Rattlesnake Hill

by Leslie Wheeler

  “Ahhh!” Millie shrieked. Snatching the knife, she jumped aside. But she’d be back for the kill. Kathryn glanced wildly around. Light from Millie’s fallen flashlight revealed a pile of debris in a corner of the room. She hurled herself at it, even as Millie lunged. Kathryn spotted rocks and threw them at Millie. Her supply exhausted, she yanked a large tree branch from the rubble and, just in time, used it to fend off Millie’s knife thrusts. Millie was relentless. She found an opening and stabbed Kathryn’s leg. A searing pain, so intense Kathryn almost dropped the branch. Recovering, she whacked the knife from Millie’s hand, as Millie thrust again.

  Millie retrieved it and was about to launch another assault when an angry voice made them both freeze.

  Chapter 66

  “What the hell’s going on?!” Earl stood before them, a cyclops with the single eye of his headlamp blazing in the middle of his forehead. A cyclops with a shotgun. Intent on the struggle with Millie, Kathryn hadn’t heard him coming. Neither apparently had Millie. She turned slowly toward him.

  “Drop the knife, Mill!”

  “No! She’s been cheating on you and deserves to be punished. Gotta photo to prove it.”

  “I’ve seen that photo and I know how you got it. Pete told me everything. The knife, Mill!” He pointed the shotgun at her.

  Millie didn’t move.

  “Shoot it outta your hand if you don’t.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Earl fired a warning shot. “Now!”

  Millie let the hand with the knife fall to her side. The next instant, she spun around and hurled it at Kathryn. It was a wild throw: the knife whizzed past Kathryn, landing in the rubble behind her. With one swift blow, Earl knocked Millie down and hurried to Kathryn.

  “Omigod! You’re hurt,” he cried when he saw the blood gushing from her leg.

  “But you—what happened to you?” Up close, she could see his face was caked with blood, dirt, and pine needles.

  “Never mind. Gonna take care of your wound, then I’ll get you outta here.” He put down the shotgun, while he tore off his shirt, made a tourniquet and tied it tightly around her leg. “If you’re able to walk, you can lean on me. Otherwise—”

  “Stay right where you are,” Millie ordered.

  Earl whipped around to face her, barricading Kathryn with his body. She craned her neck around him. His headlamp illuminated Millie, feet planted apart, aiming the shotgun at them.

  “Give me that.” Earl held out a hand.

  “No!” Millie shrieked, backing away.

  Earl strode toward her. “Give me the gun, Mill.”

  “Shoot you dead before I do!”

  Kathryn’s heart stopped. Millie was just crazy enough to kill the man she loved. Yet Earl went right on walking toward her retreating figure. Advance, retreat, advance, retreat. As if they were locked in a dance. A dance that would end with the blast of a shotgun.

  She had to distract Millie long enough for Earl to seize the upper hand. If she threw rocks or the knife at Millie —No. Earl was in the line of fire. Only one thing to do. She was the person Millie wanted to kill.

  Adrenaline surged through her, overriding the pain in her leg. Her heart pumped furiously. Assuming a runner’s crouch, she counted to three and took off with a yell.

  Millie whirled toward her and fired. Too late, too high. Kathryn scrambled into the shadows, skidded to a stop, and turned.

  Two figures, ghostly in the moonlight. A struggle, caught in awful strobe-like flashes from Earl’s headlamp.

  His hands on the barrel, forcing it skyward.

  Her booted foot kicking him in the shins.

  Grunting.

  Millie wrenching the gun downward.

  Slamming her knee into his groin.

  An animal-like howl.

  No!

  The light dimmed. Clouds swarmed across the moon like giant rats. Darkness except for the headlamp. Twisted in the struggle, it now pointed away from the battling figures. Kathryn groped toward them, desperate to do something.

  BOOM! The noise shattered her eardrums. Its force lifted her from the ground. She landed on her feet, heart in overdrive. Who was shot? Earl?

  A moan, then a deep sigh. The rats abandoned the moon. Earl knelt beside Millie, cradling her in his arms. A wound blossomed on her chest like a large, bright crimson flower. He stroked her hair, murmured words of comfort. Oh, dear God! Kathryn took a step toward them, but stopped.

  She would not—could not—intrude on the dying woman and the man she’d never stopped loving.

  Chapter 67

  Kathryn eased into a lounge chair on the patio. Hard to believe only a little more than two months ago, she’d rested here after driving from Boston and unpacking. So much had happened in that short period. Now, in early January she wore a down coat and a hat against the cold. She shifted in the chair, careful not to jar the stab wound in her leg. It was starting to heal, but it would probably leave a scar. The nightmares and flashbacks were another matter; she didn’t expect them to go away anytime soon.

  The revelation that Millie had shot Diana and Brian and tried to kill Kathryn before dying violently had sent shock waves through the village. Having watched his mother become crazed with jealousy, Pete was taking her death especially hard. Earl had moved back into the white house to be with him, though Earl was badly shaken himself.

  She was badly shaken, too. Millie had put up such a good front she’d never dreamed Millie had killed Diana and Brian, or that she was in danger. Only in hindsight did she realize there’d been hints of trouble: the damaged mail at the post office after her visit to the boat ramp with Earl; Norm St. Clair comparing Millie to a hummingbird—pretty on the outside but downright nasty when defending its territory; Millie’s “friendly” advice to steer clear of Earl, and finally, her approaching Alan with her fears for Kathryn instead of Kathryn herself.

  Another big reason Kathryn had never suspected Millie was that Millie didn’t belong in the story that had become so compelling to her: the romantic triangle involving Marguerite, Clyde and Jared Cutter, and later Diana, Earl, and Gordon. One woman and two men. But that wasn’t the only kind of love triangle; there was also the triangle with two women and one man. That was Millie’s story. Kathryn’s mother’s, too. Unlike Millie, Kathryn’s mother had turned her anger inward. Still, her mother and Millie had something important in common: they’d never stopped loving their men.

  Without realizing it, she’d also been involved in a two-women-one-man love triangle. And now that her rival was gone, what lay ahead? She didn’t know. So much seemed broken. She wasn’t sure what—if anything—could be mended.

  The noise of a vehicle on the driveway interrupted these thoughts. Earl’s red truck came into view. Her very first sight of that truck had filled her with unease. Then, she hadn’t known the driver or his business. Now, she was uneasy for a different reason.

  Earl sprang from the cab and strode to the patio. “Mind if I join you?” He gave her a teasing look, but she heard the uncertainty in his voice.

  “No,” she told him, though she shared his hesitancy.

  “They’re predicting a big storm in a few days. I’ll be exchanging my bulldozer for a plow,” he said, settling into a lounge chair beside her.

  “That’s what you do in the winter?” She was relieved he’d started with the weather.

  “Uh-huh. Besides helping clear the town roads, I’ve got several private customers whose driveways I plow.”

  “You’re not working up at the house site anymore.”

  It was a statement rather than a question. Nevertheless, he nodded quickly and looked away. They fell silent, gazing at the pond, still and serene with a glaze of ice. “I wish you weren’t leaving,” he said after a few moments.

  So much for small talk. But then she’d suspected this was coming. �
��I told my boss I’d return to work after the first of the year. That was always the plan.” God, she hoped she was doing the right thing. “And I’ll be back on weekends.” She did her best to sound upbeat, but he wasn’t fooled.

  “Will you?” His eyes searched her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you never came back.”

  “Don’t.” She raised a hand to silence him.

  He waved it away, his expression somber. “Hear me out. I’ve said it before, but I gotta say it again. Most of this is my fault, and I’m truly sorry. I should’ve realized what Mill was up to and put a stop to it.”

  “I was wrong about her, too. Everybody was.”

  “Yes, but I’d already been through something similar with Mill. She spied on Diana and me and badmouthed each of us to the other. Diana laughed at Mill, but I took her seriously when she insisted Diana would tire of me and return to Gordon. Because in my heart of hearts I didn’t believe I deserved her. I was just this hillbilly and she was way above me.”

  “Like Marguerite was to Clyde?”

  “Yup. I did things that made Diana mad and drove us apart. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson. But when Mill started in on you, I’m ashamed to admit I started doubting you. It never occurred to me that Mill had shot Diana and would try to kill you. If Pete hadn’t come to the trailer that night . . .”

  “Thank heaven for Pete!”

  “For Amore, also.” He referred to the cat’s leap onto the dining room chair, which had dislodged the cushion, revealing the photographs and the note from “Roy” asking her to meet him at the ruins.

  “Those were lucky breaks,” she agreed. “But like you, I didn’t believe Millie was capable of violence. On the contrary, she almost had me—” She broke off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

  He must have guessed what she was about to say. “Did you think I’d killed Diana and was going to kill you?”

  Her heart thudded. He’d asked the one question she’d hoped to avoid.

  His eyes bore into her. “Please. I’ve got to know.”

  It was her turn to look away. Then, forcing herself to meet his gaze, she said, “There were times I did.”

  His fist bounced off the wooden arm of his chair. “I thought so! But I needed to hear it from you. And now that I have . . .” Shaking his head, he rose and paced, his expression so tormented it hurt to look at him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” He stopped and looked at her incredulously. “I’m the one who should apologize for not trusting you more and letting my goddamn jealousy get the better of me.”

  “I should’ve trusted you more, too.”

  “Maybe,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “So where does that leave us?”

  Where indeed? She stared into space, her mind a blank. Then, gradually the events of the past two months took shape. She’d lived a dark fairytale with Millie as a murderous shadow villain and two other villains, Garth and Gordon, who were simply mean. An old woman figured in the tale, too. Sometimes Emily seemed like a wicked witch; other times, a good but misguided one. There was also a flawed prince. But if Earl was flawed, so was she: a reluctant princess who’d shed her cloak of aloofness when she’d fallen for him, only to give way to fear and suspicion. And now, what was she going to do? Withdraw in the face of obstacles that in her worst moments appeared insurmountable?

  Her eyes focused on the pond. The trees cast long shadows across its icy surface, but the woods no longer frightened her as they once had. She’d looked death in the face and survived. She felt stronger, braver, less likely to succumb to her grandmother’s gloom-and-doom, and more determined than ever to embrace life and love like Aunt Kit.

  She rose and stood beside Earl. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope we can work things out.”

  “You do?” Again, he looked at her incredulously.

  “Yes, Kane.” She stroked the snake tattoo on his arm. “What about you?”

  “Yeah,” he said in his husky, crooner’s voice.

  His kiss was long and tender, a reminder that while grudges ran deep in these hills, so did love.

  About the Author

  An award-winning author of books about American history and biographies, Leslie Wheeler has written three Miranda Lewis “living history” mysteries: Murder at Plimoth Plantation, Murder at Gettysburg, and Murder at Spouters Point. Her mystery short stories have appeared in various anthologies including Day of the Dark, Stories of Eclipse, and those published by Level Best Books, where she was a co-editor/co-publisher for six years. A member of Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime, she is Speakers Bureau Coordinator for the New England Chapter of SinC. Leslie divides her time between Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the Berkshires, where she does much of her writing in a house overlooking a pond.