Spellbinder (32 page)

Denise was leaning over the gate, awkwardly using her key to unlock the padlock. He looked back over his shoulder, searching the dark trees for some sign of Mitchell. Nothing stirred. If Mitchell had the road blocked, he would be holding that position.

With the padlock unlocked, she was unlatching the gate, swinging it open—toward him. She was coming closer—closer. She would bend over and drop the big hook into the eye screwed into the stump, to keep the gate from swinging shut.

She was five feet from the stump. Three feet. She was bending down again, this time feeling for the hook in the darkness.

“Denise,” he whispered. “Don’t look up. It’s me. Peter.”

He saw her stiffen, begin to involuntarily straighten. But then, by force of will, she bent down again, her fingers on the hook. As she stooped, he saw a length of chain dangling from her neck: Carson had chained her up, like an animal.

“When you go back to the car—when you get close to the door—drop down to the ground and roll under the car. He can’t get at you. Not with a rifle. And I’ve got a shotgun. Stay under the car. And remember, he can’t swing the rifle enough to get at you. He’s got to get out of the car first—out of the back seat. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered, dropping the hook in the eye.

“I’ve got help. Your father sent help. It’ll be all right. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“All right—” He drew a deep, unsteady breath as he pulled back the shotgun’s hammer. “All right—do it.”

He watched her straighten, watched her turn toward the car, watched her begin to walk—one pace—two paces—three. With every step, the chain tinkled musically. Inside the darkened car, the rifle barrel was moving, its muzzle tracking her.

She could die. In the next instant, following his orders, she could die.

Slowly, she reached out for the door handle—

—and then dropped to the ground.

Instantly, the door swung open.

He aimed at the driver’s window—squeezed the trigger—felt the shock of the shotgun’s recoil—heard the blast. Momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash, he jacked another shell into the chamber, lowering the barrel. The window was blown out; only fragments of shattered glass remained around its edges. From behind him came the sound of shouting, of help coming, crashing through the underbrush. On the far side of the car, the passenger’s door was swinging open. Carson would escape from the far side, drop to the ground, kill Denise where she lay.

“
Stop. Don’t move.
”

Inside the car, the rifle was swinging toward him. A flash—the sharp, staccato sound of a shot.

He fired, worked the shotgun’s slide, fired again—and again. Through the blinding flashes from the muzzle and the deafening sound of crashing shots, he heard himself shouting—

—and, still, working the slide, frantically firing—

—until, finally, only a metallic click came from the shotgun.

“
Quit.
” It was a scream from inside the car: a high, hysterical scream. “Quit. Jesus Christ.”

From beside him, he heard another voice, deep and calm. “Throw the gun out.” As he spoke, Mitchell was reaching for the shotgun. A measured, methodical series of metallic clacks followed. Mitchell was reloading the shotgun.

“Here it is. It’s coming.” As, from inside the car, the rifle came cartwheeling through the window, falling to the ground. Mitchell worked the shotgun’s slide—ready to fire. Saying: “Get out of the car, on this side. Put your hands on the roof. Now. Right now.”

Slowly, the shot-blasted door swung open—wider, still wider. Awkwardly, the man inside was pushing the driver’s seat forward. Now he was clambering cautiously out of the car. Raised high in the air, his hands were shaking violently.

“Don’t shoot. Jesus Christ, don’t shoot.”

“Turn around. Put your hands on the roof.”

As Carson obeyed, Mitchell asked calmly, “Are you all right, Giannini?”

Not replying, he stepped clear of the manzanita. “Denise.
Denise
.”

From under the car, he heard the small, timid sound of her voice: a thin, half-hysterical sound, infinitely grateful. Infinitely precious.

S
ITTING ON THE ARM
of her chair with his arm around her, he stroked her hair, kissed her once on top of the head and said softly, “How’re you doing?”

She moved her shoulder close against him, snuggling up. “I’ve still got the shakes. But the wine helped. I’d forgotten we had it.”

“My only regret is that we offered it around. I’ll bet anything Granbeck is an alcoholic.”

“I’ll bet you’re right.” Still with her body close to him, she whispered. “I’m never going to forget all that—that shooting. I felt like the world was ending. The whole world. Right then. Right there.”

“I know. I felt the same way. I felt—I
knew
—that I was going crazy. Really crazy.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe that’s the only way you get through something like that—to go a little crazy. Maybe that’s what war is all about.”

“You saved my life.” As she said it, she seemed to shiver, as if the memory frightened her. Then, solemnly: “You really did, Peter. You saved my life.”

He tightened his arm around her shoulder, wordlessly drawing her closer, whispering, “I’m just glad I didn’t kill him. Because that’s what I was trying to do. I was trying to kill him.”

“Yes.”

The single monosyllable, spoken so softly, confirmed that she shared his sense of horror—and of deliverance. Because nothing but the most capricious chance had saved him from a murderer’s guilt. Nothing but luck. The flying glass had cut Carson superficially around the face and head, but he hadn’t been seriously wounded. Yet the blood—his blood—had panicked him.

As they sat silently, content with what they’d said—and felt—he looked around the room. It was a strangely improbable tableau, somehow suspended in both time and space. Because none of these men belonged here—not Carson, sitting crouched down on the hearth with his bloodied head resting on his folded arms—not Galloway, dressed in his neat blue suit and holding the shotgun trained on Carson—not Granbeck, sprawled in the broken chair, eyes closed, gently snoring. And, certainly, not Mitchell or Flournoy, whispering together in a far corner of the room: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, in impeccable modern dress, conspiratorially sweeping the room with their shrewd, measuring eyes.

“This is like
The Iceman Cometh
,” he murmured.

“I want to go home,” she said. “Why don’t we just get in my car, and go?”

“No. I’m not leaving them here.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” He hesitated. Then: “Because I don’t trust them. Any of them.”

She didn’t reply.

And now, as if their inaudible remarks had roused the two plotters to some decision, he saw Flournoy suddenly look toward him. Inclining his head, as if to confirm some unspoken agreement between them, Flournoy raised his voice to say, “Can we talk for a few minutes, Mr. Giannini?”

He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, kissed her again on top of her head and rose to his feet. “Sure.”

“In there, then—” Flournoy pointed to the kitchen, where an oil lamp had been lit.

Crossing the living room, he followed the two men into the kitchen. Taking up a position leaning against the sink, arms folded across his elegantly cut topcoat, Flournoy said, “I’m wondering why your neighbors haven’t come by, after all that shooting.” He spoke softly, covertly. This, then, was a private conversation—their secret, even from Denise. Men’s business.

Leaning against the wall, also with his arms folded, he said, “First of all, the nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away.”

“Still, they’d have heard the shots.”

“True. But, unfortunately, shooting at night isn’t all that uncommon. There’s a lot of shining around here.”

“Shining?”

“Deer. It’s illegal. You catch a deer with a strong light, and he won’t move. You shoot him. Actually, most of the offenders are the natives, which is another reason no one asks questions. It’s a good way to fill the freezer, especially with the price of beef so high. They all do it.”

Flournoy glanced quickly, speculatively at Mitchell. Then, probing, he said, “You fired five shots. Carson fired one. A deer hunter wouldn’t fire that many shots.”

He shrugged. “Deer travel in families, very often.”

Another moment of speculative silence followed, while Flournoy and Mitchell exchanged another quick, meaningful look. Then Flournoy said, “You have two neighbors. Is that right?”

“Yes. The Taylors and the Andersons.”

“And neither of them have phones.”

“That’s right.”

Flournoy nodded: one slow, measured inclination of his beautifully barbered head.

Watching the two men as they each fell silent, staring off in different directions as they obviously calculated some secret odds, he decided to say: “Why all the questions?”

For a moment Flournoy didn’t reply, but instead simply stared at him, obviously still preoccupied by his calculations. Then, quietly, he said, “I’m trying to decide what to do next.”

“What’s the problem? We take him into town, and we turn him over to the sheriff. They charge him with kidnap and attempted murder.”

Flournoy’s answering stare was impassive, signifying neither agreement nor dissent.

“What’s the problem?” he repeated impatiently, this time including both men in his questioning stare.

“The problem,” Flournoy answered, “is that we don’t want this made public. Not if we can help it.”

“But—” Incredulously, he looked at each of the two men in turn. “But it—it’s
already
public. It happened, for Christ’s sake. The
law’s
been broken.”

Still with his arms folded, Flournoy merely nodded—conceding the point, but nothing more.

“And there’s one very shot-up car. Which, I assume, doesn’t belong to Carson. How’re you going to explain that?”

“We were just talking about that, in the living room,” Mitchell said. “There’re several things we could do,”

“But—Christ—” He flung out an impatient hand. “But there’s Carson. Arresting someone is a matter of public record, not to mention putting him on trial.”

“That,” Flournoy said, “is the problem. We can insure Granbeck’s silence—with enough money. And I assume that both you and Denise want what’s best for Mr. Holloway—which would be no publicity. But then, as you point out, we’ve still got Carson to—”

“Wait a minute.” He raised an abrupt hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that Austin Holloway thrived on publicity. So I’d think that, with a little adroit manipulation of the media, you could, make the whole thing turn out to your advantage. Holloway could become a saint. He could ask forgiveness for Carson. He could pray for his soul—on nationwide TV.”

“Very funny,” Flournoy said coldly.

He shrugged, at the same time glancing into the living room. Denise still sat as before, her eyes haunted. Another long moment of silence followed while Flournoy and Mitchell exchanged a last long, decisive stare. Finally Flournoy sighed. The exclamation seemed to express genuine regret.

“What you don’t understand,” Flournoy said quietly, “is that James Carson is actually Austin Holloway’s illegitimate son.”

Involuntarily, his eyes fled to the crouched figure of James Carson—then slowly returned to Flournoy. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Absolutely positive.”

“Does Denise know?”

“I haven’t asked her,” Flournoy answered. “But I assume that, during all the time they spent together, Carson probably told her. And, anyhow, it’s irrelevant, now, whether she knows or not. The point is that, as soon as Carson’s arrested, it’s bound to come out that he’s Holloway’s bastard son.”

“Christ.” Incredulously, he shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” Then, suddenly, he smiled. “The old bastard. He’s human, then, just like everyone else. He probably even craps, once in a while. Just to prove he’s mortal.”

Flournoy’s answering stare was cold and pained. Finally: “It’s not a laughing matter, Mr. Giannini. Not to us. And not to Mr. Holloway, either. Incidentally—” He paused, for emphasis, before he said, “Incidentally, Mr. Holloway is in very bad health. He has a bad heart—a very bad heart. That’s another factor.”

“But—” Once more, he shook his head. “But you’ve only got two choices—either have Carson arrested, or else turn him loose. And, sure as hell, you can’t turn him loose. He’d just do it all over again.”

“We’re aware of that,” Flournoy answered. “That’s what we’ve been talking about. We’re aware that it’s a risk either way. But we—Mitchell and I—we’re inclined to think there’s less risk to us—to Mr. Holloway—if we let him go.”

“
Let him go?
”

Quickly, Flournoy raised a hand. “Please. Keep your voice down. We’re taking you into our confidence, Mr. Giannini. I hope you appreciate that.”

“But—Christ—” Stepping closer to the other man, he spoke in a low, fervent voice. “He could have killed Denise. And me, too. Both of us. He—he’s a goddamn criminal. He belongs in jail.”

“That may be,” Flournoy answered calmly. “But I’ve already tried to explain to you about our problem, if he goes to jail.”

“But—”

“We’re trying to decide whether he’ll be apt to go after Mr. Holloway again, if we let him go. That’s the decision we have to make.”

“But you’re taking the law into your own hands.”

“I remember reading,” Flournoy said, “that someone who’s been beaten—badly, systematically beaten—is never quite the same again. And I’m wondering whether that would apply to Carson.” He spoke quietly, abstractedly—as if he were speculating on the efficacy of some obscure mathematical formula. “After all,” he said, “he’ll realize that, if we caught him once, we could catch him again. And, if that happened—” Eloquently, he shrugged.

Peter let a long, hostile beat pass before he said, “I’m waiting. What would happen, if you caught him again?”

“He’d get another beating,” Mitchell said. As he spoke, the big man’s face was impassive, his eyes inscrutable.

“I think,” he said, looking from one man to the other, “that you’re both crazy. You’re—Christ—you’re sociopaths.
Both
of you. You’re—Christ—you’re not much different from Carson, when it comes right down to it.”