Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  I had the flashlight and the clothing, but I would have to make up some cock-and-bull story to convince Paul to lend me his spade. I racked my brain. Who would need a shovel on an October night—except a gravedigger? While pondering this, I passed Smyth’s Hardware. The lights were on. Maybe they were still open, I thought. I parked my bike, went in, and bought a shovel—no questions asked. Sometimes things are so simple you overlook them.

  Carting the shovel home on my Honda was another matter, however. First, I put it across the handlebars, but whenever I hit a bump, it fell off. I tried tying it to my back bumper with some wire I’d found in my saddlebag, but the wire wasn’t strong enough. Finally, I cradled it on my lap and rode home at fifteen miles an hour. It took me an hour, instead of the usual twenty minutes.

  As I climbed the metal staircase, lugging the shovel, I dropped it. It clanged all the way, making a terrible racket. Jack, the night clerk, popped his head out of the lobby. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry.” I was glad it was too dark for him to see my blush.

  “Hey, Jo. Whatcha doin’? Plantin’ a garden in October?”

  I laughed, and thought fast. “This is part of my Halloween costume.” Halloween was just a few days away.

  Jack laughed. “You comin’ as Chad Pinkerton?” he asked, referring to the local funeral director.

  “You’ll find out on Halloween.” I retrieved the shovel and beat it back to my room.

  An hour later, I stood looking around my room, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Flashlight, shovel, sweater, windbreaker. What else did I need? My gaze fell on the third drawer of my bureau. Should I take it? The thought repelled me. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be like those naïve wimps who were always putting themselves in jeopardy in mystery novels. My meeting with the Mafia was still fresh in my mind. If I’d had a gun that night, things might have turned out differently. I yanked open the drawer and took out the gun. Cautiously, I checked the safety catch. I wrapped it in a towel and placed it carefully in my backpack.

  I crept down the stairs, bearing the shovel in front of me as if it were made of glass, and fearing that my backpack with the gun in it might explode. The parking lot was empty. I could see Jack through the lobby window. As usual, he was bent over his laptop. I tied the shovel securely to the back of my Honda with some clothesline I’d found in my closet, a remnant from when I’d moved in, and gently stowed my backpack in my saddlebag. Now if only the moon would cooperate and disappear behind a cloud, I’d be all set.

  I rolled my bike out of the lot and pushed it another hundred feet along the road before starting up. Stealth was the name of the game. Bayfield was a quiet place at any time, but at night it was deathly quiet. When nature was resting, with no rain falling, no wind blowing, you could hear your own breath. The sound of my motor shattered the silence, shaking it to death. When I reached the wood behind Max’s farm, I shut off my motor. The silence that enveloped me after the noise was a physical thing—like being wrapped in a down comforter or velvet drapes. I would have welcomed those raucous crows to disturb this smothering hush.

  I parked my bike in the deep shadows of a hemlock bush. The moon, according to my wish, had vanished, showing up between clouds only now and then, to spy on me. I untied the shovel and wondered if I should take out the gun. It wouldn’t do me any good in my backpack, I reasoned. I took it out and slipped it in the pocket of my windbreaker. It was heavy and weighed down the pocket. Entering the opening in the trees where Lolly and I had passed the day before, I turned on my flashlight. I kept it trained on the ground to reveal roots and rocks that might trip me up. Every now and then I stopped, dowsed the light, and stood still, listening. The rustle of an animal—rabbit, woodchuck, or muskrat—was the only sound that disturbed the silence. Those cheerful summer noisemakers—frogs, katydids, and crickets—had long gone. I moved on slowly, dreading the moment I’d reach my destination.

  At last, I stepped into the clearing. The rock was still there, and so was the whiskey bottle full of flowers. But the flowers were drooping. When actually faced with the magnitude of my task, I shrank. What was I thinking? How hard was the ground? How long would it take me? How deep was a grave anyway? Three feet? Four? The phrase “six feet under” came to me. I could never do that in one night. I was out of shape. I hadn’t been inside a gym in over a year, not since I’d left Manhattan. “Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained”—one of my grandmother’s expressions came back to me. (My real grandmother!) I shoved the spade into the ground and was pleased that it went in easily.

  I don’t know how long I dug, but I had grown warm and paused to take off my windbreaker. It landed with a thud and I remembered the gun. I decided to leave it there. I couldn’t hold it while I was digging anyway. I had propped the flashlight against the rock so it would illuminate the hole, but darkness shrouded the woods behind me. I went back to work. It wasn’t until I stopped to rest a second time that I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I spun around, shining the flashlight on the surrounding bushes. There was no one there—at least that I could see.

  I flicked off the light, suddenly feeling safer in the dark. The moon chose that moment to show itself. Its bright rays penetrated the largely leafless trees, illuminating the clearing like a stage. I was a sitting duck.

  Usually a rational person, I berated myself for giving in to such nonsense. My eyes had become used to the dark, and with the help of the moon I no longer needed the flashlight. I went back to my digging. I dug until my shoulders ached and my hands began to blister. The hole must be nearly six feet by now, but it was hard to tell. I wished I had brought a yardstick or a tape measure.

  Sweat dripped from my forehead and my T-shirt stuck to my back. I had taken off my sweater ages ago. I wished I’d brought my water bottle. I bent to pick up the shovel, when that feeling struck again. This time it was stronger—causing goose bumps. I was being watched—whether by animal, human, or ghost, I wasn’t sure. I had never believed in the supernatural, but I stood transfixed, straining my eyes and ears, afraid to move or even blink, for fear, in that brief moment, my invisible watcher would strike. Nothing happened. Don’t be a jerk, Jo, I told myself. Next, you’ll be seeing the Jersey Devil! Gradually, my panic ebbed and I returned to my digging.

  I was lifting a particularly heavy shovelful of dirt when hands grabbed me from behind and tightened around my neck.

  Wrong—one hand.

  I dropped the shovel, twisted out of the grasp, and fell to my knees. I was still fighting for my breath when Max came around and faced me, his face distorted by fury.

  I coughed and rubbed my throat while he stood over me, shouting, “You destructive, meddlesome bitch! What do you think you’re doing? This is my property. You have no right—”

  I put up my hand to stop the spate, but he kept right on. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never have hurt my hand. We were living peacefully, Lolly and me, until you came along, bringing social workers, the police—police dogs!” He was choking on his own rage.

  “What about you?” I screamed back. “You let me believe Regina was alive! You lied to me about her. I want to know the truth. Is she buried here?”

  I don’t know how long we glared at each other, but I began to feel cold. I had been warm while digging, but now I wanted my sweater and jacket. Max watched me put them on. Only when I felt its weight did I remember the gun. I decided not to mention it. He wouldn’t notice it in the dark.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” he said gruffly. With his good hand, he picked up the shovel and started off.

  I grabbed the flashlight and followed.

  CHAPTER 46

  We sat at the kitchen table, facing each other. I had made some tea and was sipping it slowly, trying not to scorch my throat, which was still sore.

  “Sorry about that,” Max said.

  “Are you referring to lying to me or to the attempt on my life?”

  “Both. You’ve tried to help Lolly and me. I
know that. And I’m grateful. But when I saw you digging around that site …” He shook his head. “Well … I lost it.”

  I didn’t say anything. I stroked a cat that had jumped into my lap the minute I’d sat down and waited for Max to answer the question I’d asked at the clearing.

  Max looked away, fixing his gaze on the stove. “It was a hot day in August,” he began. “There was a storm brewing somewhere. You could feel the moisture in the air and hear thunder in the distance. Now and then, there were flashes of lightning. Regina went out back to bring some clothes off the line. Lolly went with her to help. They must have had an argument, because the next thing I knew, I heard Lolly’s cries. I looked out the kitchen window and saw Regina hitting her with a stick. As I ran out to stop her, Lolly pushed Regina away and Regina fell. She hit her head on the back step.” Max’s gaze came back to me. “When we went to help her up, she didn’t respond. I thought she was just unconscious, but when I felt for her pulse, there wasn’t one. She had died instantly.”

  What could I say?

  He went on. “I knew I couldn’t call an ambulance or report it to the police. There would have been too many questions. My past and Regina’s would have come out. Lolly might have been implicated in the accident. Even though she was a juvenile and retarded, she might have been accused of manslaughter and put in a sanitarium. Or I might have been suspected of killing Regina and sent back to prison for the rest of my life—or worse. Then what would have happened to Lolly?”

  I shook my head. His face had lost its color, and I knew he was reliving those moments. But could I believe him when he had lied to me so many times before? How did I know he hadn’t pushed his wife in an effort to protect Lolly? But what did it matter who had pushed whom? The result would have been the same. Lolly would have been the one who suffered. She had a relatively happy life now. She was cared for. She had her cats to look after—and beautiful Bayfield to roam in.

  “I wish I could believe you,” I said fervently.

  His eyes narrowed. “Ask Lolly,” he said.

  “You know how poor her memory is.”

  “She’ll remember this.” He shoved his chair back. “I’ll wake her right now.”

  “No.” I stopped him. “There’s plenty of time.”

  He sat down again.

  I had one more question and I knew I might not have another opportunity to ask it. “Are you a counterfeiter?”

  His eyebrows shot up and he actually laughed. “Are you kidding? Do you think if I could make greenbacks I’d be sitting around this hole? No, that’s one kind of magic I’m not good at.”

  His expression of astonishment and his mirthless laugh convinced me he wasn’t lying this time.

  We sat silently for a minute, both exhausted—he from his rage and me from my unaccustomed exercise. Then we both voiced the same thought at the same time.

  “The grave!”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Max said.

  “With one hand? It’ll take you all night.” Seeing his expression, I added hastily, “We’ll do it together.”

  We trudged back to the woods with shovel and flashlight. I could hardly bear to think of lifting another load of dirt. But the whole thing went surprisingly fast. It is much easier to fill a hole than to dig one, I discovered. We moved the dirt quickly—me with the shovel, Max with his feet. Then we stomped on the site and camouflaged it with dead branches and leaves. It took us less than an hour. We left the whiskey bottle and the rock nearby so we could locate the site again.

  When we parted, I felt more like Max’s coconspirator than his enemy.

  CHAPTER 47

  Although I wanted to ask Lolly about the accident right away, I held back. I was afraid I might upset her. I didn’t know what effect the revival of those bad memories might have on her. But I had to know the truth. After wrestling with this dilemma for a few days, I decided to consult an expert on Down syndrome at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia.

  I set up an appointment with Dr. Alice Myers, a well-known authority on Lolly’s condition. I had the brilliant idea of presenting my problem as if it were someone else’s case—having nothing to do with me personally. And of course I would give Lolly, Max, and Regina fictitious names. They would become Polly, Mike, and Virginia.

  Dr. Myers was a small, wiry woman in her fifties. Her disarming manner concealed a sharp intelligence. As I told my story, occasionally stumbling over the new names of my characters, I found myself revealing more than I had intended. By the time I had finished, I knew Dr. Myers had seen through my poor little charade. However, she gave her advice without reservations.

  The gist of it was that Polly would probably be disturbed when I brought up the accident, but not in the same way a normal child would. Because of her lack of memory, she would recover more quickly and she should suffer no long-term psychological harm.

  I thanked her and rose to leave.

  “Dr. Banks …” she said. “Do you mind another piece of advice?”

  Caught off guard, I shrugged.

  “It’s best not to become too emotionally involved with your patients.”

  I blushed, embarrassed that she had seen through my subterfuge so easily.

  “It’s very hard sometimes, but I’ve been in practice twenty years longer than you, and I know I’ve been a better doctor whenever I’ve abided by that rule.”

  At a loss for words, I simply nodded.

  She gave me a warm smile and offered her hand.

  I shook it, thanked her again, and left quickly.

  Of course she’s right, I told myself as I headed home on the bus. But there were mitigating circumstances. I doubted Dr. Myers had ever been forced to treat any of her patients at gunpoint, or been nearly strangled by one. I decided to mull over her advice for a few days before taking any action. When I made my house call on Max, he asked immediately, “Did you talk to Lolly?”

  His eagerness to have me ask Lolly about the accident convinced me even more that his story was true. But I still held off—primarily because I hated to upset her. The next day, I decided I had to act. As Lolly walked me to the door, I paused and said, “We have to talk.”

  She smiled happily and said, “Sure.” If she remembered about taking me to her mother’s grave, she bore me no ill will. She led me to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and drew a yellow cat onto her lap. Stroking her, she looked at me expectantly.

  It was hard to willfully shatter such innocent repose, but I had to. “Lolly, remember that day you took me to the clearing in the woods?”

  Her brow knit as she tried to remember.

  “You told me your mother was buried there, remember?”

  A look of alarm crossed her face.

  “I have to ask you how your mother died.”

  She stopped stroking the cat and stared at me.

  I reconstructed the scene in words for her, and then said, “Who pushed your mother? You or Daddy?”

  Assuming a mutinous expression, she didn’t answer.

  “Please, Lolly, try to remember,” I begged. “It’s important.” I wanted to assure her that nothing would happen to her, but I couldn’t swear to that. In desperation, I got to my feet and, using the yardstick that always hung beside the refrigerator, reenacted the scene as Max had described it. I played the different parts of Regina, Max, and Lolly, except I made one change. I pretended that Max pushed Regina.

  “No! No!” Lolly rushed forward. “I did it. I pushed her.” She pushed me hard in the chest. “Just like that.” She collapsed in my arms, sobbing.

  Oh god, what a rat I am! I thought as I stroked her back and crooned in her ear. “Never mind. Never mind. It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Hearing the commotion, Max appeared in the doorway, his eyes questioning.

  I nodded to him over Lolly’s head and mouthed “It’s okay.”

  Max looked relieved but still hesitated, debating whether he should comfort his daughter.

  Afraid he might upset
her further, I mouthed “Go.” Reluctantly, he went back to his TV program.

  Later that night, as I lay in bed, I realized what my recent discovery meant to Max. With Regina dead, there was no one to testify that he’d had nothing to do with the death of Jane Lansing. With Regina dead, there was no one to prove he hadn’t killed his wife—except Lolly, and who would believe a woman with Down syndrome? I doubted if a lawyer would even put her on the stand. Then, there was the murder of the counterfeiter, which Detective Peck seemed to suspect Max of being involved in. If Max was going to continue caring for Lolly, he would have to remain undercover—a fugitive from justice—for the rest of his life.

  That couldn’t happen. I would have to come up with something.

  And beneath all these worries lay another—like a slug under a rock—the threat of the black hand.

  CHAPTER 48

  The next day was very busy. I had two emergencies—a man who got caught in his own muskrat trap and a boy who fell in Stow Creek and nearly drowned. By the time I had finished my motel calls, it was almost dark. I usually saved Max’s call for last so I could spend some time with Lolly. Sometimes she asked me to stay for dinner, but it was never as merry as that first time with the bottle of wine. Max rarely spoke and his sullen mood put a damper on the meal.

  Tonight there was a harvest moon—a huge orange balloon rising above the field behind the farmhouse. It was so big, and so low, I felt that if I was a little taller I could bounce it on the tips of my fingers. Having indulged in my daily dose of nature, I rode up the drive to the house.

  Immediately, I sensed something was wrong. There were no lights in the windows, not even in the kitchen. And the car was gone! Oh my god. I parked and ran to the back door. It was locked. I banged on it and called, “Max! Lolly!”