Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (29 page)

The squeaking grew louder. The wheels thudded over the tile
joints. In the kitchen, the rattling of pots and pans continued.

Abruptly, Harper Weems rolled into the living room. He
shook his head. His long blond hair lay over his shoulders.

Everyone froze, stunned by the sudden apparition. Before
anyone could speak, he glared at Briggs and Handwell. “It’s
payback time, boys. Next time you try to murder someone,
make sure you do the job right.”

With mouths gaping, everyone turned to the two high school
seniors. Handwell blubbered, “I didn’t want to, Mr. Weems.
Honest. It was Tim.” He ran forward and threw himself on the
floor in front of the wheelchair. “I didn’t want to. Please. I’m
sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, Marvin.” Tim’s enraged voice echoed through the
condo. “You dumb jerk. It’s a trick. That’s his twin brother.”

“It might be a trick, Tim, but it worked,” I said, starting
toward him.

Arthur Weems rose from the wheelchair, anger and rage contorting his face. “You no good…”

Desperate, Tim spun toward the kitchen just as Chief
Pachuca’s bulky frame filled the door. The young man turned
on me, his eyes dark with hate, his face twisted with rage.
“You … you … “

“Give it up, Tim. You got no place to run.”

Marvin continued blubbering on the floor while all the others sat in stunned disbelief.

With the roar of an enraged bull, the young killer turned and
leaped through the leaded front window, shattering the glass
and ripping out the metal mullions.

“Get him,” yelled Pachuca, vaulting out the window into the
darkness.

I was right behind the chief. “Where’d he go?”

“Around back. You go around the other side of the condo.”

Vanbiber joined me in the chase. I didn’t argue. Briggs was
a husky young man in the prime of his life. I wasn’t anxious to
tackle him without another body or a ball bat. Preferably both.

Night had settled over the complex. Occasional shafts of
light from streetlamps penetrated the canopy of leaves covering
the grounds. The trees themselves were almost impossible to
see until you were on top of them. Off to my right, I could hear
Chief Pachuca huffing and groaning.

Ahead, a shadow cut across my course. I angled to my left.
“This way!” I yelled, keeping the shadowy figure of Briggs in
sight.

Behind me, I heard a thud and a groan. I didn’t have time to
look around. Ahead, Briggs hit the fence. I heard him scramble
over. Seconds later, I followed, throwing myself over the fence
and tumbling to the ground.

I rolled to my feet and peered into the darkness. I heard footsteps ahead of me. Far to my right was a commotion. “Over
here, Chief!” I shouted, sprinting across the grassy yard after
Briggs.

Suddenly, the high school senior screamed, and then I heard
a splash. Seconds later, the ground went out from under my feet. Arms and legs windmilling, I flew through the air. A stray
shaft of light from the streetlamps revealed a swimming pool
beneath me.

I hit the water and slammed into Briggs, who instantly started punching at me with one hand and flailing water with the
other. I swung back, and immediately sank.

I sputtered to the surface and swung at him, or where I
thought he was, but the water slowed the blows. It’s hard to
deliver damaging punches while treading water. For that I was
grateful. Briggs was tough and young and hard as a rock. His
muscles had muscles, and mine, well, all I could say was I had
what laughingly passed for muscles. If he could have planted
his feet for leverage, I’d probably end up with my jaws wired
together for three months.

We grappled. His fingers clawed at my face. A finger the size
of a Louisiana sausage jammed into my mouth. I did what
came naturally. I bit the heck out of it.

He screamed and jerked it loose, loosening also a couple of
my incisors. He cursed and grunted and swung again. His bony
knuckles bounced off my temple.

Karate-style, I jabbed my extended fingers at his face. They
hit something soft, and he screamed. He lunged at me, slamming his plate-sized hands down on my shoulders and driving
me underwater. He dug his fingers into my flesh, holding me
down.

I twisted and struggled, wondering just where in the blazes
Chief Pachuca and Vanbiber were. I was fast running out of
breath. My ears roared. Red flashes exploded in my skull. I had
to do something and fast, so I did what any red-blooded
American male would do.

I hit him in the crotch.

And then I was free.

I slipped between his legs and came up behind him, throwing my arms around his throat and my legs around his waist. I
squeezed as hard as I could. It was like trying to choke a tree trunk. “Now, you bag of sleaze, it’s your turn.” I grunted
through clenched teeth.

Somewhere on the neck was a pressure point that should
knock him out, but where? Choking and sputtering, I swore if I
made it out of this mess that the first thing I would learn would
be the exact location of that pressure point.

Cursing, he twisted and turned and rolled, trying to reach the
shallow end of the pool. We were underwater more than above,
but I clung like a tick on a dog’s rear, clenching my teeth and
squeezing for all I was worth. I felt his feet touch bottom.

Suddenly, he lunged backward, slamming me into the side of
the pool. The back of my head cracked against the pool apron,
bounced forward and slammed into the back of his head. He
staggered forward, then threw himself backwards again.

Stars exploded in my head, but I held tight and squeezed
harder. “Drop, blast you, drop.”

Like an eight ball caroming off the pad, my head bounced
off the pool apron again and slammed into the back of his head.
A warm liquid ran down into my eyes. I struggled against the
wave of dizziness threatening me. I didn’t think I could stand
one more blow to the back of my head.

Abruptly, Briggs went limp. We both sank under the water. I
came up sputtering, but the shadows of the pool hid the high
school senior from my sight. There was no splashing, which
meant he was probably drowning. Good riddance, but I relented. I couldn’t let him drown.

Easing forward, I felt with my feet. Off to my left, I found
him. Gasping for breath, I dragged him to the shallow end of
the pool and draped his torso across the pool deck, leaving his
legs dangling in the water. I climbed out of the pool and stood
over the dark shadow at my feet, ready to kick out his teeth if
he tried anything.

Across the yard, I heard someone climbing the fence.
“Boudreaux. You out there?”

It was Chief Pachuca. “Over here.”

Feet pounded toward me. “Chief! Hey! Watch our for the
swimming …

A loud splash at the other end of the pool cut off my warning.

A water-soaked cop and a water-soaked PI with an equally
water-soaked killer stood dripping water in the foyer of
Weems’ condo. I held a handkerchief to my forehead, which
had split open when I hit the back of Tim’s head.

Vanbiber sat on the couch, his head thrown back, a golfballsized bloody knot on his forehead. He had straddled a tree in
the dark.

Head down and sobbing, Handwell stood handcuffed between
two Safford police officers. He had admitted everything.

Pachuca pushed Briggs toward them. “Here’s the other one.
You know what to do with them.”

After the killers were taken away, Chief Pachuca grinned at
me crookedly. “Well, Boudreaux, you got lucky.”

Holding a paper napkin to my bleeding forehead, I let my
shoulders sag. “Yeah, I guess I did.” I looked around. “What I’d
like right now is a stiff drink.” I guess that moment was when I
said goodbye to AA.

“Right this way,” said Arthur Weems, leading the way to the
wet bar in one corner of the living room, still wearing the
blond wig.

I hesitated. “We’ll drip on your carpet.”

He gestured us in. “Who cares? Come on in. I’ll get you
another napkin for that head.”

Perry Jacobs stepped forward. “How did you know it was
them?”

I chuckled. “I didn’t click on it at first. Then I remembered
Briggs saying that Weems had tried to deal him some drugs
four years ago. That’s what Marvin was talking about tonight.”

Jacobs frowned. “So?”

“Impossible. That’s when Weems was convalescing from the
accident in his van. He was staying with Arthur in Denver.”

Kim Nally agreed. “I remember that. Harp wasn’t teaching
four years ago.”

“But, why did they kill my brother?” Arthur Weems asked,
tossing the wig on the snack bar.

“Just a guess, but I think your brother had an idea something
was going on between the boys and Holderman. One night at
Lupes’ Tacos, I saw Harper try to take some drugs from Tim. I
think he wanted to help the boys, get them to stop before it was
too late. Maybe he threatened to go to the cops.”

Frances Holderman cleared her throat. “You think he might
have figured out they killed my husband?”

I finished off my bourbon. “Chances are, he did. From my
days in the classroom, I remember being very aware of the
undercurrents among students. Kids can’t keep secrets. Sooner
or later, they’ve got to tell someone, if only to brag.”

Arthur Weems studied the glass of bourbon in his hand. “So,
what you’re telling me is that Harper got himself killed because
he was trying to help some high school kids.” He looked at me,
and I could see a flash of bitterness in his eyes.

I looked around the room. Everyone was looking at me.
“Arthur, a teacher is a very special person. He has a knack, an
affinity for kids. If you don’t have that gift, teaching is a miserable job. If you do, you make a big contribution to the world.
You might not think it then, but it’s true, nevertheless. So, to
answer your question, yes. Harper got himself killed because
he was trying to help kids.”

I grinned at Chief Pachuca who had knocked down three fingers of scotch. “I promise one thing. By the time Marvin stops
crying, you’ll know everything there is to know.”

Chief Pachuca nodded slowly and held up his glass in a toast
to my prediction.

They say that death and luck run in threes.

What happened next made me a believer in that maxim.

I felt pretty smug during the drive to my apartment that
night. This had been a big day. Janice had her $85,000 back in
the bank; Vanderweg was where he deserved to be; two murders were solved; Frances Holderman was happy; Marty
Blevins, my boss, would be ecstatic; I would be $5,000 ahead;
and the Universal Life Insurance Company would close their
eyes and weep.

My apartment was dark when I pulled up out front. My head
had stopped bleeding, and I was anxious for a hot shower and a
warm bed, but first, I nuked some milk for Cat, only to discover the little feline had disappeared. I searched the apartment
and the shrubbery outside the door.

He was gone. He must have darted out when I opened the
door. I shrugged. Just as well, I told myself. I didn’t need another pet anyway, but I was going to miss the little guy.

Just as I started back into my apartment, a police cruiser
pulled up at the curb and the uniform called out. “Tony
Boudreaux?”

Puzzled, I replied, “Yeah.”

“A cadaver came into the morgue with your name and
address in his pocket. We need you to identify the body if you
can.”

My ears roared. All I could do was gape at the officer.

The dash lights of the cruiser illuminated the concern on his
face. “Mr. Boudreaux, are you all right?”

I managed to choke out a single question. “A black man?”

“Yeah.”

“Young?”

He nodded.

Nausea swept over me, knotting my stomach. I cursed
myself all the way to the morgue.

It was Stewart. Gangland execution. Hands behind back, bullet in back of head.

Austin PD dropped me off at my place just after 2 A.M.

With my insides ripped out, I watched until the black and
white disappeared around the corner. I stared up at the cold,
impersonal stars and thought of Harper Weems who died trying
to help kids, and I thought of myself. “At least,” I muttered to
the twinkling stars, “we both tried to help, Harp. We might not
have made it, but we tried, and nobody can take that from us “

But, as I stood on the porch, staring up into the starry heavens, I wondered if there had been something else I could have
done, should have done. Or was it, according to the French
writer, Anatole France, simply chance, that pseudonym God
uses when He doesn’t want to sign His name?

I closed my eyes and prayed that when I opened them, the
sun would be brightly shining.

It wasn’t.

Reluctantly, I opened the door and went inside. Now, I faced
making the hardest telephone call of my life.