Pretty Dead, page 23
“That was Monica.”
45
We pulled out and followed, and in moments the possibilities were clicking into place. Monica and Angel in it together. Monica killing Angel for her share of the extorted money. Somebody else killing Angel, and Monica deciding to finish the job on the Connellys herself.
“Who else was in the car?” I said.
“I couldn’t see,” Roxanne said.
I sped along under the trees while Roxanne called Clair. He answered and she told him what we’d seen, where we were going. He said he’d be behind us. I sped up to try to catch the car, winding the Toyota through the curves as the road followed the shoreline.
We drove one mile. Two. The car wasn’t in sight. I sped up and Roxanne said, “Slow down. There.”
She pointed to our left, turned in her seat as we passed the entrance to a drive to an estate.
“They’re in there. I could just see them.”
“Turned around?”
“Driving in.”
I stopped and turned around and Roxanne told Clair. We drove back to the entrance, and as we passed it, we peered in. The gates were stone. The brush was cut between the spruce trees along the road and there was lawn stretching to a big stone and stucco house, the water beyond it. You could drive over the lawn and between the trees, if you had to. There was no way to seal off the driveway.
We parked along the side of the road. Clair rolled up moments later and backed the truck into the trees. He got out and walked to the car and climbed in the back.
“So it’s her friend,” he said.
“Or someone else killed her and Angel left this thing behind,” Roxanne said.
“I don’t see Monica as a killer,” I said. “I see her as a scavenger.”
“Objective’s still the same, right?” Clair said. “Get this book back? Hold on to these people?”
“And keep people from getting hurt,” I said.
“On our side, you mean,” Clair said.
“Whoever that is,” Roxanne said, and she looked grim.
“You’re having doubts?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Because what if none of these people are what they seem?”
I didn’t have an answer.
We needed somebody at the road, in case Monica drove back out.
Roxanne said she’d stay. We’d walk in and see where Monica was, who she was with, if the Connelly boat was in sight. I asked Roxanne if she’d be okay, and she said she would. I told Roxanne that if Monica came back to just drive off, fast, and go to the village. If there was an emergency, she should lean on the horn.
She squeezed my hand and I squeezed back and then we were out of the car. Clair walked back to the truck and opened the cab door and took binoculars from the glove box. He handed the binoculars to me and reached behind the seat. There were leather rifle scabbards hung from te seat back and he slid a shotgun out of one and closed the door and quickly walked into the trees.
I gave Roxanne a last look and followed.
We moved along the line of spruce and hemlock that marked the boundary with the next property. The sun was behind us, dropping lower behind the ridgetop tree line, and we were in shadow. I stayed in Clair’s track, and when we neared the buildings—the house and garages and a small barn—he moved deeper into the trees and I followed. We stepped between the bare inner limbs, staying behind the dense outer boughs. When we drew even with the first outbuildings, we eased to the edge of the trees and watched.
The house was vacant, gray-painted plywood still screwed over the first-floor windows. There was a long private pier, the railings of a ramp barely showing, orange mooring buoys, but no boats. Monica’s car wasn’t in sight, but then it appeared, backed in alongside one of the garages. The brake lights flashed and the motor turned off. We could see two figures in the front seats. The heads turned as they talked. I focused the binoculars and saw the two silhouettes but couldn’t tell who the passenger was.
We needed to get closer before it got dark.
Mosquitoes stirred from the trees as the sun dropped. They buzzed around our heads while the figures in the car bobbed. On the water, a lobster boat passed well offshore, the white hull glowing with the last light of the sunset. A big sailboat motored toward the harbor, a tiny yellow figure at the helm, a dinghy trailing behind like a little dog on a leash. No Boston Whaler in sight. In the car, Monica and her passenger momentarily were still.
“We need to see them,” I said.
Clair said he’d circle along the shoreline and come up through the trees on the other side of the house, see if he could get a look at their faces. He began to move away and in a minute had faded into the trees.
I waited. Watched. Tried not to wave at the mosquitoes. I wondered if Roxanne was okay. I smelled smoke and saw a cigarette glow from Monica’s side of the car. I looked at my watch. Clair had been gone for nine minutes, but it seemed like an hour.
It was two minutes after seven.
I looked back at the road. Heard a clattering sound.
It was a car moving fast down the drive toward the house, no lights, just a dark shape beyond the trees. And then it was in the open, a minivan, and it slowed in the place where the drive widened before the house. The brake lights went on in Monica’s car and the motor started with a roar but the van swerved left, slinging gravel as it slid to a stop in front of the car. The van door whipped open.
A man leapt from the van, a black ski mask covering his face, a gun in his hand. He ran to the car as it started to back up, yanked open the driver’s door, and pointed the gun in.
There were two pops, softer than firecrackers, then two more, two more after that. I remembered the binoculars and used them and looked. The guy drew the gun back out, reached in with his left hand, and turned off the motor. Then he shut the front door, opened the back. He leaned in again and I could see his arm moving, as he rummaged. After a moment he backed out of the car, a dark case in his hand. He closed the car door, opened the front door again, and leaned in and seemed to shove.
The bodies. He was pushing them over onto the seat.
And then he closed the door and trotted to the van, leapt in, and yanked the door closed. The driver, also masked, backed the van up, then circled into the drive and backed out, in the direction of the road.
I lurched to my feet, still in a crouch, and started through the trees. Branches slashed at my face and the binoculars swung on their strap. I dodged left and right between the limbs and trunks, and then I heard something.
Someone coming toward me. I eased behind a tree and waited, peering into the shadows. There was a snap, a branch cracked, and I saw a figure moving, the head weaving between the branches. I leaned down and groped for a limb and found one. Held it low along my leg and waited.
46
It was Roxanne. She was panting and there was blood running down her cheek from a long scratch on her temple. She saw me and said, “Oh, thank God,” and crouched beside me.
“They killed them,” I said softly.
“The men in the van? They killed Monica?”
I nodded
“Did they see you?” I said.
“Yes, as the van turned in, into the gates, the driver looked back and saw me in the car. He put on the brakes like he was going to stop, but I pulled out and drove the other way. And then I thought of you and I came back.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big. It looked like his hair was reddish, but he was wearing a black hat, the knitted kind. It was hard to tell.”
“Mick Egan,” I said.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see anybody else?”
“There was somebody in the back but it had those dark windows. I couldn’t see anything else, just that there was another person.”
“Vincent,” I said. “He must’ve been the shooter.”
“Where’s Clair?” Roxanne said.
“Right here,” came a voice from the trees.
Clair came toward us, the shotgun pointed at the ground.
“Did you see it?” I said.
He nodded.
“A real pro,” he said.
“We need police. Did you look?”
“Yes. For a second.”
“Who was the other person?”
“A blonde woman. Maybe fifty. Hair short, dark-rimmed glasses.”
“Kathleen Kind?” I said.
“Why would she be here?” Roxanne said.
“They must have cooked this up together.”
“Why would somebody kill them and leave?” Roxanne said.
“He took something from the car. Must have been the journal,” I said.
“They jumped Monica and whoever else is in that car.”
“Did you call the police?” I said.
“I tried,” Clair said, “It didn’t connect.”
“Where’s your phone?” I asked Roxanne.
“In the car,” she said. “I can go get it.”
“No, don’t,” Clair said. “I don’t think they’re gone. I think they went to check the road, see if you’re still around. Where’s your car?”
“In the next driveway.”
“They’ll see your truck, Clair,” I said.
“That won’t mean anything to them,” Roxanne said.
“Prosperity, Maine, will,” I said.
“The dump sticker,” Clair said.
And then the muffled rattle of a car rolling, coasting, no sound of the motor. The van came rolling back down the drive, lights off, heading for the house. It made the circle then swung around on the far edge of the property, opposite Monica’s car. We saw brake lights flash once, then nothing. They were sitting in the growing dusk, watching the water.
“They’re waiting for David and Maddie and the money,” I said.
“And if they killed these other two … ,” Clair said.
“They’ve got to get off this peninsula and out of Maine,” I said. “They’re going to need time.”
“Killing the Connellys buys them some,” Clair said.
“Killing us,” I said, “buys them more.”
“But we can’t just leave Maddie and David to be executed,” Roxanne said.
“No,” I said. “And we don’t know if Vincent was dropped off at the road.”
“I don’t think so,” Clair said. “But you never know.”
We moved through the woods, very slowly, Clair in front, picking the path. When we were abreast of Monica’s car, Roxanne stayed behind, tucked in a hollow beneath the draped boughs of a spruce like a fawn left by its mother. Roxanne was our backup, the one who would run for help. Clair and I wanted to get behind the van, which meant crossing the front of the property at the waterline, just below the rocky embankment at the shoreline. There was thirty feet of open lawn between the woods and shoreline, and we waited at the edge of the woods for a moment, then Clair went first.
He lay on his belly and crossed the grass like a lizard. When he’d slid over the edge of the lawn onto the rocks, I waited. Listened. There was no sound, no car door opening. I counted to ten and then slithered out and rumbled onto the rocks.
We crossed in a crouch, along the rocks, under the pier, stepping from stone to stone, looking for the darker patches of weed and mussels that would be wet and silent. It was slippery and we used our hands, scraping them on the barnacles. The tape was scoured from my splinted finger and I tore the splint off and left it in the rocks. And then we had crabbed along far enough, and were ready to go over the bank and up into the trees. I picked up a baseball-sized rock, big enough to break Mick’s thick skull. Put a smaller one in my pocket.
Clair crouched behind me with the shotgun ready.
I turned to tell him I was going up and over—and there it was, coming around the next point. A green light, the starboard bow of a boat, a white light at its stern. It was a quarter-mile offshore, moving close, the outboard purring faintly.
“They’re here,” I said, as a car door opened above us.
“Too late to get behind them,” Clair said. “Get down.”
We crouched against the bank as the boat moved closer. I heard the sound of feet brushing through grass and then a figure appeared on the pier to our left. It was Mick. He walked out ten feet and pulled his mask down, adjusted it over his eyes, and flashed a light. One long. Two short. The lights of the boat moved closer, the white hull of the Whaler visible now but not the people on board.
We watched as Mick flashed the light again, and this time the signal was returned from the boat. Mick turned and walked back up the pier, turned back to the water, and spoke into a phone.
“Looking good, my friends,” he said. “We had a change of players, but the plan’s the same. I’ll leave the item on the edge of the dock. You toss me mine. I’m going to stand on the dock and wait. I give it a quick check, you do the same. When both parties are satisfied that the terms have been met, we go home. Just like that. Nice, simple transaction.”
We heard him open the van door and close it. There was no sign of Vincent, and I wondered if he was in the backseat, whether he could make that shot with a pistol, whether he had something better. Or maybe this was the deal. Take the money, leave the two bodies, and run.
The boat was fifty yards out now, moving closer. I could see David standing at the helm, a dark baseball hat pulled low. Maddie was beside him, gripping the console in front of the wheel. The motor burbled and the boat approached and soon I could see their expressions, tense and afraid. And then they were closer, and Maddie took the wheel and David bent behind him and picked up the duffel. He moved toward the bow and stood there with the bag in front of him, like he was waiting to get off a train. The motor idled and the boat drifted on the dark water and Mick crossed above us and walked onto the pier, down the ramp, and onto the float. He placed the dark case from Monica’s car on the edge of the float and stepped back ten feet. The boat eased alongside and David reached down for the case, the boat still drifting. He unzipped the case and pulled out what looked like a notebook and riffled through it. Then he tossed the duffel toward Mick. It landed short and Mick bent to pick it up. He quickly unzipped the bag and dug through it. David had put the notebook back in the case.
And Mick pulled a gun from his waistband, said, “Sorry, Connelly. I changed my mind.” But before he raised the gun, Clair called out, “Drop it, or I’ll cut you in half.”
Mick didn’t drop it. Clair stood and fired one shot above the boat, fire spouting from the shotgun, a clap echoing across the water. He jacked another shell into the chamber.
“Last chance,” Clair said.
Mick eased down, the gun in his right hand, held out by the barrel. He laid it on the dock and then he turned slowly.
“Jesus,” he said through the mask. “It’s fuckin’ McMorrow. And he brought some muscle. I like you more all the time, Jack, you know that? You’re my kinda people, McMorrow.”
“Jack,” David said.
“Oh, my God,” Maddie said. “Oh, my God.”
“What do you want me to do?” David said.
“Just sit tight,” Clair said.
“Where’s Vincent?” I said.
We’d eased up onto the lawn and were moving toward the pier. Clair had the shotgun at his shoulder and kept it trained on Mick.
“Vincent?” Mick said. “He doesn’t like the country, Jack. He doesn’t like bugs.”
“I saw him kill Monica,” I said. “And I think Kathleen Kind.”
“Oh, no,” Maddie said, and she started to sob.
“Where is he?” I said.
Mick didn’t answer. David jumped out of the boat and fixed a bowline to a cleat, then scurried over and picked up Mick’s gun. He fiddled with it and then pointed it at Mick.
“You killed her?” he said.
“Easy with that thing,” Mick said. “You’ll hurt somebody.”
“Back away from him, David,” I said. “Don’t get too close.”
We were walking down the ramp, Clair first, me behind him, still carrying my rock. Maddie was sobbing at the helm of the boat, both hands on her mouth, her whole body shaking.
Clair said, “Keep your hands right up there. Way above your head. Now lie down on your belly, hands still up.”
Mick shook his head, said, “Just don’t let this amateur shoot me. I think he’s got the safety off.”
“Down,” Clair said. “One. Two—”
“You drop it,” said a voice behind us. “Or I’ll kill her right here.”
47
It was Vincent, underneath the mask. He had his arm around Roxanne’s neck, a pistol jammed against her throat. He was walking her across the lawn from the trees. They moved stiffly, like it was a three-legged race.
“Drop it, I said,” Vincent screamed. “Lay it right down.”
Clair lowered the shotgun. David dropped the pistol to his waist. Mick stepped up to Clair, took the shotgun from him, and turned and pointed it from the hip at David.
“You, too, moneybags,” he said.
David did a knee bend and left the gun at his feet. Roxanne and Vincent were on the pier now, looking down at us. I could see that Roxanne was crying. I held the rock behind my back.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Just be calm.”
“Sure, it’s okay,” Mick said. “Keep telling yourself that. Everything’s great. Toss the rock in the water, Jack, and it’ll be even better.”
I did, and it made a deep ka-plock and a splash. Mick motioned for Clair and me to stand on the end of the float with David. It rocked gently as we walked. The boat bobbed up and down, the outboard still idling, Maddie trembling now, chewing on her lip.
“Just like walking the plank,” Mick said. “Just like pirate days. When I was a kid, I loved pirates. Read all about ’em. Blackbeard and Captain Kidd. Hey, Jack. We probably won’t write my story, will we? Too bad, huh. Well, I gave you your chance. You decided to go with these rich assholes. Shanty Irish underneath, too, no matter how much you dress ’em up. That’s what my dear mum used to say.”
Vincent eased Roxanne along the ramp and stopped at the end.
