by John Lutz
Jody couldn’t possibly hear Sal’s voice or follow the conversation, but she had her head cocked to the side as if listening. A mosquito droned close to Quinn’s ear. He slapped at it and missed.
“You and Harold stay put for a while,” he said to Vitali. “See if anyone turns up at his office.”
Quinn stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “Schueller’s on his way, alone and driving a converted golf cart.”
“He drives that thing around all the time,” Jody said. “It’s got a special parking space near the administration building.”
They didn’t hear Schueller arrive, but saw light play over the trees up front. Within a few minutes more lights came on inside the house. The den or library on the other side of the French doors was illuminated, making it all the more difficult for anyone inside to see out.
Quinn signaled everyone to move closer.
Suddenly Jody whispered, “There’s Sarah!”
Everyone stood still and watched a woman walk across the veranda to one of the French doors. She rapped once lightly on the glass, pushed the door open, and entered.
“I thought she might be dead,” Jody said in a relieved voice, still somewhat under the woman’s spell.
Quinn had other ideas about Sarah Benham.
He saw that the French doors farther down the veranda were dark. He suspected they’d be unlocked, like the doors Sarah Benham had used to gain entrance to the house.
He handed Pearl something in the darkness. It was a small plastic box with a coiled wire and what felt like an ear plug.
“What the hell is this?” she asked.
“It’s a receiver. I was going to plant bugs in the house so we could listen in after Schueller made bail. But things are moving too fast so there’s been a change of plans. I’m going in with the microphone end of that thing and see if I can get something useful on tape. So we’ll not only have arrest warrants, we’ll be able to make them stick.”
“With tapes obtained after an illegal entry?” Jody the attorney asked in a dubious tone. She decided not to point out to Quinn that the recordings would be digital, not on tape. Let the technosaur have his old-fashioned terminology.
“The judge who granted the arrest warrants also gave permission to bug the premises,” Quinn said. He was pretty sure the permission didn’t say exactly when.
“But—” Jody began.
Pearl gave Jody a hard look and made a twisting motion with her hand as if rotating a key between her locked lips. Jody pursed her lips in unconscious imitation of her mother.
Pearl turned her attention to Quinn.
“The three of us are going in,” she said, with a glance at Fedderman.
He nodded.
Pearl handed the receiver to Jody. “Jody stays here and listens through the earbud, calls the state cops if the situation goes all to hell.”
Jody opened her mouth to protest.
“It’s recording when the green light is on,” Quinn said, giving her a look that caused her to bite off her words. “Shield the light with your hand so it can’t be seen.”
“I don’t want—”
“Be a grown-up!” Pearl snapped. “This is no time for a smart-mouthed kid to pitch a hissy fit!”
“So when’s a good time?”
“When nobody has a gun.”
Watching her mother check a nine-millimeter Glock and hold it pressed against her thigh, Jody reluctantly settled back in the bushes and set about learning how to work the recorder.
“An idiot could do this,” she said, fitting the plug in her ear. “It’s wireless and automatic, so why don’t we just leave it hidden here and I’ll go with you?”
But the others were gone.
83
The second set of French doors was unlocked. Its hinges squealed slightly as Quinn pushed one of the heavy doors open.
He led the way inside.
The air was cooler and the room was darker than outside. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out a sofa and chairs, a credenza or desk on one wall, framed paintings suspended on thin cord or wire that was hooked on crown molding, so the walls needn’t bear scars from nails or screws. This would be the living room, more formal than the book-lined den where Schueller and Sarah Benham were meeting.
Quinn could hear their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He led the way silently across plush carpet toward tall louvered doors that were standing open, folded against the living room walls. Light spilled from the doorway, and Quinn knew it must lead directly to the den.
He edged closer, holding the tiny microphone before him so it would pick up voices. He knew it was sensitive—he hoped sensitive enough.
Pearl and Fedderman hung back silently as Quinn moved to within inches of the doorway to the den.
“... had to be done,” Sarah Benham was saying. “But what about the others, who served a recreational purpose? Or the appeasement of a hunger?”
“The first one, Collins, was absolutely necessary. She learned too much,” the chancellor said. He drew his briar pipe from a pocket of his blazer.
“And she talked in her sleep,” Sarah Benham said. “I can attest to that.”
“I’ll bet.” Schueller got a leather tobacco pouch with a drawstring from another pocket and began filling the briar’s bowl.
Suddenly Quinn realized where he’d seen such a pouch before. One had been sent to him as a gift. He stared at it, and at Schueller’s leather elbow patches.
He felt his stomach churn.
Schueller replaced the soft leather pouch in his pocket and made no move to light the pipe. “You want a glass of wine? Red, like blood.”
The bastard! Quinn actually felt a chill and had to fight against yelling, Got you! If Jody was picking this up back in the garden, tonight was working out beyond anything he’d expected.
“Why not?” Sarah said.
“I’ll have a glass, too,” a male voice said. Quinn stole a glance and saw that a tall, lean man with alert gray eyes had entered the room. Tangler, the literature professor.
“There was seldom anyone there to listen to Macy,” Sarah said. “Thanks.”
The “thanks” must have been for the glass of wine. Quinn had to restrain himself from peeking into the room again and watching Sarah Benham take a sip.
“Um,” she said. “Good.”
After a pause, she spoke again: “The problem turned out to be that one of our prize students, Macy Collins, was too smart. She figured out what was going on.”
“The police should have concluded that at its worst, our alibi about Macy was a simple and harmless lie,” the chancellor said. “Or was intended as such at the time.”
“Possibly they weren’t smart enough to grasp the nuances and go for the feint.”
“They were soon on top of it,” Tangler, said. “They suspected the lie concealed a larger lie.”
“Maybe you can’t lie about murder,” Sarah Benham said.
“The police would agree with that,” Schueller said. “Fortunately all they seem to be investigating now is murder, and not our exercise in extreme capitalism.”
“Selling stock that doesn’t exist,” Tangler said, “is that wrong?”
“To the uninitiated,” Sarah said.
“And unlucky.”
A moment passed as they all toasted their good fortune.
Schueller’s voice: “The irony is that everything might have come tumbling down with those two ancient murders discovered in Wisconsin.”
“You think Daniel Danielle committed them?” Tangler asked.
“That’s for the police to find out.”
“The police are incompetent,” Sarah said. “It’s good that we found it out sooner rather than later. This wine French?”
“California.”
“Amazing. You wouldn’t think the soil—”
Sarah was suddenly silent. Quinn felt his heart pick up a beat. Had they been heard? Seen?
Schueller’s voice: “Somebody�
�s at the front door. It’s Elaine. She has a key, and she’ll find her own way back here.”
Silence now, while the missing piece to the puzzle made her way through the dimly lit house. Quinn’s phone call had worked perfectly, creating enough anxiety to cause concern and prompt a meeting, but not so much that any of the prey would bolt.
The front of the house was to the left of where they stood. Quinn knew it was unlikely that “Elaine”—undoubtedly Elaine Pratt—would pass through the darkened living room. And he was sure that Sarah, Tangler, and Schueller would be waiting, standing holding their wineglasses and looking away from him and his detectives, toward the opposite door into the den.
Quinn moved silently forward and craned his neck.
There were Sarah and Schueller, just as he’d imagined. Only Schueller wasn’t holding a wineglass. Both were facing away from Quinn, waiting for the visitor to appear. Tangler was off to the side, his thumbs hitched in his belt, also focused on Elaine’s entrance. Quinn could hear Pearl breathing close behind him. She’d moved closer. He didn’t know where Fedderman was. Watching their tails, he hoped.
Quinn moved nothing other than his right hand, sliding his police special revolver out of its belt holster.
A figure appeared in the doorway.
Elaine Pratt.
The vipers were all in the pit. Now the conversation could get even more interesting, And incriminating.
The problem was that everyone in the room was facing away from Quinn other than Elaine Pratt. He shifted position only slightly, and she did a double take and stared directly at him.
Quinn drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.
Chancellor Schueller and the others were momentarily frozen by surprise. They were in that slight lurch of time that provided opportunity.
Quinn knew this had to be fast.
It was something everyone knew.
There was a rush toward the door. The flustered academicians bumped into each other. In the confusion, from somewhere near his desk Schueller produced a sawed-off shotgun.
He swung the shotgun around and fired it before it had completed its arc.
Leading the charge into the den, Quinn was aware of Fedderman making a grunting sound behind him.
Quinn had only a few seconds. He took a shot at Rory Schueller, grazing his leg, as Schueller slipped through the French doors out into the night. Behind him there were blood spatters on the threshold, and on the paving bricks beyond the door.
Yelling for Pearl and Fedderman to stay in the house and secure the others, Quinn stepped out onto the veranda and followed the blood of the thing Daniel Danielle had spawned.
The monster wouldn’t escape this time.
The tornado moving in the night was Quinn.
84
Beyond the low stone wall bordering the veranda, Quinn stopped and looked quickly in all directions. There was enough moonlight for him to see the large stretch of ground that sloped gradually toward the campus, and off to his left more mown lawn leading toward the woods bordering the county road. The only cover other than the trees was a small storage shed, probably where a riding mower and gardening equipment were kept.
The shed. It was much closer than the trees. Schueller might be in it or behind it.
The way he was running, his wound must be slight. He might even have doubled back and be in or near the house, behind Quinn.
Perspiration like ice water trickled down Quinn’s spine.
He was turning back to glance at the house when motion in the corner of his vision caught his eye. His head snapped around in time for him to see Schueller break from the cover of the storage shed and bolt for the woods. He was carrying the shotgun in his right hand.
Schueller was beyond range of Quinn’s handgun, and he knew it. Even if Quinn stood still and fired a perfectly aimed round, it would dig into the ground well behind the fleeing killer.
Quinn began to run. He was like a mountain gaining momentum, slow off the mark, but picking up speed.
Schueller had a good lead, and he was running fast despite his wounded leg. Certainly faster than the older and heavier Quinn.
But could he keep running?
He stopped suddenly and whirled. The shotgun he was carrying interfered with his running rhythm and slowed him down, and he had a better use for it. He fired it toward Quinn, who paid it no attention. The shotgun didn’t have nearly the range of his pistol.
Quinn watched Schueller toss the gun aside. He recalled that it was a double-barreled model, good for only two shots without a reload.
A mistake, not waiting for me to come within range. You’re rattled.
Schueller settled into a swift pace toward the trees. Quinn took an angle that would cause them to meet a hundred feet or so before the trees, and tried to breathe evenly so he wouldn’t get winded so fast. He knew that behind him someone had surely called in the state police, but they wouldn’t get here soon enough. All Schueller had to do was reach the county road and flag down a motorist, or make his way to some unsuspecting homeowner who had a car, and that would be the end of the chase.
And maybe the homeowner.
Quinn felt pain creeping into his thighs, and a burning in his lungs. A slight ache began in his right side that he knew would soon become a stitch and double him over.
He swallowed the pain and lengthened his stride.
Gradually, inexorably, he began to gain ground.
Schueller glanced over his shoulder and saw that Quinn was getting closer. He spun momentarily so he was running backward, grinned, and waved at Quinn. Then he turned back around and picked up speed.
Quinn matched him stride for stride, and then some.
When the trees loomed ahead of them, Schueller was within pistol range, but still too far away for accuracy. He would soon be lost in the cover of the woods.
Every step was agony for Quinn. He cocked the hammer of his revolver, then stopped running and planted his feet. Unable to steady himself, he didn’t hold out much hope for what he was about to try. Gripping the gun with both hands, he laid out a pattern of shots in the direction of Schueller just before Schueller was swallowed by the sheltering darkness of the trees. Quickly Quinn reloaded and fired another pattern of shots into the shadows.
His chest heaving, he trudged toward the woods.
In the shadowed silence of the trees, Quinn glanced around and saw what looked like blood on some of the undergrowth. Felt it and found it damp.
Schueller’s blood.
But he couldn’t determine direction.
Within a few minutes Quinn heard an engine whine and turn over. Then another. He recognized the sound immediately and remembered the small twin-engine plane parked on the edge of the airstrip.
He charged into the undergrowth and dry leaves, toward the sound of the aircraft engines.
Now the engines were roaring. Quinn could imagine the small plane taxiing, bumping across the grass. It wouldn’t need much speed or distance to become airborne.
He broke from the trees just in time to see the plane picking up speed down the airstrip, moving away from him. He stopped and stood still, sighted in on the small aircraft, and fired the remaining two shots in his revolver.
They seemed to have no effect on the plane.
And then they did.
Something was preventing the plane from taking off. It slowed, sat still for a moment, and then the left motor roared louder and it turned around near the far end of the grass runway to return the way it had come.
Both engines howled, and the aircraft came at Quinn, earthbound but picking up speed at an alarming rate. He fumbled to reload his revolver as he side-shuffled toward the woods.
He barely made it into the safety of the trees. He was safe.
But Schueller wouldn’t or couldn’t stop or veer the plane. The aircraft made the edge of the woods, slammed a wing into a tree, spun, and rocked to a halt, facing away from Quinn. One engine was mangled, its three-bladed propeller twisted and stopped.
The other engine was still roaring, its propeller whirling. Quinn found himself in a hurricane of littered wind.
He squinted into the gale of the prop wash and saw Schueller half climb, half fall out of the cockpit. The plane’s left wing was sheared off at the engine nacelle. Schueller staggered as if drunk, stopped, and stood between Quinn and the whirling propeller, leaning back slightly and letting the prop wash help support him. He was injured from the crash, or one of Quinn’s bullets had found him. Blood flowed from a wound in the side of his head, black in the dappled moonlight. More blood ran down his arms, which were hanging limply at his sides, raised slightly and tremulously in the rush of air.
Both men knew that the game was up.
Quinn pointed his revolver at Schueller and with his free hand motioned for him to come forward.
Schueller smiled. Shrugged.
Instead of moving forward, he backpedaled, and the propeller had him.
Quinn heard the engine’s roar momentarily change pitch, saw Schueller suddenly become parts rather than a whole human being. Quinn felt wetness on the backs of his hands, on his cheeks and forehead.
He turned around and sat down on the ground, hearing the engine cough and become silent.
He bowed his head in the throbbing stillness of the woods.
He didn’t look behind him.
85
Penny had a difficult time conversing with Fedderman, the way he was lying on his stomach, with half his face mashed into his hospital pillow. The nurses, with cunning expertise and Velcro restraining material, had made it impossible for him to turn over.
“Thish p’low mush have a thread count about three,” he said.
It struck Penny as odd that Feds would complain about the pillowcase’s roughness on his face rather than the holes left by the pellets that had penetrated his right back and shoulder when he’d instinctively turned away from Schueller’s shotgun. One of the pellets had almost lodged in his spine, and possibly would have paralyzed him. As it was, he should completely recover but for a peppering of scars on his back.