent.
At the end of the hall, Hardhouse found a switch. When he flipped it, the lights came on. The gloom disappeared so fast that the hallway seemed to blaze.
No burned-out bulbs. Someone had deliberately ditched the lights.
Sam inspected Ginny’s back. To improve his view, he stuck two fingers through the cut in her shirt and ripped the material away. Because of Hardhouse’s pressure—or because the knife hadn’t hit anything vital—she’d stopped bleeding, and her shirt had soaked up the blood. I had a good view of the wound. It looked minor and insidious, too small to be dangerous, too ugly to be ignored.
It pulled me down to the floor again, on my knees across from Sam, as if I might see what it meant if I looked at it hard enough.
Whoever had tried to kill her was definitely an amateur.
Tearing open swabs and syringes, Sam asked, “Is that the knife?”
I still had it in my hand. Instead of answering, I showed it to him.
His eyes were dull, pulled down at the corners by anguish, and his skin had a cheesy color that didn’t suit his handsome features. But he was still a doctor. After a glance at the knife, he muttered, “Doesn’t look like it went in deep enough,” and began to work.
“Don’t you want to know what I think?” Ginny rasped. “I think it went in fucking far enough.”
Sam ignored her. She swore under her breath for a moment. Then he used a syringe to squeeze antiseptic down into the cut, and she flinched involuntarily. But she didn’t protest.
“Ginny.” I knew she was in no position to answer questions, but I had to try. “Did you see anything? Hear anything? When did the lights go off? Do you know who stabbed you?”
“No!” she gasped as Sam probed at her shoulder. “The light was out the whole time. I didn’t mind. I thought I could use the cover. But that sonofabitch got me easy. Like I was one of the Ladies Auxiliary. All I had to do was turn around, and this damn case would be over.”
“If you’d turned around,” Sam retorted with unexpected vehemence, “the knife might’ve gone straight into your heart. You’re already luckier than you deserve.”
“So that proves it,” Hardhouse commented as if we were all talking to him. “The killer isn’t one of us. It has to be someone we don’t know—someone still hiding in the lodge.”
“Perhaps you would care to explain yourself, Mr. Hardhouse.” Connie’s tone didn’t express confidence. Her own anger ran deep, and she made it clear that she meant to draw her own conclusions. “How do you arrive at that deduction?”
“Simple.” The worse the situation got, the more assurance he seemed to feel. “We don’t need to consider the Carbones or Faith Jerrick. Reeson explained why we can trust them. That leaves the rest of us. In fact, it only leaves those of us right here. Maryanne, Houston, and Buffy are together in the den—with Faith. None of them could have stabbed Ginny.
“And Brew was in the den as well. Weren’t you, Brew?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sam’s an unlikely candidate in any case,” he continued. “And you and Rock can vouch for him. He was in his room when you went to get him. Similarly, the rest of us can vouch for you. Assuming you attacked Ginny, there are only two ways you could have reached Sam’s room from here—the two exits from the hall. One would take you through the den. Past Brew. The other would take you outside. You didn’t have time for that.
“As for Lara and me—neither of us could have committed the other murders. And we were together until just moments before she found Ginny. I can tell you she didn’t have time to stab Ginny. In fact, I can tell you she didn’t have a knife with her.
“That’s everybody.” Hardhouse spread his hands. “We’re all accounted for. The killer isn’t one of us.” He paused suggestively. “He must be hiding in one of the rooms in this wing. Unless he’s opened a window and gone outside.”
His explanation sounded too persuasive—so persuasive that I dismissed it completely. But I didn’t have time to react. Before I could take hold of what the back of my brain was trying to tell me, we all heard a pounding noise. Again.
A noise like someone knocking on a door.
Knocking hard.
It came from the direction of the den.
At the same instant, Buffy let out a squeal of fright.
Connie and Lara turned to the sound. Growling, “Now what?” Hardhouse started toward the den. Even Sam raised his head. He looked confused, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing.
Ginny twisted over onto her side. “Brew.” Her right hand clamped onto my wrist. “Stay c
lose,” she whispered. “I need to talk to you.”
Then she added, “Find my gun. I dropped it.”
Somehow I hadn’t realized that I was kneeling virtually on top of her .357.
I picked it up. With her hand on my wrist and my arm across her back, we climbed to our feet. I wanted to stop there, put both arms around her, let the acid burn through me. But my fists were full of weapons, and the pounding hadn’t stopped.
Leaning on each other, we stumbled into motion.
“I’m not done,” Sam remarked as if he didn’t expect either of us to care.
“Come on,” I told him over my shoulder. I didn’t want him left alone. But Ginny and I kept moving.
By the time we reached the den, Hardhouse had already taken it on himself to open the door.
Arthur Reeson stood outside.
He looked like he’d just completed a forty-mile trek through four feet of snow.
22
He didn’t come in. When he saw me with the .357 in one hand and a bloody knife in the other, he stopped on the doorsill.
All in all, we must’ve presented an interesting picture. Ginny was obviously injured. Sam did a pretty convincing imitation of a derelict. Mile hadn’t stopped struggling against his bonds. The gag made him look apoplectic. Maryanne was obviously delighted to see Reeson, who represented rescue, but Buffy gaped at him as if she didn’t know if he came from heaven or hell. And I couldn’t manage anything more intelligent than to drop my jaw and stare. Only Connie, Lara, and Joseph didn’t appear to have been traumatized during Reeson’s absence.
“Art!” Faith cried. She ran to him, flung herself into his arms, and kissed him ravenously.
“Did you get through?” Hardhouse demanded with aggressive good cheer. “Is help on the way? We’re dropping like flies around here.”
Reeson eyed me past Faith’s shoulder. Still hugging her, he opened his hands to show me they were empty. As soon as she finished kissing him, he gave me a quizzical smile—which reminded me I’d never liked his smile.
“May I come in?”
Behind him wind blew across the valley. The sky had stayed clear, but the light was fading. Dusk cast Deerskin Lodge into shadow. He’d been gone for less than a day.
Like Hardhouse, I wondered if he’d summoned help.
“If you don’t”—Ginny’s voice was almost as hoarse as Reeson’s—“we’ll all freeze to death.”
Hell, I’d freeze to death if I just had to look at Reeson’s smile much longer.
He nodded. Disentangling himself from Faith, he shrugged the pack off his shoulders and dropped it on the porch. Still watching Ginny and me, he dusted most of the snow off his legs.
Then he came in.
Faith closed the door for him. With tears bright in her eyes and an uncharacteristic flush on her cheeks, she hung at his side.
He unbuttoned his coat smoothly. “Maybe,” he said, trying to be helpful, “you’d better tell me what’s happened.”
“Maybe,” Ginny retorted harshly, “you’d better tell us if you got through. You’re back early.”
His smile had a faintly maniacal twist, but his voice remained steady. “If you think I’d come back without doing what I said I would, you don’t know me very well. Ordinarily, I’d take offense. But I can see you haven’t been having an easy time.
“Yes, I got through. There’s a cabin five miles from here. Some city guy—an artist, I think—uses it in the summer.” He shrugged. “I broke in to check the phone. It worked. The sheriff is on his way. He’ll be here as soon as a plow opens the road.”
Buffy gasped a sob of relief. Maryanne sat down suddenly, as if the strings of fear which kept her on her feet had been cut. Staring like he couldn’t believe his ears, Mile stopped trying to work the gag loose.
“Thank God,” Connie said succinctly.
“There’s a lot of road to clear,” Reeson warned. “Help won’t arrive until sometime tomorrow.”
We were still in trouble.
Apparently. Hardhouse didn’t realize that. Hurrying for some other reason, he took Lara by the arm and drew her away from the door. “We’ll go tell Rock and Queenie the good news.” Without any sign of protest from his wife, he swept her out of the den.
“Are they—?” Sam had to struggle to clear his throat. “Are they bringing an ambulance? Paramedics? I need more IV Valium. She’s still in a coma.”
Reeson started to ask a question, but he thought better of it when he looked at Sam. “An ambulance, yes,” he answered, “for the woman who got shot. Catherine Reverie. I don’t know about paramedics.”
Then he added, “The sheriff has a radio. So do the plows. When they arrive, the road will be open. They can get what you need up here in an hour.”
Faith gripped his arm so tightly that the cords in the backs of her hands showed. She seemed to consider him a better anchor than her religion.
“I need them today.” Sam didn’t look at any of us. “By tomorrow she might be dead.”
That was too much for Reeson. “Who?” he demanded. “What’s happened? I can’t do anything about it if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mile’s gag drop free.
“God, Reeson!” he spat at once, “you took your sweet time gettin’ here. We got us a killer on the loose. Broke Westward’s neck, ditched Abel somewhere, took a shot at Fistoulari, poisoned Drayton’s wife. And these sons a bitches won’t let me defend mahself. Get these ropes off me! Tomorrow ain’t near fast enough. We need guns. Before he tries again.”
Reflexively we all watched Reeson. He had that kind of effect on people—he made us want to see what he would do.
He was surprised, I’ll give him that. He couldn’t have known what had happened to us, and he showed it. At least we got his frown back, which relieved my sense that he was about to explode. His eyebrows did a quirky little dance, up and down, up and down. “My, my.” His voice sounded like someone had tried to strangle him a while back, and he hadn’t fully recovered. “We do live in interesting times, don’t we?
“And you don’t have any idea who did all this?”
For some reason, Mile let the question pass. In unison, Buffy and Maryanne shook their heads. But Ginny’s face was blank—studiously blank, like a mask—and I kept my thoughts to myself.
“Offhand,” Reeson commented to me, “I’d say the ghouls and beasties are coming out of the woodwork.” Like an acknowledgment of Buffy’s distress and Sam’s shock, he added, “With a vengeance.”
Vengeance. Another unexpected hint. Not that Reeson meant to hint at anything, of course. He was just talking. Nevertheless a little shiver of recognition ran through my brain.
As far as I knew, no one here had anything to do with vengeance. Except me.
El Señor’s revenge.
Reeson scanned the room again. “Where are the Carbones?”
Faith started to answer, but right on cue Ama and Truchi appeared from the dining room. Neither of them indicated any surprise at Reeson’s arrival. Truchi simply nodded. Ama muttered quietly, “It’s about time,” and folded her arms under her bosom. Together, she and her husband took up their deferential stations against one of the walls.
“We need to talk about this,” Ginny told Reeson abruptly. As if she’d reached a decision, she stopped leaning on me. “I’m in no mood for an audience. Let’s go to the office.”
Deliberately, so that everyone could see her, she took her .357 from me. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder—never mind the fact that Sam wasn’t done with her—she hefted the gun, checked to be sure it was loaded.
Just for a second, Reeson’s frown flicked into a smile. Then he resumed his dark, contented scowl and nodded. “Sure.”
To Faith, he said, “These people want supper. They just don’t know it yet. Maybe you’d better get started.”
He and I both knew she wouldn’t argue with him. A woman who looked at him like that wasn’t about to argue.
; “Let’s go,” he said to Ginny.
“Good.” Without hesitation, she headed across the den toward the office.
I followed. The shiver in my brain grew stronger. It seemed to feed on anger and medication.
After two steps, however, Ginny turned back. Pointing her claw at Mile, she commanded Maryanne, “Don’t untie him. I don’t want him loose. If he drives you crazy, gag him again.”
Then she left the den.
Reeson and I didn’t hang around to hear Mile’s response.
To all appearances, no one had been in the office since Rock and I sat there the first night of the camp—except, of course, to latch and cover the window. I raised the blind for confirmation, saw that the latch remained securely shut. I didn’t know where the light switches were, so I left the blind up for a little extra illumination.
The room itself smelled vaguely musty, disused. When Reeson snapped on the lights, we could see that nothing had been disturbed—no covert ransacking of the filing cabinets, no scrabbling through the desk. Apparently none of our murderers needed to know the things they could’ve learned here.
The artificial light emphasized the mismatch between the dark desk and chairs and the blond paneling and floorboards. That discrepancy reminded me of my strange conversation here with Rock—listening to him tell me that he didn’t want to stir up trouble about the guns—hearing him talk about Smithsonian.
The back of my brain churned, bitter as bile. I wanted something to hit.
I should’ve pulled the blind down again, but I forgot.
Emphasizing her authority, Ginny went around the desk and sat in the big armchair. That left Reeson and me to argue over the less comfortable seating arrangements.
He pulled up a chair in front of the desk. I thought about doing the same, but the pressure of Sam’s injection kept me on my feet. Instead of sitting, I went to the wall behind Ginny, beside the window, and propped myself there. Reminding Reeson that I was on her side.
Reeson still wore his coat. Under it he had on a bulky insulated vest that all by itself looked warm enough to keep out a blizzard. Facing Ginny, he unpopped several of the snaps. His hands seemed to function independent of his attention.
The Man Who Tried to Get Away Page 29
