“Continue.”
“Two nights later, I made my second escape from my room after Brad set the fire and picked the lock on my window. We were supposed to run into the woods together, but we ran in different directions when we heard someone coming.”
“Yes, Brad told me that.”
“Did he tell you who it was who saw us?”
“No. He didn’t know."
“It was Oliver Greffe. We looked right at each other. But he didn’t try to stop me; he didn’t call for help. He let me get away.”
Frank stared at Justin and tried to absorb what he’d just said.
“See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” The boy’s expression turned sulky. “Because it doesn’t make sense. Why would Oliver—”
Frank held up his hand for silence. Little bits of information were floating into his consciousness, and he had to grab them before they got away. He pictured the form Oliver had filled out before Al towed away his car. He had printed “Oliver J. Greffe.” O. J. Greffe.
Juice.
Oliver had told him he was an only child, but now Frank remembered something Penny had said at that dinner party, about overhearing Oliver say that Ernie behaved as Oliver had done. The significance hadn’t struck him at the time, but she’d meant that Oliver had been an admiring brother, just as Ernie was.
He remembered that time he had walked in on Matthew’s organ lesson in the church. Matthew had asked, “Do you think T.J. would like it?” T.J. must be Tristan J. Renfrew. The brothers shared a middle initial although they didn’t share a last name.
Oliver had sought out the job at the North Country Academy, not for money but for revenge. No wonder he had tried to cover up by saying Payne had recruited him.
“Did Heather really have someone helping her escape?” Justin asked. “Was it Oliver? Then who murdered her?”
Frank’s only reply was a weary shake of the head.
Weak winter sun shone through the dusty leaded-glass windows of Trout Run Presbyterian, dressing the sanctuary in long shadows. When Frank had gone to the North Country Academy to talk to Oliver, the gatekeeper told him he’d gone to the church to practice. But the church was silent.
A slight rustle made him look up. Oliver was visible to Frank only as a darker darkness behind the ranks of organ pipes in the loft.
“Oliver, couldn’t you come down from there? We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your brother, T.J.”
In answer, a shot rang out, its report obscenely loud in the solemn stillness of the church.
“Oliver! Don’t be—” Frank had been about to say “crazy” and Oliver knew it.
“Get out of here, Frank. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m waiting for MacArthur Payne. I’m going to make him explain why he did what he did to my brother. Then I'm going to kill him.”
Crisis negotiation required infinite patience and delicacy, qualities Frank knew he didn’t possess. One ill-considered response could trigger disaster. He reached for his radio. The call might provoke Oliver, and it could be half an hour before any backup arrived, but what choice did he have? "Trout Run One, requesting assist—”
Another shot whizzed overhead, embedding in the column behind him.
"Don’t say another thing into that radio, or my next shot will be through the window. Maybe I won’t hit anyone outside; maybe I will.”
Frank decided to simply leave the radio switched on so that everything that transpired in the church would be broadcast. With a little luck, Earl would catch on to what was needed, and intercept Payne before he barged into the church. But if only Doris heard him .... There was no point in worrying about what he couldn’t control. He would keep Oliver talking, and hope for the best. Maybe he could calm him down, reason with him.
He wasn't feeling all that compassionate toward Payne, but he didn’t want him gunned down in the center aisle of the church. More even than protecting Payne, he wanted to protect Oliver, to keep him from doing this last terrible thing that would seal his fate forever.
“Tell me about Tristan. Was he a musician, too?”
“He sang like an angel, the purest tenor you ever heard. And he used to play the flute until our stepfather discouraged him so much he gave it up.”
Just keep him talking. “Why did he discourage him— the money?”
“No, money was never an issue. Our stepfather wanted to erase everything in us that he felt came from our real father—our music, our names ... our insanity.”
"Your father had, er, problems?”
“You might say that. Maybe you’ve heard of him. James Renfew—he made his Carnegie Hall debut playing Paganini’s Violin Concerto at seventeen. He went on to earn a PhD in mathematics at Princeton. He froze to death on a subway grating in New York City when he was thirty-two. Paranoid schizophrenic. Psychotic. Auditory delusions. My mother left him when Tristan was two and I was an infant. She remarried a year later. Phil Greffe was the only father Tristan and I ever knew.” Oliver shifted position slightly, maybe to be able to see Frank’s reaction to his story. “He did everything for us that a father is supposed to do for his sons—coached Little League, led our Boy Scout troop, took us to football games. Except we never really were his sons. He couldn't stand those arty names our father gave us: Tristan James and Oliver James. He made us T.J. and O.J. He hated that we were both musical, not athletic although he tolerated my organ playing because it impressed the pastor of our church.” Oliver gave a bitter laugh.
“How did Tristan end up at the Langley Wilderness School?”
“When T.J. was fifteen, he started to act out. He insisted on being called Tristan, he spent all of his time in his room, listening to music and singing. His grades went to hell.”
"Typical teenage rebellion,” Frank said.
"That’s what my parents thought. But then he got weirder. I could hear him in his room at night, talking to himself. It seemed like he never slept. He told me he had enemies; that people were watching him. It scared me—I knew something was wrong with him.”
“But your parents ... ?”
“They refused to acknowledge it. My mother watched my father fall apart. She had to know what was happening to Tristan, but I guess she couldn't bear for history to repeat itself. And my stepfather—he just wouldn’t allow Tristan to be schizophrenic. For him, it was all pure willpower. He decided all T.J. needed was a change of scenery, in a place no one would indulge him like our mother did. So they sent him to the Langley Wilderness School. To straighten him out.”
Silence descended on the church. Frank didn’t need to hear more to know how this story ended. The program at Langley Wilderness School obviously had exacerbated Tristan Renfew’s budding schizophrenia. Frank shuddered to think of the effect Costello’s mind-control tapes, played over and over, must have on a person who was suffering from auditory hallucinations to begin with. Payne, with his scorn for traditional psychiatry, had completely overlooked Tristan Renfew’s serious mental illness, and as a result, the boy had killed himself.
He could understand why Oliver hated Payne, but why had he killed Jake Reiger and poor Heather? Surely she had been a victim of Payne’s treatment as much as Tristan had been. He didn’t want Oliver to get more agitated, but he had to keep him talking and try to steer the conversation in a direction that would send a signal to Earl over the radio that Payne should be intercepted.
“What about Jake Reiger, Oliver? Was he involved in your brother's treatment in Utah?”
“Reiger was the person who drove my brother over the edge. I got a long, rambling letter from T.J. a month before he died, saying Reiger was after him. Later, I learned more from the mother of the boy who heard T.J. kill himself.”
“Greta Karsten? You spoke to her?”
“No. I listened on the extension when she told my mother that Reiger played into TJ.’s paranoia. Told him he was always watching him and could see everything T.J. did, even when he was alone. Could read T.J.’s thoughts. Instea
d of helping my brother, he made his delusions seem even more real. I hated him for what he did to T.J.”
“So you sabotaged his sleeping bag with bacon grease?”
Oliver laughed, an unpleasant sound that trickled down from the organ loft like felling plaster.
“I didn’t know that the bear would kill him; I wasn’t even positive there would be a bear around the area. But I wanted Jake to be terrified, just like my poor brother was. I knew even if he woke up in the morning safe and found that bacon grease, he’d know someone was after him.
“I got the grease from the kitchen the day before. I was always hanging around there, looking for a snack. I noticed Mrs. Pershing saved up the grease in a coffee can in the freezer. I took it and hid it in my car.”
That information hit Frank with the force of a punch in the gut. He’d meant to talk to Helen Pershing again, but never had. If he had followed up, got her talking, he might have learned about the coffee can... found out that Oliver frequently visited the kitchen... and prevented Heather’s death.
“The night they camped out,” Oliver continued, “I hiked in to their site using a different trail and poured the grease on Jake’s bag. No one suspected me, because I always made a big deal about not doing anything outdoors that could injure my hands. But hey, I was a Boy Scout. I know all about backpacking.”
“And Heather? Why did she have to die?”
Oliver hung his head. “Heather was a mistake. I feel very bad about that.”
A mistake? Backing your car into a pole was a mistake to feel bad about. Murdering someone was in an entirely different league. He was beginning to see how truly unstable Oliver was. But he was careful not to let his voice betray that.
"How did it happen with Heather?” Frank asked. Oliver let out an impatient huff. “Heather was so unpredictable. One minute she’d be willing to do anything for you; the next minute she’d turn on you.”
He didn’t seem to sense the irony in his statement. Frank jollied him along. “What did she agree to help you with?”
“The isolation room. I wanted to call attention to how they tortured kids in there—you know, for Dawn’s story—and Heather agreed to help. But after she made the mess with the blood, it all went wrong.”
Oliver turned his back and his voice drifted into an unintelligible murmur.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”
Oliver whirled around. “She started screaming. She screamed and screamed and wouldn’t shut up. She screamed because I was late letting her out of the room, and being alone with the blood freaked her out.” His voice rose. “I had to make her stop! I put my arm around her neck. Then finally she was quiet.”
Oliver began to pace in front of the organ pipes. Every time he turned in the narrow space, his gun clanked against a pipe. What had he meant about Dawn’s story? But now was not the time to press for answers. Clearly Oliver was getting more agitated.
Had Earl heard all this? Had he understood what was going on? At least he hadn’t come charging across the green on his own, but had he called the state police for assistance? Everyone was up in Ray Brook, waiting for Morton Levine. Was there a patrol car out on the road somewhere closer to Trout Run?
“Why is MacArthur Payne meeting you here at the church, Oliver? Does he know Tristan was your brother?”
"No, the fool still hasn’t figured it out. He’s so sure that his ex-partner Costello is behind all the problems he’s been having here, he doesn’t even suspect me. I invited him to come here for a private recital—Bach played just for him. He doesn’t know the only piece on the program is a requiem.”
Unless requiem had been one of Earl’s vocabulary words, Frank didn’t think the significance of that remark would hit home. He needed to make sure Earl knew Oliver was armed and dangerous.
“Why don’t you put down the gun, Oliver? You and I can talk to Payne together when he gets here."
“I have one thing left to do before I go.” Oliver spoke in the voice of a person making a to-do list before vacation. “I have to kill to MacArthur Payne. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come yet? Did you tell him not to come?"
Without warning, Oliver spun and fired off another shot. Frank, who had let his head peek above the pew as he talked, felt the slug whistle by his left ear. He dove for the floor.
“Steady, now, Oliver. Why don’t you put that gun down?” He couldn’t afford for Oliver to start shooting wildly; the side walls of the church were fifty percent glass. Hadn’t anyone heard this gunfire? But if they had, they probably just thought it was hunters.
“You warned him not to come!” Oliver shrieked, and the gun discharged again. The shot went high this time, embedding in the oak beam that supported the arched ceiling. A few inches in either direction and it would have gone through the window.
“I didn’t warn him, Oliver.” Frank needed his full concentration to keep his voice low and soothing. “You’ve been right here with me all along. I never called anyone.”
But he prayed that Earl was watching for Payne, because if the headmaster came walking through that door, Oliver would see him first. He could shoot before Frank had a chance to bring Oliver down. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the boy now, even as a precaution; it would be like killing in cold blood.
“Oliver, I want you to do something for me, okay?”
“What?”
“While we’re waiting for MacArthur Payne, let’s sing.”
"Sing?”
“Yeah, it would make the time go a little faster. Besides, we’re both a little jumpy, no? Let's sing—” He cast about for something they both would know the words to. “Let’s sing 'Amazing Grace.’ ”
Frank started out, "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.”
Soon he heard Oliver’s sweet, clear tenor drifting down to him. They continued in unison, “that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found...” Frank heard a door creak. Was it Payne, or had his backup finally arrived? Either way, he needed to keep Oliver singing. “Was blind but now I see,” he thundered, then started the second verse with barely a pause. “Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come.”
A tall, broad-shouldered figure moved through the shadows in the narthex. Too big to be Earl. Was it Payne, or Meyerson? The figure moved forward without hesitation. Surely Meyerson would be more cautious.
Frank’s gaze shot back to Oliver. He was singing with his eyes half shut, the gun dangling loosely in his right hand. If Frank called out a warning, would the person in the back of the church have time to take cover before Oliver snapped back to attention and started firing? If it was Meyerson, probably; he would be anticipating trouble. But Payne had no idea he was walking into danger. Besides, that man never followed commands without question.
Frank kept singing as he skimmed though his options, the words to the old hymn so ingrained in his memory that they came reflexively. “ "It was grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fear relieved.” He would wait until the man just came into view under the organ loft, then wave him back, as long as Oliver appeared still lost in song.
“Hey!” a loud voice rang out from the shadows. “You’re singing my favorite song!” The man stepped into the dim light of the sanctuary, and Frank’s C natural ended in a croak.
It was Ernie Portman.
Chapter 33
Ernie’s brash greeting changed everything.
Frank sprang up, but twenty rows of pews divided him from Ernie. “Ernie, get down!” he shouted.
Ernie turned his broad, vacant face toward Frank and squinted. “Huh? Who’s there? Where’s Oliver?”
“I’m here, Payne.”
Frank looked up and saw Oliver, his face contorted with determination, his right arm fully extended, and the gun aimed straight down at the top of Ernie’s head.
“I killed your school and now I'm going to kill you.”
Ernie raised his sweet face up toward the organ loft and lifted his hand in a wave, as if to
greet what was coming his way.
Frank took aim and fired.
Oliver’s slender body buckled, crumpled over the organ loft railing, and fell in a graceful somersault to the stone floor just a few feet from Ernie.
“Oh, no! Oliver fell. I think he’s hurt.”
Frank made his way through the pews and put his trembling arm around Ernie. “It’s okay, Ernie. I’ll take care of him.”
Frank emerged from the church to find two state police squad cars zooming into town, lights flashing but sirens off. So, Earl had called for backup. Then why in God’s name had he let Ernie Portman wander into that church?
Meyerson trotted across the green to meet him. “Frank, what’s going on? Where’s Oliver Greffe?”
Frank waved a weary arm in the direction of the church. "He’s in there. He’s dead—I had to shoot him to save Ernie. Where the hell were you?"
“We got the call from Earl fifteen minutes ago. I was in Ray Brook; Pauline was in Keene Valley. We came as fast as we could.”
Frank glanced around. Where was Earl? He never passed up a chance to be in the middle of a big operation.
Meyerson continued explaining. “Earl was clear over by Beech Pond. Someone called in a report of a bear wandering around. Since it was near Corkscrew, he thought it might be Reiger’s killer. He notified Rusty and went out there to keep an eye on it. It wasn’t until he got back in the patrol car after the DEC showed up that he heard your transmission and called us.”
“Did you head off Payne? Is that why he never showed up?”
“Yes, I caught up with him as he was pulling out of the school driveway. I had the dispatcher call the church to warn them to keep people away, but no one answered in the church office.”
Frank felt an irrational rage welling within him. He wanted to blame someone, anyone, for this senseless death.
Why had Ernie walked into the church at just that moment? Why had that damn bear, who had eluded them for so long, chosen this morning to reveal himself? Why the hell couldn’t Earl have been watching out the office window? He spent seventy-five percent of every other workday doing just that—why not today? Why couldn’t Augie Enright have been sitting in the church office chatting with Myrna when the state police had called, so he could run out like the busybody he was and direct everyone away from the church?
Blood Knot: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mysteries Book 3) Page 25