Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  I gave a low whistle. “Explain the rest later,” I whispered. I glanced around.

  I could see across to where the door I’d looked through minutes before led out. It was set at such an angle, however, that the rest of the room hadn’t been visible to me then.

  We returned to the front portion of the barn. “The hay should do nicely for a fire,” I said. It almost didn’t, however. Neither of us had a match.

  “I feel incompetent,” Scott said.

  We ransacked the desk drawers. “Doesn’t anybody smoke anymore?” I complained. Finally, back in the workroom, I found matches in the kitchen drawer and hurried back to the front. In the ten-foot space between bales and doors, we prepared two heaps of loose hay, one on each side of the tunnel. Because of his arm, Scott worked slower than I.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “I wish we had a convenient can of kerosene. I guess we can’t have everything. You done over there?”

  He stood with the last bits of straw in his right hand, staring fixedly at where he’d been working. He pointed. I joined him. An open box sat in the middle of the bundle. I cleared away more of the hay. The word BROOMS printed in dark black letters stared back at me. We gaped at the arsenal in front of us. “Oddest damn brooms,” I said. We pulled straw off three more coverings. I opened them. Warfare filled the boxes: handguns, assault rifles, machine guns. Other labels read LAMPS, PLATES, GLASSES. We tried a couple more boxes. All guns and ammunition. From one of the open boxes, I grabbed a machine gun and handed it to Scott. I seized ammunition and passed some to him. “This is going to make a large bang when it goes up,” I said as I took a machine gun for myself.

  “Uh, Tom,” Scott said.

  He held the machine gun by the barrel in one hand, the ammo in the other. He looked pale.

  “Problem?”

  “I’ve never fired a gun. Never killed anybody. You’re supposed to be the fierce, dark-haired, hairy-chested butch ex-Marine of this relationship.”

  I took the gun and slammed ammunition into it and gave it back. I pointed to the trigger. “Press here. The bullets come out this end. Be sure to point that end at bad guys.”

  He gulped, nodded.

  I hadn’t shot a gun in nearly twenty years, but I was ready if somebody started shooting at me. I gave Scott what assurances I could.

  We set up a trail of hay to give us time to get out before the fire got to the ammunition. I didn’t know how long it would take to catch, but I didn’t want to risk an explosion while we were near. I didn’t know how many bales contained guns, and I didn’t want to take any chances. We opened the main door a crack. The wind blew our fuse to hell and gone. We closed the door, tried again, attempting to keep the trail out of the wind. We had to do it three times before we gave up.

  “Forget it,” I said. “We’ll take our chances.” I walked to our starter clumps of hay. I threw lit matches on both. We opened the door. I glanced back before we heaved it shut. Fire licked at the edges of the bales. We ran to the side of the barn away from the house. We hurried along the wall to the far end. No lights shone on the side of the barn. We dashed across the last gap to the house, trusting to the storm and gathering darkness.

  On the side of the house out of the wind, we halted. I peered around the edge. The cold barely penetrated through my nervous energy. I could see four vehicles lined up together. The one that’d left while we hid in the Range Rover was back, plus another. By standing carefully one to a side, we could look through an uncurtained window into a starkly barren kitchen. The six-foot-nine guy from the other night shoved Becky toward a door. She’d been tied and gagged. George and a fat woman with a bulbous nose and a Rouyn Police patch on her shoulder chatted amiably. The cop drank from a Strohs beer can and puffed on an ugly black cigar. She had her unshod feet on top of the kitchen table where George sat. The other one, who had brought us from my house, stood near the sink, coat off, revealing a cop’s uniform shirt.

  I pulled my head down from the window. “They’ve got Becky,” I said.

  “They can keep her,” Scott said.

  I stuck my nose around the corner of the house and looked back at the barn. Suddenly, I saw Pete hurrying across the open space from the barn. At first, I thought he’d discovered the fire. Looking at the aged structure, however, I could see no signs yet. He entered the house. Through the window and despite the wind, I heard angry recriminations.

  Scott said, “They’ve discovered we’re missing.”

  They all spilled from the house toward the side entrance to the barn. Two wore half-buttoned coats that flapped in the gale. Besides the cop, George and the giant carried guns. I hoped they weren’t too soon. I examined the barn through the swirling snow. Smoke oozed from openings, to be caught by the raging wind.

  George yanked open the side door. Pete began gesticulating wildly. They’d discovered the fire. They ran to the front of the barn. They seemed to abandon any thought of us. My stomach turned queasy at the thought of dying in the conflagration, forgotten by our captors.

  We rushed around to the back of the house, up the porch, and through the door. We paused in a back entryway, listening.

  “We have to hurry,” I said. “The house and cars could all go if that thing explodes big enough.”

  We strained our ears for the slightest sound. Nothing. We rushed through rooms throwing open drawers, dumping contents at random. We checked surfaces, coat pockets, everywhere for keys. No luck on the first floor.

  We paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  “We don’t want to be trapped up there,” Scott said.

  I looked out the windows. The five of them ran frantically in and out the side barn door. They seemed to be trying to save as many drugs as they could. If it was me, I’d be petrified of an explosion and be in a car headed out. Maybe only the few bales we opened had guns and ammo. Maybe there wouldn’t be an explosion. Maybe they had a fire-protection system that could stop the fire.

  “We’ve got to keep looking,” I said. We raced upstairs. On the right were two bedrooms. The first I guessed was the old master bedroom converted to an office. Open books lay strewn over an old oak school desk. No keys on it. Coats and jackets lay thrown over a dilapidated couch. Nothing in the pockets. On the way out, I snatched a coat and threw it to Scott and grabbed one for myself. The second room had two tied and gagged figures: Paul Conlan and Becky Twitchell. We untied them. I wished there was a way to leave Becky gagged. I looked out the window. Flames licked out the roof and side of the barn in several places.

  “Thanks for saving us,” Paul said.

  “What happened?” Scott asked.

  “Later,” I said. “Do either of you know where the car keys are? Especially to the Range Rover.”

  “Third floor,” Becky said. Her hair lay in twisted and ragged strands. Red welts covered the left side of her face. Her fox fur was filthy and ripped in many places. Paul looked intact physically but a wreck emotionally.

  We rushed up to the top floor. It was one huge room. Three beds with dressers next to them ran along each of the long walls. On top of one of the dressers, sets of keys sat next to wallets and change. We grabbed all that we could see.

  We ran to the top of the stairs, listened carefully, then rushed down to the second floor. I hurried back into the office. I pulled up at the desk. “Becky, are these the ledgers Roger had?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I shoved a stack at Paul and grabbed another for myself. I paused at the phone and yanked the cord out of the wall. “Any more of these?” I asked.

  “Only one in the kitchen.”

  We hurried to the top of the stairs. I heard voices. “Is there another way down?” I asked the teenagers.

  They shook their heads no.

  The voices receded. We ran on tiptoe down the stairs. Out front, Pete, George, and the cop backed away from the barn. We turned to the rear of the house. In the kitchen, the male cop and the giant stood at the sink. The big guy whimpered in pain
while the cop gazed openmouthed into the sink. The whimpering one had his arm under gushing water from the faucet. I saw bits of hideously blackened skin dangling from his arm. As we entered the kitchen, they turned to stare at us.

  Scott pointed his machine gun at the ceiling and pressed the trigger. Shots roared through the kitchen. “On the floor or die,” he commanded.

  They dropped.

  “Did I do that right?” he asked.

  “You betcha!” I said.

  He let off another round into the ceiling. “Kill them if they move,” he ordered. I jerked the phone chord out of the wall.

  We all herded out the back door. I hoped, as Scott did, that his commands would hold them for a few moments. We ran toward the cars. Behind us, I heard shouts. I glanced back. The gunfire had alerted the others that something wasn’t right. George, followed by Pete and the cop, hurried in our direction.

  Gunshots whistled overhead. Scott and I turned and fired rapid bursts. No one fell, but they moved more cautiously. Slogging and stumbling through the snow added to our frustration and haste. However, if it hampered us, it also slowed them. I didn’t want to get trapped into a shoot-out. We were on their terrain and who knew what other firepower they might have hidden in other caches around the farm? We reached the cars.

  Encumbered by the ledgers, Paul and I ran several steps behind the others. Scott swung into the driver’s seat. I scrambled into the passenger side. “Can you drive with your arm?” I asked.

  “Yes.” His cold hands fumbled with the keys.

  “The barn’s going to go any second,” I said.

  “I’m hurrying,” Scott said.

  The kids sat in the back. The three closed in warily. I kept the door open, half in the car, machine gun ready to repel any charge. The first set of keys Scott tried didn’t work. They come closer. Several small explosions came from the barn. He tried the second set. The car started. I leapt in and slammed the door. Scott swung the wheel and snow and stones spun from the tires as we plowed toward the driveway. The window next to me shattered. I felt glass bite into my cheek and blood ooze from the side of my face.

  “You’re hit,” Becky screamed.

  Scott swung the wheel crazily.

  “I’m all right! Drive! Get us the hell out of here!”

  At the end of the gravel drive five minutes later, Scott swung a fast left.

  Behind us, no one followed. In front, snow swirled in the headlights. As we entered the highway, a tremendous explosion tore through the early evening. Bright flame blossomed in the sky behind us. “I hope that caught the other cars,” I said.

  “Or that we have all the sets of keys,” Scott said. I doubted this. At least the cop would have her keys. Too bad we didn’t have time to disable the other cars.

  “Are you all right, Tom?” Scott asked.

  I held a handkerchief to my face. They’d have to dig some glass out of my scalp, but the bullet had missed. We rigged up an old blanket from the back to keep the wind outside at bay. I told Scott I’d live.

  “How far to town?” he asked.

  I thought back. “A few miles this way,” I said.

  Becky said, “It only has three cops, but they’re all bought and paid for.”

  “We can’t risk going back. If they even get one car out, they’ll be close behind. We’ll have to take our chances with the cops ahead of us and hope those behind won’t get a chance to use the CB in the cop car. If we make it to the interstate, we should be safe,” I said.

  Snowdrifts crossed the road in numerous places. In other spots, sheets of ice covered the pavement. I wanted to go a thousand miles an hour. Scott drove carefully. Only a few hardy travelers joined us on the road this early evening. A few miles later in the last grays of almost night, I saw red and blue lights rotating in the distance ahead of us.

  “Shit, they must have gotten a call through,” I said.

  I glanced out the back window. No one followed. Paul looked pale and shaken. Becky drummed her fingers against the armrest.

  The cop car sat behind a one-foot drift that crossed the road. Scott slowed our car and shoved it into a lower gear. He aimed straight at the cop car. An arm with a gun reached out the cop car’s window facing us. I tore away the blanket covering mine, extended the machine gun, and sent a spray of bullets in their direction. With steady insistence, we bore down on them. I shot as fast as I could, but with the jouncing and sliding of the Range Rover, I only managed to spray a line of bullets over their trunk. I guessed it was enough. The gun and arm disappeared. Our superior fire-power and implacable approach had its effect on the cops. They began backing and sliding away. Scott never swerved. He plowed straight through the snowdrift. Scraping the back fender of the cop car, the Range Rover rumbled and rattled over and through the snowdrift. I almost dropped the machine gun.

  I looked back. The cop car spun its wheels a moment, then took off after us.

  “What if they call other cops?” Scott asked.

  “They won’t. Calling would be to our advantage. They need us dead,” I answered.

  Scott sped faster.

  “They’re catching up,” I said.

  Scott nodded. “Everybody hold on.” I took a last look back. Maybe thirty feet separated us. I grabbed hold of the seat and the dashboard and planted my feet on the floor. We hit a long patch of ice. Just at the far edge, Scott jammed on the brakes. We swerved. Scott released the brake, fought the wheel, turning into the skid. Left, right, the wheel spun crazily. Then I felt the tires catch. We sped on into the evening.

  Out the rear window, the cop car twirled to the edge of the road, onto the shoulder, then did a graceful flip onto its roof into a drift five feet below. We sped on.

  The radio carried some good news. The blizzard was to miss Chicago and blanket southeastern Wisconsin. We’d be in the backlash of wind-drifted snow, but they promised less than an inch of new precipitation. Small drifts slowed us as we raced north. We passed no one on the road in either direction. Usually, we drove around drifts, sometimes over and through them. The car was a good one, and Scott drove well. The side of my face hurt.

  Now that we’d eluded the cops, I asked Paul and Becky how they’d run afoul of George and the crowd. They had done it separately, neither knowing the other was present.

  Paul had driven out earlier. He’d confronted George with the killing of Roger. Becky had told Paul of the new murder only minutes before we’d seen him yesterday. That’s why he’d been so upset. Paul threatened George that he would tell all. George told him he would tell no one.

  Becky, meanwhile, had opened her mouth once too often. George had waited outside the room when he heard her talking to us. When he disciplined her, she tried a half-baked blackmail scheme, now that she knew he headed the drug operation. George hadn’t been all that fond of Becky in general. He’d laughed at her and had her tied up and thrown in with Paul. As we drove, Paul blurted out bits and bursts of information about the drug network at school. He seemed anxious to get his version of the truth off his chest. Becky seemed to be calculating the benefits of coming clean.

  We found a lone gas station at the Ottowa entrance to Interstate 80. It was open. Scott and I kept our machine guns with us. I didn’t trust Becky and maybe not Paul. The cops might have been okay enough to call ahead. Who knew who was in on what? The guy on duty saw us, binged open the cash register, and started handing us money.

  “We only want to use the phone,” I said.

  “Forget the pay phone, use mine.” He handed it over the counter. I saw a soft-drink cooler, a deli for sandwiches and salads, a counter for candy bars and newspapers. Country-and-western music twanged softly in the background. The place had a comfortable warmth.

  The cashier raised his eyebrows when I asked the operator for the number of the River’s Edge police station. They found Frank. He said not to worry. He’d get cops we could trust out here.

  The guy at the counter insisted we didn’t have to pay when we ordered sandwiches. I l
eft him a twenty on the counter. Scott finally got his chance to use the john.

  An hour later, three snowplows and four police cars drove up together.

  They took our weapons and our statements. Frank’s preliminary talk and the name Scott Carpenter helped them get over their initial disbelief. More state police and finally sheriff’s cars began to arrive. Part of the original crowd left and returned. They confirmed our stories.

  The deejay on the country-western station told us it was five degrees below zero and heading down. The wind blew tiny puffs of flakes wherever it wished.

  While waiting for the cops to arrive, I’d paged through the ledgers. I removed the one for River’s Edge that mentioned most of the people connected with Susan’s murder. I wanted to use this as leverage to get information from them. Tampering with evidence, I know, but I left them volumes enough to convict anybody they rounded up. From what I could catch in my hasty inspection, far more people than I originally imagined were involved in pushing drugs at school.

  A doctor cleaned up my skin early that evening. He said I didn’t need stitches, and doubted whether I’d have any scars.

  As the weather cleared, the press drifted in. We made official statements to the cops. The team publicity crowd showed up.

  No one had died in the explosion. George and Pete had walked off into the storm and hadn’t been captured. The people at the farm had managed to use the radio in the cop car, but instead of chasing us, they went back to saving drugs, so when the explosion came, it went up in flames with the other vehicles. The state cops found the local cops and the giant huddled around the house’s smouldering embers. It had caught when the barn blew.

  They had taken the three to the county jail. With Becky and Paul giving evidence and with the information in the ledgers, most of the story came out.

  Around seven, Carolyn Blackburn and Oliver Sandgrace showed up. Carolyn gave us smiles and congratulations. Sandgrace presented us with frowns and apologies. The two of them thanked us profusely for uncovering the whole scheme. We were heroes. How nice. I had the most incriminating ledger for River’s Edge hidden, however. At eight, we got out of there.