Things Beyond Midnight (28 page)

Mrs. Ansford. Laura. Young enough to be his granddaughter. Tall and extremely attractive. Pale skin, almost translucent. Large forest-green eyes. Hair the color of dark burgundy, brushed back, ribboned in velvet. She’s upset. Tears glitter along her cheeks. “It’s not fair, Charles. You
can’t fire
him!”

“Hah! Can’t, eh? Already have. Right here in this office, not ten minutes ago. Told him to get his ass out of my building.”

Her voice trembles between rage and confusion. “But, why? He’s the best district manager you’ve ever had! He’s
doubled
your export sales to Europe. I just don’t understand the reason for all this. What has Ben done?”

A snarl. The old man’s blue-veined hands tighten on the chair. “He’s done
you
, that’s what he’s done!”

Laura looks stunned. Ansford wheels abruptly to his desk—a white glacier of chrome and shining glass—picks up a metal cannister, brandishing it like a weapon. His hooded eyes shine. “Think I was fooled? Think I didn’t
know
? It’s all here—in sound and color. You and Ben Carrick, rutting like animals.”

She stares at him. His words, verbal blows, have left her bruised and silent.

Now Ansford’s voice softens. Oiled sarcasm. “I’m disappointed in you, Laura. You really should have conducted your sordid affair with more discretion.”

She moves to a side cabinet, pours a jolt of Scotch, swallows it. The drink gives her the courage to face him again. Calmer now. “It’s been lonely... with you gone so much of the time. All those trips to Zürich. Ben was around when I needed someone to talk to. What happened between us... Well, it wasn’t planned, it just
evolved
.”

Ansford is enjoying himself. His thin mouth tightens into an iced smile. “Don’t bother lying to me. We
both
know why attractive young women marry overage cripples.”

Her eyes are steady. “I never pretended to marry you for love, Charles. But I
do
care for you... worry about you.”

“Bullshit! What you worry about is how long you’ll have to keep waiting for my money, how long I’ll last.”

“That’s not true!”

“The point is, Laura dearest, your lover boy is out. Finished. I don’t like thieves who try to steal my property.” His eyes radiate power. “He didn’t buy you, I did.”

A cutting edge to her tone: “I
should
hate you.”

“Go ahead. But it won’t change anything. I’ve never required love from you—or anyone else.”

She moves to the door, speaks with her back to him. “I’m going to find Ben and tell him goodbye. I owe him that.”

“I don’t give a damn what you tell him. But just make him understand that it’s
ended
.”

An orange late-model GT Ford Mustang. Parked on a shaded street under a sweep of trees. Two people inside. Ben and Laura.

Carrick is thirty-five. Tanned and handsome, with dark, calculating eyes. Wearing a custom-cut sports jacket. Tailored shirt and slacks. His face is flushed with anger as he looks at Laura, who is upset, trembling.

“You’re acting exactly the way he
wants
you to act,” Ben tells her. “Don’t you know that old bastard enjoys seeing you crawl?”

Laura shakes her head, eyes not meeting his. “We should
never
have let it happen. We have to stop.”

“Stop, hell! You know damn well we can’t.”

And he pulls her tightly against him, kisses her. A violent, hungry exchange.

“But, Ben—he’ll know. He has pictures of us... hidden cameras... We can’t go on seeing each other. Not now.”

Carrick doesn’t respond. He stares out the front window of the car. “What are you thinking?” she asks.

“The next night you’ll be alone with him in the house... which night?”

“Thursday. Tomorrow night. The servants have Thursdays off.”

“Well...” Ben says softly, “I’m going to kill him.” His tone is flat and emotionless.

She clutches his shoulder, breathing quickly. “No, Ben—that’s insane. Just
saying
it is insane!”

“He’s half dead already. Heart’s about gone. I’ll just be speeding up the process a little. It’ll be an accident... I’ll make sure it looks like an accident.”

Laura turns abruptly away from him. The line of her jaw tightens. “I won’t listen to this.” She opens the door, steps out. “It’s over, Ben. I’m not going to see you again. Ever.”

And she walks rapidly away from the orange Mustang.

With a faint smile, Ben watches her go.

Deep night. A swollen yellow moon between massed clouds. Ansford House, tall and imposing, rides a dark sea of trimmed grass. A bedroom window glows with light on the second floor.

Ansford is awake in his wide, canopied bed. He tosses aside the evening edition of the
Boston Globe
, muttering to himself. “War and murder... that’s all they print these days.” Raises his voice. “Laura! Where the devil
are
you?”

He grabs a heavy, weathered-hickory cane, bangs it hard against the floor.

The bedroom door opens. Laura is there, with a tray. Warm milk and wheat toast. “I burned the milk. Had to heat up some more. That’s why it took so long.”

He scowls up at her, his mouth twisting in scorn. “Can’t even heat milk! My God!”

Nervously, she arranges the tray on his lap. Spills a few drops of milk. They spatter the old man’s arm. He jerks back, cursing her.

“I’m sorry, Charles.”

She starts to examine his arm, but he twists away from her. “Leave me alone! You’ve done enough damage.”

Her eyes search his face. “Why are you always so cruel to me?”

He snorts. “Cruel! You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out with Carrick. Believe me, I
considered
it.”

They both react to a thudding sound, muted but distinct. From below stairs.

“Somebody’s in the house,” Ansford declares.

With amazing agility, he slides his body from the bed into a wheelchair, opens the drawer of a night table, removing a .45 automatic. Checks the load. Satisfied, he wheels toward the door.

Laura steps in front of his chair, blocking him. “Don’t go out there. I’ll phone the police.”

“Get out of my way. I can handle this.”

He wheels to the door, opens it.

Panic in Laura’s voice. “Don’t go
out
there, Charles!”

Ansford ignores her, his eyes burning. He wheels down the dim hallway to the main stair landing. The marble steps drop away into darkness below him, wide and silent.

The old man takes the automatic from his lap, releasing the safety. “Anybody down there?”

Silence.

“Damn you, I’m coming!” And he eases the chair onto an elevator platform, reaching out to activate the mechanism.

A hand snakes from the darkness to close, viselike, on his gun wrist. Ansford cries out in pain—as the automatic clatters to the marbled landing.

“Carrick!”

“Right, you withered old bastard.” A harsh chuckle.

“You’re here to kill me!”

“Right again.” And Carrick jams the heels of both hands against the back of Ansford’s chair, propelling it forward with a violent shove. The wheelchair sails into blackness.

Ansford’s gasping cry is lost in the slamming descent of the heavy chair as it batters its way, twisting and rolling, to the bottom of the marble stairway.

There is now no sound.

In the silence, Laura stands at Ben’s shoulder, horror in her shocked eyes. “You’ve killed him!”

“He had an accident. Thought he heard a noise. Came out here to the stairs. Got frightened and put a wheel over the edge. Chair carried him down with it...”

As he says this, Carrick is descending the stairs. He reaches Ansford, checks the old man’s body. “... and the fall broke his neck.” He looks up at Laura, smiles thinly. “A tragic household accident.”

“Ben, I don’t—”

“You’ll report it all to the police. And they’ll believe you. No problems.”

She has joined Carrick at the bottom of the stairway. Laura stares at the broken body of her husband, motionless in the smashed chair. One of the chrome wheels continues to revolve slowly, glinting faintly in the light from the upper hallway. The old man’s eyes stare back at her, wide and unblinking. His head is twisted at a sickening angle.

“I won’t do it, Ben. I won’t lie to save you.”

“Sure you will.” he says. “Because you hated him as much as I did.”

She is sobbing, head lowered.

“I’m leaving now.” Carrick tells her. “Nobody saw me come here tonight. And nobody will see me go. Once I’m clear, phone the police. Okay?”

She raises her head, staring at him, the shock still in her eyes.

Ben takes her firmly by the shoulders, pulls her close to him. His tone is intense, commanding. “Just do as I say and we’re out of this, free and clear.
Will
you do as I say?”

Numbly, with a half-sob, she nods.

A narrow blacktop ribbon, looping below sun-spangled autumn trees. The orange GT Mustang, Ben driving, with Laura beside him, hums smoothly around a long turn.

“I’m not sure this is right... us driving down together,” says Laura. “As district manager of Ansford Enterprises I’m expected at the old boy’s funeral. And, as a gesture of courtesy, I volunteer to drive the grief-stricken widow to the ceremony. All perfectly normal.”

“How do you know he didn’t tell anyone he was firing you?”

“Because he didn’t want to admit that you and I were having an affair. I’ve checked around—and no one knows. He would have announced my resignation, with deep regret, at the stockholders meeting next week.” Ben grins. “It’s like I said, we’re in the clear.”

“The police seemed to accept what I told them—but I’m not a very good liar. I hate doing it.”

“You did great. They bought the accident story, just like I knew they would. No problems.” He glances over at her, runs the fingers of his left hand along her cheek, “And I
do
love you.”

She smiles at him, A tentative, nervous smile. “I want to believe that, Ben. I really want to.”

The GT rolls into a graveled parking lot, pulling to a stop behind a painted sign, red script on white:

SUTTER CREEK INN
Famous For New England
Hospitality since 1890
WELCOME!

Ben and Laura exit the Mustang and walk inside the trim Colonial style building. A hostess leads them to a booth at the far side of the long dining/bar area. The room is warm with color, old-worldly, with a beamed-oak ceiling and heavy gilt mirrors.

Laura begins to relax as a waitress in starched green, with lace at her throat, takes their drink order: a Manhattan, straight up, for Laura; Scotch rocks for Ben.

At the bar, three men eye the couple. The tallest of the trio, Brig Rollins, leans toward his two companions. “Well willya lookee there. Never seen them two in here before.”

Ted Aker stares at them, finishing his whiskey with a quick swallow. “In for the funeral, most likely. Wouldn’t you say, Arly?”

Lean and unshaven, Arly Stubbs narrows his dark eyes to study the newcomers. “Real fine folks, those two. And dressed real fine. Yeah... down from Boston sure enough. Seems as like I’ve seen that lady’s picture in the paper.”

Rollins nods. “Me too. By damn, I think she’s Ansford’s widow woman.”