A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “The DA strikes again.”

  9:52 P.M. Slowly, cautiously, Charles pushed open the small door that led from the utility rooms to the baronial entry hall. An inch at a time, he closed the door behind him, then stood motionless, listening. The mansion’s interior lighting was wired into small control consoles in every room, so that light levels could be adjusted to the occasion and to Edwin’s mood. Now, tonight, the lighting was dim, throwing the hallway into shadows so deep that men could crouch in the corners and beneath the curve of the central staircase, unseen. There was no sound.

  Unconsciously he’d drawn the revolver from his belt. Edwin’s revolver, a talisman. The revolver was Edwin’s property, an extension of the man, as had he been.

  Until now he’d been Edwin’s captive. Until a few hours ago, when he’d heard the mewling quaver in Edwin’s voice, and sensed the fear that had rotted through Edwin’s arrogance to the craven depths of Edwin’s soul.

  Leaving him the master now.

  From above, he heard the sound of soft, furtive movement: the scrape of a shoe on wood, nothing more. The sound had come from the staircase, curving above him. Quickly, soundlessly, he stepped into the shadows beneath the staircase.

  “Charles?”

  Edwin’s voice, from overhead.

  In the single word he could hear the same tremor he’d heard earlier, on the phone.

  Holding the revolver, he stepped out from the shadow into the dim light that suffused the entry hall. It was a celestial suffusion, that light. Price tag: thousands of dollars.

  Thousands for the downstairs lighting, thousands for the chamber, the center of it all. The center of himself, drawing him back.

  No, not the chamber.

  It was the money that compelled him. Edwin’s money, the essence of Edwin.

  Edwin’s money—Edwin’s tapes.

  One more step, one final step, and he saw the small, slight figure standing on the second-floor landing. Edwin Corwin, dressed to please his ancestors, the aging preppie.

  Signifying, beyond all doubt, that he’d gone over to the police. “Copped a plea” was the phrase. Made a deal.

  Holding the revolver at waist height, he began to ascend the staircase, one slow, deliberate step at a time. As he went up, he began to speak.

  “I came in through the side door, Edwin. I looked in the garage. Your Jaguar isn’t there.” A brief, silky pause. He was in control now. He could see it in Edwin’s face: the fear, confirming the surrender. Confirming, therefore, his control. Complete control. “You’re here. But the Jag isn’t.”

  “I—I can—”

  “You let them drive the Jaguar out there. They were waiting for me, at the museum. They knew exactly where to wait. They would’ve killed me out there. If I’d driven a car, they’d have killed me. Was that your arrangement? Your deal?”

  “They—they came here earlier. They knew everything. And they—they forced me to do it, give them the car.” Corwin’s voice was hoarse; his eyes followed the gun, helplessly fixated.

  “They didn’t force you to do it, Edwin.” They were standing on the broad, deep landing now, facing each other. “Don’t lie to me. Never, never lie to me.” He was satisfied with his voice: low, quiet, completely controlled. His gestures, too, were controlled, utterly responsive to his will. When he moved the gun, he saw the other man’s eyes follow the movement: snake’s eyes, hypnotized, following the movement of the flute.

  Snakes could strike; snakes could paralyze.

  Snakes could kill.

  “I’m going away, Edwin. You knew that. I told you that, on the phone.”

  “Y-yes. I—”

  “And I need money, to go away. I need a lot of money.”

  “I—I know. But I don’t have that much. I can’t—”

  “I’ll take what you have, and I’ll tell you where to send the rest, Edwin. And if you don’t send the money, then I promise I’ll send Hastings a letter. I’ll tell him what happened. I’ll tell him everything. I’ll tell him you killed her and hired me to dispose of the body. I’ll—”

  “But that’s not true. Th-this was like the last time. Tina. I gave her to you, unconscious. You killed her. You—”

  “I want money, Edwin. Money now, money later.” He let a beat pass. Then, the reason he’d come, risking it all: “And I want the tapes.” He spoke very softly.

  As if he couldn’t comprehend it, mouth pursed by sudden puzzlement, eyes helplessly blinking, still staring at the gun, Corwin said, “The tapes? But—”

  “They’re my insurance, Edwin.” Feeling the consummate control, the power, he spoke softly, intimately. “They make me as good as you, those tapes. They connect us.” A pause. “You can see that, can’t you? Tina Betts and Meredith Powell, they connect us.”

  “No—” Doggedly Corwin began to shake his head dumbly. “No. You—you can’t—”

  “We’re going upstairs, Edwin. We’re going to get the tapes. Then we’re going to—”

  “No.” It was a desperate monosyllable. “No.”

  “Oh, yes, Edwin.” Slowly, his ultimate performance, conceptual art conceptualized, his quintessential concept, he raised the revolver to eye level, watched his victim’s eyes enlarge, watched the mouth fall open, watched the throat constrict. All the clichés were coming into perfect alignment, in perfect balance, transcending the elements of the whole, his improvised masterpiece.

  “Oh, yes,” he repeated, still speaking very softly. “You had your turn. So now, you see, it’s my turn.”

  9:57 P.M. Amused, Hastings watched Friedman sitting on the wet concrete driveway, working at the garage-door lock. Friedman wore a regulation blue nylon foul-weather parka over his habitual ill-fitting three-piece suit. Plainly Friedman found both the work and the position beneath his status.

  But, moments later, the large double door began slowly, cautiously, rolling up as Friedman bent double to the task. As the door came up a light went on inside the garage. Without switching on the headlights, Hastings started the Jaguar’s engine and swung the big car into the middle of the street, lined up to enter the garage. As he came even with the garage door, Hastings lowered his window, saying softly “Did the door make much noise?”

  “I don’t think so,” Friedman answered softly. “You sure you want to go in alone? The training manuals don’t advise it, you know.”

  “I’m just going to listen, try to hear what they’re saying.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  9:58 P.M. At the door of the chamber, Corwin turned. His face was colorless, his eyes desperate. He spoke with great difficulty.

  “Those tapes are safe now. They’re hidden where they’ll never be found. If you take them, and if the police arrest you, then—” Startled, he broke off, listening, staring apprehensively toward the staircase and the floors below. “What was that?”

  In response, Charles smirked, raised the revolver. “That’s unworthy of you, Edwin. Really. What’ll you do, distract my attention, then wrestle the gun away? You’re old, Edwin—out of shape. Badly out of shape.”

  “But—” A pink tongue tip circled colorless, withered lips. “But I heard something. I really did. It—it could be the police. They could be watching the house.”

  “If the police were watching, I’d’ve seen them. They’d’ve stopped me, when I came in. It was a gamble, for me. But I want those tapes. I’ll be asking you for money, Edwin. Lots of money, as the years go by. And those tapes are my insurance.”

  Standing with his back pressed against the locked door to the chamber, Corwin shook his head. “N-no. I—I won’t give up the tapes. I’ll give you money. I’ve got about ten thousand, I think, in the house. I’ll give you that. But I won’t—”

  Charles raised the revolver, gently pressed the muzzle into the sagging flesh beneath the other man’s jaw. “Do you believe that I’ll shoot, Edwin?”

  “I—I can’t—”

  “You don’t think I’ll shoot, do you?” Charle
s spoke very softly. His obsidian eyes, black beneath the dark brows, were utterly empty. Against the pallor of his face, his mouth was prim. “Well—” He withdrew the muzzle from beneath Corwin’s chin, moved the revolver a foot from his victim, then brought the barrel crashing into Corwin’s left temple. Corwin sagged, opened his mouth wide. Quickly Charles clapped his left hand over Corwin’s mouth, banged Corwin’s head against the thick wood door. “Well, you’re right, Edwin. I won’t shoot. It would be senseless, to shoot you. But I know you, Edwin. I know you very well. You must remember, Edwin, that we’re connected, you and I. You understand that, don’t you?” Now his voice was mock-solicitous, as if he were gently prompting a favored student, hinting at the correct answer to a difficult problem. “We have caused two women to die, you and I. We did it to set ourselves apart, accomplish something utterly unique.” A short, reflective pause. Then: “When two people share something like that, there’re no secrets left. That’s how I know—” He raised the revolver again, for another blow. “That’s how I know that if I hit you again—draw blood again, watch it run down inside your lovely white collar, which you wore to impress the police—if I hit you again, I know it’ll destroy you, Edwin. Don’t you agree?”

  Eyes streaming, tears mingling with the blood, mouth gone wild, Corwin began to shake his head numbly. “No, Charles. Don’t. W-we can’t. We’ve got to—”

  As the blood-smeared blue steel of the gun barrel struck again, he screamed. Almost instantly the sound was smothered by Charles’s bloody hand.

  9:59 P.M. Gun in one hand, penlight held in his mouth, Hastings used his left hand to experimentally turn the knob of the door that opened off the utility room. As the door yielded, he heard a scream, instantly muffled. Reflexively he pulled the door open quickly, stepped into the large central hallway. Should he activate his walkie-talkie, request assistance? Should he leave the premises, join Friedman, then knock on the front door, demand entrance, citing the scream as their authority?

  Moving silently, he stepped into the deep shadow beneath the freestanding curve of the central staircase. Motionless, intently listening, he returned the penlight to his pocket, making sure the clip was engaged. He looked down at the walkie-talkie, secure in its holster at his belt. Should he switch the radio to TRANSMIT, then key the mike three times, signifying that Friedman must monitor his open radio, in case of emergency? Should he—

  Voices came from above. A frightened voice and a menacing voice.

  Corwin and Charles?

  Charles and Luis Raiz, the valet? Charles and a live-in bodyguard, exchanging threats?

  Were they armed?

  Armed and dangerous?

  Life-or-death questions. Make the right guess, and he would sleep in Ann’s arms tonight, secure.

  Make the wrong guess, and the ambulance would roll. The ambulance and the coroner’s wagon.

  Without fully realizing that he’d made the decision, he was moving out from the sheltering shadow of the staircase. Now he was at the bottommost step, his head raised, listening.

  And now, one slow, deliberate step at a time, he was ascending the stairs.

  10:03 P.M. As the door to the chamber swung inward, Charles jammed the revolver into the small of Corwin’s back, propelling the other man inside. The chamber was in semidarkness. On the low platform, props had been placed in the camera’s field: a sacrificial Mayan stone sculpture and an authentic medieval rack. Studded leather restraints and straps were artfully draped across the rack. Thrusting the revolver in his belt, Charles braced himself, laid violent hands on Corwin, threw the other man across the platform. Another heave, and Corwin sprawled spread-eagled on the rough oak rack.

  “The tapes, Edwin.” Slowly he drew back his hand. “You can’t stand pain. Remember?” Openhanded, with all his strength, he slapped Corwin’s face. The hand came away bloody. He wiped his palm deliberately on the gentleman’s tweed sports jacket. Then, holding Corwin with his left hand, a slack, sobbing dead weight, he used his right hand to take a long brass-studded black leather strap from the assortment draped over the rack, part of the composition. A quick, vicious turn of the strap around Corwin’s scrawny neck, a twist of the strap around the rack, and the picture was perfect: Edwin Corwin, bloodied, the wild-eyed actor in one of his own videos, the master forever the slave.

  With his face within inches of Corwin’s, he whispered, “Should I turn on the camera, Edwin? Would you like that?”

  10:05 P.M. At the head of the stairs, the only light came from a huge stained-glass window set into the mansion’s south wall. Hastings moved into the deep shadow of a massive newel post. He faced two hallways, both dark. From the hallway to his left came the sound of voices. Holding his revolver in his right hand, he dropped his left hand to the walkie-talkie holstered at his belt. He pressed the TRANSMIT button three times. He heard the white-sound cycle, followed by an answering three clear-air signals. Yes, Friedman was still there, still with him, on channel one. Without that assurance, that essential connection, he could not continue. Years ago, the go-go rookie, he might have eagerly sought this chance: the headlong hero, making his own luck.

  Now, in his forties, Ann came into his thoughts. Already he’d missed dinner. Midnight was the next time frame. At midnight she would turn out her bedside light and settle herself for sleep. Against her flesh, the silk of her nightgown would rustle.

  Outside, on surveillance, a dozen men waited, watched—wondered.

  Inside, to his left, the sound of the voices continued, softer now. But angrier, therefore more dangerous.

  10:06 P.M. The revolver forgotten, thrust in his belt beneath the housebreaker’s dark-blue jacket, Charles used both hands to draw the leather strap tighter. With their faces only inches apart in the dim light, he saw Corwin’s eyes begin to bulge. The desperate fingers clawing at the leather strapping were weakening. With his mouth open wide, his tongue bulging, Edwin’s breath was rattling in his throat. Soon the eyes would begin to glaze; the fingers and feet would begin to twitch.

  For Tina Betts and Meredith Powell, death had followed: that pure, perfect ecstasy.

  Relaxing his fingers, he allowed the strap to loosen. First came the instant’s convulsion, then the long, sobbing intake of breath. Focus came back to the bulging eyes—focus, and life.

  “Well, Edwin …” He was pleased with his voice, so low, so satisfactorily sibilant, so perfectly matched to the moment. “This is your last chance. Your very last chance.”

  As Corwin’s fingers tore at the strap, Charles relaxed the pressure, let the strap fall away. On his knees, on all fours, scrabbling, the elegant prince reduced to the animal, Edwin was moving across the floor—moving toward the walk-in closet where the props were kept.

  The props, and most certainly the tapes.

  10:07 P.M. Standing beside the half-open oak door, back to the wall with the door to his left, revolver raised to shoulder height, the approved stance, Hastings held his breath, listening. Clearly one man was threatening the other man: logically Charles, with his young man’s voice, the silky-spoken sadist threatening Edwin Corwin. Terrorizing Edwin Corwin.

  Charles—getting the job done, breaking down the older man. Hastings’s job.

  Exhaling cautiously, he inched toward the door frame. And now, conscious that the knot of fear was there, at the center of himself, he pivoted his body until he could look into the room. At first he saw nothing in the dim light. But then there was movement: two men, emerging from a large closet.

  Hastings moved his jacket back to expose the walkie-talkie, so Friedman could hear better. Then, using his left hand, he pushed the massive oak door fully open.

  “Okay, you two. Just hold it right—”

  The taller figure—Charles—sprang clear. With the movement, objects clattered on the floor: two videotapes.

  “Hold it. Freeze, right there.”

  The smaller figure—Corwin—fell instantly to his knees, a desperate, prayerful pose, surrender. But Charles’s right hand was
in motion. Was there a gun? Seconds were gone; only milliseconds remained. Knees bent, revolver raised to eye level, trained on the suspect’s torso, Hastings saw the glint of light on steel at waist level, saw Charles’s hand touch the steel.

  “No. Freeze. Don’t—”

  As the hand closed on the glint of steel, Hastings fired: three shots, rapid-fire, double action. As the reverberating crash of the shots died, he heard the voices. Cowering against the wall, Corwin was screaming. On his knees, struggling to rise, Charles was gasping raggedly for breath, eyes glazed as he struggled to reach the revolver that had fallen from his hand. With his own gun trained on the fallen man’s head, Hastings stepped forward, lifted the revolver by its trigger guard, dropped it carefully in his jacket pocket.

  10:25 P.M. Knees cracking, Friedman grunted as he straightened to stand looking down at Charles.

  “Looks like one in the upper thigh and two in the stomach. His pulse isn’t bad, though. You okay?”

  Hastings shrugged. “It never gets any easier.”

  “Have you got his gun?” Friedman pointed to the bulge in Hastings’s pocket.

  Hastings nodded. “I didn’t want it lying around, since I didn’t cuff Corwin. And I didn’t want to unload it, because of prints.”

  “Did he get off any rounds?”

  “No.”

  “His gun’s loaded, then.”

  “It’s loaded, but it’s uncocked. It’s a revolver.”

  “What about you? How many rounds did you get off?”

  “Three.”

  The two lieutenants stood close to the fallen man. Friedman gestured to Canelli and Marsten, standing close by. “I want to talk to Lieutenant Hastings out in the hallway,” Friedman said, addressing Canelli. “When the lab guys come, tell them we’ve got the suspect’s gun, waiting for an evidence bag.”

  “Yessir.”

  Friedman pointed to the two boxed videotapes, lying on the floor beside Charles. “According to Lieutenant Hastings, these could be important. Very, very important. I want you to make sure they aren’t screwed up, Canelli. I want you to walk them from here to the lab, then to the evidence room. I want you to carry the receipts close to your heart. Otherwise, it’s your ass. Right?”