Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

“But why Carol? What did she ever do to you?”

  “Nothing. In fact, I like her.”

  Like—as in the present tense. A sense of relief flooded through Bronson’s veins.

  “It’s you . . . I wanted to punish.” L’ee’s voice filled with venom. “You’re . . . the one . . . who ruined . . . my marriage. You’re the one . . . who ruined my life . . . Look at me now . . . I’m grossly fat and . . . ugly. All because of you.”

  Bronson failed to see how he had ruined L’ee’s life, but under the circumstances, he wasn’t going to debate it. “I’m sorry you feel this way.” He wanted to hear about Carol, but he knew that the more he asked, the less likely she’d be to mention her.

  “My marriage—if you want to call it that—” L’ee paused and took in a deep breath. The pain registered in her eyes. “Ken and I were married . . . for less than . . . a month. Then he . . . filed for divorce. He thought . . . with Casey’s murder . . . her being my roommate . . . it would bring him disgrace. Now look at him . . . He’s a senator . . . possibly the next President. I could . . . have been a . . .first lady. Instead, I became this.” She removed her hand from the wound long enough to make a sweeping motion of her body.

  “Tell me about Balthasar.”

  “He betrayed me.”

  “How? Where is he now?” Where’s Carol? Is she all right?

  “You’re getting . . . ahead of the story. It all . . . began a year ago . . .”

  Chapter Fifty

  One year ago

  Papers about the convention hotel, flight costs, food costs, estimated income from the number of people expected to register, a must-do-list—all of these lay scattered on L’ee’s desk. The Slayers Convention would soon be here and she still had a lot of loose ends to tie up.

  This one would be by far the best convention. After all, this was the one she’d be inviting Bronson to attend. She hadn’t quite yet figured out how she’d accomplish that. All she knew was that she’d make sure Bronson attend. Other than that, she’d taken care of all the Bronson-related details, including writing the script that the Slayers were supposed to solve.

  Her doorbell rang and L’ee felt the stirrings of anger. How dare someone disrupt her privacy. She swung the door open, half-expecting to see a salesman. Instead, the well-dressed man with piercing brown eyes studied her. “Are you Eleanor Chalmers?”

  “It’s L’ee now. Are you a reporter?”

  He wet his lips. “No, but I really need to talk to you.” He looked behind him as though searching to see if anyone had followed him. “Please.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Not here. I need to come in.” He ran his fingers around the collar of his shirt as though it were choking him. “Please, it’s really important and very personal.”

  L’ee hesitated for a moment before letting him in. She opened the door and led him into the living room. “If you’re selling something—”

  “I’m not. I’m here to share some information with you.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I’ve developed a secret passion for writing and mysteries, and all because of your ex, Ken, and Casey.”

  His statement intrigued L’ee. She stared at him and realized he looked almost frightened. She studied him intently. Then it dawned on her. “I know you.”

  “Yes. I’m Trent Powers.”

  Of course. “From the fraternity.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please sit down.” She pointed to the couch.

  He sat on the edge of the seat and without looking up he began. “I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to go through with this, so just let me get it all out.” He took a deep breath. “Three people were involved in Casey’s death: Sydney Stockwell—you remember him? He was the fraternity president—and me. The two of us were involved because we have known all along who the murderer is, and we covered up for him. Him, being your ex.”

  L’ee felt as if a giant rock had landed on her chest. “Ken? Why would he want to kill Casey? He barely knew her. I can’t believe he’d do something like that.”

  “Believe it. Mr. Squeaky Clean has a lot of dirt to hide. In college, we made money by selling drugs to a select number of sorority and fraternity members. Casey found out about it and threatened to go to the police. She also planned to warn you not to marry Ken. But Ken was a lady’s man, and he wasn’t worried. He figured he’d seduce Casey, like he did all the other ladies. What he wasn’t counting on was Casey’s not accepting his advances. He pursued her and it intrigued him when she wouldn’t reciprocate. He found her fascinating and doubled his efforts until one night after a lot of heavy drinking, he succeeded in making love to her. The next morning she felt horrible. She had betrayed you. She told Ken that she wasn’t going to wait any more. She would head to the police and then she’d pay you a visit. Ken pretended to feel shame and said he wanted to be the one to tell you. He convinced her that he wouldn’t sell any more drugs if she didn’t go to the police. Casey agreed, but Ken always knew that it would only be a matter of time before she told. That’s why Casey had to die. In the end, Ken got what he wanted. With his lies, he had bought some time. He used it to set up her murder.”

  Tears of bitterness stung L’ee’s eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  Trent remained quiet.

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Ken plans to announce his candidacy for President of the United States. Chances are he’ll win. A person like him shouldn’t be allowed to be President.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Why not go to the police?”

  “Two reasons.” He raised his index finger. “One, Ken has a lot of people on his payroll. I’m not sure whom I could trust. Besides that, going to the police would implicate me. I don’t want to do any time for this.” He raised the index and middle fingers. “And two, I figured you could still get hold of Bronson. Ken did you wrong and I thought you’d like to have the opportunity to get even. You see, one of the reasons he left you is because you reminded him too much of Casey, and he was halfway in love with her when he married you. Still, he did marry you and would have stayed married had it not been for Bronson. Ken liked the idea of using your parents’ money to further his career. But when Bronson started checking you out as a possible suspect, he panicked. That was too close to home. So he dropped you.”

  L’ee shook her head and fought hard to control the burst of anger she felt ready to erupt. “I knew that if Bronson kept hounding me as if I were the murderer, Ken would leave me.” The resentment that had been building over the years surfaced and fueled her need for revenge. She remained quiet while her mind conceived a plan. She smiled and looked up at Trent. “Let me see if I have this straight. You told me Ken killed Casey and you want me to get hold of Bronson—whom you know I hate—so that he can arrest Ken. Is that about right?”

  Trent squirmed in his seat, looked at the ground, and nodded.

  “So if Bronson takes up the case, he’ll suspect that maybe I’ve withheld evidence all of these years. I will end up in jail, and you, on the other hand, will come out smelling like a rose.”

  Trent’s eyes opened wide. “That’s not. . .I didn’t think. . .I. . .I. . .” He shrugged and sank deeper into the couch.

  “I can easily implicate you. You know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Please don’t. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “In that case, you will do exactly as I say. Is that understood?”

  A look of uncertainty crossed Trent’s eyes. “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “There’s a man by the name of Max Illes. In order for me to get hold of Bronson, Max must be removed.”

  Trent’s eyes narrowed. He wet his lips. “What do you mean? Removed?”

  “I could see him having some kind of an accident that would prevent him from doing his job.”

  Trent paused as though considering L’ee’s words. “I fail to see the connection between Max and Bronson.”r />
  “And you don’t have to see the connection. The less you know, the better. All I will tell you is that the only way for me to get Bronson is for Max to momentarily disappear. Do you think you can arrange that?”

  For a long time, Trent remained quiet. Slowly he nodded. “I know someone who can arrange an accident—nothing more.”

  “An accident is all I need.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  It had taken a lot of effort to tell the story, but now that she had, somehow L’ee felt better. She took in a deep breath. “The accident, as you know, went wrong. . . Poor Max . . . died. . . We . . . never . . .” A tear escaped her eye. “There’s more . . . There’s the part . . . you really want to hear.”

  Welk eyed Bronson and barely nodded an encouragement.

  Bronson ignored him. Instead, he sat patiently listening, hoping to get a clue as to Carol’s whereabouts. “I’m listenin’.”

  “Balthasar came in and shot me . . .”

  * * * * *

  “If I wanted you dead,” Balthasar had told L’ee, “you’d be dead by now, but my boss, that’ll be Senator Ken Chalmers, wanted you to know what was going on before you died. You thought you hired me to be your chauffeur and general gofer. But Senator Chalmers is paying me twice what you pay. He’s been suspicious of Trent for quite a while. He’s seen him grow soft and weak, like a woman. The Senator learned about the conference so he sent a man who sometimes goes by the name of Norman Childes to silence Trent forever. You know Norman as Sydney Stockwell. Even while he was the fraternity president, he hated Trent. Always thought he had no backbone.” He paused so L’ee could digest all of the information. “So now you know. The frat president, Sydney Stockwell, attended the conference under the name of Norman Childes, and he was the one who killed Trent. That’s all I have to say. Do you have any questions before I kill you?”

  From behind him, Carol crept toward Balthasar, holding the limb like a baseball bat. L’ee saw her and vaguely wished Carol wouldn’t reach him until after Balthasar had the chance to shoot her. Dying from a bullet wound would be much quicker and less painful than dying from cancer. L’ee closed her eyes, anticipating the next shot.

  It came at the same time that Carol whacked Balthasar in the head. The bullet meant to kill L’ee only wounded her. As Balthasar fell forward, his gun went off a second time. The bullet found its target in L’ee’s chest. He landed unconscious on the floor.

  Carol stared at L’ee, not sure as to what to do. L’ee swept the air with her hand, telling Carol to go away. Carol lost no time in searching Balthasar’s pockets for the key. She found it in his right front pocket. She grabbed the key and freed herself from the chain that had held her prisoner. She reached for the discarded gun and looked at L’ee. “If I make it safely down the hill, I’ll get you help.” She ran out the door.

  * * * * *

  By now, L’ee could barely talk. Her weakness told her death hovered nearby. She embraced it. “I . . . must . . . have passed . . . out.”

  Bronson looked up at Welk to see if he had heard. He shook his head. Bronson leaned closer so he could hear her.

  “When . . . I came to . . . he . . . was gone. He . . . must . . . have . . . gone . . . after . . . Carol.”

  Bronson bolted for the door and spoke to Welk as he rushed out. “You stay here with her. Call Quaid. He’s headin’ up this way. Fill him in.” He ran out. Once outside, he hesitated. Which way would Carol go? How close was Balthasar to her? He retrieved the hand-held radio as he surveyed the ground outside the cabin. He looked for broken twigs or any sign that would tell him which direction to go.

  He raised the radio to his mouth. “Bronson to Quaid.”

  “Quaid, go.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Not far from the cabin, I’ve got my men advancing up the hill. We’re covering a wide perimeter of the mountain. How are things at your end?”

  “You know about L’ee?”

  “Welk reported in. Any word on Carol?”

  “All I know is she’s somewhere out here in the woods. Balthasar may be after her.” Bronson stopped and bent down. He could barely make out a man’s footprint. But it was there, none the less. The prints lead up the hill, away from Quaid and his men.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Sixteen Minutes Ago

  At first, Carol had hesitated as to which direction to head. She had escaped, but she wasn’t yet safe. What would Harry tell her? Do the unexpected. If she headed down the hill that would be the way Balthasar would expect her to go.

  She’d head up the hill, and then turn left and come back down. With luck, she’d encounter the road. Without further thought, she ascended the hill.

  * * * * *

  Bitch!

  That little bitch had knocked him out and escaped. Balthasar rubbed his head. It hurt like hell, but at least she hadn’t drawn any blood.

  She’d be sorry for what she had done. He had planned to kill her quickly, using a single, carefully aimed shot. Now he’d let the bitch suffer.

  Balthasar slowly sat up and the world spun. He closed his eyes while the pain subsided. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. Couldn’t have been that long. He stood up and waited for his eyes to focus.

  He saw L’ee’s inert body. At least that had gone right. Every time she gave him an order, he cringed and counted the days until he’d be able to kill her.

  He looked around for his gun. Gone. That bitch had probably taken it. He reached for his ankle and produced the handgun he had strapped to his leg. That stupid bitch hadn’t even bothered to search him. Shows how stupid she is.

  He stepped out. She’d probably follow the trail that would eventually lead to the road. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. She may have had a head start, but he was agile. She was old and certainly out of shape. “I’m coming, bitch,” he said and headed down the hill.

  * * * * *

  Carol ignored the stitch in her side and instead once again broke into a run. Her muscles protested, but she moved unthinkingly. She ran clumsily, dodging the fallen timber where she could and climbing over rotting trunks she could not avoid.

  All she wanted was a place to rest, but where? Had she gone far enough? Her burning muscles begged her to stop, but if she did, would Balthasar find her? She knew she had to keep moving. Cold fingers of panic clutched her heart.

  No, no. I mustn’t panic. Just keep moving. Just keep moving.

  * * * * *

  Balthasar didn’t quite know when or where the thought hit him, but it made perfect sense. The bitch wouldn’t head down the mountain. That’s what she’d expect him to think. She’d do the opposite. She’d go up the cliff, away from danger. She’d travel in that direction for ten, fifteen minutes, then she’d make a sharp left. That should put her traveling parallel to the road. Once she had traveled in that direction for another ten minutes or so, she’d start downhill.

  He bolted back up the cliff.

  What the bitch didn’t know was that he was an expert trackman. He would use that skill to hunt her down. He returned to the cabin’s front door and studied the ground. It didn’t take him long to pick up her trail. Just as expected, she was moving up.

  He raised a fist of victory and waved it in the air. “It won’t take me long to catch up with you.” Once he did, she’d pay. Oh, how she would pay.

  * * * * *

  Carol figured she had climbed high enough. She could now make a ninety-degree turn and travel west before working her way down. Maybe now she could slow down. Her heart felt like a pumped balloon on the brink of rupture. She needed to rest, but should she allow herself that luxury? Surely, she had outrun Balthasar by now.

  If she closed her eyes, she could hear Harry’s voice, “Don’t ever assume anything.” She hoped Balthasar hadn’t regained consciousness. She hoped she had traveled far enough away from danger. She hoped. . . But she had no way of knowing.

  Never assume anything.

  Her bruised and tender heels
became constant reminders of her predicament. She pushed on harder, faster.

  Something changed and an involuntary tremor ignited deep within her. The tunnel of noise that had surrounded her came to an abrupt stop as though seeking refuge from a deadly predator. She paused, her head slightly tilted, her ears straining to listen.

  The silence, like smoke, whirled and grasped at her raw nerves, causing her flesh to crawl. Her eyes darted from side to side. In a blaze of growing terror, Carol broke into a run. She breathed hard through her mouth. Her screaming lungs begged her to slow down, but she ignored them and forced herself to continue her flight.

  She ran blindly through the woods, ignoring the fallen timbers, the rotting trunks, and the protruding boulders. She ran as if in a nightmare, her muscles on fire. She stumbled and a sob caught in her throat as she gasped for breath.

  Luckily, she regained her balance and used that moment to steal a second to glance behind her. The woods stood as before, silent and threatening. She turned to continue her flight and froze.

  Balthasar stood five feet away from her, evil emanating from his dark, brooding eyes. He held a gun and all Carol could see was the barrel pointing at her.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “Hello, Bitch.” Balthasar’s voice came like a whisper of graveyard breeze.

  Carol felt panic tightening in her chest. She had to do something. She remembered the gun. She had put it in her belt like she had seen Harry do many times. She felt the belt with her arm. The gun was gone. It had probably fallen when she stumbled or when she ran in blind panic. She felt her body sag with bitter disappointment mixed with fear. Oh, Harry, where are you? She raised her head and stuck out her chin. “Hello, Balthasar.”

  “The name is Joe Simes. I hated L’ee for calling me Balthasar.”