“Poor you,” he said. “Might have made it, chère cousine, but for my change of heart about letting you two say goodbye.”
Ellis had a black eye and a handcuff on her wrist. Must have been a custom job—the chain was two feet long.
He lifted the second bracelet and held it out toward me.
I walked over and let him snap it on.
I thought he’d force us through the dining room and onto the walkway, up to the house or down to the water. Instead he shoved us toward the back door, the way I’d planned to escape.
“What about the lake?” I asked. “I thought that was next.”
“First the icehouse,” he said. “You can have a little chat while I get things ready.”
Up the driveway, then . . . a hundred yards past the main building.
He jostled us through the door, and when we reached the two steps down to the road’s packed dirt, I pretended to trip and lofted myself forward, yanking Ellis with me. We wheeled through the air and landed hard.
I shoved my mouth up against her ear. “I’m going to fall again at my car. Don’t let him get me up.”
“You should be sorry,” she snapped. “Bad enough you drag me into this shit. Now I’ve got a face full of gravel and my fucking wrist is broken.”
Lapthorne came down the stairs and twisted the point of his shoe into my ribs, hard enough I thought he’d pry them apart like the beadboard.
I took my time getting up anyway, apologizing and weaving and falling to one knee before I was halfway standing, like I was going to pass out.
Ellis swung in front of me, got her free hand under my armpit to lift me to my feet. She winced, leaned in close to hiss through clenched teeth, “Watch it . . . totally serious about the wrist.”
I made a point of limping when we started walking again, hunched over and leaning into her, but keeping my weight off the cuffs as much as I could.
At first the stones cut into my bare foot, but the ground was so cold I couldn’t feel anything after a minute.
A hundred dragging steps and we were coming up on the Rabbit.
I staggered a little, said, “Ellis, I’m so sorry . . . I can’t keep . . .” and then lurched one more pace forward and crumpled in what I hoped was a convincing way against the rear bumper.
“Goddamnit,” said Lapthorne, “get up.”
I ignored him and slid fast, the rest of the way down—went all loosey-goosey at the end so my head slapped audibly against the frozen dirt. That hurt so much it was all I could do not to scream, and for a couple of seconds I thought the pain would knock me out for real.
I slitted my eyes open, just enough to see Ellis crouched down beside me.
From behind, Lapthorne twisted a mean foot into my ribs again.
I didn’t move, just held my breath.
His shifted his weight, shoes creaking, then stepped right next to my head. “Lift her.”
Ellis wormed a hand under me and pretended to try.
“I can’t.” She started crying.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
“Dead weight. She’s totally out.”
“Fine, then Madeline goes first,” and he kicked my head so hard that Ellis’s lie came true.
I started coming around when my arm was yanked into the air. I thought Lapthorne was going to try hauling me up, but then the handcuff bit into my wrist and snapped shut. Good . . . if he’d taken it off, then maybe . . .
He let go, and my hand didn’t drop back down to the dirt. I was desperate to see what I was chained to, but didn’t dare open my eyes.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Works just as well to leave you here.”
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, listened to his footsteps crunching against grit, a car door opening, the click as he popped the hood on his Porsche. The door slammed. Two more steps, metallic creak of hinges as he raised the lid. Something heavy hit the ground, then another right after. The second weight sloshed a little.
Then he grunted, lifting. I heard him walk toward the house, slap of leather against dirt, then hollow claps as he climbed the wooden stairs.
Screen door whine, click of the front door latch. Two steps inside and then a tinny snap with a solid boom right on its tail, as both closed behind him.
I opened my eyes and looked up at Ellis. “He’s gone?”
“Well, he’s inside. I can think of better kinds of ‘gone.’”
“Can you see him?”
“In the living room.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Probably dumping out the ten gallons of gas he just took out of his fucking car,” she said. “And I hope your brilliant escape plan included getting handcuffed to your fucking car, because I’m having a tough time imagining how the hell this was a good idea.”
She didn’t look at me, just let her eyes drift across the ground in front of her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
She closed her eyes. “Oh, right, like maybe he’ll have a change of heart and set himself on fire? I’m so sure. Too bad he left that gun on the porch.”
“I’ve got a gun.”
“No shit?”
“Right behind us. Is he looking?”
“No.”
I got up and checked the line of windows. The little porch’s overhang cut reflection on the glass, and Lapthorne was backlit by glare off the lake. He was moving along the length of the living room slowly, head down as he poured out the gas.
“Okay,” I said, “put your hand near the bumper so I can move mine. Rest your head on your knees if you think you’re going to pass out, okay?”
She did it without a word, but the chain was stretched taut and I couldn’t turn to see the baling wire that was serving as the hatchback’s lock. I fumbled with the knot of metal, and felt the sharp edge of one end slice across the tip of my thumb, then jog under the nail.
Lapthorne looked at us out the central window. Smiled and waved. I grimaced back at him.
The wire wouldn’t untwist. I started bending it back and forth, hoping to make it snap if I could get it weak enough at a single spot.
He returned to his task, halfway down the room now, and pausing when he got to where I figured the sofas were, to shake some of the liquid over the cushions.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ellis.
I shook my head, working the rugged snarl of metal for all I was worth. It was getting easier to bend, softening.
“Maddie?” she whispered. “You have to talk to me . . .”
“Just have to break the wire.”
“He’s almost finished . . .”
I glanced up again, just as the thing snapped in my hand. The lid lifted and I leaned back against it, holding it closed so he wouldn’t see.
“When he gets behind that wall,” I said, “give me as much slack as you can.”
The minute he was hidden from view, I yanked the wire completely off. The hatchback eased up quietly, just a few inches, and rested against the back of my thighs.
I worked my wrist into the space behind it, wishing I could force my elbow to bend in the opposite direction. I patted the worn carpeting, seeking the feel of the gun sock tight around the stock, the barrels, whatever came to hand.
“Can you give me any more slack?” I asked.
“If I can get my hand behind the . . .” Ellis inhaled sharply, in pain.
The chain gave a little, and I crouched down, shoving my arm in farther.
There it was. . . . I grabbed on and pulled and slammed it against the edge of the door in my haste. Would it fit out the small square of the door? I patted my hand up farther, but the stock was thank God still “broken,” angled open in a vee.
“Hurry,” she said. “Please.”
I slid the gun out, butt first, then shook it hard enough to slap the breech closed before shifting it quickly vertical to hide it behind me.
I checked the windows. Lapthorne’s dark head came into view. He wasn’t watchin
g us. I started inching the sock down, one-handed. Slowly, in case he turned to look.
I got the sock down past the trigger guard. Slid the safety off with my mangled thumb.
He was walking backwards, into the hallway. I’d only have a second before he got to the next set of windows.
My legs started shaking again. I could hear the barrels rattle against the car.
“Stand up,” I said, but Ellis didn’t move.
I glanced down at her. She was crying but not making a sound, holding her wrist.
“You okay?” I asked.
Ellis nodded, struggled to her feet. “Really is broken now, if it wasn’t before.”
“Sorry . . .”
“Won’t matter, will it? One way or the other . . .”
I could feel her starting to shake. Between the two of us, the chain jangled like sleighbells.
Lapthorne appeared in the last windows. He lifted the gas can and shook it empty, then walked back toward the other end of the room.
He stepped halfway out the front door and tossed the empty into the driveway, then picked up the second can from just inside. I watched him take off the cap, then splash gas onto the porch and each tread of the stairs.
“Do it,” whispered Ellis.
“He’s gotta be closer.”
When the can was empty, he dropped it, and retrieved his pistol from the edge of the porch.
He smiled at me. “Ready, Madeline?”
“Can’t wait.”
With his free hand, he pulled a key from his pocket.
I tried to look nonchalant, right hand behind my hip.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose this is goodbye, though of course I’ll have to ask you to walk inside.”
“Take me first,” said Ellis.
“Have to wait your turn.” Lapthorne smirked and tossed the handcuff key down in the dirt, far enough from her feet to make her grovel for it.
He grinned at her. “Pick it up.”
I slid my fingers into both triggers.
He was careless with the pistol. Not aiming it at us because he was too sure of himself.
He leaned against the porch and pulled a lighter out of his pocket, a Zippo like Schneider’s. While Ellis strained for the key, he flipped the top open and started thumbing it to life, then snapping it shut. Over and over.
“Can’t reach,” said Ellis.
“Course you can,” he said, but he took one step forward, then another, still flicking the lighter.
Ellis pressed her foot against mine, then flinched to the side. I watched his eyes snap to the motion.
I brought the gun smoothly up to my hip just like in Thunderball and pulled both triggers, blowing his neck open.
Slow motion, gobbets of flesh smacking down wet as far back as the porch, blood hanging in the air longer, like the smoke of a well-hit shell.
He looked into my eyes, puzzled, his glance all soft again, like he was worried about how it would go for me, out in the world. And then he started to tip into flight, everything suddenly real-time fast again.
His back arched and he was splayed against the air like that last drawing in The Little Prince and then his arms and fingers jerked up with one last spasm that raised his pistol halfway in the air, firing off a round as he fell like a sack of meat.
I saw a flash of his shoe soles.
The back of his head hit the stairs before his feet came down.
No movement, then.
Not a twitch in his chest.
No pump of blood from his ragged neck because his heart was finished, stilled by the shock waves of damage.
We were frozen, ears ringing from the concussion of the blast.
Then Ellis arched her back, bellowing like a Pamplona-crazed bull.
And the first blue lick of flame blossomed from under Lapthorne’s hand.
CHAPTER 51
There were a few minutes there when Ellis and I just slumped against each other, overwhelmed, but the fire brought us around.
I could feel the heat on my face, so strong it felt like my skin was already blistering.
“Could you undo the cuffs?” I said, motioning to the key.
She reached for it, but had to drag it closer with her foot before she could pick it up.
I could barely fit it into the lock, but then I did and we were free and we ran back from the fire, then both burst into sobs and I put my arms around her, tender and trying not to further hurt the wrist that hung all ugly against her leg.
“I can’t believe you did it,” she said.
The whole porch was raging.
“We’d better call the fire department,” I said.
“He cut the phone line. Let’s drive.”
The paint on my car was emitting tiny threads of smoke.
“Take the Porsche. Keys are under the mat,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Least he can do,” she said, and we stumbled over on rubber legs and climbed inside.
We screamed down four miles of dirt road in just under three minutes, got to town in another five.
The fire trucks blazed out of the station, sirens wailing. I let Ellis call home first, and when I told Mom what had happened she started to cry and said, “Oh, Maddie, if you’d died I would have kicked you.”
It took a few hours for the cops to question us and figure out who’d shot whom.
Camp was destroyed. No way to pump water from the lake fast enough, by the time the crew got there.
It burned so hot my car didn’t make it either, so we drove Lapthorne’s in fifth all the way back to Centre Island.
The sun was long gone when we got there, but everyone was standing in the driveway waiting for us, Bonwit and Mom and even Egon, and after she gripped me in a fierce hug for about five minutes, Egon stepped up and shook my hand.
“I want to thank you,” he said, tearing up, “for my daughter. I never thought she would get justice, but you did it. Just fine.”
And then he walked away because he couldn’t stand us to see him sobbing.
Wilt called me the next morning. My hands were still shaky when I picked up the phone.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Better. Glad to be around.”
“I’m hip. You did a real hero number.”
I couldn’t say anything.
“So,” he finally said, his voice cracking, “Simon hanged himself.”
“Oh, Wilt . . .”
“Those pictures of the girls, Maddie. He took all of them, and there were more. We’re still going through his files. All dead people. Hit-and-runs. Fires. Little kids. You wouldn’t believe . . .” and he had to stop.
I could just see him covering his eyes with his free hand, slumped at his desk.
“He left a note,” Wilt said. “How he paid off cops to give him first crack at crime scenes. Wanted to be like that guy in New York, you know? In the Depression, one who was always soonest to arrive at disasters?”
“Weegee,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Wilt, I’m so sorry.”
We were all in the bierstube, and Dean just kept looking at me, reaching for my hand. “Kenny would be proud of you.”
No recriminations. No I-told-you-so. I didn’t deserve such kindness. “I got him killed.”
“You didn’t,” said Ellis. “I want you to chant it until it soaks into your bones.”
“I should have known right away,” I said. “The night we went to his brownstone.”
“How could you have known?” she asked.
“Because he said they first saw those girls at the rose garden, but they couldn’t have. The photo-booth pictures, the silhouettes . . . they weren’t wearing the garlands yet. He hadn’t made them, because they went to the garden after the fair.”
I started crying again.
Dean gripped my hands in his.
“That fucker,” said Ellis. She took a sip of my coffee and made a face, pale and exhausted.
I told them about Si
mon.
“Okay,” she said, placing her hands flat on the table, “so Schneider thought this all up pretty quickly when he saw those bodies. First he gets Simon in there. But how did he know Lapthorne had money, enough to blackmail him for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he found the dog tags.”
“He’d know from the tags?” she asked.
“The Lapthorne Works are where Dodie’s money came from. In Syracuse. Schneider would have recognized the name.”
“But why would he leave them there?” asked Dean. “He wanted to cover up what happened, and he could have used them to hold over Lapthorne’s head.”
I shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Ellis crossed her arms, looking fragile. “So Lapthorne must have wanted Simon’s negatives.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Maybe he thought if he could get rid of them and kill Simon, he’d be off the hook. When he got Simon’s name from me, he didn’t need us alive anymore.”
“So Simon was freaking out because he thought you were getting too close to his secret collection, but why did Lapthorne kill Sembles?” asked Dean.
“He must have been the only person who could place Lapthorne with the girls at the fair. He’d spent the most time with the four of them. Schneider got to him fast, since Sembles was the only thing threatening the gravy train.”
“How do we know this? I thought Schneider wasn’t talking,” said Ellis.
“Vomit Girl is,” I said. “Darlene Voorhees. Wilt told me she chatted away to the cops last night. She didn’t know everything, because Schneider didn’t really trust her, but she knew about the deal he’d made with Sembles.”
“And the rest of it?” asked Dean. “How many people . . .”
“Lapthorne wouldn’t tell me,” I said.
We couldn’t figure out what to do about Lappy’s car, so Egon finally drove it over to Binty and Kit’s. I didn’t focus on much of anything for the next couple of days. Ellis snuck into his funeral, saying she figured it was the appropriate thing to do as practically his fiancée. Dean thought that was beyond strange, but I understood. We were both mourning the guy we’d thought he was, not the guy he turned out to be.
I went to the cemetery after they buried him, would have picked roses for his grave, but the bushes were all bare, burlapped for the winter. I sat beside his grave for most of an afternoon, the fresh dirt all humped up over where they’d sunk the casket. I wanted to do something, to mark his passing.
A Field of Darkness Page 31
