The Penguin Who Knew Too Much (27 page)

“There now!” Hamlin's face appeared again.

“Great, now you’ve incapacitated us so you can get out of town before the chief finds out what's up,” I said. At least I was hoping that's what his plan was.

“Running away would be so inconvenient,” he said. “And I’d rather be around when they discover the terrible tragedy. Don’t worry; you’ll be the heroine. You bravely put your life on the line to rescue one of the zoo's animals, and did away with the killer. Too bad that you had to sacrifice your own life in the process—falling victim to the same crossbow that killed poor Patrick Lanahan.”

He produced a crossbow from behind his back and flourished it.

“Is that the same crossbow?” I asked.

“Course not,” he said. “It's young Charlie's crossbow. Mine's back at the range. But the bolts’ll match just fine.” He looked at the crossbow and frowned.

“What's wrong?” I asked. Something that would bring his plan to a screeching halt, I hoped.

“He does you in with the crossbow,” Hamlin explained. “But I have to figure out how you kill him at the same time.”

He scanned the bottom of the trench, frowning as his eyes dwelled on Lola for a few moments, and then shaking his head as if she had sadly disappointed him.

“Just out of curiosity, why did you kill Lanahan?” I asked. “I’d have thought he was useful. Your canned hunting operation's going to take a hit without him to provide the exotic animals, isn’t it?”

“Can’t be helped,” he said. “There's plenty of other places I can buy from. Hell, I should have known it was risky in the first place, buying animals from someone only twenty miles away. First six months or so, I made up fake bills of sales so it looked like I’d resold the animals to zoos in the Midwest or on the West Coast. But he never came by to see how they were doing,

so I stopped bothering. After a while, it came to me that I was wasting money buying the animals when I could just rip a few holes in his fences and let him think they wandered off. But that backfired.”

“He paid more attention to the animals he still owned?”

“Yeah. The Shiffley kid shooting that fancy antelope was a gift. Took the heat off for a while. As long as Patrick was busy snooping around the Shiffleys’ land, looking for traces of his lost critters, I could get away with anything.”

“So what happened?”

“I had a hunter who wanted a big cat. Kind of a disappointment that the lion turned out to be a fake, but I convinced him that a bobcat would be good enough. And turns out Patrick was staking out the zoo. Sleeping out in that miserable trailer office.”

“He caught you trying to steal Lola, and you killed him.”

“I offered to cut him in on the hunting game but he wouldn’t deal,” Hamlin said, and from his tone, I gathered he thought Lanahan's refusal fully justified killing him.

“Why did you have to bury him in our basement?”

“Wasn’t my original plan,” he said. “I was going to plant him out in the swamp on old man Bromley's land. But I stopped by Flugleman's to get some quicklime—speed up how fast the body disappears, you know—and when I heard about the ready-made hole your father had dug, it sounded perfect.”

“Perfect,” I echoed. I knew the trouble had all started with Dad and the penguins. But all would be forgiven if Dad would just show up soon to check on his beloved birds. I thought longingly of my cell phone, which was upstairs, in my purse, carefully hidden away from sneak thieves and kleptomaniacs. If I’d had it, I could have called for help by now. Instead, I had to keep Hamlin talking and hope someone showed up before he figured out how to perfect his scenario.

“And what was that whole business with Spike?” I asked. “Did you really think Reggie was still in his den?”

“No, but that was the day I went back to collect the bobcat,” he said. “Only to find you and the old geezer snooping around the zoo. I needed to slow you down long enough to haul her out. Worked, too. Say, I don’t suppose it would make sense for you to whack him on the head with the crossbow, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “This stinks.”

“Try to look at it philosophical like,” Hamlin said. “We all gotta go sometime.”

“But not like this,” I said. “In books and movies, whenever someone's menaced by a deranged killer, they always seem really upset about the possibility that the guy's going to be so sharp that the police can’t catch him. That's nonsense.”

“How come?” he asked. He seemed genuinely interested.

“Okay, I don’t like the idea of you killing me and getting away with it. But you know what I like even less? The thought of you killing me for no good reason. To cover up a crime when you should know you’re only going to get caught anyway.”

“What makes you think they’ll catch me?” Hamlin asked. He sounded smug.

“Because you’ve screwed up. I was starting to suspect you, so I’m sure it won’t take the police that long.”

“Not if I give them a nice, neat solution to their case.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “As if. I know damn well you’re just going to screw it up. The minute Chief Burke gets here, he’ll take one look at the crime scene and say, ‘Confound it! It's that idiot Ray Hamlin! I should have gone ahead and arrested him yesterday.’ “

“That's not a very nice thing to say, is it?”

“You want nice, then stop pointing that crossbow at me. Just my luck. I wouldn’t be the second victim of that warped mastermind, the uncatchable crossbow killer. Oh, no. I’d be the un
lucky victim of a criminal so dense they’d write him up in a
News of the Weird
feature about the stupidest crooks of the year.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Hamlin said.

“You want to explain the nice neat solution you’re planning on giving the chief?” I said. “How Charlie Shiffley and I both just happened to fall into the trench with an injured bobcat? Or did we jump in—and he with his hands duct-taped behind his back, just to make things more interesting? And even though he’d just shot me with a crossbow, I jumped in to help him?”

“Well, they won’t find the duct tape, of course,” Hamlin said. “I’ll take that off before I leave.”

“Even without the duct tape, it's a pretty odd scenario.”

“Not odd at all,” he said. “Not for around here, anyway. You heard a noise—you came out to find Charlie here had wounded the bobcat with his crossbow. He shot you to keep you quiet— but then he succumbed to the injuries you inflicted on him during the struggle.”

“He had a crossbow pointed at me and I was stupid enough to struggle and lucky enough to inflict wounds?” I said. “Already I’m not buying this.”

“Maybe with a rock,” he said. “You got any big rocks in your garden?”

“You expect me to help with this plan? Which is not only stupid but incredibly bad for my health? Find your own damned rock.”

“There's no need to snap at me,” Hamlin said. His head disappeared. I heard him whistling a rather monotonous tune as he presumably searched the yard for rocks. Or perhaps the tune was fine and he was simply a rotten whistler.

I made sure the flashlight, which would make a far better weapon for his scenario, was well hidden under Charlie's body.

And then a thought occurred to me. Hamlin's plan called for
shooting me—probably from the safety of the edge of the trench—and then, when he’d gotten me out of commission, bashing Charlie's head in with a rock. Shooting Charlie definitely didn’t fit into his scenario. So if I could pull Charlie on top of me to shield all the major body areas where a crossbow shot would be fatal, I’d mess up his plan. He couldn’t shoot me without hitting Charlie, and he didn’t dare shoot Charlie. And if I could then convince him that I’d passed out, and lure him into coming down into the trench...

It didn’t do my leg much good, but I dragged Charlie on top of me. Too bad he wasn’t stockier. I liked his height, which meant I could get my head and body under his torso, but he was slender enough that Hamlin could probably still shoot me in the rear, and my arms and legs stuck out. But my head and trunk were covered. That was the critical part.

And even better, maybe I could remove the duct tape from Charlie's wrists. Even if I did, there was no guarantee he’d regain consciousness in time to be much use, but at least it gave him a chance. But I hadn’t finished pulling the last few layers of tape off when the tuneless whistling stopped. I lay still, hoping the throbbing pain in my leg would subside, and tried to concentrate on what was going on at the surface. I could see a little bit, through the space between Charlie's body and his right arm. Eventually, Hamlin's head appeared.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

There was a pause as he studied the tableau in the bottom of the trench. I continued to play possum. “It won’t do you any good, you know.” I didn’t answer. “I can wait,” he said.

Waiting was fine with me. If he waited long enough Michael

would come back from fetching his mother, or someone would come back from the party.

“Don’t make me come down there!”

I didn’t answer. His face appeared and disappeared from my limited field of vision—apparently he was pacing up and down the bank. Then he stopped.

“Look here,” he said. “We can do this one of two ways. Either—”

“Mwa-ha-ha!”

A figure in a black cape suddenly loomed up behind Hamlin, its hands raised with melodramatic menace. Hamlin yelped with surprise, and his finger must have hit the crossbow's trigger—I heard a sharp
fwap!
and saw the bolt sail off into the darkness. Hamlin swore, lost his footing, and regained it a little too close to the edge. The dirt crumbled beneath him and he slid in, landing near Lola—near, not on, since she only hissed and growled, instead of squealing in pain. He made a little noise as if the fall had knocked the breath out of him. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see if his eyes were open. I heaved Charlie Shiffley off me and picked up my flashlight.

“Oh, dear.”

I glanced up to see Dr. Smoot looking down at us.

“Help!” I shouted. “He's trying to kill us.”

“I’m not sure I can,” he said, pulling his black cloak more tightly around him. “It's so narrow down there—I’m not sure I can make myself go into such a tight little space.”

“I don’t want you to come down here,” I said. “The trench is getting crowded enough as it is. Call 911!”

I was half crawling toward Hamlin, dragging my broken leg behind me, with my trusty Maglite raised to strike.

“I could just go get a ladder.”

“Call 911! Bring the cops! He killed Patrick Lanahan, and now he's trying to kill Charlie and Lola and me!” “Oh!” Dr. Smoot said, and disappeared.

Then I reached Hamlin. I was tempted to cosh him over the head, but reason prevailed. Instead, I stuck the narrow end of the flashlight in the small of his back, as if it were a gun.

“Don’t move or I’ll use this,” I said.

Lola made a noise, half whine and half growl, as if asserting her prior claim to vengeance.

After a couple of minutes, we heard the sirens—distant, but growing louder every second. Hamlin stirred slightly, as if thinking of making a break for it. I heard a slight noise from overhead.

“You can sit back down now,” Randall Shiffley said. “I’ve got him in my sights. One false move and I’ll blow his rotten lying head off.”

I sat down and passed out.

Chapter 42

“The party's going simply splendidly!” Dad said as he dashed into my hospital room carrying two more huge floral arrangements festooned with get-well cards. “Everyone's looking forward to seeing you—has Dr. Waldron told you when you can go home?”

“I’m supposed to talk to her this afternoon,” I said. Actually I’d already talked to my doctor, gotten her okay on flying with my broken leg, and sworn her to secrecy about when I was being released. A little later, she was supposed to storm in, shoo out my visitors, and inform Dad that she needed to keep me for a second night, to run more tests. And once the coast was clear...

Where was Dr. Waldron? I hoped she wasn’t waiting for my stream of visitors to die down, because that wasn’t happening anytime soon. As if to make up for my having to miss the beginning of the day's festivities, my entire family and half the town of Caerphilly had been trooping through my hospital room in shifts, congratulating me. Michael was hovering nearby, trying not to show how impatient he was for all of them to leave.

At least it gave me a chance to find out what had been going on while I was unconscious. Tie up a few loose ends before Michael and I fled for wherever.

At the moment, I was entertaining a delegation of Shiffleys.

“We’re much obliged,” Vern was saying, for about the seven
teenth time. I was running out of things to say—”It's nothing” didn’t seem tactful, since they were convinced I’d saved Charlie's life. Worse, I suspected they felt the need to express their gratitude in some tangible way. Ms. Ellie, the last person I knew who had earned the undying gratitude of the Shiffleys, was still finding haunches of venison on her porch every other week during hunting season. And that was five years after she’d done something to earn their gratitude—something probably a lot smaller than saving a life.

“You look a mess,” I said to Charlie, in an effort to change the subject. “I hope none of it's serious enough to keep you off the football field.”

“I’ll be fine by September,” he said. “And hey, it was great, you making sure the reporters knew I was trying to save Lola. Really helped with the college people.”

“No problem,” I said. “It was mainly the chief who talked to the reporters.”

“Do they know if Lola's going to be all right?” Charlie asked. “That wound didn’t look good.”

“Clarence says she’ll be fine,” Dad said. Clarence was Dr. Rutledge, Spike's vet. I wasn’t surprised that they’d taken Lola to him—a wounded bobcat would present no great challenge to a vet who could give Spike his annual shots. “No permanent damage, and she's resting comfortably. And isn’t it lucky that she's had her rabies shots?”

“How can they be sure?” I asked. “I thought Lanahan kept lousy records and Ray Hamlin burned them.”

“Oh, yes, but Clarence keeps meticulous records of the animals he treats,” Dad said. “He's the zoo's regular veterinarian, you know. Why didn’t one of us think to ask him about the animals?”