And then I knew.
The embankment seemed a hell of a lot steeper on the way up than it had on the way down. I ran all the way and was totally out of breath by the time I regained the bridge. But I was just in time.
Diana was crouched next to Izzy, holding her hand. Paul and Sam were standing a few feet behind Michael, eyeing him with varying amounts of fear and mistrust. The thickset youth had the shotgun wedged up under Jackson's chin, using it to force his upper body backwards over the top of the parapet. Michael's face was blenched with anger, teetering on the edge of control.
"He's dead, isn't he?” He didn't take his eyes off the farmer as I approached.
"Yes,” I said carefully, “but Jackson didn't kill him, Michael."
"But he must have done.” It was Paul who spoke. “We all saw—"
"You saw nothing,” I cut in. “The gun went off and Adam either jumped or fell, but he wasn't shot. The rope gave out. That's why he's dead."
"That's ridiculous,” Diana said, haughty rather than anguished. “The breaking strain on the ropes we use is enormous. No way could it have simply broken. The shot must have hit it."
"It didn't,” I said. “It was cut halfway through. With a knife."
Even Michael reacted to that one, taking the shotgun away from Jackson's neck as he swivelled round to face me. I could see the indentations the barrels had left in the scrawny skin of the old man's throat.
Chances like that don't come very often. I took a quick step closer, looped my arm over the one of Michael's that held the gun, and brought my elbow back sharply into the fleshy vee between his ribs.
He doubled over, gasping, letting go of the weapon. I picked it out of his hands and stepped back again. It was all over in a moment.
The others watched in silence as I broke the Baikal and picked out the remaining live cartridge. Once it was unloaded I put the gun down propped against the brickwork and dropped the cartridge into my pocket. Michael had caught his breath enough to think about coming at me, but it was Sam who intervened.
"I wouldn't if you know what's good for you,” he said, his voice kindly. “Charlie's a bit of an expert at this type of thing. She'd eat you for breakfast."
Michael favoured me with a hard stare. I returned it flat and level. I don't know what he thought he saw, but he backed off, sullen, rubbing his stomach.
"So,” I said, “the question is, who cut Adam's rope?"
For a moment there was total silence. “Look, we either have this out now, or you get the third degree when the police arrive,” I said, shrugging. “I assume you did call them?” I added in Paul's direction.
"No, but I did,” Sam said, brandishing his mobile phone. “They're on their way. I've said I'll wait for them up on the road. Show them the way. Will you be okay down here?"
I nodded. “I'll cope,” I said. “Oh and, Sam—when they arrive, tell them it looks like murder."
Nobody spoke as Sam started out across the field. He eyed the quad bike with some envy as he passed, but went on foot.
"I still say the old bastard deserves shooting,” Michael muttered.
"I didn't do nothing,” Jackson blurted out suddenly. Relieved of the immediate threat to his life, he stood looking dazed with his shoulders slumped. “I never would have fired. It was him who grabbed my hand! He's the one who forced my finger down on the trigger!"
He waved towards Michael, who flushed angrily at the charge. I replayed the scene again and recalled the way the stocky boy had been struggling with Jackson for control of the gun. It had looked for all the world like a genuine skirmish, but it could just as easily have been a convenient setup.
When no one immediately spoke up in his defence, Michael rounded on us. “How can you believe anything so stupid?" he bit out. “Adam was a good mate. I would have given him my last cent."
"Didn't like sharing your girlfriend with him, though, did you?” Paul said quietly.
Izzy, still lying on the ground, gave an audible gasp. I checked to see how Diana was taking the news of her dead boyfriend's apparent infidelity, but there was little to be gleaned from her cool and colourless expression.
A brief spasm of what might have been fear passed across Michael's face. “You can't believe I'd want to kill him for that?” he said and gave a harsh laugh. “Defending Izzy's honour? Come on! I knew right from the start that she's not exactly choosy."
Izzy had begun to cry. “He loved me,” she managed between sobs, and it wasn't immediately clear if she was referring to Michael or Adam. “He told me he loved me."
Diana sat back, still looking at Izzy, but without really seeing her. “That's what he tells—told—all of them,” she said, almost to herself. “Wanted to hear them say it back to him, I suppose.” She smiled then, a little sadly. “Adam always did need to be adored. The centre of attention."
"You're just saying that, but it isn't true,” Izzy cried. “He loved me. He was going to give you up but he wanted to let you down gently, not to hurt your feelings. He was just waiting for the right time."
"Oh, Izzy, of course he wasn't going to give me up,” Diana said, her tone one of great patience, as though talking to the very young, or the very slow. “He used to come straight from your bed back to mine and tell me all about it.” She laughed, a high brittle peal. “How desperately keen you were. How eager to please."
"And you didn't mind?" I asked, fighting to keep the disbelief and the distaste buried.
"Of course not,” Diana said, sounding vaguely surprised that I should feel the need to ask. She sighed. “Adam had some—interesting—tastes. There were some things that I simply drew the line at, but Izzy—” her eyes slipped away from mine to skim dispassionately over the girl lying cringing in front of her—"well, she would do just about anything he asked. Pathetic, really."
"Are you really trying to tell me that you knew your boyfriend was sleeping around and you didn't care at all?"
Diana stood, looked down her nose again in that way she had. The way that indicated I was being too bourgeois for words. “Naturally,” she said. “I understood Adam perfectly and I understood that this was his last fling at life while he still had the chance."
"What do you mean, while he still had the chance?” I said. I recalled Michael's jibe about Adam having to pack in the dangerous sports. “What was the matter with him?"
There was a long pause. Even Jackson, I noticed, seemed to be waiting intently for the answer. Eventually, Izzy was the one who broke the silence. “He only told us a month ago that he'd been diagnosed with MND,” she said. Her leg had just about stopped bleeding, but her face had started to sweat now as the pain and the shock crept in. When I looked blank, it was Paul who continued.
"Motor Neuron Disease,” he said, sounding authoritative. “It's a progressive degeneration of the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. In most cases the mind is unaffected, but you gradually lose control of various muscle groups—the arms and legs are usually the first to go. You can never quite tell how far or how fast it will develop because it affects everyone in a different way. Sometimes you lose the ability to speak and swallow. It was such rotten luck! The chances of it happening in someone under forty are so remote, but for it to hit Adam of all people—” He broke off, shook his head, and seemed to remember how none of that mattered anymore. “Poor sod."
"It was a tragedy,” Izzy said, defiant. “And if I gave him pleasure while he could still take it, what was wrong with that?"
"So,” I murmured, “was this a murder, or a mercy killing?"
Diana made a sort of snuffling noise then, bringing one hand up to her face. For a moment I thought she was fighting back tears, but then she looked up and I saw that it was laughter. And she'd lost the battle.
"Oh for God's sake, Adam didn't have Motor Neuron Disease!” she cried, jumping to her feet, hysteria bubbling up through the words. “That was all a lie! He wanted you to think of him as the tragic hero, struck down at the pinnacle of his youth. And you all fe
ll for it. All of you!"
Paul's face was blank. “So there was nothing wrong with him?” he said faintly. “But he said—"
"Adam was diagnosed HIV positive six months ago,” Diana said flatly. “He had AIDS."
The dismay rippled through the group like the bore of a changing tide. AIDS. The bogeyman of the modern age. I almost saw them edge away from each other, as though afraid of cross-contamination. No wonder Adam had preferred the pretence of a more user-friendly affliction.
And then it dawned on them, one by one.
Izzy realised it first. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “He never used...” she broke off, lifting her tear-stained face to Michael. “Oh God,” she said again. “I am so sorry."
Michael caught on then, reeling away to clutch at the bridge parapet as though his legs suddenly wouldn't support him any longer.
Paul was just standing there, staring at nothing. “Bastard,” he muttered, over and over.
Michael rounded on him in a burst of fury. “It's all right for you,” he yelled. “You're probably the only one of us who hasn't got it!"
"Ah, that's not quite the case, is it, Paul?” Diana said, her voice like chiselled ice. “Always had a bit of a thing for Adam, didn't you? But he wasn't having any of that. Oh, he kept you dangling for years,” she went on, scanning Paul's stunned face without compassion. “Did you really not wonder at all why he suddenly changed his mind recently?"
She laughed again. A sound like glass breaking, sharp and bitter. “No, I can see you didn't. You poor fools,” she said, taking in all of their devastated faces, her voice mocking. “There you all were debasing yourselves to please him, hoping to bathe in a last little piece of Adam's reflected glory, when all the time he was spitting on your graves."
Michael lunged for her, reaching for her throat. I swept his legs out from under him before he'd taken a stride, then twisted an arm behind his back to hold him down once he was on the floor. Come on, Sam! Where the hell were the police when you needed them?
I looked up at Diana, who'd stood unconcerned during the abortive attack. “Why on earth did you stay with him?” I asked.
She shrugged. “By the time he confessed, it was too late,” she said simply. “There's no doubt—I've had all the tests. Besides, you didn't know Adam. He was one of those people who was a bright star, for all his faults. I wanted to be with him, and you can't be infected twice."
"And what about us?” Paul demanded, sounding close to tears himself. “We were your friends. Why didn't you tell us the truth?"
"Friends!” Diana scoffed. “What kind of friends would screw my boyfriend—or let their girlfriends screw him—behind my back? Answer me that!"
"You never got anything you didn't ask for,” Jackson said quietly then, his voice rich with disgust. “The whole lot of you."
Privately, part of me couldn't help but agree with the farmer. “The question is,” I said, “which one of you went for revenge?"
And then, across the field, a new-looking Toyota Land Cruiser turned off the road and came bowling across the grass, snaking wildly as it came.
"Oh shit,” Paul muttered, “it's Adam's parents. How the hell did they get to hear about it so fast?"
The Land Cruiser didn't stop by the quad bike, but came thundering straight onto the bridge itself, heedless of the weight-bearing capabilities of the old structure. It braked jerkily to a halt and the middle-aged couple inside flung open the doors and jumped out.
"Where's Adam?” the man said urgently. He looked as though he'd thrown his clothes on in a great hurry. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair awry. “Are we in time?"
None of the group spoke. I let go of Michael's wriggling body and got to my feet. “Mr. Lane?” I said. “I'm terribly sorry to tell you this, but there seems to have been an accident—"
"Accident?" Adam's mother almost shrieked the word as she came forwards. “Accident? What about this?” and she thrust a crumpled sheet of paper into my hands.
Uncertain what else to do, I unfolded the letter just as the first police Land Rover Discovery began its approach, rather more sedately, across the field.
Adam's suicide note was brief and to the point. He couldn't face the prospect of the future, it said. He couldn't face the dreadful responsibility of what he'd knowingly inflicted on his friends. He was sorry. Goodbye.
He did not, I noticed, express the hope that they would forgive him for what he'd done.
I folded the note up again as the lead Discovery reached us and a uniformed sergeant got out, adjusting his cap. Sam was in the passenger seat.
The sergeant advanced, his experienced gaze taking in the shotgun still leaning against the brickwork, Izzy's blood-soaked trousers, and the array of staggered faces.
"I understand there's been a murder committed,” he said, businesslike, glancing round. “Where's the victim?"
I waved my hand towards the surviving members of the Dangerous Sports Club. “Take your pick,” I said. “And if you want the murderer, well—” I nodded at the parapet where Adam had taken his final dive—"you'll find him down there."
(c)2007 by Zoë Sharp
[Back to Table of Contents]
NO WICK FOR THE RESTED BY Monica Quill
* * * *
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
Monica Quill is a pseudonym of mystery writer, mainstream novelist, and philosophy professor Ralph McInerny. The author's varied life is chronicled in his recently published autobiography I Alone Have Escaped to Tell You: My Life and Pastimes (University of Notre Dame Press). The Quill pseudonym is reserved for stories featuring Sister Mary Teresa Dempsey, who has not had a novel-length case since 1997.
1.
don't know a thing about poetry,” Sister Mary Teresa Dempsey said, and Kim and Jane exchanged a look. Such a disclaimer usually prefaced a lengthy lecture on the allegedly unknown subject. Their visitor stirred in her chair.
"What I really want to know is whether the college literary magazine has been preserved."
"Preserved?"
"There were bound copies in the college library, from the very first issue to..."
Hannah Fence's voice trailed off. The closing and subsequent sale of the college that the Order of Martha and Mary had once run in a northern suburb marked a dark day for many alumnae. For Emtee Dempsey, it had been almost apocalyptic. In those mad days when novelty was its own excuse, the past had been cast aside like a squeezed orange. The house on Walton Street in Chicago and a summer retreat in Indiana were all that remained of the once extensive property of the order. The three nuns were the remnant of a once thriving community.
"Preserving the past was not uppermost in many minds at that time. You are referring of course to Fennel and Rue?"
"Of course.” Hannah sat back. “Where did they ever find that name for the magazine?"
"William Dean Howells, of course."
Neither Hannah nor Emtee Dempsey's housemates responded to this.
"You don't know William Dean Howells?” A shadow passed over the rounded countenance of the old nun, but in a moment it was gone. She put her fat little hands on the arms of her chair. “But enough. So you have made your debut as a poet, Hannah?"
Hannah's small book of verse had recently been issued by a local press. Small books of verse are regularly issued by small presses and the usual fate is swift and sure oblivion. But Hannah's collection had known a surprising reception. A review in the Sun Times and a piece on the poet in the Sunday Tribune had created a demand for copies in bookstores throughout the region. It had actually gone into a second printing, the first run of 500 copies having sold out. That a woman in middle age had produced such fresh and haunting lyrics made it news indeed. She had brought a copy for the old nun, suitably inscribed.
"Are you at work on a second collection?"
"Sister, I don't think I could go through it all again."
"Perhaps some juvenilia?” The old nun's countenance suddenly brightened. “Is th
at the basis of your interest in Fennel and Rue?You did publish in it, didn't you?"
Hannah looked hurt. “Sister, I was editor in my senior year."
"Ah yes. I remember now. I should have thought you would have saved issues of the magazine."
"Only the odd ones. Perhaps if I had majored in history I would have realized how fragile the past..."
But Sister Mary Teresa was not listening. There was a far-off remembering look in her blue eyes. “Who was the girl who wrote such lovely poems? It must have been in your time."
"So many of us tried to write poetry, Sister."
"But this girl succeeded. Oh!” The little hands flew up. Delight gave way to dismay. “The girl who disappeared."
"Disappeared?” Kim cried.
"Disappeared off the face of the earth. She didn't leave a trace."
"Catherine Raines,” Hannah said softly. “Catherine Raines."
Over the next fifteen minutes, Emtee Dempsey recalled the facts of that long-ago episode in the college history. Hannah reluctantly corroborated the old nun's memory.
"We were classmates, Sister."
"Ah."
"I have a theory. During the days before her disappearance I was nagging her to submit a poem for the Cardinal Mundelein prize. You may remember that the Mundelein was the most prestigious prize of all."
"And Catherine never submitted a poem?"
Hannah shook her head. “Inspiration is an unreliable friend.” Emtee Dempsey recognized the phrase from the Tribune interview. “She became almost desperate. The deadline came and went and Catherine had disappeared."
"A wise virgin is always supplied with the oil of inspiration."
Hannah blushed prettily. “Then you've already read it."
"It?"
"My book. One of the poems..."
"Just coincidence."
Eventually they got back to the subject of bound back issues of Fennel and Rue. The only hope Emtee Dempsey could offer was that there might possibly be a set in the attic and soon Jane took Hannah off to the attic.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 5
