Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  “I’ve been watching you,” Stewart said, his voice sounding just like it had when we were chatting in the library about books. “Ever since you asked about that damage to the principal’s office, I’ve been watching you.”

  “You . . . have?” I goggled at him. Not once had I noticed anything unusual. Either I was the worst ever for paying attention to what was going on around me, or Stewart had amazing stealth powers.

  “Mostly by proxy,” he said. “Chilson is a small town and it’s easy to find things out if you ask the right people the right questions.”

  I desperately wanted to know who’d been blabbing, but it could have been anyone. It could even have been me. I’d been resisting the idea of Stewart as Rowan’s killer, so I’d been cutting him slack all along. During one of our casual talks, could I have given him information he’d been slyly trying to obtain? Yup. No question about it.

  “Everybody in town knows you’ve been helping Inwood and Wolverson with the murder investigation,” he said, shifting his grip on the gun.

  I knew from my self-defense classes that handguns were heavier than they looked and it took a lot of strength to hold them up for any length of time, especially with one hand. Though there was a possibility I could take advantage of that, the possibility was too slim. He was at least six feet away and the odds were far better that, if he were to pause to readjust his grip, he’d see me coming and simply whack me upside the head with the gun, no shooting needed.

  “Oh?” I asked vaguely, trying desperately to form a plan, but not getting any further than . . . well, not getting anywhere, really. “Does everyone know who we were investigating?”

  “No, but I do.”

  He sounded proud of himself, and I realized he was one of those people who thought he was smarter than everyone else, which always carried with it an accompanying truth: that he must be an incredibly boring dinner companion.

  Stewart didn’t wait for a response—another indication of an overly healthy ego—but continued on. “It was easy for me to see,” he said comfortably. “All that time you spent at that restaurant the Scoles kid opened up, when you’d never gone there before? Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t been following you very long. But it’s easy to ask someone questions when you’re the only one in their otherwise very empty restaurant.”

  So Sunny had blabbed. No surprise there. I probably would have done the same thing if I’d been stuck by myself for hours on end.

  “And Hugh Novak,” Stewart said. “Almost too obvious, with that property he owns, and the fuss Rowan was putting up to a new township hall. I almost suspected him myself, and I’m the one who killed her.” Stewart laughed. “Talk about bullies. He’s a classic, isn’t he?”

  How was it I’d never noticed Stewart’s self-absorption? Had his support of the bookmobile been enough for me to forgive deep personality flaws? I hoped not, but what other explanation was there? Well, maybe that he’d been able to hide his true self until he’d committed murder, and that had opened his personal Pandora’s box. Something to talk over with an experienced psychologist, next time I ran into one.

  “Anyone else?” I asked, inching away oh-so-slowly. It was so dark, maybe I could run off into the night and make it to Buster’s before Stewart found me.

  “What I don’t understand is why you suspected Mitchell Koyne. He didn’t even know Rowan.”

  No, Stewart wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was. And if there was a way I could use that to my advantage, I would. If only I could think of a way to do that.

  “For a while it looked like you suspected Bax Tousely,” Stewart mused. “But that’s ridiculous. The kid can hardly kill a fly, let alone a human being. Tousely’s about the least likely person in the world to kill the woman he keeps hoping will be his mother-in-law.”

  Interesting. So he’d missed my suspicions of Land and Neil. Not very useful, but interesting.

  Stewart stepped forward, closing the gap between us to an arm’s length and eliminating any possibility of my escape.

  I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. The bookmobile looked stable enough, in a tilted fashion, but it was going to take a great big tow truck to get it out of the ditch. Squinting into the dark, I could just make out the fuzzy shape of my cat, who had tucked himself into the corner of the dashboard and was plastering his furry face against the inside of the windshield. Eddie . . . Stewart started talking again and I faced him with my chin up.

  “It was only a matter of time,” he said, “before you started pointing your stubby little finger at me. And I can’t have that, so it’s time for you to have an accident. Sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but there’s no alternative.”

  My first reaction was to shout that my fingers were not stubby. They were perfectly proportional to my compact frame, and if he couldn’t see that, he needed to pay more attention.

  That thought faded as I realized something about Stewart’s basic nature. He punished people he felt had wronged him. Divorced his wife, who’d done little more than save money. Destroyed the office of his high school principal for kicking him off the football team. Was trying to kill me for finding out about Rowan. And had killed Rowan because . . . because why?

  I looked past the gun because I couldn’t stand to look at it any longer, and past Stewart’s face, because I certainly didn’t want to see his expression, and fastened my gaze on his hat.

  And then I suddenly knew why he’d killed Rowan. Or at least had a good idea.

  “Rowan had something you wanted,” I said. “A family heirloom. You couldn’t take it before your divorce, because then you would have had to split its value with your wife. And you had to kill Rowan because . . . because she was the only one who knew what it was worth.”

  Stewart shook his head. “You have it all wrong.”

  Well, I’d been wrong before. And I’d undoubtedly be wrong again, if I lived through this.

  “She never should have had it,” he said. “I only took what was mine by right.” His voice grew increasingly dark and threatening. “And if you hadn’t come along, no one would have known the difference.”

  I had no clue what he was talking about, but at this point that didn’t seem particularly relevant, because the direness of my situation was finally sinking into my tiny little brain. Until now, I’d been half convinced that if I could keep Stewart talking long enough, he’d back off with the threats, maybe even laugh about being in a bad mood, and we’d go our separate ways. That merry little scenario, however, was looking less and less likely.

  It was time for me to make a move. Unfortunately, I had no idea what that should be.

  “You talked about an accident.” I was pleased that my voice was relatively clear and almost free of wobbly fear. “What kind? Because if you’re planning an accident with a gun, that’ll never work. Everybody knows I don’t own one.”

  “Everybody? That’s one of the worst things about you millennials.” Stewart snorted. “You exaggerate all the time.”

  It seemed to me that what he’d just said was itself an exaggeration, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

  “But no, there won’t be a gun accident,” he said. “Well, not unless there’s an accident.” He laughed. Actually laughed out loud. I did not. “What I have planned for you is far more realistic, with the benefit of being seasonal.”

  I glanced around at the blowing snow. Which suddenly felt even colder. A shiver roiled up my back, and I had to grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Stewart, let’s talk about this,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “You don’t want to kill me, I’m sure you don’t. Surely the two of us can find a compromise.”

  “Not possible,” Stewart said flatly. “You’re never going to keep quiet that I killed Rowan. And if I run, where am I going to go? What am I going to do? Anyway, I’m not about to leave everything I’ve worked for. It’s bad enough
giving half of it to my ex-wife.” He half smiled. “Well, not quite half of it. But since you’re the only one who knows, that doesn’t count.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was far happier with him talking than with him threatening me, so I said, “You’re a smart guy. I bet with a little head start you could get some money together, get a fake identity, and make a new life somewhere. There will be details to work out, but—”

  “Take your hat off,” he said suddenly.

  “Um.” I reached up and touched my nice warm hat. “It’s maybe twenty degrees out here, and getting even colder. Plus the windchill is—”

  Stewart reached out and roughly yanked the hat from my head. “Take off your mittens.”

  Real fear coursed through me. “Stewart, please . . .”

  “Off,” he said, and even in the dim light cast by the bookmobile headlights, I could see the emotionless expression on his face. “Your coat, too.”

  Without a word, I shed all of my outer gear and in seconds started shivering. I stood there, hugging my arms to my chest in a pointless attempt to keep my body warmth where it should be. In my body.

  He gestured at my feet. “Boots.”

  “Stewart . . .”

  “Boots!” he roared, pointing the gun at my chest.

  Quickly, I toed them off and put my stocking feet, one by one, into the accumulating snow.

  “Now walk,” he ordered. “Not on the road. Into that swamp over there and no turning back.” He sounded way too satisfied with himself. “In this cold, dressed like that, you’ll lose all feeling in your fingers and toes in five minutes. Fifteen minutes and you won’t feel your arms and legs. Twenty minutes from now you’ll stumble and fall to the ground and never get up.” He smiled. “Half an hour from now I’ll be safe, so get going. There’s a hockey game tonight I don’t want to miss.”

  I stared at him. He was sending me to my death, but what mattered most was hockey? The man was a lunatic. But he was a lunatic with a gun.

  He loomed over me. “Get. Going,” he commanded, then reached out and pushed at my shoulder. I staggered, back across the road, and in front of the bookmobile that I longed to retreat into, but with Stewart and his gun so close, it wouldn’t be anywhere near safe, even if I could manage to get in the door.

  Truly the last thing in the world I wanted to do was walk into that flat and frozen swamp, dark and thick with cedar trees. I glanced up at the bookmobile as I passed and saw Eddie’s face peering down at me.

  Eddie, I’m so sorry.

  I waded through the deep snow in the ditch, looking back only once.

  “Keep going,” Stewart said, waving the gun around. “Twenty minutes from now you won’t feel a thing.”

  I turned back around and faced the forest. Every step I took, the sound of the wind increased. Snow pelted my face. I was so cold I could hardly breathe.

  The last thing I heard before the sounds of the storm closed around me were the plaintive howls of my cat.

  Chapter 19

  Snow and darkness swirled around me. Every step I took felt like a journey of a thousand miles. Every step took me farther away from the road, from the bookmobile, from Eddie.

  I made my way through the drifted thigh-high snow and clambered up the far side of the ditch. There, I paused to catch my breath. “Get moving,” Stewart’s voice called through the wind. A sharp gunshot rang out. I ducked. Which wouldn’t have helped me escape a bullet, of course, but you can’t help your instincts.

  “Next time I’ll be aiming for you,” Stewart shouted. “Keep going.”

  “Jerk,” I muttered. And kept going.

  The sun was long gone, but the moon must have been rising somewhere, because even through the snow, I could detect the vague shape of the line of cedar trees. When we’d been driving past at forty miles an hour, the thicket of cedar trees had seemed to be an impenetrable wall of green. Now that I was up close and personal, even in the almost-dark I could see that wasn’t quite the case. There were gaps and holes where bigger trees gave way to baby trees. I slid in through a gap and immediately learned two things. One, the snow wasn’t nearly as deep inside the cedar forest, and two, and an even better thing, the wind barely penetrated.

  Not that I was going to do a jig about my situation. I had no hat, no mittens, no coat, and no boots, and I was stranded in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard. But I was youngish and healthy and at least Stewart had only taken all my outerwear. If he’d taken all my clothes, I’d be truly desperate instead of just desperate.

  “Right,” I said out loud. It was time to make a plan. And it needed to be a good one.

  I risked a glance over my shoulder. If I couldn’t see Stewart, there was no way he could see me, especially since my eyes were now adjusted to the dark and he was trying to see through the bookmobile’s headlights. I could make out everything in front of me, which at this point was exclusively snow-laden cedar trees and the occasional vine.

  Ignoring the very real possibility that I’d been walking through a thicket of poison ivy, I hugged myself tight, holding in as much body warmth as I could, and through my shivers, tried to think.

  What was the biggest problem? That I was cold and rapidly getting colder. I wasn’t sure Stewart had his facts right about how quickly I’d succumb, but he probably wasn’t far off. We were five miles from anything and I wasn’t at all certain I’d be able to walk that kind of distance.

  The only solution? Get back to the vehicles and, once there, figure a way out of this mess.

  What was the problem with that solution? Stewart was standing there, waiting for me to come back. What had he said, in half an hour he’d be safe? All I had to do was wait for thirty minutes.

  “Rats,” I said out loud. For the first time in my life, I regretted not wearing a watch. My cell phone was back in my coat pocket and I had no way to tell time. How long was half an hour? If you were reading a wonderful book, it went by in a flash. If you were standing in line to get your driver’s license renewed, it was forever.

  How long had I been standing in the cedar trees already? I had no idea. Five minutes? Probably not even that.

  I counted out the seconds the way my dad had taught me to count the time between flashes of lightning and thunder—one, one thousand; two, one thousand—but that was so boring I stopped at thirty.

  “Be conservative,” I said out loud. At the sound of my own voice, I hunched down, making myself a smaller target, I suppose, for a bullet from Stewart’s gun. But that was silly since the storm was so loud I’d barely heard my own footsteps. Then again, with stocking feet, maybe my footsteps were somehow noisier in the snow than booted feet and—

  “Stop that,” I muttered.

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about what I couldn’t change. Well, technically, I shouldn’t ever worry about that kind of thing, but now was what mattered. I needed to summon everything I could remember about cold weather survival from every book I’d ever read and from every person who’d ever mentioned a trick about staying warm during ice fishing.

  Rafe . . .

  Through chattering teeth, I said, “Stop that,” a second time. I needed to focus. If I was going to get out of this, I needed to be more than smart; I needed to be . . . savvy. Not a term that typically applied to me—and never had, I was pretty sure—but if there was a time to marshal my inner resources, it was now.

  I nodded to myself. Good. Inner pep talks were an excellent idea. Next I needed to capitalize on that, and to stop wondering if the cold was already impacting my brain because a word like “capitalize” was running through my head when on the edge of survival.

  I had library and information science degrees, not business, though none of those would be any use in this particular situation. What I should have majored in was outdoor recreation. Or maybe I should have joined the military. Then again, if I’d done eith
er of those things, I wouldn’t be out here in the cold in the first place.

  And I was cold. So very, very cold.

  How long had it been? It seemed like forever that I’d been standing here, doing nothing but thinking in circles, but how long had it been really? Ten minutes? Could it have been fifteen? Probably not.

  I shoved my hands into the pockets of my sweater . . . and found a pair of gloves. Glory hallelujah, the last time I’d worn this sweater had been during the mild thaw and I’d done the books-to-library hauling without my outer coat. A huge smile spread over my face. Sure, they were thin gloves and might not do much good, but they were far better than nothing.

  It took a minute to fumble the gloves onto my hands. Once they were on, though, confidence surged through me. I could do this. I would do this. Stewart not-so-fun Funston wouldn’t be the cause of my death. He would not get off scot-free for killing Rowan. He would not win.

  I stomped my feet, left, right, left, right, trying to keep the blood flowing, trying to keep frostbite out of my toes, because I liked wearing summer sandals, and if my toes fell off, none of my sandals would fit for beans.

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s time to get going.”

  All the books I’d read about surviving in the wilderness noted how easy it was to get lost, wandering about in circles for hours without a clue where you’d really been going.

  That wasn’t going to happen to me, mainly because I knew that a river curved around to the east, north, and south, and the road was behind me to the west. Then again, I might freeze to death before I got anywhere.

  With that not-so-comforting thought, I started walking, one foot in front of the other.

  Time and distance. I didn’t want to walk far, but for at least the next fifteen minutes, I needed to keep moving or I’d turn into a Minnie-cicle. Assuming my back was to the road, if I turned to the right ninety degrees, I’d be walking parallel to the road, heading back toward Buster’s and the closest likely human contact.