Boyle crawled up next to Greeley, slid his arm under the doctor’s head, and hugged him to his chest. When he looked up there were tears in his eyes, but they didn’t hide the hatred.
“You bastard,” he said. “You killed him.”
I kept the gun pointed at him and walked over to the desk where Hemingway was struggling to free himself. Reaching down, I plucked out the scalpel, and cut the ropes holding down Hemingway’s feet. I then freed his left hand and handed him the scalpel. “Finish cutting yourself loose, while I watch Boyle,” I said.
Boyle clutched Greeley’s lifeless body to his chest and rocked back and forth on the floor, sobbing. I was confused by what was going on, but Hemingway had his own ideas. He pulled the gag from his mouth and was ready with his opinion.
“He’s a damn fag,” he said.
“Shut up Ernest,” I said. I turned my eyes away from him and added, “And for Christ sakes put your clothes back on.”
Boyle was watching me through dark, lidded eyes. “He didn’t deserve to die. He was a hero. He saved my life. Everything that happened to him was because he saved my life.”
I thought back to the newspaper articles I’d found. I looked at Boyle’s scarred face. Then it all came together for me. “You were one of the soldiers he went back for at the Battle of the Marne.”
Boyle touched the scar on his cheek. “He didn’t have to come back for us. He wasn’t even a combatant, he was a medic. He saved our lives.”
“Heroes don’t kill helpless women. He killed my sister.”
“He couldn’t help himself, but he told me he loved her.”
“He butchered her,” I said.
“She rejected him. Like all the other women in his life. It was always the same. When they found out what had happened to him, they couldn’t handle it. They dismissed him like he was a wayward servant. That’s when he’d lose control of himself. He felt like he was half a man.”
Hemingway sidled up alongside of me. He’d pulled his clothes on and was buttoning his shirt. His hands shook and I wondered if it was from the cold or anger. He reached out and slammed the door shut. When the wind blew it back open he cursed and then walked over to the stove and grabbed a big chunk of firewood off the pile. He carried it back across the room and used it to prop the door closed.
Hemingway wiped his hands on his pants. “The doctor was a fruitcake.”
Boyle pushed Greeley away and jumped to his feet. “You don’t understand. If what happened to Hank had happened to you, you’d be a little crazy too.”
I jabbed my elbow into Hemingway’s side. “You’re not helping matters any.”
“I don’t care,” Hemingway said. “The man was going to make me watch while he cut off my balls. I think I have a right to be upset here.”
I pointed to the stove. “Why don’t you be upset over there? It’s getting cold in here. You might as well stoke the fire.”
He mumbled something about fags and crazy people as he left my side, and I shifted my attention back to Boyle.
“Why’d he kill Helen?”
Boyle shrugged. “I never quite understood that myself. I mean she rejected him. All the women rejected him once they found out what happened to him in the war. I think on some level he believed he was killing Anna over and over again.”
It took me a moment to fit the name to my earlier research. “Anna Ingerson.”
Boyle looked down at Greeley’s body and took a step toward me. “It was Anna Molinaro when they were engaged.”
“She dump him during the war?” Hemingway asked. I could hear him fussing with the stove and wished he’d stay out of the conversation.
“No. She waited for him. But as soon as Hank explained what happened to him the bitch broke it off. She wanted children. It almost drove him to kill himself.”
Boyle shuffled his feet and drew a little closer to me. The shotgun had grown heavy while I was standing there and I’d let the barrel droop toward the floor. I raised it so it was level with his chest. He stopped shuffling.
“So were you involved in the murders from the start?” I asked.
“Not exactly. I got a call from Hank one night. Don’t even know how he got my number. He said he’d been following my career. Knew I was a copper. Said he needed my help. He was at Anna’s house. I got him out of there. Made sure there was no evidence left behind.”
“Why didn’t you turn him in?” I asked.
Boyle reached for his scar again and rubbed it vigorously, as if he were trying to erase it. He was looking at me, but his eyes told me he was someplace far away. “How could I? Hank was the way he was because of me. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t saved me.”
“I told you he was a wacko,” Hemingway said to Boyle. “That goes for you too.”
“He was a good man,” Boyle said.
“A good man wouldn’t butcher a bunch of innocent women over his own inadequacies,” I said.
“I told you, he couldn’t stop himself,” Boyle said.
“You could have stopped him after the first time,” Hemmingway said. “You could have arrested him.”
Boyle shook his head. “I owed him. Besides, they should have treated him better.”
“You’re the one he should have operated on,” Hemingway said. “Maybe a lobotomy.”
I shot him a dirty look, and while I was distracted Boyle made his move. He was a good eight feet away from me, but he was fast. He came in low and as I squeezed the trigger, Boyle pushed the gun aside. Most of the shot went wild, but blood oozed from the side of his face and his right ear hung like a piece of raw meat from a ribbon of shredded skin.
Hissing in pain he wrapped his hands around the barrel of the gun. My own hands were raw and I was exhausted. He ripped the empty shotgun away from me and threw it aside before launching himself at me. Locking his fingers around my throat, he began to squeeze.
Clawing at his wrists I dug my nails into the tissue and tried to pry his fingers loose. His grip was like a vice and I kicked at his legs. Boyle grunted, and then slammed me against the wall. My head began to buzz and I wondered if all my efforts had been wasted.
I thought it was all over, when Boyle’s eyes widened and he let out a startled screech. His grip loosened around my neck and he collapsed next to me. I sucked in painful breaths of air. When I looked up, Hemingway was standing over me. He held Greeley’s cane like a spear and he was smiling. Boyle’s blood dripped from the blade.
Tossing the cane aside, he bent down and helped me to my feet. “You okay?” he asked.
“I owe you one,” I said.
And he wasn’t the only one, I realized. I owed Ed Granger who had given his life for me. And I owed Mary. For being there when I needed her. Sure, she’d made it clear that it was over between us, but she’d still stood by me when I needed her the most.
I turned to Hemingway. “I hope you’ve got some friends on the police force,” I said. “Because I don’t have a real good track record right now with the coppers.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is dedicated to the memory of David Jastrzebski.
I am indebted to many people who helped make this book a reality. First and foremost, I want to thank my wife, Mary, who has been my first reader and constant editor. Without her help and support this book would not have been possible.
Special thanks to Christine Kling who has been a friend, a mentor, and a helpful critique partner. I would also like to thank the other members of our critique group, Neil Plakcy, Miriam Auerbach, and Sharon Potts. Your comments have helped to make this book better in so many ways.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2010 by Mike Jastrzebski
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. No part of this text may be reproduced in any manner without the written permission of Mike Jastrzebski.
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Mike Jastrzebski, The Storm Killer
The Storm Killer Page 24