Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  “Because what she knew made her a threat to Woodrow,” Gwen said.

  “Not just Woodrow—since people viewed Bette as being in a vegetative state, they would have no qualms talking around her. The most glaring example would be at her father’s burial, when it was openly discussed how her brother, Joe Jr. had been the one to murder Thomas Archibald.”

  That admission caught Rich Tolland off guard. “Did you just say that you knew who killed Thomas Archibald for years? And never said anything?”

  “Bette was just as astounded to hear that news as you, Chief Tolland, and it upset her greatly. But Joe Jr. sensed the reason behind her distress—they had a certain simpatico between them as older brother and younger sister often do—and he soon returned to let her know the truth. Joe Jr. didn’t kill him.”

  “Actually nobody did—Archie is still alive and growing grapes in Napa Valley,” I said. I paused for a moment to enjoy the look on Rich’s face. His mind was officially blown, but he kept his cool, and nodded for Doc Mac to continue.

  “Bette knew things about Woodrow, and the history of the Hastings family, that could have put her in danger—so, yes, I never came forward with it. And if I must go to jail to protect her, I am willing to make that sacrifice. Nothing has changed.”

  Gwen continued skimming through the diary, “This is truly amazing.”

  “She would type her thoughts about each day. It wasn’t always about solving historic mysteries. Sometimes it was about her frustration being trapped in this body, or something as trivial as her love for Hot Pockets. I would cut out what she typed and paste it into the diary. That way, there was no evidence left behind.”

  “She was right,” I said. “You did end up writing your memories together into that diary.” To which Bette flashed a grin.

  “She told me we’d be together one day, but I came to the realization that one day would never come for us. So we had to make the best of this day.”

  “But there’s one thing that doesn’t add up,” I said. “You talk about her being trapped in her body, and the lack of motor skills, but then how was she able to run off?”

  Doc smiled. “The day of the ceremony for their father, a private burial was held on the property just for family, which would be followed by a luncheon for invited guests. So those of us who were there for the lunch stood outside the property, awaiting the burial to end.

  “I had just pulled up when I saw Bette wandering aimlessly along the edge of the property. She was upset like I'd never seen her before, and I knew the one thing that always calmed her was butter-pecan ice cream. So I drove her to the next town, we ate ice cream until she calmed, and then I made an anonymous phone call. Obviously, I didn't know what exactly had set her off, but now that I know, I think her actions were understandable.”

  Gwen smiled. “You always found each other when you need each other the most. It's almost like you're meant to be together.”

  Gwen and I traded looks. She very well could have been talking about us.

  Doc’s look turned serious, almost desperate, as he looked to Rich. “Whatever consequences I face, I take full responsibility. All I ask is that Bette is given the care she needs, and that my son gets proper medical attention. He wasn’t ever going to harm anyone, but he needs professional help … not prison.”

  Rich nodded. “With full view of the circumstances, I will work with the DA to see that he does. And as for you, Doc, I think by taking you away from Rockfield, we’d be punishing ourselves, not you.”

  “There’s only one person that needs to be arrested,” I said.

  Rich saw where I was going with this. “Nothing would make me happier than to drag Woodrow Hastings down to the station in handcuffs, but we just don’t have the evidence at this time.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said.

  He seemed prepared for my push back. “There’s really three cases here: 1) the most recent attempted murders 2) the Archibald cold case 3) the curse itself,” Rich started to make a case that I wasn’t going to like.

  “First off, we can’t prove that Woodrow ordered these murders, and before you say the phone message to his kids to ‘confirm’ something, that is hardly a smoking gun. We could get him on attacking Poca, but she probably wouldn’t testify, as it would open a can of worms, which is this curse business her family was in with the Hastings’. And as for possible witnesses—Chayton has a history of drug use, while Thomas Archibald and Joe Jr. have basically been perpetuating a lie for fifty years.

  “In regards to the Archibald cold case, once again we have no proof that Woodrow ordered anything, other than the word of the aforementioned flawed witnesses, and he has an alibi for that night. Also complicating matters is … and this is pretty important … Archibald was never actually murdered. And with all due respect to Bette and her writings, a mentally challenged person will not make the ideal witness in court.” He looked to Bette and Doc. “Having said that, I believe every word she’s written.”

  This got a smile out of Bette, but I was still stewing.

  Rich continued, “And there is certainly no DA on the planet who would prosecute the Hastings and Dohasans on the curse itself. Should I go on?” He looked right at me, almost daring me.

  So I took him up on it. “What if I got you a confession? Would that help?”

  “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

  I just smiled.

  Chapter 80

  The Rolls Royce drove up Zycko Hill. Jill Leezy was behind the wheel as Woodrow’s night vision had been failing for some time and had grown worse since his rendezvous with Jeff Carter’s fist last week.

  He and Jill had taken a few days away at his place in Martha’s Vineyard—a strategic trip that coincided with Rich Tolland questioning him a second time about the still-missing Poca. He had no idea where she was, but when he found her, he was going to make sure that nobody else did.

  He expected the questions but was surprised that Tolland also interrogated Jill. And when he did, he brought with him security photos of a blonde woman in a baseball cap and sunglasses leaving Chayton Dohasan’s apartment. The article in the Gazette said that he was in intensive care, and listed his condition as “potentially life threatening.” If Tolland could prove that it was Jill in the photo, it would not only make her a suspect in Chayton’s overdose, but the timing of the photo would also eviscerate his “sex on a horse” alibi in regards to Poca’s disappearance. He wouldn’t let that happen.

  To further complicate matters he hadn’t been able to contact any of his children. Lewis remained missing and he had heard nothing from his abductor since the “buried hatchet” episode. No ransom, no more cryptic threats—nothing. He had told Lewis’ wife that he had fallen off the wagon and had checked himself into an intensive alcohol rehabilitation program that didn’t allow any contact with the outside world. The story would buy him time, but not much.

  He’d also grown increasingly frustrated with his inability to reach Nap and Louisa, since the phone call in which they confirmed the kill. But what was bugging him was that there had been no announcements of the death of Joe Jr. or JP Warner. That wasn’t reason for alarm, he told himself—the bodies were likely buried on the vineyard, so they hadn’t been discovered. Also, it wasn’t unusual for Joe Jr. to go off on a bender and not be heard from for weeks, and it wasn’t like their mother was keeping tabs on his travels. And Warner and Gwen Delaney were following a story, which is the norm for reporters. That said, a funeral announcement would have eased his mind.

  He was sent to voice mail again. “Dammit!”

  Jill looked at him. “Are you trying to reach your children?”

  He was surprised by the question. “Yes—why do you ask?”

  “It totally slipped my mind, but they left a message before we left for Martha’s Vineyard. Said they were going to take a couple weeks in Europe, and planned to leave their cell phones home. ‘Going off the grid’ is how Nap described it—I guess it’s some new-age type of
vacation.”

  He doubted it was a vacation, but it was smart of them to get out of the country while things were hot. He was proud of them, but not happy.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this!? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Kinda what I meant when I said it slipped my mind. And what’s with this Father of the Year shit?”

  “Don’t get smart with me—you were selling your body for drug money when I rescued you. You can go back to that life if you like.”

  She didn’t respond, but it had nothing to do with his threat. They were overcome by a blinding light. Jill swerved to the left, almost going off the road. “What the hell is that?” she shouted out.

  Woodrow wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. “Speed up!”

  Before she could, the sound of hooves came up behind the car. The bright lights lessened, so they could now see the horse fast on their rear. The rider was wearing a bathrobe, and with the hood pulled over their head—they couldn’t make out the identity.

  “Drive dammit!” Woodrow shouted out, and Jill hit the accelerator. The Rolls left the horse in the dust, but as she approached the Samerauk Bridge, a faceless man in a bathrobe was standing in their way.

  Chapter 81

  Woodrow stepped out of his car. As did Jill, who immediately fled in the other direction.

  “Do you know who you’re dealing with!?” he shouted at the bathrobe ghost.

  “I’m looking for Archie. I looked for him in the gristmill, but it’s all gone. I need to find him,” the ghost replied.

  “Is this some sort of joke? Another mindless teenage hoax? It won’t be funny when I have a talk with your parents!”

  “But it wasn’t a hoax when you had me killed … or was it?” came a different voice.

  Thomas Archibald stepped out of the shadows, and the spotlight now shone on him. His hair was blond like the day he went missing, and he wore a green and gold Rockfield High letterman jacket.

  The look on Woodrow’s face was a priceless combination of shock and confusion. I was really going to enjoy this.

  He took a step back, his eyes never leaving Archie. “You’re dead.”

  “Since you’re the one who killed me, you would know.”

  “I think you’ve got me confused with my brother—he was the one who killed you.”

  “Typical Woody,” Joe Jr. stepped out of the shadows and stole the spotlight. He wore a baseball cap with his curly gray hair streaming out the back. “You order the killing but need to have someone do the dirty work for you. And how do you repay me for taking on the responsibility? You have me killed … by my own niece and nephew!”

  Woodrow had a rare speechless moment, viewing his brother closely, like he was trying to make sense of this.

  “What’s wrong, little brother—never seen a ghost before?” Joe Jr. continued to poke at him.

  Before he could respond, the spotlight switched onto Doc Mac. “I would respectfully disagree, Joe—Woodrow’s hands are very dirty when it comes to his sister’s accident. Not only was he the one playing ghost, but he made sure she never went to the hospital that night.”

  “I have provided Bette the best care for fifty years—no expense spared!”

  “The cost of silence is very expensive I see,” said Lewis Hastings. When the light moved to him, it showed him standing behind a wheelchair that contained Bette Hastings.

  “Lewis—you’re safe. I have been worried sick,” Woodrow sounding like a concerned father.

  “It seems nobody is safe around you, father. And your hush money didn’t work on Aunt Bette.” He held up the leather-bound diary. “Her voice was much louder than we all thought.”

  “If you had taken her to the hospital, and the truth had come out, you might have ended up a suspect in my death,” Archie said, shaking his head. “Oh, the tragic irony of this entire story—Shakespeare would have salivated.”

  I had to agree; this was turning into a modern-day Hamlet, the Ghost included. But it was time to drive this play to the final act.

  “The only thing that can set you free is the truth,” Bathrobe shouted out. “If not, you risk more skeletons coming out of your closet … do you really want that?”

  Woodrow looked like he might be in the early stages of a nervous breakdown. His past, the one he had gone to meticulous and often devious lengths to conceal, was being played out as a three-act tragedy on Samerauk Bridge.

  “I was a kid—I didn’t have the power to do the things you say. My father was the one in charge. It was his decision to kill Archie and then bury him on our property. The car is still there—the one in the river was a fake—I’ll show you.”

  “Stop lying!” Bathrobe admonished. “Do you want me to bring your father back to tell the real story … because I will.”

  Woodrow looked unsure—after what he’d just seen, was it really out of the realm of possibility?

  As he hesitated, a shrill voice split through the darkness. “Nobody wants him back, so start telling the truth, son, before it’s too late,” Georgette Hastings said, shuffling into view with the help of her cane.

  “Mother?”

  I could tell the sight of his mother put him over the edge. I had to work extra hard to convince her to come, and cross-country flight at her age wasn’t easy, even in Ward Seifert’s private jet. But I knew the one person that could get under any man’s skin was his mother. Besides, every play needs conflict and melodrama, and Georgette seemed like the perfect character to provide it.

  He just stared at her, not sure what to think—probably wondering if she were a ghost.

  “Oh for chrissake, Woodrow, I’m ninety-six years old, I don’t have time for your nonsense! Tell the truth for once in your life and save your soul. You’ve always been really good at saving yourself.”

  And with that, the last act had begun.

  Chapter 82

  I watched as Woodrow’s face twitched with anger. The shock had worn off, and he’d returned to his natural state. Woodrow Hastings wasn’t about to be pushed around by those beneath him … living or not. And I was counting on it.

  He glared at Archie. “I warned you about trying to steal what’s mine, and you found out that I’m a man of my word. So if you don’t back off now, I’ll have you killed again … and this time you won’t return!”

  Archie laughed. “If you were a bit more perceptive you would have realized that I wasn’t a threat to your Poca obsession. But your thirst for power always stifled your ability to see clearly.”

  “My ears are burning, someone must be talking about me,” Poca said, entering through the “parodos.” She walked directly to Archie and put her arm around him. “He’s more man than you ever were, Woodrow.”

  If his mother was the one to get under his skin, and drive him to the cliff, then Poca was the one who could send him over the edge.

  Woodrow took a step toward her with bad intentions. Archie stepped between them. As did the others, creating a human wall.

  Woodrow grew frustrated by the blockade, and wagged his finger at the group. “You’re just a bunch of psychos—no wonder they call this place Psycho Hill! They should reopen that loony bin and put you all in it!”

  “Takes one to know one,” Bathrobe said.

  “Get out of my town, you ghost. You’ve overstayed your welcome!” Woodrow fired back.

  “None of us are ghosts … we’re all very much alive,” Archie said.

  “Ghost … living … it doesn’t matter—you’re all going to be dead soon!”

  “Who’s going to do it for you this time, little brother?” Joe Jr. asked. “Hopefully you’ll choose better than those who tried to kill me at the vineyard.”

  “He tried to have me killed too, and I’m still here,” said a woman approaching slowly on horseback. The one that had chased the Rolls to the bridge. She pulled down the hood to reveal that it was Gwen. She sat deep in the saddle with her back firm, looking very confident on the horse—thanks in part to Woo
drow’s refresher course.

  “I’m still here, also,” I said, and pulled off the mask that I wore fashionably with my bathrobe costume. Woody didn’t look happy to see me.

  In every Greek tragedy there is a point in the play where the protagonist realizes that life will never return to what it was, and there was no going back. Woodrow Hastings had just passed that point of no return.

  “I must be drugged. That’s why Jill ran away—because she gave me one of her concoctions. I’m going to go sleep it off, and I better not see any of you in this town when I wake up!”

  He started to return to his car, but bumped into Chayton. “Maybe it was the same concoction that she tried to kill me with.”

  Woodrow looked stunned, faced with another person he thought had been silenced. “You can’t prove anything … none of you can!” he shouted as he pushed past Chayton, trying to get to the safety of his Rolls.

  But this time he ran into the brick wall named Rich Tolland. “Not so fast, Hastings.”

  “Thank God you’re here, Rich,” he pointed back to the group. “These people are trying to blackmail me. I want them arrested immediately.”

  “There’s only one person who’s going to be arrested tonight. Woodrow Hastings, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Chayton Dohasan, Joseph Hastings Jr., JP Warner, Gwen Delaney … and Thomas Archibald. Plus the assault and battery of Poca Dohasan.”

  “I’ll have your badge! This clownery will never hold up in court. It’ll be my word against yours, and I pay your salary.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that respected journalist Murray Brown is here to cover it.”

  Murray stepped forward and tipped his fedora.

  “And former GNZ cameraman, Byron Jasper, was kind enough to return early from his vacation to film it.”

  Byron wheeled next to Murray. He was joined by his fiancée, Tonya, who was responsible for the spotlight work.