Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (26 page)

“You wouldn’t have wanted him performing surgery in that condition,” I said.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked. “If he’d gone home and sobered up, he would have been fine two days later. Everybody said that’s how it went with him. But no. This time he overdid it. And his stupid wife decided to teach him a lesson so she made him stay in jail for those days.” His voice was trembling and he was shaking. “Two days. They canceled Lynn’s surgery. They said that we could reschedule. But she died that night.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. And I was.

Wes took his time tidying up. While he worked, he made noises that led me to believe he was holding a conversation with himself. He kept a close eye on me, and whenever his attention turned my way, I stopped trying to stretch against the duct tape holding my hands together. The minute he returned to his tasks, I resumed mine.

He reclaimed the newspapers and the storage box from the other room and brought them to the table next to me to work. “Those poison bottles we found in your secret passage really are valuable, by the way. That wasn’t a lie. I did quite a bit of research on them.”

“You did quite a bit of research on the passage in my house, too, didn’t you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

He met my eyes but didn’t reply.

“There is a way to unlock from the inside, isn’t there? You planted that evidence at Todd Pedota’s. The bottle and syringes didn’t belong to David Cherk, did they? You took those photographs that the reporter gave to Flynn.”

He shrugged.

“Sneaking into the fund-raiser via that wood elevator was a huge risk,” I said. “Someone could have seen you.”

“An unavoidable risk, and yes, I was fortunate no one saw me, but I did what I had to do.” Raising his voice as he put the newspapers back in the box and covered it, he said, “Your poison bottles are in one of my desk drawers. You’ll find them there later, I’m sure. I hope you get a good price for them.”

With a grunt, he hoisted the storage box onto its proper shelf.

“My guess is that you’ll be found here tomorrow or Saturday,” he said. “Someone will notice that the offices aren’t open, and I’m sure the police will break in, looking for me. They’ll find you instead.”

“And where will you be?”

He disappeared into the other room again. When he returned this time, he had my purse with him, his hand deep inside. He stopped pawing through it long enough to answer my question. “Gone,” he said. “I’ve had five years to plan this. As soon as I’m finished with Joyce, it will be like Wes McIntyre never existed.”

“Why not leave now? What good will killing Joyce do?”

From deep inside his beard, a chilly smile emerged. “Patience these five years has brought me many rewards. Keay at the clock fund-raiser was only part of it.” He pointed to his chest. “Whose idea do you think it really was to have the event in the Marshfield basement? Mine. Joyce is so self-absorbed, however, that she never noticed how I guided her to that decision. Little by little while she was here studying plans, I set up the pieces so that they would fall into place.”

“I should have realized,” I said. “You had all the answers. You pointed to everyone else. That should have tipped me off.”

“It did. Unfortunately for me, a little too soon.”

“Wes, please. Consider disappearing. No one needs to know. By the time they find me, you’ll be long gone. You don’t need to harm Joyce.”

He actually laughed at that. “Don’t you see? Joyce is basking in the glow of wealth. She’s inherited everything from her ex-husband and thinks her life has taken a spectacular turn for the better. Right now, when she believes everything has gotten as good as it can get—I’m ending it for her. The same way she and her disgusting, drunk husband did for us.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and grinned more widely. “I’m telling you, it’s beautiful. Poetic.”

Convinced grief had driven the man insane, I stopped trying to reason with him. I wondered if, once he was gone, I could hop in the chair and move it forward into the front area, where I would have a better chance of being seen and heard. That was assuming, of course, he left the door open between the rooms. That was another big if.

He returned to my purse and pulled out my cell phone. “I’ll take this with me to Joyce’s office, and toss it in a garbage can there. That will give the police an interesting trail to follow. At least until you’re found.” His expression grew thoughtful. “I don’t envy you the next couple of days. I know they won’t be pleasant. You’ll be hungry, you’ll be thirsty.” He frowned. “I would have let you use the facilities before I tied you up, but that would have been too much of a risk.”

“Wes, please. You don’t want to do this. You really don’t.”

He leaned on one of the bookcases and regarded me. “I’ll tell you what I don’t want to do,” he said. “I don’t want to kill your boss.”

“Bennett? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Didn’t he tell you he was meeting Joyce tonight?”

My entire body sagged.

“I guess he didn’t,” Wes said. “Joyce is sweet on him. Sweet on his money, is more like it. She invited him out to dinner tonight.”

“But he—”

“No, I don’t think it’s going anywhere either.” He made a face that was supposed to be comical, but came across eerie and cruel. “Especially after tonight. If it hadn’t been for you, they might have had an enjoyable evening and retired to their own beds afterward. But plans changed. My timetable for taking Joyce out was thrown off. That’s your fault.”

He pointed. “You did that. As soon as you pulled out that newspaper for the day before the scandal, I knew I had to scramble. Just in case you made the connection. Because of you, I had to reconfigure everything and pick a new killing date. Turns out, that’s tonight. It’s Bennett’s bad luck that he’ll be there.”

“No, no.” My voice came from some primal center of my being. “Can’t you simply tie him up?”

Wes shook his head. “Won’t work this time,” he said. “Sorry.” He crouched to my level. “I really am. But there’s no way around it.”

“But,” I tried again, “you’ve avenged your wife’s death by killing Keay. There’s no reason to do this. You’ve gotten what you wanted.”

He stood up again. “Revenge,” he said, almost to himself, “is one of the purest motivations for killing.” He gave me a condescending smile. “Tonight, for the first time in five years, Joyce is going to get what she truly deserves. Bennett, if he’s still with her, will be unfortunate collateral damage.”

He picked up a weighty leather bag and threw it over his shoulder. “Can’t be helped. Sorry.”

He left me then. In the dark. Alone.

Chapter 32

Screaming and hopping did little more than render me hot, sweaty, and frustrated. Forcing my body upward with as much power as I could muster while balancing on my toes—the only parts of my feet that maintained contact with the floor—I’d managed to move no more than two inches forward from where I’d begun. All the while, I’d worked my wrists against their duct tape bindings. The tape was made of fabric, wasn’t it? It ought to rip, shouldn’t it?

I wiggled my hands and twisted my legs, doing my best to loosen the duct tape’s grip. No luck. I expelled a long breath of despair.

Clenching my eyes, I visualized making headway, and tried hopping and scooching again.

And again.

Another two inches. Maybe.

I’d seen this maneuver in movies: the heroine, taped to a chair, hops across the room to safety. Or at least to a place where she can call for help.

There’s a reason they call it fiction.

My chair still firmly attached to my backside, I leaned as far forward as I could, doing my best to peer around the five-foot-tall shelf next to me.

There were obstacles in the path to the door. Lots of them. Large boxes, piles of books, and other pieces of furniture lined the aisle. Clearly, Wes had anticipated my attempt to bounce my way to the front room. Forget the obstacles: There was no way I’d make it to the door. Not to mention the fact that he’d been sure to close it completely. Even if I could make it that far, I’d have a devil of a time trying to get it open.

“You gave me way too much credit,” I said aloud.

Jerking my wrists up and down, then twisting them as far as they’d go, one way and then the other, I fought the duct tape’s clutches. Wasn’t this stuff designed to be flexible?

I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth. Summoning every bit of concentration I could marshal, I tensed my wrists and twisted. Tensed and twisted back.

My eyes popped open when I felt a little bit of give. Not a lot. But some. Enough, I hoped.

“Come on,” I urged the tape as I struggled against it. “Give it up. You can do it.”

Sweat beaded up at my hairline, above my lip, and under my arms. Strings of perspiration wended their way down my sides.

More give, a little looser. The tape fought back, but slowly began to stretch. “Come on,” I said again. “I swear if you let me free, I’ll never make another disparaging comment against you.”

Talking to duct tape. What was wrong with me?

I was getting more give with each and every twist of my wrists.

Twist, tense. Pull. Twist, tense . . .

One shocking instant later, I was free.

Bringing my hands up, I quickly wrenched the last remaining pieces of tape from them, wincing as the pale blond hair on the back of my wrists was yanked out, leaving welts on my skin.

I bent over and fought the tape around my ankles. He’d had more time to get these tight and solid and it took far longer to unwind when the tape kept catching on itself, sticking whenever an end came free.

My brain began a countdown. Wes had been gone about ten minutes, maybe a little longer. I raced to the front office, gauging where the closest telephone might be. I picked up the landline phone. It was dead. He’d thought of everything.

At the front door, I threw open the dead bolt and ran out. On this cool evening, with most of the businesses on the street closed for the night, there were zero tourists strolling. I had exactly one second to decide: Should I run up the street who-knows-how-far to find a phone at the first open establishment? Or should I run down the street, three blocks to Joyce’s place of business?

With Bennett’s life in the balance, I took off for Joyce’s law office.

My lungs were burning and my legs crying out by the time I made it there. A small storefront establishment with a plate glass window, the place was dark and appeared deserted. I yanked at the front door, but it was locked. Banging against the glass, I shouted for someone to open.

Nothing.

I cupped my eyes and peered in through the door. There was a lamp burning at the very back of the place, but I could detect no movement whatsoever. I knew that the historical society probably looked exactly like this when I’d been tied up in back, so the quiet didn’t fool me. They had to be here.

I backed up, looking at the building from every angle, searching for another way in. I was about to run around the block to the alley to find the back entrance when the front door jangled open.

“What do you want?”

The fifty-something man at the door wore a rumpled shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and a furious look on his face. His collar was open, his tie askew.

“I’m calling the police. Get out of here.” He shoved at the air, in emphasis. “Are you drunk?”

“Please, call the police. Where’s Joyce?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Joyce Swedburg? Where is she?”

“She left. About five minutes ago.”

“She’s in trouble. Where did she go?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Was she alone?”

But he’d slammed the door.

I banged on the glass again, shouting, “Call the police. Call them.”

Inside the office the man stared out at me, his index finger swirling near his temple, as he mouthed, “You’re crazy.”

I stepped away from the building. I ran my hands up the sides of my head, into my hair. Wes had lied again when he’d said he was meeting her here. Where could they be?

And then the answer hit me so hard I staggered. Wes had pronounced Keay’s killing being poetic justice. Why? Because it had happened at the clock fund-raiser. Because Wes and his wife had been promised all the time in the world. Because they’d taken that photo of themselves under the Promise Clock.

My gut had comprehended even as my brain caught up, and I realized I was already running.

There was only one place Wes would take them.

Chapter 33

If I had chosen to run and call for help when I’d first burst from the historical society, the police would be on their way to Joyce’s office, rather than the clock, right now. By the time we would have discovered that Wes wasn’t there, it would have been too late for Bennett. I’d followed my gut, rather than standard logic, and it had been the right choice. I was depending on my gut again as I raced through town, knowing clearly that if there was any chance of saving him, it was up to me.

It might still be too late now, but I fought to banish that thought. Had something happened to Bennett, I was sure I would have felt a shift in the universe. I would
know
.

I believed he was still alive. He had to be.

By now, at least twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d broken free of my restraints. With nothing in my mind beyond reaching them before Wes had the chance to carry out his plans, I ran, arms pumping, lungs screaming for air.

I bellowed as I ran, “Call the police. Send them to the clock!”

The streets down this part of town weren’t touristy. Weren’t busy at night. No one saw me. No one heard me.

I ran down the middle of the street, hearing the blood pump in my ears with a reassuring
thud, thud, thud
that matched my steps as my feet hit the pavement, faster than I’d ever run in my life before.

After what couldn’t have been more than two miles, but felt like ten, I made the turn that brought me face-to-face with the deserted stretch of town. The Promise Clock sat in lonely gloom, high above the barren street. Tonight’s clear sky had grown overcast, and what little moon there was played hide-and-seek behind high clouds.

I scanned the area. Scaffolding supported the crumbling arch; traffic cones warned against potholes in the middle of the road. I skirted around piles of fresh-cut lumber and navigated past bags of concrete mix. A stack of construction horses, blinking their incessant orange warnings, leaned against a nearby wall. Supplies were piled about, giving me ample room to hide and time to consider my next move.

My breaths came out ragged and ridiculously loud. I sounded like a person who’d been held underwater and who’d finally come up, gasping desperately for air. I tried closing my mouth in order to hear better. I struggled to listen for noises, to figure out where they might be, but my body fought me, dragging in breath after heaving breath.

I held a hand against the cool brick of a nearby wall, bending at the waist, laboring to quiet myself. A sudden sinking feeling made me weak at the knees. What if I was wrong? Tragically wrong?

But he’d said it was poetic justice. For his wife.

They had to be here.

I stayed close to the walls of the silent buildings. Still about a block down from the archway, I couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them. It was too dark.

Keeping to the shadows, I crept forward, trying to hear conversation over my irregular, heavy breathing, trying to see movement that was out of place. I had no doubt that Wes would take the time to let Joyce know precisely why he’d brought her here. He was a methodical man, a patient man. He wouldn’t squander this opportunity to tell Joyce exactly what sins she was about to pay for.

That could buy me time. Or so I hoped.

Keeping my back to the sturdy walls, I walked my fingertips along the bricks and ducked into a deserted doorway to stop and watch.

My breathing began to even out; my lungs took pity on me and didn’t force me to suck great pulls of air every second. I worked to steady myself further.

Please
, I begged silently.
Not Bennett
. I didn’t want Joyce to die, but if Bennett were hurt, it would kill me.

I spotted another open doorway ahead. Holing up there would bring me within about a hundred feet of the archway. Keeping low, I made my way over, ducking in and crouching, scanning the street, the arch, the scaffolding beneath the clock, the street—

My gaze shot back to the scaffolding. My heart jumped into my throat.

I hadn’t seen them at first because Joyce and Bennett were seated on the street itself, bound tightly to the metal pipes of the two story scaffolding, shaded from the pale moonlight by the clock’s arch. Their hands were duct-taped, their mouths covered. They didn’t struggle against their bonds because Wes stood before them, talking, gun in hand.

He had his back to me as he paced back and forth, addressing his captives. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I noticed how he kept looking up at the clock, as though checking, double-checking, then triple-checking, the time.

The clock’s hour hand pointed between the ten and eleven, the minute hand directly to the nine: 10:45. Was he waiting for the clock to chime eleven before shooting them? To muffle the sound of gunshots?

And in one panicked heartbeat I got it. I knew why Wes had said he was sorry. Why killing Bennett couldn’t be helped. I knew what had been in the leather bag that Wes had carried away—the bag he no longer carried. I knew exactly what he planned to do.

Wes had had a third victim in mind all along.

He wouldn’t be satisfied until the Promise Clock had been destroyed, too.

My hands flew to my mouth to keep myself from yelping. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up in my mind the photo of Wes and his wife. What time had been on the clock that day? What time was it in that picture?

Wes’s head tilted again. Another glance at the time. While I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, I could make out his cadence. His pace had picked up.

Wes outweighed me and I had no doubt he was stronger. Tackling him unarmed, even with the element of surprise on my side, would be suicide. Worse, it would accomplish nothing.

I took a quick assessment of my surroundings. A construction zone meant that there had to be heavy objects around me. Kneeling on the ground, keeping my attention on Wes, I crawled forward toward a pile of detritus, desperate for anything I could use as a weapon.

My fingers gripped a brick. Not the kind with holes, used to build homes in subdivisions, more like a landscaping brick used to erect retaining walls. Wider at one end than the other, it was thick and solid, too big for my small hand. But, I hoped, heavy enough to do the job.

With the clock ticking—literally—I hoisted the brick to one side, tight atop my shoulder. Holding on to it with both hands, I ran at Wes as swiftly and silently as I could.

Joyce or Bennett must have reacted to my presence, or maybe Wes heard my approach. He spun at the last second, turning the gun on me.

He wasn’t fast enough. I rammed the brick at him the very same second the gun discharged. I didn’t hear the brick
thunk
into his head, but I felt the solid connection. Hot fluid—blood—poured out around me. Whether it was from the gash on his head or the hot burn along the side of mine, I didn’t know.

He and I toppled to the ground and his head suffered another blow, cracking against the cobblestone street. He lost his grip on the gun—I watched it somersault away. Wes’s eyes clenched in manic pain. His arms went limp. His mouth went slack. His eyes opened, then grew wide and wet. Tears flowed from their far corners, tracing down his upturned face.

“How long?” I shouted, as I scrambled to my feet.

He closed his teeth, grimacing as he tried to get up. By the time he answered, “You’re too late,” I had kicked the gun out of his reach and was running to Bennett’s side. “Duct tape stretches,” I screamed.

My brain mocked me:
Those are lame last words. You’d better hurry.

Joyce had managed to work her mouth around the duct tape and was now screaming for help. I struggled to loosen Bennett’s restraints. He’d worked his lips around the sticky tape, too. “Get Joyce first.”

“Not a chance,” I said.

Above the din of Joyce screaming, the moans coming from Wes five feet away, and the searing, heavy thrum of my racing heart, I heard the clock above us step forward another minute.

“Go, Grace. Get out of here,” Bennett said. “There’s no time.”

I’d released one of his hands and he reached over to help me undo the other.

“Less than a minute left,” he said. “Go, Gracie. Please.”

“Not without you.” My fingers were wet—sweat, blood—who could tell? I lost the tape’s free end. It doubled back on itself, sticking tight. I didn’t have time to play with it, to work the end free again. I bent down and used my teeth to gash the tape. Too thick, but it budged. Blinking blood out of my eyes, I grabbed hold with my teeth again and ripped at the tape, rewarded for my efforts as the fabric split apart.

The moment Bennett was free, we both attacked the tape holding Joyce. In total freak-out mode, she shouted, screaming about crazies, and bombs, and how she couldn’t die. All the while I maintained a silent countdown in my brain. We had thirty seconds left. Maybe. She thrust and bucked and fought as we tried to get her loose.

“You’re not helping,” I shouted at her.

“Stand back, Gracie.”

Bennett had pulled out his pocketknife. He reached in and sliced it across the tape, slashing the binding in two. I pulled one end, he the other, and as Joyce was freed, she tumbled sideways to her knees then wobbled to her feet and began an ungainly run down the way I’d come. Bennett and I got to our feet and rushed to follow.

She glanced back, which caused her to stumble and fall, the way lithe young women in horror movies always do. Bennett and I grabbed her. Joyce was neither lithe nor young, but we hauled her as far from the clock’s vicinity as we could, dropping her unceremoniously near the bags of concrete mix. Ten seconds left, I guessed. Maybe.

Bennett grabbed Joyce’s arm and half pulled, half dragged her over the mound of concrete mix bags, as I turned to go back.

“Gracie,” Bennett called to stop me, but I’d already started away.

Wes had gotten to his knees. Crawling, he made his way toward the scaffolding beneath the clock. I knew we had mere seconds left. “Wes,” I called. “Turn around.”

He looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

I drew on every ounce of energy I possessed, running toward him, convinced I could drag him from the clock.

I hadn’t gotten far when I was lifted, bodily, and carried away by two strong arms, one around my waist, the other snugged under my knees. “No,” I screamed, fighting. “No!” It was no use. Whoever had me, held my head tight against his chest. I heard his breaths coming hard as he ran, shifting my weight as he zigzagged, navigating a path to get away.

My savior had run about ten steps when the blast hit. An explosion of sound, sensation, and heat shook the ground, knocking him to his knees, spilling me from his arms. He leaped forward, shielding me. I instinctively covered my head as the explosion shot pieces of scaffolding, plaster, bricks, and wood to rain down over us.

I made myself small until the last of the debris skittered by. When it was quiet, I lifted my head, turning to see who it was who had protected me.

“Tooney,” I said, grasping his arm. “Are you okay?”

He struggled to his knees. “Yeah. You?”

As he bent to help me up, I waved him away. “I’m all right,” I said. “Find Bennett.”