Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  Forty-four

  Mick’s breathing was ragged; he had a stitch in his side by the time he reached the southeast vista directly below where Madison had dangled over the side. No sign of him on the ground. He must be the bundle cowering close to the edge, not moving. He hoped the old man was still breathing.

  As he sucked in air, he considered the possibility of climbing the metal girders up to the stands. Reasoned that even if he could get most of the way up, the outward curve holding the last ten rows afforded no handholds. The lower crossbeams looked liked they’d been planned to exceed a man’s reach, say nothing about his grasp. Browning would be encouraged.

  Discounting divine intervention, Mick forced himself to move, trotted to the entrance midway along. He prayed Patten was close behind with a posse, not watching the opening laps. No siren yet, but the chief wouldn’t really need it, nor would he have wanted to scare the fans.

  He ducked into the darkened tunnel, jogged to the end and was once again in bright sun. He pressed himself flat against the front of the stands, shielded his eyes and looked up at the figures forty rows above. Not three combatants, but four.

  Shit. Jasmine.

  It was a given that she’d wiggle out of the car the minute the guard’s back was turned. He’d hoped she’d go north, to the infield following the path taken by the cruiser. Instead, she must have gone in the opposite direction in hope of finding Rebecca first. Planning to search where he wasn’t. Probably intended to sneak through the main gate and head for Moore’s pits. But something had stopped her before she entered the track.

  Had she seen a man dangling from the top of the stands and assumed he was the man Rebecca said was in danger? The smart little kid probably saw the whole thing through her telephoto. Whatever. She’d blundered in where angels feared to tiptoe, aching to help the woman she’d decided to worship. Foolishly, she’d become another pawn in Carlson’s game. She and Moore had to be related.

  Dropping to a crouch, he started up. Slowed as he neared the crow’s nest. One-handed, Carlson was dangling the girl over Moore’s head. Her other arm was out of sight at her side. He kept his eyes glued on that arm, searching for any indication of a weapon. He sidled along the row, knees pressed against the sunbaked metal, heading for the last short flight of stairs.

  He cursed Patten for not returning his gun. Carlson had the height advantage. She was in front of the highest bleacher, calves braced against it. He wasn’t sure whether she’d seen him, but he assumed so. So far, it hadn’t spooked her.

  Madison had seen him. He was struggling to stand, his back braced against a pole. An elderly man tottering at the edge. Mick made eye contact. Nodded to reassure him, to get him to stay still, not to make any sudden movements.

  Carlson twisted a knot of Jasmine’s sweatshirt, pulling the cotton taut against the skinny kid, exposing a band of stomach flesh. The skin was smooth brown, delicate belly button, no white blemishes marring its childish vulnerability. Jasmine looked both scared and defiant, confident that her hero would make everything fine.

  Moore was probably ready to pass out at the thought of the kid’s adoration, her dependence. She said she preferred traveling unencumbered, relished her independence. Truth was, she was a sucker for strays: kids, cats, broken-down old cars, battered men in need of salvation. Walk into her range of vision and Moore would kill herself trying to make your life better. Sometimes she nearly succeeded.

  Her back was to him. She was leaning into the lower bleacher, arms akimbo, speaking to Carlson. The drone of race cars masked her words. He inched closer, paused as the whine receded down the front straight.

  Moore’s clear voice drifted across the deserted rows. Naturally she was pleading for the girl. “Look at her, Elise. She’s like you. A survivor.”

  “A child. Untested.”

  “A child, yes.” Moore shrugged, using the motion to rise up and step on the seat directly in front of Carlson. She was making herself more threatening, more of a target, wrenching Carlson’s attention from the girl. “But untested? She’s distinctly different. Marked. She hides from crowds, conscious of being judged because of her skin. You grew up hiding, didn’t you? Afraid that those safe, happy people around you knew your shame, your mother’s guilt.”

  Carlson remained rigid, the tendons in her wrist taut with strain. “If you had not meddled, the girl would not be here. Blame yourself.”

  Moore nodded as if she agreed, dropped her arms to her sides. “Show her your scar, Elise. She may be a child, but she can understand.”

  “Hitler would have considered her trash. A victim of a severe hereditary physical deformity: a candidate for sterilization or death. Would she understand that?”

  Moore was like a retriever on point that wouldn’t be distracted. She kept her voice even and deliberate. “Like you, Jasmine knew only one parent. Her mother disappeared from home when she was an infant. Her father raised her as long as he could. She’s alone now, dependent upon the whims of foster parents. Like you, she’s found the strength to adapt and go on. To see the beauty in life, the humor.” Moore kept nodding, using the patter to inch laterally away from Carlson, toward the open end of the row.

  Mick flashed back to the previous spring. He wondered if she had tried talking to calm the homicidal maniac on the cliff. Had she tried to convince him that he was making a mistake killing her, that her life was worth saving? She hadn’t had an audience then. She’d been alone with a can of gasoline facing a madman with a gun.

  She continued to move sideways.

  He started up the stairs. Prayed Moore wasn’t planning something stupid, like putting herself between Carlson and Madison. What good would it do? She had no respect for Madison. But could she, with her conscience, trade him for the girl? No. Moore would want to save his sorry butt as well.

  Mick was on the crow’s nest, braced on the front railing, six yards away from the action. Close enough to see the muscles in Moore’s shoulders tense. She took a breath and continued to creep away from him. There was a chance that she sensed him in back of her and was edging out of his line of sight, to give him room to act. He could hope.

  Moore stopped. In a controlled move, she sat on the bench, swung her legs over and stood. Not an aggressive move, but a definite advance on the enemy. Just one row and nine feet separated the two women. Carlson flicked a glance in his direction, registered that he was the third leg of an unequal triangle. She shifted her position to keep Moore in her line of sight. He was betting she didn’t have a gun. She would have drawn it by now.

  Moore opened her hands, palms up. Body language saying there was nothing for Carlson to worry about, just two girls having a nice chitchat in the full sun over the drone of Ferrari-built engines. When the noise receded, she was talking again. No longer pleading for the girl, critiquing some damn art show. “The paintings were powerful.”

  Carlson shifted her grip on Jasmine’s shirt. “Don’t be patronizing.”

  “I’m not. They were powerful, also disgusting.”

  “Truly. But so therapeutic. I met Robert Carlson at my showing. We married a short time later. He was older, generous and undemanding.”

  Moore ignored the digression. “Disturbing, horrific paintings, Elise, but not hateful. When did the rancor begin?”

  What was she trying to do with the essay on art appreciation? Her right leg was quivering with the strain of holding it all together. He hoped Carlson was tiring as well. He pulled his gaze away from Moore long enough to check.

  He saw it then—a flicker in Carlson’s eyes, a flash of doubt, or sorrow. Or pity. Perhaps self-pity. Moore’s question had struck a chord. It made Carlson pause. She answered softly, “When my mother died, ranting, screaming for revenge—”

  Moore nodded. “The tape you played for—”

  “That damn tape.” Carlson emitted a guttural bark. The mood shattered.

  Shit. Moore, you shouldn’t have interrupted.

  In a hawk-like swoop, Carlson bent. When she twisted
to unsnap a pouch on the leg of her pants, Mick saw the ASP, the expandable baton, pinning the girl tight against her. What else was in her arsenal? Please, not a gun.

  Before he could charge, Carlson stood, waved a recorder in her hand. “This tape.” She punched the PLAY button with her left thumb, wheeled up the volume. A sibilant hiss erupted as the tape fast-forwarded. It gave way to unearthly keening. Then a woman’s voice began muttering alien phrases in German. Garbled, low-pitched, it ranted, then faded off. Only to begin again with renewed force.

  “Sprechen sie Deutsche, Heinrich? Listen.” Holding it overhead, she wheeled the volume to the max.

  Despite his fear, and his anger, Madison was riveted by the voice as it droned on, listing works of art that no doubt resided in his vault. Had he known just which paintings had belonged to his parents’ neighbors or hadn’t he much cared?

  Carlson yelled over the racket. “She taped it as she was dying. She didn’t want me to forget one hate-filled word. One second of her pain. It wasn’t enough that she’d survived, that I’d made a name for our family, that we had security. That was not enough. She wanted her revenge. She made me promise.” The tape ran out.

  Moore had moved quickly while Carlson was ranting. She was a scant two yards from Madison, legs apart, arms out forming a shield. “She’s dead, Elise. Let the past die with her.”

  “Why? We’re all going to die. I’m just giving God a hand.” She dropped the recorder. Gripped Jasmine’s shoulder.

  Moore tensed. She wanted to jump Carlson, but she was too far past her. Her chest was heaving, but her voice was surprisingly even. “Let her go, Elise. There are mitigating circumstances to explain your assault on Peyton. A jury will be sympathetic when they learn what you and your mother endured. Let us walk away and the law will be lenient. You’ll see your art returned and your family avenged. You can start again.”

  Mick considered it a decent speech, given the circumstances, given that Moore hadn’t had negotiation training. Might make a good Christmas present for her, if she planned to keep attracting the mentally unbalanced.

  Carlson, though deeply unhinged, wasn’t buying it. She was too savvy to believe she’d get away with all she’d done. There were three of them, one of her. If she hadn’t been holding the girl, he would have rushed her by now. She was all but cornered, yet she was totally in command. There was nobility in her defiance. At that instant, he couldn’t help but admire her resolve and her intelligence. And wonder how she would respond when he played his trump card.

  Before he could get her attention, she played one of her own. “Rebecca, you were a reporter in DC.”

  Moore blinked. She’d made a name writing for the Post but was far from a household word.

  Carlson smiled. “Don’t be flattered. I had you investigated after I arrived here. A female mechanic, you see, made me curious. A reporter made me a bit nervous. I expelled you from the pits so you wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder taking notes.” She shrugged, dismissing her breach of etiquette. “But, now? Well, I’ve reconsidered. I want you to tell my story.”

  Moore stared at Carlson, slow to absorb the implication. Mick could almost see her brain shift gears. A moment ago, she’d envisioned the Holocaust survivor in front of a jury eloquently evoking the pain she and her mother had endured, explaining how it grew into an ugly parasite fueled by blood lust. Now she was being asked to pick up her pen and write the words for her.

  The light dawned—Carlson wasn’t planning to be around to tell the story herself.

  Moore leapt onto the bench separating them, demanded the girl’s release.

  Carlson closed the negotiations, whipped the baton against Jasmine’s throat, grabbed it with both hands and pulled, lifting the girl into the air, her feet scrambling as she hung by her neck.

  Moore screamed.

  Carlson yelled louder. “Stop. I’ll kill her. I have nothing to lose.”

  That was Mick’s cue.

  Forty-five

  Rebecca froze, her pulse pounding with fear for Jasmine, anger at the situation and at herself.

  She’d sensed Hagan’s presence on the platform before she saw him. She wasn’t positive it was him, only that someone was there: watching, waiting, not interfering. It had given her confidence to stay calm, to keep Carlson distracted, to try to circle around, block Madison. She didn’t know how Hagan got there, didn’t care. He could be a real pain about lots of things, but he was good in an emergency.

  He pounded across the stands, lunged over the bleacher at Carlson.

  Carlson backed away. Using the bar as leverage, she lifted Jasmine waist high, swung her behind out of reach. The force propelled the girl’s thin legs into the chain link, ripping it loose. The bar at her throat kept her from falling sixty feet to the tarmac below. She couldn’t scream, she could barely breathe. Her eyes were huge with terror, her tiny fingers clawed at the rod.

  Hagan righted himself, held up a hand, placating. “Elise, don’t. So far, you’re only suspected of assaulting Peyton. It’s a slap-on-the-wrist offense. There are no witnesses. Charges won’t even be pressed. Let the girl go. We all walk away. Things will work out.”

  Carlson smiled as if at a bad pun. “Peyton Madison the third is dead, remember. I killed him.”

  “You weren’t responsible.”

  “Of course I was. I used the boost on the battery charger to overpower him, jammed him in a race car, continued to shock him pointlessly for answers. I could have stopped as soon as I realized he was ignorant of his family’s treachery. I didn’t. Do you understand? I felt no remorse, no compassion. He was a bug in my laboratory.”

  Rebecca checked out Madison. His eyes looked vacant as if all systems had shut down. Listening to his son’s killer was draining him. She would have gone to comfort him if she hadn’t been afraid of moving. If she’d cared more about his well-being.

  She turned back to the stand-off between Hagan and Carlson. She’d missed something. Hagan had sat. His hands were clasped between his knees. Carlson had retreated a yard away, pulling Jasmine back onto the platform. One sneaker had come untied. The girl was gasping and choking, but she was breathing.

  Hagan smirked, like a kid with a secret. “Elise, you didn’t kill him. I just came from the police station. The chief was at the autopsy. Peyton died from asphyxiation, smothered while in the hospital. Unless a witness can swear that you snuck into his room and held a pillow over his face, there’s no way they can convict you of murder.”

  Rebecca’s mouth fell open. Was it possible? Hagan didn’t lie about anything important, but he could be spinning a tale to save Jasmine. The kid was endearing; Hagan wasn’t immune to charm.

  Off to her right, Madison straightened. Disbelief, or rage at hearing of his son’s murder, had breathed life into him. He let go of the upright. With creaking slowness he shuffled one step forward and fumbled for the front railing.

  Carlson remained still, her body twisted, arms taut from holding Jasmine behind her. Her face was in profile. One emotion after another flicked across it. She didn’t want to believe Hagan—that would mean she had failed somehow. But if she hadn’t killed Madison, her life might not be forfeited. She could feel Damocles’ sword suspended overhead as she swayed between the two, trying to decide which, if either, she wanted to be true.

  All Rebecca wanted was to get Jasmine away from her safely. She sent a telepathic message to Hagan, willing him to keep talking, say whatever it took to convince Carlson that she could enjoy a new beginning if only she let the girl live.

  Before he got the message, Carlson called his bluff. “If I didn’t kill him, who did?”

  Forty-six

  Mick had chewed on that question on the ride over. Decided that—assuming Carlson hadn’t smothered Peyton—he really didn’t care who had. His goal was to convince her that she hadn’t killed anyone. And prevent her from doing so until Patten arrived.

  She waited for his answer.

  He bit at the inside of his cheek and
shrugged. “His bookie? Peyton was in serious debt, major gambling IOUs. He was behind on payments for the Lotus.”

  “Nonsense. They’d want him alive to collect.”

  “But once he’d been assaulted, they might have assumed suspicion would fall on them anyway. Maybe he threatened to blame them. Maybe they thought it would be easier to get payments from his heirs, whomever took over. It’s arguable.”

  He stood. “Or Whitten? He and Madison were too cozy for rivals. They could have been involved in a secret business deal, one that was going south, thanks to Peyton’s losing habits. Whitten might have decided to cut his losses, divest himself of a liability.”

  Carlson wasn’t on board yet, but she was considering. She’d eased her hold on the baton. Jasmine’s color looked better; the white side of her face was pinker.

  Feeling like a junior congressman at a filibuster, he kept going. “Then there’s Browning. He’s an odd duck, probably unstable. He was questioned in his sister’s death when he was a teenager. Maybe Peyton was blackmailing him and he rebelled. With the boss out of the way, Browning envisioned taking over the team. He didn’t know you were stepping in as partner.” Mick avoided looking at Moore during the last bit. She would balk at the idea of her race driver having anything shady in his past. Too bad. He was desperate.

  Who else? Think.

  “Maybe your cousin Franks snuffed him out as a favor to the family? He was going into the hospital as I was leaving.”

  She scoffed, shook her head at that.

  He used his responding shrug to move closer. “Think about it, Elise. There are a half-dozen possible scenarios for your attorney to choose from. All you need is reasonable doubt. Whoever killed Peyton gambled that the assault would be blamed for causing his death. Smothering him in the hospital was the killer’s best chance of getting rid of him without attracting attention. If so much hadn’t been going wrong with the team that the State Police became suspicious—if the hospital hadn’t been so concerned about liability—the medical examiner might not have looked so hard.”