The Kill (48 page)

Duchess’s brown eyes flickered, but her head didn’t move from its resting place between her front paws. Abigale bent down and tugged gently on her collar. “It’s okay. Come on.”

The Lab lurched up slowly, her tail between her legs. “Good girl,” Abigale said.

“Hold on. What’s that?” Doug said as Duchess followed Abigale away from the sink. He squatted down by the sink leg. “It’s a woman’s ring.”

Mallory quickly crouched beside him.

“That’s Margaret’s,” Smitty said, eyeing the gold ring.

Mallory scooped the ring into a plastic bag and held it up toward the light. The fox-mask crown was worn smooth, the ruby eyes dulled with age.

“Richard gave the ring to Margaret years ago,” Smitty said. “She wore it every day.”

“Why do you suppose she took it off?” Mallory mused.

“Margaret don’t make a habit of doing things for no reason. Might be she left it as some kind of clue,” Smitty said.

“Could be.” Mallory studied the ring thoughtfully. “But a clue as to what?”

“That she was here?” Doug said.

Maybe
. Abigale looked at the three men. Or did Margaret leave the ring to draw their attention to the sink? “Are you sure there’s not anything else under there?” she asked.

Mallory pulled the flashlight off his belt and flashed it around the floor, the underbelly of the sink. “I don’t see anything.” He ducked his head and crawled out backward. As he raised himself on one knee to stand, the flashlight beam bounced across the unglazed front of the porcelain basin.

“Wait, shine the light there again!” Abigale pointed at the sink front.

Smitty frowned. “It’s all scratched up.”

“It’s not just scratched,” Abigale said. “It says something.”

“You’re right,” Doug said. “Look, there’s a letter ‘T’ right here.” He traced his finger just above the chalky surface, first following a horizontal, then a vertical line, each about six inches long.

Mallory shined the light along the scratch mark Doug had outlined, then slid it to the right. “There’s another letter next to it. It looks like another ‘T.’”

Doug shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look here, the line doesn’t stop at the bottom. It’s faint, but there’s a tail on the end. It’s a ‘J.’”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Mallory said. “It says ‘TJ.’”

Abigale felt as though a floodgate opened in her brain when she heard Mallory say the letters.
TJ
. God! How could she have been so stupid? TJ wasn’t Tiffanie Jenner. It was Thompson James. Now it all made sense.
The fox in the henhouse
. When Uncle Richard had made that comment to Michael, he must have been talking about Thompson stealing money from the hunt, not Charles Jenner having an affair. Uncle Richard must have become suspicious about the hunt finances just like Manning had, and he’d set up a meeting with Thompson at Longmeadow to confront him. That’s why he’d called Jay Barnsby at the bank the day he died. That’s why he’d written
TJ
in his journal. And the “basic” SUV Dario had seen drive out of Longmeadow after the gunshot was Thompson’s Explorer.

“Thompson James. TJ is Thompson!” Abigale said. “That’s who killed Uncle Richard. And now he’s done something to Manning and Margaret.”

Doug shot a look at Mallory, then said to Abigale, “Okay, slow down. Tell us what you’re talking about.”

Abigale told them first about her meeting with Dario.

“Are you telling me you knew the location of our prime suspect in Mr. Clarke’s murder and you didn’t contact the authorities?” Mallory demanded.

“I didn’t know his location,” Abigale replied. “I was taken to the meeting place by friends of his.”

Mallory regarded her icily: “But you were in contact with individuals who knew Reyes’s location and you kept it to yourself! That’s called aiding and abetting.”

“I didn’t look at it that way,” Abigale replied. “In my job, I meet with informants all the time. I know how crucial secrecy is.”

“Reyes isn’t a
source
, Ms. Portmann, he’s a fugitive.” Mallory glared at her, then waved a hand. “Continue.”

Abigale told them about the notation in Uncle Richard’s journal, the appointment Manning and Margaret had to talk with Thompson about the hunt finances yesterday—the day they “disappeared” on the mysterious trip to Pennsylvania—and the strange text message from Manning referring to his mother as “Margaret,” which she now realized must have been sent by Thompson. She described the incident when she’d found Thompson going through the files in the middle of the night, and told them about the photo of Thompson unlocking the front door. About how she’d called Thompson’s office and found out he hadn’t worked there in a couple of months. Mallory took notes as he listened, his expression alternating between interest and skepticism.

When she finished, Doug said, “Jesus Christ. I passed Thompson on Foxcroft Road on my way here.”

“Was anyone in the vehicle with him?” Mallory asked.

Doug shook his head. “Not that I noticed. But he was driving the rig Richard used to transport his carriages. He could have had Margaret and Manning in the trailer.”

“He could’ve put Manning’s BMW in there, too,” Smitty said.

Mallory turned to the other deputy. “Find Thompson James. And put an APB out for the rig Mr. Cummings saw.”

“I can give you a description of the rig,” Smitty said. “And show you where Thompson lives. He rents the gatehouse right here at Dartmoor Glebe.”

“All right. Come with me,” the deputy said.

After they’d left, Mallory said, “I met Thompson James the day the dog dug up Mr. Clarke’s wallet, and I wouldn’t place odds on him being able to overpower Manning.” He glanced at the whisky bottle. “If James did hold them captive here, he may have given Manning booze to try to gain an advantage over him, but he still must have had a weapon of some kind. Do either of you know if James owned a gun?”

Doug shook his head. “I know he went duck hunting with Richard a couple of times, but I think he used one of Richard’s guns.”

“
Uncle Richard’s Luger
. Thompson knew where to find it,” Abigale said.

Mallory’s eyes narrowed at her. “Explain.”

Abigale told him how she had used the gun for protection the night Thompson had surprised her with his midnight visit. “He was right there when I put the Luger back in Uncle Richard’s nightstand. If Thompson needed a gun, he knew right where to find it.”

Doug bolted for the door. “I’ll check the nightstand.”

Mallory’s eyes roamed down his notes. “Tell me more about the phone call. You said you thought Manning was trying to give you some kind of message when he made the comment about a ride he took to find your hunt horn.”

“Yes.” Abigale shook her head. “But I can’t figure out what he was trying to tell me. I don’t know if he was talking about being out in the storm, or actually going to get the hunt horn, or what.”

“Could he have been talking about something he saw or something that happened when he went on the ride? Was Thompson James on the ride with him?”

“No, we didn’t even know Thompson then. It happened seventeen years ago.”

“Seventeen years? I assumed it was recent.” Mallory rubbed his hand across his forehead. “So what would he expect you to remember about that incident after all this time?”

Abigale gave a frustrated sigh. Maybe Manning hadn’t meant anything beyond the fact that it represented how much he cared about her. He’d said it right before he told her he loved her. But the way Manning had said “just think about it” implied—

Doug rushed into the darkroom. “The Luger’s gone,” he said breathlessly.

Mallory’s mouth tightened. He glanced at his watch and asked Doug, “What time did you see James on Foxcroft Road?”

“Maybe forty-five minutes ago. An hour, tops.”

“So he has a good head start. Although…driving a rig like that will slow him down, especially in this kind of weather. If we’re lucky, he might even hit a detour. We’ve got men out all over the county closing roads because of high water. They’re saying Goose Creek might go over its banks before this is all said and done.”

“Goose Creek, that’s it!” Abigale said. She felt hope wash over her like a wave. “I dropped my hunt horn riding up the steep trail out of Goose Creek. That must have been what Manning was trying to convey to me. Thompson took Manning and Margaret somewhere near Goose Creek. That’s why he was driving down Foxcroft Road when Doug saw him!”

T
hompson shifted the BMW into reverse and backed slowly down the trailer ramp. He considered whether he should close the ramp, just in case anyone came by before he got back. He didn’t want to risk anyone snooping in the trailer and noticing the tire marks. On the other hand, he wanted to have the option to quickly hide the car back in the trailer in the event he ran into trouble. He decided on plan B and left the back wide open.

Margaret was still out cold in the cargo compartment behind the seats. He’d removed the tape from her mouth and wrists so all he’d have to do with her was buckle her into the passenger seat. Manning’s wrists were still taped as a precaution, but he could easily have gone ahead and removed those, too. Manning was passed out in the passenger seat, head against the side window, snoring up a storm.

Thompson knew he had danced a fine line with the booze. He needed Manning drunk enough so he wouldn’t put up a struggle or be able to get himself out of the car after it hit the water. But Thompson also needed to be able to walk Manning around to the driver’s side. Manning outweighed him by a good thirty or forty pounds, but Thompson knew from experience that as long as he could keep Manning on his feet he’d be able to pull it off. He’d helped throw drunk football players out of the college pub on more than one occasion.

Twilight was quickly fading, but Thompson left the headlights off. He didn’t want to attract attention to the car, neither now nor when it went into Goose Creek. The longer it took to discover the car, the better.

Thompson stopped at the end of the gravel drive and made sure the glow of approaching headlights wasn’t visible in the distance. Nope. All systems go. The engine growled as he sped onto Snake Hill Road and he gunned it a little, feeling a thrill as the BMW fishtailed on the wet pavement. Nice car. It was a shame he had to total it.

He slowed as he crested the hill, checking his rearview mirror for headlights. Nothing. Just gunmetal gray sky. Thompson eased the car about halfway down the steep incline, stopping about twenty yards above where Snake Hill Road met Foxcroft Road at a T, just shy of where the car would plunge into Goose Creek. He shifted to neutral and yanked up on the parking brake. Thompson reached down and fumbled for the empty beer can he’d placed in the car earlier. He wedged it under the brake pedal, just in case Manning was coherent enough to try to step on the brake. No one would think twice when they later discovered the beer can. Not with Manning in the driver’s seat. He flung the door open and hopped out.

Thompson had conducted several dry runs without actually moving Manning and Margaret, and he knew he could get them into position in less than two minutes if he didn’t hit a snafu. But time was of the essence. This was the most vulnerable part of his plan. If someone came along between now and when he sent the car into the creek, he was pretty much screwed.

He pulled the Luger from his jacket pocket and yanked the passenger door open, bracing a knee against Manning so he wouldn’t tumble out. Rain almost blinded him as the wind smacked him in the face, but he didn’t allow it to slow him down. He sliced the duct tape around Manning’s wrists and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

“Okay, big boy. Time to get up,” Thompson said, swinging Manning’s legs so his feet were on the pavement. He slipped Manning’s arm around his shoulder, then slid his arm around Manning’s waist and heaved him to his feet, jamming the barrel of the gun against Manning’s side. Manning groaned, then mumbled something about hurting his fucking arm.

“Another couple minutes, you won’t feel any pain,” Thompson said. He stumbled under Manning’s weight but managed to support him, bowed low against the wind, as he led him to the driver’s seat, then stuffed him inside.

Thompson left the driver’s door open and ran back for Margaret. He flipped up the hatchback, hoisted her out, and deposited her in the passenger seat.
Click
. Buckled her in. Just like clockwork.

He slammed the passenger door, pulled down the hatchback, and ran back to the driver’s side. Manning had slumped forward, hugging the steering wheel. Thompson shoved Manning’s chest back against the seat and yanked the seat belt into place. He lowered the driver’s window and pushed the door closed, then slipped the Luger in his right-hand jacket pocket.

Thompson surveyed Foxcroft Road for any sign of headlights and checked behind him on Snake Hill Road, listening to make sure he didn’t hear the sound of an approaching vehicle. All quiet, except for the soft thump of the windshield wipers and the purr of the engine.

Thompson’s heart pounded in his ears as he leaned through the window opening. He guided the steering wheel with his left hand, making sure it was headed straight on course, and grabbed the brake lever with his right, his thumb poised to plunge the release button. Exhilaration pumped through him, a thrill like he’d never experienced. He hesitated for a split second, savoring it.