Killer Move (28 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

B
y the time I got back into the kitchen, Emily was wrapping a bandage around her hand. I’d forgotten what had been on my list of things to take from the house, and doubted any of them had been important anyhow. The only thing that had merit was a set of clothes for Stephanie. Anything else could stay until the world had been sorted out and I could start living my life here again.

“Going upstairs,” I said. “Two minutes. Then we’re leaving.”

“Roger that,” she said, holding the bandaged hand against her chest as she tried to fasten it with tape. She was shaking. I thought it was unlikely this was from fear, or even from what we’d seen in the pool.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“It really kind of does. I’ve come around to the idea of going to the hospital. You’re wiser than I thought.”

There was a knock at the front door.

Our heads turned together. The knock came again, loud. Then someone pressed the doorbell.

I whispered, “What do I do?”

She had no advice. The doorbell rang again, and then we heard someone speaking loudly on the other side.

“Mr. Moore, it’s Deputy Hallam. I came. So if you’re here, open the door.”

Emily reached behind with her left hand and fanned out to the left. When I saw that she was braced up against the wall, out of sight, I walked across the living room and opened the front door.

Hallam stood lit by the lamp above the doorway. He was alone. His cruiser was parked down in the street. He looked exhausted and spaced-out.

“So, on the way I hear there’s been a shoot-out at St. Armands Circle,” he said, with something like wonder. “Tony Thompson is dead. Marie’s on the way to the hospital, along with some other guy, the alleged shooter. She received three bullet wounds, but gut-shot him in the meantime. She’s probably going to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You don’t sound surprised by the scenario I’ve just outlined.”

“I know who the shooter is. His name’s John Hunter. I know why he did it.”

Hallam caught sight of Emily in the shadows. “Who the hell is that?”

“One of the two people in the world who I trust right now,” I said. “You are not the other. So come in slowly, keep your hands where I can see them, and do not do anything that could look like screwing me around.”

H
e entered cautiously. Once the door was closed behind him, Emily moved out of the shadow.

“Take his weapon,” she said to me.

Hallam laughed. “Are you kidding me? I still want to know who the hell you are.”

Emily moved her hand to where he could see her gun. “Any cop with half a brain would have established that before he stepped over the threshold,” she said.

Hallam knew she was right, and he didn’t like it. He put his hand on his side holster.

“Lady, I want you to understand something—”

“Her name’s Jane,” I interrupted, before this could get out of hand. “She knows a lot more than I do about this. Jane—this guy’s okay. I think. So everyone just be cool and nobody shoot anyone, okay?”

His eyes still on her, hand there on his gun, Hallam stood his ground. “Whatever it is you believe you have to tell me, Mr. Moore, you got three minutes max. I need to get to the Circle. The call’s out to the sheriff but he’s not there yet and he’s going to be furious if he finds out I’m not, either.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” I said. “But I need to show you something first.”

“What?”

“It’s out back.”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Emily said.

“He needs to know.”

Hallam saw me glance out through the glass doors to the pool. “Need to know what?”

He leaned forward, peered into the gloom. “What the hell is that?”

I led him out.

H
allam stared down at what was in the pool. He didn’t say anything for a long time. He turned eventually, but his eyes found the forearm lying alongside, and so he kept moving his head until it came to rest on my face.

“Who is she?”

“A girl called Cassandra,” I said. “She was murdered in the small hours of this morning, at the place I tried to get you to come to this afternoon.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. All I saw was blood. They moved the body and brought it here.”

“The crime scene still the way it was? The one at her apartment?”

“Not exactly,” I said. Emily looked away.

Hallam rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is fucked up.”

He walked back into the house.

“S
o?” I asked him. “You going to arrest me right now, or do I have a chance of standing my ground? Are they so in control that I have to get out of here for a while?”

“Wait. Who’s ‘they’?”

Hallam’s eyes looked like he was still seeing what was in the pool. The body had half rolled back over in the water when he saw it, hiding some of her face—but he’d still seen more than enough. He looked as though he was trying to decide what to do first out of about eight possible choices, all of them well above his pay grade.

“Tony and Marie Thompson.”

His eyes snapped back to life and he laughed outright. “The
Thompsons
? You’re kidding, right? They murdered some girl, hacked her body to pieces, smashed her
face off
? I don’t think so.”

“There are others in the group,” Emily said, “who probably—”

“The group? What is this—the Manson family? What the hell is going
on
around here?”

“A collective of locals,” I said. “The Thompsons, the Wilkinses—back when Phil was alive—plus a couple of others, I think. They’ve been playing some kind of reality game for decades. Messing with people’s lives, using them like pawns, smoothing over the fallout with their cash, and then moving on.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they can. Because when your bank account’s full you need something else to divert you. For the fun of it.”

“And this includes
murdering
people? Come on.”

“Not usually.”

“But . . . and these people you’ve listed—these pretty
elderly
people, I should point out—are who killed that girl out there? And did all
that
to her?”

“Maybe. We don’t know.”

“But . . . why bring the body here?”

“To implicate me. I’m this season’s guest star. I’m the guy who got modified this time around.”

“ ‘Modified’?”

“It’s a computer-game term,” I said, remembering all too well that it had been Cass who’d first flashed on what was going on—too late for her, once I’d accidentally got her involved. I could blame other people as much as I liked, but the bottom line was that it had been me who’d put her in my pool. “Alterations are made. Like putting a rat in a maze and moving the walls when it’s not looking, or putting an electric current under its feet.”

Hallam’s face was frank in its incredulity. “Bullshit.”

“They admitted it, to my face. Jane was there—she heard it. According to Tony, it had just been a kind of fireside puzzle before. It was David Warner who took it to another level. He made his money selling computer games. That’s all this is, but in real life. Augmenting reality with a cattle prod.”

“And they’ve been doing this to you . . . how long?”

“Several weeks in the background. It really got going on Monday, but I only started to work it out last night. My wife’s in the hospital because she drank a bottle of wine I bought. It was poisoned. Tony claimed to me that wasn’t part of the plan, he and Marie were the intended victims, but he has no idea who did it—unless it was Warner screwing over his former friends.”

Even as I said this I realized how lame it sounded, how insufficient a handle I had on what was going on.

Hallam evidently felt the same. “Are you
shitting
me?”

“Deputy, I’ve got a . . . you’ve seen what’s out in my pool. Nobody’s shitting anybody.”

Hallam turned to Emily. “And how do you fit into all this, exactly?”

“I was one of the people moving the walls,” she admitted. “Not a player. A hired hand, helping run the scenario that had been roughed out ahead of time. I’ve been waitressing in Bo’s this last month. I helped set up some of the stuff in Bill’s life, but I was
not
involved in anyone getting hurt. The plug was pulled once it starting looking like something had happened to David Warner. Someone clearly hasn’t got the message, though.”

“I talked with the Thompsons an hour ago,” I said, “and they were
scared
. The guy who shot up Bo’s is called John Hunter. He was a victim of the game twenty years back. Warner framed him for a murder he’d committed, some local woman called Katy, and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Hallam said, holding up his hand. “You have evidence that Warner killed someone?”

“Not actual evidence, but this is straight from Marie Thompson. Why?”

“We found stuff at Warner’s house today. I’d believe that guy was capable of almost anything right now.”

Hallam’s eyes glazed over, as if he was trying to add, divide, and multiply a long series of numbers in his head. “I have to call this in,” he said, as if suddenly remembering that he was a cop.

“No, you don’t,” said a voice.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I
t came from above. There was a man standing on the gallery upstairs. It was Sheriff Barclay.

Hallam gaped. “
Sir?
”

His boss started down the stairs in a slow, measured fashion, as if weighed down with the gravity of a serious situation. I was aware of Emily backing away, melting into the shadows.

“What in hell’s name are you doing here, Rob?”

“I . . . I received a call from Mr. Moore, sir,” Hallam said, defensively. “He said he had information pertaining to a situation developing in the Circle. Sheriff . . . I’ve been hollering for you on the radio for three hours. We’ve got . . . there are
many
things going on, not good things, and I have been trying very hard to contact you. Where have you been?”

“It’s been a very busy day.”

“Well, yeah. You know there’s been a shoot-out at Jonny Bo’s?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. There’s four deputies on-site at this time, full medical support. It’s covered.”

“We found some very weird shit at David Warner’s house, too.”

“I know about that as well, Rob. It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”

“
In hand?
Sir, I don’t . . . understand.”

Barclay glanced into the shadows behind me. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

Emily had retreated to the entrance to the kitchen, gun down by her side. She said nothing. Just watched Barclay carefully. He smiled. “Why don’t you come back in here?”

“Do not trust this man,” Emily told Hallam.

I finally managed to speak. “Sheriff—how did you get into my house?”

“Round the back, of course,” he said, as if this was a dumb question. “Like a lot of folks in these communities, you don’t always remember to lock up. Which is a mistake, I should tell you. Just because you’re all part of the same club doesn’t mean you can trust each other to the bitter end.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“A neighbor called in a report of suspicious activity. Said you arrived here at four this afternoon and carried a bulky object into the building via the garage doors. A couple hours later you left, without said burden. Driving erratically.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “I haven’t been back since early yesterday evening.”

“So I thought I’d better check it out,” Barclay continued smoothly, as if I’d not spoken, as if he was telling Hallam a story. His hands were in his pockets. He looked so relaxed it was surreal. “Your name has been cropping up all over town, Mr. Moore. Has been for a couple days now. You’ve always seemed like a normal kind of guy, but I wouldn’t have been doing my job if I didn’t come take a look.”

“Which of my neighbors made this alleged call?”

Could
one of them actually have done this? After being paid to by someone in the game? What chance did I have of convincing the sheriff of this, even if they had?

Barclay ignored me. He glanced at his deputy. “You’ve seen what’s in the pool, right?”

Hallam spoke carefully. “Sheriff, it did not seem to me that Mr. Moore was likely to have been responsible for . . . what’s out there. He took me straight to it. He did not present as the perp.”

“That’s a judgment call, Deputy. And as such my department, thankfully. The evidence actually suggests that Mr. Moore spent a portion of the afternoon out there by the pool, doing what you’ve seen.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Emily told Hallam. “That’s not what happened. You know it. There’s nowhere near enough blood out there, for a start.”

“Rob, are you going to take that woman’s weapon, or what?”

Emily took another couple of paces back, lifting her arm to point the gun. “Don’t even try it.”

“Deputy, now.”

Hallam turned reluctantly toward Emily and unsnapped his holster. “Ma’am—you heard the sheriff. I’m going to need to have that weapon. Please.”

There was a quiet click as Emily did something to the gun, fumbling the action because of her injured hand. From the way Hallam stiffened, I assumed the sound meant something significant. Never having held a gun in my life, I couldn’t be sure.

Emily’s gaze was calm and steady. “Seriously, Deputy. Not another step or I’ll put a bullet in your boss. Everyone be very still.”

Hallam was caught halfway across the sitting room, hand on his holster, not knowing what to do. He looked at the sheriff. Barclay said nothing, did nothing. I saw Emily judging the angle and distance from where she stood to the front door. The cops blocked her path, Hallam in particular. There was no way she could make it to the outside world. At least not via that route.

She backed up a little farther. I did, too. To cover this, I acted as if I was trying to calm things down.

“Emily—just be cool. Let’s explain everything to the sheriff. He’s a cop. He can help us.”

“Are you kidding? He’s
part
of this,” she said. “He must be. You told me the police helped frame Hunter, right? He told you that.”

I couldn’t tell whether she’d realized what I was doing—but we kept moving backward anyway, slowly.

“That was twenty years ago. Doesn’t mean the sheriff’s still part of it. He’s a cop, for god’s sake.”

Hallam tried to regain some kind of control. “Sir, stay where you are.”

Emily spoke over him. “Bullshit. They were always going to need a pet cop, to smooth over anybody who got riled at their life being screwed around—and to bury any illegalities along the way. If you’re going to play those kinds of games, you have to own the board, the whole island. That includes its sheriff.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barclay said. “But like Mr. Moore says—let’s talk this thing out. That’s the sensible route forward.”

“Screw you. Did you
really
leave your back door open, Bill? Or do you think maybe this guy has keys?”

She put a little bit of extra weight on the words
back door
. I thought about it, hard.

Could
I have left the back door unlocked? If the answer was yes, we could
maybe
get through it fast enough to escape across the backyard and over into the neighbor’s. If the door wasn’t open, we’d be screwed, cornered in the kitchen with nowhere to go.

I took another step backward, glanced through the kitchen. The back door was shut, of course, or we would have noticed it before. The key was in place, in the lock under the handle. But was it locked? I tried to imagine how long it would take to run to the end of the kitchen. The lock was stiff. Steph had asked me to oil the thing more times than I could remember, but updating Facebook and plotting my rise in realty had taken precedence. Even if it
wasn’t
locked, would we really be able to get to it in time? How likely would Hallam be to shoot?

Emily kept needling. “I’ve got keys, after all—and this guy is being paid from the same source.”

Barclay said, “Deputy, are you going to disarm this woman or what?”

I moved to put myself in Hallam’s line of fire, between him and Emily. I saw her take the chance to steal a look sideways, try to gauge the probability of getting to the back door. I decided I’d take my cue from her. She’d be more likely to get the decision right.

Hallam finally pulled his gun out, but irresolutely. “Sheriff, I can’t get to her without—”

“Do they have an actual leash for you, Sheriff?” Emily asked. “A real one? Or is it just money? You got a bigger house than you should? Take longer vacations? Keep a hot young woman in an apartment up in Saint Pete?”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to judge me. Or anything else, from what I hear.”

Emily laughed jaggedly. “That didn’t sound like denial. I helped them play the game, sure. I didn’t agree to cover up a murder. But you did that once before, and now you’re about to do it again, right? You get an actual bonus for that? How much?”

“I won’t be covering up your crimes, no.”

“
My
crimes? Screw you.”

“I spoke this afternoon to a local actor by the name of Daniel Bauman.”

“Interesting. Is that why he’s not picking up the phone? ‘Spoke’ how hard to him, exactly? He another loose end that you’ve been hired to tidy up?”

“You’re a very paranoid young woman. Mr. Bauman is alive and well. He claims that you hired him to impersonate David Warner, and I believe him. I further believe this is evidence that you were involved in the latter’s death. And by extension, that of Hazel Wilkins.”

“
What?
You’re dreaming, asshole. You
know
I had nothing to do with those.”

Emily’s voice was too tight, too low. She needed to be focused on getting out, not getting pulled into a toe-to-toe with Barclay.

Two more baby steps had got me to the point where I could dodge right and take my chances with the back door. She’d be in the way of any fire, would operate as a shield for me. But I couldn’t do that.

“I don’t know that at all,” Barclay said. His voice rolled on and on like an unstoppable tide of unreason. “I
do
know you were involved in violations of prisoners’ rights while you were stationed in—”

“No!” Emily shouted. “Whoever told you that, they lied. I stole, yes. I whacked a guy who deserved it—he was a rapist and an asshole. But I did
none
of that other shit. They put that on me to get me out.”

“Emily,” I said desperately. “
Ignore him.
”

The sheriff had shoved his hand right into her emotional guts and grabbed her, however, and Emily abruptly started to walk back into the living room. The gun was pointing straight at Barclay’s head, but it was wavering. “Fucks like you,” she snarled. “It’s
fucks
like
you
that have ruined my
entire fucking life
.”

“Emily,” I shouted. She wasn’t listening.

Hallam finally assumed the shooter’s position. “Ma’am, step back. Right now.”

She kept walking.

“Ma’am, do
not
advance any farther.”

I moved quickly, threw my arm in front of her, trying to stop her. She was stronger than me, though, and hard to hold back. Her entire body was shaking. Her eyes were drawing down on Barclay like he was everyone who’d ever done her wrong. She kept her left arm rigid over my shoulder, the gun still pointing at the sheriff’s head.

“Emily,” I said, low, a whisper. “Listen to me. Please. Don’t do this.”

Barclay smiled. “She’ll do something, Mr. Moore. Count on it. She’s volatile. Unstable. That’s why she’s here. Though just so you know, she was right about one thing. I
do
have your house keys. Your back door is locked. I checked. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Emily stopped trying to push forward against me and went very still. “Guess it’s Plan B, then,” she said. “Cool by me. I like the sound of it better anyway.”

She shoved me away, lowering the gun to aim unswervingly at Barclay’s chest. “Good-bye, asshole.”

She pulled the trigger.