Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (24 page)

My watch said it was not quite nine. I had
made some progress, and wasn't too tired yet, so I glanced back at
Josh's room. Maybe he'd quit because the job was too daunting. He
was still in front of the television, with some shoot-em-up movie
blasting forth, the f-word in generous use. Not network
programming, I gathered. Josh had wandered into the kitchen for
more beer at least twice while I worked in there, so I figured it
was useless getting him into action now. Without asking, I stepped
into his room once more. Maybe if I picked up the first two or
three layers and made the bed, it wouldn't look so frightening. He
could then finish it tomorrow.

Josh had thrown half a dozen articles of
clothing into one of the packing boxes before he gave up. I glanced
at them. They lay in inert little heaps, indistinguishable lumps.
Gingerly, I reached in and pulled out one of them. This was no way
to pack clothes. I folded the t-shirt neatly, then the next and the
next. We'd get a lot more into the box if they were flat. Making my
way around the room, I soon had all the loose clothing in two
boxes. The top of what I presumed to be a desk was littered with
junk—pencils, loose change, a lighter, and wads of papers covered
the surface. I attempted to stack the papers and decided maybe I
could just push the rest of it into a drawer. This is not my usual
style but this was not my room, either.

I started to open the top drawer of the desk
but it jammed. Something was wedged at an angle near the back of
the drawer, keeping it from opening more than about three inches. I
could have probably scooped the small junk into the opening and
closed it but that went against my grain. I snaked my hand through
the opening, feeling blindly for the obstacle and hoping like hell
it wouldn't bite.

Whatever the obstruction, it was wedged very
well. It felt like something solid and heavy. I pushed at it a few
times with no success. Finally, I got my fingers to the bottom of
the cluttered drawer and pressed hard at the base of the offending
object. It fell with startling suddenness, smashing my middle
finger in the process.

"Ouch!" I couldn't help it. The drawer slid
open easily now, my injured finger popping straight to my mouth. It
wasn't cut, at least I couldn't see any blood in the eerie purple
light. I held on to the damaged part for a couple of minutes until
the pain subsided. When I reached for the drawer, with my other
hand this time, it slid easily open. I was just about to scoop the
entire pile of junk from the top of the desk into the drawer when I
realized what had hit me. About two-thirds of the way back, not
hidden in any way, lay a gun.

It was a black shadow of a thing, and had it
not been for the damage to my finger, I would have believed it to
be a toy. As it was, I blinked twice just to confirm what I was
seeing in the dimly lit room. I reached toward it automatically,
but my hand drew back just inches away from it. In that moment I
knew, just as sure as I knew my own name or my birthdate, that this
was the gun that had killed Gary and Jean.

A crumpled paper napkin lay among the
detritus on the desk. I used it to pick up the weapon. It was
heavier than I'd expected, once I had the full weight of it in
hand. I raised it slowly and sniffed at it. It smelled very faintly
like fireworks—like the air smells late in the evening on the
Fourth of July. I don't know much about guns, but somehow this told
me it had been fired.

The noise from the television set in the
living room intruded upon my consciousness again. The hair on my
arms prickled suddenly. I turned to find Josh Detweiller standing
in the doorway.

Chapter 21

For a crazy moment I thought he might just
give me one of those Elvis smiles. He would come into the room and
pick up a magazine. I'd slip the gun back into the drawer
unnoticed, then bid him goodnight and get the hell out of
there.

It almost worked that way. He stood there
watching me for an eternity. Probably about a minute and a half, in
reality. I lowered the gun, hoping to put it back where I'd found
it. I fumbled for the drawer, unwilling to take my eyes off him. My
shaking hand couldn't find it and I backed up. My butt touched the
open drawer. It slid quickly closed, causing me to momentarily lose
balance.

Josh was at my side instantly. He reached for
the weapon with shaky hands and I gave it up. For the first time in
my life, I wished I'd listened to Ron's advice about guns. At least
I'd know whether it was loaded, whether the safety was on or not.
It was a little late now for those kinds of wishes.

"What made you do it, Josh?" Now I could only
hope to stall long enough to work out a way to get myself out of
this alive.

He shrugged, backing away enough to aim the
gun at me. His hands weren't shaking now. His lids were half
closed, the dark eyes almost sexy looking. I'd never seen him like
this before, but then I'd never seen him after several beers, a
violent movie, and with a gun in his hand.

My question still hung in the air. He hadn't
ignored it, he was contemplating his answer.

"They were mean to me," he finally said.

"Mean to you?" Mean to you! Is that the
answer nowadays? Anytime someone is mean to you, you blow them
away?

"My old man used to throw me around. Every
time he came home drunk, he'd take it out on me and Mom."

"And your mom? Why did she deserve it?" Or
had her big mistake been reaching into that drawer the same way I
had?

He laughed, an abrupt chuckle that came out
as a snort. "She was no better. Whenever Dad hit me, she'd jump in
and pull him away. But when he wasn't around, she'd scream at me,
call me stupid, and lazy. She was no different than him."

"And so you're gonna solve it the same way
they solved everything. Somebody makes you mad, so you just get
violent."

He shrugged again. "They deserved it."

The cold attitude chilled me. I rubbed my
goose-pimpled arms.

"What about me?" I asked. "Now you feel you
have to get rid of me, too?"

"You haven't ever been mean to me, Charlie,"
he said. He seemed genuinely puzzled about my remark.

"What about the police, Josh? Sooner or later
they'll figure this out." I was careful not to say that I'd tell
them.

"I'll get a good lawyer," he said.

So that's what it boiled down to. A good
lawyer could find some kind of defense for Josh. It made me furious
but I had no doubt of its feasibility.
Good
lawyers get
guilty people off the hook all the time. Right and wrong have
ceased to matter. It only matters how good your lawyer is.

"Josh, think about this. You need help,
counseling. Let's try to figure out a way."

He stiffened. For the first time since he'd
taken the gun from me, I saw anger. It was a cold, unprincipled
anger.

"I need to think about this," he growled.
"Not with you. Just me, by myself."

He jammed the gun into the waistband of his
jeans and, almost in the same move, grabbed a length of nylon
climbing rope from the dresser near the door.

"Sit down," he ordered. With his left hand he
yanked the chair away from the desk, flinging a bath towel off it.
The cord was still in his right hand.

I stared at the gun in his waistband. If I
moved quickly, I could probably grab it. What good would that do? I
didn't know how to use it. But he didn't know that. I hesitated a
second too long. Josh grabbed my shoulder, squeezing it painfully
in a grip that brought me to the chair without much effort. He
looped the rope around my left wrist, cinching it tight. My right
arm was curiously useless, numb from the pressure he'd applied to
my collarbone. Before I managed to shake off the feeling, he'd
snagged that wrist, too, and was proceeding to wind the rope
through the lower chair rungs, effectively pinning my hands down
near my ankles in a position that would very soon send my lower
back into spasms.

"Ow, Josh, that hurts!"

Oddly enough, he listened. He let a little
slack in the rope. A curious kindness from a two-time murderer. He
progressed to my ankles, tying them now to the chair legs. At least
I had some protection there from my socks.

"Josh, what are you going to do?" I worked to
keep the tremor out of my voice.

He yanked at the final knot. "I don't know. I
just gotta get out of here. I ain't living with that aunt, and I
ain't going to jail. I just gotta figure it out."

I sat still, wondering what he meant to do.
He didn't seem to know either. His eyes darted around the room,
like he was figuring out what to take with him. He settled on a
lightweight jacket and four CDs from the rack beside his stereo.
The gun was still in his waistband.

He darted out of my sight, which wasn't
difficult since my back was to the door, my eyes aimed at the
floor. I strained to hear what was going on. Blaring music from the
television in the living room effectively obliterated other sounds.
Some bumping noises came from the direction of the kitchen. I
twisted to one side then the other, hoping to get some idea. In the
macabre black room, I could only see the purplish glow from the two
neon lamps. My ears listened for any sound from Josh.

After ten minutes or so, I felt sure he'd
really gone. I managed to get enough weight onto my feet that I
could lift the chair legs an inch or two off the floor. By hefting
my weight at the same time, I managed to turn a few inches to the
right. I did this twice, then listened for reprisals from the other
rooms. Nothing.

I clumped the chair around enough to see the
doorway into the hall. I was breathing hard from the effort and my
lower back was killing me. I saw no sign of Josh. Flickering light
from the TV set gave the hall a strobe effect. Between that and the
neons I was beginning to feel nauseated. Sitting bent over at the
waist wasn't helping, either. I scanned the little bit I could see
and found no evidence of Josh. I clumped the chair again, loudly,
to see if I'd get a reaction.

Nothing.

Every part of my body hurt. My stomach was
doing flip-flops while my arms felt stretched to the breaking point
and my collarbone still ached from his ferocious pinch. And all the
time I had to think about getting out. There was no doubt in my
mind that Josh would be back. It was only a question of how long
he'd stay away.

I tried to think where I'd seen the
telephone. There was one on the kitchen wall near the door to the
hall. If I cranked my neck far enough back, I could even see it. In
my present position, it was a good two feet above my head. And with
my arms strapped down to the chair rungs, there was no way I'd ever
be able to dial it. Think, Charlie. There had been an extension in
the master bedroom. The phone had been on the floor near the bed. I
had set it up on the nightstand, now conveniently out of my reach.
Well, it was my only hope now.

Since I hadn't heard any repercussions from
my earlier movements, I decided it was time to go for it. It
couldn't get much more awkward than this, my ankles tied to the
chair legs, hands bound beside them. With a little effort, I worked
out a system of shifting my weight to my feet, then to the chair. I
scooted along like this, like a severely crippled inchworm. The
clutter all over Josh's room didn't help, either. I barreled over
some of the obstacles, kicked others out of my way with the tips of
my toes. I had to stop for a breather when I reached the hall, but
I knew I couldn't afford to make it a long one.

The hall looked impossibly long. In fact, it
was probably less than eight feet to the master bedroom. Then to
traverse that room, too . . . I resolved not to think about it. It
seemed like a day later that I reached the nightstand, although it
had probably been closer to twenty minutes. I had lost all track of
time and my watch was cocked around to the far side of my wrist,
impossible to see. The phone stood on the nightstand, just as I'd
left it, about level with my forehead when I stretched my neck as
far as I could. My spirits took a dive. There was no way I could
lift the receiver and press the numbers.

Dammit! I hurt all over and knew that Josh
might return any time. In a fit of frustration, I reared the chair
back on its hind legs and kicked forward with all my might. The
nightstand fell sideways and the phone with it. All right!

I scooted over to the phone, which lay upside
down on the rug, the receiver splayed out to the end of its spiral
cord. I righted the instrument with my toe and jerked myself into a
position where my fingers could touch it. Carefully, I pressed
911.

The receiver was two feet away. I clumped
over to it and touched it with my fingers. No way I could raise it
to my mouth. I waited until I thought I heard a voice at the other
end. With the television still blaring in the background, it was
impossible to tell. I shouted toward the mouthpiece, hoping whoever
waited out there would be able to understand what I was about to
say.

"Get Detective Kent Taylor," I yelled. "Tell
him Josh Detweiller is the killer. He's out driving around." I gave
a description of the car, kicking myself that I'd not troubled to
memorize the license number. "Then send someone here to untie me,"
I shouted. I gave the address, and hoped they got it all. I heard a
voice at the other end but couldn't make out the words. My voice
was hoarse and I wanted to cry from the pain and frustration. And
then I heard the distinct sound of the front door closing.

Chapter 23

"What are you
doing
?" Josh shouted,
taking in the broken nightstand and the phone sprawled across the
carpet. He rushed toward me. I expected to be shot or slammed with
the butt of the gun at any second.

At that moment I felt curiously detached, as
if I were watching the scene being played out in a movie. Somewhere
inside, I knew I should be afraid but I'd put the emotion on hold.
Instead, I noticed details. No sign of the gun on Josh. What had he
done with it? Had he ditched it somewhere in an effort to hide his
crimes, or was it simply tucked away in the back of his jeans?