It was a black shadow of a thing, and had it not been for the damage to my finger, I would have believed it to be a toy. As it was, I blinked twice just to confirm what I was seeing in the dimly lit room. I reached toward it automatically, but my hand drew back just inches away from it. In that moment I knew, just as sure as I knew my own name or my birthdate, that this was the gun that had killed Gary and Jean.
A crumpled paper napkin lay among the detritus on the desk. I used it to pick up the weapon. It was heavier than I'd expected, once I had the full weight of it in hand. I raised it slowly and sniffed at it. It smelled very faintly like fireworks—like the air smells late in the evening on the Fourth of July. I don't know much about guns, but somehow this told me it had been fired.
The noise from the television set in the living room intruded upon my consciousness again. The hair on my arms prickled suddenly. I turned to find Josh Detweiller standing in the doorway.
Chapter 21
For a crazy moment I thought he might just give me one of those Elvis smiles. He would come into the room and pick up a magazine. I'd slip the gun back into the drawer unnoticed, then bid him goodnight and get the hell out of there.
It almost worked that way. He stood there watching me for an eternity. Probably about a minute and a half, in reality. I lowered the gun, hoping to put it back where I'd found it. I fumbled for the drawer, unwilling to take my eyes off him. My shaking hand couldn't find it and I backed up. My butt touched the open drawer. It slid quickly closed, causing me to momentarily lose balance.
Josh was at my side instantly. He reached for the weapon with shaky hands and I gave it up. For the first time in my life, I wished I'd listened to Ron's advice about guns. At least I'd know whether it was loaded, whether the safety was on or not. It was a little late now for those kinds of wishes.
"What made you do it, Josh?" Now I could only hope to stall long enough to work out a way to get myself out of this alive.
He shrugged, backing away enough to aim the gun at me. His hands weren't shaking now. His lids were half closed, the dark eyes almost sexy looking. I'd never seen him like this before, but then I'd never seen him after several beers, a violent movie, and with a gun in his hand.
My question still hung in the air. He hadn't ignored it, he was contemplating his answer.
"They were mean to me," he finally said.
"Mean to you?" Mean to you! Is that the answer nowadays? Anytime someone is mean to you, you blow them away?
"My old man used to throw me around. Every time he came home drunk, he'd take it out on me and Mom."
"And your mom? Why did she deserve it?" Or had her big mistake been reaching into that drawer the same way I had?
He laughed, an abrupt chuckle that came out as a snort. "She was no better. Whenever Dad hit me, she'd jump in and pull him away. But when he wasn't around, she'd scream at me, call me stupid, and lazy. She was no different than him."
"And so you're gonna solve it the same way they solved everything. Somebody makes you mad, so you just get violent."
He shrugged again. "They deserved it."
The cold attitude chilled me. I rubbed my goose-pimpled arms.
"What about me?" I asked. "Now you feel you have to get rid of me, too?"
"You haven't ever been mean to me, Charlie," he said. He seemed genuinely puzzled about my remark.
"What about the police, Josh? Sooner or later they'll figure this out." I was careful not to say that I'd tell them.
"I'll get a good lawyer," he said.
So that's what it boiled down to. A good lawyer could find some kind of defense for Josh. It made me furious but I had no doubt of its feasibility. Good lawyers get guilty people off the hook all the time. Right and wrong have ceased to matter. It only matters how good your lawyer is.
"Josh, think about this. You need help, counseling. Let's try to figure out a way."
He stiffened. For the first time since he'd taken the gun from me, I saw anger. It was a cold, unprincipled anger.
"I need to think about this," he growled. "Not with you. Just me, by myself."
He jammed the gun into the waistband of his jeans and, almost in the same move, grabbed a length of nylon climbing rope from the dresser near the door.
"Sit down," he ordered. With his left hand he yanked the chair away from the desk, flinging a bath towel off it. The cord was still in his right hand.
I stared at the gun in his waistband. If I moved quickly, I could probably grab it. What good would that do? I didn't know how to use it. But he didn't know that. I hesitated a second too long. Josh grabbed my shoulder, squeezing it painfully in a grip that brought me to the chair without much effort. He looped the rope around my left wrist, cinching it tight. My right arm was curiously useless, numb from the pressure he'd applied to my collarbone. Before I managed to shake off the feeling, he'd snagged that wrist, too, and was proceeding to wind the rope through the lower chair rungs, effectively pinning my hands down near my ankles in a position that would very soon send my lower back into spasms.
"Ow, Josh, that hurts!"
Oddly enough, he listened. He let a little slack in the rope. A curious kindness from a two-time murderer. He progressed to my ankles, tying them now to the chair legs. At least I had some protection there from my socks.
"Josh, what are you going to do?" I worked to keep the tremor out of my voice.
He yanked at the final knot. "I don't know. I just gotta get out of here. I ain't living with that aunt, and I ain't going to jail. I just gotta figure it out."
I sat still, wondering what he meant to do. He didn't seem to know either. His eyes darted around the room, like he was figuring out what to take with him. He settled on a lightweight jacket and four CDs from the rack beside his stereo. The gun was still in his waistband.
He darted out of my sight, which wasn't difficult since my back was to the door, my eyes aimed at the floor. I strained to hear what was going on. Blaring music from the television in the living room effectively obliterated other sounds. Some bumping noises came from the direction of the kitchen. I twisted to one side then the other, hoping to get some idea. In the macabre black room, I could only see the purplish glow from the two neon lamps. My ears listened for any sound from Josh.
After ten minutes or so, I felt sure he'd really gone. I managed to get enough weight onto my feet that I could lift the chair legs an inch or two off the floor. By hefting my weight at the same time, I managed to turn a few inches to the right. I did this twice, then listened for reprisals from the other rooms. Nothing.
I clumped the chair around enough to see the doorway into the hall. I was breathing hard from the effort and my lower back was killing me. I saw no sign of Josh. Flickering light from the TV set gave the hall a strobe effect. Between that and the neons I was beginning to feel nauseated. Sitting bent over at the waist wasn't helping, either. I scanned the little bit I could see and found no evidence of Josh. I clumped the chair again, loudly, to see if I'd get a reaction.
Nothing.
Every part of my body hurt. My stomach was doing flip-flops while my arms felt stretched to the breaking point and my collarbone still ached from his ferocious pinch. And all the time I had to think about getting out. There was no doubt in my mind that Josh would be back. It was only a question of how long he'd stay away.
I tried to think where I'd seen the telephone. There was one on the kitchen wall near the door to the hall. If I cranked my neck far enough back, I could even see it. In my present position, it was a good two feet above my head. And with my arms strapped down to the chair rungs, there was no way I'd ever be able to dial it. Think, Charlie. There had been an extension in the master bedroom. The phone had been on the floor near the bed. I had set it up on the nightstand, now conveniently out of my reach. Well, it was my only hope now.
Since I hadn't heard any repercussions from my earlier movements, I decided it was time to go for it. It couldn't get much more awkward than this, my ankles tied to the ch
air legs, hands bound beside them. With a little effort, I worked out a system of shifting my weight to my feet, then to the chair. I scooted along like this, like a severely crippled inchworm. The clutter all over Josh's room didn't help, either. I barreled over some of the obstacles, kicked others out of my way with the tips of my toes. I had to stop for a breather when I reached the hall, but I knew I couldn't afford to make it a long one.
The hall looked impossibly long. In fact, it was probably less than eight feet to the master bedroom. Then to traverse that room, too . . . I resolved not to think about it. It seemed like a day later that I reached the nightstand, although it had probably been closer to twenty minutes. I had lost all track of time and my watch was cocked around to the far side of my wrist, impossible to see. The phone stood on the nightstand, just as I'd left it, about level with my forehead when I stretched my neck as far as I could. My spirits took a dive. There was no way I could lift the receiver and press the numbers.
Dammit! I hurt all over and knew that Josh might return any time. In a fit of frustration, I reared the chair back on its hind legs and kicked forward with all my might. The nightstand fell sideways and the phone with it. All right!
I scooted over to the phone, which lay upside down on the rug, the receiver splayed out to the end of its spiral cord. I righted the instrument with my toe and jerked myself into a position where my fingers could touch it. Carefully, I pressed 911.
The receiver was two feet away. I clumped over to it and touched it with my fingers. No way I could raise it to my mouth. I waited until I thought I heard a voice at the other end. With the television still blaring in the background, it was impossible to tell. I shouted toward the mouthpiece, hoping whoever waited out there would be able to understand what I was about to say.
"Get Detective Kent Taylor," I yelled. "Tell him Josh Detweiller is the killer. He's out driving around." I gave a description of the car, kicking myself that I'd not troubled to memorize the license number. "Then send someone here to untie me," I shouted. I gave the address, and hoped they got it all. I heard a voice at the other end but couldn't make out the words. My voice was hoarse and I wanted to cry from the pain and frustration. And then I heard the distinct sound of the front door closing.
Chapter 23
"What are you doing?" Josh shouted, taking in the broken nightstand and the phone sprawled across the carpet. He rushed toward me. I expected to be shot or slammed with the butt of the gun at any second.
At that moment I felt curiously detached, as if I were watching the scene being played out in a movie. Somewhere inside, I knew I should be afraid but I'd put the emotion on hold. Instead, I noticed details. No sign of the gun on Josh. What had he done with it? Had he ditched it somewhere in an effort to hide his crimes, or was it simply tucked away in the back of his jeans?
"Josh, this position is killing me," I wailed. "I need someone to untie me." A sob escaped, a fine bit of acting, I thought.
Seeing me get emotional confused him.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, Charlie," he said, almost kindly. I wondered if the booze was wearing off or if he was having second thoughts about getting me involved.
"Could you just untie my hands? I can't stay bent over like this."
He bent to work on the cords around my left hand. I could see that the gun wasn't in his waistband. His not having a weapon strengthened my odds quite a bit.
"I'm gonna have to retie you, Charlie," he explained matter-of-factly, "but I'll let you sit up straight."
How kind.
The second my hand was free, I knew I had to make my move. I raked my nails across his face, then tipped the chair back and nailed him in the gut with my feet. It wasn't a strong hit but it took him by surprise, knocking him against the corner of the bed. He went over backward, landing hard on his neck, his legs in the air.
I didn't waste any time. I fumbled with my left hand to untie the cords around my right. Josh had the wind knocked out of him, but I knew he wasn't down for long. I felt like a pretzel twist, trying to reach across my body to work on the ropes while keeping my head raised to watch for Josh's next move.
He groaned, rolling to his side, his legs falling heavily to the floor. I scrambled to get the rope loose. I had a feeling he wouldn't get up in a good mood. My right hand and foot came free. As I directed both hands toward freeing the left foot I saw movement. Josh stood in front of me. Without thinking, I jabbed out with my right foot, catching him in the groin. Sorry, Josh, all's fair when defending your life.
He fell to the floor again, doubled in agony. I turned my attention again to my left leg and had it free in a few seconds. I scrambled to Josh's side, dragging the rope with me.
"Sorry about this," I said.
I wrapped the rope around his ankles, then pulled the end of it between his legs and bound his wrists. My knots were clumsy. I'd never pass the Girl Scout test now, but I hoped the rope would hold him awhile in his already weakened condition.
Pounding sounds from the front door brought me back to the bigger picture.
"Police! Open up!" they shouted.
"Come in!" I screamed.
The scene became a blur after that. Uniformed officers filled the house. Someone, thankfully, turned off the blaring television set. One man, the one who seemed in charge, congratulated me on subduing the suspect. I can't remember whether I acknowledged him or not.
I was sitting on the bed, examining my blistered wrists, when Kent Taylor walked in.
"We found the gun," he told me. "It was in his car."
"Was it the murder weapon?"
"We'll confirm that with ballistics tests, of course," he said, "but it's a nine millimeter."
"He admitted to me that he did them both," I told Taylor. "Of course, what he'll say in court is another thing. He also told me he'll get a good lawyer."
Kent shook his head in disgust. "Yeah, don't they all?"
He glanced around the room, taking in the cardboard boxes and folded bedding.
"What was going on here?" he asked.
"The child welfare people were making Josh move in with his aunt. I came over to help him pack. He kept telling me he wasn't going. Now, I guess he isn't."
"You want someone to take a look at those wrists?" he asked. "One of the men could drive you to the emergency room."
"Nah, that's okay. I'll doctor them myself when I get home." Suddenly, the idea of bundling up in my own quilt in my own bed was enormously appealing.
"I'll need a statement from you," Taylor said. At my expression, he added, "It can wait until tomorrow."
I shuffled through the house, making sure I hadn't left anything behind. I retrieved my purse from the kitchen and my jacket from the tatty recliner near the front door.
At home, I took a shower and put on my thick terry robe. I microwaved a cup of milk, added chocolate powder, and carried it to the living room. I smeared antibiotic ointment on my rope-burned wrists and wrapped them with a protective layer of gauze. I looked like an attempted suicide survivor.
It wasn't until I took the first sip of my hot chocolate that I realized I was a survivor. I could have very easily been Josh's next victim. My hands began to shake and I had to set the cup down. It was after one o'clock, but I knew I wouldn't sleep tonight.
At six o'clock Rusty woke me up by licking my fingers. In my exhaustion, I'd fallen asleep on the couch still bundled in my robe. My joints and muscles complained as I attempted to straighten them. I shuffled across the floor like a ninety-year-old to let Rusty out the kitchen door. I took two ibuprofin and crawled into my own bed wearing only my wrist bandages.
The phone rang at eight, startling me out of the best sleep I'd had in ages.
"Charlie, it's Stacy." Her voice was breathy, excited. "Carla just called me. Is it true that you found the real killer?"
I mumbled that it was true, and suggested she meet me at the office in an hour. I closed my eyes, determined to get just ten more minutes. When the phone rang again forty-five minu
tes had passed.
Kent Taylor wanted to know what time I'd come down to give my statement. My heart jumped when I realized that I needed to be at the office in fifteen minutes. I told Kent I'd come downtown right after that. I pulled on clean jeans and a short sleeved cotton sweater and brushed my hair. The wrist bandages really stood out, so I swapped the sweater for one with long sleeves.
Stacy was waiting when I arrived at the office at five after nine. Her skin glowed again, her eyes sparkled.
"Have the police made it official yet?" I asked.
"Detective Taylor confirmed Carla's call right after I talked to you," she said. "Yes, it's official. Of course, now Brad's talking about filing suit for false arrest, but I'm just glad to have it over."
Of course. The good lawyer.
I filled her in briefly on last night's culmination of the search. I also informed her that I'd be sending a final bill for services. She didn't seem to mind.
"So, what now?" I asked.
She shuffled a little, knowing I was referring to her marital problems and the "deep" soul searching she'd done recently. Finally she said, "I don't know, Charlie. Brad's been very supportive these last few days. Maybe it will all work out anyway."
Yeah, maybe. How many years had she been telling herself that? I kept my mouth shut. She was a big girl. She'd decide for herself how much longer she could take his abuse. She left a few minutes later.
Kent Taylor was fairly accommodating, as police testimony goes. I gave my statement, most of which he'd already put together.
"There's one other thing I still haven't entirely resolved," I told him. "Who slashed my tire outside Penguin's Bar, and who followed me home last Friday night? I'm fairly sure I know who was behind it, but I'm not sure why." I told him about Tompkins and his big financial losses with Detweiller.
Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Page 18