The Evil That Men Do (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Roberta

The time for picking up clues was over, of that Roberta was sure. No sooner had Madeline Frome written down the address than she had snatched it from her hands and sprinted for her pickup, Riley and the faint apologies from Mrs. Frome on her heels. Roberta stamped on the gas as soon as Riley had got in the passenger side, slamming the door with the forward momentum.

“Hold on!” Riley yelped. “Could you let me get my safety belt on?”

Roberta laughed despite the situation.

“You race bikes for money, Riley. Reckon you could bring a little steel to this?”

Riley just glared, and did up her belt as Roberta slammed through the streets toward the address of Mrs. Frome’s former gardener. Every car that contested the road with her was casus belli for an extended blast of the horn, and stop lights were considered optional. Under regular conditions, Roberta might have made the journey in twenty minutes; on this speed trial, Riley on her motorbike would have had a stiff test keeping up. Her brakes smoked and squealed as Roberta slammed the pedal to the floor, the pickup overshooting by twenty feet or more the front of the property apparently owned by Mrs. Frome’s former gardener, Marcos. The vehicle came to a halt, and in a moment, Roberta was leaning over the back of her seat to scoop up her shotgun. Riley was on the street in seconds, looking up at the inconspicuous house. Roberta joined her, loading a handful of shells into the Browning-made rifle. Her father had used it years ago for hunting wild fowl and the occasional deer. Roberta would now use it to hunt the man who had her sister captive.

“How do you want to play this?” Riley said, indicating toward the door to the house.

“Get your pistol out, and stay close behind me. Don’t shoot until I do, you got it? We can’t take the risk of whacking this guy if we don’t know where Riley is. Say it.”

“No shooting,” Riley said.

“Unless?”

“Unless you do it first, Bobby.”

Roberta nodded grimly at her little sister. She wished she was doing this alone, so that Riley too would be safe, but she knew there would be no way that Riley would stay behind at the truck and miss out on the action. Roberta hefted the weight of her shotgun, and stalked to the front door of Marcos Rubera’s house. The door was closed, as she expected, but it was unlocked when she tried the door handle. This did not fill her with great confidence. Should she knock and wait to see if Marcos came and answered it unarmed, or enter the house and hope to catch the fiend with his pants down? After a moment to consider the potential consequences, she pushed the door open and motioned to Riley to follow her inside.

Marcos Rubera was clearly a strange man. The entrance hall to his property was painted a matte white, unadorned with the usual pictures of family, and bare of furniture. There was a flight of stairs leading up to the upper floor, and Roberta indicated to Riley that she should cover it with her pistol. Roberta raised her shotgun and moved through the narrow corridor that led to the lounge. Where the corridor had been blank, this room was full of artifacts and trophies. Not the common trophies that adorned the mantelpiece and walls of any self-respecting hunter, although there were two deer heads mounted on a wall. The room was filthy, carpets stained with mud and other, darker marks left by some liquid. Every surface, from the small table in the middle of the room to the top of the television to the arms of the plastic sheet covered fabric sofa were plinths bearing disturbing effigies. It was apparent that Marcos Rubera thought himself somewhat of an amateur taxidermist, judging by the squirrels, rats, lizards, birds and amphibians that had been shot and variously posed and crucified. Roberta felt nauseous, not from the sheer number of these macabre totems, but the strange, cloying atmosphere in the room. What was this? Witchcraft? Voodoo? The thought of what this monster could do with a human, her sister no less, made Roberta gag and back out of the room as quickly as she could. Back in the corridor, Riley looked with concern at her as she held her pistol pointing up the stairs.

“I’m fine, let’s keep looking,” Roberta whispered, though she felt like fainting.

Roberta checked the kitchen next. No sign of Marcos, although there was a small caliber rifle on the counter with a box of ammunition. No doubt the weapon with which Marcos had obtained many of his grisly specimens. From the kitchen window, Roberta could see a small work shed made of corrugated metal sheets. The door was slightly ajar, but she could not see in. No doubt there would be more horrors there, but the house still had to be secured. She moved back to join Riley at the foot of the stairs, and swapped places with her. Riley was fortunately small enough to maneuver around to the back of her sister, despite the narrow confines of the hallway. As soon as she had cleared the firing line, Roberta raised her shotgun and climbed the stairs. The bathroom was empty, and filthy. There were only two other rooms on this floor, a bedroom that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks and was strewn with dirty clothes, and a door that led to a small room that had clearly been intended by the architect to be a child’s bedroom but had been appropriated by Marcos Rubera for storage of a large number of gardening implements: hoes, rakes and shears, all bearing signs of severe rust. There was no sign that Ricki had ever been here.

“House is clear,” Roberta said, lowering her weapon. “I saw a shed out back that we should check out. Stay out of the front room downstairs; it’s pretty weird in there.”

Roberta ignored her sister’s inquisitive expression and led her back down the stairs, through the corridor and into the kitchen. The rear door of the property led out to a paved yard, containing broad flagstones with tufts of weeds and grasses poking up rebelliously between them. Marcos didn’t appear to apply his own clearly outstanding professional work to his own property. Roberta once again raised her shotgun, and pointed to Riley that they were heading to the shack, only thirty feet or so away. Every step threatened to reveal Roberta’s shaking knees; intuitively she knew that beyond this door—this door that was really just a crudely hinged piece of steel bolted to the metal frame of the shed—there were answers.

The smell hit them first. It was flesh in the early stages of putrefaction, the cloying air of death, sweet tones of meat and the rapid rot that sets in under the broiling sweat of Savannah in the summer. Riley gagged.

“What does this guy have in there, road kill? It smells terrible!” Riley had forgotten to stay silent, and clamped her hand that was not holding the pistol to her mouth. Roberta winced. No point in recriminations now.

“Hey, in there!” She said loudly. “Come out with your hands up; we’re armed to the teeth and it’s no problem to shoot you!”

There was no reply. A car passed by out the front of the property, and when it was passed, Roberta could hear the buzzing of flies. She took another step closer, and another, and then she was close enough to reach the door with one hand. Riley moved to cover the doorway, and Roberta pulled the door to the shed open with a screeching of metal on concrete. In the dark interior, there was a workbench, upon which a man lay on his back. The entrance of Roberta and Riley had stirred up a great cloud of black flies, which buzzed and scattered away as their compound eyes detected the changing light, signifying a threat.

There was no threat to Roberta and Riley here. The man was Hispanic, in his early forties, and had clearly been murdered most viciously. His throat had evidently been cut, but the cause of death may well have been the agricultural chainsaw that had been buried into the dead man’s abdomen.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?” Riley said in stunned awe.

Roberta had no answers, but looked a little closer at the body in the half lit room. The chainsaw was sticking out from under the rib cage of the corpse, where it had become wedged against the bone. The tip was hidden deep within the body, but the weight of the engine of the device weighed it down at one end toward the groin.

“I don’t know what this is, Riley. With all the weird shit in the house, I thought Marcos must be the kidnapper, but if Marcos is now dead—murdered—I really don’t know.”

“What about Ricki?” Riley said. “We don’t have the Rock of Rhodesia, and this guy has been murdered, so he can’t have done it… could he?”

Roberta shook her head, and backed out of the shed into cleaner air. She gulped some deep lungs full of air, desperate to rid her olfactory system of the horrific stench and filthy air. When she could speak, she said,

“If he did then someone much worse than a kidnapper who wants a diamond is in play. Who else knew that Frome was looking to pull this stupid con?”

Riley considered.

“Well, I guess Marcos knew, but if our theory is correct, he only figured it out accidentally. Or maybe he knew all along, and was in on the plan to steal the Rock, and then he got double-crossed?”

“I guess both could be right, until we find out more,” Roberta said. “Who else? Frome couldn’t do this to a man, and while she’s crazy, I don’t think she’s murder crazy, and even if she was, she’s tiny.”

“Joseph Cavanaugh? Maybe he knew about it. He was trying to court Madeline Frome after all,” said Riley. “She must have worn it around him—yes she did! Remember when we first saw him, when Mrs. Frome was chewing him out before I…”

“Before you repossessed his car,” Roberta finished. Riley shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t feel good about that, seeing how Cavanaugh ended up killing himself. Or being murdered, her thoughts reminded her.

“Yeah, that.” Riley moved on. “So, Cavanaugh knew about the diamond… wait a minute. Cavanaugh!”

“He’s dead, Riley.”

“Not senior, Cavanaugh Junior! Think about it. The Cavanaughs were broke. If that woman Cheryl I spoke to was right, the son had lost his job and they were desperate for cash. Why would anyone be so keen on wooing Madeline Frome? She hates everyone, not to mention is a total racist, but at least she seemed rich! Little did old man Cavanaugh know that she was almost as broke as he was, apart from the Rock of Rhodesia. I think Joseph didn’t even want to court her in the first place, but his son forced him into it, and when he couldn’t win Frome over…” Riley trailed off. It made sense, when taking the body of Marcos Rubera into account. Even so, the idea that Joe Cavanaugh killing his own father… that was surely too far for any man. Wasn’t it?

“We need to get over there, now. If Joe Cavanaugh has Ricki, has already butchered one man and possibly strangled his father, the odds aren’t in her favor.”

Riley nodded, and despite their protesting, tired limbs, they ran away from Marcos Rubera’s decomposing body, hoping to prevent the same terrible fate coming to their sister.

Chapter Thirteen

Ricki

She came to again, passed out again. Came to hours later.

After seeing her captor’s face, he had beaten her savagely. She had lost another tooth to go with the one she had broken herself falling to the floor, and she was sure his heavy blow had cracked a rib or two. He had used a piece of finished wood, possibly a part of a flat packed chest of drawers or other such furniture. It had hurt in any case and it had been nothing short of a blessing when the wood splintered and broke on her shoulder and Joe Cavanaugh had to stop. He had left soon afterward, leaving Ricki to her pain and confusion.

She blacked out once more, and woke up with blood staining the front of her shirt, soaking it. Perhaps Cavanaugh had come back and cut her throat, she thought, then realized that if he had done that, she would most likely be already dead. Someone was fumbling with what sounded like a chain somewhere close. She looked toward the noise, but remembered that she was still blindfolded. She tried to call for help, but found her throat so parched and mouth too caked with her own blood that only a rasping gurgle came out. She heard voices outside, but she must have been hallucinating. They couldn’t have found her; it was impossible.

“We could use a crowbar; twist it until the lock breaks?” one voice said.

“No, haven’t got one in the truck. Hold on, stand back. I’m going to try blasting it,” said the other.

Ricki tried shouting again, but her feeble speech was drowned out by what sounded like a colossal explosion. The door of the shack she was held in blew off its hinges—or at least, it sounded like it had. The noise was so loud, Ricki’s ears rang and her head spun, and they were still useless. All of a sudden she was no longer blind, and was staring into her own deep brown eyes. No, not her own, her little sister’s eyes. Riley was crouched in front of her, untying her hands from the arms of the wooden chair. She was speaking to her but Ricki couldn’t hear. She tried telling her so, but was unable to do so. A water bottle pressed to her lips, bringing back hellish memories of Joe doing the same thing. Ricki went into a brief spasm at the thought, but was calmed by the soothing hands of her sister, she couldn’t tell which one, on her cheek, stroking it gently, fussing at her, checking her wounds. Ricki cried tears of relief, happiness, emotions too complex for her to grasp all at once. She had to warn her sisters, and spat out the fourth mouthful of water she had been delicately fed onto the floor. She could see her surroundings now; she was in a tool shed of some kind. Where it was, she didn’t know.

“Roberta, Riley, it’s Joe Cavanaugh! It’s him, It’s Cavanaugh’s son! He wants you to get the Rock for him!”

When Riley replied, Ricki could hear her voice, although the tinnitus was still present, an annoying whine above the frequency of a mosquito’s wing.

“We know, Ricki, hold on. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Turns out Joe Cavanaugh has been busy, we managed to follow the trail of death back here. You’re in the shed round the back of old Joseph’s house,” Roberta said.

“How?” Ricki said.

Despite the danger of Joe coming back, she had to know.

“Hold still Ricki, I’m trying to get your legs free, but these knots are tight, and it’s heavy rope.” Riley’s voice came from beneath her. “Bobby, pass me a knife or a saw or something.” There was a rummaging and clanging of metal on metal, and in a moment Ricki felt Riley begin sawing through the rope. Roberta took up the story.

“Turns out that Madeline Frome wanted to defraud the insurance company to keep up with the neighbors, and hid the Rock of Rhodesia in her yard, but someone found it. Anyway, way before that happened, we think Joe Cavanaugh was forcing his father to try and marry into Mrs. Frome’s wealth, but she never had any—not in the last ten years at least. Why, we don’t know yet. We found the box the Rock had been in while sort of following the instructions on the note we received telling us you had been captured. The box was empty, and Frome thought it might have been her gardener, but when he turned up dead, we figured there was only one lead left. We knew Cavanaugh was dead, and we guessed that if he didn’t die of natural causes…”

“That I killed him for being a useless old bastard.”

It was the soft voice of Joe Cavanaugh, the younger. Ricki stood up, and Riley fell backwards onto her butt, having sliced through the last threads restraining her elder sister. Roberta whirled, eyes wide. Ricki could see that Roberta had placed her shotgun on a work bench while she had looked for something for Riley to cut her bonds. It was halfway between Joe at the door and the Vaughan sisters, deep in the shed, crowded together where they would be easy pickings for a couple of blasts from their father’s old weapon. Ricki’s eyes were still adjusting to the light, but it didn’t look like Joe had seen the weapon either. He was however hefting a large and sharp looking garden fork.

“You murderer!” shouted Riley. “You killed Marcos Rubera too!”

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” said Joe. “You see, I got a tip off from a friend that you had involved the police, against your instructions. That forced me to tie up some loose ends. Rubera had been fired by Madeline, so he was easy to convince to go and steal from her for a cut of the profits—a tiny cut, of course. He knew the grounds of her house better than anyone, so he immediately saw that something had been disturbed. I thought at first he had stolen the necklace for himself, but I believed his story that the box was empty. In the end.”

Joe eyed the Vaughan sisters meaningfully. Ricki wondered if there was any way to distract Joe long enough for Roberta to grab her gun, but Roberta was directly in front of her, closest to the wicked prongs of his fork, more than a foot of steel on a long wooden handle.

“Well, you still don’t have the Rock of Rhodesia. We don’t have it either. Looks like your plan failed, Joe.”

Ricki tried to sound more confident than she was, but the pain of her cracked tooth and empty socket made her wince and chew her words.

“Oh, I’m sure that Madeline still has it,” Joe said. “You’d be amazed at how easy killing gets, once you get the first one out of the way. I was a lawyer, once. Defense made good money, and I defended a lot of really quite bad men. Reading over the things that they did, well, when I—quite unfairly, I think—got disbarred, I always remembered how these men did it, and how they got caught. Coming home in shame to live in this poor town, I knew I had to get out. Had to get back where I should have been. I saw Madeline. Saw the Rock, and I knew what I had to do. After I get rid of you three, I suppose I can just go and pay her another visit. See where she really has the Rock. She’s smarter than she appears, clearly.”

Joe smiled at Ricki, and it was only now, despite all that he had done, that she really saw how far into madness he had fallen.

There was nothing that would compel any of the Vaughan sisters to allow their sisters to die easily for this man’s twisted pursuit for wealth. Joe seemingly was set himself to run Roberta through, and then Ricki herself and Riley would be next. There seemed to be no escape. Then, several things happened at once. Joe stepped forward, and Roberta yelled, “Riley, now!” instead of doing what Ricki thought she would do; which was to meet Joe head on. Instead she leapt backward, colliding with Ricki and taking her by complete surprise. Both women fell over the chair in which Ricki had been tied for so long. Simultaneously, there was the crack of a gun going off, and a grunt of pain from Joe Cavanaugh. There was another report from the gun, whoever had it, and as Ricki landed she saw Riley, still on the floor in front of the chair where she had sat when Joe had appeared in the shed. A small pistol was in her hands. Her form for firing was pretty poor, elbows tucked in to her body and torso twisted almost ninety degrees to take aim, but the cramped confines of the shed meant that Joe was only six feet away at most, barely out of the range of his fork. Ricki turned to see a second red hole appear in Joe Cavanaugh’s white shirt, in his shoulder.

He was still standing, and realized the danger he was in from the smallest, weakest-looking woman. With a desperate cry, he raised his fork high and made to drive it down into Riley’s head. Ricki screamed and threw out her hand in a vain attempt to defend to her sister with pure force of will. Riley needed no other protection than her own aim, and her third shot caught Joe Cavanaugh in the throat. His charge was stopped in its tracks, and the fork fell from his grip. A sickening gurgling sound came from his lips as his blood spurted, painting the shed and the Vaughan sisters with his blood. He died with a surprised look on his soft, lawyer’s features. There was a sudden quiet, the smell of blood and gunpowder, and fear. Ricki looked at Riley, hands still gripping the pistol. Her eyes were wide, terrified herself.

Roberta moved first, climbing up from where she was laid over Ricki, and accidentally pressed an elbow into Ricki’s broken ribs. Ricki whimpered, and the noise of her pain seemed to break Riley out of her funk. She stood up, checked her weapon and put it back in her jacket pocket as Roberta helped Ricki get gingerly to her feet.

“I did it right, Roberta. I didn’t shoot until you said, right?” Riley said.

“You did great,” Roberta said. “Let’s get out of here. We need to call Terry and the local cops. We’re in for a long talk with them, and Ricki needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine, really,” Ricki lied; and it was clear that she was far from convincing.

“I wonder what really happened to the Rock of Rhodesia?” Riley pondered. “It must still be somewhere.”

Ricki felt despondent. The reward for finding the Rock would now never be forthcoming, not that it ever would have been. They might have defeated Joe Cavanaugh, but R3 Recovery was surely going to go under. Their little company was finished.