by Leslie Meier
“Maybe he’s right when there’s no hope. But there’s plenty of room for hope in Barney’s case,” Lucy said with what she hoped was cheerful encouragement.
“Dave says there isn’t. He’s seen this before, he says. It’s just a cruel hoax that the doctors and hospitals play on families so they can collect weeks and weeks’ worth of medical insurance.”
“Dave said that? When?” questioned Lucy.
“All the time,” Marge wailed. “He’s been wonderful to me. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s spent so much time with me and Barney. But now he says it’s time to say good-bye.”
“He’s going away?” Lucy was puzzled.
“Lucy, I can’t talk about this here.” She indicated the busy lobby. “Let’s talk in the car.”
Back in the car, heading for Tinker’s Cove, Marge sat quietly and chewed her lip. Lucy was determined to get her talking again. She was sure Marge had discovered the key to Barney’s accident.
“Marge, what did Barney do before the accident? Did he call anyone or go anywhere? Do you remember anything that would help?”
“No,” Marge remembered. “It was Christmas. We opened presents, we ate turkey. That’s all. It was just a regular family Christmas.” Marge’s voice began to tremble, so Lucy changed the subject.
“But Dave’s been real helpful?” Lucy looked over her shoulder, checked the mirrors, and accelerated onto the highway.
“He’s been real nice, and I feel like I owe him a lot. Whenever I turn around he’s there, ready to help me. He says he’ll help me do it.”
“Do what?” Lucy asked.
Marge looked around her. She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “He says that I must summon all my courage and—” She stopped, staring down at her hands in her lap.
“And what?” Lucy asked impatiently.
“And pull the plug,” whispered Marge.
“He wants you to pull the plug on Barney?” Lucy couldn’t believe it. She braked and pulled the car off the road, bouncing on the rough surface. As soon as the car stopped, she turned and faced Marge. “He wants you to pull the plug on Barney?” she demanded.
“He says it’s the only thing to do. That Barney is suffering. That his spirit wants to be free. That people in his condition want to die. They’re not afraid. They see a long dark tunnel with a light at the other end. A warm radiant light of shining peace. Barney wants to get there more than anything, and we’re holding him back. He says I must let him go. I must set him free.”
Marge’s voice droned on. This was a lesson she had heard so often, she knew it by heart. That she didn’t accept it as true was clear from her tone, but she was also obviously afraid of disobeying her teacher.
“Nonsense, Marge. Barney’s not your pet pigeon. He’s a man who loves you and Eddie and wants to get back to you as soon as he can. He’s coming back, Marge. I’m not kidding. I saw his legs twitch like crazy when the radio said the Celtics lost at the Garden last night.”
Marge laughed weakly. “Oh, Lucy, you do have a knack for making people feel better. I’m so glad you were here, or I might have done something terrible.”
“I don’t think so,” said Lucy.
“Oh, yes. I was really weakening. I almost did it today.”
“Well,” Lucy said, “you might have unhooked something, but it wouldn’t have killed Barney. Those machines are just monitors. He’s breathing on his own. I guess Dave didn’t realize that.”
“You mean—even if I had pulled the plug, it wouldn’t have mattered?” asked Marge.
“Well, it might have set off some alarms, but it wouldn’t have killed him,” Lucy reassured her. “My father was on a life-support machine, so I know. Now, we’ve got to get back home. I’m going to have to pay extra at Sara’s preschool as it is.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Marge, if I were you, I’d try to avoid Dave for a few days. He’s probably sincere and all, but Barney’s getting better. Believe me.”
“I don’t know who to believe anymore. It’s been so long, Lucy. I just want Barney back. I miss him so much.”
Lucy glanced anxiously at Marge but was relieved to see she wasn’t crying, just sitting quietly. “So do I. We’ll really miss him at the Pinewood Derby. Last year he did such a good job as announcer.”
“He really hammed it up, didn’t he?” Marge recalled, smiling.
“The boys loved it. He made it sound just like a real car race. What’s Eddie’s car like?”
“It’s pretty sharp. Bright red, with a black bumper. Some idea of his. Last year his car broke and he didn’t get to finish. He thinks the bumper will help.”
“That is a good idea. What did he use? Foam?”
“No, a little strip of rubber. Barney got it from Dave’s wife, Carol. He remembered she used some on that sculpture she put in the front yard.”
Lucy laughed. “That thing is ugly, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. And she gets a lot of money for those things,” said Marge.
“When they sell,” observed Lucy. “Who would buy one?”
“Marcia Miller did,” Marge said. “Dave said she’s a real fan of her work, and got her placed in a gallery in Boston. I guess they’re friends.”
Lucy pulled up in front of Marge’s house and waited patiently as Marge hauled herself out of the little car.
“Thanks, Lucy. Thanks for everything.”
Lucy gave her a cheery good-bye wave, then checked her watch and sighed. It was already one-thirty, and the meter was running over at Kiddie Kollege. She shifted the car into gear and turned onto Main Street, the most direct route to the preschool. As she passed the church and the rectory beside it, she glanced at the piece of black sculpture Carol had placed on the front lawn. Impulsively she pulled the car over and stopped in front of it.
The sculpture was made of automobile parts—at least Lucy assumed the odd metal forms came from automobiles. As she studied the sculpture, she could make out two human forms: a muffler and a transmission made one, a piece of twisted fender the other. The whole piece had been spray-painted black, and a length of sturdy black hose wound the two figures together. Lucy decided she’d better take a closer look at the hose.
She turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car. She slipped as she scrambled up the steep, grass-covered bank, and as she got back to her feet the sculpture loomed over her. The piece generated a sense of pain and anguish that made Lucy uneasy. She paused to read the handwritten label that had been placed at the base of the statue and then jumped back as if she’d been bitten. “Bondage of Love,” it read.
Lucy leaned forward to examine the hose, reaching out and wrapping her fingers around it. It felt just as she expected it would. For now there was no doubt that she had tried to pull a piece of the exact same hose from Sam Miller’s car window.
Carol worked in an old barn behind the house, and that’s where Lucy went, her ankle smarting. She didn’t want to go, but she had to talk to Carol. Things were beginning to add up, and she didn’t like the way her thoughts were headed.
The big barn door was unlatched and yielded to her hand with a noisy scrape. She stepped into the dark and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. She looked up toward the loft window, and there she saw Carol’s limp body, swaying slightly, silhouetted by the bright afternoon sun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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“This is getting to be a bad habit, Mrs. Stone,” said Lieutenant Horowitz as he sat down opposite Lucy at Marge’s kitchen table. He made an odd snorting noise; he was obviously enjoying his little joke.
Lucy narrowed her eyes at him and took another swallow of the sweet tea Marge had brewed for her. After making her gruesome discovery at the rectory, Lucy had driven right back to Marge’s house and called the state police. Horowitz and a team of investigat
ors had arrived in a matter of minutes. Now the team was already at work gathering evidence at Carol’s studio, and Horowitz was questioning Lucy.
“Now, Mrs. Stone, why did you stop at the rectory?” Horowitz had his notebook out and was ready to record her answer.
“Because of the hose. The hose on the sculpture. No. Wait. Because Marge told me that Dave was trying to get her to pull the plug on Barney. That didn’t seem right to me, and then she said Barney got a piece of hose from Carol and I wondered if it was the same hose used to kill Sam Miller. And it was.” Lucy leaned her head on her hand. She’d never felt so tired.
“Davidson wanted Mrs. Culpepper to pull the plug on Barney?” asked Horowitz.
“That’s right,” said Marge. “He’s been after me for weeks. Keeps telling me it’s cruel to keep him alive when there’s no hope. I believed him, too, until Lucy told me Barney’s getting better. The nurse told her. Dave had talked to the doctors for me. . . .” Marge’s voice trailed off. “I thought he was helping me,” she whispered.
“What about the hose, Mrs. Stone?”
Lucy snapped to attention. “The hose. I stopped to look at the sculpture, and there was some black hose on it. I wondered if it was the same hose that was used to kill Sam Miller. It was.”
“So Dave Davidson killed Sam Miller?”
“I think so,” Lucy said.
“And tried to kill Barney,” added Marge.
“Why?” said Horowitz.
“It’s all in the sculpture.” Lucy sighed. “Dave was having an affair with Marcia Miller.”
Horowitz and Marge exchanged a glance.
“Run that by me again,” said Horowitz.
“Just look at the sculpture. It’s called Bondage of Love, ” explained Lucy. “It’s two figures, Dave and Marcia, in an embrace. They’re bound together by the hose, by the fact that Dave killed Sam. Jealousy, hate, it’s all there,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “It’s a public proclamation by Carol that Dave was having an affair with Marcia Miller and killed her husband. He’ll never be free of her. That’s why Carol hanged herself.”
“You got that out of the sculpture?” Horowitz was skeptical.
“Why else would she use all those auto parts?” asked Lucy. “Cars were Davidson’s weapon of choice.”
“Barney saw them together,” Marge said flatly. “He didn’t think there was any hanky-panky, of course. He wouldn’t, with Dave being a minister and all. But he did say to me once that Marcia Miller must be a lot more religious than anyone realized because he saw her leaving the church so often on Tuesday afternoons.” Her face was a study in disbelief.
“Tuesday afternoons?” exclaimed Lucy. “In the church?”
Marge nodded. Horowitz pursed his lips and made a note. Lucy stifled an ever-growing urge to laugh hysterically.
“They sure fooled me,” confessed Marge. “They fooled everybody. Not an easy thing to do in a town like this.”
“They didn’t fool Sam,” said Lucy. “If he hadn’t been so smart, he’d probably still be alive.”
“The problem is that all this is hearsay and rumor. I can’t see that sculpture convincing a jury,” observed Horowitz. “In order to get a conviction these days you’ve got to have everything on videotape. Whispering in your ear isn’t a crime, Mrs. Culpepper.”
“He’s there with Barney!” remembered Marge. “I left him there at the hospital! He’s alone with Barney—I’ ve got to get back there!”
“Maybe you can get him on tape after all,” said Lucy dryly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
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“Lucy, I’m so scared I don’t think I can stand it. I’m afraid I’ll pee in my pants,” Marge said with a moan, clutching Lucy’s hand. The two were in the backseat of a cruiser, speeding down the highway to the hospital in Portland.
“I know,” agreed Lucy. “He’s a killer. He killed Sam Miller, and he almost succeeded in killing Barney. I hope we’re in time.”
“How am I going to pretend I don’t know he’s guilty? I keep thinking about Carol—he doesn’t even know his own wife is dead.”
“Just try to forget. Make believe it’s yesterday. Dave’s just the minister of your church, trying to help you make a difficult decision.”
“I don’t think I can. My stomach’s killing me. I think I have to throw up.”
“Here, suck on this,” said Lucy, giving her a broken candy cane she found in the bottom of her purse. “You need a little sugar.” Seeing Marge so shaken and white-faced, she continued, “You’ve got to pull yourself together, Marge. This is the only way that they can make a case against Davidson. Barney won’t be safe until he’s put away.”
“I know. I guess I’ve always been a little bit afraid of him,” admitted Marge. “The minister, you know, like a teacher but with God backing him up.”
“I don’t think God’s on his side anymore. Besides, I’ll be there for you. And Horowitz, and probably half the state police. All you have to do is be yourself.”
Marge took a little quivering breath and squared her shoulders as they pulled up in front of the hospital. A trooper helped them out of the car, and they hurried through the door and into the lobby. When the elevator doors opened a nurse met them and led them to the room next to Barney’s, where Horowitz was waiting for them.
“Okay,” he told Marge. “Everything is set. There’s a video camera in the room, and a tape recorder, too. You’ll be under observation at all times. My men”—he indicated two state troopers in the room—“are only a few steps away. You’re absolutely safe, and so is your husband. All you have to do is make Davidson incriminate himself. He has to tell you to kill him, or he has to take some action that would kill Barney. Do you understand?”
Marge’s eyes were enormous, her mouth tiny as she nodded.
“Okay. You go on in the room and wait for him. We’ll have him paged.”
“Good luck.” Lucy smiled and patted her hand. “You can do it.”
Lucy watched as Marge left the room, then reappeared on the video screen. Horowitz and the two uniformed state police officers stood behind her, also watching the screen.
“I have two men dressed as orderlies in the hall,” said Horowitz. Just then, they heard the public address system call for Reverend Davidson to go to room 203, and Horowitz said, “Now we just have to wait.”
Cool and self-contained as always, he stood watching the video monitor. To Lucy the scene on the screen looked like something from a daytime soap opera. There was the hospital room filled with flowers and cards. There was the bed surrounded with blinking and beeping pieces of machinery. There was the patient lying still, unconscious.
They watched as Marge settled herself on a chair next to Barney’s side. They saw her take his hand in her own and stroke it gently. They heard her soft words as she greeted him. Still unconscious, he showed no reaction to her presence but lay peaceful and still, defenseless as a napping baby.
Marge looked up sharply, and suddenly Dave Davidson appeared on the screen. She stood up awkwardly as he embraced her.
Watching the screen, Lucy shivered. How could evil be so self-effacing and mild-mannered? She preferred the directness of Cool Professional to the hypocritical helpfulness of the minister. The men around her tensed. One officer was nervously fingering a walkie-talkie, and the other stood by the door with his pistol in his hand. They were ready to spring the trap.
“This is a sad business,” said Davidson, withdrawing from the embrace and patting Marge mechanically on the back.
“Well . . .” Marge sighed. “His condition never changes. I’m afraid this will go on for years.”
“I’ve seen that happen. It’s a terrible thing to watch.” The minister shook his head mournfully. “Now he’s st
ill robust and peaceful, but not for much longer, I’m afraid. As the weeks and months go on, he’ll gradually deteriorate. You’ll see him getting thinner and thinner. He’ll curl up into a fetal position. His hair will become dry, his skin coarse and white. His eyes and cheeks will sink and he’ll look like a corpse, but they won’t let him go. The doctors, these scientists”—he spat out the word—“will keep him alive no matter how hopeless his condition. It’s a living hell. You will suffer watching him, and make no mistake, he will be suffering, too. His spirit is yearning to be set free.”
Even on the screen Lucy could sense the intensity and magnetism of Davidson’s appeal.
“He’s not afraid,” crooned the minister in Marge’s ear. “He wants to be released, to climb a sunbeam and join the angels.”
Marge’s eyes shone with faith and desire. “What must I do?” she asked.
“It won’t be hard,” he assured her. “All you have to do is unplug the equipment.” He dismissed the battery of machinery with a wave of his hand. “Then Barney’s soul will slip away. He will find the peace that passeth all understanding.”
“Will you help me?” asked Marge. “Will you stay with me?”
Lucy saw a flicker of hesitation cross Davidson’s face, but then he murmured, “Of course.”
“Thank you,” whispered Marge. “I think I’m ready. Should we do it now?”
“Yes,” said Davidson, taking her hand and leading her to the outlet behind the bed. Lucy stood transfixed as she saw Dave push Marge’s hand toward the plug.
“Just unplug it,” Davidson whispered. “Nothing simpler.”
He placed Marge’s hand on the plug and wrapped her fingers around it. Covering her hand with his, he pulled. The machinery sighed, and suddenly the room was deathly quiet.
Lucy realized she was holding her breath and gasped for air. Horowitz hissed, “Go.” The officer with the walkie-talkie spoke into it. “Now. Grab him.”
