Please, I prayed, please help her! Or show me how!
The pipes gurgled in the wall behind me. Apparently, someone was using the men’s room next door.
“Hey, is there anybody else in here?” Brigid’s tormentor asked, and I heard his steps come closer.
Brigid’s voice was barely a squeak. “No, nope, just me. Honest.”
My eyes widened. Was the woman actually trying to protect me?
The outer door to the restroom rattled and a young girl’s voice called, “Hey, no fair! The ladies’ room’s locked!”
Brigid gave a muffled whimper.
“Shhh!”
The three of us waited, listening, for several minutes.
“They’re gone. Come on,” he said finally, and I heard the latch being undone.
As soon as they’re out the door, I’ll run for help. Or use my cell phone to call 911.
At the same time I had the thought, a faint but lilting tune echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room:
Maxwellton’s braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gave me her promise true . . .
Even as I retrieved the tiny telephone, opened and snapped it shut again, I heard the scrambling sound of footsteps.
The stall door swung open.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Dickensen,” Blakely Knight said pleasantly, “Fancy meeting you here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Blakely Knight, just exactly what is going on here?” I asked in my stern teacher voice.
He made a rather fearsome sight, with one arm wrapped tightly around Brigid’s neck and the other holding a tiny pistol pressed into her cheek. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth and down her chin.
My attempt at playing the outraged authority didn’t fool him for a second. “Come on, now, Amelia. You’re an intelligent woman, and I would imagine that from what you just heard you’ve surmised exactly what’s going on.”
He let go of Brigid with a shove, and she staggered back a few paces but didn’t fall. He then turned and relocked the restroom door.
Frowning pensively, he fingered the barrel of the pistol and murmured, “Change of plan.”
Shakily, Brigid went over to the sink. Moving automatically, she dampened a paper towel and wiped the blood from her mouth. As if in a daze, she retrieved her purse from the floor beneath the sink and began quietly dropping cosmetics in it.
Stop that, I thought, you’re removing the clues that show you were here!
Obviously, Brigid wasn’t thinking strategically. I’d have to do the thinking for both of us.
All at once, Blakely seemed to make a decision. “Okay, I got it. Come on, you two.” He grabbed Brigid by the elbow and rammed the gun against her side.
“We’re leaving,” he told me. “You go out there and see if anybody’s out there. And Amelia, if you do or say anything out of line, I’ll blow out her ribcage, right through her coat. Now, unlock the door and do exactly as I say.”
With shaking hands, I complied and pulled the door open.
As I stepped into the dim and chilly hallway, I was surprised to see two figures twined tightly together, only a few feet away, standing next to the door to the bell tower. It was J.T. Rousseau and Crystal Gervais, exchanging a passionate kiss.
I couldn’t help myself. “Really!” I exclaimed, reflexively, “Necking in a church!”
The two sprung apart, wide-eyed.
For the moment, I forgot that Blakely and Brigid were hiding behind the restroom door. I was in full angry teacher mode.
“J.T. Rousseau, you’re in big trouble! Your father is looking all over town for you!” Fortunately, my senses returned suddenly. “In fact,” I added with a deep breath and an unspoken prayer, “everybody is looking for you: Vern, Mrs. Dee, Mr. Berghauser, and even Mr. O’Secoor.”
Grabbing Crystal’s hand, J.T. looked abashed, then his eyes widened. “Even Mr. O’Secoor? Oh, gosh, Miss Prentice, thanks for telling me! C’mon, Crystal.”
In a twinkling, they had left, and Blakely emerged with his hostage. Strangely, he didn’t seem displeased with me. He even chuckled.
“Just can’t stop being a teacher, can you, Amelia?”
I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “No, but apparently you can.”
His voice changed to a growl. “Turn left and go through that door. Get going, up the stairs. We’re going to take a look at the bell tower.”
To my surprise, the door to the bell tower opened easily. The doorknob was loose, and it was apparently impossible to lock. They’d better do something about that broken lock, I thought absently. They could get sued. Attractive nuisance, they call it. As I pulled open the door, a bitter cold breeze blew into our faces.
“Go on,” Blakely urged, gesturing with the gun.
It was a small one, but I had seen small guns fired before and knew they could have relatively long range and do a good deal of damage.
The stairs in the bell tower proved to be the twisting Gothic type. Blakely paused for a moment, regarding them.
“Okay,” he said, gesturing with the pistol, “up the stairs, and stay where I can see you at all times. You first, Amelia.”
It was strange, mounting these stairs for the first time under these circumstances. I’d always wanted to go up here. How many times in my childhood had I heard the sound of the Old Episcopal Church bell, calling worshippers to services or tolling the hour? It had been a local joke when I was a girl that the Old Episcopal bell was usually two minutes early, or rather the bell ringer was. The bell didn’t ring these days. The bell ringer had retired, the bell itself had been sent away for restoration, and the tower was waiting to be renovated.
I took the first few steps slowly, trying to think, well aware of the incongruity of the situation. If I had some kind of weapon, a piece of wood or a rock, perhaps I could hit Blakely with it as he rounded the curve. But he had threatened to shoot Brigid if I misbehaved, so I discarded the ambush idea.
Words were my strong suit. Perhaps talking would help matters.
“Blakely,” I said, “what on earth do you think you’re doing? You’re jeopardizing your career, your life, even the life of your father.”
Blakely snorted. “Yeah, right, my ever-loving dad. Where does he get off, expecting me to come to his rescue?”
“So you’re not going to give him your kidney?” I brushed the cold stone walls with one hand. If I were to stumble backwards, could I cause Blakely to fall down the steps? The problem was Brigid, who was between us, shivering visibly as she climbed. And of course there was no guarantee I wouldn’t injure myself in the fall as well.
“Oh, Lissy thinks I’m going to be tested. We had such a touching reunion back there. She even apologized, as if that made up for everything.” His tone changed, hardened. “Not that it’s any of your business. Keep moving!”
Brigid whimpered again. He must have prodded her, poor thing. It surprised me how protective I felt of this poor woman who had so infuriated me in the past.
We arrived at a landing halfway up the tower. Blakely, panting, said roughly, “Stop here.” He leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
As we stood shivering, watching Blakely catch his breath, I asked, “Brigid, how on earth did you get involved in all this?”
Her answer was low, almost whispered. “I don’t know. We needed money for the campaign, and Matt knew a way to make some. He was such a smart boy.”
Blakely snapped, “Matt? Don’t make me laugh! He was just the computer nerd, not the one taking all the chances.”
A remnant of Brigid’s feistiness seemed to return. “He made the discs, didn’t he? And I saw that they got to you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, right. You were so subtle, keeping them right there in your store so that Rousseau kid thought they were music and offered to buy them from you. That was real smooth, Bridge, real smooth. Then you made it even worse by firing the kid.”
&nb
sp; “But I came up with another idea,” she said. In a strange way, she seemed to want some modicum of credit for the outrageous scheme.
Blakely’s voice was dripping venom. He gave Brigid a look of pure hatred and chanted, “Oh, right, making a drop, in a tent, on the lake in a converted lunchbox. Wow, how could I forget? Was it your idea or Matt’s to keep the discs and sell them yourself?”
“But we didn’t keep them! He left them in the tent! It was those two kids—they got the lunchbox.”
“What?” He seemed genuinely confused. “What kids?”
“The two boys they arrested,” Brigid said desperately, “they stole the lunchbox! I saw them do it!”
All color seemed to drain from Blakely’s face. “Somebody stole—then Matt—”
Now Brigid’s face registered contempt. “He told you the truth, and you killed him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
As Blakely and I stood staring mutely at Brigid, my mind was racing. Was this my chance to escape?
I analyzed my options: I would have to step, or leap, over Brigid to go back down the stairs, a risky undertaking at best. And I surmised that there was no real exit at the top of the tower, so running up the stairs wouldn’t do me any good. All I could do was bide my time and pray that J.T. had contacted the police by now. Or would he?
Blakely’s moment of hesitation had passed. “Come on!” he barked. “Get going, you two!” He gestured upward with the gun.
Slowly Brigid regained her footing, her purse still dangling from her crooked elbow as if she was on her way to go grocery shopping. It was a remarkable transformation. She was once again the arrogant Mrs. Shea, future mayor’s wife. Her shoulders straightened and with her free hand, she took hold of the railing and took a step.
We resumed climbing.
I had faced death once before, and when it seemed imminent, I had accepted my fate, secure in my faith and willing to concede that my life had come to an end.
This time was different. It was no longer just me, it was Gil and the little person I carried within me. This time, I was going to fight in whatever way I could.
Years ago, as teenagers, Lily and I had discussed self-defense. She had read an article.
“It’s simple,” she’d said, “You just kick ’em where it hurts the most.” We giggled, a little embarrassed at our ribaldry. Now I considered the possibility.
If Blakely was determined to kill me, I would resist with everything that was in me. In the meantime, however, I decided to try to reason with him.
“Blakely, you can’t possibly get away with, um, harming us. You’ll be caught immediately. Why not just leave us here and make your escape now, while you can?”
He actually chuckled. “Nice try, Amelia, but you forget that nobody has seen me here. I made sure of that. And you got rid of those kids for me, thank you very much.”
We reached the top step and stepped though an open door into a small, hexagonal room, with windows on every side. The windows had no glass in them, only angled wooden slats, through which we could hear the sounds of a crowd cheering.
The parade must have begun, I thought, but I don’t hear the music.
The wood of the slats was rotten with age. Some sagged; some were gone altogether. Cold gusts blew between them, refrigerating the room. As I had expected, there was no bell in the tower, just the old wooden yoke where one had hung and a small hole in the floor where the pull rope had reached down to the bottom floor.
“Over there, Amelia.” Blakely gestured with the gun across the room, some ten feet away, while he took tight hold of Brigid’s elbow.
The room was empty; there was no place to hide. I obeyed, praying inwardly, Give me an opening, a chance, anything.
“Here’s how it’s going down,” Blakely said in a conversational voice. “Everybody in town knows you two women hate each other. You got in an argument up here in the tower, and Brigid shot you. Come over here, Brigid.” He jerked her to his side and tried to force her hand around the gun.
“No!” Brigid yelled, struggling, “No way I’m shooting a pregnant woman. D’you think I want to go to hell? Do it yourself!”
“Pregnant?” Blakely looked utterly dumbfounded.
“How did you know?” I demanded at the same moment.
Brigid backed away from Blakely while she answered me. “Are you kidding? It’s all over school that you barfed on the principal’s desk. You signed up for childbirth classes. One of the Gervais girls saw you. And—”
“Interesting, even tragic,” Blakely interrupted sharply, once again asserting himself, “but not relevant to the matter at hand. Never mind, Brigid, I’ll do it. My plan still holds. Your fingerprints are all over this gun and mine, as you can see, are not.” He indicated his leather-gloved hands.
“So long, Amelia,” he said suddenly, and fired straight at me from across the room. I hadn’t time to react at all. I barely had time to close my eyes as the report echoed against the stone walls.
I flinched, but felt no pain. Another shot rang out. I flinched again, but again, nothing.
Blakely’s expression registered utter astonishment. “What’s wrong with this gun—Arghhhh!” There was a crashing sound, and splinters of wood flew through the air. A hand and sturdy arm, coming from outside the tower, had punched through the rotten slats and had a grip on Blakely’s hand.
As Brigid and I watched, Blakely and the anonymous hand struggled for possession of the gun.
A split second later, exchanging significant glances, we two women realized that our chance had come, and Brigid hastened forward to enthusiastically administer Lily Burns’s version of self-defense.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. Hold still, iss-May—but you’re married now, aren’t you? It’s not iss-May any more, is it?” My former student Toby House wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm and began pumping it up. “Be quiet, please.”
He looked at his watch. Even when using the playful pig Latin I had introduced to my classes, Toby, a paramedic, was all business with regard to matters medical.
We were in an ambulance parked in front of the Old Episcopal Church, Brigid Shea and I. The groaning and incapacitated Blakely Knight had been whisked away—under guard—to the hospital in another one.
Brigid winced as another paramedic treated her swollen split lip and bruised cheek. “Ouch!” she said as he dabbed on antiseptic with a gauze pad. “What Blakely said up there was all bull, you know.”
“Really?” I didn’t believe her.
Toby gave me a stern look. I was sitting on one of the two ambulance cots, and he was holding my wrist, taking my pulse.
“Totally. He’s nuts—you can see that. The way he treated us? You know, you weren’t in very much danger, but I was.” She sat still as the paramedic finished with a butterfly bandage at the end of her mouth, pressed a cold pack to her cheek, and moved away.
“What do you mean?” I asked and was again shushed by Toby.
“He used my starter’s pistol, the idiot. It’s usually really dangerous only up close. Like that guy—the one on TV? He was just fooling around, holding it to his head, and it killed him. Stuff comes out of the gun, even if it’s not loaded with bullets, and it can get you if you’re close enough. But you were all the way across the room. Blakely must not know much about guns.”
I remembered that night at the Lion’s Roar and Blakely’s casual answer to Gil’s question: I’m afraid I’m not much for the great outdoors; hunting, fishing, none of that.
Toby took off the cuff. “You’re okay. You didn’t sustain any trauma, but you need to see Dr. Stout to check out the little guy, just to be on the safe side, okay?”
I’d told him of the pregnancy. It was apparently a matter of public knowledge, anyway.
He patted my shoulder. “‘Appy-Hay ’aby-Bay.”
Toby was one of my all-time favorite students, but don’t tell anyone.
“Thank you, ’oby-Tay.”
He turned to Brigid. “Mrs. Shea, you sit here and keep that cold pack on your face while we let the painkiller kick in, okay?”
She nodded. He climbed out of the ambulance and began to consult with the other paramedic.
I had another question for her. “Why didn’t you tell him I was there, back in the restroom?”
“I figured you’d go for help.”
“Oh.”
Abruptly, Brigid put down the ice pack, retrieved her purse, and announced to me, “I’m feeling much better now. I need to get going.”
As she climbed down out of the ambulance, Police Sergeant Dennis O’Brien met her. “Mrs. Shea, we have some questions for you,” he said firmly. “Please come along.” He turned a stern look at me and raised his voice slightly. “And I’ll want to talk to you, too, Mrs. Dickensen.”
“All right, Sergeant,” I said meekly. Poor Dennis, despite all my efforts we’d ruined his day off.
I sat there, amid the hubbub of the crowd, thinking about what had happened.
You answered my prayer, didn’t you? You really did.
I couldn’t think of strong enough words to express my gratitude. I closed my eyes.
“That was pretty cool, signaling me with the French like that,” J.T. Rousseau said softly as he and Crystal Gervais crept into the ambulance, glancing over their shoulders. “You were right about it coming in handy!”
“Thanks, J.T.,” I said. “And thank you for what you did. But you took a terrible risk, climbing the church tower. Why didn’t you just go to the police?”
The two young people exchanged glances. “Are you kidding? Think they’d believe me? They were having a cow down on the ground while I was climbing. The cops were waiting at the bottom to arrest me when all of a sudden they heard those shots. Everybody ran upstairs and forgot about me—for now. We don’t want to miss that dance tonight, so we gotta run. Au revoir!” The two disappeared around the corner of the ambulance.
“Wait, you’re going to be—” I began, and sighed. There would be repercussions, no doubt, but it would probably all come out in the wash, as Martin Rousseau had said.
Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) Page 22
