2 Grand Delusion (20 page)

From way down below I heard Cole saying, ". . . neighbor thought he heard a noise back here." As quietly as I could, I closed the window.

Then I collapsed to the floor and passed out.

If they wanted me, they could have me.

22

I woke up several hours later with an aching head, a torn-up leg, and an arm that felt like it should be amputated. Dawn was breaking, and so was I.

With my adrenaline long gone, I was shaking from the cold. Looking around me, I saw I was in the Orian Cillarnian bar. The bar was separated from the back room by a curtain; I tore it down and wrapped it around my body. Some tablecloths were stacked on a table in the back room, next to a pile of S.O.S. flyers, and I wrapped them around me, too. If anyone invited me to a toga party, I was ready.

But I was still shaking. Maybe it wasn't the cold; maybe it was fear.

Or hunger. I suddenly realized I was famished. I wildly searched the cabinets behind the bar for beer nuts, pretzels, Sweet and Low packets,
anything
. But I found nothing except glasses of every shape and size. There was one locked closet and a locked refrigerator; no doubt they contained all the food, but in my exhausted state, I couldn't figure out how to bust them open. I was sorely tempted to just go outside and turn myself in; then at least maybe I'd get something to eat.

Why did I keep having this urge to surrender? It was morbid. I'll bet Cary Grant never felt that way in
North by Northwest
.

And speaking of Cary Grant, why did I keep comparing myself to movie characters?

Fortunately, any thought of surrendering was instantly forgotten when I noticed a mini-refrigerator right in front of my nose. I opened it and was greeted by the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen: a half-eaten liverwurst sandwich and a half-full bottle of Mountain Dew.

It took me all of about ten seconds to suck down both the sandwich and the Dew. My mind defogged; I could feel my IQ rising with each calorie. Even my arm felt better. When I found a half-sour pickle in the back of the mini-refrigerator, I knew today must be my lucky day.

There was a pay phone at one end of the bar. I felt in my pocket and was astonished to discover three quarters there. Further proof that my luck had turned. First I called Andrea. She picked up in the middle of the first ring.

"Hello?!" she gasped.

"I'm okay, honey," I said. My voice startled me; it rattled hollowly, like it was coming from deep inside a cave.

Andrea started crying. "Jacob, where are you?"

"I'd rather not say. But I'm really okay, and I'll see you soon."

She spoke quickly, to keep me on the phone. "Honey, they found the knife behind the TV, and it was all full of blood. Maybe you should just give yourself up. Jacob, I want you to know, I love you," she gulped, "no matter what you've done."

No matter what you've done.
Thanks for the vote of confidence. "Look, they may be tracing this call. I love you, too." Then I hung up.

After that I called Malcolm, or tried to. But his home and beeper numbers weren't listed in the ancient phone book hanging from the phone; and when I spent my second quarter dialing Directory Assistance, the weary-sounding woman who answered my call didn't have Malcolm's numbers either. I thought about trying him at his office, but he almost certainly wouldn't be there yet. I only had one more quarter, and I better not waste it on an answering machine.

On the other hand, who was there left for me to call? Dave? Dennis? There was no one. I was all alone.

No, I wasn't.

Footsteps. Someone was inside the building.

They were coming toward the bar.

I ducked into the alcove behind the pay phone.

Lia Kalmus loomed into view. She started past me toward the back room, no doubt to pick up those S.O.S. flyers.

But then she saw me. She screamed.

She was too petrified to move. I lifted my hands carefully to show I didn't have a weapon. "It's okay, Lia, don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

I must have looked pretty strange, covered with curtains and tablecloths. She backed away from me slowly. I thought about rushing her and trying to tackle her before she could make it to the front door. Great idea—throw in an aggravated assault along with all of my other crimes.

"Lia,
please,"
I begged, "I need your help. You've got to believe me, I didn't kill anybody, I didn't do anything, I'm being framed!"

She was still backing away. Any moment now she would bolt. "I'm a political prisoner, Lia!" I pleaded. "Just like your Dad! They're gonna destroy me, same way they destroyed your family!"

She stood at the far end of the room, giving me that horrified stare I'd noticed once before, so panicked her droopy eye almost stopped drooping. She was poised to dash madly for the great outdoors.

But at least she wasn't dashing madly yet. If I could somehow get Lia on my side, with all of her connections and power, maybe I could get things to finally turn around. We could force the police to do a real murder investigation.

Maybe I could even turn myself in without getting shot at by some rogue cop.

But first I had to convince this woman. "Lia, it's like this," I said rapidly and nervously, like one of those late-night TV hucksters. "Pop Doyle ran a whorehouse, and some drug dealing operations, and an extortion business . . ."

I laid out the whole fantastic story. The way I described it, our quaint small town was almost as corrupt as post-Soviet Russia.

I may have exaggerated a bit.

But thank God, it seemed to do the trick. No doubt Lia already had some inkling that the Saratoga cops weren't totally kosher. Now, as she listened, her expression toward me slowly softened.

Then her jaw and her good eye hardened into a determined look—a look I recognized from all those S.O.S. meetings I'd attended over the years. She broke in and interrupted me. "Look, here's what we need to do," she said crisply. "We'll go see the mayor. Right now. He'll make that idiot police chief do his job like he's supposed to. And then I'll take you to the station myself. If any of those hoodlums do anything to you, I'll crack them over the head."

I was so overcome I couldn't speak. An ally at last!

I could never have gone to the mayor by myself—it's a long story, but during my previous murder investigation I'd left him writhing in pain on the ground. With Lia behind me, though, the mayor would do the right thing. If he wanted to get reelected, he'd have to. "Thank you, Lia," I breathed fervently.
"Thank
you."

She brusquely waved me off. "No big deal. My father was innocent—and so are you. Take those tablecloths off you, and let's get out of here."

But that turned out to be easier said than done.

When Lia opened the front door, there was a cop car idling right across the street, and one glimpse told me it was Dave. I ducked quickly back inside the building, so quickly that I wrenched something at the back of my knee and tore up my leg even more.

Ignoring the pain, I started to run out the back door of the building, certain that Dave was about to come racing in after me. But Lia shushed me and motioned for me to stay where I was. She held the door open a tiny crack and watched until Dave finally drove off. Thank God for Estonians, I thought to myself.

With the coast finally clear (or at least it looked that way), we hurried out to Lia's car. I jumped in the backseat and lay down low. I was so revved up I forgot all about my busted body parts, but when they hit the floor of the car, I remembered in a hurry.

Lia started the engine. "We're okay now, Jacob, but stay down just in case. So let's work this out. What exactly do we tell the mayor?"

As we zigzagged toward the mayor's house—carefully avoiding Broadway and other main streets, it looked to me from where I lay—I described again for her, in greater detail, all the evidence I had against Cole. I even told her about the videotape I made, figuring that would be the nail in Cole's coffin.

I couldn't see Lia's face, but somewhere in the middle of my rendition I got the vibe she wasn't as impressed as I wanted her to be. She confirmed it by saying, "The problem is, you still don't have any real proof that Cole killed Pop."

"I have plenty to start with, though. And if we keep shaking the trees long enough, something is bound to fall out."

From my prone position, I was relieved to see the back of Lia's head bobbing up and down in agreement. "You're right, maybe something will. Okay, what the hell, let's go for it." She stopped the car and got out.

"We're at the mayor's house already?" I asked as I sat up.

Wait, this couldn't be right; we were parked outside the cemetery.

Lia opened the back door, pointing a gun at my face.

23

"Get out of the car," Lia said.

"W-what?" I stuttered.

"Get
out."

"Get out?"

"GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR!"

I got out.

I looked around for cops. Where are they when you really need them?

She motioned with her gun for me to go through the gate into the cemetery. "Move."

"Jesus, Lia,
why?"

She aimed her gun.
"Move!"

I moved.

It was a cold, gray dawn. She followed me into the cemetery. "Up that hill," she ordered, pointing to the hill a hundred feet ahead of us where Gideon Putnam's family was buried.

I walked toward there as slowly as I could, desperate to think up a way out. What the hell was going on here? "I don't get it, Lia.
You
didn't kill them, did you?"

"That bastard stiffed me out of twenty thousand dollars—and then he tried to rape me."

Was I dreaming? "Who are you talking about—Pop?"

"Yeah,
Pop,"
she spit out, her damaged face twisting with rage. "Lousy creep was gonna make a fortune from selling the Grand Hotel to the SERC. So he promised me twenty grand if I got their plan approved." The way Lia's burn scar moved when she talked, it was almost like a living thing. "If I let you shake the trees, you'd have found out about the twenty grand, because that idiot Pop couldn't keep his mouth shut. Told Hal Starette and three or four other people all about it." She bared her teeth. "You'd've found out other stuff, too. Keep moving," she snapped. "Don't turn around."

I did what she told me. The hill was just forty or fifty feet away now. Was she planning to kill me when we got there?

I tried to think of some way to get her talking again, to distract her so I could go for the gun. But she didn't need any prompting. Her words flooded out like she'd been damming them up forever. "I did what I was supposed to do, goddamn it. Got all those brainless sheep on the West Side to vote yes. But I go to Pop's house that night after the vote to get my twenty thousand, and he just laughs in my face. Says I should've known better, gotten my money up front. Then he gets in his car and just drives away, the fat jerk. So I follow him. He stops at that house next to you, so I do, too. I go after him to the backyard. I'm thinking maybe I'll settle for
ten
thousand."

I was still walking ahead of Lia, looking back at her from the corner of my eye, watching for the right moment to strike. But even though she was wrapped up in her story, she kept her gun pointed steadily right at the back of my head.

"So we're arguing about it, and then he
hits
me," she went on, her voice filled with hurt and fury. "He hits me real hard, in my breasts, so hard I'm screaming, and then he hits me
again
. He's standing over me, laughing, squeezing my breasts, and he's going, 'Hey, you got a nice body, for an ugly bitch. Bet you're a virgin, aren't you?' And then he reaches for my pants. He was gonna rape me!"

She took a deep breath. "So I grabbed his gun and shot him."

We were at the foot of the hill. Above us was Gideon Putnam's family burial plot. I stopped and turned around to Lia.
"Move!"
she yelled, gun outstretched.
"Up the hill!"

So I went up the hill. But I kept my face turned toward her and whistled through my teeth, trying to sound sympathetic. "Well, God, Lia, that's just self-defense. No one would blame you for that."

An angry growl rumbled from her throat. "And then that drug dealer calls me up. Says he saw me kill Pop, and if I don't pay him off he'll tell the cops. Says this Jacob Burns guy is getting on his nerves, and he wants money to get out of town." She gave a short mirthless chuckle. "Screw that. I had to kill him, too. Stand up against the gate."

Stand up against the gate.

Was it as simple as that?

No fanfare, no drum roll? Was this the big good-bye?

My throat went tight. "Don't do this to me," I pleaded, my voice raspy and barely audible, "I've got a wife and two kids—"

"You should've thought of that before. Now stand up against the goddamn gate."

I did.

"Lia," I said, sounding disturbingly whiny, "I just don't get it. I thought you were such a wonderful person."

She snorted derisively. "I'll tell you who was wonderful. My father. It got him
killed,
and it got me
this."
She pointed at her ruined face. "To hell with being
wonderful."

"But you did so much good for the West Side."

"Yeah, I know, I made you feel good about being an American," she said, sneering sarcastically. "You know how many landlords have slipped me money over the years to go easy on them? Believe me, it adds up. If Pop had just come through with that twenty grand like he promised, I'd have enough money to buy a nice big farmhouse in Greenfield."

On second thought, Lia Kalmus was no longer my favorite all-time public statesman. "Greenfield?" That's a rural town about five miles from Saratoga. "Two people are dead because you wanted a farmhouse in
Greenfield?"

"Make that
three
people," she said, raising her gun at my head. "Hey, you saw my house, it's tiny. I've got stuff filling up the basement. I need a bigger house."

"You're kidding me," I said, incredulous. "This whole thing started because you want a bigger house to put your
stuff?"

"No, it started because I'm sick to death of all you people on the goddamn West Side!" Something seemed to snap in Lia. Her face contorted and her gun arm waved around crazily.
"I
do all the work for
everybody
around here!
I'm
the whole reason this neighborhood is turning into a decent place to live again! But does it matter?
No!
I know what you people all think of me! I'm the ugly Estonian with the weird face!"

"I never thought of you as the ugly Estonian—"

"Like hell you didn't, you pathetic liar. Now shut up and close your eyes. Make it easier for both of us."

Her gun arm had stopped waving around, and for better or worse she had herself back under control. "Lia—"

"Shut up—now!"

And finally, I ran out of words. I stared transfixed at Lia's horrible scar. It seemed to be dancing in the cold morning light.

"Don't worry," she said, and my fear must have been making me hallucinate, because somehow her bad eye looked like it was dancing too. "If you cooperate I'll do it painlessly. Up close, so it looks like suicide. One shot and you'll be dead so fast you won't even know it. Now stand up straight and close your eyes."

I didn't close them. "Don't kill me," I whispered.

She shrugged. "You want to die with your eyes open? Suit yourself."

She was standing about twelve feet away, but then she started moving closer to me, slowly and carefully, gun hand extended. It was clear what she was doing: She was getting as close as she safely could before she shot me, to make it look as much like suicide as possible.

I had to admit, it was a good plan. If the cops bought that it was suicide, then they'd close the book on all three deaths. Lia would get off scot-free.

I was in shock, staring into that black gun barrel. But at last, somewhere in the dark animal regions of my brain, a plan formed. My good arm tensed at my side. If this madwoman came close enough, I'd duck my head and simultaneously swing out sharply at the gun, using the "side block" that my Ninja Turtle sons had taught me.

She was getting closer. Nine feet . . . eight . . .

As we stared into each other's eyes, I suddenly realized she knew exactly what I was planning. This was the most terrifying game of chicken I'd ever played. She was trying to figure out exactly how close she could risk coming before shooting. What if she decided the feigned suicide idea was just too tricky to pull off? Then she'd go ahead and shoot me right from where she stood.

And it would be too late for any fancy Ninja Turtle moves to save me.

Maybe I should just forget the whole Turtle thing and lunge at her right now.

Seven feet . . . six . . .

I couldn't take it anymore. Trying to keep any sign of my violent intentions out of my eyes, I got ready to lunge, bending my knees ever so slightly so she wouldn't notice.

But she did. Her drooping eye twitched. Her finger squeezed the trigger tighter. In less than a second she would shoot me. In less than five seconds I'd be dead. I started my desperate, off-balance lunge—

And then a lot of things happened at once.

Lia looked up above my head, and her face instantly changed from vicious to startled. She swung her gun upward and shot wildly.

And suddenly . . .

Suddenly a runty, snot-nosed, nine-year old kid named Tony Martinelli fell down from the sky and landed on Lia's head.

He knocked her down to the ground, and she dropped the gun. I dove. When she got back up, the gun was in my hand and pointed straight at her.

She charged at me. But I didn't pull the trigger, I just couldn't do it. So she threw me down. Then she jumped on top of me. She grabbed for the gun.

This time I did pull the trigger.

Lia died in my arms.