Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  “Why in a cemetery of course. Everything is on record so I suggest that you check at the town hall.”

  “When is your husband coming back? And who was that driving him? He looked familiar, perhaps I know him.”

  She inhaled deeply and shook her head. “He won’t be back until Thanksgiving. He is… that is, they, are visiting friends in Massachusetts. As for who is driving T. William, that is none of your business. I want you to leave, now, and if you come back again, I shall call the police.”

  I’d make a poor detective, I didn’t know what to say next. A good detective would ask appropriate questions, weight answers and nab her with inconsistencies. Me, I didn’t have a clue what to say next. Under her unwavering gaze the silence lengthened. Finally I took a deep breath and blurted out, “I know Frank Jankey isn’t in the grave he’s supposed to be in, all you and T. William buried there were bags of dirt. And I know Charles Watson came here the day he disappeared and that he was carrying at least fifty Canadian Maple Leafs. I think you and T. William killed him for those coins and that it’s possible that Jankey saw something, or somehow suspected that you people killed Watson, and you or someone you know hunted him down. Now, you are found out and it’s obvious you’re up to your neck in this, so why not tell me about it?”

  A temple artery just in front of her hair line throbbed in cadence with her heartbeat. She stared at me a moment, gave a small shudder, backed up two steps and said softly, “I think I would like a glass of wine, will you join me, please?”

  “What about my sickly animal?”

  “I will make an exception.”

  I nodded and said, “Then a glass of wine would be nice, it’ll take some of the bite off our talk.”

  She gave me a tight smile, nodded, and walked stiffly across the room and through a sliding door. With one hand resting on Cat’s small body, I leaned against the wall and permitted myself a smile. It was over. We, or I, had done it. Priscilla was going to be surprised. Ten thousand dollars, a nice bit of change to supplement my Social Security. Actually, it’s only five thousand since I promised Priscilla half, but still, a nice bit of change.

  Dorthea Chapman marched back into the room and pointed a small pistol at my head. “You will walk slowly through the door at the end of the hall and go down the ramp. If you make any untoward moves or attempt to run, I will empty this pistol into your head. And you will keep that filthy little animal in that wrap on your chest. If you let it go I will shoot it.”

  Stainless steel. Gray. No back sight. A tiny spot of bright metal for a front sight. Small muzzle. 22, I thought, probably 22 long rifle. High velocity probably. Her extended hand was a dead thing, as still as the chapel silence. “Move now,” she whispered, “Or I will kill you here.”

  “Wwhat the hell is this?” No force in that, I stammered.

  “Now, or die here.” Her finger tightened around the trigger.

  I moved.

  I shuffled to the door at the end of the room. On the left wall, head high, was a picture of Dorthea and T. William. They were standing beside something, I couldn’t tell what, with their arms around each other. They were smiling.

  When I reached the hall door I would sprint. That would give me three or four seconds over the bitch.

  “Stop.” She commanded.

  I stopped.

  “Now, through the door and down the ramp.” Her voice was much closer, no three or four seconds, no time at all. The rubber treaded ramp led down into a large basement room. Straight ahead, across the cement floor, was another ramp that led up to the back where someone had left with T. William. Good old T. William. I wonder what the T stands for?

  The basement resembled an operating room. To the left, a stainless steel table waited. The top of a small table next to it held trays laden with tools that looked like they belonged in a butcher shop.

  Two stainless steel pails were tucked in a recess under the table. No need for sterile technique here. On a stand near the tables was a large steel bowl.

  I had to do something. I had to act and I had to act now! Or in scant seconds I’d be laid out on that table and Dorthea will be working on me with those terrible instruments.

  Okay. I’ll turn and start talking. Distract the bitch, throw the bowl at her and grab the gun. She’s an old woman for god’s sake.

  I turned sideways and looked at her. “Mrs. Chapman, this is not… ”

  She was smiling, smiling like a loving mother looking at the child in her arms. “Silly fool,” she hissed.

  The world exploded.

  I slammed onto the table and slid off, leaving a misty splash of blood on the gleaming steel. I hit the floor on my right side, frantically tried to push myself up, slipped in my blood and flopped back down. I twisted and thrashed against the base of the table, jerking my head back and forth in a frantic attempt to avoid another bullet.

  Yelling. Screaming. More shots. I curled up and tried to cover my head with my hands, knowing it was futile, knowing she was going to shoot me again. Terror spun my mind into a black, roaring abyss. I flopped about on the blood slicked floor while flailing the air above me, trying to stop that fatal shot… my coup de grace. Steel hands jerked me up and rolled me onto my back. I could hear myself screaming. I flung my hands at the shadow above me, trying to grab the gun or her hands. Iron claws gripped my wrists and pushed me down. “Harry! Harry it’s Priscilla. Lay back down and don’t move.”

  “I’m shot! In the head! I’m shot and I’m dying.”

  I felt her lips on my ear. “Harry! Be still. Youarenotgoingtodie! Lay still and let me take care of it.” I concentrated, focused, and managed to stop thrashing around. “Okay Harry, now just take it easy and let me do this.” Something cold covered my eyes. I lay still, felt her probe and push. She patted my cheek, left, returned, and probed some more. “Harry, you are one lucky duck, all kinds of medical shit here. I bet you’re the first live dude it’s been used on.”

  I reached up through the dark haze, grabbed her neck and pulled her close. My voice was a foreign thing, something I’d never heard before. “Where is she?”

  Priscilla gently pried my hand off her neck and pushed me back down. “Easy Harry, she’s tied to a pillar about ten feet away and she’s not a happy camper. Listen, I’m gonna pull this together a bit and it’s gonna hurt because I don’t have anything to numb it up with, so tough it out, okay?”

  And that foreign voice said, “Head. I’m shot in the head.”

  “Harry, get a grip, the bullet didn’t go into your brain. She shot you in the forehead, right side, just above your eye. Gouged out some flesh and tore up some muscle and smashed a lot of little veins and maybe grazed your skull. But it missed all the good stuff and in a week or so you’ll have the start of a nice scar.” Again I felt her lips against my ear. “You’re gonna be all right, Harry.”

  The relief was overwhelming. No bullets in my brain. I relaxed a little. It stung like hell when she dumped some liquid in the wound and it hurt when she bandaged it up but I didn’t care, I wasn’t dying.

  She removed the towel from my eyes and pulled me to a sitting position. “Okay, Harry, you’re gonna feel pain and you’re going to have a world class headache, but it’s all right, it really is… asshole.”

  “Cat. Where’s Cat?”

  “Take it easy, Hairball is over by the water heater, licking your blood off her fur.”

  She pulled me to my feet. The lady had a grip of steel. I stood and swayed back and forth like a town drunk. A large smear of blood colored the stainless table. The floor under the table was painted with it. My clothes were wet and my hands were red with the stuff. A few feet away, Cat was causally licking it off her fur. She looked at me, meowed and went back to her cleaning.

  I turned, and was eye to eye with Dorthea. Her eyes were black orbs tinged in pink. I ran trembling fingers over the bandage that Priscilla had taped over the wound. It hurt, like jolts of electricity whipping through my head. And it throbbed, like an erratic heartb
eat. With effort I looked away from Dorthea and said to Priscilla, “Someone came by and drove off with T. William. Dorthea said they’d be gone until Thanksgiving day, but I don’t know.”

  She reached up and fussed with the bandage. “It’s probably true. I mean, she knew she was gonna kill you, so why lie?” She shook her head and made a face at me. “You asshole, I was way late getting back to Gretchen’s, so you decided to come over here, and you saw someone take off with T. William and figured you’d come in and grill the harmless old lady, right?”

  I leaned against a steel cabinet, glanced at the harmless old lady and said, “I thought you decided to pump iron. What harm could it do?” I gently pushed in on the bandage to ease the throbbing and the pain and felt things squish around in my forehead. I quickly removed my hand and gave a shuddering sigh. “I never felt the bullet, didn’t even hear the shot. I knew, knew that she’d killed me. My God, the terror of it. Where did you come from?”

  “Where did I come from? Harry, you got lucky, very fucking lucky. I had to talk to a woman and she asked every question in the world and fondled every piece of iron we had. I finally got her signed up, then talked to Tony about a raise, which I got by the way, and went back to Gretchen’s. You were gone and I had a hunch you’d gotten antsy and decided to talk to the Chapmans by yourself, so I pedaled over here and spotted your bike on the porch. And when I opened the door and didn’t see you, I jumped over the mat and was sneaking down the hall when I heard the shot.”

  She looked at me and shook her head, “Harry, you just don’t know. I heard that shot and turned into superwoman. When I came through the door it was like slow motion. You were sliding off that table, spraying blood everywhere, and she was aiming, lining up another head shot. I screamed, and I flew, I mean flew down that ramp.

  “She’s good, popped off two more rounds before I grabbed her ass.” We turned and looked at her. She was on her knees, hunched over, yellow teeth bared, gnawing like a demented rat at the black silk scarf that bound her to the pole. When I pointed at her my hand trembled badly.

  Priscilla said, “No way, after the M.P.’s I know how to secure people.”

  I straightened, which caused waves of pain to thrash around in my head. I Put both hands against the bandage and pressed in until the pain eased. When I felt I could function I nodded at Dorthea and said, “Let’s have a chat with my would be assassin, perhaps we can find out a few things, like where the special place is. Then we have to call the police.”

  I stared at Dorthea and she stared back. Her eyes were expressionless, but her face was a bright pink and the pulse in her temple was hammering away, so we were definitely bothering her. She gave me a smile rimmed with hate and her words fluttered out in a low hiss. “If you think you are going to put me away you are very wrong. Timothy will see to it that it is you who are put away. You are tramps, vermin who wander the streets and drink in the town park. I-I am a moneyed, respected citizen of this town and if-if you vermin think that… ”

  Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes bulged. Her face melted. She fell against her tied wrists and sank to the floor. Priscilla dropped with her, whipped the scarf from her wrists and laid her on the floor. “Shit,” Priscilla shouted, “She stroking out!”

  I knelt beside her. Priscilla shook her head. “A goddamn stroke, a big one, I don’t think… ”

  Dorthea gurgled. Her eyes were huge and the left side of her face hung like a flap. She went into spasm for maybe five seconds, belched, farted, and went limp. Priscilla gave me a lipless smile and said, “It’s a hell of a day we’re having Harry, what’s next? Hairball has kittens?”

  I sighed, and with my hands on my knees, I slowly pushed myself upright. Priscilla stood up and leaned against the pole and sighed. A small part of me noted that I felt surprisingly calm and detached from the dead thing on the floor. I glanced over at the steel table and stared at the swath of blood. Priscilla certainly put it in perspective, as things were indeed going to hell in a hand basket. I rubbed my face, pushed in on my eyes and said, “Going to the police would be more than a little dicey now. How about we carry her to her bed. She died in her sleep, a natural enough death for someone with a history of strokes.”

  Leaning against the pillar with her arms folded, Priscilla stared down at the body. I wondered if Dorthea ever thought about dying, if she ever thought about ending up in her own butcher shop. Priscilla raised her head and gave me a flat look that sent a small tremor down my spine. She smiled a stone smile, reached out, stroked my cheek and whispered, “Sounds like a plan.”

  … . .

  PRISCILLA WASHED THE BLOOD OFF THE table and floor with a hose hooked into a big water heater. A thin mist rose from the floor as she guided my blood to a floor drain. “Take off your shoes, the sling, and your jacket,” she said.

  I struggled out of the shoes and laid them by the drain. Then I took off the sling and blood wet sweatjacket and slung it over my arm. Like I was a horse, Priscilla lifted one leg at a time and carefully washed my feet. I watched my blood thin out and flow into the drain. When I washed my hands under the hose the water was very hot and I relished the feel of it, loved the pain of being alive. When my blood was cleaned off everything we looked at Cat. She was still trying to clean herself and not doing a very good a job of it. Perhaps she didn’t care for the taste of my blood.

  Priscilla watched her for a moment, then lifted her off the floor, put her on the stainless table and gently washed her. Cat struggled and yowled, gave forth with pathetic little hisses, and took serious swipes at Priscilla’s nose, but she prevailed, and when she was through Cat looked like a starved rat just pulled from the river. She put the sling around my neck and eased Cat into it. Her face blank, she stared at us for a time and said, “I gotta say, you two look about as poor a pair as I’ve seen in a long time.”

  She coiled the hose neatly by the water heater, came back and held out her fist. I opened my hand and she dropped a bullet in my palm. It was small, with a flattened tip and faint rifling marks around the back. “You may want to frame it and hang it on your wall. You’re lucky Dorthea didn’t go in for hollow points, you’d have a hole the size of Cleveland in your forehead.”

  I dropped the bullet into my pants pocket, then reached up and rubbed the bandage. My head throbbed like an out of sync engine and the pain flared in spikes, like lightning flashes. But I could handle it.

  I was alive.

  Priscilla squatted, grabbed Dorthea by her upper arms, pulled and stood up. With the body slung over her shoulder she quick stepped up the ramp. In the middle of the house we found a wide curving stairway, complete with an electric stair lift. I followed Priscilla as she trudged up the stairs with Dorthea. With Her head and arms flopping about like a tormented puppet, Dorthea looked huge and impossibly heavy draped over Priscilla’s small body.

  We traipsed down a narrow hall and past two luxurious bedrooms, one in white and pale pink, the other in blue and oak. In the front of the house we found a living room. Priscilla bent and dumped Dorthea into a white wing chair imprinted with small red and pink flowers. She tapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “Don’t move,” and scurried away.

  Dorthea’s carefully coffered hair was coming undone. Silver strands hung over her eyes and drool wet the top of her silk dress. Her sagging flesh looked waxy and gray. I moved very close, leaned down and whispered in her dead ear, “Silly fool.”

  Priscilla came back into the room and handed me a pair of surgical gloves. “Put these on. I’m going to bring in the bikes, then start wiping down everything we might have handled or touched.” Cocking her head to one side she looked up at me, touched my cheek and said, “How’s the head?”

  “It hurts like hell, but I’m so glad not to be dead that it’s a small thing.”

  “Good. There’s a lot of fluid leaking from the damaged tissue and veins, and there’s gotta be some nerve damage, so it’s gonna smart for a while. I’ll change the bandage in a bit, maybe put a drain in. What I th
ink is, we should stick it out here until after dark, at least until nine, nine thirty, and then head back to the boat. We don’t dare do the road with you looking like that, all it’d take is one curious bozo or a cop and we have serious problems, so we’ll take one of those trails you told me about.”

  “That’s seven miles of woods, in the dark, why don’t we go to Eva’s?”

  “No way, Harry, no way at all are we going to get Eva involved in this. I know Frank was her husband and all that, but what with dying and all, she’s got enough problems without something like this to think about. This thing would send her over the edge, so it’s high ho, high ho, through the woods we go.” She grinned at me, shrugged and said, “Hey, we’ll do it. You’ll rest and recover for two or three days, then we’ll get back to it. In a way this was a breakthrough. We now know three of the bad guys and if Dorthea was telling the truth, the forth one, the one she called Timothy, will be back on turkey day with T. William.”

  “I wonder if T. William will be cognizant enough to realize that his true love has departed to the promised land.”

  “In a dim way, perhaps. It depends on to what degree his dementia has progressed.”

  “To what degree his dementia has progressed? What? You ate a page from a dictionary this morning?”

  She smiled and said, “I think you’re gonna live, Harry.”

  “I held up a gloved hand and pointed downward. “I have to find some aspirin, and then I think I’ll muck about downstairs.”

  “Don’t make a mess or bleed on anything. Double check your high tops before you put them on and don’t move anything, it’s got to be like we were never here. And don’t let Hairball out of the sling, if someone finds a Tootsie Roll on the rug the game’s over.”

  At the living room door we turned and looked back at Dorthea. Slumped in the chair, head down, silver hair draped over her face, she looked like an old woman at rest. Priscilla went back, put an open issue of People magazine on her chest and let it fall. It landed on the floor by her feet, cover up, pages fanned.