A Widow's Curse (26 page)

“I think you're not supposed to let them sleep when they hit their head,” Skidmore answered, voice shaky. “Better let him get up.”

I finally noticed that Skidmore had his pistol in his hand.

The cemetery was flooded with flashlights' pale fire; the moon had retreated behind a bank of black clouds. Aside from my two friends, I counted three more men in different uniforms, milling about us.

The killer was bent over not five feet from where I sat, his bat nowhere in sight.

Andrews offered his hand and I got myself to a standing posture, dizzy and more than a little confused.

“What happened?” I said it to no one in particular.

“Well,” Andrews began immediately, anger rushing into his words, “the second you left me standing on the porch, I went into your kitchen and called our sheriffing buddy. He was almost as mad as I was when I told him you'd taken off after babbling about someone attacking you.”

“And after what Crawdad told me about your conversation with Dan Battle,” Skidmore went on, “I was pretty sure I knew what you were up to. And I told you that if you went anywhere without telling me that I would hunt you down with my pistol in my hand.”

“You two figured out that the Cherokee artifact—”

“Listen.” Skidmore's voice was a cold wall. “You spent most of your childhood avoiding the gossip in our little town, and I can understand that. But don't be so surprised when I tell you that I paid attention to it, and it's been one of the three or four most valuable tools I have in my current chosen profession. Stories about the Barnsley curse are famous all over this part of Georgia, and the role of the Cherokee in the curse is hardly a secret. Dan tells you that the thing your great-granddad bought here was a cursing tool, and it has to be put back where it belongs and I put two and two…damn it, Fever, you'd have to be a moron not to figure out where you were going tonight. You don't think I'm a moron, do you?”

His words were tight as a violin's E string, and just as ready to snap if they were played too hard.

“I don't think you're a moron,” I answered softly, filling the syllables with a genuine astonishment at the question.

“Okay.” His hands were shaking a little.

“Skidmore was at your house five minutes after I called him.” Andrews was somehow talking to me as if I were a child. “And we were on the road a second later. His car can go really fast, and, you know, he's a policeman, so we weren't really worried about speeding. I'm surprised we didn't get here before you did.”

Andrews was talking funny, clearly adrenaline-buzzed himself.

“So
everyone
knew where I was going tonight at the same time I was—wait.” I started suddenly toward the path. “Dan Battle's down there in the water!”

One of the uniformed strangers responded.

“The man down in the well house? We've got someone with him, and we called the ambulance man.”

“How is he?” I stared at the stranger.

The stranger shook his head; his face betrayed my worst fears.

“I have to go down there.” I turned toward the path down the hill.

“You have to stay put and let these men take care of it!” Skidmore barked.

I was shocked by his vehemence.

“This man,” Andrews said, pointing to the killer, “was standing over you with his cricket bat, about to make meat loaf out of your brains. Skidmore and I came up the path just in time, and Skidmore
shot
him.”

Skidmore shot a man.

That's why Skidmore was so strange, of course. He wouldn't have hesitated in the heat of the moment, but he was a kind-enough soul to indulge in the shock of remorse afterward.

“Skidmore.” I tried my best to get him to look into my eyes. “Jesus. Thank you.”

“He saved your life.” Andrews sounded only a little belligerent.

“I know.” I nodded at Skidmore. “He's been saving my life in one way or another since I was nine years old.”

Skid looked down at the graveyard dirt. I hoped he knew how I felt.

“So, Mr. It's All Chaos,” Andrews chided, “what do you make of the timing of
this
little thing? I mean, you can't think it's only another instance of hazard. There's more to it than that and you know it. You'd be dead if it weren't for Skidmore and me—and something more than a meaningless series of random events.”

Instead of pointing out the logical fallacies in his theory, as I would have at any other moment in my life, I was suddenly taken by the image of Dan Battle's spiderweb with a drop of water at every nexus, a human spirit at the junction of every strand.

But before I could elucidate my thoughts, the killer groaned, raised his head, and spoke—impossibly—with the perfectly British voice of Henry Higgins.

“He wouldn't actually be dead, you know.” He smiled, an authentically meek expression. “I was only trying to frighten him.”

“I told you the killer was a Barnsley!” I exploded.

The killer reacted with equal force.

“A Barnsley!” He tried to stand, but the handcuffs made it difficult.

Skidmore raised his pistol.

“I don't want to shoot you again,” Skid said calmly, “but I will do it if you can't calm down.”

“He calls me a
Barnsley
!” the man howled.

“You're not?” I stammered.

“Barnsley” was all he would say.

“You are the one who killed Carl Shultz.” I leveled a look at him that I hoped would eat his liver.

“It was a mistake,” he moaned, collapsing even closer to the ground, closing his eyes. “That was just—he wanted to call off our deal.”

Andrews and I exchanged looks; Skidmore still had his pistol trained on the man.

“‘Deal'?” Andrews mumbled.

I could hear sirens wailing faintly in the distance: the mourning of the dead.

“And you killed Dan Battle.” I looked down the hill.

“Who?” The man looked startled.

“The person down in the water whose head you bashed.”

“Oh.” It was a hopeless sound.

He put his head in his hands, staring at the ground, and began to sob.

“That was an accident. I only wanted—”

But it seemed he could not articulate exactly what he had wanted to do.

“You only wanted to frighten him,” I told him as viciously as I could, “the way you were trying to frighten me just now.”

“But—”

“I have to get down there,” I interrupted, standing as best I could. “Dan wouldn't be hurt—or dead—if it weren't for me.”

“You're not going anywhere else tonight.” Skidmore's voice was iron. “Sit down and let the medical people and the Barnsley Gardens crew do their jobs. If Dan Battle is dead, there's nothing you can do; if he's not, you'll only be in the way.”

I didn't sit down, but I didn't argue, either. He was right.

“Is my fatalism rubbing off on you?” I asked him vaguely.

“Please sit down and shut up.” But his voice was softer than before.

“Well, if no one else is going to ask,” Andrews began, staring at the killer, “I suppose it's up to me. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in those shoes?”

The man sniffed and glanced at his shoes.

“These? I suppose I should have gotten substitutes where I found the rest of my disguise—at the Goodwill thrift store—but I'm a little fussy about footwear. I got these at Marks and Sparks.”

“I told you!” Andrews gazed at me triumphantly.

“I thought it was Marks and Spencers,” Skidmore said, at last holstering his gun.

“Marks and
Spencer,
” Andrews informed him, “no
s.
And some people used to call it Marks & Sparks in the old days. Don't know if they still do. Have I been away from England too long?”

“So, you're not bleeding that much,” Skidmore said to the killer.

He went to the man and examined the wound on his shoulder. Blood had darkened the material of his coat where the bullet had torn away the seam at the shoulder. It appeared as if the bullet had not actually gone through the flesh, only glanced off it.

“And you don't appear to be in pain,” Skid said almost to himself.

“I've had quite a lot to drink,” the man admitted almost jovially. “I'm sure it'll feel much worse in the morning, if that makes you all feel any better.”

“So I repeat,” Andrews insisted, “
who the hell are you
?”

“Sorry,” the man said immediately. “You did ask, didn't you. I'm Devin Briarwood.”

My knees buckled and Andrews had to catch me to keep me from tumbling onto the ground.

“Dr. Briarwood, actually,” the man went on casually. “University of Wales at Aberystwyth.”

“Jesus Christ Mahoney,” Andrews exploded, actually laughing right in my face. “He's one of yours!”

“I've spoken with your secretary,” I said to Dr. Briarwood.

“I know.” He responded distractedly, tilting his head at Andrews. “What does that man mean, ‘He's one of yours'?”

Sirens were louder, and the tree frogs fell silent. Night doves had gone. Red man-made screaming filled the night instead.

“I think we'll only have time for the short version of the story,” I said. “I have things to tell you; you have things to tell me. Fair enough?”

He nodded.

“Are you seated comfortably?”

He blinked.

“Then I'll begin.” The sound of my voice was, once again, a stranger to me. “At the beginning of the last century, my great-grandfather fell in love with a woman in Ireland. He killed a man because of her and escaped to America. His name was Conner Briarwood.”

If I'd hit the killer in the head with his own bat, I could not have stunned him more. His head twitched and his eyes were as large as the moon.

“You're one of Conner's brood?” he barely managed to say, not quite believing me. “How could I not have known that?”

“Because you're a loony?” Andrews offered disingenuously.

“I gather that when Conner came here,” I went on, cold as the tombstone against which I was leaning, “he remained significantly incognito. He changed his name to Devilin and never contacted his family in Wales except through lawyers, who always used the name Conner
Briarwood
—not
Devilin.
But he had children and grandchildren, and, well, here I am. By the way, the trouble with your venom for the Barnsleys is that they are, in fact, our cousins or something. One of our kin sired the man who built that House of Usher up there.” I glanced toward the Barnsley ruins.

“I know that.” He could no longer look at me. “I know that.”

“Then I think it's time for you to tell us a little something about yourself,” I hissed, barely able to contain a burgeoning anger.

“Yes.” He drew in a huge breath.

“Could you start with the difference between the way you were in Fever's house and the way you are now?” Andrews cocked his head. “I mean, then you were Quasimodo; now you're—”

“Dr. Jekyll.” He smiled. “That's my secret power, actually. I could never have done the…the things I've done. Not if I hadn't adopted an alter ego. A Mr. Hyde—a Cro-Magnon persona. I am not, by nature, a violent man.”

I could only picture the slavering madman who had stood over me with a club not five minutes before.

“In fact,” he continued, voice tiny in the huge night, “I've always been accused of being a bit too mousy. Other professors at University were more aggressive, got promotions and tenure long before I did. Grants went to others, too. I languished. But there was one project no one could take from me, because it was mine in my bones—my life's work.”

“The coin of Saint Elian.” It wasn't a guess; I knew his obsession.

“My secretary told you, I assume. You must know that we were cheated, that the Barnsley scum rigged the race that lost us our coin.”

“In fact, as I understand it, our ancestor tried that first. He knew a jockey, I believe. Your secretary told me quite a lot. But Barnsley found out about it and turned the tables.”

“Yes!” the professor shouted. “That's how he won—by
cheating
! And then he took our coin!”

“Once again, I feel I must set the record straight.” I plowed the air with my words. “Our fabled ancestor, who had cuckolded Barnsley in the first place, threw our coin at Barnsley and stalked away, cursing.”

“And Barnsley kept it!” the professor blathered. “He kept what was mine!”

“Fever, stop.” Andrews had realized what I already knew: that Professor Devin Briarwood was insane.

But I couldn't stop.

“And when Lady Eloise Barnsley lay dying in her seven-day labor, she repeated our family curse—and included us all: your family, my family, the sad residents of that foul heap there on the hill.”

Moonlight seemed complicit with my poisoned thoughts, and it filled the ruins with shadows and ghosts of light, dancing together in the desiccated mansion.

“And what did Godfrey Barnsley bring with him to America? The way my great-grandfather brought his own shame with him when he ran from Ireland? A portrait of the woman who had cursed him, and a coin from the father he would never even meet—the only vestiges of parental evidence he would ever know.”

“You have no idea how deliciously appropriate it all is,” Professor Briarwood oozed. “The coin of Saint Elian—and it may well be the only one left in existence—was minted by us Briarwoods in silver in the sixteenth century to pay a monk to curse someone or other with the waters from Saint Elian's Well. That also belonged to us, the well. Oh, we made a pretty penny in those days. You see the beauty of that, in a story like this. My book—it'll be nothing short of sensational.”

“But what your myopia won't allow you to see, apparently, is the value of the portrait Godfrey had.”

“The portrait?” he sneered. “I know all about that. Rubbish. Had it appraised years ago. Gallery in London. Worthless.”

“The Ashton Gallery,” I confirmed slowly.

“Exactly,” he insisted. “Worthless!”

I flashed a look at Andrews. “Want to see a magic trick?” I asked him.

“What?” Andrews may have been concerned about my mental stability. He was still trying to remember why the Ashton Gallery sounded familiar to him.

I turned back to Professor Briarwood. The air was filled with sirens; stabbing white headlights confused the darkness around the mansion.

“You're in quite a bit of trouble,” I told the professor dryly. “Should I call your lawyer? Sheriff, do you happen to have Mr. Taylor's number with you?”

“Yes!” the professor replied at once, “call my lawyer, my American lawyer, Mr. Taylor! He'll tell you. I'm
not
a violent man. I'm a university professor—a research analyst. I'm working on a
book
!”

“See.” I turned to Andrews slyly. “I pulled a lawyer out of a hat. And I believe said lawyer may also be an accomplice to fraud, embezzlement—even murder. Worst of all, of course, I can't stand the way he dresses.”

“Preston Taylor is your lawyer?” Andrews stared at Briarwood.

“
Brinsley
Taylor,” Briarwood corrected, “was the family lawyer in America. Had been for years.”

“Because of Conner,” I whispered to myself, but loudly enough for Andrews to hear. “I can't quite figure how, though.”

“Wait.” Andrews looked around as if someone else in the woods might have a clearer story. “Taylor?”

“Before we get too far away from something you said a second ago,” Skidmore chimed in, “what was that you meant when you said that Mr. Shultz wanted to go back on your ‘deal'?”

“Shultz, that fat bastard.” Briarwood's energy had shifted again. “His father called me—I can't remember now, must have been fifteen years ago—with a wild story about a coin. He'd collected it in the Georgia mountains—in America—and when he'd done his research, he'd come across several of my articles about Saint Elian's coin, put two and two together. I disregarded it entirely then, because I was convinced that the coin was still in Derbyshire, the ancestral home of the Barnsleys. It couldn't possibly have gotten to America. Spent several years in England chasing rainbows there. Long years, you understand, that brought me to nothing, to a dead end.”

“Hence the shoes, however,” Andrews whispered.

“Dead end.” Briarwood's voice was beginning to sound a bit singsong. “Went back to university without a thing to show. Oh, no one said much, but I knew what they were thinking.”

“The deal with Shultz,” Skidmore prodded.

“Carl Shultz,” Briarwood snarled immediately, “knew all there was to know about the coin long before he visited you a few days ago. He was only supposed to find out from you how, exactly, it got to America, and who sold it to his father. I was paying him a good bit of money. I bought the coin from him, of course—gave him extra to help me. A great part of my book, you see, would be the amazing voyage of the coin across the ocean. That's what I was paying him for, and that's all he was supposed to do. But he couldn't even manage it. He wanted to call off our deal. He wanted me to leave off. He
liked
you, he said. Told me to take the coin and shove off. We argued. I didn't mean to kill him. It was—Call my lawyer; he'll tell you I'm not a violent man. And anyway, there was no real reason to—he needn't have made me kill at all. I had other contingencies, other ways of getting you to tell me the story.” Briarwood looked up at us with the grinning mask of lunacy, eyes nearly rolled back in his head, crooked teeth poking through the curve of his chalky lips. “I still do.” He had lost most of his humanity in that instant.

“Hey,” Skidmore spoke up, startling everyone. “It nearly got out of my head with all that's going on. I believe he's talking about that Detective Huyne.”

Andrews and I both turned slowly to look at Skidmore. His eyebrows were arched and his eyes were bright.

“Huyne and his buddy?” Skid went on. “They aren't Atlanta detectives after all. I mean, there actually is a Detective Huyne in Atlanta, but he's retired. The guy that was in your house? He was a private investigator hired by this man, Briarwood. Apparently, the plan was to scare you with the idea of arresting you for murder and getting the story of the coin out of you, far as I can put it all together. I went to arrest the Huyne imposter. He's vanished.”

“How on earth did you—” I couldn't finish the question.

“Simple, really. This Huyne didn't have any paperwork, didn't really seem right to me in the first place, so I called Atlanta.” Skid sniffed.

“Unbelievable.” I blew out a breath. “You really are good at what you do.”