Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  My lungs were burning and my legs crying out by the time I made it there. A small storefront establishment with a plate glass window, the place was dark and appeared deserted. I yanked at the front door, but it was locked. Banging against the glass, I shouted for someone to open.

  Nothing.

  I cupped my eyes and peered in through the door. There was a lamp burning at the very back of the place, but I could detect no movement whatsoever. I knew that the historical society probably looked exactly like this when I’d been tied up in back, so the quiet didn’t fool me. They had to be here.

  I backed up, looking at the building from every angle, searching for another way in. I was about to run around the block to the alley to find the back entrance when the front door jangled open.

  “What do you want?”

  The fifty-something man at the door wore a rumpled shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and a furious look on his face. His collar was open, his tie askew.

  “I’m calling the police. Get out of here.” He shoved at the air, in emphasis. “Are you drunk?”

  “Please, call the police. Where’s Joyce?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Joyce Swedburg? Where is she?”

  “She left. About five minutes ago.”

  “She’s in trouble. Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Was she alone?”

  But he’d slammed the door.

  I banged on the glass again, shouting, “Call the police. Call them.”

  Inside the office the man stared out at me, his index finger swirling near his temple, as he mouthed, “You’re crazy.”

  I stepped away from the building. I ran my hands up the sides of my head, into my hair. Wes had lied again when he’d said he was meeting her here. Where could they be?

  And then the answer hit me so hard I staggered. Wes had pronounced Keay’s killing being poetic justice. Why? Because it had happened at the clock fund-raiser. Because Wes and his wife had been promised all the time in the world. Because they’d taken that photo of themselves under the Promise Clock.

  My gut had comprehended even as my brain caught up, and I realized I was already running.

  There was only one place Wes would take them.

  Chapter 33

  If I had chosen to run and call for help when I’d first burst from the historical society, the police would be on their way to Joyce’s office, rather than the clock, right now. By the time we would have discovered that Wes wasn’t there, it would have been too late for Bennett. I’d followed my gut, rather than standard logic, and it had been the right choice. I was depending on my gut again as I raced through town, knowing clearly that if there was any chance of saving him, it was up to me.

  It might still be too late now, but I fought to banish that thought. Had something happened to Bennett, I was sure I would have felt a shift in the universe. I would know.

  I believed he was still alive. He had to be.

  By now, at least twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d broken free of my restraints. With nothing in my mind beyond reaching them before Wes had the chance to carry out his plans, I ran, arms pumping, lungs screaming for air.

  I bellowed as I ran, “Call the police. Send them to the clock!”

  The streets down this part of town weren’t touristy. Weren’t busy at night. No one saw me. No one heard me.

  I ran down the middle of the street, hearing the blood pump in my ears with a reassuring thud, thud, thud that matched my steps as my feet hit the pavement, faster than I’d ever run in my life before.

  After what couldn’t have been more than two miles, but felt like ten, I made the turn that brought me face-to-face with the deserted stretch of town. The Promise Clock sat in lonely gloom, high above the barren street. Tonight’s clear sky had grown overcast, and what little moon there was played hide-and-seek behind high clouds.

  I scanned the area. Scaffolding supported the crumbling arch; traffic cones warned against potholes in the middle of the road. I skirted around piles of fresh-cut lumber and navigated past bags of concrete mix. A stack of construction horses, blinking their incessant orange warnings, leaned against a nearby wall. Supplies were piled about, giving me ample room to hide and time to consider my next move.

  My breaths came out ragged and ridiculously loud. I sounded like a person who’d been held underwater and who’d finally come up, gasping desperately for air. I tried closing my mouth in order to hear better. I struggled to listen for noises, to figure out where they might be, but my body fought me, dragging in breath after heaving breath.

  I held a hand against the cool brick of a nearby wall, bending at the waist, laboring to quiet myself. A sudden sinking feeling made me weak at the knees. What if I was wrong? Tragically wrong?

  But he’d said it was poetic justice. For his wife.

  They had to be here.

  I stayed close to the walls of the silent buildings. Still about a block down from the archway, I couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them. It was too dark.

  Keeping to the shadows, I crept forward, trying to hear conversation over my irregular, heavy breathing, trying to see movement that was out of place. I had no doubt that Wes would take the time to let Joyce know precisely why he’d brought her here. He was a methodical man, a patient man. He wouldn’t squander this opportunity to tell Joyce exactly what sins she was about to pay for.

  That could buy me time. Or so I hoped.

  Keeping my back to the sturdy walls, I walked my fingertips along the bricks and ducked into a deserted doorway to stop and watch.

  My breathing began to even out; my lungs took pity on me and didn’t force me to suck great pulls of air every second. I worked to steady myself further.

  Please, I begged silently. Not Bennett. I didn’t want Joyce to die, but if Bennett were hurt, it would kill me.

  I spotted another open doorway ahead. Holing up there would bring me within about a hundred feet of the archway. Keeping low, I made my way over, ducking in and crouching, scanning the street, the arch, the scaffolding beneath the clock, the street—

  My gaze shot back to the scaffolding. My heart jumped into my throat.

  I hadn’t seen them at first because Joyce and Bennett were seated on the street itself, bound tightly to the metal pipes of the two story scaffolding, shaded from the pale moonlight by the clock’s arch. Their hands were duct-taped, their mouths covered. They didn’t struggle against their bonds because Wes stood before them, talking, gun in hand.

  He had his back to me as he paced back and forth, addressing his captives. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I noticed how he kept looking up at the clock, as though checking, double-checking, then triple-checking, the time.

  The clock’s hour hand pointed between the ten and eleven, the minute hand directly to the nine: 10:45. Was he waiting for the clock to chime eleven before shooting them? To muffle the sound of gunshots?

  And in one panicked heartbeat I got it. I knew why Wes had said he was sorry. Why killing Bennett couldn’t be helped. I knew what had been in the leather bag that Wes had carried away—the bag he no longer carried. I knew exactly what he planned to do.

  Wes had had a third victim in mind all along.

  He wouldn’t be satisfied until the Promise Clock had been destroyed, too.

  My hands flew to my mouth to keep myself from yelping. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up in my mind the photo of Wes and his wife. What time had been on the clock that day? What time was it in that picture?

  Wes’s head tilted again. Another glance at the time. While I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, I could make out his cadence. His pace had picked up.

  Wes outweighed me and I had no doubt he was stronger. Tackling him unarmed, even with the element of surprise on my side, would be suicide. Worse,
it would accomplish nothing.

  I took a quick assessment of my surroundings. A construction zone meant that there had to be heavy objects around me. Kneeling on the ground, keeping my attention on Wes, I crawled forward toward a pile of detritus, desperate for anything I could use as a weapon.

  My fingers gripped a brick. Not the kind with holes, used to build homes in subdivisions, more like a landscaping brick used to erect retaining walls. Wider at one end than the other, it was thick and solid, too big for my small hand. But, I hoped, heavy enough to do the job.

  With the clock ticking—literally—I hoisted the brick to one side, tight atop my shoulder. Holding on to it with both hands, I ran at Wes as swiftly and silently as I could.

  Joyce or Bennett must have reacted to my presence, or maybe Wes heard my approach. He spun at the last second, turning the gun on me.

  He wasn’t fast enough. I rammed the brick at him the very same second the gun discharged. I didn’t hear the brick thunk into his head, but I felt the solid connection. Hot fluid—blood—poured out around me. Whether it was from the gash on his head or the hot burn along the side of mine, I didn’t know.

  He and I toppled to the ground and his head suffered another blow, cracking against the cobblestone street. He lost his grip on the gun—I watched it somersault away. Wes’s eyes clenched in manic pain. His arms went limp. His mouth went slack. His eyes opened, then grew wide and wet. Tears flowed from their far corners, tracing down his upturned face.

  “How long?” I shouted, as I scrambled to my feet.

  He closed his teeth, grimacing as he tried to get up. By the time he answered, “You’re too late,” I had kicked the gun out of his reach and was running to Bennett’s side. “Duct tape stretches,” I screamed.

  My brain mocked me: Those are lame last words. You’d better hurry.

  Joyce had managed to work her mouth around the duct tape and was now screaming for help. I struggled to loosen Bennett’s restraints. He’d worked his lips around the sticky tape, too. “Get Joyce first.”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  Above the din of Joyce screaming, the moans coming from Wes five feet away, and the searing, heavy thrum of my racing heart, I heard the clock above us step forward another minute.

  “Go, Grace. Get out of here,” Bennett said. “There’s no time.”

  I’d released one of his hands and he reached over to help me undo the other.

  “Less than a minute left,” he said. “Go, Gracie. Please.”

  “Not without you.” My fingers were wet—sweat, blood—who could tell? I lost the tape’s free end. It doubled back on itself, sticking tight. I didn’t have time to play with it, to work the end free again. I bent down and used my teeth to gash the tape. Too thick, but it budged. Blinking blood out of my eyes, I grabbed hold with my teeth again and ripped at the tape, rewarded for my efforts as the fabric split apart.

  The moment Bennett was free, we both attacked the tape holding Joyce. In total freak-out mode, she shouted, screaming about crazies, and bombs, and how she couldn’t die. All the while I maintained a silent countdown in my brain. We had thirty seconds left. Maybe. She thrust and bucked and fought as we tried to get her loose.

  “You’re not helping,” I shouted at her.

  “Stand back, Gracie.”

  Bennett had pulled out his pocketknife. He reached in and sliced it across the tape, slashing the binding in two. I pulled one end, he the other, and as Joyce was freed, she tumbled sideways to her knees then wobbled to her feet and began an ungainly run down the way I’d come. Bennett and I got to our feet and rushed to follow.

  She glanced back, which caused her to stumble and fall, the way lithe young women in horror movies always do. Bennett and I grabbed her. Joyce was neither lithe nor young, but we hauled her as far from the clock’s vicinity as we could, dropping her unceremoniously near the bags of concrete mix. Ten seconds left, I guessed. Maybe.

  Bennett grabbed Joyce’s arm and half pulled, half dragged her over the mound of concrete mix bags, as I turned to go back.

  “Gracie,” Bennett called to stop me, but I’d already started away.

  Wes had gotten to his knees. Crawling, he made his way toward the scaffolding beneath the clock. I knew we had mere seconds left. “Wes,” I called. “Turn around.”

  He looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

  I drew on every ounce of energy I possessed, running toward him, convinced I could drag him from the clock.

  I hadn’t gotten far when I was lifted, bodily, and carried away by two strong arms, one around my waist, the other snugged under my knees. “No,” I screamed, fighting. “No!” It was no use. Whoever had me, held my head tight against his chest. I heard his breaths coming hard as he ran, shifting my weight as he zigzagged, navigating a path to get away.

  My savior had run about ten steps when the blast hit. An explosion of sound, sensation, and heat shook the ground, knocking him to his knees, spilling me from his arms. He leaped forward, shielding me. I instinctively covered my head as the explosion shot pieces of scaffolding, plaster, bricks, and wood to rain down over us.

  I made myself small until the last of the debris skittered by. When it was quiet, I lifted my head, turning to see who it was who had protected me.

  “Tooney,” I said, grasping his arm. “Are you okay?”

  He struggled to his knees. “Yeah. You?”

  As he bent to help me up, I waved him away. “I’m all right,” I said. “Find Bennett.”

  Chapter 34

  Police spotlights rendered the streetscape bright as day, making the area look like the final scene from a blockbuster disaster movie. The authorities had arrived en masse, quickly taking over, quietly assuring us that they had the matter under control.

  I glanced up at where the clock had been, where two jagged, empty arms now reached for each other across a giant, gaping hole.

  Time had stopped, at least for the Promise Clock. Along with killing Keay, Wes had managed to carry out that part of his quest for vengeance.

  Bennett was fine. Except for having lost a shoe in the wreckage, and having the back of his suit singed from the heat of the blast, he’d managed to escape with a pair of sore wrists and bruised knees.

  The blood that had soaked my shirt and hair was beginning to dry. Parts were getting crusty. Some of that blood, we’d discovered, was mine. The single shot Wes had discharged had skimmed me, directly above the left ear. Had I been positioned one centimeter to my right, the bullet would have missed completely. One centimeter to my left? I preferred not to think about that.

  Bennett and I sat next to one another sideways on a low gurney, blankets wrapped around our shoulders, even though we weren’t cold. Someone had handed us each a water bottle, and it took a while before I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to grip it until my knuckles turned white—I was supposed to drink from it.

  Joyce had suffered scrapes, which had left her knees bloody. She screeched a lot and insisted on being taken into the hospital for observation. We were happy to see her go.

  I watched as she was carted away, her shrill complaints cleaving the night air, drowning out the hum of conversation. When the ambulance shut the back doors, silencing her nonstop wails, I turned to Bennett. “You went on a date with her?”

  His cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “I have no romantic interest in her, you know that, Gracie.”

  “Then why did you agree to it?”

  “Joyce and I have been colleagues for many years.” He took a long drink from his water bottle. “I surmised her intent, but a gentleman doesn’t act on romantic presumptions.” He eyed the bandages on the side of my head. “How are you feeling?”

  “You can’t change the subject.” I nudged him with an elbow. “What happened?”

  “Always curious, aren’t you?” He took another drink. “I decide
d that if she made an advance, I would be kind but clear in letting her know that I had no interest in changing the nature of our professional relationship.”

  “And did she?” I asked. “Make an advance?”

  “My goodness, Gracie.” He took a deep breath. “She did.”

  I twisted so I faced him fully. “And?”

  “When I told her we had no future together, she waved a hand in the air, quite dismissively. She told me it had been worth a try, and then invited me to join her to see what amazing artifacts Wes McIntyre had discovered at the Promise Clock.”

  “You didn’t think it was odd to be meeting him there so late?”

  He shrugged. “I did, but after having dispelled any romantic notions she may have harbored, I believed it would have been ungentlemanly to allow her to venture out on her own.”

  “Being a gentleman almost got you killed.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “One of the hazards of the job.”

  A second later I jumped to my feet. “Tooney!” I said when he came into view from around the front of the ambulance.

  After having assessed that none of his injuries were life-threatening, the paramedics had taken our favorite private eye away for closer examination of the cuts and bruises he’d sustained. His regular shirt was gone and he stood before us in sagging slacks and white undershirt. There were blood spatters all over him and a bloody handprint across his T-shirt’s chest. A wad of white bandaging encircled his neck like a clerical collar.

  “Oh my gosh, Tooney,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly fine. They want me to go in for a few stitches.” He pointed a thick finger. “Back of my neck got sliced up pretty good.” He turned and I saw that the paramedics had piled on the gauze. “That’ll hold for a while, but I’m taking their advice and going in. They insist on driving me. Said I might have lost too much blood to go on my own.”

  I reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you,” I said. “You saved me.”