Authors: William G. Tapply
“I’m in it as deep as you,” said Hayden, sulking.
“You are in a good deal deeper, my friend.” Concannon turned back to me. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me what an astute businessman Vincent Tremali is.”
“Of course. His, ah, enterprises are doing extremely well. Especially those that involve cash transactions. Some time ago Vincent found himself unable to cleanse all that cash through his legitimate operations.”
“When the grand jury was after him.”
Concannon nodded.
“So he turned to you.”
He bowed. “Yes. I have several numbered accounts in Nassau banks. As secure and discreet as those in Switzerland, and a good deal more accessible. And the nature of my business allows us to deposit large sums in our numbered accounts and write checks on those accounts to deposit in the various investment accounts our business holds. Our clients like it. They have reaped consistently generous growth in their investments. Vincent Tremali likes it. And,” he added, grinning broadly, “I like it.”
“You couldn’t do it without me,” said Hayden.
“That, my dear friend, is where you are wrong. You are a donkey. A mule. Strong back, weak brain. I load you up, shoo you onto an airplane. The thing about you, Derek, you look legitimate. And you can follow directions.” He shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know you were that stupid, though.”
“I’m telling you, she got nothing out of me.”
“Immaterial, actually. It was a matter of time. I’m certain she’s brighter than you. She would have got what she wanted. Your mistake was not telling me the instant she approached you. Now, I’m afraid, you have lost my trust. Without my trust, Derek, you have nothing.”
“I killed that guy for you. Doesn’t that mean something?”
“Too little, too late, as it turns out.” Concannon turned back to me. “Impressive, what?”
He wanted my approval, for what reason I couldn’t determine. I decided to play along. “Ingenious. I’m very impressed. Tremali’s business must have been worth a lot to you.”
“A lot? Mr. Coyne, right now in the trunk of my Mercedes there rests a suitcase full of money. It is tightly packed. It is very heavy. Nearly two million dollars. Ten percent of that money is mine. We have made several trips on behalf of Vincent Tremali. He is very happy with our work.”
“As well he might be,” I murmured. “So today you’re off to Nassau, eh?”
“Well, our plans may have to be altered slightly. Originally Derek and I and Melanie and Brenda were going to take a little vacation. We were going to hire a schooner and cruise for a while. Your recent, ah, intrusions had suggested that we might make a more lengthy trip of it. A week or two, perhaps a month. Now”—he opened his hands as if he were a magician about to release a dove—“I’m afraid we’re going to have to adjust those plans.”
“We get rid of Coyne and we’re clear,” said Hayden eagerly.
Concannon shook his head sadly. “Not that simple, I’m afraid.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “My goodness. It’s nearly ten-thirty. Time does have a way of fleeting when one is engaged in stimulating conversation. Our plane leaves at—what, Melanie, dear?”
She fumbled in her pocketbook and removed a sheaf of airline tickets. “Two-ten,” she said. Those were the first words she had spoken since I had come into the room. I realized that Brenda had said nothing at all. I wondered how the two women were involved.
“Well, then,” Concannon said, “we must get moving. Did you have any further questions, Mr. Coyne?”
“How are the ladies tied up in this?”
Concannon gazed fondly, first at Melanie and then at Brenda. “Both of these lovely ladies, Mr. Coyne, are in love with me. And, of course, I with them. I consider myself a fortunate man.”
I smiled. “In that single respect, I consider you a fortunate man, too.”
Hayden had placed the Smith and Wesson .38 he had taken from me on the counter beside the sink. Concannon’s gaze fell upon it. He took it in his left hand and expertly checked to see if the cylinder was fully loaded. Then he leaned the .30/30 against the wall. He gestured at me with my pistol. “Stand up, Mr. Coyne. Lace on those boots. We’re going outside.”
I thought of lowering my head and taking a run at him. I thought of tipping over the table and diving for the rifle. I thought of speaking to an imaginary person standing behind Arthur Concannon.
I thought of a bullet zipping through my chest. I bent and laced up my boots.
“Now you,” said Concannon.
Hayden lifted his head. “Me?”
Concannon smiled and nodded. “You.”
Hayden looked from Brenda to Melanie. Neither met his gaze. He shrugged and stood.
“Out the door, you two,” said Concannon. “Slowly and carefully, now. The least I can do for you is make it quick and painless. I know you agree. Open the door please, Derek.”
Hayden obeyed.
“Now,” said Concannon, “put your hands on top of your head.” When Hayden did that, Concannon said to me, “Now, Mr. Coyne, place your hands on Derek’s shoulders. And, gentlemen, if any one of those four hands moves, I shall not hesitate to shoot you both.”
So Hayden and I stood there foolishly, waiting for Concannon’s next command.
Brenda and Melanie remained seated at the table, watching us, with no expression showing on their faces. I wondered how I could have misjudged them so badly.
“Ta, ta, ladies,” said Concannon. “We’ll be but a few minutes. Perhaps you could carry Brenda’s luggage to the car while you’re waiting. In a few hours we shall bask in tropical paradise, sipping exotic rum drinks, frolicking on the white beaches. I have purchased new swim wear for both of you. I know we will all enjoy it.”
Concannon marched Hayden and me outdoors. He paused to squint up at the sky. The air had begun to thicken, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of an imminent snowfall. The thin gray cloud cover lay like a wet tarp over the rural scene. The sun was a fuzzy yellow blotch above it. Concannon nodded and allowed himself a small smile.
He directed us into the barn. Inside the doorway, he ordered us to stop. “Over there,” he said, gesturing with my gun at a row of garden tools that leaned against the inside wall. “Each of you. Pick up a shovel.”
We obeyed. As we bent close together, Hayden whispered to me, “Let’s take a whack at him.”
“Not me, pal,” I said.
“He’s going to make us dig our own graves, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ground’s frozen. I doubt it.”
I turned to face Concannon, holding a long-handled spade. Concannon kept himself beyond range of a swipe. “Okay. Good,” he said. “Now, Mr. Coyne, you resume your position behind Derek. That’s it. Now I want each of you to put those shovels across the small of your backs and hook your elbows around them. Yes, good. That’s it. Now, men, forward, march.”
From that position, converting the shovels into weapons would be awkward and slow. So I marched behind Derek Hayden across the yard to the rear corner of the farmhouse. About fifty feet from the house we came to a roughly rectangular spot where the snow cover was visibly thinner.
“Stop here,” said Concannon. “Now, boys, dig.”
Hayden and I bent to the task. “This is the septic tank,” Hayden hissed to me. “The bastard’s going to dump us in there.”
We shoveled off the snow. The ground on top of the tank was soft. Less than two feet down my spade hit something solid, and within fifteen minutes we had scraped the earth off the top of what looked like a two-thousand-gallon septic tank. There were two concrete lids on it, each slightly less than two feet in diameter.
“Take the tops off,” said Concannon.
They were heavy and wedged on tightly. Hayden and I worked together and finally managed to pry up an edge, slide our shovels under, and lever the top off.
The odor that burst out of that hole made me gag. I backed reflexively away. I noticed Hayden had reacted similarly.
Concannon’s scheme became clear. I could find no flaw in it. He would kill Hayden and me and stuff our corpses into that godawful, stinking pool of septic waste. Then he would replace the top and shovel the earth back over it. He’d smooth the snow over that and fill in our footprints as he went back to the house. Six to twelve inches of new snow, the weatherman had predicted—probably significantly more than that, since Harvard lay west of the imaginary snow line of Route 495. Enough to hide all traces of what had been done.
Concannon and his ladies would fly away to Nassau. Hayden and I would soon be consumed by the hungry bacteria in our hellish tomb. Our bones would sink to the bottom. And who would look there for our bodies? Hayden had been a missing person for weeks already. The search was off for him. And what of me? Concannon would instruct Melanie or Brenda to drive my BMW to a parking garage or shopping mall near the airport. Nobody knew I had driven to Harvard. Nobody would look for me there.
The hopelessness of my situation became suddenly apparent. I had only one thought: Kill me quick. Don’t—dear God, don’t, please don’t leave me to drown in that foul tank.
“Now the other lid,” said Concannon amiably, standing, I noticed, out of range of the awful stench.
With bile rising in my throat I bent beside Hayden. He was muttering under his breath. Suddenly he yelled, “Now!” and in one swift motion he leaped sideways and swiped with his shovel at Concannon.
Concannon took one calm step backward, lifted the pistol, and pumped three quick shots into Hayden’s chest. Hayden’s body jumped backward, as if it had been rammed by a truck. He sprawled face up, arms and legs spread, onto the snow. A red stain spread out under him.
“Too bad,” said Concannon. “I was going to shoot him in the back of the head. It would’ve been a whole lot neater. Ah, well. Now, sir, I’m afraid you are going to have to tuck poor Derek into the hole.”
I was staring down at Hayden’s body. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
“Get cracking, Mr. Coyne. I’m running short of time here.”
Numbly, I bent to Hayden’s body. It was limp and awkward, and he had been a big man. I tugged at his arm. I could barely budge him. I started to stand up. “I can’t—”
“Mr. Coyne, this saddens me, but I am out of patience.” Concannon raised the pistol and pointed it at my chest.
I stared into his eyes. Face the executioner. If nothing else, Arthur Concannon would see my eyes in his sleep for the rest of his life.
I saw the concussion of the bullet a barely perceptible instant before I heard the report of the rifle. A white puckered hole materialized on the side of Arthur Concannon’s neck. As I watched, the hole turned pink. Then blood welled up in it and began to spurt from it as Concannon’s heart pumped his life out onto the snow.
He stood there for what seemed like a long time, frowning. He dropped the pistol onto the snow. In slow motion, he reached up to touch his wound. Then he removed his hand and held it in front of his face. The hand dripped with his blood. Then he looked at me, and in the instant before his eyes rolled up and he sagged to the ground, I thought I detected the beginnings of a smile in them.
I knelt beside Concannon and felt under his jaw for a pulse. It was there, flickering dimly. Then it fluttered like butterfly wings, and Concannon groaned quietly. Then he died.
I looked wildly around. Bracing herself against the side of the house was Brenda Hayden. The .30/30 was trained on me. Melanie Walther stood behind her. Both ladies looked calm, composed.
I waved at them. “My God, thank you,” I called.
They started to move toward me. I reached for the pistol that Concannon had dropped. Brenda shouted, “No! Leave it!”
I shrugged and stood to wait for them.
Brenda held the rifle at her side. She handled it comfortably. The two women came over and stood beside me. They gazed down at the two dead men. Melanie shoved at each of them with the toe of her boot. “They’re dead,” she said.
“Good,” said Brenda. She knelt beside the sprawled corpse of her husband. She touched his cheek tenderly, her head bowed as if in prayer. She muttered, “Ah, Tarz…” Then she stood up. “He was a bastard,” she said to no one in particular.
“They both were,” said Melanie.
“Well,” I said, “that was good work. Helluva shot. He was about to—”
Brenda took a step backward. She held the stock of the .30/30 tight into her armpit. Her finger was on the trigger. The rifle was aimed at me.
“Hey, you can put that thing away,” I said. “You got the bad guys.”
The muzzle did not waver. “Come on,” said Brenda. “Let’s go back to the house.”
I turned and started to walk. “You know,” I said over my shoulder, “I’m getting a little tired of being paraded around at gunpoint. We’ve got to phone the police, you know. You saved my life. You’re heroes.”
We went back into the kitchen. I sat at the table without being told. I suddenly felt weak-legged and dizzy.
“Whew,” I breathed. “I’m a little shaky. You going to call the police now?”
Brenda and Melanie exchanged glances. “You’re a pretty nice guy, Brady,” said Melanie. “We decided that while you were outside. At first we figured, let Arthur kill you both. Then we said, Brady’s a reasonable person, and kinda sexy in a chauvinist sort of way. Anyhow, he’s not really involved in all this, and it would be a waste. At least we ought to give him a chance. You do want a chance, don’t you?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “You betcha. I do want a chance.”
They both smiled. They had me by the balls and they were enjoying it. “Here’s the deal,” said Melanie. “Brenda and I are going to leave. You’re going to stay. You can stay here and continue breathing if you’ll do it our way.”
“What’s your way?”
She reached into her pocket and took out a small plastic bottle. She opened it and shook three tiny tablets into her hand. “This is a large dose. It will wipe you out for a while. But it won’t kill you. I want you to swallow these.”
“How do I know it won’t kill me?”
She glanced meaningfully at the rifle Brenda held. “If it were lethal, it’s still preferable, don’t you think?”
I sighed deeply. “Yes, but it’s really not necessary.”
She smiled. “It won’t kill you. Honest.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” said Melanie.