The Storm Murders (37 page)

“My God,” Sandra said.

É
mile so wished that he was merely paranoid. That he could drum up some other explanation for the extra feeding and subsequent demise of his dog.

“The horses first,” he said. “We’ll carry Merlin out with us.”

He forgot to whisper. Sandra was the one to put a forefinger to her lips.

This time Sandra entered the first stall,
É
mile the third.

They repeated the process without a blemish, then started on the opposite side of the aisle. They finally did appear relaxed, as if this was old routine and not frightening.

Then the last two horses were escorted out to the paddock to run under the light of the rising quarter moon.

É
mile swung the paddock gate shut and secured it.

Sandra was already hurrying back to the barn.

She went straight for the dog,
É
mile to the shotgun where it rested upright against a stall. Sandra slumped onto her knees over the animal. “Merl,” she said. “Merl.”
É
mile joined her and she asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been drugged,”
É
mile said. He could have said more. That he believed the dog inadvertently had saved their lives with his lethargic behavior, which had shown him the food in his bowl, but this was no time for explanations.

“Why? Who? Where?”

É
mile supposed that the last question meant
where is he now?
But he did not have to answer. Another voice spoke up.

“Yes,
É
mile. Why? Who? Answer the little lady.”

Cinq-Mars swung around and aimed the shotgun, ready to fire.

“Don’t bother,” Rand Dreher advised him. “I took the liberty of removing the shells.”

Not one to fall for a bluff, Cinq-Mars aimed the gun to the side and pulled one of the twin triggers. The hammer impotently clicked on nothing. Husband and wife remained shock-still after that, Sandra kneeling,
É
mile at her side, the gun raised.

“Take it easy,” Dreher said. “I’m not going to shoot you. Not right now. Although I should, after that stunt.”

Cinq-Mars aimed the gun at him and tried the other trigger.

Click!

He felt his life expire like air evacuating his lungs.

“Told you.”

They were surprised that they didn’t see a weapon, that his arms were folded comfortably across his chest. They couldn’t see his hands.

“What’s going on?” Cinq-Mars asked him.

“You’re the famous, brilliant detective,
É
mile. Why don’t you tell me? I’d be interested to hear what you’ve discovered.”

“Until now, not a thing.”

“No? Is that why you’re out here hiding behind your wife’s skirts? Why you put the horses outside? Why you carried in a loaded shotgun? You aimed it at me and tried to fire the damned thing! Not friendly! Is that because you haven’t figured anything out? Or—were you venting your frustrations? Emile, don’t take me for a fool, it won’t help you at all.”

“What’ve you done to Merlin?” Sandra beseeched him. All three looked over at the dog.

“He’ll die slowly,” Dreher said. “But he’s an old dog and he won’t feel much pain. He’s getting groggy. I was hoping to delay his sleepiness, but it’s hard to get the dosage right. So, you two, haven’t you messed up my plans! I considered burning the barn with the horses in it. But you went and saved them. Pity you didn’t think to save yourselves.”

“We were working on that, actually.”

Dreher raised his left hand to make a point, which is when his pistol came out from the folds of his overcoat in his right hand. Probably not government issue, Cinq-Mars analyzed, too expensive a weapon. Although he was not an expert on firearms, his best judgment told him that he was staring at a Glock 21, a high-capacity, forty-five caliber pistol. He perceived no benefit to any quick rush.

Dreher wore surgical gloves. No prints.

His free left hand motioned Sandra to stand and close ranks with her husband. She rose slowly and stood beside him, their clothing touching. “This is what I’m asking you,” Dreher emphasized. “What tipped you off? How did you know I was on the farm? You must tell me. I want to improve my practice.”

Sandra didn’t give her husband a chance to answer, asking a question instead. “Why, why would you want to harm the horses?”

Dreher smiled. “Nothing personal. I have no particular dislike for horses, although lately I’m finding that I’m mildly allergic to their dander. Or maybe it’s hay. Strange, for a farm boy like me. But no, if you didn’t come out of the house on your own, I was going to draw you out. I was counting on you rushing out to save the horses as the barn started to burn and before you thought to phone for help. But it would be all right, if you phoned first. You might’ve saved the horses in that case as well, so there you go, I wasn’t being mean. Merely … pragmatic. But you helped me out. You came out here on your own.”

“Not the best plan in the world.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Yours. We might’ve gotten in the car and left.”

That simpering, disagreeable smile again. “Not to worry. I fixed your cars. Simple little thing. Squirt Crazy Glue in the ignition. Big headache after that.
Sorry!
So your flight to the barn was a good one. If you tried to run away, I would’ve been so disappointed, Cinq-Mars. Honestly, you don’t want to disappoint me right now.”

“What do you want, Dreher?”

“Oh, you know,
É
mile, what I’ve always wanted. Your humiliation. Complete and utter. Thank you so much for obliging me so very well up until this minute. But first, let the shotgun drop. It’s not of any use to you anyway and I want to rule out the temptation to swing it around.”

É
mile put the stock to the floor of the barn, then let the gun topple over.

“Now your cell, please. At your feet. Then kick it over.”

He did as instructed, although the phone plowed through hay and didn’t travel far.

“Do you have one, too, Sandra? It’s best to be honest.”

She shook her head.

“Back away. Both of you.” They did so until ordered to stop. Dreher went over and picked up the phone, gave it a glance, then put it in his pocket. “I’ve been listening in anyway. I’ll need to delete that app. Wouldn’t you like to know when I put it on? Charming device. Our Vira Sivak—yes, the very same—she invented it. Now, shall we go inside? The house, I mean. Barns are so cold, don’t you find? And damp. As well, I’ve got this little allergy thing going on. The sniffles. Red eyes. Nothing serious though.”

“Why’d you want us in the barn? You had access to the house.”

“A mystery, isn’t it? I was going to connect this barn burning to the other one, which directs suspicion from me onto the man I’ll convict for this dire crime. But not to worry. No fire. Plan B. We’ll go back to the house now.”

“Merlin—” Sandra started to say.

“Let him die in peace. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

“I can carry him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No! Please! I’m not leaving him.”

Dreher measured her resolve, his eyes narrowing intently, yet looking vacant. His voice adopted a flat, low staccato beat, and a tinny, mechanical timbre. “Have it your way. I can never say no to a pretty dame. But
É
mile, you do the carrying. Help the little lady out.”

And so they moved, from the barn to the house, Cinq-Mars carrying the heavy weight of Merlin, a considerable strain on his lower back. He hesitated before attempting the steps up to the front door.

“Come on, Cinq-Mars. In exceptional circumstances, any man can discover extraordinary strength. Isn’t that what they say? Don’t give me that old man’s pose.”

He hated that this was true, but being baited that way compelled him to gather his strength again. He remembered his osteopath’s instructions, clenched his sphincter and tummy muscles to take up the strain, then climbed up.

Sandra opened the door and they went inside.

She helped her husband lower the retriever to the sofa.

Merlin’s head lolled forward.

“Almost gone,” Dreher said. “It’ll be peaceful. You’ll see. Ah! Of course! You might not live long enough to see him go. But I give you my word. It’s an easygoing, gentle death. I have nothing against old dogs.”

He wore an insidious grin.

É
mile rose to his feet. His wife remained seated on the sofa, petting the head of her dog. “All right,” he said. He had but one purpose here. To delay. “What do you want?”

“Initially, your compliance. Please don’t ask me to make any specific threats,
É
mile. That would be so unbecoming, you know? Just do as I say and know that it’s for the best.”

Holding his weapon with one hand he was shaking an arm free of its coat sleeve. Then he switched hands and did the same for his other arm until the coat fell off his back. He retrieved it off the floor and placed it over the arm of the nearest chair. “Take your own coats off, and please, kick those boots away. I’ll tidy up later, but we don’t want to be tracking snow through the house. Sandra, your cardigan, please, remove it. Throw it over here.”

Perhaps he was being weird for the sake of weirdness, but the detective doubted that. Whatever his plans, he wanted them to adhere to a certain look and protocol. If he had their executions in mind, and Cinq-Mars assumed that he did, then he also planned to stage them, either to assist with an exit strategy or to obfuscate the circumstances to foil future investigators. Cinq-Mars took his coat off, pulled one boot off with the toe of the other, then the second boot was similarly peeled away. Sandra let her coat fall back behind her on the sofa.

She threw her sweater his way, and a shotgun shell tumbled from a pocket onto the rug. Dreher stooped to pick it up, and smirked. “What
will
the IO think of these, I wonder,” he said, and put it back in the cardigan’s pocket.

He was not yet satisfied.

“Okay now,” Dreher determined. “Let’s get comfortable.
É
mile, pour us each a fine Scotch, will you? And don’t be stingy.”

“I’m good,” Cinq-Mars told him. “But I’ll get you one.”

“Ah, that’s not a request,
É
mile. I was merely trying to be polite, to keep this pleasant. So pour yourself a fucking Scotch, as well as one for me, please and thank you. Sandra? I’ll give you a choice.”

“Fuck sake,” she said.

“Whoa. There’s a mouth on that one. Suit yourself. You might regret that later—declining a drink. But life is full of regrets, isn’t it? I’m sure you must be running through a whole catalog of them right about now. Such as, why did I feed this bastard dinner? Don’t deny it now.
É
mile? The Scotch. And please, you know better. Don’t throw the bottle at me or do anything silly. The matter won’t go well if you do.”

He moved over to the liquor cabinet. “Will the matter go well if I cooperate?” he asked.

“As you know,
É
mile, everything in life, and in death, is a matter of degree.”

He poured into two snifters, and if this was to be his last drink on earth, he was not being stingy, just as Dreher requested. Bringing a glass over to his captor, he obeyed Dreher’s gesture with the pistol to place it on a side table.

“Now sit,” Dreher said. Apparently, he didn’t care exactly where. Once
É
mile was seated in a hardbacked extra chair, Dreher made himself comfortable in a deep cushioned armchair and inhaled the scent of his single malt before imbibing. “It’s been a day,” he said.

“A dead field officer. Then burning barns,” Cinq-Mars concurred. “Yeah. That’s a busy day.”

“Only one barn,
É
mile. Could’ve been two. The second won’t be necessary.”

“That’s good news.”

“Always have a backup to your backup plan,” Dreher opined. “That’s how you do it.”

“And what is what you’re doing all about, Rand?” The man always wanted him to be familiar, to use first names. Now might be the time for that.

“
É
mile, honestly, trust me. I’m sorry that it became necessary that you, or someone like you—But of course, there is no one quite like you, is there? At a certain point it became evident that a person of your reputation needed to become part of this. Geography was a factor, for sure. But I also required someone with impeccable credentials, and honestly—congratulations—you fit that criteria to a tee.”

“To what end?”

Dreher chuckled lightly to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are. Stalling like this. Thinking that time is on your side. That time will be your friend and help you.”

“What else would you have me do?”

Their captor waved his pistol in the air. “You’re right. It’s desperation. Your last resort. So, good. We can have a conversation, as futile as your hope for this talk may be.”

É
mile and Sandra exchanged glances. Nerves caused her elbows to jump, and she returned to giving comfort to, and in return, perhaps being comforted by, the dying retriever. “So tell me—”

“No!” Dreher stopped him, his voice sharp but not raised. “That’s not how this is going to go down. You will guide me through what you know, and then and only then,
if I am satisfied,
and if I’m still in the mood, only then will I fill in the blanks for you. So you first,
É
mile. Talk.”

He flicked the barrel of his pistol to urge him on.

“All right,” Cinq-Mars said. “I’ll talk. You want to know what I know. The killing in Alabama was botched.”

“How so?” Dreher, his eyes darting between his two captives under his bushy eyebrows, appeared bemused.

Cinq-Mars knew that he had to engage him. He had to prolong his curiosity, in order to extend his own and his wife’s lives.

“First, there’s the botched business with the finger. Whoever amputated Agent Sivak’s finger didn’t do it right. She was still alive. In all other cases, including with the Lumens up here, the fingers were removed postmortem.”

“Oh, but aren’t you the brilliant detective!” No admiration underlay his words. Only derision.