Harry Dolan (41 page)

Hideaway glanced at her along the barrel of the revolver. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” he said. “I think there could be a break in the case tonight. Tom’s murder could be resolved, and the others too.” He turned his gaze back to Loogan. “But even if Detective Waishkey is right—If I’m a wanted man from now on, a desperate man, then there’s no telling what I might do. No one’s daughter is safe.”

He paused and the air of the woods seemed to thicken. He put his thumb on the hammer of the revolver. “I’ll ask you once, Mr. Loogan, and I’ll give you one chance to answer. Take your time, and think about the consequences if you lie.”

He drew the hammer back. “Where’s the flashdrive?”

In the long seconds that followed, Elizabeth took in details: the night wind, the small movement of the flashlight tied to a branch, a tiny alteration in the quality of the light, the shadows cast by the mounds of dirt.

Strands of her own raven hair that hung in her eyes, trembling, reminding her of her daughter’s hair.

The smell of fallen rain on the fresh-turned earth.

Nathan Hideaway’s posture, the cant of his hips, one leg straight, the other bent. The ridges of the knuckles on his gun hand. The barrel of the revolver aimed at her, foreshortened. The steel ring of the muzzle.

David Loogan’s face; the shadows under his eyes. The fractional turn of his head, as if to look for the cast-off shovel behind him. Something draining out of him as he realized the shovel would do him no good. His right hand coming up gradually, fingers parted. She thought it would reach up to touch his chin, to rub his neck. It hovered. His eyes wide, staring at his own palm.

She thought she saw the hand shiver. In the dim light, she couldn’t be sure.

Tightness around Loogan’s mouth. She was sure of that. His lips parted and she began to say his name. She meant to tell him to stop.

A catch in his breathing at the moment of decision. She knew, as he answered Hideaway’s question, that he was telling the truth.

“At my house, in the living room,” Loogan said, “there’s a framed photograph above the fireplace. A photograph of paper leaves and bits of colored glass. The drive is taped to the back.”

Steady voice, but the rest of him breaking. He crossed his arms now and his body twisted, as if to retreat from Nathan Hideaway. His head bowed.

The ring of the muzzle vanished as Hideaway turned the revolver on Loogan.

“That’s good,” Hideaway said gently. “I believe you.”

Elizabeth tried to rise, inching her back along the trunk of the birch. Hideaway turned the gun on her for a moment, warningly, and she slid down again.

The barrel of the revolver in profile now, aimed down at Loogan’s heart. She watched Loogan twist, and then his knees must have given out. He vanished into the grave.

The revolver stayed where it was. Hideaway frowned.

“Come now, Mr. Loogan. This won’t do.”

Hideaway took a tentative step, the sole of his shoe gliding over blades of grass.

“On your feet,” he said to Loogan. “Better to face it than to hide.”

The edge of the grave was obstructing his line of fire, Elizabeth thought. She watched him move forward cautiously, warily, leading with the gun.

“I can see you, Mr. Loogan.”

Hideaway advanced more confidently now. He was still a foot and a half from the grave’s edge when the ground gave way beneath him.

Chapter 40

THE GUN WENT OFF AS HIDEAWAY FELL.

The orange spark of the muzzle flash and the hollow sharp sound, loud as a cannon in the clearing. Elizabeth got her feet under her, braced herself up along the bark of the birch. Four fast steps brought her to the open pit of the grave. She glimpsed Nathan Hideaway scrabbling in the dirt of the far wall, the revolver still in his hand. He was on his knees—with Loogan, sitting, half pinned beneath him.

That bare glimpse and then without breaking stride she leaped in, her feet landing squarely on Hideaway’s shoulders. Her cuffed hands ruined any hope of keeping her balance and she fell back hard against the ragged earth. She heard a pop, too soft for gunfire: her left shoulder slipping out of joint. Grinding pain.

Black dark in the clearing for a moment and then her vision returned and there beneath her feet Nathan Hideaway clawing at the dirt, trying to push himself up with his arms, trying to make some use of the revolver. He began to twist around to see her and she drew back her right foot and kicked him in the face, and he flinched away from the blow and tried to brace himself on hands and knees. And she lifted her foot again and kicked the back of his frost-white head and his face hit the dirt of the grave wall.

The black revolver sank into the dirt and fired a muffled shot at nothing. Hideaway’s broad back began to rise and Elizabeth kicked him again in the back of the head, and Loogan, struggling beneath him, got a leg free and kicked him in the ribs. Elizabeth planted both feet at the back of Hideaway’s thick neck and pushed and the soles of her shoes slipped up to his skull and she braced herself against the earth behind her. She pushed his face into the dirt, and his body shook and shuddered. And still she pushed, and his face sank into the black. And overhead the flashlight swayed on the branch and the moon shone, and Nathan Hideaway went down into the black.

 

 

 

Loogan’s voice called her, mild as the wind. The wind swept into the grave and cooled her brow. Her shoulder burned, her legs ached. A fragment of a leaf spun down and caught in her hair.

Loogan’s voice: “Elizabeth. He’s done now.”

She moved her legs, lazily, her gaze fixed on the revolver half buried in the dirt. She stepped her feet back along Hideaway’s spine. Eased herself backward up the broken slope. When she was clear of Hideaway’s body, Loogan was able to free his pinned leg and rise, unsteady. He bent over Hideaway and went through the man’s pockets. He found Hideaway’s keys, and the keys Hideaway had taken from James Peltier.

From her seat on the slope Elizabeth said, “Take the gun.”

“I don’t want the gun.”

“We’re not leaving it in his hand.”

Loogan trudged up the slope and tossed the revolver onto a clump of grass beside her. Then he knelt with Peltier’s key ring and unlocked her handcuffs.

He reached for her arm to help her up and the pain knifed through her.

“Wait,” she told him. “I think I dislocated my shoulder.” She felt tears coming and closed her eyes against them. “We can fix it,” she said. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

She heard the clink of keys as he put them in his pocket and knelt again beside her.

“Are you kidding?” he said.

“I’ll lie back. You bend the arm at the elbow—I can’t move it myself. Ninety degrees. Fingers pointing at the sky. Then you just pull the arm toward you.”

Worry in his voice. “That’s not a good idea.”

“You pull it gently, and you rotate it forward, like I’m throwing a baseball. I’ve seen it done.”

She opened her eyes. He started to get up. “I’ll take you to a hospital.”

She twisted around and seized his wrist with her right hand. “You’re going to turn frail on me now?”

 

 

 

Elizabeth steered Hideaway’s Lincoln with one hand and rested the other on her thigh. She lifted her arm to reassure herself that she could. The pain was remote.

She looked over at Loogan in the passenger seat. He had his head back and she could hear his breathing. He sounded exhausted.

“Back there,” she said, after a mile had gone by. “The grave—”

She left it at that, the question unformed.

He sat up slowly, took his time answering. “Excavations are tricky. Unstable.”

“It didn’t collapse on its own.”

“I helped it along. Dug underneath.” The Lincoln’s tires hissed along the surface of the road. “His own fault,” Loogan said. “He shouldn’t have given me a shovel.”

Elizabeth guided the car along a curve. “I didn’t know that was the plan. You said you were going to shoot him.”

“I said I might have to shoot him.”

They came to a traffic light, amber turning red. Elizabeth braked the Lincoln to a stop, though there were no other cars at the intersection.

“It’s not far to the hospital, is it?” Loogan asked her.

She watched the steady dot of red light. “I’m not going to the hospital. I can have my shoulder looked at later.”

“I think we should go,” he said.

The light changed. She looked around at him. He had his arms folded, his hands beneath his armpits.

“I made a mistake,” he said.

He unfolded his arms. The fingers of his right hand came out tipped with blood.

“I thought he missed.”

 

 

 

David Loogan walked into the emergency room of Saint Joseph Mercy under his own power. As the glass doors swept shut behind him, the overhead fluorescents burned suddenly white. He coughed into his open palm, saw blood, felt his knees give way.

The bullet from Hideaway’s revolver had struck a chunk of rock in the wall of the grave. From there, it bounced. It entered Loogan’s body on the left side, under his arm; it glanced off a rib, flattened, tumbled through his lung, and came to rest an inch behind his heart.

When the ER doctors got to him, they determined that his left lung had partially collapsed. They inserted a chest tube to relieve the pressure and reinflate it. After that, he needed surgery to repair internal bleeding. His surgeons decided against removing the bullet—it could stay where it was and do him no harm.

In the long hours after his surgery, Loogan drifted in a medicated haze. Nurses came around periodically to test the function of his lungs. They made him blow into tubes. They obsessed over his breathing, ever on guard against the formation of phlegm. They woke him at odd hours to pound on his chest.

He saw Elizabeth for a few minutes on Sunday afternoon, then for a longer visit on Monday evening. She told him about Casimir Hifflyn and his wife, found shot to death in their home in a scene staged to look like a murder-suicide. She described the handwritten note, the false confession. She didn’t have to remind him of Hideaway’s words:
It’s a wonder what a man will do if you threaten something he cares about. Tell him you’re going to shoot his wife, and he’ll take responsibility for crimes he had nothing to do with.

The next day Loogan had two visitors. The first was Sarah Waishkey, who came while he was napping in the early afternoon and left behind a present she had made for him: a wristband of braided leather.

The second visitor was a cop named Mitchum. Loogan walked with him up and down the hospital corridors and gave him an account of everything Nathan Hideaway had said and done from the moment he appeared at Sean Wrentmore’s condominium. Mitchum scrutinized each move, from the shotgun blast that killed James Peltier to the final sequence of events at the grave site in the clearing in Marshall Park. Loogan emphasized that Hideaway had held on to the revolver even after he fell into the grave. He had been a threat to the very end. Elizabeth had acted in self-defense. Mitchum only nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

Another full day passed before Loogan saw Elizabeth again. They sat by the window in his room, gray November sky behind the slatted blinds, and she told him about her visit to Nathan Hideaway’s cottage. She and Carter Shan had searched Hideaway’s belongings and found a blackmail letter similar to the one Tom Kristoll had received. In a cellar beneath the house they found an old cast-iron tub and traces of lye. They theorized that Sean Wrentmore’s body had wound up in the tub.

His flesh is no longer attached to his bones,
Hideaway had said.

“We may never find the bones,” Elizabeth told Loogan. “I thought they might be in a sack weighted down at the bottom of the pond behind the cottage, but we sent a diver in yesterday. He didn’t find anything.”

She had other news as well. An arrest had been made in the murder of Michael Beccanti.

“It was Rachel Kent,” she said. “We found the detective she hired to spy on Bridget Shellcross. He confirmed the affair between Beccanti and Shellcross—and that Kent knew about it.

“There’s physical evidence against her too. Tiny traces of blood and skin. She scratched her arm climbing through the slashed screen of the window at your house. The lab recovered a sample from the screen on Friday. The blood type is going to turn out to match hers, and eventually a DNA test will confirm it, but none of that matters because Rachel Kent confessed this afternoon. We went around to ask her to submit a blood sample voluntarily and she refused, and two hours later she showed up at City Hall with her lawyer. She brought along the disc and the blackmail letter that she took from Beccanti after she stabbed him. Her lawyer thought they’d be worth something as bargaining chips. They were. From what I’ve heard, the prosecutor gave her a pretty good deal.”

Loogan stared out at the gray sky. “Rachel Kent,” he said.

“Rachel Kent,” Elizabeth repeated. “Hideaway had it right.”

 

 

 

On the morning of the seventh day after his surgery, David Loogan walked out of Saint Joseph Mercy. He wore a new pair of chinos and a blue Oxford shirt, and a denim jacket against the November chill. He had left his leather coat in the woods of Marshall Park.

The new clothes were a gift from Bridget Shellcross, who had visited him the day before. They had talked about Cass Hifflyn and about Michael Beccanti, whose funeral service she had attended earlier in the week.

She had given Loogan her phone number, made him promise to call when the hospital discharged him. She would drive him home. The number was on a slip of paper in his pocket. He took a cab.

The driver dropped him at his rented house. Yellow tape on the front door. He tore it away and went inside and opened all the windows. Upstairs he stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets and blankets and slept until late afternoon.