Ross straightened. God, his knees ached. Isn’t aging a bitch. He shone his flashlight down at the black water lapping against the sides of the Whaler-paper-thin sheets of ice had formed-then trained the light back on the wall, stepped over to it and lifted the hacksaw from its nail. He returned to Tracy and eyeballed the distance between the edge of the dock and the gunwale of the boat. If he attempted to roll her into the boat, he could well miss and she would go toppling instead into the water. Not good. Not here. And not all in one piece.
He’d have to lift her at least partway. This would be the awkward part. He set the flashlight down on the wood so that its beam was trained on Tracy. He set the hacksaw down next to it. Taking a deep breath, he knelt and wrapped his arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugged her torso to him, then rose to a squat. For a cute young thing, she was surprisingly heavy. Ross adjusted his grip and pulled her closer. Her head flopped onto his shoulder.
It was then that he heard a noise and looked up to see the boathouse door opening.
51
THE CONE OF LIGHT from a flashlight was illuminating a body lying prone on the wooden dock. A long slender boat bobbed between Megan and the body. It took Megan several seconds to realize that the body-it was a woman-was bound at the ankles and wrists and that something was terribly wrong with her face. Then she saw, directly behind the woman, a pair of legs, a shadowy figure. It was holding something metallic, something that caught a portion of the flashlight ray.
“Drop it!”
Megan fell to one knee, her Glock aimed at the area just above the illuminated legs. A silent shriek was whistling in her ears. If he has a gun, I’m dead. She shouted again. “Drop it! Police! Show me your hands!”
It was duct tape on the woman’s eyes and mouth. Her forehead was smeared with blood. The figure standing over her was not moving. Megan registered that what the figure was holding was a handsaw. Panic raced through her system. The Swede! Her gun wavered.
“Drop it! Now!”
Her words echoed in the hollow structure, almost as if a second Megan were straddling the narrow roof beams up above, calling out from up there. The figure standing over the bound woman knelt down slowly and set the saw on her hips. A man. He was wearing a fedora-style hat that partially covered his face. As he set down the saw, Megan heard a small scraping sound. Of course it wasn’t Albert Stenborg. The Swede was very dead. Even so, Megan strained to make out Albert Stenborg’s nearly invisible blond mustache. He’d stood straddling Helen just like this, his clumsy six-five frame rocking gently with the movement of his fetid-smelling houseboat, obsessively stroking his imperceptible mustache.
“Get down!” Megan ordered. “Lie down right next to her! On your front. Do it!”
“I’d just as soon not, thank you.” His voice was every bit as calm as Megan’s was aflame.
Megan could make out his outline better now. Her eyes were adjusting. Directly in front of her, the narrow boat wobbled in the water. The faint lapping of water sounded like tiny slaps. Megan’s finger tightened cautiously on the trigger. He killed them. He killed them all. This is him. This is the one. She could taste salt on her lips. Her face was blazing hot.
“Lie down on your front. Let’s just do this calmly. Hands out in front.”
“You’re trespassing,” the man said. “You shouldn’t be here. This has nothing to do with you.”
Megan rose slowly from her crouch, tracking her aim as she did, keeping it trained on the area of the man’s chest. “Do what I say.”
Ross scoffed, “And if I don’t? What then? What exactly are you going to do, Detective? Are you going to shoot me? Is that it? In cold blood?”
Megan took a sharp breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The Glock bucked in her hand and the barrel flashed. In the confined space, the noise was a thunderous roar. The shot sailed well to Ross’s right. As intended. He ducked seconds late.
“Are you fucking crazy?”
She’d gotten his attention.
“I’m fine,” Megan replied. “Now let’s just end this thing quietly. And for your sake, I hope that woman is still alive.”
Megan’s vision was sufficiently adjusted that she could now make out the contours of the boathouse. There were two boat slips, the one between her and Ross with the Boston Whaler in it, and a second one behind Ross, where a larger boat rocked gently in the black water. Ross was essentially trapped. The only escapes were the door behind Megan or the water at the end of the dock. Assuming Ross wasn’t foolish enough to take the icy leap, he’d have to go through her first if he wanted to get out.
“There’s no point in this,” Megan said, beginning to edge to her right. “You’re a smart man, Ross. I don’t know why you did all this, but it’s finished. Okay? Just do what I’m saying and let’s get on with it. If that woman’s still alive, we’ve got to get her to a hospital.”
Megan edged farther, keeping the pistol trained on the man. She didn’t want to glance down at the bloodied body at Ross’s feet, but she couldn’t help herself. It had to be Tracy Jacobs, though there was no way she could identify the pulpy face of the woman lying on the dock. It dawned on Megan that there was no way Ross could have delivered such damage with his bare hands. Not the handsaw. It wasn’t nearly heavy enough.
The bastard has a weapon.
“I want your hands, Ross! Right now!”
“I don’t think-”
She jerked the gun and fired again, this time toward the larger boat. Its triangular windshield exploded. The gun muzzle swung immediately back to Ross. “Now!”
Ross brought both of his hands up slowly in front of him. Something long and skinny and black was in his right hand. A crowbar. Megan took another step. I can shoot him. The bastard has a weapon. He came at me with it. I had no choice. Rule number one: defend yourself at all costs. I can blow this bastard into the water.
But Megan didn’t want to fire from here. She wanted her pistol barrel jammed up right against the bastard’s tonsils.
“Drop the crowbar, Mr. Ross.”
He did. With a flick of his wrist, the crowbar dropped into the water, next to the boat. In the same movement, Ross snatched up the flashlight and flicked the beam directly into Megan’s eyes. She could see nothing but white spears.
Shoot! Now! He’s going to come at you. Shoot!
Ross flicked the light away from Megan’s face and trained it on Tracy Jacobs. Megan was still somewhat blinded. The prone body shimmered blue and out of focus. Ross lifted a foot and placed it on the woman’s back. He nudged slightly, rocking the prone body. She let out a soft groan.
“You hear that? She’s still alive.”
“Step away!”
Ross trained the light on Megan for a few seconds, then again on the body lying at his feet. “She’s alive, Detective. I’m sure she’d be very grateful to you if you’d help her out.”
He reset his foot on the woman’s back and grunted as he shoved. The body rotated easily. Three quarters of a turn and she dropped cleanly off the dock, landing with minimal splash in the black water. Ross trained the flashlight on her. The bound legs swung down and out of sight. Her hair fanned out on the surface. In the flashlight glare, the top of her head resembled a softball. It followed swiftly after the legs.
Ross flicked off the flashlight. “Your call, lady.”
52
MEGAN’S CLOTHES TOOK her down. Even without her coat and her shoes, which she had frantically pulled off, her saturated clothes took her down like an anchor. She hadn’t expected it. She groped for the sinking body but found nothing. She didn’t even know if her eyes were open. There was nothing to see. Total blackness. Megan thrashed at the water.
She was flying.
She was floating.
She was swimming.
She was sinking.
Dark as the grave, Megan thought, sweeping her arms in front of her. Dark as the womb. She was already lost. Up. Down. Her lungs were holding, but the shock of the water’s temperature-dela
yed at first-arrived. It attacked her like cold knives slashing at her skin.
Her limbs were already losing feeling. Was she flexing her fingers? She thought maybe. All the switches were being flipped off. Megan could not have imagined anything this cold.
She kicked her feet. She groped. She gathered the blackness into her chest. Her lungs were beginning to ache. And she knew what was happening.
Josh.
Her brother’s face appeared to Megan as if it were right there in front of her, as if it were inside an illuminated bubble. For weeks and weeks he had pulled her out of herself, dragged her back into the light and sat there with her, coaxing her back. Patient. Loving. Loyal. Oh, Lord. Josh. Please don’t look at me now. All your efforts. Your sweet efforts.
She felt ashamed.
Failure is cold and black.
Megan’s arms crossed back and forth over each other. There was no seeing them at all. There would be no more seeing. She was kicking her freezing feet. Going where? Out to sea? And for what? She imagined herself grabbing an armful of slick weeds at the bottom and holding tight, curling up to them.
Her lungs were hurting badly now, as if a corkscrew were working its way into her chest. This was a fool’s end. She scissored her legs one last time, kicking with all her remaining strength. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, Megan kicked and opened her mouth as wide as it would go.
53
ALAN ROSS DASHED across the snow. The poor woman. She had looked pathetic, struggling to strip off her overcoat, as if the sleeves were suddenly three times too long. She was so small, he doubted she’d have the strength to pull Tracy out of the water even if she got the chance.
Ross went around to the front of the house and let himself in the front door. His fingers went automatically to the house alarm, but halfway through the code, he realized that the alarm was not activated. He frowned. He couldn’t remember if it was he or Gloria who had been the last one out the door on their most recent trip. It wasn’t like either of them to forget the alarm.
Ross was dying of thirst. He started for the kitchen then veered into the dining room, where he fetched a bottle of Dewar’s from the liquor cabinet. He took the bottle into the kitchen and dropped a few ice cubes into a tumbler and poured the glass three quarters full. Swiftly he took it down to a quarter in one gulp.
There were a million questions but no time to find answers. If the police detective didn’t freeze to death or drown, she’d be back on the scene any second. With or without Tracy. Frankly, he hoped it was with. He couldn’t afford to have Tracy Jacobs’s body washing ashore somewhere. He had to return to the original plan. If need be, he would deal with the detective in the same manner. It was getting so complicated. Ross stared hard into his glass. The one piece of information he’d like to know was whether the detective was the only person who had pieced the murders together, or if there were others. The good news was that she had apparently come out here alone. This suggested she was on a cowboy mission, rushing out by herself, like a fool. Ross prayed he could be so lucky. If Lamb was the only one wise to him, it was still possible he could manage events to keep himself safe. If not…He wasn’t ready to think about it. He’d have to disappear. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know. If it came to it, he’d figure it out. Problem. Plan. Execute. It’s what he was all about.
Ross finished off his drink and slammed the glass down hard on the counter. Fuck you, Marshall! He downed another half glass then went into his study and, using a key from the top drawer of his desk, unlocked the narrow closet on the east wall where he kept what Gloria snidely referred to as his “coon gun.” An old Winchester pump-action.22, less for raccoons than for squirrels and groundhogs, which seemed more plentiful in these parts. Ross wasn’t anything near a full-fledged hunter. Sometimes he liked sitting out on the patio with the rifle propped up on the banister. Point and shoot. Squeeze and kill. It was so easy. Anyway, there were more squirrels and groundhogs on the planet than necessary. Ross enjoyed the pump action. What normal, healthy guy doesn’t like the pump action?
Ross glanced out the window at the boathouse. No movement that he could see. He had to get back out there. If the detective did make it out of the water, he needed to be there waiting for her. Squeeze and kill. Ross went out into the front hall. What he saw there made him stop cold.
Rosemary Fox was descending the staircase. She was in a neck brace and was wearing one of Ross’s own bathrobes, the belt tied loosely. Her semi-wet hair fell down over her half-exposed breasts. Her face was horribly bruised. The expression on it was dreamy, serene. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. The eyes didn’t join in.
“Alan?”
Abruptly, the front door opened. A man was standing there holding a pistol in his hand. Ross swung about, his rifle hip-high, and fired.
54
THE BRASS MALLARD NEXT to my face tore off the door. The wood splintered, and I took a few shards on the face. I leaped to my left into the house, performing a complete-if clumsy-roll, then a second one. Anything so long as I was a moving target. I came to a stop on my elbows.
Alan Ross was standing at the foot of the stairs, pumping his rifle. Behind him on the stairs stood Rosemary Fox. She wore a green bathrobe, and the fingertips of her right hand rested lightly on the banister. A huge bruise dominated her face.
I brought my gun up. Ross fired before I could, but his shot sailed over my head. I sighted on him. Rosemary Fox screamed. “Alan!”
I held my shot. Ross darted to his left, disappearing into the next room. As I scrambled to my feet, Rosemary Fox took a poor step. Her feet came out from under her and she landed sideways on the stairs, bumping down to the bottom step. I dashed past her.
Ross was slamming through a swinging door at the far end of the room. The kitchen. I crossed quickly and caught the door as it was swinging closed. Ross knew the house. I didn’t. He wouldn’t knowingly trap himself. The kitchen led elsewhere. My guess? Outside.
Or the garage.
I retraced my steps at a dead run. Rosemary Fox was still on her fanny at the bottom of the staircase. Her robe had fallen open. She looked like a serious lush.
I ran out the front door and around to the driveway. As I did, I heard the sound of a car engine revving inside the garage. I knelt down on the snow at the edge of the driveway and readied myself. The garage door slid open, and for a moment, nothing. Then a cream Cadillac leaped forward. Holding my breath, I tracked and got off the shot, hitting the front right tire. The Caddy swerved toward me and straightened as it passed. I pivoted, locking my arms in place, and fired twice, the second shot hitting the right rear tire. The car skidded on the snow, sliding sideways into a standing lawn lamp.
I was up and running. Ross was gunning the engine, but the rear of the car slid slushily back and forth in the snowy driveway. I grabbed hold of the driver’s door handle and tugged, but the door was locked. I could see Ross through the smoked glass. It took two hits with the butt of my pistol to shatter the glass. Ross was reaching for his rifle, which was on the seat next to him. My pistol barrel went snugly against his left temple, as if the two pieces were made to fit.
“Let it go.”
He hesitated.
I didn’t.
I reared back and landed the gun butt sharply just above his left eye. His head lolled forward. I groped for the door lock on the driver’s armrest and pushed it, then I pulled back out of the window, yanked open the door and dragged Ross by the collar out onto the snow.
“Where’s Lamb?” When he didn’t answer, I gave him another taste of my gun butt. “Where is she?”
Blood was running into his eyes. He blinked it away and looked at me as if I were some sort of curious artifact. I dropped the gun and took a double grip on his coat.
“Where the hell is she?” My throat would hurt later from the strain.
He ran a tongue across his lips. “Dead in the water. How should I know?”
FOR A BRIEF INSTANT, I wasn’t sure
what I was seeing. Two dark slick bodies, one of them stretched out flat on its back, the second one hunched over the other, looking for all the world like it was feeding on it. It was dark, but then I pieced it together. I was in the boathouse. In front of me were Megan and Tracy Jacobs. Megan was frantically performing mouth-to-mouth on the actress. Blowing into her mouth, pumping her hands on the woman’s chest. Blowing, pumping…She looked up at me. Her face was a shock mask. Her teeth were chattering so loudly I could hear them.
“Help.” Her voice was a plaintive croak. I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around her. She shook her head violently. “Her.”
Megan turned her head and vomited water onto the dock. I knelt down next to Tracy Jacobs. Even in the dark boathouse, the paleness of her face showed like a dull moon. I took over the mouth-to-mouth, spitting brackish salt water from my mouth every other breath. I pressed my hands to her sternum and pushed.
“She’s alive,” Megan said weakly behind me. “There’s a heartbeat.”
I kept at it, and after what was probably only a very long minute, the body under me spasmed. Her back arched involuntarily, and a rush of black water gushed out of her mouth. Her coughs were otherworldly. They were followed by a groan that built slowly but steadily, tightening until it reached a piercing siren shriek.
MEGAN COULD WALK. She followed me as I carried Tracy Jacobs across the large yard into the house. Tracy’s face and head were horribly beaten. I didn’t see the extent of it until I set her down on Ross’s living room couch. Rosemary Fox was seated in an armchair, looking dreamily amused.
Cold Day in Hell Page 31
