A Knife in the Back
Page 20
Then two things happened: The doorbell rang, and Owens jerked backward, screaming.
When he felt Owens’s grip relax, Jack didn’t waste time trying to figure out what was going on. He rolled off the end of the bed, crabbed around to the other side, and grabbed his softball bat.
He rolled over just in time to see Owens flying through the air toward him, knife poised to plunge into some tender part of Jack’s anatomy, of which there were plenty.
Jack swung the bat up from the floor, hoping to split Owens’s face down the middle, but the result was much less satisfactory than Jack had hoped. It was, however, along the lines that Jack should have expected. He’d never been a very good hitter in his faraway softball days, and instead of connecting with Owens’s head, the bat struck his shoulder.
Luckily, it was the right shoulder, and Owens was right-handed. He dropped the knife just before he landed squarely on top of Jack.
Jack shoved him off and grabbed for the knife, which had landed just at the edge of the bed. He almost had it when Owens’s hand closed around his wrist.
Jack never exercised his forearm except when he used the computer mouse to play Freecell, so he wasn’t exactly muscular. Owens didn’t have any trouble at all moving Jack’s hand away from the knife and then taking it. He sat straddling Jack, looking down into his eyes, and holding the knife blade at his throat.
“You know something?” Owens said.
Jack didn’t dare nod. He had a feeling that if he did, he’d cut his own throat, which was probably what Owens was hoping for. Jack wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“This is a really sharp knife,” Owens said when Jack didn’t respond. “You could shave with it better than you could with a razor blade.”
Jack didn’t doubt it. The knife Bowie had made in The Iron Mistress couldn’t have been any sharper.
“People talk about knife makers like Bradshaw and Lightfoot,” Owens said, “but I’m as good as those guys. I can teach other people how to make good knives, and I enjoy doing it. I sort of hate to use one to kill a person with.”
Jack wondered if Owens would appreciate a little lesson on how to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition. Probably not.
“I really wish you hadn’t taken that class, Neville,” Owens continued. “I thought it would be easy to frame you, but it’s turned out to be almost more trouble than it’s worth. You wouldn’t even commit. You didn’t even want to have an accident. And you know what that means.”
Jack wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but he was afraid he had a pretty good idea.
Owens confirmed it.
“Since you won’t cooperate, I’ll just have to kill you myself.”
Jack had no doubt that Owens meant it, and there wasn’t a thing Jack could do about it. He took a deep breath and waited for his generally uneventful life to flash before his eyes.
He didn’t think it would take very long.
35
Before Jack’s life had flashed anywhere, however, Sally Good walked through the bedroom door and pointed her pistol at Owens’s head.
“I wouldn’t kill him if I were you,” she told Owens. “Too many witnesses.”
“That’s right,” Vera Vaughn said from over Sally’s shoulder. “We’re all watching.”
“And besides,” Sally said, “I have a pistol.”
Owens didn’t seem impressed. He looked at Sally coldly and didn’t move for quite some time.
“If I don’t kill him,” he said finally, “you’ll have to let me leave here.”
“Let Jack up and we’ll talk it over,” Sally said.
She didn’t know what she would do if Owens refused. Faced with the possibility that she might have to pull the trigger on another human being, she still wasn’t sure that she could do it, even if it meant Jack’s life. She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out.
Owens sat quietly for a few interminable seconds. Then he stood up very slowly and turned away from Jack. Sally tried not to let her relief show.
“Put the pistol down,” Owens said, “and let me walk out of here. Otherwise, I’m going to flip this knife right into Neville’s heart.”
Sally wasn’t sure how easy that would be, but Owens appeared to be perfectly confident that he could do it.
“You put the knife down, and I’ll put the pistol down,” Sally said, thankful that she had an excuse not to shoot. “Put the knife on the nightstand, and I’ll lay the pistol on the dresser.”
Owens was watching her closely as she took a step toward the dresser, so he didn’t see Jack rise up on his knees behind him, holding a softball bat.
Sally almost said something, but she bit off the words as the bat came down and landed squarely into the middle of Owens’s back with a solid thud.
Owens went down like a sack of rocks and didn’t move. Just to be sure that he was out, Sally went over to him and prodded him with her toe. He lay still, so she stuck the pistol barrel in his ear. Then she pinched his ear as hard as she could with her free hand. Owens remained still, and Sally stood up.
When she did, Hector streaked out from beneath the bed and sped out of the room, looking more like a blur than a cat.
“Who’s that?” Sally asked.
“Hector,” Jack said. “I think he tried to sever Owens’s Achilles tendon. What do we do now?”
“Call nine-one-one,” Sally said.
“My phone’s out of order.”
“I have a cell phone,” Vera said.
She went into the den to make the call, and Mae Wilkins poked her head into the bedroom.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Just fine,” Sally said.
Mae looked at Owens and said, “Is that the man who killed Ralph and Ray?”
“I think so,” Sally said.
“Is he dead?”
“Probably not.”
“Too bad,” Mae said, and left the room.
Weems arrived on the scene very quickly. That was the last thing that happened quickly, though. It took hours to get things straightened out to Weems’s satisfaction, and Sally wasn’t sure the detective was satisfied even then. Sally suspected that Weems was still looking for a way to blame Jack for something.
Since after Jack and Sally’s explanation of all that had happened Weems could hardly blame Jack for the murders, the detective decided to settle for the next best things: guilt and blame.
“We nearly had this all wrapped up,” he said. “There were a couple of guys going after it from the stolen cars angle, and we were just about ready to tie that to the murders. You could have spoiled everything.”
Sally didn’t ask him how he knew that. She didn’t think Weems would have an answer anyway, mainly because she didn’t believe half of what he said about being ready to tie things together.
“You can see what happens when amateurs interfere with an official investigation,” Weems continued, looking at Jack. “Something bad always happens. Neville here nearly got himself killed.”
“I didn’t, though,” Jack said, although Weems certainly had a point. Jack’s ribs were killing him, and he could still feel the knife on his throat. “Sally came through again.”
Jack probably shouldn’t have added that again, Sally thought. It was just a reminder to Weems that it was the second time that Sally (and Jack, apparently) had come up with an answer that Weems hadn’t been able to find.
Weems said that everyone would have to come to the police station and make a statement, and he and the other cops finally left. Sally wasn’t sorry to see them leave. They had taken Owens away long ago, after he’d recovered consciousness.
“Anyone want something to drink?” Jack asked when the police had cleared out.
Nobody did.
“I’m glad you brought the pistol, Sally,” Jack said. “How did you know Owens was here?”
“I didn’t know,” she told him. “I thought he was at Mae’s, so Vera and I went to check. Then we decided to drive by here,
just in case. You should probably lock your front door, you know.”
“People would just slide under the garage door,” Jack said. “That’s what Owens did. When did you figure out that he was the killer?”
“This morning,” Sally said. “How about you?”
“It was a couple of hours ago, but it was too late to do any good. By then he was already here.”
Vera was eyeing Jack oddly. Sally wondered what she was thinking.
“I’m glad we came by,” Vera said to Jack. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Jack looked askance at Sally, who grinned and shrugged.
“Owens would have escaped if it hadn’t been for you,” Vera continued.
Sally wondered if Vera was right. Sally thought she might have been able to use the pistol, but she still wasn’t sure. She might have simply let Owens walk out of the house. It was just as well they hadn’t had to find out.
“It was really brave of you to hit him with the bat,” Vera told Jack.
“Well, pilgrim,” Jack said, in what Sally thought was a John Wayne imitation somewhat inferior to her own, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
Sally spent the evening at home with Lola. Sally used the time to read a book, while Lola sat on her lap and shed hairs all over both Sally’s pants and the couch. Once Lola even purred.
Sally didn’t know where Jack was, but she suspected that Vera might very well have proposed that the two of them go out and do something together. Sally wondered how Jack would respond to an offer like that. She hoped that if he accepted, he was up to whatever demands Vera might make on him. After all, he had to teach class on Monday. Sally had called Fieldstone and Naylor and made sure of that.
As for Jorge and Mae, Sally just tried not to think about them. It wasn’t any of her business. If Jorge wanted to date a woman whose house looked as it had just been sterilized, that was up to him, though she wasn’t sure that Jorge was grimy enough for Mae.
The telephone rang, and Lola sank her claws into Sally’s thighs before jumping off and running to hide under the bed.
Sally picked up the phone and said hello.
“Hello,” said her mother. “I heard on the news that they caught that awful murderer in Hughes. Some policeman named Weems was interviewed, and he said something about diligent police work. I’m glad you live in a community where the police do such good work. And I’m really glad you didn’t get mixed up in things this time.”
“Me, too,” Sally said.
Also by Bill Crider
A DR. SALLY GOOD MYSTERY
Murder Is an Art
SHERIFF DAN RHODES MYSTERIES
A Romantic Way to Die
A Ghost of a Chance
Death by Accident
Winning Can Be Murder
Murder Most Fowl
Booked for a Hanging
Evil at the Root
Death on the Move
Cursed to Death
Shotgun Saturday Night
Too Late to Die
PROFESSOR CARL BURNS MYSTERIES
A Dangerous Thing
Dying Voices
One Dead Dean
OTHERS
The Texas Capital Murders
Blood Marks
A KNIFE IN THE BACK.
Copyright © 2002 by Bill Crider.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
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www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781466819559
First eBook Edition : April 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Crider, Bill, 1941-
A knife in the back / Bill Crider.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-27184-0
1. College teachers—Fiction. 2. English teachers—Fiction. 3. Women teachers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.R497 K58 2002
813’.54—dc21
2002069275
First Edition: September 2002