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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? (18 page)

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?

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Scott's arm hurt, but they'd given him pain pills. His comment on the wives' revelations ran along the lines of the scandalously high hetero divorce rates and their incapacity for commitment in a real relationship.

We arrived at my place before ten. I made him comfortable on the couch in front of the fireplace. Because of Scott's fame the attack had made all the newscasts. My mom called to see whether he was all right. Several of his teammates including Doug called. Not a word from his family. He didn't say anything, but I suspected it bothered him. After a half hour of phone calls, he leaned back on the couch and shut his eyes. “I'm pretty tired. Let's put the answering machine on and forget the world.”

I did as he asked. Then I closed all the curtains and turned off all the lights to let the room rest in the glow from the fireplace. I put an old Peter, Paul, and Mary disc on the CD player. I sat on the couch by his chest and undressed him slowly, massaging each set of muscles as I went.

With his eyes closed, Scott muttered, “You've been threatened, and we've been attacked. We're no closer to solving the murder than we were Monday.” He droned a list of negatives for nearly five minutes.

I unbuttoned his pants, slipped them over his hips, rubbed the stomach muscles. “We could stop.”

“No. I want to go on. It's just â¦” He shut his eyes and I continued my ministrations in silence. Peter, Paul, and Mary sang “Stewball.”

“Last night, I was scared of losing you,” I said.

He opened his eyes. I lost myself in their depths as I had so many times before.

“Thanks for saving me,” he said. Then his voice reached its lowest thrum as he said, “I don't ever want to lose you. Not solving this murder, nothing ever is more important to me than us.”

I moved up and kissed him tenderly and held him fiercely. He returned the embrace awkwardly with one arm. We stayed that way long moments. Then I returned to relaxing his muscles. The hair on his chest and legs makes the most wonderful soft blond down. We listened to an old Joni Mitchell album for half an hour while I worked on him.

Finally, he stretched his muscles, then eased back contentedly. “That feels so great,” he said. I glanced at the front of his shorts. “I can see you're enjoying it.” His famous right arm reached for me. Avoiding the cast on his arm proved easy. An hour later, I said I could call Meg and cancel our luncheon date. He wouldn't hear of it. He took another pain pill and we left.

Meg's place was warmth, caring, kindness, and safety. We lingered over wine and coffee, discussing life, the world, and murder. Outside of my times with Scott, I feel most comfortable at Meg's.

The temperature inched toward thirty degrees above as we drove up LaGrange Road from Meg's home in Frankfort. The first fat flakes of the next storm drifted earthward. The weather forecaster said blizzard warnings were out for northern Illinois.

The lack of cars in my driveway didn't prepare us for the two burly men standing in my living room. One I recognized as the giant from the farmhouse. The guns they showed were argument enough for us to cooperate. No kids this timeâthese were adults, tight-lipped and threatening. Perhaps as many as ten words were spoken, maybe as few as five, as one held his gun on us while the other handcuffed, blindfolded, and bundled us out of the house.

They led us from the front room out the back door. No possible way we could be seen by passing motorists. In the cold outside, we waited a moment. I heard the garage doors opening, car doors clicking, and a motor purring to life. They shoved us into a space that felt wider than a normal car backseat. I guessed maybe a curtained van.

“Scott?” I murmured.

“Yeah?” His voice came from inches away.

A belt up-side the head hurt like hell and convinced me that while silence at this time might or might not be golden, it would certainly be less painful. I can find violence convincing, especially when they have the guns.

By the sway of the car, I could tell we had turned right onto Wolf Road. Another right at the stop sign at 183rd Street and a steady drive. Finally, a last right followed moments later by the steady woosh onto I-80. Time felt funny under the blindfold. We had to be heading west. I presumed to the farm.

I concentrated on what I could sense: strong leather smell from the seats, stale cigar smoke, perhaps oil on gun metal. No sound of radio music or noise. I could feel the handcuffs where they clamped my wrists. They'd wedged Scott next to me on my right. That's where his reply had come from, and I would need to be more than blindfolded and then away from him for a long time to mistake his touch and smell. Our knees and legs stayed together. I moved my left leg tentatively. I got a sharp rap on the kneecap with what I guessed was a gun barrel for my efforts. No need for threats or silly nonsense, just deadly seriousness.

Finally, there was a slowing and a brief halt, as if for a stop sign; then another stretch of driving less than the first but seemingly interminable. Then came a slowing and turning, followed by the rumble of tires over gravel. The car stopped. They turned the engine off. Car doors slammed. I stirred. “Sit,” a raspy voice commanded. I sat.

They spoke in murmurs. Everything seemed calm and sedate.
No one hurried. All movements seemed deliberate and at ease. They escorted us almost gently out of the car.

My feet stumbled on gravel, then crunched on packed snow. “Step down,” my guide commanded. There was a space in front of my left foot, but I found the step and inched forward. It was a narrow way down, smelling of damp and mold. I counted steps taken, ten down. We walked forward. I presumed I'd be dead in a few minutes. I tried to plan a last desperate fight. Being blindfolded and handcuffed were strong arguments against such absurdity.

At last, they removed the restraints. Light flooded my eyes. I shut and covered them. They took our coats, hats, and gloves, and tied us to chairs, our hands behind our backs. A few futile questions escaped my lips, but they didn't deign to answer or even to look at us as they left.

Scott and I faced each other. As my eyes got used to the light, I realized it was only one quite weak bulb in the ceiling. They'd tied us to plastic-covered kitchen chairs in a narrow room with rough-hewn walls and a dirt floor, perhaps an old root cellar slightly expanded. A two-foot-long, two-foot-high wooden bench made up the room's only other furniture. We took inventory of each other.

Scott'd yelped when they'd yanked his arm around to tie him. In response to my questions, he claimed it didn't hurt. Then he asked, “Did Sherlock Holmes ever get caught and tied up?”

I thought, “In the movies maybe, but definitely not in the original stories.”

“Right. Whatever. My question is, What are we doing wrong? Or what was he doing right? And can we do it his way next time?”

“We do seem to be up shit creek without the proverbial paddle.”

“Old buddy, we don't even have a canoe,” he said.

I'd managed a glance at my watch before being stuck in the chair. It was after two.

We struggled with our bonds. “I think I can move a little,” Scott began.

The door burst open and Becky Twitchell made her entrance. I introduced Scott. He did not puke all over her.

Becky's blond hair cascaded down the back of her silver-fox fur. She flounced and twirled around the room. She stopped in front of me and laughed. “You stupid shit. As a schoolteacher, you suck. As a detective, you haven't got a brain in your head.”

She stood between Scott and me, and I couldn't see him, but suddenly Becky pitched forward. She knocked against me, then fell, slumped to the ground. She was up in an instant. Scott had caught her by surprise by raising himself and the chair enough to bang into her from behind. He'd fallen over with the effort and couldn't right himself.

“You're going to pay for that, you shit!” she said. She kicked him in the nuts, then stepped on his cast. He howled in pain. I struggled to free myself. I managed to move my chair all of two inches.

She whirled back on me and snarled, “Don't even think about it, Mason! You're history.”

I looked at Scott. His gasps had turned to shallow breathing. He couldn't rise without help. Becky did not offer. In the ensuing silence, I watched in agony as Scott's grimaces of pain came further and further apart. He managed a look and a nod at me. “I'll be okay,” he uttered through gritted teeth.

“Hah!” Becky said.

I looked at her in fascination. Pretty; some would say beautiful. She might turn heads on the streetâpeople wondering, Isn't that the young actress? No amount of makeup skillfully and beautifully applied could hide her cold eyes, hard-set lips, and iron-set jaw.

“Since we're going to be dead, could you satisfy my curiosity?” I said.

She leaned against the door. I hoped her arrogance would
lead her to give us information. What earthly good it could do for two very captured victims, I had no idea, but I wanted to know.

“You've got a hell of a nerve,” she said.

“If I'm going to be dead, what difference does it make?” I saw that Scott breathed normally. I caught his eye. He sighed.

Becky noticed the look. “You know, you guys should be pleased I'm not prejudiced against gay people. My uncle's one of you. So I just hate you on general principles, not from stereotypical narrow-mindedness.”

“How nice,” I said. “We'll nominate you for the Nobel Peace Prize.” It took her only a few seconds to cross the room and slap my face hard. I tasted blood.

She paced the room. I let a few minutes pass before I asked, “Why is Susan dead?”

She stopped and looked at me. “I don't know. She should be alive.”

“She wasn't a victim of your revenge?”

“She never crossed me.” She sighed. “Susan had grown up a lot lately. I take credit for that. Still a little too religious for my taste. But lately, she'd learned the way the world really works.”

“How's that?” I asked.

“Get yours first,” Becky replied. “Susan was more thickheaded than most. It took her longer to catch on.”

“What happened the night of the party?”

“Jeff and Susan left. People came and bought drugs. Then I went home.”

“Who would want to kill her?”

For the first time, Becky paused thoughtfully before speaking. “I've considered it from a lot of angles. I can't see anyone doing it. Susan was nice. Quiet, but people were beginning to warm up to her before she got it.”

“Why is Roger dead?”

“Well.” She took a deep breath. “That is a whole other problem. That was your fault.”

“Could you help Scott up before you tell us the error of our ways?”

When she hesitated, I added, “Come on, Becky. We're going to die. At least let us be comfortable.”

It was a struggle but she righted him. Dirt stuck in his hair and smeared the right side of his face. She pulled the ropes tighter around him but then stayed clear of both of us as she talked.

“Poor Roger,” she began. “He really was a stupid jock. If men or boys had brains, they wouldn't fuck up so much.”

“How did Roger fuck up?”

“He planned to run to you and tell you the truth. The right people caught him before he could get to you.”

“What did he know?

“Everything. He'd been one of my dealers for years. It doesn't do for fringe players to know too much and want to tell. He followed me to a meeting. We presumed you sent him, although he denied it.”

“We didn't send him.”

“Who cares? He stole records and everything from the farmhouse. They caught him with them. He died swiftly and relatively painlessly, which I hope I won't be able to say about you guys.”

She did another flounce and twirl around the room. She landed in front of me. “Even if you escaped, fellas, you wouldn't get far. The temperature's on its way down, the wind is up, and good old John Coleman on Channel Five has predicted a blizzard. Hell of a winter. Too bad you'll miss the rest of it.” She laughed.

“Why attack Eric?”

This time I got a derisive snort out of her. “You thought he was such a buddy. Actually, Eric was the ultimate go-between. His problem was that he went to talk to you before getting permission. I've been suspicious of the son of a bitch for a long time now. He and I had a big fight Monday after school. He'd been trying to horn in on my territory. I wanted to put him out
of business. I followed him to your classroom on Wednesday and listened outside the door. I heard his lies and how he tried to screw me. That pissed me off. I got hold of a few of my staffers, and we gave him a lesson. He's learned to behave.”

“He knew who attacked him?” I asked.

“Of course.”

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?

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