Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "Joan, please come. I don't want to leave you here alone."

  The actress smiled sadly and bowed her head. She spoke with a British accent. "You must go now, Anabelle, and never look back. Your life is just beginning. Be happy, my darling. Just... be happy." Long lashes brushed her cheeks. Then she made a slow wink. "Greer Garson. Not bad, eh?"

  Lightning flashed at the window. Gail said, "I'll call later to see how you are."

  "Yes, would you? How kind." Joan swirled across the room to her stereo cabinet. "I'm in the mood for Sinatra. You know, we met in Vegas in his Rat Pack days. Frank and Dean and Sammy. Talk about wild!"

  A draft lifted the heavy curtains. From upstairs came a noise, a rhythmic clanging: the piece of loose metal on the roof. The storm would break at any moment.

  Gail hurried out the door and into the hall. Using the finial post for a fulcrum she swung around and went down the stairs so fast she nearly tripped. A few more steps took her through the hall. She pushed through the door and stood on the porch. Trees swayed and moaned, and a crack of thunder split the sky. Water poured off the roof. Running down the steps, shielding her cell phone from the downpour, Gail hit Anthony's number.

  "No service? Damn."

  The battery was dead. Gail remembered the telephone in the hall, an old black dial model on an oak stand. She ran back up the steps. Unless she got in touch with Anthony, he would be out in this deluge looking for her.

  She went back inside and picked up the telephone receiver, which was surprisingly heavy. Upstairs, Frank Sinatra was singing about the cool of the evening. With her finger poised over the circular dial, Gail realized there was no dial tone. She followed the line to see if it was plugged into the wall. The black cord was lying loose on the floor. "Oh, great."

  She stood up, turned, and looked into the face of a gray-haired man in a T-shirt and waterproof pants. She staggered backward a step before she recognized him. Kyle Fadden.

  "Hello. What—What are you—" She saw the gun pointed at her chest.

  Fadden grabbed the front of her shirt and put the gun under her jaw. "Scream and you get a bullet. Understand me? Turn around and walk."

  With his hand clamped in her hair and the gun at her back he pushed her to the kitchen. Gail saw a flight of dark, narrow stairs and tried to twist away from him. "No! I'm not going down there."

  He shook her by the hair. "I want you where I can see you. Stay quiet and nothing's going to happen. Move." When she struggled, Kyle Fadden put his mouth close to her ear. "I can crack you over the head and push you down those stairs. What'll it be?"

  Gail put her hands out like a blind woman. Her legs trembled. She slid her foot over the threshold, feeling for the first step.

  The chain-link gate was open wide, and Anthony aimed the cart straight for it. Within seconds he was on Joan Sinclair's side of the island. The canopy of trees cut the rain but dimmed what weak sunlight leaked through. Anthony slowed to avoid a rock, went around it, and broke out into a clearing familiar from two nights ago. He accelerated the cart until the rain came at him almost horizontally.

  The cart suddenly lurched. The tires on the right had dropped into a gully obscured by weeds. As he fell, Anthony instinctively threw himself in the other direction. His hip and shoulder thudded onto rain-soaked earth. He staggered up. The cart's front fender had punctured a tire. "¡Hijo de puta!"

  He looked around to get his bearings, made sure he still had the pistol, then set out at a limping run.

  The house was built eight feet off the ground on pilings. The rear of the house rested on walls of concrete block that formed an above-ground basement. At the bottom of the stairs, Gail could see that Kyle Fadden had taken her down to this room. The harsh white light of a butane lantern shone on rotting sheets of plywood, a twisted bicycle frame, rusted paint cans, a propane tank. An algae-streaked concrete block cistern sat in a corner. Its heavy wooden lid lay beside it.

  "Don't put me in there! Please don't—"

  "I said be quiet."

  Fadden pushed her toward the back of the room. He pulled a knife from a case on his belt. "Get on the ground."

  "No!"

  "I'm going to tie you to that column, and unless you want a gag in your mouth, shut up." He cut a length of rope, tied her hands behind her, then ran another piece of rope around one of the columns supporting the house. The ground was cold and damp, slick with vegetable rot. He took a hammer and some nails from his canvas bag and went out of sight up the stairs. Gail heard a tapping sound and guessed he was nailing the door shut. Joan wasn't likely to hear it over the music.

  The details of her surroundings became clearer. The old cistern, the rusty junk scattered about, boxes, and pieces of wood. On the opposite wall, at ground level, was a ventilation hole. Through it Gail could see weeds, rocks, and the bottom step of a staircase to the back porch. The hole was big enough for a man to crawl through if he removed the wood frame and wire mesh. The frame lay on the ground. Fadden had come in this way, easier than breaking down a door.

  Gail pleaded, "I don't care what you're doing in this house, but please don't kill me. I have a daughter. Her name is Karen. She's only twelve years old. She's waiting for me at home. You have a child too—Billy. What would he think if he found out—"

  Kyle Fadden came over with the gun. She cowered, but he grabbed her hair and put the barrel under her cheekbone. "Keep talking, see what you get." Gail was silent. He gave her a shove. "That's the last warning."

  While Gail tried to regain her ability to breathe, Fadden put the gun on the corner of an old crate and squatted beside a large box on the ground. A chain lay in a pile on the ground beside it. The box was wrapped in heavy white plastic, and Fadden began to saw at it with his knife.

  In the semidarkness on the other side of the basement Gail dug her fingernails into the rope binding her to the column, feeling for play in the knots. There was enough length to the rope that she could shift her position. She scooted onto a piece of old plywood to avoid the mud oozing through her slacks. There was another piece of plywood behind her, and when she leaned against it, she was surprised to feel it give. There was a gap in the foundation. A door. Of course. How else could they take things in and out? The steps were too narrow.

  Gail pressed harder against the plywood panel, stopping quickly when it began to let go. She thought if she could free her hands, she could break through the panel and run. The fear of dying in this horrible place outweighed the good chance that he might catch up to her in the woods.

  She glanced back at Fadden. The plastic had come away from the box, and he ripped it off, exposing a dark metal surface. Fadden put on a welder's mask, tipping it back so he could see, then drew on a pair of heavy gloves. He lowered his mask and picked up a brass torch connected by hoses to two small tanks. He held a loop of wire under the torch, clicked it, and fire shot from the nozzle.

  His shadow moved across the wall. He adjusted the flame and put it to one of the hinges on the box. The sharp blue point of the torch ate slowly into the metal.

  Gail picked more furiously at the rope.

  Anthony slipped, caught himself on the railing, and went up the rest of the way in a low crouch. On the porch he stood against the wall. He could hear the rain on the tin roof and music from inside the house. Holding the pistol he inched closer to the door. He opened the screen, turned the knob, and went inside, gun extended. There was a loud crack behind him. He spun around to see a tree limb crash to the ground.

  Anthony looked into the small room off the hall, found no one, then went through the living room, across the TV room with its hundreds of video boxes, then into the kitchen. Dishes and pots were stacked in the cast-iron sink. Pale light came through dust-grimed windows. Anthony noticed a small wooden door, perhaps to a pantry, and turned the glass knob. He pushed. The door didn't give. He went out the way he had come and looked up the stairs.

  The treads creaked under his feet as he climbed. He stopped and looked through the balusters into
the upstairs hall, then went the rest of the way. The music was louder, a trumpet solo, coming from behind a closed door.

  He put his hand on the knob, turned it slowly, then swung the door open.

  Joan Sinclair was sitting at a dressing table in a red robe and black wig. Her startled face looked at him in the mirror. She turned around with a tube of lipstick in her hand. "My God. Is this a train station?" She saw the gun. "What are you doing?"

  Anthony put the gun away. "I'm looking for Gail. Where is she?"

  "She just left. She invited me to the Inn, and I didn't want to go, so she—"

  "Is Kyle Fadden here? Billy's father, have you seen him?"

  Joan Sinclair pulled a tissue from a box and carefully blotted her lips. "He was supposed to fix my roof, but he never showed up. It's leaking all over the place."

  "What about Doug Lindeman?"

  "He knows better than to knock on my door. No, I haven't seen him either." Joan took her empty martini glass across the room to the ice bucket on her stereo cabinet. "Would you care for a drink?"

  "When did Gail leave?"

  "Somebody's manners have certainly gone downhill." She lifted a cocktail shaker from the ice bucket and poured. "Five minutes ago? Now please be a good boy and close the door behind you." She turned up the music and smiled at him. "¿Por favor?"

  Anthony went out. He rounded the stairs just as Billy Fadden appeared at the bottom. His wet hair lay flat on his head.

  Anthony shouted at him, "I told you to stay at the hotel!"

  "Where's my father?"

  "Not here. No one's here but Joan. Come on, let's go." He pushed Billy toward the living room. "Go." Anthony churned with rage and frustration. "You're going to help me look for Gail."

  Kyle Fadden had cut through all three hinges of the metal box. He tugged at the lid with a gloved hand. Impatient, he put a crowbar in the crack and tried to lever it up. Failing at this, he relit the torch and pulled the mask over his face.

  Gail had no doubt that this man had killed Sandra McCoy with that knife on his belt. She assumed he was working for Douglas Lindeman, and that when he finished opening the box, Kyle Fadden would have to decide what to do next with Gail Connor.

  She had freed the line holding her to the support column. The knots at her wrists were impossible. Her hands were still tied behind her back, but that wouldn't stop her from running. Fadden couldn't see her with the mask over his face. Gail shoved on the plywood panel to loosen it. She dug her heels into the ground and pushed.

  There was a tickling sensation on her hands that spread quickly to her wrists, her arms. She heard a soft clatter, growing in volume. Something went up her arms, into her sleeve.

  She screamed. Palmetto bugs. Giant cockroaches. Dozens of them. Hundreds, scrambling from their nest. Shiny brown bodies, long quivering antennae.

  "Shut up!" Fadden lifted his mask. His torch was still burning. "I told you to shut up!" Then he saw, and he stared.

  Gail scooted backward, away from them, away, away. They poured from the darkness under the house. They crackled and flew into her face. She rolled on the ground. Her hands were tied, and there was nothing she could do. Except scream.

  From somewhere came heavy thuds, then the splintering of wood.

  Fadden was looking up the steps. A second later, a man hurtled toward him. "Where is she?" A pistol was extended in his hand.

  "Anthony!"

  He spun around, and his eyes searched for Gail and found her.

  Fadden went for the gun on the packing crate.

  Gail yelled, "Look out!"

  Anthony crouched and turned. A flash exploded from the barrel of his gun, then another. Kyle Fadden jerked backward. His welding mask fell off, and the torch clanged against the wall and went out. Fadden dropped to his knees.

  "Dad!" Billy leaped from the stairs and raced toward him.

  Fadden bent over and slowly fell sideways into the crate, held on for a moment, and slid to the ground.

  "You shot my father! You killed him!" Billy ran to his father.

  Gail was leaning against the wall, sobbing, her hands tied behind her. "Oh, God, Anthony... they were all over me. Please get these ropes off my hands. I'm not hurt, I screamed because of the roaches. They were crawling inside my shirt. Do you see any? I can still feel them."

  "No, they're gone now." He stamped on something in the dirt.

  Gail told him there was a knife on Fadden's belt, and to cut her loose.

  Billy sat on the ground beside his father. "Dad, can you talk? We're going to get you to a doctor. Jesus, he's bleeding! Somebody do something!"

  When her hands were free, Gail ran over to the lantern and held it up as Anthony crouched beside Kyle Fadden. She averted her eyes, then looked quickly. Fadden's right arm was across his body. He held a wound in his side, and blood came through his fingers. Anthony moved his hand aside. The wound went through the flesh at his waist. The second bullet had ripped through Fadden's left forearm. Blood pulsed from an artery.

  Gail moved her lips soundlessly. Oh, my God.

  Anthony rolled his handkerchief and knotted it above the wound. Kyle Fadden grimaced and clamped his teeth together. "Shit, that hurts."

  Billy was shrieking. "Don't let him die! Dad!"

  Gail set down the lantern. "Billy, he's not going to die. We'll take him to a hospital." She looked at Anthony.

  He said to Billy, "Go upstairs and find a bedsheet. We need to cut some strips. Hurry up. Run!"

  Gail crouched beside him and whispered, "Is he going to make it?"

  "I don't know." She watched as Anthony picked up the revolver and opened the chamber. He emptied the bullets into his hand. Six of them. "I thought he fired."

  "You had no choice," Gail said.

  He put the bullets into his pocket and threw the revolver into the darkness. "Fadden, wake up. Kyle Fadden!" The man's eyes came open. Anthony leaned over him. "Do you know who I am? I'm your son's lawyer. Billy is suspected of murdering Sandra McCoy. I want to know who did it."

  "I didn't—"

  "Who killed her? Lindeman?"

  "Yeah. Lindeman."

  "How do you know this? Fadden, talk to me!"

  A woman's frantic voice came from the top of the steps. "What is going on? I heard gunshots. Who's down there? Billy says his father's been shot!"

  Gail called up, "Joan, I'm down here with Anthony. Kyle Fadden tried to kill us."

  Billy came down the stairs with a yellow striped sheet, ragged at the edges. "He wasn't trying to kill you!"

  Anthony told him to shut up and tear the sheet into strips.

  Joan was still yelling. "What are you doing in my house? Why is everyone here?"

  Gail called back, "Joan, please go upstairs. It's all right."

  Anthony pressed a pad to the hole in Fadden's arm. He told Billy to give him a long strip of cloth. The pad was immediately soaked through. Anthony threw it aside and tightened the rope tourniquet.

  "Don't let him die!"

  "He's not going to die." Anthony went around to lift Fadden's shoulders. "Billy, you take his feet. Gail! Gail, where are you?"

  "Joan is freaking out."

  "Never mind Joan. Hold the door open and tell her to stay out of the way."

  Within a minute they had Fadden on the front porch. The rain was not as heavy, but the wind still whistled through the trees. A rivulet of diluted blood flowed lazily toward the edge of the porch. Anthony said, "We'll put him in a cart and take him to the dock. Billy, can Martin pull his boat up to Joan's dock in this weather?"

  "No way, it's too rough," Billy said. "We have to board in the harbor."

  Anthony nodded. "All right. You call Martin on the way, tell him we'll need an ambulance to meet us at the marina."

  There were two carts at the bottom of the steps. Anthony picked up Fadden under the arms, and with Billy taking one leg, Gail the other, they maneuvered the unconscious man into the back seat of the larger cart with his knees over the arm rest and his boots
dangling.

  Joan leaned over the porch railing and called, "Billy! I'm praying for your father." She crossed herself and kissed an imaginary rosary. He looked from under the roof of the cart and nodded.

  Anthony shouted, "Gail, get in."

  She stood in the rain. "Come with us, Joan. Please. You don't want to stay here all alone, do you?"

  "Well, I—I'm not dressed!" She clutched the robe at her throat, and feathers trembled. "Would you wait for me, Gail? Would you?"

  "Yes, but hurry." Gail said to Anthony, "Go on without me. I'll bring Joan in the other cart. We'll be right behind you."

  29

  Gail watched the golf cart splash through a puddle and disappear around the corner of the house. She went up the steps to the porch and opened the screen.

  Joan was just inside. "What should I wear?"

  Gail let out a breath. "It doesn't matter. Just hurry. Bring something for tomorrow too, you'll probably stay the night."

  "I've never stayed at The Buttonwood Inn. I've been to dinner, of course. Tom took me several times, and I enjoyed it tremendously. Their chef is marvelous—"

  "Joan, please."

  "Of course. I'm so nervous. I want to look nice. Do you think it'd be okay if Tom came to dinner? Would Teri mind? I gotta make it up to him for last night. What was wrong with me? Yes, I'll hurry." Joan's footsteps faded away up the stairs. "I'm going to buy some champagne! You and Teri and I can get drunk till the boys come back!"

  Gail pivoted and went down the steps. At a front corner of the house where two gutters joined, the weld had broken, and rainwater poured through. She stood directly under the stream until the mud sluiced away from her hair, her clothes, her fingernails. She rinsed out her sandals and pulled open the neckline of her shirt. She was freezing but she didn't care.

  On the porch she used her hands to squeegee the water off her pullover and slacks. She went inside and called, "Joan?"

  "Coming, coming."