FrostLine (31 page)

“No. You didn't go back to the party until
after
you killed him.”

“I didn't kill him. You just went through it yourself. I had neither the motivation nor the means. For Christ sake, Abbott, how could I kill a jailhouse brawler half my age?”

Killer question. King was in pretty good shape for his age, solidly built, but shorter than Dicky, who must have out-weighed him by fifty pounds. I'd seen King's temper. But how could he take a man so much bigger, stronger, and younger? What anger had super-charged his strength?

King's deepset, hooded eyes shifted toward the stream, again. This was a man who yelled that a coffee cup with a spot on it was “filthy.” At his cookout I'd seen him scrub his fingernails as fastidiously as a surgeon.

I got it at last.

The wolf had marked his territory.

“Dicky pissed in your stream. He opened his pants and pissed in the stream.”

King stared off into the trees for a full minute. Then he stared at me. Then he looked around, confirming that we were alone in the woods. He sounded detached, at first, like a man narrating a movie, but soon righteous with passion.

“The stream was low. Just a trickle. It had been a while since the rains….I saw this ugly yellow stain spread down from his property into mine—These backwoods
scum
were destroying everything I had worked for. I threw myself through the deer fence. It stung like bees, which made me madder, and I threw a wild punch. He fell backward, laughing at me.

“Then he stood up and I thought, this monster's going to kill me. I was terrified. I'm sixty years old. I hadn't been in a fight since I was sixteen. I was going to die in the woods, beside a pile of broken bottles. Then it was like a miracle. He stopped to put on a glove.

“It was the best chance I'd get.

“I grabbed his wine bottle and hit him in the head. I didn't mean to kill him. I figured the bottle would break and stun him and I'd run. But it didn't break. It caught him right in front of the ear and crushed…His head split, like I'd dropped a cantaloupe or something.
I only meant to stop him from killing me…
.Can't you understand that, Ben?”

I could imagine his fear at the moment a brawler like Dicky Butler climbed menacingly to his feet. Had I gotten my hands on the bikers' wrench I'd have easily, accidently killed one of them down in Derby. “You could plead self-defense.”

“I'm not pleading anything. It's over. He's dead and buried and it's time for the rest of us to get on with our lives.”

I recalled a line from a Mary-Chapin Carpenter song Julia had played on the jukebox: “The world is kinder to the kind who won't look back.”

That depended on what they were not looking back on.

“So you had a body on your hands,” I said.

“As you've guessed.”

“With its head bashed in.”

“He would have killed me.”

“And a nearby dam set conveniently to explode.”

“In that I was damned lucky.”

“The famous luck of the Silver Fox?”

“Not the first time it's rescued me.” He smiled in gratitude to the Higher Power that arranged such things.

“But this time you stretched your luck,” I said. “You overreached. You weren't satisfied with lucky and convenient. You got greedy.”

Chapter 31

Henry King looked at me like I had lurched from the gutter to shake an empty cup in his face. He had unburdened himself. He would deny anything repeated by the real estate agent with the checkered past. My word against his, no corroboration.

“Greedy? What did you want me to do, wreck my life by confessing to the cops? Forget it.”

I said, “You know that's not what I mean. You got greedy.”

“You promised to return the glove, Abbott.”

“Butler's dynamite wasn't booby-trapped. Your people removed it immediately. There was no way Julia would take a chance leaving it in place. But when you had to get rid of the body, you got this great idea to put the dynamite
back
and blow the dam.

“Except somebody noticed there was a variety of dynamites. All different types. And it occurred to them what Mr. Butler had done.”

“What had he done?” asked King.

“He didn't want to get caught any more than you want to get caught. He used untraceable dynamite. Leftovers he picked up from jobs here and there—not hard for a guy with a license. That's when you got greedy. You figured if you had to lose your lake in the process of covering up your murder, you might as well turn a profit.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Two birds with one stone. You sent my stupid cousins up to Butler's farm and stole his legitimate dynamite—traceable explosive he had purchased at Pendleton Powder—and used it to blow the dam onto Dicky's body.”

“You're nuts, Abbott.”

“That's how Mr. Butler knew the instant the Feds traced the dam explosion to Pendleton Powder that you had switched loads and killed his son. Got to hand it to you. You thought fast under all that pressure. It was a great plan. Butler got interrogated, harassed, and jailed. At best the poor guy'll be locked up forever, at worst, you'll drive him crazy. Either way, you'll get his farm.”

“Then why did I pay for his defense?”

“That was my idea and you loved it. For twenty-five thousand dollars, you looked innocent. Cheaper than half a million to buy him another farm. Dollars to doughnuts, while you pretend to pressure the state's attorney to drop the case, Josh Wiggens'll keep tossing raw meat to Detective-Sergeant Boyce.”

I turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“I'll bring the glove up to your house. I'm done with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've already photographed it, and scraped samples of Dicky Butler's sweat. Detective Boyce can get a DNA match out of his coffin.”

“So what?”

“The glove alone won't convict, but it sure will scare the hell out of the people who covered up for you. I'll turn them if it takes me all year.”

King sighed. “I can only hope that you'll get bored and stop slandering me after six months.”

“I'll start with Josh Wiggens.”

“Do it before lunch, if you want coherence.”

“How about Bert Wills?”

Henry King took off his cap, ran his hand through his hair, and jammed it on again. Then he looked me straight in the face. “You'll find Bert in my wife's bedroom. Or on warm nights, in my sunken garden.”

I tried to look shocked.
Shocked.
“You know?”

“Of course I know, you idiot. He keeps her off my back until I can work out an affordable divorce.”

Sounded awfully like Julia would be registering at Tiffany's.

I said, “If that's so, then Bert has lots to lose. And more to win by selling you out. Even if he didn't help you carry the body, he probably knows who did. Josh would be my guess. But I don't have to guess. My friend Detective-Sergeant Boyce is a smart woman with political ambitions. And a real bear of a confessor. You know how she breaks people down? Once she knows what to ask, she says, ‘Bert, Josh, whoever, the door to immunity from accessory to murder is here. First one on line gets through.' Before you know it, Bert gives up a piece. Josh gives a piece. And my friend hands you to the State's Attorney.”

Henry King plunged a hand into his pocket and whipped out a Motorola two-way. “Front and center!”

Josh? I prayed to see him saunter from the forest. Or Bert Wills? Even Jenkins hugging Mrs. King's shoes? But no such luck, and no surprises. I saw Julia Devlin moving through the trees.

She walked past me, eyes down. I'd expected defiance, or anger at me, or a look of love for King, but she just stared at the leaf-strewn ground. Yet something easy in her stance spoke of pride or resolve. It was very puzzling.

“Julia,” King said, “Ben has the glove in his car and he claims to have taken photos and scrapings from it. We'll want them from his house.”

I said to Julia, “You didn't find it in my house last night because I put it in my glove compartment. And I am willing to believe that you were looking for more than the glove.”

She said to King, “There is nothing he can prove.”

“He'll push, and push, and push until someone falls. I can't allow it.”

Julia gathered herself, and yet couldn't seem to raise her head. “I'm sorry, Ben.”

When I looked back at King, he was smiling the bored smile of a victor anxious to get on to other things.

And when I turned to Julia she was already airborne, lofting at me like a panther.

Chapter 32

Aunt Connie was sitting down to afternoon tea, miles away, but she saved my life. Thanks to her sharper eye than mine, I knew why Julia Devlin never carried Henry King's bags. And remembered it in time to take her flying kick on my chest instead of my throat.

I picked myself off the ground, confident that I outweighed her by enough. She knew too, of course, and was standing easily with a pretty little gun braced professionally in a cross-wrist grip.

“Don't.”

It never crossed my mind. Here was the warrior woman I'd imagined last March at Fox Trot, the grandee's daughter fighting Moors. If it was any consolation, I was an accurate judge of character, only slow on the uptake.

“Sorry, Ben,” she said again. She looked like she meant it and I answered from my heart, “Not half as sorry as I am.”

King looked over sharply. “What the hell's going on? Julia, is there something I should know?”

“No,” I said. “She's very loyal.”

I'm not that self-effacing, or even that gentlemanly—it would have taken the spirit of a punching bag to be so after what Julia had done to me—but as there were two of them and one of me and she had the gun, I thought it best to confuse him a little, and her a lot.

“Did I mention that Josh Wiggens also helped Mr. Butler escape from jail?”

“We heard on the police scanner that he had escaped. He won't run far with the entire Connecticut State Police force after him.”

“My guess is Agent Josh figured, Let the cops shoot him down and get it over with.”

King shrugged. “Josh,” he said, “always had a gift for the details.”

“Josh figured wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Butler is not running….Who's guarding your front gate?”

King looked at Julia.

“Chevalleys.”

“Jesus Christ, Julia, get somebody out there with a brain.”

“The gate is locked,” she said coolly. “The road spikes will stop him dead even if he gets through. Which he can't.”

“Goddammit, do I have to do everything? Give me that radio!” He snatched her two-way handset and started shouting, “Chevalley boys. Chevalley boys. Are you there? Goddammed numskulls.”

“
Yes, sir! We're here, sir.
” It was Dennis, sounding reasonably sharp.

“You looking out for Butler?”

“
He just got here.
”

“What?”

“
Yeah. Sir. He just drove up. Boy, he's got something weird hanging off the front of his truck—Albert, go see what the hell that 'sucker—SHIT!
”

“What?”

I heard a sharp bang in the distance. King cried out and whipped the radio from his ear and we all heard Dennis shouting, “
Run, Albert, run
!”

“Don't run!” King screamed.

“
The thing in front blew the gate right off the hinges! He's throwing bombs.
”

Staccato banging on the radio was echoed by explosions in the valley. Then deep, deep silence.

“Chevalleys?…Chevalleys?…Answer me!”

“
He got in, sir. We couldn't stop him.
”

“Get him!”

“
He bombed our truck. The son of a bitch bombed our truck.
”

“The spikes will stop him,” said King.

Now I knew why Mr. Butler had loaded his truck with boards.

Julia drew her cell phone, speed dialed without moving her gun enough to tempt me to try anything, and spoke urgently with the house. “Button up. Don't let anyone in.”

“Tell them to get out of the house,” I said.

“They're safer inside.”

“No, they aren't. Get them out—Julia, listen to me. Get them out of the house.”

“He'll never get past the spikes,” said King.

“He will,” I said. “The house is his target. Tell them to run.”

“The house?” King cried. “Tell them to stay and fight.”

“Julia. They're maids and gardeners. Tell them to run.”

Julia spoke into the phone. “Close the shutters and get everybody out. Everyone. Now!” She looked at me. “I'm not a killer.”

Choosing to ignore a kick that almost killed me, and not wanting to hear the answer to a stupid question like, Did you sleep with me to keep tabs on my investigation, I contented myself with an angry, “But your boss is. And you know it.”

“
Henry
! Stop!”

Henry King was already a hundred feet downstream, running like the wind.

Julia took off after him.

She was fast and agile. I was slowed by my wet clothing and not quite so nimble. She whisked through the trees with that panther ease of hers, screaming for Henry to stop. Once she fell, sprawling. I gained ten yards, before I tripped over a root and went down, too.

Back on my feet, running flat out, dodging trees and shrubs and granite ledges, I could see sunlight down the slope as the trees began to thin. I tripped again, but caught my balance and kept running.

They broke out of the woods into a hayfield. Amazingly, King was still pulling ahead of Julia, fueled by the sight of Mr. Butler's old blue truck drawing into the cobblestone motor court.

Fox Trot servants were streaming from the terrace doors: a cook and sous chef in white, maids in black, a plumber in overalls. Jenkins, last out, counted heads and ran them toward the woods.

The farmer climbed out and began unloading planks. He seemed to be moving slowly, such was his deliberation. Working at a smooth and steady pace, he constructed a ramp of boards up the front steps. Just as earlier he had laid a wooden ramp over the driveway spikes.

Josh Wiggens came lurching up the slope from the old house, waving his pistol. He passed Mrs. King and Bert Wills, who were emerging from the sunken garden, and fired a wild shot. DaNang streaked from the cab and charged him like yellow lightning.

Wiggens braced and fired, again. The shot kicked dust from the cobblestones. The dog kept coming. The CIA man drew a bead.

A sullen boom. Wiggens ducked. Another, echoing loudly. Josh slewed away and joined the servants running for the woods. Mr. Butler propped his rifle against his truck and unloaded another plank.

Henry King ran pell-mell down the fields and onto the lawn that sloped toward the house. Julia was catching up now. I put on a burst of speed. I caught her in my arms, and wrestled her to the ground. “Let me go,” she screamed. “Let me go! I have to stop him.”

“Too late.”

She doubled me over with her knee and started after him again.

In that moment I could see exactly what was going to happen as clearly as if a pilot had skywritten it in chalk-white letters overhead. And the only thing that made sense to me was to save one soul less guilty than the others.

Butler climbed into his truck. He whistled. His dog jumped in back, standing high on the cargo. The farmer drove up the ramp, up the front steps, building speed, aiming at the front door.

The Ford was an old three-quarter tonner with heavy bumpers. It crashed through the double oak doors like a battering ram and disappeared into the dark of the center foyer. The last I saw of them was DaNang, barking like a Dalmatian on a hook-and-ladder.

“
Henry
!” Julia screamed. “Henry!”

I took my last shot, lunged after Julia, hit her legs and staggered her. She fell on the grass a yard from the motor court as King reached the front steps. Julia twisted around with her gun. “Don't!”

“Leave him. It's too late. Live your life.”

“He is my life. I told you. I love him.”

“Why'd you hook up with—”

“I thought you'd rescue me.”

All I could do was offer my hand and whisper, “Please.”

It slowed her for a moment. But she turned toward the house, and was surging to her feet, when Butler's truck bomb exploded with a roar that blew the shutters off and knocked us to the grass. Dust and fire poured from the windows. The house trembled.

The mighty portico fell first, tumbling as the pillars shattered. Then the entire center collapsed, the roof descending in one huge piece, slates smashing musically, until all that remained was an empty space framed by the opposite wings.

Through that void, I could see a patchwork of woods and hayfields, Fox Trot's and the neighbors' beyond. They were fenced by ancient walls, stacked stone by stone by the families who had farmed and logged these hills. And loved. And hoped, like the weeping woman raging bitterly at me. “I'd have caught up if you hadn't stopped me.”

“If I hadn't stopped you, you'd be under that too.”

Sirens howled. Julia turned her desolate face to the ruined house. “At least he's better off than in prison.”

I doubted Dicky Butler would agree.

But she would need to believe that for a very long time. Her heart was broken and the troopers were coming.