Fever Dream (43 page)

And then he collapsed, like a sail in dead calm, and fell to the floor in front of me.

I hunched forward, felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing.

Fletcher was dead.

Another set of footsteps. Slow, tentative.

As the last remaining spirals of steam evaporated, I saw her. Treva Williams. Her small, slim body quivering. Holding Brian Fletcher’s revolver.

Chapter Sixty-one

Treva took another careful step forward. Stared down at Fletcher’s body on the concrete. The blood beginning to pool beneath him.

“He…He was going to…I
had
to…”

“I know.”

By now, the tunnel had almost entirely cleared of steam. Though rivulets of moisture streaked the walls, the metallic skins of the still-throbbing machinery.

An incessant hum whose echo would stay in my memory, I knew even then, for a long, long time…

Finally, as though just now aware of it, she glanced at the smoking revolver in her grasp. Let her hands drop slowly, deliberately, still molded around the gun.

Bracing against the wall, I pulled myself to my feet. Legs stiff and wobbly beneath me.

Glassy-eyed, she looked at me.

“It’s funny, how things turned out. How I ended up protecting
you
…”

“Yes, you did. And I’m grateful.”

But my words sounded hollow, even to me. False.

I sighed heavily, let myself lean against the wall. Feeling its wetness stain the back of my shirt.

“But you were also protecting yourself, Treva. I know that now.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“With Brian Fletcher dead, no one can connect him to you. No one will ever know that you were working for him.
With
him. From the very beginning.”

Her mouth opened, but it took her a long moment to speak. “But I hardly knew Brian Fletcher, and—”

“Jesus, you’re good, Treva. You’re very good. You fooled me…”

“But I don’t—”

I rubbed my eyes. Suddenly weary. Spent.

“Though it wasn’t all a lie. I realize that now, too. You
did
love Bobby Marks, and after seeing Roarke kill him in the bank, you really
were
traumatized. Believe it or not, I can imagine how you felt. I’ve felt it myself.”

By now, her face had grown tight. Harder, somehow. But tears dotted the edges of her eyes.

“No, you can’t. I loved Bobby with all my heart. And I didn’t—I had no idea what Roarke was going to do…”

“I believe you. But that’s
all
I believe. Because everything else was a lie. You and Bobby both worked for Fletcher. Maybe Bobby recruited you, maybe it was the other way around. I don’t care. But you helped him at the bank. Helped funnel those PAC funds through dummy corporations.”

Treva said nothing. Merely stared at me.

I went on quietly. “There was no second robber at the bank. No partner. Wheeler Roarke came in alone, then shot out the video cameras. Then he killed Bobby. Right in front of you.”

She nodded again. Slowly.

“He…Roarke said…”

“I can guess what happened next. He threatened you. Said the same thing would happen to
you
if you didn’t cooperate. So when SWAT started assembling outside the bank, Roarke sent you out. As a released hostage. He told you what story to tell. That there were
two
robbers. That Bobby had been shot for apparently disobeying their orders not to move. That his death was just a terrible result of panicked, trigger-happy gunmen.”

It was only then that Treva glanced down at the gun still gripped in her two small hands. The gun she was slowly bringing up again. To point at me.

“Don’t you understand?” She sniffed. “I saw what Roarke did to Bobby. If I didn’t do what he said, the same thing would happen to me. I…I was terrified.”

“I know. I saw that fear when I was tied up next to you at Pittsburgh Memorial. When he made Dr. Holloway tend to his wound. You must have been horrified when Roarke showed up in your room at the ICU. When he forced you and the doctor downstairs to the OR.”

“Yes. I thought he was going to kill me right there. After he got fixed up by the doctor.”

“Maybe he would have. Luckily for you, I volunteered to be his hostage instead.”

Treva moved closer to me. The gun shaking.

“Look, I…I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to get away. Far away. You know yourself I didn’t mean for all these bad things to happen…”

“Maybe not. Not at first. But then why keep helping Roarke? Unless he contacted you after he’d escaped from the hospital. Threatened you again…”

Her face paled. “How did you know…?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. It was Roarke who told you to leave your apartment the next day. To get out of there before the Victims’ Services people came to call. It was Roarke who told you to fly to Harville. Hell, maybe you flew together. Took the same flight early that day. Arriving just before I did.”

Treva was shaking her head.

“No…that’s…that’s wrong. You
know
that. It was even on the news. Roarke and his friend Ronny Baxter were at that farmhouse in Harville. It was Ronny who—”

“Stop it, Treva!”

I pushed off from the wall. Anger rising in my throat.

“It was
you
at Stubbs’ place. While Roarke and I were in the barn, you were in the farm house, looking for the CD. When you finally found it, you called and told him. I saw him take the call myself.”

I risked another step.

“Just as it was you who helped Roarke get the drugged Henry Stubbs up into that noose. With his wounded arm, I knew he needed help doing it. ”

“How could
I
have helped? I’m not strong enough to—”

“You didn’t have to be. I saw that block-and-tackle set under the tool rack. All you and Roarke had to do was loop it over the rafter, and use the pulleys to hoist Stubbs up. It compensates for the weight.”

She bit her lip. Blinking.

I pressed on. “When I was running away, after Roarke died, I looked back and saw a small figure moving toward the barn. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out who it was. I just assumed it was Ronny Baxter. Running toward the barn, carrying a gun.” My tone sharpened. “Tell me, Treva. If you
had
found me there, would you have used it?”

Her voice rose. “I swear to you, that wasn’t me. It was Ronny Baxter. He—”

“Goddammit, it wasn’t Baxter and you know it. Ronny Baxter is dead! The FBI found him in the county morgue in El Paso, Texas. He’d been dead over a week. Killed in some drunken bar fight. Days before the bank robbery. Before any of this.”

I moved closer, crowding her. “No, Treva, it was you with Roarke in Harville. You who ran in the barn after I got out. Who found Roarke’s body and torched the place.”

She was blinking furiously now. Hands shaking more noticeably, as she tried to steady the gun.

“No…I wasn’t there. I was
here
, in town. At my apartment, remember? You
called
me there. I even asked you to meet. To get together someplace and talk.”

“Yes, you did. And that threw me at first. Till I realized that you’d set your phone to take incoming calls and reroute them to your cell. When I called you from that restaurant outside Harrisburg, I thought I’d reached you at home. On your home line. But that whole time, you were talking to me on your cell. Probably from that rented Range Rover near Stubbs’ farm.

“Which is also why Victims’ Services got no answer when they went to your place that day. You weren’t there.”

She pressed her lips together. A thin, tight line. I could tell she was trying to focus. To keep the gun straight and level. Trained on me.

“You
are
very good, Treva. You knew I was in Harville. So when I called you, you came up with the idea of inviting me to meet you somewhere, establishing your alibi. That you were still in town, at your apartment. Knowing full well I couldn’t accept the invitation.”

I took a long breath.

“I’m right, aren’t I? For once, Treva, tell me the goddam truth—”

“Yes!” A sudden shout. Choked, as though wrenched from her. “Yes. I…everything you said. I did it. I…”

I nodded. “After that, all you had to do was book a late flight back to Pittsburgh—as I did—and go home. And continue playing the distraught, emotionally needy victim. Or, in my opinion, actually
being
the distraught, emotionally needy victim. Traumatized by everything she’d seen. And done.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Treva? You’re feeling it right now. Fragmented, lost. Terrified. And yet some part of you, some self-protective part, keeps pushing you on. It’s why you followed Fletcher and me out of the conference hall. You needed to know what we were talking about. Whether I’d guessed the truth and was confronting Fletcher. Whether he’d reveal that you and he had been working together. That after all you’d been through, it would still come out.”

Again that slow, glassy-eyed nod. Panic giving way to shock. Disorientation.

“And now it will, Treva. All of it.”

I reached into my pocket and withdrew a small digital recorder. With wireless transmitter attached.

“That was the plan all along. To get Fletcher alone, get him to admit his guilt. Before Sinclair’s victory became a done deal.” I nodded at the sleek device in my hand. “With what’s on this, McCloskey’s hold on the campaign is over. At least I hope so.”

At last, she found her voice.

“You…you were recording Fletcher…?”

“
And
transmitting to the cops. Which means I have
your
admission, too.”

She just stared at the recorder, numb.

I pocketed it again and approached her, my palm outstretched. “Give me the gun, okay, Treva? You aren’t going to shoot me. You know you aren’t.”

She grew agitated. Conflicted.

“I…I can’t…”

Suddenly, another voice—sharp, commanding—filled the narrow space between us.

“Then give it to
me
, Treva! Now!”

As though slapped, Treva jerked her head back. Stared in the direction of this new voice.

I turned as well, just as Eleanor Lowrey stepped into view, bathed in harsh light from the ceiling lamps. Coming quickly toward us from the mouth of the tunnel. Service weapon upraised.

“I said, give me the gun!”

I faded back as Eleanor approached, her eyes narrowed with purpose. And visible pain.

Treva stood frozen, rooted to the spot. Until slowly, reluctantly, she made a half-turn and faced her former lover. For the first time in many years.

Then, without a word, without a sound, Treva handed the revolver over to Eleanor. She pocketed it.

Without taking her eyes from the younger woman, Eleanor spoke to me.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” She tapped the receiver hooked behind her left ear. “Fletcher
and
Treva.”

“But where the hell were you? I thought the plan was to give me five minutes alone with Fletcher, then the cavalry comes in—”

“Right. Till Treva followed you out the service door, and Fletcher brought you two down here. Then we just hauled ass after you, but—”

“But we got lost in a crap-load of steam foggin’ the whole place up.” It was a flustered Harry Polk, lumbering toward us. Breathing hard. “Plus we went down the wrong goddam tunnel. Regular fun-house, this place.”

With his trademark scowl, he surveyed the scene. Took in the two women, the dead body on the ground. Me.

“What
is
it with you, anyway?” he said at last. “Every goddam crime scene in town, you’re there.”

“It’s a gift.”

He snorted. “Look, not that I give a shit, but our two candidates upstairs wanna get things started. Crowd’s gettin’ restless, too. They want their show.”

I smiled over at Eleanor. “Late or not, I’m glad you guys made it.”

But she was looking at Treva. “Me, I’m not so glad.”

A long, uncomfortable silence.

Harry gave me a puzzled look, but I merely shrugged. Then we both watched as Eleanor drew a pair of cuffs from her jeans pocket. Went briskly over to where Treva Williams slumped, forlorn, against the wall. Fingers twisting in front of her.

“I’ll need you to turn around, Ms. Williams.”