Читать книгу Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Joan Boswell - Страница 21

A dusty cloth covered her head and swirled around her as it was pulled tight.

“What the hell? What are you doing? Let me go.” Hollis coughed, choked and fought panic.

Knox responded by twisting the material more tightly.

She flailed, twisted and tried to scramble to her feet.

“I’m claustrophobic. I can’t bear this. Let me out. I can’t breathe.” She sobbed and sucked in dusty air. Her legs sagged and gave way. She fell forward, with nothing to break her fall.

Everything went black.

A kick in the ribs.

“Goddamn it, don’t pass out. I have to move you downstairs to the car.” Another kick.

“Uncover my head,” she whispered before another spasm of coughing took her breath away.

Silence. Knox shoved her around, pulling and tugging at whatever he’d thrown over her. He yanked the fabric back. Her glasses flew off her nose. Her skull snapped forward and her face banged against the floor.

Pain. Her nose felt like it was broken.

Knox pushed her hard and worked to tie her arms to her sides. Somehow he pinned her left arm behind her.

“Knox, stop. Why, why are you doing this?”

He strained to flip her from one side to the other.

“Roll over.”

Hollis turned her head and regarded his distorted face. “Take it easy. What’s the problem? Let me help with whatever’s wrong. Please give me my glasses.”

Knox stepped away. With his eyes on her face, he lifted his foot and crashed it down on her glasses. “You know very well what’s wrong. And where you’re going, you won’t need your glasses.” Knox spoke in a level, unemotional voice.

“Knox, I haven’t any idea why you’ve done this. Please, please, if this is some kind of sick joke, stop right now.”

“You are going to receive what your dear . . .” His voice altered. She heard the hatred.

The penny dropped.

Knox—innocuous, fervent, boring Knox, had killed Paul and planned to kill her.

She screamed. “Help, someone help.”

Knox grabbed a large white linen napkin from the half-open drawer, stuffed it in her mouth and tied it behind her head. He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted him. “Receive what your dear husband did, and good riddance to both of you.”

The same frightening unemotional tone.

“You thought you’d pick up where he left off, didn’t you?” His voice changed—it menaced and threatened before his kick inflicted real pain.

Assimilating the knowledge that Knox had murdered Paul and intended to murder her, she absorbed the blow soundlessly. Ideas flipped and flashed through her mind like landed fish frantically seeking escape. She tried to talk around the gag and tell him he had it all wrong—she had no idea why he’d killed Paul.

“Are you going to scream?”

When she shook her head, he loosened the napkin.

Before he changed his mind and tightened it, she said, “Let me go, and we’ll forget tonight ever happened.”

“Very funny. You’d bleed me dry. As it is, your dear . . . your dear husband drained me of almost four thousand dollars.”

“Paul blackmailed you?”

“As if you didn’t know. Wednesday, at the visitation, you told us you’d be continuing his work. You said you knew everything he’d done. Right then I decided to give you a scare, to warn you I was serious, and then to drop a letter on your door step informing you that you had one chance to stop, to warn you, you’d get what Paul got if you continued.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong. Think about it—it’s simple. I didn’t respond to your threats or the letter because I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know anything. I still don’t.”

“I’d like to believe you. But, even if I did, it’s too late. I’ve told you I killed Paul, I have to kill you too.” He sounded resigned, but sure of his course. “Rationally, Hollis, you have to face the fact—it’s impossible. You’d go to the police, and I’d be finished. No, I’m sorry, but you have to die.”

The reasonable tone of his speech terrified her. Clearly, he saw no alternative. Rhona Simpson’s face flashed into her mind. What time was it? When Simpson arrived at eight and she wasn’t there, would she wait or come here? Time—she needed time.

Somewhere she’d read criminals loved to gloat and relate the details of a successful crime. Might an appeal to Knox’s vanity, a request for him to share the details of his clever scheme buy her minutes and improve the odds that Simpson would arrive?

“Knox, how did you organize it? Why don’t you tell me.”

“You’re stalling, but it doesn’t matter. Linda’s taken the kids to her sister’s overnight. I have hours. Once you’re dead, I’ll never be able to tell anyone else.”

Once she was dead. If Detective Simpson didn’t arrive . . .

“I devised the plan months ago, when Paul said he wanted higher payments. Impossible to raise more money without Linda catching on—Paul forced me to act and, if I do say so myself, I worked out the perfect plot.”

She shuddered at the complacency and pride in Knox’s voice but suppressed her revulsion. “Tell me how you did it.”

“I decided if I dressed like everyone else at the marathon, no one would notice one more runner. I practiced bending down to tie my shoe and then straightening up, lurching a little, and driving in the knife. I’m a zoologist and very good with knives.” Knox’s voice had lost its tonelessness. He spoke quickly and with animation in a self-congratulatory tone.

Hollis pictured her body slashed, chopped in small pieces and stuffed in green garbage bags but resolutely pushed the image away. “Weren’t you afraid someone would recognize you?”

“Oh no. Runners resemble one another. I wore one of my son’s baseball caps, dark glasses and, what was most important—I shaved off my beard. I’ve worn it ten years, and I look very different without it.”

“Yes, you do. But what about Linda? Didn’t she suspect?”

“That was easiest of all.” Contempt. “She’s such a creature of habit. She always drinks a cup of warm cocoa before bed. Quite often, if she’s plunked in front of the TV or sewing, I prepare it. On Saturday evening I added seconal the doctor prescribed for me in January when I had back spasms.” Pride resonated in his voice. “I was home by nine forty-five and by then I’d killed Paul, disposed of my runner’s bib and changed into street clothes. The stupid cops were interviewing the dropouts. I told them I hadn’t been in the race, I’d only run along with my son to encourage him. I said I was going out to the turnaround point to cheer him on, and they bought it. Hell, they didn’t even ask my name.”

He stopped as if he expected her to commend him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“When I woke Linda at ten fifteen, I said I’d just come in from a jog and couldn’t believe she was still in bed. What with being late and seeing me beardless, she didn’t ask any questions.”

“I suppose you didn’t register for the race?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I did. At the beginning, not having a bib number would have made me conspicuous. I gave a phony name, and the address is this apartment—very simple. I dropped out at the first go-hut, where I stuffed the bib and my gloves into the tank. I did my research ahead of time and read running magazines. I’d thought of one problem—I needed to wear gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. I was afraid they would make me noticeable, but in the magazines’ photos, many runners wore gloves. I also read how tightly runners pack at the beginning—how it took many minutes for those at the rear to actually begin. It was a gamble, but I knew if I stabbed Paul in exactly the right spot, he wouldn’t cry out, and the press of the crowd would hold him upright until I moved away.”

Her horror increased. Knox felt no remorse, only pride. “Knox, forget this. I’m an honourable person. Can’t I trade my life for my silence?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not possible. It’ll be harder to kill you—I don’t hate you. Actually, I don’t even dislike you, but my life would be over if I was charged with murder or the information Paul uncovered became public.” Knox sounded sincerely sorry. “You do realize it’s really nothing personal. You’re too much of a threat. Now that I’ve gone this far, there’s no stopping.”

How could she talk to a man who wanted her complicity in accepting the necessity of her own death?

“Time to go. Get up. I’m keeping you tied, but you can walk downstairs.”

Once she reached the ground floor, her life would be measured in tiny increments. But if she balked, he’d probably knock her out and drag her down step by step. She needed a plan, needed to buy time to devise a new strategy to save her life.

Delay—delay was her only hope. In as reasonable a tone as a throat filled with fear allowed, she said, “Knox, please don’t go through with this. I had nothing to do with what Paul did to you. Please give me a chance.” She willed Knox to agree to a reprieve.

“No way, Hollis. One more death won’t send me deeper into hell. If it would prevent me from serving time in prison, I’d kill ten more people. You chose the wrong guy, Hollis.” He sniggered, “Too bad you had such lousy taste in men. You’re not a lucky woman.” Knox pulled the cords tighter. “Get up.”

She had to stop him.

“If you won’t release me, I should hear the whole story. Be fair—I deserve that much. I want to know what happened—why Paul blackmailed you.” She ventured the shakiest of laughs. “Prisoners are given one last request and, since I don’t smoke, I can’t plead for a cigarette. Instead, I want to hear your story. If I’m going to die, I deserve that.”

“You’re stalling. I think you’re lying. In front of everyone, you looked directly at me and said you’d read Paul’s notes and knew all about everything. That’s why I shot at you and why I sent the letter; I wanted you to tell me you’d stop. Paul told me a hundred times he’d recorded every detail and tucked the file away in a safe place. I broke in to find those files, but now I’m pretty sure he hid them somewhere where no one will find them—they aren’t in the house.” He cocked his head to one side and gave a mirthless chuckle. “And Sally Staynor running around saying she knew everything. I didn’t think she did, but I certainly fixed her.”

Hollis knew he was totally mad, but she had to keep trying.” I did tell you the truth. I knew nothing about you, because I didn’t find the file cards—I read the manuscript, and in it Paul gave the men and women he wrote about false names.” Hollis tried to instill doubt in Knox’s mind. “Your name and information is probably in the papers the police took to the station.”

Knox strode back and forth.

“Damn detective, damn police. Meddlers, do-gooders, the world is full of interfering people. I doubt if he used actual names, and unless he did, Simpson will never connect me with Paul.” He straightened and a complacent smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have to take the risk. Paul bluffed to obtain money, to keep me uneasy and ready to pay. You’re a mistake. Once you’re dead, no one will connect me to Paul’s death.”

“Please tell me what Paul found?”

“Why should I? It’s been a secret for years. I owe you nothing. Don’t give me that last request crap.” He paced for another minute and then moved closer to Hollis. Her body felt exposed, vulnerable to a knife sliding in and splitting her open like a stuffed toy eviscerated and leaking its guts. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited.

“Since you’ll die anyway—I’ll tell you part of the story—the part I can bear talking about. When I was a kid, I did things it sickens me to remember. If it came out, my life would be over. The church never again would allow me to do anything with young people. Where would I be without my place in the community, without my family or the church? I’d be a pariah.” A long pause. “You must see I have to protect the secret at any cost?” Again the pleading note. “I’ve hidden my story for more than thirty years, and I’ll continue to hide. I’ve remade my life. I’m not the same person. Paul should have been smart enough to see I’d go to any length to stop him from destroying me.”

“Was Paul threatening to tell?”

“Tell.” Knox considered. “Eventually, I suppose I realized he would. When tormenting me no longer amused him, he would have marshalled the information and presented it on some occasion when he could have maximized the positive impact for himself. He’d have said something like, ‘I greatly regret having to do this, but I can’t live with myself and the thought of the young and innocent children with whom this man comes in contact.’ Yes, he would have told, but that wasn’t why I killed him—I did it because he demanded more money.”

Her arms cramped. She twisted to relieve the weight of her body cutting off her circulation. Moving released dust. Breathing shallowly, she tried not to inhale as it settled.

“Why did Paul demand money?”

“Not for himself. He didn’t take a cent for himself. Not a cent.”

“But . . .”

“He extorted money from me, but it wasn’t for him.” Knox’s jaw locked, and he spoke in a harsh tone. “All right, I’ll tell you this much. My trouble involved homosexuality. I was . . .” He hesitated before he said firmly, “A victim. As a result, I hate gays. I know what they do to innocent boys.” He paced again before he moved closer to her and emphasized his next words with a kick that caught her in the stomach and made her gag. “He forced me to donate two hundred dollars a month to Gay Pride. He insisted I give the cash to him each month.”

He kicked Hollis again, this time connecting painfully with the flesh wound on her upper thigh. She knew she was substituting for Paul.

“Of course, I didn’t write a cheque, because I couldn’t risk Linda finding out. Paul labelled it a ‘business transaction’. Each month he provided me with the previous month’s receipt made out to ‘Anonymous donor’.” Knox snarled, “He told me to hang on to the receipts to file with my income tax and claim as a charitable donation. Fat chance—Linda does our taxes.” Bitterly, he added, “You can’t imagine how hard it was for me to squeeze the dollars out month after month without Linda zeroing in—she’s a stickler for accounting. Six months ago, when he warned me that soon, of course he didn’t say how soon, the rate would increase because every organization had to provide for inflation, I decided to kill him.”

He bent over, and his fingers groped for her elbows.

“That’s it. Stand up. We’re going downstairs.” His hands gripped her arms, and he grunted when he tried to hoist her to her feet.

A flashback to her godson, Mike, as a toddler, and her attempts to dress him when he lay limp. Pushing his feet into his boots had been like trying to force cooked spaghetti to stand up. She willed her limbs to become as unresisting as a floppy doll’s.

Knox’s fingers dug into her arms while he struggled to pull her to her feet. He shook and then dropped her. “What are you doing? Get up. When I say get up, you get up.”

The lifting and shaking had released more of the chenille’s dust. She choked, breathed dust, and a single cough evolved into a spasm of gasping. Bile filled her mouth. She breathed through her nose, pretending to be a jellyfish stranded above the high tide mark and unable to move.

Again Knox tried to stand her up.

A newsreel image of Gandhi speaking about passive resistance played itself on her mind screen. She willed herself to remain as unresponsive as a bundle of laundry.

“Hollis, if you don’t stand up, I’m going to haul you down those stairs like a sack of potatoes.”

Remaining silent, she sensed Knox’s indecision. He wanted her to cooperate.

She directed her thoughts first to the big toe on her right foot and visualized it relaxing. One by one she considered each toe then moved on, draining the tension from her right foot. Knox broke her concentration by stomping across the room.

To find out what he was doing, she raised her head, but he was out of her line of vision. A squeak, an unidentifiable sound, a rattle, which sounded like hangers moving together, was followed by a thump like a door shutting.

Knox moved toward her head. What was he going to do? Maybe he had a knife: he’d boasted about his expertise with knives. Her resolve to be brave faltered, and her body tensed as she anticipated pain.

He squatted, bent over, hooked both hands under her body and turned her towards him. When he had her rolled on her side, he stuffed something under her, flipped her the other way onto what must be a quilt or a rug. He let her flop, lifted the sides of her wrap and tied it around her. Then he walked to her feet, grabbed the quilt with both hands and hauled her across the room.

While her body slid along the floor, the tension on her left arm and shoulder, caught behind her when he first enveloped her in the bedspread, increased each time he yanked on the wrap. Pain seared with every jolt and jounce.

Although she bit her lower lip until her mouth filled with blood, she couldn’t stifle her screams.

Knox grabbed a handful of her hair, jerked her head forward and retied the gag.

Her screams became moans.

Knox grunted and mumbled. The prospect of hurtling down three flights of stairs horrified her.

Following the interview with Staynor, Rhona drove faster than she should have and hurried through the police building to her office where, before she even sat down, she punched in Mary Beth Cardwell’s phone number.

“Ms Cardwell?”

“Hang on. She just left. I’ll try to catch her.”

Rhona crossed her fingers even as she laughed at herself for performing this childish guarantee of good luck.

“Mary Beth Cardwell here.”

“It’s Detective Simpson. I won’t keep you a minute—I’m aware you’re not allowed to tell me the name of the person in the file we discussed, and I am obtaining a warrant to have the info released, but the situation here has become critical—the killer may strike again. If I mention a name, could you tell me whether or not to keep searching?”

“My God—another murder. I want to help. I feel guilty. But, actually I’d have to run it past my boss and she’s left for the day.”

“It’s very important.”

Silence. “I’m sorry.” Ms Cardwell’s voice was faint and apologetic. “Unless you send a warrant compelling me to tell you, I have to clear it with my boss. Could you call first thing in the morning, or would you rather I phoned you?”

“I’ll have the warrant. Call me.” Rhona heard the anger in her voice and told herself to chill out—the poor woman was obeying orders.

Rhona debated whether she should obtain the okay right away, but, if it was Staynor, she didn’t think he’d act tonight. She’d leave it until tomorrow. She was glad she’d ordered overnight surveillance on Hollis Grant’s house. She opened another file.

At seven-fifteen, well down in the mound of paper, she unearthed Featherstone’s memo with a breakdown of statistics on the runners: names, addresses, times, and probable positions at the starting line. Featherstone had attached a memo: “We confirmed the last address and name today. Number 1457 was listed as Merrick Rideau, and the address was 922 Roxborough Avenue. That’s a vacant apartment owned by Linda Porter, who said no person by that name lived there, but suggested it might have been one of the university students who rented the place during the school year. It’s a fishy name—Merrick is the name of a town on the Rideau river.”

The name “Porter” jolted Rhona. Linda Porter was the wife of Knox Porter, the organizer of the St Mark’s memorial refugee fund and a man who, according to Hollis Grant, had disliked Paul Robertson. Her alarm level rose. It must be the same apartment where Hollis had gone to meet Knox Porter.

Seven fifteen—Hollis was there now.

Last night, someone had murdered Sally Staynor. If Knox Porter had killed Sally, did he intend to silence Hollis as well?

Rhona reached into her drawer for her service revolver and buckled her holster on her hip. She called the duty officer and requested backup. “No sirens, It may be a false alarm. If it isn’t, I don’t want him to realize we’re on to him. Have two police cars wait down the street.”

She regretted it had taken her so long to unearth Featherstone’s report. She berated himself for assuming that because Porter had attended church the Sunday morning of the murder, he hadn’t been at the marathon. God, she hoped she was wrong—hoped this was a false lead, hoped her failure to investigate Porter hadn’t placed Hollis in mortal danger.