Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

“Go down there and check it out.”

  “Fine. I’ll call you back…”

  “No, I’ll hang on.”

  Sebastian climbed down from the loft, holding the phone by his side and muttering as he went. About halfway to the tractor he lifted the phone to his ear again. “Hey, it’s still there. What do you want me to do?”

  “Find a place to watch from. I want you to see who takes it.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s going to be pitch black in half an hour.”

  Sebastian could hear Charles fuming on the other end of the line. But what reasonable explanation could he give for his request?

  “Well then, go get it and put it back out in the morning.”

  Sebastian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Only Charles would deliver blackmail, take it back, and deliver it again to bait his trap. Sebastian didn’t bother to argue. He pushed his way back through the brush and picked up the case. It was much lighter than when the FedEx man delivered it. It looked the same, but the packing tape had been sliced.

  “Bad news, Charles.”

  “What?”

  Sebastian popped open the empty case. “There’s nothing in here.”

  “Damn it!”

  Chapter Thirty

  The man clad in black from turtle neck to sneakers stood in the shadows and pocketed his tools in disbelief. He slipped a credit card into the quarter-inch gap between the door and the trim and popped the lock open. No alarm, no deadbolt and his target was a woman. The only risk had been approaching the farm without disturbing the cattle. She didn’t even have a dog. Amazed it could be this easy, he stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. The sliver of moon couldn’t penetrate the heavy drapes covering the small windows, rather, it cast a pale glow at their fringes. Shadowy objects around the room slowly took the shape of boxes, stacks of boxes, cluttering the tiny living space. A sharp snort sounded upstairs. If she’d been planning to move, she’d missed her chance.

  The floor planks begrudged every step across the kitchen announcing his approach with a creaking, squeaking cacophony. He stopped at the foot of the ninety-year-old stairs and aimed his 9mm toward the second floor. After all the noise he’d made crossing the kitchen, if anyone in the house was awake, they’d be waiting for him on the landing. He continued haltingly upward, keeping his sneakers pressed at the outer edges of the treads, slowly transferring his weight from foot to foot, but the squeaky stairs mocked his every movement. As he reached the switchback to the upper landing, he braced himself on the railing and aimed the gun upward into the hall. A rhythmic growl sounded somewhere above.

  Satisfied she was asleep, he crested the stairs. He swung the gun into the dark corners of the hall, but found only shadows there. She was in the nearest bedroom and she wasn’t alone. She worked quickly, this one. Widowed just weeks ago, she’d already found a replacement.

  He crept up beside the bed, pressed a pillow to her head to muffle the impact, and fired. The body jolted as the bullet passed through and settled in the mattress. The silenced shot killed with a thump that was quieter than his careful footsteps. He dropped the pillow and aimed for the man’s head. He stirred and rolled over, but never opened his eyes.

  The killer skirted the bed and backed away toward the stairs with the bead drifting over the man’s face like a floating third eye. If he woke, it’d be the last time. Otherwise, the contract was for one and one they’d get.

  He whisked downstairs and away from the easiest job he’d ever done.

  …

  Several miles away, Charlie lay awake in a guest room shaken by a deception so clever that he couldn’t quite fit the pieces together even now that the trap was sprung. That night at the farmhouse, Charlie had felt that he was the one maintaining control. Randy was acting crazy as usual and Charlie was supplying the rational thought that kept them out of trouble, or so it had appeared. That one photograph made the wild flurry of events look very different. The picture was malicious intent, premeditation, and supernatural knowledge inked on copy paper.

  That night Randy had parked at the extreme right edge of the driveway, leaving a longer walk for himself and Deirdre, but plenty of space for Henri’s car beside Charlie’s rental. He’d known Henri was coming. In his rush to get inside, Henri had parked exactly where Randy wanted him to.

  The revelation stunned Charlie.

  Since the day they met, Randy acted so juvenile that Charlie assumed he couldn’t plan beyond the next twenty-four hours or his next drinking binge. Before now, Charlie had been captivated by the reckless stunts. The subtle manipulation had been minor in comparison and went entirely unnoticed. Lying on the bed, Charlie saw that Randy’s strange actions were driven by something far more sinister than thrill-seeking. He’d been slyly arranging his subjects long before he snapped that photo.

  The crash into the guest house garage now had new meaning. Randy was too skillful a driver for such a blunder. Charlie’s instinct had told him as much, but he brushed it aside with the other crazy things Randy did. Now it was clear why he’d done it. Randy wanted everyone at the chateau to know they’d been out until three. Charles obliged by complaining about the accident to anyone who would listen. Someone must have noticed that the late-night crash and the fire that killed Henri Deudon were only minutes apart, but amazingly, no one called the gendarmes.

  Thinking back to the picture, Charlie realized it was useless for blackmail since Henri had already seen Deirdre with Charlie. Randy orchestrated Henri’s timely arrival at the farmhouse and the arrangement of the cars so he could give the photo to the gendarmes. The picture was useless until Henri was murdered.

  But what did he stand to gain?

  Charlie passed twenty minutes staring at the ceiling wondering exactly that. He kept circling back to the money. Judging by Randy’s ability to manipulate circumstances, Charlie assumed this was his goal from the beginning. Once the money was moved, Charlie suddenly found himself in trouble with the gendarmes. Randy had plenty of time to slip into the attic, take Charlie’s share, and disappear. Maybe this was how he afforded the expensive cars and the boat. Maybe this was one of his “investments.”

  A random thought struck Charlie about the poker-night brawl. They’d made miraculous time driving from Westport to New Bedford and arrived to the game at the last minute. The ambulance logs and hospital records would prove that Randy had been in that tournament; a tournament that started only minutes after fire broke out at the Caulfield house. If the fire had gone unreported for fifteen minutes, Randy would have an ironclad alibi.

  Charlie flashed back to the time he was cleaning for Deirdre’s arrival at the farmhouse. He remembered a jagged crack in the wall about where Henri’s head crashed through. It didn’t seem out of place in that rundown old house, but Henri’s head struck the wall about where the crack had been. If Randy had known what was inside, he might have steered him there.

  Charlie wanted to believe Randy knew about the money. His constant antics could easily have caused the crack and Charlie couldn’t guess what he’d do if he spied the money when he was alone. Randy seemed incredibly volatile, but Charlie had a feeling now that the random stunts were all linked, like they had been for Caulfield. Every one of them had a purpose. A dreadful warning settled within Charlie: the money, Deirdre, and Henri were peripheral; swept up in something larger than all of them, something Charlie was yet to understand.

  Charlie thought back to the day Randy pushed himself up on a barstool beside him. He hadn’t stopped pushing since. No matter how dicey things got or how much his parents protested, Charlie hadn’t gotten serious about sending him away until he woke up in St. Luke’s after the poker game. The benefits of being Randy’s sidekick had been too great. When Randy started rambling out his zany philosophy in a bar, an enraptured crowd closed in around them. Women were plentiful and so were fast cars, jet skis, and boats. Randy showed him life on the edge. Now he saw it was all preparation for one fateful night. Randy had conditioned Charlie
to follow him and Charlie felt like a fool for obliging.

  All the while, drunk or sober, Randy hid every aspect of himself. He’d never shown Charlie his house, his work, or any other part of his life. The long hair, the glasses, and the whiskers hid his features well. Charlie would scarcely recognize him clean-shaven and neatly dressed. The man underneath the bedraggled appearance and the psychotic persona was even more frightening than the creature on the surface. Within minutes of meeting Randy, most people assumed he was a juvenile, thrill-seeking punk. They excused him as an overgrown teenager. No one thought to look deeper, so Randy acted with impunity.

  Charlie knew now that the juvenile pranks covered a patient, cunning manipulator who planned his deception in minute detail. Charlie started re-evaluating everything Randy had said and done since they’d met. Attributing malicious intent to Randy’s actions brought startling revelations. Charlie lay awake seeing the depths Randy had gone to. How masterfully Randy played the lunatic, all the while giving obvious clues to his intentions.

  The realization came too late.

  Randy already had the money.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  At five-thirty, Laroche received a status report from his team watching Chateau de Piolenc. No one left the chateau overnight. Seven phone calls had been made: one to a law office in Boston and six to Charlie Marston’s home. A man could be heard pleading for someone to answer the calls to Westport, but no one did. Laroche recalled Charlie’s panicked words into the telephone answering machine, as if Deirdre were in mortal danger. He may have been acting then, but surely he didn’t expect the phone taps to be in place. Laroche picked up his newspaper and browsed, convinced Charlie Marston behaved like an innocent man.

  When the phone rang at six, Laroche pushed his paper aside and listened to a frantic description of the curse that had befallen the Deudon family. Monique Deudon, Henri’s sister-in-law, was murdered while she slept, just weeks after Henri died in the fire. She had moved to the family farm with her husband and two children just days earlier. The distraught husband was cooperative, but he saw nothing until he awoke with his arm covered in blood. He found his wife lying dead beside him and he was still too shaken to be helpful.

  The scenario suggested a professional hit. The killer left no sign of entry, no footprints inside or out, and he silenced the single shot he fired. The only evidence the officers had found was the dead woman and the bullet that killed her. The young officer on the phone offered little hope of finding more. Apparently, the family had lived in a much larger home and ran out of space to store their belongings in the tiny stone house. He described a flood of possessions stacked throughout. If the killer left any trace, the chances of finding it in all the clutter were nil.

  Monique Deudon’s death bolstered Marston’s claim of innocence. The killer had apparently mistaken Monique for Deirdre and Marston wouldn’t make that mistake. Someone ordered the killing; someone far from Piolenc, possibly the same man who sent the picture. By taking that picture, the photographer proved he was at the farmhouse before the fire started. He seemed to know trouble was coming, otherwise the picture was useless. Laroche wished he’d chosen a simpler case to get involved in, but he was feeling more confident the more he reflected. Marston and Randy would blame each other to the end. Mrs. Deudon was the key to the truth.

  The young man on the other end of the line was muttering something about the press and Laroche had an inspiration.

  “Listen carefully,” he said in a voice too loud for the hour.

  The younger officer fell silent.

  Laroche confirmed that the body was still in place. Only Officer Bigler, the family, and the man on the phone knew what had happened.

  “Excellent,” Laroche said. “Tell Bigler and the family to inform anyone who asks that the deceased is Deirdre Deudon, Henri’s widow. You can tell no one that Monique is dead. Understood?”

  “I understand. But why, sir?”

  “Last night someone tried to kill Deirdre Deudon. Unfortunately, he found Monique in Deirdre’s bedroom and killed her instead. If he learns of his mistake, Mrs. Deudon will be in terrible danger. We can’t let that happen.”

  “What about the press?”

  “Tell them what you know, but indicate Deirdre as the victim. Don’t hold back. Ask the family to find a good photo and get it in tomorrow’s paper and on every television station.” Laroche was acting far beyond his responsibilities and he felt a rush of strength.

  “What about the Judicial Police?”

  “What about them?”

  “Sir, she’s got a bullet wound in her forehead. They must be contacted. They’ll want to know why we’re lying to the newsmen.”

  “Explain to them that I’m working on a tip. The Judicial Police don’t want to endanger Mrs. Deudon any more than we do.”

  The confused young man reluctantly accepted his task and hung up.

  Laroche swallowed hard and stared down at the phone wondering if he’d just thrown away a thirty-four-year career. The Judicial Police would be swarming around Monique Deudon’s murder and they reviled gendarmes who overstepped their authority. It had been four weeks since he stood outside the burned-out building and decided to take this case for himself. Four weeks of work yielded only two suspects: the same two men who appeared the day after the fire. If the Judicial Police linked the murders and investigated the farmhouse, they’d find the plane and they wouldn’t stop investigating until Laroche’s career was over. It was too late to admit his mistake. His only hope was to solve the case and hope for leniency.

  What he needed was a face-to-face interview with Deirdre Deudon, but that wasn’t going to happen. The captain would never pay for a flight to Massachusetts without evidence and all the evidence pointed to Charlie Marston. The captain hated self-indulgent American swine almost as much as the Judicial Police did. He’d gladly lock Marston up and put Laroche in an adjoining cell for helping him.

  Panicked, Laroche forgot about verifying the rest of Marston’s story. He went straight to his surveillance team, located a kilometer from the chateau. Nothing had transpired since his last update, so Laroche dismissed them. They gladly went home early and Laroche got in his car and motored down the drive to the chateau.

  Rosalie ushered him in to join the Marstons in the midst of breakfast. The elder Marstons wore looks of grave concern at his appearance so early in the morning. Young Charlie’s eyes looked as if he hadn’t slept fifteen minutes.

  Laroche accepted their invitation to breakfast, not because he was hungry and not to discuss the case, since Mrs. Marston was present. He was betting his career on Marston’s innocence and he embraced the extra time to reassure himself he’d made the right decision.

  The elder Mr. Marston excused himself to the hall and picked up the phone. Laroche ignored him and studied the subtle cues between Charlie and his mother. He listened to their nervous chatter until his attention was drawn to movement in the hall. Charles was talking excitedly, but softly, into the receiver and eyeing Laroche reproachfully. Somehow Charles knew his secret.

  As Laroche’s confidence dwindled, he tried to imagine who Charles could be talking to. No parent would contact the Judicial Police. He doubted Charles would call headquarters unless he knew the captain personally and few Americans did. Across the table, Charlie and his mother were silent. All three of them were eyeing him suspiciously as he sat and waited for the confrontation to come.

  When Charles was finished on the phone, he retrieved Laroche and led him into the hall. Charlie abandoned the breakfast he’d been picking at and followed them into the study. Charles solidly closed the door behind them and cornered Laroche in the space between the door and the marble table they’d occupied the night before.

  “My lawyer suggests I ask how long you’ve been attached to Special Investigations,” Charles said incredulously.

  “I’m not.” Laroche felt the quiver in his own voice.

  “You’re not Judicial Police. You’ve got the wron
g uniform. So why are you harassing us, Lieutenant?”

  “A serious crime has been committed.”

  “A crime you have no power to investigate. Just what are you doing here? Are you after money, Lieutenant?”

  “I am investigating a murder. And yes, if you disapprove of my involvement, you could force me to leave. But if I go, the next uniform you see will be of the Judicial Police. They’re not known for their sympathy to foreigners.”

  Father and son silently considered the threat.

  “Have either of you seen the news this morning?”

  Both men indicated they hadn’t, their curiosity aroused.

  Laroche studied them carefully as he told them of Monique Deudon’s murder. The younger man gasped with wide-eyed intensity that couldn’t be faked. The elder Marston watched his son, unsure what to think of the news. Charlie’s horrified expression and the seven panicked phone calls told Laroche what he needed to know.

  “She moved into the farmhouse?” Charlie asked.

  “She did.”

  Laroche let his news hang in the thick air of the study while the men assessed their position. He knew Charlie couldn’t risk Judicial Police scrutiny. Laroche needed his help to catch Randy and he needed both Marstons to keep quiet about his work on this case.

  When Laroche offered his terms, Charlie accepted without pausing to consider.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Deirdre recoiled from the peephole at the sight of TJ Lynch’s bald head magnified to grotesque proportions. She’d been cursing him since he dumped her in this tiny hotel sandwiched between routes 6 and 195. After two dreadfully long days watching old movies and scouring French websites, Deirdre desperately hoped TJ brought good news. She unlatched the door and let him into the room that had afforded her the protection and comfort of a castle tower. The food was lousy, the bed rock-hard, and the isolation unnerving, but as promised, she’d been safe.