Thai Die (29 page)

She looked for, but didn’t see, the modest sedan that Mike drove when on official police business. He must have already come and gone. She followed a set of tire prints up onto the apron in front of the shed and stopped. Shutting her engine off, she pulled her cell phone from her purse to make sure it was turned on. It was. So why hadn’t he called?

She punched in Mike’s number at the police department, but before her phone could begin to ring the car door was yanked open. Betsy looked up to see a man standing there, a gun in one gloved hand. Shocked, she dropped the phone.

He was a tall man, very trim even in a long overcoat of dark gray wool. He wore a stylized dark gray fedora that was almost a cowboy hat, a rakish affectation that made her recognize him at once, though she’d only seen him briefly two or three times before.

“Joe!” she said.

“Hi, Betsy. I’m really sorry about this,” he said, and such was the distress on his face that her first impulse was to offer some words of comfort.

But she managed to hold them back—the gun in his hand was pointing at her face, after all—and instead she said, “What do you want?”

“Move over, I’ll be driving. We need to go someplace private.”

Without moving, Betsy asked, “How did you find me?”

“I followed you from your store. I was hoping you’d stop someplace where I could get to you. I’m glad you did—it makes this so much easier. No, don’t get out!”

But Betsy was out of the car before he had finished speaking. “Wh . . . why do you have to take me anywhere?”

“To kill you. Because you know who I am. That is, you know what I am.”

Edging very, very slowly down the length of her Buick, Betsy asked in as mild a tone as she could muster, “What are you?” Then she broke and ran down the driveway, veering from side to side, trying not to stumble, desperately hoping it was true that handguns in the hands of amateurs are very inaccurate at more than a few yards.

There was a tiny tug at the sleeve of her coat followed immediately by a loud bang.

She screamed and ran off the driveway in among the tall trees and snow-clogged shrubs. Her feet crunched the snow loudly. Another report sounded, but this time the shot did not seem to come near her. She fled to the largest tree and stopped, heart pounding. She extended her left arm and turned it to look at the back of the sleeve. She saw a small, frayed tear just below the elbow that had not been there when she put the coat on. He’d nearly hit her! She rubbed the hole with her right hand, as if that could erase it.

A troubled silence had settled in. Betsy strained her ears for the sound of footsteps, but could hear nothing. Where was he? There’d been no sound of a car starting up. Was he still on the property? Perhaps he had run away. She began to make her way in the direction of her car, trying unsuccessfully to step quietly.

Here among the trees, the snow had blown into deep drifts. Warmer weather earlier that week had softened the drifts, but now they had frozen up again, just enough to hold her weight briefly. She would step up onto one, and then her boot would crunch through. She had to lift her foot high to get it clear of the crusted snow. Betsy paused very briefly between each step to listen, but still, walking was like working a StairMaster while wearing heavy clothing. In a very few minutes she was gasping for air and prickly with fear-sweat.

Where was Joe? She felt a pressure on the middle of her back, as if someone were aiming a weapon at her, and whirled around to see . . . nothing. She listened intently—was that a footstep? But now there was only silence. The light was failing quickly, she couldn’t stay out here in the dark.

Then, all of a sudden, she did hear something. It was like an old-fashioned steam locomotive whistle, except smaller, and not coming from the direction of the one active railroad line near Excelsior.

But she knew what it meant. She was saved.

She turned and ran back toward the driveway just as a large, square-built, flat-fendered, forest green car came rolling smoothly through the gates. So that’s why they’d been left open! Lars had gone for a drive with the old car. Betsy stopped before reaching the driveway, looking in both directions. There were a man’s footprints besides her own, black on the surface of the drive. She backed up two steps.

Lars hadn’t put the top up, and Betsy could see he had two passengers in the backseat.

They were Phil and Doris, laughing as they were pressed together sideways as the antique car bent around the turn into the driveway. Stanleys, having no transmission, generate tremendous torque; this model’s narrow tires did not lose any of their grip on the snow-covered lane. Lars, behind the wheel, was laughing, too. He reached for controls on the upright dashboard as the old car slowed.

“Lars! Lars!” shouted Betsy, starting to run after it. The trio in the car, startled, looked around at her.

But after her struggles in the snowdrifts, she could run no more than a few strides. Her chest ached, it was impossible to take a deep-enough breath. She stopped and, desperate to warn them with as few words as possible, shouted, “He’s got a
gun
!”

Brakes on antique cars are notoriously weak. Lars stopped the Stanley by the simple expedient of throwing it into reverse. The car instantly gave a little hop backward, dumping momentum, at which point Lars closed the throttle and applied the old brakes. Betsy could hear him shout, “Get down, get down!” while gesturing at Doris and Phil, who vanished into the depths of the capacious backseat.

He leaped out of the car, unzipping his fur-edged parka as he ran toward Betsy. He grabbed her by one arm and drew a revolver from a shoulder holster with his other hand, pulling her off the drive and into the shelter of a lilac bush.

“Who has a gun?” he demanded, looking around. He was a very tall man with broad shoulders and big hands. He had blond hair and light gray eyes, and his expression, normally good-humored, was at the moment shockingly grim and preternaturally alert.

“Dr. Joe Brown. He’s the murderer, Lars. I was coming here to tell Mike, but I missed him, and Joe followed me.”

“Where is Joe now?”

Betsy, with a quaver in her voice, replied, “I don’t know. He shot at me, Lars. I’ve been running and hiding. If you hadn’t come back . . .” She stifled a sob. “He said I knew—and he’s right, I do. He killed the antiques store man, and Lena Olson—”

“You can tell me this later,” Lars interrupted her brusquely. “Let’s get under cover. Come on!”

He hustled her back to the Stanley—he hadn’t let go of her arm—and said, through the door, “We have a man with a gun here, and need to get into the house.”

“Oh, my God!” muttered Phil from somewhere within the car.

Lars wrenched the door open. “Out, fast!”

Phil came out first, clumsily trying to both hurry and keep his head down. He reached back to assist Doris.

“Drop that gun!” said a voice.

When Phil let go of Doris to spin around, she fell out of the car. She gave a cry of pain as her knees struck the icy driveway.

“Give it up, Joe!” shouted Lars, turning, starting to raise his own gun.

“I’ll shoot Betsy first!” countered Joe.

Phil, murmuring words of comfort, helped Doris to her feet, then pulled her close beside him, one arm around her waist. Betsy edged sideways to stand beside Phil.

Then they all faced the man with the gun in watchful, respectful silence.

“I mean it,” said Joe. His hand trembled, but his face was clenched with determination.

Lars had not yet brought his gun to bear on Joe. He hesitated, then tossed it aside.

“Who are you, anyway?” Joe demanded.

“I’m Sergeant Lars Larson, Excelsior police,” said Lars in an angry voice. “Who are you?”

“Po . . . po . . .” Joe gaped at Lars in clear dismay, then pulled his mouth shut with an effort.

Betsy took this opportunity to identify him. “He’s Dr. Joseph Brown,” she said. “A member of the board of directors of the Minneapolis Art Institute.”

Joe pulled himself together. He grasped his gun more firmly, giving it a little shake and said, “Everybody, just stay where you are!”

“All right,” said Lars agreeably, spreading his hands. “Fine. But you’re in a lot more trouble now than you were just a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, I agree, it’s gotten complicated,” agreed Joe, “but I think I can manage.” He sounded calm now. He turned his attention to Phil. “So who are you?”

“I’m Phil Galvin, retired railroad engineer.”

“Who are you?” he asked Doris.

Betsy said quickly, “I’m Betsy Devonshire.”

“I know who you are,” said Joe. “The source of all my trouble.”

“She’s not the source, you are!” growled Phil. “Stupid jerk! You’re the one killing people over a piece of old silk!” He had wordlessly conspired with Betsy to keep Doris’s name out of this.

“You don’t understand!” cried Joe, and the gun in his hand wavered. “Nobody was supposed to die! That wasn’t the plan at all!”

He began to approach the group, moving at an angle that led him toward the front of the old car, eyes shifting constantly as he kept track of everyone. As he walked, his expression hardened. Betsy was terrified he’d come to a deadly decision.

But: “What kind of a car is this?” he asked, surprising her.

“It’s a 1911 Stanley Steamer,” said Lars, glancing around at it. Even with its top down, the car was taller than he was. The brass surround of its bolt-upright windshield and large headlights gleamed in the failing light, and its green finish was without flaw. Its big wheels had wooden spokes, painted yellow. A startling touch was a big brass dragon resting on the right front fender, mouth agape. Betsy considered running behind the car—she was sure it was bulletproof. Could doing that get her enough time to pull her cell phone out and dial 911?

Oh, wait. Her cell phone was in her car; she’d dropped it when Joe had opened her car door.

Joe said wistfully, “I wish this weren’t happening. I wish we were meeting here as friends. Then I might talk with you about this car. Instead, things are about to get a little tricky.”

White-faced Doris took a step backward, trying to put the fender with the dragon on it between herself and Joe, but he took two steps sideways and one step closer so she remained within range of his gun.

“Don’t move, sir!” he said to Phil, who had been about to put himself between Doris and Joe. Phil hunched his shoulders and balled his fists but obeyed. “Oh, you haven’t been protecting her by your silence, you know,” said Joe. “I know she’s Doris Valentine. If she had just done what was asked of her, we’d all be just fine.” His voice was weighty with anger and unmade threats.

Betsy said quickly, “Joe, I’ve left phone messages all over the place, saying you’re the murderer they’re looking for. What good will it do for you to kill us?”

He sneered, “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to convince me of that. But what if you can’t?” He pointed the gun at her. “In fact, what if I start off by—”

And suddenly there came an enormous rushing sound. A warm thick fog billowed forward and outward, doubling in sound and size as it did. It clogged the air, engulfing first Joe, then the rest of them. It was warm . . . Oh! Not fog, Betsy realized. Steam. Blinded, she put her hand out and found the smooth side of the car. And that was when she heard a loud, shrill scream, louder than any human throat should produce. She could feel the metal vibrate under the racket.

“Down! Down!” shouted Lars, barely audible over the scream, and Betsy immediately fell on her face. Was the car going to explode?

A shot was fired. The scream was silenced. Had the screamer been human after all?

Then sounds of struggle could be heard: feet scraping, blows being struck, grunts. The steam seemed to roil and Betsy thought she could see figures struggling in it. “Grab his other arm!” Phil shouted. “Ow! Let go!” There was a heavy thud—a body falling?—and more grunting. Then she heard a metallic clatter and slide, and the gun suddenly bumped up against Betsy’s side. Joe’s gun. Betsy concealed it with an arm.

“Gimme your hand!” That was Lars. “Gimme your
hand
!”

She heard the scraping of feet. The sound of a punch landing, a man’s cry of pain. A curse, more grunts and struggling, a sharp, cracking punch, then a panting voice—Joe’s: “Stop it! Stop it! All right! All right, I quit!”

A small scraping sound of metal closing on metal—
Handcuffs,
thought Betsy—then Lars calling, “Shut that valve off!”

The rushing noise diminished and finally stopped. The steam rolled upward, thinning as it went. In seconds the air was clear.

“What the hell
was
that?” demanded a rumpled Joe from on his knees, his fine coat pulled crookedly on his body, the effect underlined by his arms pulled behind his back. A bruise was forming on one cheekbone. He was getting up, roughly helped by Lars and Phil. The coats of all three were marred with clean and dirty snow.

“Just letting off a little steam,” said Lars, pulling Joe the rest of the way to his feet. “Good work, Phil. And that was well done, Doris!”

Betsy, climbing slowly to her feet, said, “Was that you?”

Doris, speaking for the first time, said modestly, “I just opened the steam relief valves and blew the whistle.”

“That’s my girl!” said Phil, grinning at her. She looked at him then, and matched his grin with one of her own.

Just then, a very strange sound, a kind of eerie howl, started coming from the car.

Joe staggered backward in alarm, stumbling over the heaps of frozen snow that lined the drive, pulling Lars along with him.

“Get back here, you jerk, it’s all right!” said Lars, dragging Joe forward again. To the others he explained, “The old car sings when she’s building a head of steam. Or rebuilding one.”

“Shouldn’t take long,” said Doris. Still standing on the running board, she leaned over the door to look inside. “There’s still about three hundred p.s.i. in the boiler.”