Beltran flushed and snapped an order at the SWAT leader to call an ambulance and a shooting-review team.
“The suspect’s the only one to fire a gun,” Elena pointed out, “and no one’s been shot.”
“Shooting would have been kinder,” groaned Lydia.
“Too bad I didn’t have a gun,” Harmony muttered.
“Do you know the statistics on women who die of broken hips?” retorted Lydia, her voice gaining strength from her own indignation.
With her police revolver in one hand, Elena knelt carefully to get the Luger. Lydia reached out and caught Elena’s free hand, which Elena jerked away. “Don’t pull back,” Lydia whispered. “I’d never hurt you. I’d have made you a fine mother when she was gone.”
Elena stared at the woman in horror. “You were going to kill my mother?”
“Some things are necessary. For the greater good. There are still women who need protecting. Watching. She should have realized that. She shouldn’t have interfered. I’m sure you understand, Elena. We share—”
“Mrs. Beeman, you’ve killed five people!” Elena exclaimed.
“But never a good person. Only the guilty.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not the judge or jury. Your actions constitute capital murder. And you were going to kill my mother, who never hurt anyone. At the very least, you’re going to jail.”
Lydia smiled weakly, her face gray with pain. “I won’t live to stand trial. Statistics are against me.” The keening wail of the ambulance siren cut her off. Then she said, when two members of the SWAT had lifted the loom away, “Will you go with me to the hospital, child? I want to explain. I want to make you understand.”
Beltran nodded to Elena, and his nod was a command, one she didn’t want to obey. It was too macabre. Lydia Beeman seemed to feel no guilt, seemed to be sure that Elena would understand and approve. Elena had no desire to hear what the woman had to say.
The attendants bustled in and moved her to a stretcher, as Lydia, gasping, said, “I killed only those the law can’t or won’t deal with. Like Frances’ husband.” Her grip on Elena’s hand tightened as the attendants lifted her. “You said yourself that you could make arrests, but the courts set the criminals free. They do.”
“Go along,” Beltran murmured to Elena. “Have you got a tape recorder?” Elena nodded.
54
Wednesday, October 13, 3:05 P.M.
Elena knelt by Lydia’s head while the ambulance attendants worked on her hip.
“We’ll give you a shot for pain in just a minute, ma’am,” one of them said.
“You killed them all?” Elena asked. She’d had to holster her gun because Lydia still clung to one hand, and Elena was holding a tape recorder in the other. “Stoltz, Cox, Brolie, Castro, Boris? All five?”
“Six,” said Lydia. “I killed Ambrose too.”
Elena stared at her. “Emily said your husband died of a stroke.” Was Lydia’s confession part of some fantasy?
“I let him,” said Lydia. “I watched him.” She gasped softly when the needle went in, then said, “Ambrose beat me. If I didn’t obey orders fast enough, he beat me. So did my father. That’s why Mother sent me away to school. To protect me. And then I married a man just like my father. But I was a woman then, so I tried to stop it.”
“What did you do?” Elena found herself waiting breathlessly for the next revelation.
“Told his commanding officer.” Lydia laughed bitterly. “He said if a hero like Ambrose was beating his wife, it must be because she deserved it. He told me to go home and be a better wife. I had no place to turn. Neither did any of the others. The system ignores us. So I bided my time, and as we got older, Ambrose, with his bad heart and his high blood pressure, had to be careful about getting angry. He couldn’t afford to attack me.”
“So you’re saying he stopped the abuse? When? After you moved back here?”
“Mmm.” Lydia looked indescribably weary. “Only he made a mistake. One night he said, ‘Lydia, call 911. I think I’ve had a stroke,’ and I said, ‘How do you know?’ That’s when he forgot about staying calm. He shouted, ‘Do you want me to die, woman? Call 911.’ And he hit me with his cane. On the legs—back of the thighs. I’d almost forgotten how much that hurt. I was sick with pain, stumbling away from him, heading for the telephone to obey.
“And then I remembered his question: ‘Do you want me to die, woman?’ And the answer was, ‘Yes.’ That’s what I’d been waiting for all those years, through two wars. So I didn’t call. I told him I had. And I stayed away from his good arm. He was paralyzed on the right side by then, but he could still talk. He kept cursing E.M.S. Saying it had been ten minutes, twenty minutes, and I should call again. And I said, ‘No, Ambrose, it’s only been a minute. Two. Three.’ In case he lived. Of course, he didn’t. He was furious and died shouting at me. Then I called 911.
“So Ambrose was the first one I killed. I buried him and froze his Congressional Medal of Honor in a box of okra. Ambrose hated okra. It’s in my freezer to this day. Along with the other medals and jewelry. All in vegetable packets. Perfectly preserved while the men are rotting in their graves, shot with the guns I inherited from Ambrose. One day there’ll be nothing left of them but the medals they didn’t deserve. And Ambrose—I always go to tell him when I kill a new one. So he’ll know that I’m the hero. I never bring flowers; I bring vengeance.”
“You really did kill them all,” marveled Elena.
“Of course I did. They deserved to die. Maybe you don’t understand what they were doing. You don’t understand about Frances. If I’d started earlier, she’d be alive.”
“Did you know he was abusing her?”
“We never told each other. That was the only secret between us, and it killed Frances.” Lydia sighed, moved restlessly on the pallet, moaned. “But her death led me to save the others. Marcia,
always bruised and burned. Porfirio Cox couldn’t believe it when I shot him. A woman. And an Anglo.” Lydia smiled weakly.
“And Chantal?”
“Margaret told me about her.”
“Russian roulette?”
“You knew about that?”
“Mrs. Brolie told me just a few days ago.”
“If she’d told me earlier, I could have saved her all that terror. And poor Mercedes. So beautiful, and he took it away from her. And then laughed.”
“Did she tell you what happened? About the ring?”
“She told—who was it?—Portia, I think. The ring’s in a package of New England boiled vegetables—Marcia’s favorite—along with Porfirio Cox’s papal medal. Those men would have hated New England boiled vegetables.”
“They were all in on it? The bridge group?” Dear God, this was going to be awful. They’d have to charge all four women for murder and conspiracy.
“The Goren vigilantes,” Lydia mumbled.
Elena had to lean close to hear over the wail of the sirens. She didn’t think the cassette recorder was getting it all, although maybe the experts could separate Lydia’s voice from the rise and fall of sound that threatened to drown her out.
“My ancestors were vigilantes. Did I tell you that? When there was no law, they saw justice done. I did the same.”
“And the others—Emily, Margaret, Portia?”
“All vigilantes. Goren vigilantes. Still play Goren rules. Old-fashioned, but we like the old ways.” Her voice slowed as the medication took hold; her eyes closed, then flicked open again as she strove to stay conscious. “They told me about the battered women . . . I arranged for the wives to take my place at the bridge table . . . while I killed the husbands.”
“So you thought of yourselves as the Goren vigilantes?” Elena prompted, moving the recorder microphone closer to Lydia’s mouth.
“I did. The others didn’t know. Never realized what I was doing. Poor Emi
ly. She’ll be shocked . . . and she depends on me . . . since Frances died.” Tears welled under Lydia’s flickering eyelids. “If only I’d started earlier. I wouldn’t have lost Frances.”
Elena thought Lydia had fainted, but as the ambulance turned toward Thomason General, Lydia whispered, “They were very happy . . . those women I saved. Women give and give . . . all their lives. They have a right to be happy . . . in old age. But you understand. I only had sons, but you’ll be the daughter I wanted. Take over my work.”
“Never,” Elena whispered. “Killing, except in self-defense, makes us as bad as the criminals.”
“I don’t want you to kill, child. Just see justice done.”
“Maybe you should rest now,” said Elena, shivering at the woman’s vision.
“Yes. Beside Ambrose. Whispering in his ear through all eternity . . . that he was the villain . . . and I the hero.”
Elena sighed and squeezed Lydia’s hand. The woman had been wrong, very wrong, but she’d acted out of love for her friend and a sense of what was right. Elena could see that.
As if she understood Elena’s unspoken relenting, Lydia smiled. “They were all . . . vigilantes . . . and didn’t . . . even . . . know it. . . .”
Lydia’s eyes closed as the full flow of the sirens washed over Elena before they ebbed and fell silent.
“What’d she do?” asked one of the attendants.
“Vigilante justice,” said Elena.
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 © 1995 by Nancy Herndon
ISBN 978-1-4976-2962-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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