Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (29 page)

Rhona finished at two o'clock and left the station to grab a quick chili dog, heavy on the onions, from George's mobile cart before she drove over to the Staynors.

Three cars in the driveway and another on the street told
her a support group had gathered. When she rang the bell, she felt no surprise when one of the women she'd last seen bustling around the church hall after Robertson's funeral opened the door and said, “It's Detective Simpson, isn't it? Come in.”

Rhona smiled at her and waited inside the front entrance. Moments later, Staynor shambled into the hall and raised red eyes. “You never give up, do you?”

“I'm sorry to intrude, but if you'd tell me briefly about your childhood, I'll be on my way.”

Staynor didn't invite Rhona to come further or to sit down. In a low voice he said, “Did you ever read J.M. Barrie? He wrote
Peter Pan
. Well, he also said the only thing to motivate anyone to return from beyond would be the wish of a mother who had died young to return and reassure herself about the fate of her child. My mother died young; I'm hoping she never returned.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Ten.”

“What happened then?”

“We buried her.”

“Did your father remarry.”

“Eventually.”

“Where were you living when your mother died?”

“Windsor.”

“Do you remember much from those years.”

Two big tears rolled slowly down Staynor's cheeks as he shook his head.

“I am sorry. I
will
have to talk to you again, but that's it for today.”

Wordlessly, Staynor opened the door and showed her out.

Four thirty. Did she have time to drive to the station and speak to Ms Cardwell again?

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.”