by Archer Mayor
And she was beginning to seriously doubt what she was doing.
Perhaps to restore her motivation, she looked out the dirty windshield at the car parked in the driveway an eighth of a mile down the road.
Her subconscious must have jarred her from her nap. The darkened house she’d been watching—where Philip Beaupré led her the night before—had sprung a light over its front door, illuminating the source of her interest as he keyed the lock before heading for his car.
Rachel realized she’d have to relieve her bladder later. The game, as the familiar phrase had it, was afoot once more.
The pursuit of that game, however, was becoming harder to justify, even fueled as she was with admittedly ebbing humiliation. She’d started out after Philip Beaupré with an ill-defined sense of revenge. Surely he was crooked, she’d reasoned, and definitely arrogant and rude. Also, he’d smoothly sailed out of the warehouse after talking to the police, indicating that they’d had nothing on which to hold him.
That left her, so she’d reasoned, with using her mandate as a reporter to independently assist the legal process. Not only would it be a good story, were she successful, but a moral and personal victory as well. She’d even cooked up an explanation for not calling Joe or Sammie to update them: So doing would make her an “agent” of the police—per the law—and perhaps taint whatever evidence she’d be able to deliver.
That was the theory—which had sounded better twenty-four hours ago—before she realized that all she’d done is tail Philip to his own house, in the meantime forgoing all her other obligations.
The day just past had therefore not been easy. Nor had it been easy to stave off napping, fearful as she’d been that she’d awake to find his car gone.
But all that now vanished in a rush of adrenaline as she watched Philip back into the street and head off for parts unknown. Even if this was another goose chase, at least she was back in motion.
As it turned out, they didn’t travel far. Already in Colchester, they drove some twenty minutes to the log-built mansion that had so impressed Joe—the home of Robert Beaupré.
“Okay,” Rachel said to herself softly. “What now?”
She killed her headlights at the turnoff to the long driveway, grateful for a full moon and a cloudless sky, and happily discovered that the road opened up onto a parking area vast enough to allow her to stop in the shadow of some ornamental trees that almost completely shielded her from the house.
Moving fast, she grabbed her camera and cell phone and swung out of her car, running along the parking area’s edge toward the house, hoping Philip’s arrival had been distracting enough to anyone inside to give her cover.
As far as she could tell, it worked. She wound up in the bushes lining the building’s front, in time to see Philip reach the entrance and enter. She noticed that he hadn’t rung the bell and no one had let him in.
She hesitated, unsure of her next move and, frankly—if a little late—surprised by what she’d done. Unlike last night, when she hadn’t even left her car, now she was skulking on private property, camera in hand, wondering how to illicitly access the house.
That realization made her reconsider why she was so devoted to this cause. It went beyond immaturity and hurt feelings. There’d been something about Philip himself that had also encouraged her—an underlying fury when he’d lectured her in the parking lot—and just now, as he’d marched purposefully from his house to the car—that spoke of a man having readied himself for battle.
She shifted gears more confidently on that premise, and started checking for an unobtrusive way to follow Philip’s progression inside.
The building, though gigantic, was hardly aglow with light. As she circled its perimeter, at once taking in the layout and peering through its many windows, she was struck by the general stillness. The house may have been designed to accommodate an army of guests, but it seemed virtually empty tonight—a notion that only heightened her curiosity and growing concern.
Whatever Philip’s reasons for waiting this late to charge unannounced into his father’s darkened home, when combined with his single-minded determination, they increasingly convinced Rachel that his intentions were passionate and dire.
In time, on the far side, facing a view of moonlit mountains and tiny lights from distant communities, Rachel came to an expansive deck with chairs and tables and well-tended planters spread out before a long row of brightly lit French doors, only one of which—unfortunately several units down—was half open.
She cautiously leaned forward to peer through the nearest windowpane, and found herself looking into a two-story-high library jammed with books, paintings, statuary, and two men. One was Philip, angrily pacing across a string of oriental carpets as he spoke and gesticulated. The other was his father, Robert, whom she recognized from her research. He was sitting casually in a leather armchair near a cold fireplace, the lord of the manor, striking a pose of indifference, aside from the grip he was exerting on the arm of his chair.
They were talking, especially Philip, but about what, Rachel couldn’t make out. She glanced along the row of glass doors to the one ajar through which their muffled voices leaked out into the night, and tried calculating her chances of reaching it unseen.
The deck underfoot posed no problem. Relatively new, and clearly built to carry the weight of several trucks, it was soundless and smooth. The challenge was the light flooding its surface, laying a series of bright trapezoids through which she’d have to travel to reach her target.
Her advantage was that Robert was angled so that he’d have to shift in his seat to see her. That made Philip the wild card, restlessly marching about the huge room like a worked-up automaton.
Rachel readied herself, stood slightly away from the wall, and watched Philip’s body language like a hunter.
Window by window, as he spun on his heel and briefly showed her his back, Rachel flitted down the row of doors, praying she’d anticipated any and all pitfalls ahead, especially among the dark strips of shadow falling between each of the windows.
Finally, her heart pounding, breathing through her mouth with excitement, she got close enough to the open door that the voices became clearer and, at last, comprehensible.
She pulled out her smartphone and hit the Go button on its recorder function.
Rachel heard Philip speak first. “It never crossed your mind that instead of some delusional father figure, you were coming across as the white Massa lording over the plantation?”
Robert answered, “Oh, come on, Philip. What the hell? That again? Gone with the Wind? Really? This crap is all in your head. Nobody else would have the ghost of a notion what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Philip did another of his jittery, about-face pirouettes, momentarily vanishing from Rachel’s sight, as he’d been doing throughout. “Jesus, Dad. I spend more time with the people who work for you than anybody else. Don’t you think I know how they see you? All that bullshit about the rotating drivers, chauffeuring you around in an old pickup? Are you on drugs? Everyone knows what you really drive, what this palace looks like, what you pay your family versus the lousy wages they all get.”
Robert Beaupré’s voice was hard and angry, not matching the casual pose she’d earlier misinterpreted. “You’re a fine one to talk, you privileged little prick. The schools I paid for, the cars I bought you, the clothes I put on your back, the shit I put up with when you copped an attitude about the corporate life and how it was beneath you. Who’s really on drugs here, you little turd? I have carried your sorry ass for years, not because of some magical way you have with people and problem solving, but because your mother told me I had to protect you. You’ve been a loser pain in the ass from the day you and your bloodsucking useless sister came out of her womb.”
“Loser?” Philip screamed. “You slept with my goddamned girlfriend, Dad!”
Rachel never saw it coming. She looked up from her phone, making sure it was functioning, to stare right into the face
of a flushed and startled Philip Beaupré, who’d gone from striding back and forth just out of sight to abruptly appearing in the middle of the doorway, not five feet before her.
“What the fuck?” he exclaimed, reaching outside, grabbing her by the shirtfront, and dragging her into the room.
Robert was startled out of his royal pose, and half rose to his feet, his expression stunned.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“I’m Rachel Reiling,” she said quickly, brushing away Philip’s hand and smoothing her shirt.
“She’s press, Dad,” his son interrupted, snatching the phone from Rachel’s hand. He held it up. “And she’s been recording every word.”
“I just got here,” she said meekly, sensing the idiocy of the statement as soon as it left her mouth.
Robert approached them, his face stiff with rage. “Then you heard how this ungrateful little bastard turned his hatred of me into a killing spree of innocent people?”
Rachel stared at them both. “What?”
Robert was unfazed, stopping within reach. “You missed it?” He held out his left hand to his son. “No matter. Give me that.”
Instinctively, Philip passed over the phone. Robert checked its screen, confirmed it was still recording, and returned it to Rachel.
“He’s who the cops are after,” he said, nodding toward Philip. “He just told me he set the warehouse fires, rigged the truck crash, and punctured the cooler pipes to poison all those people.” He pointed his finger accusingly. “He’s the mass murderer everyone’s looking for, all because he got his feelings hurt.”
The older man suddenly reached out and patted Philip harshly on the cheek. “Poor baby. All because Daddy didn’t love him enough.”
Philip snapped, as his father had designed, and lunged like a fencer to land a punch. Rachel leaped forward and pushed him, throwing him off balance and making him miss his aim, while Robert, despite his age, gracefully stepped back and to one side, and presented from behind his right leg a hidden fireplace poker he’d brought from across the room. In one fluid, jarring sweep of the arm, he brought it down sharply against the nape of his son’s neck.
Philip continued falling to the lavishly carpeted floor, landing as solidly and motionless as a wet bag of sand.
Rachel stared in stunned disbelief, overwhelmed by how all sound and motion had stopped, as if cut off by a guillotine.
Robert Beaupré almost gently reached out and pried the phone from her hand, holding it before her face and blocking the sight of the body stretched out on the floor between them. “You might want to put this to proper use,” he suggested calmly. “I’m sure the cops’ll want a heads-up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sammie Martens found them on the screened porch facing the lake. Mother and daughter were half caught by the light of a single candle secured to a small plate on the card table between them. The black water, beyond the lawn, reflected a shimmering, distorted image of a full moon.
They were at Beverly’s new house in Windsor, about which Sam had heard, but which she hadn’t yet visited. Not that she would have done so now, so long past midnight. But Beverly had asked for her, as a favor to Rachel, and Sam wasn’t about to quibble. Besides, the truth of the matter was that, despite the hour, most of the squad—minus Willy, who’d retired to be with Emma—was still at the office when Beverly called.
“Hey,” Sam said softly, stepping onto the wooden floor. The house was still largely unfurnished, the closing having just occurred. The rooms she’d walked through had featured a few token chairs and tables, oddly making the place look emptier than had they been absent. In the gloom of night, it struck Sam less as a home about to be inhabited than a place freshly abandoned.
But that was likely just Sam’s mood. Aside from Victoria’s complete recovery and Mandy Lawlor’s good fortune, there weren’t many aspects of this case that had turned out well for its participants.
And from the tone of Beverly’s voice on the phone, that also applied to the heralded “hero of the hour,” Rachel Reiling, whom the early internet blogs were already crediting with having “broken the case wide open.”
Beverly rose and gave Sam a hug. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate it as an extraordinary gesture of friendship, not taken lightly.”
Sam was embarrassed. “Jeez, Beverly. It’s not that big a deal. I’m happy to help if I can.”
She sat in the chair indicated, noticing that Rachel had barely glanced at her.
“Hey, Rach,” she said, touching the girl’s shoulder.
Rachel turned to give her a brief, wan smile before resuming her gaze into the middle distance.
“What’s goin’ on?” Sam asked generally.
“Rachel and I have been discussing what occurred, but being her mother is perhaps less helpful than I’d wish. I was hoping your perspective might be more useful.”
Sam hesitated. For all her good qualities, including those of friend and mother, Beverly remained at her core a scientist, and Sammie suspected that the more she neared a high-voltage emotional situation, the more she was inclined to seek the familiarity of pure analysis.
That’s certainly the way it was sounding. Sam now understood why she’d been summoned.
“I hate to ask this,” she therefore began, “but would you mind if Rachel and I just talked alone for a while?”
The girl’s mother in fact looked relieved, and immediately rose to go. “Not at all,” she said. “I completely understand. I’ll be trying to organize the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” Rachel said listlessly once Beverly had retreated.
“No problem,” Sam said. “What’s up?”
It was all she needed to say. The young woman looked at her, the candlelight accenting her distress, and asked, “You know what happened?”
“Most of it, I think,” Sam said. “We’ve been squaring away all the legal bits and pieces most of the night. I’m sorry you had to be there when the shit hit the fan.”
Rachel’s expression contorted. “I caused it,” she said. “That’s what Mom doesn’t want to hear.”
Sam pursed her lips. “You interfered when Philip went for his father to hit him. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah,” Rachel said mournfully.
“And throwing him off balance allowed Robert to whack him with the poker?”
“Yeah.”
“A poker that he’d brought from across the room, and hidden from view till he needed it?”
Rachel had been staring into the flame, and now shifted back to Sam’s face. She blinked a couple of times. “Yes,” she said softly, thoughtfully.
“You get it, don’t you?” Sam asked. “Philip was gonna die.”
Rachel didn’t answer.
Sam had another point to make. She was fully aware of Rachel’s recent trauma involving her murdered roommate. She had been the lead investigator on the case, and had joined Beverly in doing what she could to smooth Rachel’s recovery.
That had taken some dealing with, in part by Sam’s stating her genuine belief that the worst had come and gone, and that at least from now on, Rachel could look forward to happier tidings.
Until now.
“The real point is, it’s happened again, hasn’t it?” Sam broached the subject, sharing the loss of her former optimism. “Another person’s been killed right in front of you.”
Rachel wasn’t crying. She seemed too hollowed out for that. “You see that a lot,” she stated.
“Not like in the movies, but more than you will again, I hope,” Sam agreed. “It doesn’t alter the bigger point that how you’re feeling makes sense. If you didn’t think you could’ve changed the outcome of a bad situation, that would make you a pretty shitty person. Don’t you think?”
Rachel absorbed that for a slow count before commenting, “I really hated him.”
“Philip?”
“Yeah.”
“For how he made you feel?”
“He was right.”
<
br /> “I read Joe’s interview of you after the dust settled,” Sam said. “You told him you felt humiliated because Beaupré said you used your connections and influence to better yourself. The implication being you don’t deserve the breaks you’ve gotten.”
Rachel’s voice was just above a whisper. “Yeah.”
“You know that’s baloney,” Sam stated. “You feel bad because you’re a decent human being, and you don’t want statements like that to be true, but what about the messenger? Why do you think Philip did all those terrible things, and said that to you?”
The deflection seemed to work. A small crease spread across Rachel’s forehead as she asked, “What was that all about? I got that his father had betrayed him terribly—”
Sam put it more bluntly. “He knocked up his own son’s girlfriend.”
Rachel nodded without comment.
“Look,” Sam continued, “we’re talking Shakespearean tragedy here. Love–hate, privilege run amok, zero impulse control. I come from a screwed-up family, but this one’s the bomb. There’s nothing from this bunch you can take as a life lesson, Rach, and you sure as hell don’t need to pay any attention to what Philip said. What you did was try to interrupt a violent act. You had no idea what the old man was planning. Nobody would’ve seen it coming.”
“Did you interview him yet?” Rachel asked.
“Joe and Lester did.”
“Why did he do it? I understand Philip being mad because of his girlfriend, but Robert?”
Sam understood the question, as she did Rachel’s need to make sense of something so disturbing.
But there was a legal problem, and she hated how it threatened to repeat recent history between them.
She hesitated, glancing away toward the moon-rippled water for inspiration.
But salvation came from closer by. Rachel reached out and laid a hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Making you choose between friendship and breaking the rules.” She squeezed Sam’s arm for emphasis. “I promise on my mom’s life that none of this will go anywhere. I’m not a reporter here. I just want to make as much sense out of this as I can to get past it. The whole newspaper thing doesn’t apply. It’s still your choice—I know that—but I wanted you to know.”
