The Man Who Tried to Get Away

  “You say you’re my partner.” She had no time for transitions. “Are you coming, or do I have to deal with Cat’s killer on my own?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Retrieving her .357, she shoved it back into her purse. Without so much as a pause in the doorway, she stormed out of Hardhouse’s room and left me alone with my astonishment.

  Her explanation wasn’t what astonished me. It didn’t exactly comfort me, but it made sense. I knew how she felt. No, the astonishing thing was that we weren’t finished with each other. She still expected me to back her up.

  I stayed where I was for a moment or two, swaying gently to myself, letting go of my grievances. Then I followed her.

  15

  The hall seemed long. What the hell, everything seemed long to me. But Sam’s injection did its job. I was still ambulatory. I caught up with Ginny in the den.

  Ama and Truchi had already gone to work. They’d opened the front door and several windows, and one of them, probably Truchi, had set up a big space fan to blow smoke out of the room. Smoke still curled out of the fireplace, but a bucket and puddles of water on the hearth indicated that the fire itself had been doused pretty thoroughly. I could smell a tang of acid, enough to make me think about gagging. The fan worked well, however, and the air was mostly breathable.

  Judging by appearances, Ama hadn’t suffered too much damage. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she looked solid on her feet, ready to do whatever was needed. Of course, smoke inhalation can kill anyone, but she probably hadn’t been in as much danger as I was. She wasn’t likely to bleed to death when she coughed.

  Frowning slightly above his off-white mustache, Ama’s husband tended the fan and watched the wisps from the fireplace with a gaze that managed to look innocent and doubtful at the same time. If he had an opinion about the situation, he kept it to himself.

  “Do you know what caused this?” Ginny asked.

  Petruchio shrugged. “Snow,” he pronounced succinctly. “Chimney.”

  “I mean the smoke.” Ginny’s tone hinted at exasperation. “Wood doesn’t make that kind of smoke.”

  My only encounter with Truchi, the first day of the camp, had been cryptic. I guess I didn’t expect him to have much grasp on practical reality. So I was surprised when he pointed at the fireplace and said without hesitation, “Ratsbane.”

  Ratsbane? I thought.

  “Ratsbane?” Ginny demanded.

  Ama shrugged. As laconic as her husband, she pronounced. “Rat poison.”

  Ginny nodded once, sharp with recognition. “Trioxide of arsenic. That’s what they make rat poison out of. Or they used to. It’s been a long time since I looked it up.”

  Arsenic, I mused. Terrific.

  She moved to the fireplace and peered inside. I did the same thing, except more slowly.

  Back against the firewall, we saw the remains of a cardboard box big enough to hold a case of beer. Blackened powder spilled out of it. Powder had probably covered most of the wood, but water had washed it down into the ash.

  “That,” she commented, “is a hell of a lot of rat poison.”

  I thought Amalia would answer, but it was Truchi who said, “We got a hell of a lot of rats. Every year a new supply. We kill them every spring, and every spring they come back.”

  That made sense, I suppose. Deerskin Lodge must’ve been the best source of food in twenty miles.

  But Ginny stuck to the point—which had nothing to do with the feeding habits of rats. “Where do you keep the stuff?”

  Now Ama replied, “In the wine cellar. So we can lock the door.”

  I turned away from the fireplace so abruptly that I almost fell down.

  The wine cellar. Shit.

  Ginny had the same idea, only faster. Striding toward the kitchen, she told the Carbones in passing, “Get everybody together. Everybody. I don’t care if you have to wake them up. If they can’t stand the smoke, use the parlor. We’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  “You need the key,” Ama responded.

  Ginny slapped her purse. “Art gave it to me.”

  Nearly running, she left the den.

  I stumbled along behind her as best I could.

  I didn’t know where the wine cellar was—I’d missed the ritual of locking Simon up last night. But Reeson had called it “just a room off the kitchen,” and that’s what it was, easy to find. All I had to locate was a door with a padlock.

  It stood between the drying pan of the Hobart and one of the walk-in refrigerators. Sharing a wall with appliances like that, the room had to be well insulated. They put out too much heat for wine.

  Ginny fished the key from her purse. With characteristic ease, she found what she wanted in there without hunting for it. But she still had to clamp the lock steady with her claw so that she could insert the key. That gave me time to come up behind her and at least pretend that I was guarding her back.

  Leaving the key in the padlock when it snicked open, she jerked out her .357, hooked her claw on the knob, and swung the door aside.

  Over her shoulder, I saw that Simon had left the light on—a shaded bulb hanging on its wire to about the height of my forehead. But we didn’t need its illumination.

  Sunshine and cold poured in through a hole in the far wall.

  Past the open space which held the card table and the chair and the cot stood four racks nearly as tall as I am—maybe two hundred bottles of wine. The room’s interior insulation had simply been nailed to the studs in 4 × 4 sheets of dirty white asbestos or some related material. Apparently whoever had decided to convert this room to a wine cellar only cared about the wine itself, not about the decor.

  One of the insulation sheets had been pulled down. It lay under the cot. And the exterior boards between the studs had been knocked or broken or pried out, leaving a gap to the outside. Ginny could’ve squirmed through it, even if I couldn’t.

  Simon certainly could have.

  He must have. His sleeping bag was twisted on the cot. A half-eaten sandwich occupied a plate on the table. But he was gone. In the snow outside, we could see his trail. It headed away from the buildings up into the trees.

  Ginny didn’t bother swearing. The situation swore for itself.

  Just trying to cushion the shock for myself, I muttered inanely, “I suppose you’re sure this is the right room.”

  She nodded. “And I’m sure if we trace that trail we’ll find where he got up and down from the roof.

  “Also”—she hesitated, flashed a glance at me—“I’m sure that if we don’t follow him right now we’ll never catch him. The wind will blow his trail out. He’ll be as good as vanished.”

  Sure. I understood. Parts of my brain had caught up with the circumstances. In fact, I understood too much. Panic crowded my throat. I had to force down bile to say, “Don’t look at me. I’m in no condition to go hiking.”

  “I know,” she replied softly. “I’ll go.” She hesitated again, longer this time. But she didn’t look away. “You’ll have to take charge here. Make sure nothing else happens.”

  I nodded. It was my job to keep the guests alive. Which meant that I’d have to let them know what the real dangers were.

  “That,” I said in a voice like a saw blade with broken teeth, “is why they pay me the big bucks.”

  For a second, I saw a gleam of appreciation in her eyes. “Do it,” she said. “I need boots and a coat. Then I’m gone.”

  Good luck, I might’ve responded. But I was already alone. I could hear her heels on the kitchen tile, running.

  Pure craziness, of course. I had a high fever and damaged sutures. She had no business leaving me in charge. I had no business accepting the responsibility.

  But it was my job, and I knew how to do it. I sure as hell had the background for it—A little while ago, I’d accused Ginny of professional sloppiness. The time had come for me to put up or shut up.

  The bare idea left me so weak that I could hardly move without leaning myself against the
walls and countertops. Nevertheless I propped myself across the kitchen and through the dining room back to the den.

  Everyone was there except Faith Jerrick and Sue-Rose Altar.

  Truchi had turned off the fan, closed the den again. I could still smell arsenic smoke. I’d probably be able to smell it for days. But I couldn’t do anything about that.

  While the door and windows were open, the room had gone cold. Looking for warmth, Murder on Cue’s guests had pulled their chairs and a couch or two close to one of the other fireplaces. Truchi knelt there under the trophies, stoking a few small flames.

  Mac Westward and Lara Hardhouse sat together. Although they didn’t look at each other, they held hands grimly, almost desperately, as if that were their only comfort. They both seemed oblivious to the dark and strangely fond way her husband regarded them.

  Constance Bebb had a seat beside Hardhouse. Apparently she wanted to distract him from Lara’s flagrant behavior—which I thought was unusually courageous of her. But she didn’t have much success.

  Somehow Maryanne had enticed Mile into a reconciliation. She sat practically in his lap, her arms entwined in his fat. No doubt because his fingers were cold, he kept one hand inside her blouse.

  With their chairs so close together, Rock, Queenie, and Sam seemed to be keeping each other company. Rock ignored his companions, however. His eyes were fixed on Truchi, but he didn’t really see the handyman. Instead he seemed to be watching his life curdle.

  Sam and Queenie, of course, didn’t need company. Nevertheless they were the most alert people in the room. They noticed me as soon as I appeared.

  “Brew!” Sam jumped up and came over to me. “Where’s Ginny? What’s going on?” That may not have been exactly what he meant.

  I ignored him for a moment. I didn’t have much energy to spare, and I needed all my concentration.

  Amalia stood against one of the walls nearby with her strong forearms folded over her apron. As she faced in my direction, I asked as if I had the right to make demands, “Where’s Faith?”

  Her eyes looked less puffy, but they remained red, and they leaked at the corners. She turned her head toward Truchi.

  Without shifting his gaze from the fire, he answered, “I forgot.”

  “Where’s Buffy?” I asked Sam.

  He studied me carefully. “She isn’t handling the shock well. I gave her a sedative this morning. She won’t wake up for a while yet.”

  Which presented an interesting problem. I had no reason to assume that Simon would try to get away. More likely he’d stopped under cover of the trees to watch the lodge, see what happened after he plugged the chimney. If so, he’d known for a while now that I was still alive. And he could see Ginny coming, he could pick her off whenever he wanted, he still had plenty of guns. No, don’t think about that, you can’t do anything about it. He might double back, come after me again. And Faith and Buffy were alone. If he wanted hostages—or just more victims—

  I didn’t have much choice. I had to trust one or two people and take my chances.

  In order, as you might say, to establish my credentials, I took the .45 out of my pocket, worked the slide with a vehement clack, held it up in front of me. Then I started talking.

  “They aren’t safe. Simon broke out of the wine cellar.” Several people gasped at this announcement, but I ignored them. “We have to assume that he still has those missing guns. Truchi, go find Faith. Bring her here. If she won’t come, stay with her. He probably isn’t after her. But he might want a hostage.”

  Without argument, Truchi rose to his feet and left.

  I didn’t watch him go. I had other things to think about.

  “Sam, can you lift Buffy?”

  His eyes wide, he nodded.

  “Go get her. Bring her here. She can sleep on a couch for a while.”

  Queenie rose to help him. He stopped her with a glare and strode out of the den.

  Biting her lower lip, she sat down again.

  Inadvertently she steadied me. She was troubled, deeply concerned, but she wasn’t terrified. She could still do what she was told. I needed that.

  “Now.” I waggled the .45, more to remind myself why I was here than to keep anyone’s attention. “I’ll tell you what I know.” My weakness hadn’t receded any. Looking for support, I lumbered over to the fireplace and braced myself on the hearth. “It isn’t much, but you’re entitled to it.” The stonework hadn’t had time to heat up yet, so I wasn’t uncomfortable. And I could put the .45 down on the mantel in easy reach. That way I wouldn’t have to waste strength holding a gun.

  Everyone stared at me—even Rock. I didn’t particularly enjoy being the center of so much fixed horror, but there was nothing I could do about that. I tried to tune it out.

  “Simon broke out of the wine cellar,” I began. “Right through the wall. I have no idea how. That isn’t critical right now.” Actually, it might very well be critical, but at the moment I didn’t have time to think about it. “What matters is that he’s gone.

  “Ginny went after him. She’ll stop him if she can. If she can’t”—I mustered an awkward shrug—“she’ll do her best to slow him down.”

  The rest of the idea I left hanging.

  Knees bent under the weight, Sam returned with Buffy. He was breathing hard, but he kept the strain to himself. I waited until he set her gently down on a couch beside the tree trunk and took his seat with Queenie. Then I went on.

  “We think we know what he wants.” The medication in my veins and the support of the hearth helped me say it. “He’s after me.”

  “Oh, Brew,” Queenie breathed.

  Sure, everyone stared at me—but not the way Joseph and Lara did. They concentrated as if their eyes were on fire.

  “Cat was an accident. He wanted to hit me, but we were standing too close together. That’s why he came back. I’m still alive. Maybe he didn’t realize how guilty he would look. After all, he couldn’t know how many of us might have alibis. Or maybe he just didn’t expect us to lock him up. Maybe he thought he could bluff his way past us. The point is that he did come back, and he got locked up.”

  Truchi reentered the den with Faith Jerrick. Neither of them made a sound. I felt a lunatic desire to congratulate the man who laid the floorboards. They didn’t squeak for anyone.

  At least now I could stop worrying about hostages.

  I went on.

  “So this morning he broke out and climbed up on the roof, lugging a box of rat poison he found in the wine cellar. While the rest of you were in your rooms, I fell asleep here. Alone. He dropped his box down the chimney, packed it with snow. Then he headed out of the valley. His trail is pretty obvious.

  “I don’t think he went far. If it were me, I’d stop up among the trees and watch for results. Rat poison is arsenic—or something worse. That smoke could kill me easily enough. But he’d want to be sure nothing went wrong. He probably stopped.

  “And something did go wrong. Ama rescued me.” I nodded in her direction. “I escaped outside. If he was watching, he knows I’m still alive.

  “I figure being an actor is just cover. He’s a professional killer. He won’t leave until he gets me. And he won’t care how many of you he has to eliminate in the process.

  “It’s too bad he shot Cat,” I concluded, mostly to myself. “She probably knew enough about Simon to help us out. At least she could’ve answered some questions.”

  No one said anything. They were all too shocked. Maryanne looked as pale as an extension of Mile’s fat. Houston himself was so upset that he took his hand out of her blouse. Connie concentrated fiercely on my face. Mac and Lara clung to each other.

  But then Queenie found her voice. “Why does he want to kill you?”

  I did my best to face it. “Ginny and I were working on a case. The one where I got shot. I killed a man named Muy Estobal. He was a bodyguard for what you might consider a ‘crime lord’ in Puerta del Sol. People call him ‘el Señor.’ Now el Señor wants me de
ad. He has his reputation to protect. Not to mention the people who work for him. He can’t afford to let them be knocked off with impunity.” I shrugged. “But he doesn’t do his own killing. He hires pros for that.”

  “How do you know this, Mr. Axbrewder?” Connie put in. “How do you know Simon is working for this el Señor? You made no mention of it last night. What have you learned since then?”

  Now for the hard part. My vision had gone gray around the edges, which made me think that Sam’s injection wouldn’t last much longer. I was weak and sick, and I’d spent my life loathing helplessness. Which was why I liked alcohol. It gave me something to blame my helplessness on.

  But Ginny knew all that, and she’d still left me to deal with the situation here while she went after Abel. No matter how helpless I felt, I was still her partner.

  “There’s a private investigator in Puerta del Sol,” I answered harshly, “Ginny and I think works for el Señor. And we know he hates us. We think he set us up.

  “When I was in the hospital, he called me several times, threatened me. But he disguised his voice. I didn’t recognize it. He was giving us a reason to get out of town for a while. At the same time, he arranged for the Altars to hire us, so that we’d have a convenient place to go. Somewhere isolated enough to suit a hit man.”

  Rock’s lips moved. Despite the jolt I’d given him, his brain still functioned. Softly he said, “Lawrence Smithsonian.”

  Several other guests tried to ask questions. I didn’t give them a chance. “He always did security for Murder on Cue. Isn’t that right, Rock?” A rhetorical question. “But this time he pulled out at the last minute. And he gave Rock Ginny’s name. He persuaded Rock to hire us, in spite of the fact that I can scarcely stay on my feet. He set us up.”

  Unfortunately that wasn’t enough. I had to say it all. “Cat is dead,” I pronounced as if someone really should’ve been swinging a scourge at me, “because I made an irresponsible decision. When Rock told me how we got this job, I still hadn’t figured out that it was Smithsonian who called me in the hospital. I didn’t recognize his voice until a little while ago. So I decided not to tell Ginny what Rock told me.