“Porter was a bitter scandalmonger, always sticking his nose into other people’s business,” Atwood said angrily, some of his initial outrage surfacing. “I stood to gain a fortune from the establishment of the Champ theme park. The whole town did! And he just had to try to ruin it all because he was a stuck-up old busybody.”
“You embezzled money from the funds you raised from the investors,” I said. “And Porter found out, while reviewing the paperwork, that you were funneling it into your private accounts. He told you so when he came to see you on Monday. That’s when you decided he had to die. And when I conveniently showed up in Maplewood that very same day, you knew it would be easy to blame it on the stranger. All it took was stealing something that would have my fingerprints on it. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck when Porter had gone off on me at the diner the next day, supplying me with a possible motive. Only you didn’t count on Evan witnessing you taking the shovel from my toolshed—or that I’d have an alibi for the time of the murder.”
I couldn’t know any of it for certain, of course, but after the crux of the mystery had been revealed, it wasn’t difficult to deduce the rest. After all, money was the most common motive, and it had to be tied to whatever discrepancies Porter had found in the amusement park budget.
“It wasn’t embezzlement!” Atwood insisted with a desperate, almost wild conviction, apparently focusing on the one thing he felt was wrong with my account. “I just needed some breathing room. I was part of an investment group that turned out to be a scam and ended up owing a few people some money. Dangerous people. The kind of people who don’t take IOUs.” He swallowed and glanced around nervously, as if expecting the loan sharks to come bursting through the door at any moment. “I only borrowed some money from the park budget to tide me over.”
“Was Mayor Hartwell in on it as well?”
“Hartwell? All that self-absorbed fool ever cares about are his precious photo ops and public appearances. He wouldn’t know what to look for in the files even if he did suspect something. I’m the one running this town.” He tapped himself emphatically on the chest with one hand. “I’m the one doing all the work, filing permits, and talking to sponsors. All he cared about was keeping his reputation nice and shiny.”
I made a noncommittal noise, but Atwood wasn’t listening anyway, too caught up in his personal grievances.
“Once the theme park was up and turning profit, I was going to return everything. I tried to explain, to plead with Frank to let me sort everything out when he met me on Monday, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“So you killed him?” I said and waited with bated breath for the answer.
Atwood’s face twisted into a sneer, and his gun hand trembled slightly. I held very still, not taking my eyes off the barrel.
“He just wouldn’t see reason. And he was so damned pleased with himself for discovering the proof of my so-called ‘corruption.’ So smug.”
His grip on the gun tightened, and Martha sucked in a terrified breath next to me. I didn’t dare to do even that.
“It felt good to wipe that self-righteous smirk off his face. Don’t give me that,” Atwood told Martha, most likely correctly interpreting the disgusted horror in her eyes. “He got his just desserts. There wasn’t one person in Maplewood who didn’t hate that wretched bastard. They were all happy he was dead. I did them all a favor, really.”
“Did you do them all a favor when you killed Evan too?” I said. “Or when you tried to kill Martha just now?”
That was a bold move on my part—perhaps too bold, considering Atwood was already wavering dangerously on the edge of self-control, but if he was opening up, he might as well open up about everything. And frankly, I was too pissed at his pathetic attempts at excuses to feign sympathy.
Atwood’s eyes flickered toward Martha, and I thought I could detect a flash of guilt there.
“Evan got too greedy. I had no choice. He saw me breaking into the shed that night and threatened to tell everything to the commissioner unless I paid him five thousand dollars in cash. What was I supposed to do?”
Martha made a choking sound, and for a second, I was afraid she was going to either burst into tears again or lunge at Atwood. But she did neither, remaining seated with her hands in tight fists in her lap.
“And you thought he must have told everything to his wife,” I said. “That’s why she needed to be silenced, too, right? And you would make it look like she did it herself, as if she was too heartbroken over losing her husband.”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Mister Big-Shot Author,” he said, refocusing his full attention on me with renewed resolve. “You were the perfect scapegoat, too, but you always seemed to get away with everything. Well, not anymore. Get up.”
“You’re going to shoot me now?”
He clearly was, but if I could add this admission to all the others, my death wouldn’t be entirely in vain. At least, that was what I told myself, just as my brain eagerly supplied all the things I’d regret in my final moments. I’d never see my nephew or hug Jenny one last time. I’d never apologize to Alexis for letting her down. I would never have Curtis over for Christmas. Never see the way his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled or hear that note of affectionate exasperation in his voice when he berated me for getting myself in trouble.
I would never kiss him again and tell him how much I had grown to care for him, and that hurt more than anything else.
“On your feet. Now,” Atwood said, rousing me from my sad ruminations. “Or she’s the first to go.”
He stood right in front of me, by the coffee table between the couch and the fireplace. If I tackled him, he’d most certainly kill me (not to mention it would somehow feed into his cockamamie self-defense story), but I knew I had to if I wanted to give Martha a fighting chance. If there was ever a time to channel the intrepid Owen Graves, it was now.
I braced myself for the lunge, but before I got the chance to nobly sacrifice myself by wrestling for the gun, the front door banged loudly, and Curtis burst into the parlor from the entry hallway on a gust of cold winter wind.
He held a gun in a steady two-hand grip—I could tell it was a Glock thanks to hours of online writing-related research on firearms—and pointed it right at Atwood.
“Drop your weapon and put your hands up!” he demanded in a steely voice.
Relief like nothing I’d ever experienced flooded my senses. Just like that, my knees became so weak I couldn’t force myself to stand up even if I wanted to.
But Atwood didn’t give me a choice. Lightning-fast, he leaned over, grabbed me by the shoulder, and yanked me to my feet, holding the gun to my neck.
Behind us, Martha yelped, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her surge to her feet.
That was good. She was going to get away.
“Let him go, Will,” Curtis said in a low voice, still pointing his gun in Atwood’s—our—direction.
“Or what?” Atwood sneered. The barrel pressed into my skin, and I stopped breathing. “You’re not a real cop, Monroe. You shoot me, and you’re going to jail.”
“I’m still authorized to make an arrest,” Curtis said. I would have marveled at his icy calm, but by now, I knew him well enough to notice the minute signs of genuine fear under the veneer of collectedness—the way his nostrils flared slightly, the clenching of his jaw. “Don’t be stupid, Will. The state police are already on their way.”
“And I’m not hanging around waiting for them,” Atwood announced. “You will put your gun down and let me walk out of here, or your boyfriend gets it.”
To emphasize his words, he shoved me forward, and I took an involuntary step while he used me as a human shield.
Curtis wavered, but finally, very slowly, he bent down and put his gun on the floor.
“Kick it away and step back,” Atwood said, and Curtis complied. The gun slid across the floor and disappeared under a spindly chair in the corner.
It was all I could do not to h
iss in frustration, though the thought of Curtis putting my life above his own warmed my heart like nothing else. His eyes met mine as he stepped back, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender.
“Curtis,” I whispered, but then his gaze swung to something behind me.
There was a loud sound of metal hitting something hard and then an even louder noise of a gun going off. In fact, it was so loud I thought I’d gone deaf as time slowed, and all other sounds were drowned out by a high-pitched ringing. Atwood crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, the smoking gun falling from his hand and clattering to the floor. I raised my eyes to Martha, who was standing above his prone body with my shovel in her hands and saw rather then heard her yell: “This is for Evan, you bastard!”
Then pain hit.
It exploded in my upper arm and coursed through my bloodstream like wildfire. I fell back onto the couch, clutching my left shoulder, hot blood seeping between my fingers. I was warm and cold at the same time, shaking with every wheezing breath I managed to suck in.
“Stand back!”
Martha backed away as Curtis rushed over to me, his eyes huge and dark, raking over me.
“I’m fine,” I croaked, which was my best work of fiction yet.
He shrugged off his coat, ripped the checkered flannel lining, and pressed it against the wound. I whimpered with pain.
“Hold it,” he said gruffly. “You’re going to be okay, Declan. I promise.”
I nodded, though I didn’t entirely believe him, and held the bunched-up fabric as tightly as I could. It was warm and soft, and I could almost sense the faint smell of pine and sage—though of course that could only mean I was slipping into shock.
“The phone… I recorded our conversation. Atwood confessed to all the murders,” I pushed out before oblivion could claim me. “The attempted ones too. It’s in my pocket.”
Curtis gave my hand a brief squeeze before taking the phone out of my coat. He stopped the recording before tucking it away and covered me with his torn jacket. I almost whimpered again, this time at the loss of his touch.
Curtis knelt on the floor beside Atwood and pressed his fingers against his neck to check his pulse.
“He’s alive,” Curtis said, looking up at Martha. “Call an ambulance, now. The cops are on their way.”
Martha swallowed and nodded mutely. Her eyes darted to the shovel in her hands as if only now realizing she was still holding it. She dropped it on the rug at her feet and ran to the kitchen. A moment later, her panicked voice broke the silence, muffled by distance and by my failing consciousness.
I tried to focus my attention on Curtis, watching him take a pair of plastic zip ties out of his back pocket and secure Atwood’s hands behind him.
“You really do come prepared,” I said (though perhaps “panted” would have been more accurate).
Curtis glanced at me, but if he said anything, I didn’t hear it. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the hazy veil, police sirens blared, and I closed my eyes, lulled by the comforting darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
My room at the Northwestern Medical Center in St. Albans was very nice, as far as hospital rooms went. It was private, had Wi-Fi, and the nurses were friendly. Considering I had little left in terms of available accommodations waiting for me, I was almost sorry to have to leave.
“Stop fretting; it can’t be good for the baby,” I told Jenny over the phone for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’m really fine. Scout’s honor.”
“When were you ever a Boy Scout?” Jenny countered. “And I wouldn’t classify being shot as ‘fine.’”
“It’s just a scratch,” I said bravely. “The bullet grazed my shoulder, that’s all. The worst thing that happened to me was that I passed out from blood loss.”
I could actually feel her shudder on the other end of the line.
“Come stay with us for the holidays,” she said. “You need someone to take care of you while you’re getting better, Declan.”
My answer was interrupted by a soft rap on the door. Curtis stood on the threshold, waiting for my permission to come in even though the door was open.
I hadn’t seen him since Saturday night when he’d dropped by to check in on me after my surgery and return my phone, and I’d been too heavily sedated to recall much of his visit. But I remembered watching him through half-lidded eyes, sitting beside me, his fingers laced through mine until I finally fell asleep.
Every day, I’d been expecting him to come again, but he never showed up, and I almost convinced myself he’d put me out of his mind, ruthlessly stomping out all sprigs of hope in my heart. It was clear that whatever feeling had sprouted between us had withered before it had a chance to bloom.
And yet, here he was, and the ache in my heart, which no painkiller could take away, suddenly eased.
Fatigue lined Curtis’s face, and his golden hair hung lanky as if he hadn’t had the time to wash it properly. To be fair, I probably didn’t look that much better.
“Maybe I do,” I told Jenny softly, not taking my eyes off Curtis. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“How are you feeling?” Curtis asked, lowering himself onto a chair next to my bed. He held a brown paper bag in his hands that gave off the delicious aroma of greasy food. My stomach growled in response, and we both chuckled awkwardly.
“I’m definitely better now,” I said, sitting up and letting the butterflies that took off in a flurry in my stomach at the sight of him to settle. My left arm was tucked snugly in a sling, but thankfully, nothing else restricted my movements. I nodded at the bag. “What’s that?”
“Thought you might be hungry.” He put the bag on the nightstand. “I hope you like cheeseburgers.”
“Love them. Thank you.”
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Hurts like hell. But the doctor said it’s healing nicely.”
“That’s good.”
“I was hoping to see you.” It came out a little too raw, too honest, and I hastened to add, “I mean, I was out of the loop for a while. It’ll be nice to know what’s been going on.”
“I apologize for not coming to see you earlier, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork involved in wrapping up a murder investigation.”
“I read in the news that Atwood is under arrest,” I said. “But the article didn’t have much detail, and the hospital staff didn’t know more than that.”
“Yes, he’s in county jail. Martha Dutton was arrested as well on account of her and Evan’s smuggling scheme, but she’s out on bail. Thank you for not pressing harassment charges against her on account of those letters, by the way.”
“Of course,” I said. “I think she has enough on her plate to worry about. And I know she meant me no harm, not really.”
“The district attorney said he’d be willing to cut her some slack in exchange for her testimony against Atwood.”
“She didn’t hurt him too badly, did she?”
“No. Though he did end up with a nasty bump on his head. I can’t say I was too sorry for him though.”
At least that shovel had come in handy for something.
“What about Logan Davis?” I asked.
I was still feeling guilty about accusing him of his father’s murder. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself it had been the only logical conclusion at the time, I couldn’t in good conscience avoid assuming responsibility.
I knew firsthand how horrible it was to be suspected of taking another person’s life when you were innocent—let alone being arrested on that suspicion. The only thing I could hope for was that in time he’d forgive me for my part in putting him in that situation.
“He was released as soon as the traffic camera footage established he was still on his way back from St. Albans when Porter was killed. Like he said, him stumbling on the murder scene an hour or so later was simply bad luck.”
“So he’s okay now?”
“Yes, you can p
ut your mind at ease. Logan is safely back home with Hailey,” Curtis said and smiled faintly. “Just don’t count on him dropping by to fix your windows anytime soon.”
I chuckled, still thoroughly chagrined.
“Please tell me they’re going to indict Atwood now, for the sake of everyone’s peace of mind?”
“Oh, yes,” Curtis said with deep satisfaction. “Once we played him the recording off your phone, he broke down and confessed everything. As far as I know, his lawyer is preparing a mental disorder defense, but I don’t think it’s going to stick. The folks from the county sheriff’s office are still going through the Maplewood City Hall records and Atwood’s private files, but as far as I know, they already have plenty of evidence to prove he’d been siphoning funds from the theme park budget to cover his debts. That man isn’t mentally ill; he’s just rotten.”
“Good,” I said, settling back against the pillows. “I’m glad I could do something to help you guys catch him.”
“I’d rather you hadn’t. You put yourself in a lot of danger, confronting Atwood on your own. It was my fault too.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I was so busy digging through the mayor’s office computer records I didn’t bother to pick up your call. If something had happened to you, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.”
Curtis’s face twisted, and for a second, it looked like he was about to cry.
Seeing real tears in the eyes of the man who was always so poised and stolid was more than my silly heart could safely handle.
“Hey.” I caught his hand and squeezed his fingers in mine before I could start bawling alongside him. “Nothing happened. Well, nothing irreparable. And it wasn’t your fault. You came to our rescue just in time. Both Martha and I are still alive thanks to you. That has to count for something.”
“When Atwood’s gun went off, in that split second, I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
In the Winter Woods Page 18