by JOAN HESSS
“Isn’t she currently confined in the psychiatric ward? Not much of a witness, is she? Your only other witness claims to have been ripped apart by an Egyptian demon and admitted that he killed a man in cold blood.”
I was casting about for an adequately scathing response when the elevator doors opened. Sullivan stepped just inside, blocking my entrance, and stood there glaring at the until the doors closed.
The elevator descended to the first floor, then came back up to fetch me. By the time I arrived outside, Sullivan had disappeared either down one of numerous dark sidewalks or around the building to the parking lot. The sound of a car starting suggested the latter.
“Jorgeson has the weapon,” I said out loud as I headed home. “It belongs to Roy’s father and has Roy’s fingerprints on it. Roy confessed. Just because there was need of a pagan traffic controller before the murder doesn’t mean that Roy didn’t do it. A shoplifter in a grocery store doesn’t negate an armed robbery an hour later.”
A flutter of motion in my peripheral vision indicated my grousing had roused a couple who thought the lonely campus provided a safe place to advance their relationship. I did not apologize or make sure they planned to engage in safe sex, but instead continued along the sidewalk.
I stopped on the porch to collect my mail, the usual collection of bills and flyers, and opened the door.
A hand caught the door before I could close it.
Chapter 15
“Mrs. Malloy,” Morning Rose said with enough ill-contained urgency to awaken drunks dozing on barstools across the street from the Book Depot. “Thank God you’re here! I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so frightened.”
I’d put the poor retired professor through quite a bit already, so I motioned her inside. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said in a low voice. “Then we’ll talk.”
“There’s no time for that,” she said.
“Ah, but there is. I have no desire to go dashing into the night on some foolish mission, so I have all the time in the world.”
“It’s Roy. He’s going to kill himself if we don’t find him.” She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket and offered it to me. When I didn’t accept it, she said, “I found this under our front door. The minute that Sullivan got home, I hurried here. You have to read it. He’s serious—”
“Call the police.”
“I don’t dare,” she said as she sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands like a seduced maiden in a Greek tragedy who’d just realized the baby might be born with feathers. “The minute he sees them, he’ll put the gun to his head and pull the trigger. He’s sick, Mrs. Malloy. We have to find him and get him back to the psychiatric ward where he can be restrained. How did he get out of there? Don’t they realize he’s suicidal?”
I plucked the letter out of her hand and read it under the glow of the forty-watt bulb the miserly landlord favored. Most of it was written in an illegible scrawl that would have exasperated Fern, but I could decipher the phrases “can’t face the torment” and “better off dead.”
“Just what are you planning to do?” I asked Morning Rose. “Roy left the hospital hours ago. He could be anywhere.”
She looked up at me. “I think I know where he stayed after he left the carriage house.”
“So alert the police. They’re trained to deal with emotionally disturbed people. They’ll walk softly and carry big butterfly nets.”
“I’m the only person who can talk him into going back to the hospital. If anyone else approaches him, he’ll snap like a twig. You have to help me save his life!”
“No, I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s a confessed murderer and quite possibly a dangerous schizophrenic. I’m not about to go track him down in a dark alley and suggest he turn himself in. I’ve done that several times, and I’m tired of it.”
“He’s not in an alley,” she said as she stood up and caught my hands. “I think Roy broke into one of Nicholas’s rental properties. He’s done repair work in many of them, and he knows which are likely to be empty over the Christmas break. You can stay in the van, Mrs. Malloy. If there’s a light, I’ll get out and ring the doorbell. As soon as you see Roy at the door, you can drive to a telephone and call the police. That’ll give me time to convince him to come quietly.” She squeezed my hands so tightly that I winced. “He won’t hurt me. I can get the gun away from him and calm him down so that he won’t—do something foolish.”
“Jorgeson can arrange for an unmarked police car to take you around the properties.”
“No,” she said with a frustrated groan. “What if Roy looks at the car and sees an unfamiliar driver? He’ll panic and blow out his brains. If he sees you, he might not be so impulsive. He’s trusted you in the past. You don’t have to set one foot outside the van. You’ll be at least twenty feet away with the engine running. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought you’d be in any danger. What’s more, the odds that we’ll find him are infinitesimal. Nicholas owned houses and apartment buildings all over Farberville. I only know the few that Roy mentioned.”
“Have Sullivan go with you.”
“Roy knows how much Sullivan despises him,” she said, lapsing back into urgency and doing so much damage to my hands that I could never become a renowned concert pianist (it was on my midlife-crisis list). “An hour is all I ask. If I haven’t found Roy by then, I’ll go home and light candles for him. He’ll need all the help he can get.”
“Let’s not get overly dramatic,” I said as I jerked my hands free before she completely mangled them.
“He’s the same age as your daughter, isn’t he? You wouldn’t hesitate to save her, but Roy’s mother isn’t as compassionate. She got drunk every day and slept with anyone who’d have her. Roy came home from school one afternoon and found her in bed with the preacher from—”
“You’ve made your point All right, Morning Rose, well drive by the rental properties and look for lights. Not all the tenants are students, however, and not all the students leave town for the holidays, so you’re likely to find yourself apologizing to people for disturbing them at this hour. I will remain in the driver’s seat. We will do this for no more than an hour.”
“Oh, thank you,” she gushed, looking as if she might give me a warm Wiccan hug.
I stepped back so abruptly I almost fell off the edge of the porch. “Where’s the van?”
“Just around the corner. Please, let’s hurry.”
I followed her through the yard, debating if I should congratulate myself on this spontaneous enterprise or drive to the hospital and inquire into vacancies on the sixth floor. The van reeked of patchouli oil and dried peanut butter. It had a stick shift, but I’d mastered that earlier. “Where do we start?”
“Nicholas owned all the houses in our development,” Morning Rose said.
“And the duplexes and houses on Malthea’s street,” I countered. “Let’s go there, and work our way toward your end of town.”
“Okay,” she muttered, apparently having lost her missionary zeal between the porch and the passenger’s seat.
I drove slowly down the pertinent street, noting that Fern’s lights were on and Malthea’s off. Almost all the other houses were dark, and there were only two cars parked along the curb in the four-block stretch.
“Roy could be inside any of these houses,” I said. “What he’s really interested in is somewhere warm to sleep. Maybe he realized that it wouldn’t be wise to turn on the lights and advertise his presence.”
“He’s not thinking clearly.”
“I agree with that,” I said as I turned toward the south part of town. “Any other properties between here and your area?”
“Nicholas bought Malthea’s house next to the cemetery. Roy mentioned that when he went there to rake leaves, the two girls renting it tried to get him to drink wine with them. Undergraduates, likely to go home for Christmas.”
“Where’s the house?”
She directed me to a narrow street that ra
n along the back side of the cemetery. “That’s it, I think,” she said, pointing at a shabby little house set well away from the streetlights. “Stop here and I’ll check it out. Keep your door locked, Mrs. Malloy, and if anything strange happens, don’t come after me. Get away and call the police.”
I watched her creep across the yard, peer into a darkened window, and then vanish behind an unruly barrier of bushes. Five minutes later she had not reappeared. Nothing whatsoever, strange or mundane, had happened.
I turned off the car’s engine and rolled down the window. In a more congenial season I would have heard crickets, birds, tree frogs, raucous music from the beer garden, and the mating calls of students in the apartment complexes on the next block. The only thing I could hear now was the rumble of traffic several blocks away.
I rolled up the window and looked at the cemetery beyond a crumbling rock wall. Moonlight glinted off marble and granite monuments as if they were chiseled blocks of ice. Wind riffled branches of trees that had been there longer than the current tenants.
Morning Rose did not return.
I hummed my way through the theme songs of Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch. I attempted the graduation processional but gave up after a few bars. I had a paperback in my purse (dedicated mystery fans always do), but I didn’t have a flashlight and it was too dark to see the print, much less read it.
She did not return.
I contemplated how I’d explain her absence to her children on Christmas Eve. “Your mommy,” I’d say, blinking back tears, “was a compassionate woman who sacrificed herself to save a young boy. She was an angel of mercy.”
Still no Morning Rose.
Something was wrong, but I wasn’t willing to leave the van to investigate. I finally decided to wait five more minutes, then go to the bookstore and call the police. They’d most likely find Morning Rose on the ground with a sprained ankle or wandering like a wraith through backyards at the end of the block, plaintively bleating Roy’s name. I’d feel silly, but not stupid.
I was rehearsing my remarks to the 911 dispatcher when two clinging figures came slowly across the yard. As they reached the street, I could see that Morning Rose had her arms around Roy and appeared to be supporting him. He was hunched over as though he were in the throes of a violent gastric attack, his face masked by his hair, his arms limp at his sides.
“I found him,” she called, “and he’s agreed to be taken to the hospital.”
The back door of the van slid open. She helped Roy inside, closed the door, and climbed into the seat next to me. “Everything will be fine,” she said, twisting around to look at him. “You’ll be safe. If they let me, I’ll sit in your room the rest of the night, just in case you have…a nightmare.”
The wisest thing to do was to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible. Rather than questioning Morning Rose about such minor issues as the whereabouts of his purported gun, I started the engine. “We should be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I won’t be safe at the hospital,” Roy said dully. “Malthea’s there, so she can tell Ambesek where to find me. I’m going to die. Why didn’t you let me go without the agony?”
I pushed down on the accelerator. “Ten minutes, maybe less if we don’t hit any red lights.”
Morning Rose tried to smile. “You’ll be fine, Roy.”
I was about to reiterate the sentiment when I felt the barrel of a gun pressed against my neck. My foot slipped off the pedal, inadvertently hit the brakes, and brought the van to a shuddery stop in the middle of Thurber Street.
“Start the car,” Roy said in a crisp, cold voice. “If that happens again, you can stand under the mistletoe and kiss your ass good-bye.”
“Roy!” yelped Morning Rose. “You said you were unarmed.”
“Yeah, but everybody knows I’m crazy.” He increased the pressure on my neck. “Drive to the grove. I’ve got things to do that aren’t permitted in the psych ward.”
I did as ordered. Morning Rose sat silently, her hands writhing in her lap and her eyes lowered. I was as angry at her as I was at Roy, but there was no point in scolding her for falling for his ploy. Wiccans could be as obtuse as the rest of us.
“What things?” I asked Roy as I drove through town.
“I’ll tell you when we get there. Now shut up and don’t do anything impulsive, like run into a parked car. I don’t want to hurt you, Mrs. Malloy, but I will.”
“Haven’t we been through this before?”
“Someone must have rewound the tape,” he said. “Just drive—okay?”
We arrived without further conversation. I couldn’t tell what was going through Morning Rose’s mind, but I doubted she would be useful in a confrontation. Spells weren’t likely to deflect bullets.
“Here we are,” I said brightly as I pulled over to the fence. “Shall I pick you up later?”
“Get out of the car,” Roy said, unamused. “Morning Rose, take the key. We’re all going for a stroll.”
It was not an appealing idea. I climbed down from the seat, went around the front of the van, and waited as Morning Rose pretty much slithered out of her seat. Roy caught her before she fell to the ground.
“Get a grip,” he snarled. “I’m not going to sling you over my shoulder and carry you.”
She touched his face. “You swore you’d go to the hospital, Roy. It’s not too late. Why don’t we all get back in the van and—”
She gasped as he lightly slapped her.
He waved the gun at the trees in the distance. “Let’s go.”
We stumbled across the pasture and into the woods. Roy prodded me with the gun whenever I faltered, and we eventually found the clearing. The altar reminded me of the gravestones in the cemetery, white and cold, eternally lifeless.
“What are you going to do?” Morning Rose asked Roy in a timid squeak.
“I hate to put it this bluntly, but I’m going to shoot Mrs. Malloy.”
“What?” I said, staring at him. “What’s your beef with me? I’ve been trying to help you ever since all this started, for pity’s sake. I’ve listened to your confessions, held your hand while you were interrogated, and pleaded your cause with Sergeant Jorgeson. This is not the best way to express your gratitude, Roy. I don’t expect flowers and candy, but a card might be in order.”
“You know too much.”
“All I know is what people have told me, and most of that has been untrue. I may not believe in demons, and I may have my doubts that Malthea’s a priestess in some screwy cult, but…” I broke off and sat down on the stump, which was getting as familiar as my living-room sofa (although not as comfortable). “How do you know Malthea’s in the hospital?”
For the first time since I’d met him, he smiled. “Maybe a little messenger from hell told me. Now move over there next to the altar. It’s time someone put it to good use.”
“I can think of no reason why I should cooperate,” I said, staying where I was and crossing my arms. “You can kill Morning Rose and me, but you know perfectly well that you won’t get away with it. If you’re found guilty by reason of insanity, they’ll lock you up in a hospital until you’ve quit foaming—then lock you up in a prison for the rest of your life. There won’t be any ‘sick little boy’ defense.”
Morning Rose moved toward my side, her eyes enormous in the shadowy light. “But that’s what he is, Mrs. Malloy. Once he’s had proper treatment, he’ll be able to make a plea for leniency and serve only a small sentence. He’s not a hardened criminal.”
“Is that what you want as an epitaph on your headstone?” I asked her. I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around so that she was facing Roy. Without releasing her, I added, “See that gun in his hand? He’s going to shoot you.”
“Let her go,” Roy said.
She began to squirm, but I dug my fingernails into her flesh. “Or maybe he won’t shoot you,” I said slowly. “The only members of your group who know that Malthea’s in the hospital are Fern and Gilda. I’m g
oing to assume Roy has not been in communication with either of them this evening. He must have learned this from you, Morning Rose. How did you find out? Did you see the ambulance go up the driveway at Primrose Hill?” She nodded. “But that wouldn’t explain why you knew it was there for Malthea. Was it because you were responsible for the assault in the study?”
Roy leaned against the altar, rather casually, in my opinion, for someone who intended to cover it with bloodstains. Without letting the gun bobble even for an instant, he pulled a cigarette pack and a lighter out of his pocket. “Very good, Mrs. Malloy. Now let her go.”
“Not just yet,” I said as my fingers began to protest. “Gilda told me that Nicholas had evidence that would cause her to lose her job and possibly face criminal charges. That’s why she tried to break into the house earlier—to find the evidence. It’s also why Malthea did the same thing a few hours ago, and, apparently, did Morning Rose. What is it?”
“You haven’t proved I was there,” said Morning Rose sulkily.
I shook her as I would a mysterious package beneath a Christmas tree. “Malthea seems determined to protect Roy, and not in order to hide any association with a satanic cult.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he said as he lit the cigarette.
“But you did kill Nicholas,” I continued. “Why?”
“Because,” he said in a whiny falsetto, “I’m a victim, too. My father rejected me and my mother neglected me. The preacher used to beat me with a strap. I know I shouldn’t have taken drugs, ma’am, but I was all alone and so confused. I guess I was beggin’ for help.”
“Roy,” Morning Rose said, “this has gone on long enough. You’ve got a gun, and you should be able to find a way to use it.”
I abruptly shifted my arms to her waist and grasped my wrists, pulling her against me. “The bullet will penetrate both of us. Waste not, want not.”
“Don’t make this any harder than necessary,” he said as he approached.
“I’m not going to make it any easier than necessary,” I said, calculating the distance. “I shouldn’t do that, should I, Morning Rose?”