Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont

by Chappell,Connie

  I turned and scurried behind the desk, taking in the room I flew through with reckless abandon. Squeezing in front of the immoveable chair, my eyes flashed on a small desktop clock. It reported the time at two-seventeen. I sidestepped around the open drawer that stored the laptop, intent on the briefcase. I heard a car door slam in the alley. It didn’t sound like Gideon’s Crossfire. I smiled. Clay got my message. He was early. Just one more thing before I let him in. The gun.

  At Night Sticks, Georgie underscored the importance of obtaining the gun as evidence for the prosecution. I grabbed the briefcase in both hands and shook it soundly. Given the weight of a gun, I should hear it thumping inside, but I didn’t.

  The case was still raised in my hands when the office door opened. It hadn’t been Clay I heard in the alley. Barton Reed stopped midway through the door, back from the ribboncutting too early. By the look on his face, he was not pleased to see me. I’d been getting this a lot lately, but mostly from cops. His eyes shifted from me, to the briefcase, to the open drawer, then back to me.

  “What are you looking for?” His voice shook with anger.

  “That,” I said honestly. My gaze dropped to the pistol he pointed directly at my belly, which was winding itself into a neat little knot. He already held the gun when he walked through the unlocked door, a door he knew he secured before he left for the ceremony. He parked his car in the alley when I never knew him to park there before. These measures showed a flair for expediency and premeditation. They told me he conceived a plot. I wondered what it was.

  Barton came in the rest of the way, shut the door, and pushed the thumb lock into place. His eyes drifted to the open closet door and the other goodies I hauled from hiding and strewn over the table.

  I’d been a bad, bad girl today, and a painful thumping in my chest proved it. The weight of the moment, more than the weight of the briefcase, caused my arms to lower it to the desk. I wanted to sit down, but panic locked my knees in place.

  The buzz was gone.

  My movements brought his gaze back.

  “Well, well, well, looks like I rightfully suspected something was amiss when our esteemed mayor cut the ribbon without you,” he said. “It’s out of character, you know. You two are inseparable. Where had your nosiness taken you, I asked myself?”

  The workable lie I fed Lucy, and through her to K.C., didn’t make the grade with Barton Reed. I see now I should have played the scene to its ultimate conclusion at the ribboncutting. Accomplished liars have a way of easily weeding out those liars less proficient at the art.

  Looking around, he shook his head. “Wrenn, trashcans are one thing, but this.” A sick smile crept onto his face. He took a few steps into the room, then addressed me as casually as if the topic were the weather. “I wanted a diversionary plan. Something to throw everyone off if we were spotted. Then it came to me. An act of God. With me starring in a dual role.” He bowed slightly at the waist. “I was quite convincing, don’t you agree?”

  “I do, from what I saw downtown. Then, of course, you took your act on the road. To Eastwood and out to Rosemont. You were disguised. Why not Trey?”

  For a second, he flirted with name recognition, then said, “Oh, but he was.”

  Those few words were all I needed to flesh out the rest of the picture. Earlier today, I left an integral item out of my mental reenactment of the scene behind Blake Hall. With conviction, I said, “Trey was dressed like campus police.”

  Pride gathered on Barton’s face instantly. “You’re a worthy adversary, Wrenn.”

  I placed Trey in the white shirt and dark pants he wore when I saw his corpse Thursday morning. With the blue jacket from his car added, he doubled for one of Chief Dwight’s men. It all made sense. Georgie told me the blood on the jacket wasn’t Trey’s. That’s because it was Bill Mackey’s. Trey must’ve carried Mackey inside Blake Hall over his shoulder. The jacket first absorbed blood from Mackey’s head wound, then went from one crime scene to the other. If the forensics lab knew to compare the blood to Mackey’s, we’d have had this long ago.

  “You killed Trey,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “It added a sense of realism, I think. Without real blood and a couple of deaths, why, it’s just theater.”

  His tone turned cold. And, yes, I noticed the words, “a couple of deaths.” Apparently, I did nothing thus far to curry the playwright’s affection. My death was next.

  My cell phone screeched, and I nearly toppled backwards into the chair. Gideon. My hand went to my pants pocket.

  “Come on. Give it here,” he demanded, curling and uncurling his fingers impatiently.

  I did as he asked. Without looking at the display, he dropped it in his jacket pocket. The ringing stopped. This would cause someone to go on the alert. Barton must’ve thought along the same line.

  “I’d love to know how you figured this out, but we’ve got to go.” He motioned me toward the door with the gun barrel.

  I held my ground, stalling for time. Gideon and maybe Clay were surely on their way.

  Barton was around the desk in two strides. With my arm in a bruising grip, he pulled me into the center of the room, then forced me and my halting steps toward the door. He intended to leave without taking or hiding any of the evidence, like it didn’t matter. I had to figure neither he nor I were coming back.

  He shoved the gun so painfully into my ribs, I whimpered. His lips were close enough to feel the force of his breaths, like tiny spears against my ear. “Now, you’re going to open the door. Stay close, and don’t make a sound. You don’t want to die in an alley.”

  He was right. I didn’t want to die in an alley.

  He pushed me out into the corridor. Frantically, I watched the stage entrance, hoping someone would see us and realize what was happening, but no rescuer appeared.

  In the split-second when Barton’s free hand held the knob and a tiny margin of his concentration was occupied by closing the door, I decided to risk everything and scream for Craig Bittleman. If my shout interrupted rehearsal, surely Barton wouldn’t risk shooting when witnesses were so damn close. Even as I would force him to literally drag me out, there was a chance Craig or someone would reach the wings and overpower him. If that wasn’t possible, at least he would be identified for the authorities as the villainous star of this offstage caper.

  “Craig! Craig! Help!” I screamed, loud and strong, but my stage timing was poor. My shouts were drowned out by, of all things, a chorus of climatic yodeling. Sheer volume told me all three spinsters blended their falsetto voices.

  The reward for my disobedience was a gun cylinder rammed into my kidney, and the pressure of Barton’s smothering hand over mouth and nose. In a tone that reeled with cocky delight, he placed his lips against my ear and said, “The set of lungs on those three will rock the house opening night, don’t you think?”

  Held against him, my feet barely meeting the floor, he whisked me away. The two of us collided with the alley door, springing it open. For appearance’s sake, Barton relaxed his grip on me and concealed the gun under his jacket once we were outside. In tandem, our eyes shot from the near end of the empty alley to the other.

  He cast me a warning glance. “That was stupid back there. Don’t be stupid, again. Just do as I say.”

  My elbow was still smarting from collision with the panic bar on the door, so I thought his suggestion was a fairly good idea, for the moment anyway.

  “Get in,” he said, shoving me.

  The BMW’s back bumper was parked two feet from the door. Ah, the plot. The close-in parking. A setup for kidnapping. I started to move toward the passenger side when the trunk popped open and lifted itself part-way.

  A breath caught in my throat. The manner of my transport became clear. “No,” I said, terrified on yet another level, “I’ll suffocate in there.”

  “There are worse ways to die.” The gun reappeared to convince me. “Get in. And don’t get any ideas about the emergency trunk release. Given my busi
ness, I disabled that.”

  Despite my complaints, he wrestled me into the trunk. There was no grace about it on my part and very little patience on his.

  The last thing I saw was charging reinforced steel.

  Valuable Commodity

  Darkness fell over me like an abandonment I’d never known before, and yet it felt oddly safe in these cramped quarters where I rode separately from Barton and the gun.

  I heard the engine catch. The BMW lunged forward. I felt every bump and dip of the alley. Knees bent, half on one side, I flopped awkwardly like the old sockmonkey I played with as a child. My scalp was already sweating by the time the car slowed to a rolling stop. Barton executed a left-hand turn out of the alley. I lagged behind, toppling over on my back and yipping as my left knee smacked the trunk lid. I lay, rubbing my kneecap, when Barton braked again. My momentum slid me forward several inches. We were heading east and, I assumed, stopped for the traffic light outside of City Hall. I longed for the safety of my tiny office, quite large compared to these quarters.

  Realizing there might be pedestrians and other drivers within earshot, I threw a fit in the trunk. I kicked and pounded and screamed for help. Surely someone would hear, and someone did. Barton blasted classical music in deafening quantities. I clapped my hands over my ears. A pair of speakers vibrated in the rear window deck, just above my head. The orchestra’s brass section crashed against me like waves on a sheer cliff face. I prayed it would roust a patrolling officer to pull him over for noise pollution.

  With steel all around me, I had no chance of escape. No, I thought. The taillights. They were a weak spot.

  I humped into position. If I could force the taillight out of its mounting, that would bring the salvation of cooler air into my easy-bake oven. If the light crashing to the pavement didn’t attract the trailing driver, then throwing my waving hand out would.

  I kicked at the area I imagined the left taillight occupied. To get any leverage at all, I used sideways jabs with the heel of my slip-on. Something felt wrong. The impact was padded. I changed position to get my hand into the trunk’s corner. The same thin carpeting beneath me was molded to cover the lights, making strong contact difficult. Mustering up renewed determination, I wiggled around for leg room. I lay twisted to one side with my head cocked heavenward so sweat didn’t run in my eyes. When it did, it burned like fire. I kicked relentlessly at the taillight and cursed German engineering.

  I rocked back and forth, picturing Barton weaving in and out of traffic, in a hurry to get wherever he was going. He lowered the volume while in motion, and then cranked it up to a teeth-rattling roar when stopped. Once, while the volume was low, I removed my hands from my ears and risked permanent hearing loss to pat around at something small and hard, raised just above the floorboard. I found the plastic handle that lifted a trapdoor of some kind. My spirits soared when I sniffed new rubber. The spare tire. A tire iron should be in the well, then I’d have a weapon at last. I struggled with the confined space. After several tries in different positions, I gave up. There simply wasn’t room for me and the trapdoor raised on its hinges. I went back to kicking the light panel. I felt my energy flag. When my shoe fell off, I quit.

  Barton made numerous turns. I lost track of our direction. He was taking me somewhere to kill me, and I had no one to thank but myself.

  My regrets rose ugly and vile, like fermented sewage, choked back by a clogged pipe. I would leave this world with weeds in my flowerbeds and my Piedmont Alley piece unfinished. I strong-armed Wilkey to a certain degree, and my last words to Clay were reproachful. I outright lied to K.C. and Lucy. What would they think of me? Worst of all was Gideon. With him, I played the temptress, wooing him with Egyptian artifacts, being seductive instead of serious. I did not want to die today. I hadn’t told him I loved him. My thoughts ran back to yesterday in the park. I heard his voice as clearly now as when Little Carlson walked away, holding Ruby’s hand. “We gotta get us one of those.”

  Was he telling me he was ready for children? Was he suggesting marriage? I simply let the moment pass. Now the tears flowed. They mingled with sweat as I lay flat on my back, my legs angled to one side, wearing a single shoe. What he meant, I might never know.

  All these people would look for me when they realized I was missing, but they’d search in all the wrong places. I wasn’t at the theater or in the alley behind it. I wasn’t down at the newspaper or working in City Hall.

  I took in a stuttering breath and felt cool air on my damp face. Air conditioning filtered back. I snuggled closer to the backseat. The windows must be up. The music lost several decibels. I uncovered my ears and recognized Beethoven’s Fifth. The passage of time was lost to me, as was my sight, and most probably my hearing. Left in the void was despair, exhaustion, and longing.

  I deduced that we weren’t in town anymore. The car cruised at a steady pace. I rode placidly for a few minutes, then the car began to slow. I rolled with a right-hand turn. Our speed dropped again, and we inched off the pavement. The sound of tires on asphalt was gone. The surface under the BMW was rough, more so than the alley, and still the vehicle eked forward. Finally, Barton braked and cut the engine. I listened to ear-ringing quiet. The car’s balance adjusted. Barton got out. Seconds of silence. The driver’s door closed.

  My thoughts raced. Surely he wouldn’t leave me here. I was ready to call out, to beg. My heart pumped pure panic. A mechanical click released the trunk lid, and a rush of fresh air washed over me. I forced calm to the surface. I still had no defense. I wiped quickly at telltale tears, replacing them with a steely toughness, a façade of anger and disgust. Honestly, I would consider joining his ranks for a sip of water.

  Barton’s fingers curled under the rim of steel, lifting it. He stood center stage, the backdrop a curtain of trees, his shirt still crisp, collar unbuttoned, cuffs turned up. He’d shed his coat and tie, but not the gun. He looked down at me, almost pleasantly surprised, like I was a crockpot of chili that hadn’t spilled during transport.

  “Good, you’re still in one piece.” He appeared less menacing. Perhaps the drive worked to improve his disposition.

  “Your concern is touching,” I returned, brimming with attitude. I was one pissed-off public servant. Of course, this was difficult to pull off with any real conviction while I crawled crablike on my back out from under the window decking until I could sit up. I felt like an oversized baby stuffed in an undersized bassinette.

  “I couldn’t risk being seen driving through town with you.” He steadied me as I teetered on the trunk’s back edge, my missing shoe back in place. “I may need something to barter with, and I want you close at hand.”

  I swung my legs over the bumper and down until my feet found the ground. “I’m flattered you think me equal to priceless Egyptian antiquities.”

  “Then again,” he said, grinning slyly, “I may not need to barter at all.”

  The inference here was simple enough. I would either be ransomed for his safe getaway with the artifacts, or I would be dead. Either this thought or my sweat-soaked clothes combined with the cooler air gave me a deathly chill. Folding my arms around my midsection, I drew my eyes from his.

  Amazingly, I recognized my surroundings. I stood on this very spot Saturday with Ruby Griswold. I could see a patch of Colonel Zeb Rosemont’s Infantry Road through the wooded barrier on my right. Parked here, the maroon BMW was camouflaged quite well, should anyone pass.

  So it wasn’t even three o’clock yet, I thought. The trip out took no more than twenty minutes. Gideon would be worried now. I didn’t answer my cell; I didn’t call back. And Clay? Had Clay met him in the alley? Wanting to think he had, I pictured them scouring the theater, then searching unsuccessfully down at City Hall.

  “So, we’re going to take the old farm path through to the back of the house,” I said with confidence and a jerk of my head toward the woods.

  Knowing I pinpointed our location, he lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. “Well, we can’t very well dri
ve up to the front door, can we?”

  “Now whose fault is that?”

  We fussed like a couple of old friends, disagreeing about the construction of a plot to a novel we both read, how it might’ve been done better.

  The smile that began to tinge his lips disappeared when he closed the trunk lid. The taillight smartly popped out of its mounting, but remained tethered to the back panel by a length of cabled wires.

  “What the hell?” He bent toward the swinging fixture.

  I tried to mask my amusement while annoyance roiled. The taillight could have accommodated the situation a mile or so back.

  His battle against time and stripped screws gave him no choice, but to leave it. Stepping back so I could pass in front of him, he followed me over the fallen tree to a wide pathway. As we both trekked along in dress shoes over hard-packed earth, I thought of myself as a valuable commodity in this seedy affair. I was the ransom. Before my position changed to completely expendable, I might as well get Barton to fill in some of the gaps.

  Adopting a friendly tone, I led with, “You know, Barton, except for this little problem you have with murder and theft, I’d have to say I like you.”

  “And except for your ungovernable curiosity, I like you, too.”

  “Well,” I smiled, “with that in mind, may I ask a few questions?”

  He chuckled. “Gun notwithstanding, how could I possibly prevent it?”