Sweet After Death

by Valentina Giambanco

  There was a path clear of people and Hockley pressed his foot on the accelerator. The wall surged before him, faster than he would have expected, and he hit it squarely at thirteen miles per hour. The air bag punched him and the crash rebounded through his body. He looked up, dazed, and all he could hear were the sounds of hammers against the bricks.

  Kupitz yanked the door open and dragged him out. “Hock, are you all right?”

  The fire chief and two of his men were finishing the job. The crash had destroyed the window and dislodged a handful of bricks: enough for men to go through, enough to reach the motionless body on the floor.

  The heat was building up and now even the second floor was eerily illuminated. Madison, half of her face hot and half cold, swept her eyes over the crowd and over the firefighters. She didn’t know what she was looking for, and she hoped that she would recognize it if she saw it. If the killer was there, if he was moving among them, would he try to stop them from saving his victim? Would he reveal himself in a look?

  So far, Madison thought, he had kept himself hidden: his was not an assassin’s mission to immolate himself for the sake of achieving his object. He had been careful, he had been cautious.

  Let him be wary a little longer, Madison prayed. Let him be prudent and not try anything in the middle of this mess.

  The SWAT team was already on its way back to Ludlow but nobody knew how long it would take for them to get there—and, once they did, whether there would be more victims to be counted.

  “Here we go . . .” The fire chief shone his heavy-duty flashlight inside the basement. “In and out, people. No lingering for mementos.”

  His words were still in the air when his body disappeared into the hole followed by two firefighters; a third one was left to point the flashlight inside the dim room and prevent anyone else from going in.

  A puff of smoke leaked out of the opening, floating out into the air like poison. It found Madison’s throat and she coughed. The firefighters had been wearing masks, but Andrew Howell had not, and he wasn’t moving. Any second now, they would pull him out; any second now, he would be out. Brown and Madison kept their focus on the crowd, their hands resting on the butt of their sidearms, seeking out something—or someone—that might not be there at all.

  Madison heard raised voices from inside and knew that something was wrong. There was swearing and loud exchanges muffled by the men’s gear, and she tried to peek into the hole. The beam of light cut through the smoke and her eyes found the men standing around the body in the corner. Andrew Howell lay with his arms spread out and his legs bent to one side and . . .

  Madison blinked.

  Above her something crashed in the living room. The heat was becoming unbearable, but she couldn’t move from where she was. And she couldn’t look away from what she saw.

  “They’re going to need an ax,” she said to Brown, and she ran to the fire truck.

  “Give me an ax,” she said to one of the firefighters. “Quickly.”

  The man didn’t ask why—or who she was—and as Madison turned to the blazing house she saw Kupitz and Hockley disappearing into the hole. The ax was heavy in her arms, and every detail stood out in the full horror of the moment: the sheen on the steel blade and the curve of the handle, and her breath catching in her throat. They needed an ax because Andrew Howell lay in a heap on the concrete floor in the basement of his pretty wooden house, and around his right ankle the jaws of a steel trap had been snapped shut. The trap’s chain was wrapped around a heavy beam, and no one in that basement was going anywhere.

  “Here . . .” she said, and she passed the ax down into the gloom. If they tried to pry open the trap’s jaws, it would take too long and the man might bleed out. How much time did they have? The killer didn’t have to do anything. All that was left was to stand back and watch. He had already done enough, and the house would do the rest.

  Colville County had decided to catch up with the rest of the world in madness and evil, and they, who had been sent to help, were failing. The glint of metal around the man’s foot was the mark of their failure.

  There was a sudden surge of heat as some of the upstairs windows blew out and shards of glass rained around them. A piece caught the material of Madison’s coat by her shoulder. A firefighter stood before them and started to push Brown and Madison backward.

  “They’re still inside,” Brown said to the man, but he put the flat of his gloved hands on their chests and pushed them back firmly.

  The chief and the deputies were in the basement with the other firefighters, and neither Brown nor Madison were inclined to do as they were told.

  Chief Sangster stared at the figure on the floor. One of the firefighters had taken off one glove and was feeling under Andrew’s jaw for his pulse. It was Polly’s Andrew, for Chrissakes.

  “Fast and shallow. Going into shock,” the man said.

  Sangster wanted to cough out the taste in his mouth. The smoke was getting thicker as it seeped under the basement door, but everybody’s eyes were on the thing, the dreadful thing, hanging on the man’s ankle.

  “Pull the chain tight,” Kupitz said to Hockley, and he did.

  “Ready to move him as soon as we’re clear,” the fire chief said.

  Normally Hockley would have made a crack about Kupitz hitting his hand and not the chain, but all the jokes had gone out of him. Koop looked ready to smash his way into hell if necessary. Hockley nodded, pulled the chain tight from the end with the locked jaws, then watched his friend raise the ax high above his head and swing it down hard.

  The blade hit metal a couple of inches away from the beam and split the link open.

  “Let’s go!”

  “Take his shoulder.”

  “Lift the trap and keep the weight off the foot.”

  “On my count . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .”

  Brown and Madison saw Sangster emerging from the hole.

  “Back away. Give ‘em room.” The firefighter finally managed to get them to inch away.

  Through the haze Madison saw them carry out the limp, lifeless body. They were almost completely out of the building, almost all clear and safe, when the air was torn by a crash. A wave of heat knocked into them: the ground floor had collapsed into the basement. Madison walked backward away from the house.

  How many men had gone in? How many had come out?

  Brown spun her around; he looked suddenly stricken. There were cheers for the firefighters, and some people were clapping. They really had no idea about what was going on.

  “The killer hit Edwards by mistake,” Brown said.

  Madison nodded.

  “How did he realize that he’d gotten the wrong guy? Why did he come for Polly’s husband?”

  Somewhere behind her Hockley was calling out Kupitz’s name, his voice ragged and raw.

  Brown eyed the crowd. “How did the killer find out that he’d gotten the wrong guy?”

  Chapter 46

  Lee Edwards woke up in her bed. The room was dim because her heavy drapes were drawn, and she remembered that she had gone back for a nap sometime earlier in the morning. She had hardly slept the night before. What had begun as a trickle of memories had become a flood, and it felt as if she was stuck on the This Is Your Life channel. Conversations of any kind had turned into a welcome distraction, and as she sat up she wondered who she would find on duty in her living room. She had left Rhonda there earlier, reading her book club paperback.

  The poodle looked up when she stood but seemed perfectly content to remain at the bottom of her bed. Ty would have objected, but Lee needed the familiar warm weight of another soul lying next to her in the darkness.

  She emerged into the living room and smiled: Ben Taylor was sitting on the sofa where Rhonda had been, reading one of Ty’s historical mysteries.

  He looked up.

  “There you are,” he said. “How are we feeling?”

  “Better,” the woman replied.

  “Would you like
some tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Have a seat, let me do it.”

  “You’re a sweetheart.”

  Ben busied himself in the kitchen, humming a tune, and a few minutes later he returned carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs.

  “You’re going to make someone a wonderful husband one day,” Lee said.

  Ben smiled. “Here you go . . .”

  The snowfall had made every sound muted, and the neighborhood felt peaceful. They drank the tea in silence because Lee had become accustomed to not having to entertain her guests. They didn’t expect her to—and in fact seemed poised to do the entertaining themselves.

  “I really loved the stories you were telling us yesterday,” the man said. “About how Ludlow used to be when you first arrived. I should do a program about the history of the place. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good, a lot of old-timers have stories to tell.”

  “Maybe,” the man said. “But they wouldn’t be as good as yours. Coming to Ludlow all the way from Massachusetts.”

  “A lot of people here have come from other places.”

  “Still, a story is a complex thing. Everybody has a story to tell, but not everyone’s story has, you know, the kind of human interest that gets people to tune in, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You, for example, you were born in . . . ?”

  “Gloucester.”

  “That’s right. And it’s a fishing town, a real old-fashioned harbor and all . . . and here you are surrounded by mountains, nowhere near the sea. And if Ludlow is isolated now, I can’t imagine what it would have been like then. No Internet, no cell phones, barely even a newspaper.”

  “Lord, no. We had none of that.”

  “Not a movie theater or a store that sold more than two brands of coffee.”

  Lee chuckled. “It was different, I’ll give you that.”

  “Well,” Ben Taylor said, “forgive me, but I’ve got to ask. Why the fuck did you come here, then?”

  Lee Edwards smiled and sat forward, because obviously she hadn’t really heard what she thought she’d heard.

  “What?” she said.

  “I just asked you,” Ben Taylor said, as courteously as if he were addressing a foreign monarch, “why the fuck did you come to Ludlow?”

  The profanity was a sharp slap.

  “Ben—”

  “I find it difficult to believe anything you say, when you already lied to me about the most basic thing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sure you don’t . . . but you will in a minute.”

  “I want you to leave,” Lee Edwards said, and stood up.

  “Where were you born?” the man said, and he took a sip of tea. “Please don’t say Gloucester because we’re way beyond that.”

  Lee Edwards froze.

  “Sit,” Ben Taylor said.

  The woman hesitated.

  “Sit!”

  Lee Edwards dropped down onto the sofa. She couldn’t have walked, anyway. There was a swarming in her ears and she felt icy cold, as if life had already left her.

  “You were born in Boston,” Ben Taylor said. “Not in Gloucester, no. I don’t know if you were ever in Gloucester at all, but you had to account for your East Coast accent, right?”

  Lee didn’t reply.

  Ben Taylor’s eyes bore into hers. “You left me a note. You left me three lines to say good-bye forever, and a puppy in a box to take the sting of it away. A puppy. Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to find you?”

  Lee watched him, in shock.

  “Years. It’s taken me years,” he said.

  The silence outside wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was an oppressing silence that pushed down on her from all sides.

  “Aidan?” The woman said finally.

  “Yes,” the man sighed.

  “I—”

  It was all she managed to say because, faster than she could move, Ben Taylor had gripped her wrist. Somehow there was a syringe in his hand and she was struggling and then falling back against the sofa and into darkness.

  Ben Taylor put his arms around the woman and lifted her. He was familiar with the house and had been inside it many times since the fake burglary.

  He carried Lee Edwards into the bathroom and laid her in the tub. Supporting her head with one hand, he grabbed a towel with the other and bunched it up to give her a pillow against the hard surface. There was snuffling at the door and the dog wagged his tail. Ben scratched him behind the ear and led him by his collar back into the bedroom. He closed the door and returned to the bathroom. Lee Edwards lay still, with her eyes half open.

  He watched her for a moment: her chest rose and fell, her face had paled, and her hands were palms up like a bizarre Deposition of Christ, where Lee had taken Christ’s place. Once a Catholic . . .

  The song was with him again—a memory, and a light in the shadows. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.

  He went to the cabinet, still humming, and there, as he already knew, was Ty Edwards’s razor. So perfect for the suicide of a widow who could not bear to live under the weight of her grief.

  Daisy, Daisy . . .

  Kevin Brown rang the doorbell. He could still feel the heat of the fire on his face but the fire was somewhere else, together with the noise of the crowd and the emergency vehicles. Where Brown stood there was only silence.

  A tall man in jeans and a red fleece jacket opened the door.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Brown. I’d like a word with Mrs. Edwards, if she’s around.”

  “She is, but she’s having a little quiet time,” the man said. “I’m Ben Taylor.”

  “I think we’ve met. You work at the radio station, right?”

  “Right, your colleague recorded the appeal.”

  Ben Taylor had long hair in a ponytail and a crooked smile. He was holding a book in his hand, as if Brown had interrupted his midday reading.

  “Yes, she did.” Brown walked in. “I really need to speak with Mrs. Edwards. Is she sleeping?”

  “No, she wanted to take a hot bath, to try and relax. She hasn’t been sleeping at all.”

  “I can imagine. Would you mind knocking on the door and telling her I’m here?”

  “I’d rather wait a little. She’s only just gone in. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll make some coffee, and in ten minutes or so I’ll knock on the door and she’ll come out.”

  “I need to see her right now, I’m afraid.”

  Alice Madison scanned the backyard. Every movement and every sound was significant: they needed to get Lee Edwards out of the house as soon as possible. She looked up. The sky was colorless and bright, and the snowfall had almost stopped. The firs around the house were laden with it and the branches trailed on the ground under their burden. A bird flapped its wings somewhere above her and a chunk of white spattered on the lawn.

  Without looking, Madison undid the safety strap on her holster just as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.

  “Where’s your partner? Has something happened?” Ben Taylor said.

  His manner was pleasant, but Brown was already on edge and was looking behind the man to the bungalow’s corridor, ready to go around him and get Lee Edwards out of her bath himself. The question stopped him cold.

  Where’s your partner?

  It was an innocent question, delivered with a concerned smile.

  Where’s your partner?

  “She’s at the station,” Brown replied, not missing a beat.

  Taylor had already reached behind him for the revolver in his belt under the fleece.

  “Good for her,” he said, and the barrel of the Smith & Wesson was aimed straight at Brown’s chest. His hand was steady and his voice was calm. “You got here too late, Detective. Lee Edwards has already taken her life and in due time she’ll be found by a friend. Me. You, on the other hand, are going to be the Ludlow killer’s next vict
im. But fear not, I’m sure you’ll get a proper cop funeral. Everyone loves a good cop funeral.”

  Madison eased herself through the bedroom window. She had noticed that it was open and it had been easy to push the pane aside and slip behind the drapes. It had been too long since Brown had gone inside, and the question that had brought them there was still pecking at her.

  How had the killer known?

  The killer had known because he had spoken to Lee Edwards, and she had told him something that had led him to Andrew Howell.

  The room Madison found herself in was a bedroom. The blankets on the bed were pulled up, though not quite straight.

  Unbidden and unwanted came the memory of Robert Dennen’s body on the morgue’s table, and the steel jaws of the hunting trap. If the man they were after could do that, he could do anything. The adrenaline was acid in her gut and her gun hand felt clammy.

  A dark shape on the bed moved, and Madison’s breath caught. The dog shifted and his tail thumped once. Good Tucker, stay where you are.

  Voices spoke harshly, somewhere nearby, and Madison listened, flat against the door. Brown’s voice and another man’s.

  Where were they?

  She peeked into the corridor: a corner hid the men from her line of sight. Across from her the bathroom door was ajar, but the light was on. Madison darted inside.

  Lee Edwards was sleeping, fully dressed, in the tub, her head nestled against a towel and her arms crossed. Her breath was barely a sigh. It was not sleep, it was something else. She was holding a black-and-white photograph to her chest, and red stains were spreading on her clothes from the cuts on her wrists.

  Madison felt the scream die in her throat as she seized whatever towels she could find. The woman’s hands and arms were slippery and heavy; Madison wrapped them tight, without making a sound, her Glock abandoned in the middle of the bathroom floor.

  She shouldn’t leave the woman alone, but she couldn’t stay. And she wanted to stay, but she must go.

  Madison reached for her piece. If Lee was going to die because she hadn’t done enough then Madison would have to live with it. She made sure the towels were as tight as they could be and she leaned close to the woman’s ear.