Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2)

by Carol J. Perry

  “What was that? You hit something.” He waved the gun. “Get out of my way. Go over there against the wall and don’t move.”

  Sammy propped his flashlight on the floor with a loose brick, aimed the gun at me with his left hand, and snatched the trowel away with his right. “Over there,” he said again, motioning toward the wall with the trowel. “Don’t move a muscle, or I swear I’ll shoot you right here.”

  He’s planning to shoot me, whether here or someplace else.

  The tunnel yawned, deep and black, on my left. Gone were the neatly recessed lamps set into the bricks. There was only darkness. Opposite me was another wall, the one with the wide crack at the top. The third wall, I figured, had to be the one with an entrance to the bomb shelter. I peered closely at it, trying not to be too obvious, because Sammy was looking rapidly back and forth between me and the growing hole in the dirt.

  At first I couldn’t see any opening at all. The wall appeared to be made of bricks, just like the other two. But there was a slight difference in the pattern. There was one section, around five feet high and two feet wide, with bricks stacked one atop the other, instead of in the normal alternating rows. A small black iron ring protruded from the center of the rectangle. It had to be the exit to the bomb shelter.

  So near, and yet so far away.

  There was a dull clunk from the hole in the dirt. I knew Sammy had found something solid. I watched as he pulled a tall coffee can from the hole, laid the trowel aside, and brushed dirt from the bright blue container. He struggled to wrench the top off of it with his free hand, while the gun was still aimed in my direction. The top came free with a jolt, and I heard the whoosh of escaping air as he broke the vacuum seal.

  He stuck his finger into the can, then put it in his mouth. “Ahhh,” he said, licking his lips and replacing the top. “This’ll bring me a million bucks on the street.”

  Leaving the coffee can on the floor, he stood with difficulty, the wounded leg obviously giving him trouble. He backed up against the wall where O’Ryan had ducked out of sight, and leaned heavily against the bricks.

  “Pick that up,” he said, gesturing at the can with the gun. “You can carry it for me.” He bent down, grunting with the effort, and picked up the flashlight. “It’s the least you can do after stabbing me, bitch. You’ll walk ahead of me.”

  I picked up the can, and Sammy motioned toward the yawning blackness of the tunnel. “We’re not going far. There’s another bomb shelter just like this one behind the house across the street. Stupid people don’t even know it’s there.” He laughed that terrible laugh again. “That’s where I stashed my other coffee can. There’s a big dealer in a boat just offshore, waiting to pick me and my coke up. Your smart-ass cop boyfriend doesn’t know that, does he? One wrong move, and I’ll shoot you in the back. Don’t doubt me.”

  What difference is it going to make to me if he shoots me here or across the street? Should I make a move now or wait?

  O’Ryan decided for me. With a hideous yowl, he leapt from his hiding place, claws extended, onto Sammy’s head. Both the gun and the flashlight thudded to the floor as the man tore in vain at the snarling cat. I snatched the top off the coffee can and, with a warning shout to O’Ryan, threw a handful of uncut cocaine into Sammy Trout’s face.

  He dug frantically at his eyes, not trying to stop me when I pulled the iron ring. The section of wall gave immediately, and O’Ryan and I were in the Greenes’ bomb shelter, where nothing blocked the exit door except a yellow ribbon of police tape. O’Ryan scampered ahead of me, and with a loud sigh of relief, I climbed over the wooden sill and toward the tavern’s parking lot, where flashing red, white, and blue lights and the wailing of sirens provided the most welcome sights and sounds I’d ever seen or heard. I shielded my eyes when a spotlight illuminated the hillside where I stood.

  “Not so fast, Ms. Barrett.” Sammy’s voice was in my ear, his gun in the small of my back. “You’re my ticket out of here. Slowly now, walk ahead of me.”

  “Drop the gun, Trout,” came the command over a bullhorn. “Don’t make the situation any worse than it is.” It was Pete’s voice, calm and steady.

  Sammy held the gun to my head, the coffee can cradled in his other arm. He shouted an answer. “Back off, or I’ll kill her. Clear the lot. Leave me a car gassed up, with the engine running.”

  “Let her go, Sammy,” Pete said. “Come on down and we’ll talk about it.”

  “No talking, Pete,” Sammy yelled. “If you don’t want to see your woman with her pretty head blown off, you’ll do what I say. Clear the lot. Give me a car. Now.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Pete still sounded calm. “We’re leaving. There’ll be a car here with the engine running. Don’t hurt Lee.”

  “No tricks, or she gets it. I’m not kidding,” Sammy answered. “And don’t try to follow me. Do what I say and I’ll let her go later.”

  The police cars, with lights flashing, pulled away, but the spotlight remained trained on us. A gray Chrysler moved slowly into the center of the lot. Pete climbed out, then raised the bullhorn again.

  “Here it is, Sammy. Gassed and ready to go.” He turned his back on the whole scene—on me—and walked slowly toward the street.

  “Okay,” Sammy yelled. “Douse the spotlight. We’re coming down.”

  The light blinked off, and stumbling in the sudden darkness, with the gun prodding my back, I made my way toward the solitary car in the now quiet parking lot. Sammy opened the driver’s side door, the gun about two inches from my head.

  “Slide across. Don’t pull any funny business. You’re no good to me dead now. I need a hostage.” Again the hoarse laugh. “But trust me, I wouldn’t mind shooting your kneecaps out. Hold this.” He handed me the can and stood there outside the car, eyes searching the vacant parking lot, with the gun trained on my legs. He activated the door lock from the switch on the driver’s side door. “Don’t even think about touching that lock,” he warned, standing with one foot inside the car, scrutinizing every corner of the silent, darkened lot.

  What took place next happened so fast, I’m not sure I can describe it exactly the way it went down. First, there was the unmistakable roar of a sweet V-8 engine, then the glow of high beams. I saw it coming in the rearview mirror, lunging straight at us out of the darkness, tires screeching on damp asphalt. I saw the expression on Sammy’s face as it bore down on him, tearing the Chrysler’s door clean off and sending him sprawling facedown and unmoving on the pavement.

  The pounding rhythm of running feet, the welcome sound of sirens, the comforting flashing of red, white, and blue lights all blurred together. Strong arms pulled me from the ruined car.

  “Are you all right?” Pete’s voice was ragged with emotion. “Jesus, Lee, don’t ever scare me like that again. When I went downstairs to look for you and saw that smashed door and the guard down . . .” His voice broke. He stopped speaking and just held me close for a long moment. I closed my eyes, pressing my face against his shoulder.

  I heard another voice nearby. “You have the right to remain silent when questioned. Anything you say or do may be held against you. . . .”

  I opened my eyes. “Is . . . is he still alive, Pete?”

  “Yeah. The son of a bitch isn’t in too good shape, but he’s still breathing.” Pete’s voice was harsh. “He’ll be well enough to stand trial. What the hell hit him? Did you see it? Could you tell where it went?”

  “No. Too dark,” I lied.

  I’d seen what hit him. I’d seen it plainly, in clear detail. Sammy Trout had been run down by a bright yellow 1986 Corvette Stingray. I couldn’t tell where it went, though. It had faded away into the night sky, growing smaller and fainter, until it disappeared.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Pete, how did you find me? How did you know where we’d come out of the tunnel?”

  “Wilson’s map,” he said. “It was still in his briefcase. We figured Sammy would come here or to the exit across the street. We had that staked ou
t, too.”

  “You knew about that exit?” I was surprised.

  “Not until we got the map. Then it was easy.” He took my hands in his and rubbed them. “You must be freezing. Come on. I’ll take you home now. Your aunt is worried sick about you—and O’Ryan.”

  “O’Ryan! Oh, Pete, he was in there with me. Have you seen him?”

  “Sure have.” He pointed toward the street. “He’s right over there, sound asleep in my car, with the heater and the radio running. Did you know he likes country music?”

  An ambulance drove off, taking Sammy to the hospital, in the company of a couple of armed police officers, as Pete and I joined O’Ryan in the Crown Vic. Then Pete drove us home to Winter Street.

  “I have to ask you a few questions about tonight, you know.” We parked in front of the house and Pete looked over at me, taking in my mud-spattered clothes and bedraggled hair.

  “Can the questions wait until I have a nice long hot shower?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “And O’Ryan could use a bath, too.”

  We hurried up the steps and Aunt Ibby met us in the front hall, teary eyed but smiling. “Maralee, oh, my dear child. I’ve been so worried.”

  “I’ll be fine as soon as I get cleaned up.” I handed her the cat. “Do you think O’Ryan will let you give him a bath? He needs one, too.”

  “I think he will.” She stroked O’Ryan’s matted coat. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I promised.

  “All right then,” she said. “Come on, boy.”

  She carried him toward the kitchen, while Pete ran a hand through my messed-up hair. “You look cute even when you’ve been through hell.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” I said. “Pete, want to answer a couple of questions for me before I go upstairs?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about the security guard at the Tabby? Is he . . . dead?”

  “No. He’ll make it. Gonna have a sore throat for a while, but at least we’ll get Trout for attempted murder.”

  “You can get him for Jonathan Wilson’s murder, too,” I said. “He admitted it to me. Thom didn’t do it.”

  “Thanks, Lee.” He wiped a smudge from the tip of my nose. “I’ll wait right here and take your statement as soon as you feel up to it.”

  “You go help with the cat bath, put on a big pot of coffee, and I’ll be ready to tell you all about it.”

  Well, everything except the part about the ghost woman, my time-travel trip through the old tunnel, and the yellow Corvette.

  “Take your time.” His kiss was gentle.

  The hot shower and the much-needed shampoo felt great. Then, dressed in my good old comfy gray sweats, I went downstairs, restored, and with a few more questions of my own.

  Aunt, clean cat, and Pete with his notebook awaited me in the kitchen, the promised coffee percolating. I joined them at the table. O’Ryan, his coat still damp, climbed into my lap.

  “Aunt Ibby,” I said. “First of all, how did you get home? I know you didn’t drive the Corvette.”

  “I thought about it, but no,” she admitted. “Rupert brought me home. And he told me about what happened to that poor guard.”

  “And, Pete, how did you get the witches and the guests out of the building after the show? The main floor must have been crawling with police.”

  “Actually, Pennington figured it out,” he said. “When the show was over, we stopped all the activity for a while, and he shut off all the lights on the first and second floors. He told everybody there was a problem with the elevator, had them get off at the mezzanine level, and let them out the side door next to your classroom.”

  Aunt Ibby beamed. “Brilliant. Don’t you think so?”

  “Brilliant,” I agreed. “Okay, Pete. Questions?”

  “Quite a few,” he said. “This is just informal, you know. You’re not under oath or anything. Just remember the best you can. Take me from the time the cat ran away.”

  I began with how I’d chased O’Ryan down the spiral staircase. I told him about seeing Sammy and almost calling out his name before I saw the rope in his hands. Aunt Ibby paled and closed her eyes when I described what Sammy had done to the guard.

  “Oh, my dear. Oh, good heavens, Maralee.”

  “Go on,” Pete said.

  I told them about going into Mr. Pennington’s office and stabbing Sammy’s leg with the silver letter opener, and about how I’d run to the basement, trying to get away from him.

  “Thanks for telling me about the bannister, Aunt Ibby,” I said. “I used it, and it sure saved me some needed seconds—and any other time it would have been fun.”

  “I’m glad if I helped you even a tiny bit, Maralee.” She smiled and poured me another cup of coffee. “But how ever did you find your way across town in that tunnel? You’d never been down there before.”

  Good question.

  “I followed the lights along the walls as far as they went,” I said. That was true. No need to tell them that the lights I’d followed had probably been lit nearly a century ago and were not the ones the police had strung up last week. “Then, when Sammy caught up with me, he had a flashlight. And a gun.” True again. “He knew his way through the tunnel. I just went where he told me to.”

  Pete nodded and wrote in his notebook. “Tell me exactly what Sammy said about killing Wilson.”

  “He said that he shoved the hedge clippers into Mr. Wilson’s throat,” I said, “and that the blood splashed on his jacket.”

  I heard Aunt Ibby gasp.

  Pete continued. “Did he tell you why he did that?”

  “Mr. Wilson recognized him. From the class. He knew he wouldn’t get away with just grabbing the cocaine and running.”

  “So Trout was after the cocaine in the coffee can?”

  “Yes. That was the second can. He took one out after he killed Mr. Wilson. He said he hid it along with his bloody jacket. Wilson’s coat, too.”

  He nodded. “Yep. We found all that in the shelter across the street from Greene’s. Did he tell you how he knew the cocaine was there?”

  “He heard about it in jail. From a cell mate. Benny Gable.”

  Aunt Ibby sat up straight. I knew she’d recognized the captain’s name.

  “Got it,” Pete said. “We know about Gable. How did you get away from Sammy? He had a gun on you.”

  I told him about O’Ryan jumping on Sammy’s head and giving me time to open the door into the bomb shelter. “You know the rest,” I said.

  He closed the notebook. “That’s enough for right now. Chief’s going to have questions for you later, though, I’m sure.”

  “Will you have enough evidence to let Thom go? Sammy said he had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “It’s plain that he didn’t kill Wilson,” Pete said, “but there’s still the matter of moving a dead body. Joe has to answer for that, too, along with that blasting in the tunnel he did. Moving a body without a medical examiner’s permission is a felony.”

  “They’ve admitted to it?”

  “Thom and Joe both swear that they didn’t know Bill was dead. Joe was in the tunnel and heard him fall. He says he tried to revive him by pouring some whiskey down his throat, and to warm him up by putting a jacket on him. Joe knew he had no business being down in the tunnel himself, but he couldn’t leave Bill there. So he woke Thom up and promised to give him a gold coin worth more than a thousand dollars if he’d help move Bill to the park. And keep quiet about it.”

  “Thom wanted the money,” I said. “So they pretended to be drunk and carried him down the street, right?”

  “Singing Christmas carols, in case anyone saw them,” Pete said. “But it’s still a felony.”

  “The coin Joe gave him must have been the marked one Friedrich found at the coin show. Did Joe tell you where he got it?”

  “He said his grandmother gave him a whole box of them before she died, along with the deed to his house,” he said.

  �
��Did he make the nine-one-one call so Bill would be found?”

  “That was Thom.” Pete stood up. “You get some rest now, Lee. You, too, Miss Russell. I’ll call you later.”

  I went to the door and let him out. Another gentle kiss, and he was gone. I went back to the kitchen. Neither my aunt nor I was ready for bed yet. I poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat down, facing her.

  “Now, tell me all about the show. Did Tabitha’s ghost ever show up?”

  “Yes and no,” she said. “The ceremony itself was interesting, and River did kind of a play-by-play of what was going on. We saw the witches cast a magic circle and do some incantations using the things on the altar. One of them drew a huge pentagram in a circle on the floor with blue glitter. That might have been just for effect, but it looked grand on the television.”

  “But did you ever actually see Tabitha?”

  “I think she was there, Maralee. While the witches did their spells and incantations and such, the television cameras moved around, showing the whole apartment, room by room. They played somber music in the background—Toccata in B-flat Minor, I believe. Quite effective.” She leaned forward with her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Anyway, River talked about orbs and spirit manifestations just about everywhere in the place, but I didn’t actually see anything until the camera showed Tabitha’s room.”

  “The chair was rocking,” I said. “I saw it, too.”

  “The chair? That was the least of it. Didn’t you hear the piano playing ‘Sentimental Journey’?” Her eyes widened. “And did you see the picture of President Roosevelt fly off the wall and land upside down on Tabitha’s bed?”

  “Afraid I missed all that,” I said. “Did everybody see the same thing?”

  “Uh-huh. They did. Your friend Duke says it was just a TV trick, but Therese thought it was real. Kelly covered her eyes and refused to look, and Primrose didn’t say anything. The clergyman started to pray, and the camera cut away from the scene, and they ran a commercial, even though they’d promised there wouldn’t be any.” She took a deep breath. “What do you think? Was it real?”