The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  Ginny and I had that long to live.

  Fortunately I was moving faster than I could think.

  Snatching up my hands, I caught myself on the corner of the desk. But from there I didn’t go around the desk at Reeson. If I tried that, he’d shoot me, no matter what Ginny did. A survival reflex. And then he’d be safe.

  Instead I shoved my weight backward with every atom of stubbornness and need I could muster.

  Whirling, I dove headfirst through the window.

  Out into the dark and the deep snow.

  23

  I landed in a shower of shattered glass and a splash of cold, but I didn’t notice either of them. The impact drove the air out of my lungs and turned my guts into a howling blast of pain.

  Would’ve been worse if the snow hadn’t been so thick.

  Familiar, all of it. Just a few days ago, I’d gone through a window into snow to get at Muy Estobal—and I’d done it so that I could save Ginny. Even the gale exploding inside me, raking my nerves with agony, was the same.

  And we were up against more than one killer. That was similar, too.

  Everything else had changed.

  For one thing, Reeson probably wouldn’t let me sneak up behind him and crush his larynx.

  For another—

  Any second now, he’d lean out the window and blow my head off. I had to get moving right now, right now.

  I scrabbled my legs and arms under me. Shedding clumps of snow as if I’d climbed out of a winter grave, I heaved myself upright. I still couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. Get out of the light. The glow from the window seemed to etch me where I stood—a dummy set out for target practice. Stumbling frantically, I flung myself at the wall and collided my way along it as fast as I could go.

  Toward the front of the lodge.

  “Axbrewder!”

  Reeson’s shout hit me hard. I almost stopped.

  If I’d stopped, he would’ve gotten me. He must’ve known where I was. He could see my trail—he could probably hear me against the wall.

  But the light of the office and the dark outside blinded him temporarily, just for a couple of heartbeats.

  I plunged ahead.

  Then I dropped back into the snow around the corner of the porch and lay there gasping for breath, retching at the pain.

  He hadn’t fired.

  “Axbrewder!”His hoarse shout sounded like a cry of despair. “Come back! I’ve got her! Come back or I’ll kill her!”

  Ginny—

  Wait your fucking turn, you sonofabitch!

  I got up again. Supporting myself on the edge of the porch, I went for the front door.

  I knew exactly what I had to do. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. I drew it at letting him shoot Ginny.

  Which might not be under my control, of course. I’d killed Muy Estobal. I’d brought el Señor’s vengeance here without understanding it. Those things had consequences.

  But Reeson’s real violence was directed at me, not Ginny. He held her hostage to get at me.

  While he did that, I had a chance.

  He could kill her at any time. Under the circumstances, he might decide to do his job by eliminating the survivors, the witnesses. Naturally he’d start with her.

  I had to get to him before he made that decision.

  And I had one advantage that he probably didn’t realize.

  He knew I was hurt, but he didn’t know me. He couldn’t begin to guess how far I was willing to go.

  He might let Ginny live a little longer because he wasn’t afraid of me.

  Your turn is coming, Reeson. Just wait for it.

  I reached the front steps. The way I went up them should’ve made a racket, but the snow muffled my feet.

  Ginny needed to do a hell of a balancing act. She had to convince Reeson that he needed a hostage. Make him think that I still had the strength to threaten him. If I were unconscious out in the snow somewhere, he could afford to kill her. At the same time, however, she didn’t want to rush him into a decision—which meant she had to give him the impression that I was too stupid, or too crazy, to surprise him. If she could find that balance, she might buy herself a little time.

  I skidded gracelessly across the porch and hauled at the front door.

  Thank God and all His Angels, no one had thought to relock the door after Reeson came in.

  A rush of heat nearly dropped me to my knees. Maybe because he didn’t know what else to do with himself while his wife and Faith prepared supper, Truchi had built up the fires to a roar. Compared to the cold outside, the den felt like an oven.

  But I didn’t have time for warmth. Swinging the door shut hard to preserve my momentum, I headed through the den as fast as I could, approximately running.

  The place seemed unusually empty. Only Carbone and Mile and Maryanne were there. I didn’t try to guess where everyone else was, but I could see why Houston Mile and his “filly” had remained. No one had untied him. And Maryanne had shoved the gag back in his mouth. She’d resumed talking to him, sitting knee to knee with him as if this were an insidious form of torture.

  Now, however, what she said brought an entirely different expression to his piggy eyes. Her hands were on his thighs, and her fingers seemed to be probing his crotch.

  Apparently she was trying to get back into his good graces the only way she knew how.

  I’d already passed the tree and had almost reached the dining room hallway when I heard her cry, “Brew?” Not scared yet, not the way she used to be. Nevertheless a little lift of panic in her voice betrayed her fragility. “Why did you come in that way? What’s going on?”

  “Later.”

  I didn’t wait to see how she took my rebuff. The last thing I needed right then was people following me, asking frightened questions.

  The hallway. The dining room. Both empty.

  The hall to the kitchen.

  There I found Faith Jerrick.

  Alone.

  She stood at the cooktop, stirring a big four-quart soup kettle. The air held a persistent suggestion of gas. I’d expected to find Amalia as well, but apparently she had other duties. Desperately I hoped that she and Truchi would stay out of my way. I needed people out of my way. Especially the Carbones, who were probably sane. Anyone who retained a substantial amount of sanity wouldn’t like what I had in mind.

  Faith absolutely wouldn’t like it.

  I did it anyway.

  The fluorescent lighting made the countertops and appliances gleam feverishly, like a hallucination. All the utensils looked sharp as knives, and the huge Hobart resembled a gas chamber for roasting martyrs. Bracing myself from surface to surface, I advanced around the counters toward Faith.

  She raised a brief glance as high as my chin, then returned her gaze to her soup. Cream of tomato. It had the sickly reddish shade you get when you don’t put in enough milk.

  “Mr. Axbrewder,” she said, “where’s Art?” Only her voice betrayed the fact that she didn’t give a damn about the soup. Her real attention was fixed on me. “I thought you would be done talking by now. I’ve made some soup.” The pot steamed, full of simmering. “I can make sandwiches in a minute. What is Art doing?”

  Her appearance—the deferential and passionate line of her neck, the clarity of her skin, the self-contained extravagance in her eyes—made me think that what I had in mind just might be terrible enough to succeed.

  “Faith.”

  In an odd way, she daunted me. Just for a second, I couldn’t go on. She was one of the innocent. She didn’t deserve the kind of damage I intended.

  But I had no choice. I needed help. Too many people had already died, most of them innocent. And more might follow.

  “Yes?” she offered.

  Groping for a way to approach her, I asked the first question that came into my head. “Do you ever talk to Art about the guests? Did you tell him that Catherine Reverie liked port?”

  “No.” She allowed herself to look
mildly startled. “Why would I? He has his own concerns. And the guests have a right to their privacy. Ama feels the same way. We haven’t discussed Miss Reverie’s habits with anyone.”

  So. Arthur Reeson hadn’t poisoned Queenie. He hadn’t killed Mac or stabbed Ginny. At some point—if I lived long enough—I’d have to face that problem. But not now. First things first.

  Ginny always said that. She believed in tackling crises in some kind of logical order.

  “You told me once,” I floundered on as if I weren’t changing the subject, “that Art doesn’t take you when he goes on vacation. And you don’t know what he does when he’s away.”

  Well, at least we were talking about Art. That relieved her chagrin at my strange manner. Softly she said, “That’s right.”

  “How often does he go? How many vacations does he take a year?”

  For a woman who had God’s company during Reeson’s absences, she was remarkably prompt with the answer. “Never more than eight. Usually five or six.” Then she let her curiosity get the better of her. “Why do you ask?”

  Five or six vacations a year. Christ! How many people had he hit?

  “Faith,” I repeated. I didn’t falter now—but I didn’t attack her either. I was as gentle as my pain, and my fear that I’d hear shots, allowed. “Arthur Reeson shot Cat. He tried to kill me. He tried to kill Ginny. Now he’s holding her hostage in the office. He’s been hired to kill me. If I don’t go back in there, he’ll kill her.

  “I want you to come talk to him.”

  Be my hostage, Faith. Give me something I can trade for Ginny’s life.

  She didn’t flush. She had blood and passion in her, but not for that. And she didn’t turn pale. She was already about as pale as she could get. And she didn’t look at me. She had no need to see who I was. She just went completely still, like a small animal in a corner. Her hand stopped stirring the soup. As far as I could tell, she stopped breathing.

  “You never asked him what he does with his vacations. Or why he needs so many of them.” Urgently I pleaded with her. “You never asked him why he’s content with a job like this—a man like him isolated out here, with so much competence and so little need for it.

  “I’ll tell you why. He’s a professional killer. When he goes on vacation, he kills people. And then he comes back here because it’s isolated and safe, and no one questions him.

  “I told you about el Señor. You were there when I talked about him. He wants me dead, I told you why. He hired Art to kill me.” I wasn’t on a first-name basis with Reeson. I faked it for her. “When he shot Cat, he was trying to hit me. She got in the way.

  “He doesn’t want Ginny. She’s not his target. But he’ll gladly kill her to get at me.”

  Would Faith ever breathe again? I couldn’t tell. In her shocked stillness, she might’ve been transformed to alabaster, or a pillar of salt, or whatever it is you turn into when you look back on degradation and ruin. She should’ve prayed, clutched her crucifix and beseeched God. Or at least called me a liar, yelled at me somehow. But she didn’t. The soup under her ladle seethed in spots. Before long, it would boil, and if she didn’t stir it it would scald. Without moving a muscle, she gave the impression that I’d kicked out the bottom of her heart.

  “I need your help.” I didn’t raise my voice, despite my desperation. I feared that I’d miss the sound of his Ruger. And I didn’t want to treat Faith like an enemy, responsible in some way for Reeson’s violence. I drew the line at letting Ginny get killed—but I drew it here, too. “I want you to talk to him. If he knows that you know what he’s doing, he might stop.”

  No, that wasn’t enough, it wasn’t the truth. And she deserved the truth. Now more than ever before in her life she deserved it.

  “You’re the only one here he cares about. I want to use you to save Ginny. I want to trade you for her.”

  A quiver plucked at the corner of her mouth. She couldn’t accuse me of lying about her lover. She didn’t know how. Lies had no place in her life with God. To me the little spasm in her cheek looked like the first faint tremor of an earthquake, a shattering upheaval. She was so still, so needy—That minor vibration would be enough to break her.

  I fought for quietness, kept my voice gentle. I didn’t intend to browbeat her with my own need.

  “If you can’t help me,” I said, “I don’t know what else to do. He’s only keeping Ginny alive so that he can use her against me. If I don’t give him what he wants, he’ll kill her. But even if I let him have me, he’ll kill her. She’s a witness. He can’t let her go.

  “And that isn’t the end of it. He’ll have to kill everyone. When I escaped from the office, I doomed you all. He doesn’t know where I’ve been, who I’ve talked to. He can’t trust anyone now. Not even Truchi and Ama.” I choked convulsively. “Not even you.”

  Abruptly the quiver spread across her cheek, ran down her neck to her shoulders. Her hands began to shake. Twitching, she let go of the ladle. It clattered dully against the side of the kettle—her distress only made that one sound, and most of it was muffled by the soup.

  With the least amount of movement possible, using only the parts of her that were absolutely necessary, she turned away.

  Between the counters, she headed for the back door.

  Away from the office.

  Toward her cottage.

  Oh, Ginny.

  If I were sane, I wouldn’t have told Faith anything. I would’ve simply said that Reeson wanted to see her in the office. But if I were sane, I wouldn’t have been here in the first place. I would’ve found a better answer to my life, one that didn’t involve asking the innocent to pay for my mistakes. Turning her back on me, Faith abandoned Ginny as well, but I had no right to complain. I had nothing to complain about.

  She went slowly toward the door. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Darkness filled my head, and pain cramped my heart, and walking away she used up all the movement in the room, all the decision.

  Reeson might shoot Ginny any time now.

  I stumbled after Faith.

  Distress clogged her steps, held her back. I caught her several paces from the door. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she flinched so hard that her own dismay turned her around. Tears pouring from her eyes, she faced me, and her lips quivered.

  “I can’t endure violence.” Her voice trembled like her lips. “You know that. I can’t.”

  “Faith,” I murmured softly, as if I were her friend and counselor instead of her doom, “you love God. You love Art. You don’t want him to kill Ginny. Not at the cost of his soul.

  “I need to save her, but I can’t let him kill the rest of you. If you won’t help me, I’ll have to let her die. So that I can hunt him down before he kills anyone else.”

  I didn’t mention the obvious fact that I couldn’t hope to outhunt Reeson. There didn’t seem to be any point.

  “Please help me.”

  “Brew.” Lara spoke quietly, but her voice hit me between the shoulder blades like an ice pick. “I need to talk to you.”

  Oh God, not now. Not now.

  Ignoring the woman behind me, I concentrated everything I had left on Faith. “Please,” I repeated as if that were my last argument, and my best. “Please.”

  “You’re the only one who can help me, Brew,” Lara insisted.

  I felt so close to the edge that I nearly whimpered. What was that damn woman doing here now anyway? And how had she chosen this moment for whatever she had in mind? Couldn’t she see that I was fighting for Ginny’s life?

  Faith watched me. Her eyes spilled water like wells, but she watched me. Her gaze seemed to study me, measuring me by the way I responded to Lara.

  “Later,” I coughed against a mounting wave of panic. “Ask me later.”

  “Brew.”

  Lara’s tone cut through my alarm. Suddenly I heard something like hysteria in it—and something like glee. She may’ve been a coke addict after all, submerged in so many artificial substances that her b
rain had gone to mush and wildness. She sounded on the verge of ecstasy or a breakdown, whichever came first.

  “What did Ginny find in my room?”

  I snapped, staggering like a ship in a long wind when the cables that tied it to its the berth parted. With a howl rising from my torn-up guts, I wheeled on Lara Hardhouse—

  —and froze. Stricken, my howl came out as a strangled groan.

  Lara held a gun.

  She pointed it at my sternum from a distance of less than ten yards. Her finger curled on the trigger. She’d already advanced past the stove where Faith’s soup steamed. At this range she was never going to miss.

  Her eyes glittered intensely. Exaltation limned her face. Quietly now because she knew she didn’t need to shout, she repeated, “What did Ginny find in my room?”

  My head felt like a discus. Some great mother of an athlete whirled me around and around, and any second now he would let me go, send me sailing into the empty air and the dark. I couldn’t tell whether Faith pulled away from me, headed for the door again. She found coke in your room, the coke you used to poison Cat. You didn’t know Queenie would drink it instead. None of this makes sense. Who killed Mac?

  I wanted to turn my head, catch some sign of Faith, but if I looked around at all, released my focus on Lara’s gun, the spin would carry me away. It was a little .22, a plinking gun you could hide in a clutch purse. But it was as good as artillery from this distance.

  “Ask her yourself,” I croaked. “She’s in the office. With Reeson.”

  Lara shook her head. “I don’t want to ask her, Brew. I want to ask you.” She sounded strangely sure of herself. “And you’re going to tell me.

  “Do you know why? Have you figured out why I come to you? Why I’m attracted to you? Why I want you to go to bed with me?

  “It’s because you’re a cripple, because you’re flawed. You’re only half a human being, Brew—and I like that. I like having sex with crippled men.”

  She seemed to expand in front of me, her underlying passion made her tower over me. Or maybe it just made me shrink.

  “Sex with me would make you feel like you aren’t crippled. Like you aren’t as pathetic as you look and feel. I like having that much power, Brew.