Cheated By Death

by L. L. Bartlett

  “That’s a stretch, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. But say this guy thinks Marty and I took something—someone—from him. What would you be willing to do in his place?” His voice was calm, but I knew Richard too well. He was scared shitless.

  “This doesn’t make sense. Why wait decades to come after the two of you?”

  “Why does anyone kill?”

  Another good question.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  “Let’s go to Lockport.”

  “We could be walking right into a trap.”

  “This is all supposition anyway. With everything that’s happened, we could just be paranoid. If it looks like a set-up we’ll back off and call the cops.”

  His plan sounded all right. Why didn’t it feel all right?

  CHAPTER

  22

  We crossed the Niagara County line and headed for Medsco. Its vast parking lot was empty, save for Patty’s Mustang sitting alone at a rear entrance. Being a Sunday, the entire industrial park was deserted.

  No potential witnesses.

  The perfect place for a murder.

  “I don’t like this,” I told Richard, as we pulled alongside the vacant car.

  He turned off the Lincoln’s engine and pocketed the keys. “We’ll just have a look. If it doesn’t seem safe, we’ll leave.”

  “Are you on some kind of macho ego trip? This guy wants to kill you.”

  I glanced at the factory’s white-painted, concrete exterior, devoid of windows, except for narrow panels of safety glass in the double steel doors. I didn’t see anyone behind them.

  “Come on,” he said and opened his door.

  My senses screamed “get the hell out of here!” but I got out of the car and followed him anyway.

  The Mustang looked innocent enough. Richard circled it and looked through the passenger side window. A brown stain marred the pristine gray carpet.

  “Go on, touch it. See if you get anything,” he said.

  Suddenly sweating, I had to force myself to reach for the driver’s door handle. An image of Patty flashed through my mind from another’s point of view: she was tied, gagged, and terrified. The door opened and a blast of pure rage assaulted me, tearing the breath from me. Ray had driven the car—Patty was curled on the passenger side floor, her cheek bruised, mouth bleeding from where he’d kicked her.

  I slammed the door, whirled, heading for Richard’s car.

  “What did you see?” he demanded.

  “He’s got Patty! We've got to get out of here and call for help.”

  “Hold it right there!”

  I whirled. Ray stood at the building’s open doorway, the barrel of a rifle leveled at us. It was probably the same rifle that had killed Jean Newcomb.

  “You were supposed to be here last night! Where the hell have you been?” Ray shouted.

  We had two choices: stand there and both of us die, or make a break and maybe only one of us would get killed. But there was nowhere to go—Richard had the car keys.

  Ray pushed clear of the doors. “Hands where I can see ’em!”

  He charged toward us. It was déjà vu—only this time I was the victim—seeing what Marty Concillio had seen in the last seconds of his life.

  “You’ve inconvenienced me. Shortened my playtime,” Ray said as he approached us.

  “What’re you talking about?” Richard bluffed.

  Ray marched up to him, raised the rifle and smashed the butt against his temple.

  Richard went down.

  I lunged for him, but Ray spun around, shoving the barrel inches from my nose.

  “Make a move,” he challenged.

  I stared into his cold, gray eyes.

  Richard groaned, faltered to his knees.

  Ray backed up a step, planted a foot on Richard’s shoulder, and shoved him down again.

  “Stay there. You—” He reached into his shirt’s breast pocket, tossed me a cable tie—a thin, heavy-duty plastic strip, not unlike what cops use in lieu of handcuffs. “Bind his hands behind his back.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun—and fumbled to obey.

  “Stand back,” Ray ordered.

  He tested my handiwork and decided it would do.

  “Now flat on your stomach, hands behind you.”

  I lay prostrate on the cold asphalt, closed my eyes, and waited for a bullet to be fired into the back of my skull. Instead, he knelt beside me and bound my hands tightly.

  Fear coursed through me. What had he meant by playtime?

  Ray yanked on my arm. “On your feet.”

  I struggled to stand, stared down at a groggy Richard still on the ground.

  “Get up,” Ray ordered, kicking him in the ribs.

  Richard rolled onto his knees, stumbled to his feet and fell against me, nearly toppling us both. Ray stood behind us and yanked my coat, wrenching the sleeves back to further bind me. He did the same to Richard.

  “Now, over by the door.” We stood by numbly while he opened it. He motioned Richard in—I filed in after him.

  High ceilings with exposed pipes towered above us. Safety lights cut shafts of yellow, leaving the rest of the place bathed in gloom. We followed a painted pathway on the concrete floor, past rows of ceiling-height shelves and stacked pallets. The place was deadly quiet, with no hum of machinery or the bustle of workers—just our hollow footfalls echoing through the cavernous room.

  Ray called out directions, left, right, right, left. I tried to memorize the way so I’d know how to get out—if we ever got out. Maggie knew we’d come here, but how long would it be before our absence made her suspicious?

  More lights loomed ahead. A fork lift was parked near scores of shelves enclosed by a chain link fence. “Stop,” Ray called out. We halted in front of a tool crib. Close by, Patty hugged a support beam, her wrists tied by the same plastic strips. She heard us approach, lifting her swollen, tear-stained face. Blotched mascara gave her raccoon eyes. A puddle of urine encircled her bare feet. How long had she been there?

  I recognized her torn, rumpled beige jacket. A silver snowflake pin gleamed on the lapel.

  Just like in my nightmare.

  “I’m sorry,” Patty sobbed. “I didn’t know what he was. How could I know?”

  “Shut up,” Ray growled.

  A video camera on a tripod stood ten feet from Patty. Marty Concillio had received a video of his wife’s murder.

  “Stop,” Ray commanded. He shoved the rifle barrel into my back. “On your knees.”

  I did as I was told, stayed put as he marched a still-punchy Richard over to the tool crib, looped another plastic strip through the bindings and fastened it to the crib’s chain link door. Then he looped a strand around Richard’s ankles, attaching it to the fence.

  “On your feet,” he ordered me.

  I hauled myself up. He grabbed me by my coat sleeve, shoved me to the crib’s door then bound me to the other side so Richard and I were back to back.

  I avoided Ray’s gaze, unwilling to challenge him. He backed off, leaving us.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Richard. A rivulet of drying blood marred the side of his face where Ray had hit him.

  “Are you all right?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer. His breathing was too fast. Humiliation or shock?

  Ray set the rifle on the bench in front of the crib. He grabbed an open beer and took a gulp. His flush of victory bombarded my senses. Thankfully, I couldn’t read Richard or Patty because my own escalating fear spiraled into panic.

  “What’re you going to do with us?” Richard asked.

  “What do you think?” A self-satisfied smirk twisted Ray’s features. “You don’t even know why, do you?”

  “Dorothy Pfister,” Richard said.

  “She was my mother.”

  Richard let out a sharp breath. “We tried to save her.”

  Ray’s laugh was mirthless. “Yeah, right.”

  “How old were you when it h
appened, Ray?” I asked. “Six, seven?”

  “Eight.”

  “Then you only had a kid’s perspective—you really don’t know what happened.”

  “I know enough. My mother died. It took ten years for my stepfather to drink himself to death. He beat the shit out of me nearly every day. You haven’t got a clue.”

  Oh, yes I did.

  “You can’t trust what a drunk tells you,” I said. “They’ll say anything—believe the worst.”

  “When my mother went to the hospital, she was fine. Then she died, and I lost a brother.”

  “Your mother wasn’t fine,” Richard said.

  Ray ignored him, tipped the can back, and drained it. He crushed it in his fist and tossed it into a trash barrel. His smile was chilling.

  “Until his wife died, Dr. James Martin Concillio was a dedicated employee of New York State,” Ray said. “I recognized the name immediately. I’d heard it every fucking day for ten years. We finally met my first day as a guest of the state. I knew him—but he didn’t know me. Three years in a stinking cell in Sonyea. Three years, I planned. I took my time. Why be in a hurry?”

  “You killed his son and his wife,” Richard said.

  “And let six months pass between each one.” Ray’s malevolent smile tightened. “The cops never put it all together. All three—different modus operandi. Yeah. Real different. I made sure to drive Concillio crazy. It was nothing less than he deserved. Then there was just you,” he said, his gaze nailing Richard.

  Richard said nothing.

  “Once I got back to Buffalo, everything just kind of fell together. I spent a lot of time at City Hall and the library finding out about you two. Even dabbled in a little genealogy. That’s how I knew Patty was his sister,” he nodded toward me. “I staked out your wife and found that Medsco was a supplier for the Williamsville Women’s Health Center. Getting a job here was a piece of cake. I just took out one of the drivers.”

  “You killed him?” Richard asked, aghast.

  “Nah—just broke his legs. I’m a firm believer in networking, and prison introduced me to people from all walks of life. Course, I was pissed when Patty told me she’d never even met her brother. Lucky for me your old man was sick and died,” he said, and laughed. “Otherwise, I might not have had as much fun. The letters, the calls. I had you going there, didn’t I? And you jerks thought it was her ex-husband—or those stupid church fucks.” His smile widened.

  Just what had Patty told him? I strained to look at her over my shoulder.

  “Everything was right on schedule ’til last night when you didn’t show,” Ray continued. “I lost patience and started the fun without you,” he said, and stepped close to Patty, lifting her chin. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Now I want Dr. Alpert,” he announced the title with revulsion, “to suffer. Like my family. Like my mother.”

  “I tried to save her,” Richard said.

  Ray stroked Patty’s face, trailed his fingers down her neck, continued over her chest, and squeezed her left breast. She recoiled, clamping her eyes shut, a squeal of anguish escaping her lips.

  “Leave her alone,” Richard said.

  Ray withdrew his hand and glared at my brother, a lascivious grin covered his features. “Are you fond of the bitch?”

  Richard kept silent.

  Ray’s grin widened. He reached for Patty’s bound hands, took hold of the little finger on her left hand and yanked, the crack of bone and her agonized scream reverberated through the factory's silence.

  “Stop!” Richard commanded.

  Ray’s laughter cascaded through the room, shock waves of his triumph echoing through me. This show was for Richard’s benefit.

  “What about you, big brother,” he said to me. “You want me to break another finger?”

  “Why should I care?” I bluffed. “I only met her two weeks ago.”

  Richard glared at me over his shoulder.

  Suddenly Ray was in front of me and leaned close, snorted sour beer breath in my face. “That’s the problem with your family. You don’t give a shit about anyone,” he grated. “That’s why my mother died.”

  He turned, reached under the bench, and brought out a wrapped bundle. Unfastening it, he spread out a gray flannel cloth, arranging four bone-handled knives of various sizes, their blades glinting dully under the fluorescent light. Then he unwrapped a sharpening stone.

  Ray looked up at me before selecting a knife. “Concillio never knew ’til the day I gut-shot him that I’d whacked his kid. His wife was even more fun. The papers said it was a ritual slaying, because her re-pro-ductive organs were missing.”

  He laughed. The sound of steel rubbing the wet stone grated on my nerves.

  “I read the anatomy books in the prison library, so I knew what I was doing . . . but it was a sloppy job. Kind of like what you did.” He glared at Richard for long seconds before going back to sharpening the blades.

  “I watched that tape I made when I did Concillio’s wife over and over. Next time, I’ll do better.”

  “Next time?” I asked.

  Ray didn’t answer.

  Time.

  I glanced at the opposite wall. A plastic-faced clock with a sweep hand kept vigil. How long had we been here? Five minutes?

  Ray concentrated on his work. “Lucky the way it all fell together. No, it was more than luck—it was fate. I even got to scope out your house the day I drove Patty there. I know where the phone lines are. Where the electrical comes in. That new security system should be easy enough to disable.”

  “I suppose you learned that in prison, too?” I said.

  “It’s the State’s goal to rehabilitate every inmate. We have to make a living on the outside, you know.” He tested the knife’s sharpness, found it lacking, and started in again.

  “I heard your old lady lost your kid, Doctor Alpert.” Ray continued. “Ain’t that too bad. Maybe now you know how it feels. But that’s only the half of it. Next you’re gonna lose your woman. But before I do her, I’m gonna have me a piece of brown sugar.”

  Richard sagged, yanking me backward. “No, please.”

  Ray laughed. “Then I’ll come back for her,” he pointed at Patty, “then you—” Me. His shark-eyes bored into Richard. “I’m saving you for last.”

  “You—you can’t, Ray,” Patty cried. “You said you’d let me go. You said if I called them you’d—”

  “I’ve had just about enough of you, bitch. If you don’t shut your goddamned mouth . . . . ”

  Patty’s hiccoughing sobs started anew.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Richard said.

  “You got away with butchering my mother.”

  “She came in too late. Her condition—the weather—”

  “She died because you screwed up!”

  “The Medical Board said—”

  “Doctors stick up for their own. Besides, the hospital paid. They wouldn’t have if you weren’t at fault.”

  Richard sighed, as though realizing the futility of arguing.

  Something clicked inside my head. The money. Was that the focus of Ray’s anger?

  “What happened to the money?” I asked.

  Ray looked away.

  “I take it you didn’t get your share?” I tried again.

  “Keep quiet.”

  It all made sense, now. A sociopath and probably a career punk, he’d fucked up, landed in jail, and had three years to think about the cause of all his troubles, figuring his life had soured the day his mother died.

  “Was there a trust?” I asked. “Or did your old man drink it all away?”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Sure. Why else would you kill? You tried to squeeze Concillio for money. He refused to pay.”

  “I told you to shut up!” he said, eyes widening, his anger rising.

  “You never gave a shit about your mother,” I said, knowing I should keep silent, but I was on a roll. “All you cared about was the money you thought you’d get. And
when you found there wasn’t any, and the only person to blame was dead, you decided to go after the people who actually tried to save Dorothy Pfister’s life. You poor sick bastard,” I said, contempt coloring my words.

  Ray rushed me, knocking me and the hinged gate back, slamming Richard against the chain link wall. Ray’s hands gripped my throat, throttling me.

  “Stop, Ray—stop! Please,” Patty begged.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  Richard pulled against his restraints, yanking the cage door and me backward. “Stop! Sweet Jesus, stop it!”

  Ray hung on, his thumbs pressing harder against my windpipe. His murderous eyes drilled mine.

  I couldn’t escape, couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded, and my vision dappled.

  “Ray, you spineless sonuvabitch,” Patty screamed. “You can kill him, but you can’t kill the truth!”

  Ray let go and whirled on her. “I said shut up!”

  Chest heaving, sweet air filled my tortured lungs as my knees buckled, pulling the chain link door forward, yanking Richard off-balance.

  Grabbing one of the knives, Ray stalked over to the post, cut the plastic binding Patty’s wrists. He grabbed her by the hair, threw her to the floor.

  “Not again,” Patty whined like a frightened child.

  Muscles trembling, I strained to look past my shoulder, but they were out of view. Richard yanked at his bindings, rattling the chain link.

  Fabric ripped.

  Patty’s wail echoed off the vaulted ceiling, searing my soul.

  “Stop it, you sonuvabitch. Stop!” Richard shouted.

  “Don’t,” I rasped. “He wants us to react. It makes him feel more powerful.”

  “For God’s sake, he’s raping her.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  Ray’s hands muffled Patty’s anguished cries.

  I looked around, searching, searching the tool crib for some way out, some weapon. I had to keep my mind off what was happening. What was going to happen.

  I’d promised Sophie I’d keep Patty safe.

  I’d failed.

  And we were all going to die.

  I scanned the rows of drawers, boxes, in the tool crib. A pegboard wall held hammers, tin snips, pliers, and screw drivers. A fire extinguisher hung by the door. CO2 could freeze the plastic at our wrists, make it shatter—but the result would be useless hands from chemical burns.