by Ed McBain
“You should have told me about Aurori,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should have told me about Aurori,” he repeated. “We weren’t exactly sitting on our hands, Richmond, but you held the key to the whole setup: Aurori’s death. Without that, we didn’t know where the hell to turn.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” I said. And then I realized that he’d believed my whole story, that my reasoning had been correct as far as he was concerned.
Mark probably realized it at the same time.
“Come on, Jean!” he shouted. He grabbed her hand, almost yanking her off her feet.
Owens brought up his .38, and swung around. A trooper loomed in his path, and he pushed him aside angrily, triggering a shot into the blackness.
They ran down for the waterfront, heading for the police launch. They were covered with night, and Jean’s blue outfit blended well with her surroundings.
“On the boat!” Owens shouted. “Look alive there!”
There was an excited murmur down by the dock, and then a pair of shots arced across the bow of the launch. Mark and Jean changed their paths abruptly, plunged into the water between sites One and Two as the troopers on the launch opened fire again.
They were all shooting now, Owens, the troopers with him, and the men on the launch. My hands felt empty, and I longed for a gun in them. I was hopping up and down with the tension of the moment, and Owens’ voice shocked me to a standstill.
“You haven’t got a chance,” he bellowed.
A woman’s voice came back to us, a voice that might have been Jean’s, a voice that may have once possessed the queenly tones of half the Fowler partnership. It was a coarse voice now, stripped of all politeness, stripped of all subtlety, a harsh strident voice that told me everything I had to know about its owner.
“The hell with you!” she shouted, and her voice carried back to us from the shore amid the explosive gunfire. They were in the canoe now, and I saw Mark brace one foot against the dock as he prepared to shove off.
Owens leveled the .38 and squeezed the trigger, a lance of orange flame leaping from the muzzle, hurting my eyes. I blinked, the smell of cordite strong in my nostrils. And then I saw Mark lunge forward, his arms flailing wildly. He toppled forward, his body giving a last shove to the canoe as he plunged into the water.
The canoe lurched away from the dock like a drunken sailor. I saw Jean dip the paddle into the water, push at it strongly. The canoe steadied itself, began moving away from the dock in a straight, fast line.
We ran down to the waterfront, Owens panting beside me. The men were still shooting, shooting out into the blackness. I strained my eyes as the canoe went farther and farther out onto the lake. It would be impossible to hit her.
“Get a goddamned light on,” Owens shouted. There was a scramble of activity on the launch as the troopers fumbled with the searchlight. From somewhere out on the lake, the sound of a fast-traveling speedboat knifed the night.
And over that sound, clear as a bell in the silent air, came Jean’s laughter. I pictured her sitting in the stern of the canoe, the paddle dipping into the water, her head thrown back, the hideous laughter bubbling from her throat like a witch’s brew.
“Get that goddamned light on,” Owens shouted again.
The searchlight suddenly exploded into life, its great probing beam slicing the water near the dock.
“Swing it around! Swing it around!”
The yellow finger slipped over the water, the black waves passing quickly beneath it. It swung out over the lake, reaching, reaching, and the sound of the laughter was harsh over the sound of the speedboat out there.
The light passed the canoe and swung back quickly, catching Jean’s blond head in its powerful rays.
I saw the speedboat, then. It shot into the circle of light like a wild bullet. Jean’s laughter stopped suddenly as she saw the boat bearing down on the small canoe. The young kid behind the wheel tried to swerve, but he was on the canoe now, and Jean’s scream ripped the night like the dying shriek of a wounded animal.
There was a sickening splinter of wood as the prow of the speedboat lashed into the canoe. I saw Jean throw up the paddle and stand, ready to dive, just as the boat hit. There was a short scream, and the speedboat ploughed on through, wood and canvas flying, and I saw Jean’s body catapult into the air and splash down into the water. The boat kept going for a hundred feet, and then the motor died as it swung around and came back to the spot of the crash.
“I guess that does it,” Owens said.
I felt ill. I didn’t answer him. I just nodded.
The troopers in the launch had already started the engine, and the powerful boat pulled away from the dock now, heading for the remains of the canoe, heading for what was left of Jean.
I didn’t think they’d find much.
Down by the lakefront, a trooper fished Mark’s body out of the water. He flipped it onto the dock, then climbed up after it. He stood leaning over it for several moments, then straightened up and shouted, “Better get the coroner, Sheriff.”
Owens sighed deeply and holstered the .38.
“Lousy business,” he said.
“Yeah.”
I was thinking of the warmth that had once been Jean. She wouldn’t be warm any more now. But then I remembered that she’d been cold clear through, right from the start. A cold tomato was how Lois described her. Lois had been right, more right than she could have guessed.
Owens was standing beside me, his eyes looking out over the water. The launch was circling now, small, tight circles around the area of the crash. The speedboat had come back to the spot and was idling nearby. I watched the searchlight probing the water, and then a trooper stepped up into its beam.
He held a hand out, clenched it into a fist, and pointed the thumb downward. The gesture was unmistakable, even from where we were standing.
“That’s that,” Owens said.
“Yeah.”
“You can enjoy your vacation now, Richmond. It’s all over.”
“My vacation is all over, too,” I said.
“Oh?” We were walking down to the edge of the dock, watching the launch speed back toward the island. “I thought you had two weeks.”
“I did,” I said. I thought briefly of Jedediah Banes, wondering if I should tell Owens about him. I decided against it. Grief can do funny things to a guy, I figured. Then I thought of Joey and Mike in our cubbyhole on West 17th Street, sweating out the heat of New York’s summer.
“I’m going back,” I said simply. “Tonight.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1953 by Ed McBain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3917-8
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS<
br />
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
The Web’s Creepiest Newsletter
Delivered to Your Inbox
Get chilling stories of
true crime, mystery, horror,
and the paranormal,
twice a week.
ED McBAIN
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
[email protected]
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and
titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@OpenRoadMedia