The Rainy Season (39 page)

Cursing and starting sweat now, she picked it up again, this time moving around to the front of the car, lifting the rock over her head, and flinging it down onto the windshield, which sloped back at such an angle that the rock landed solidly this time. The windshield imploded inward, flying into a million small fragments, the rock going straight through and landing on the front seat. Going around to the side of the car again, she reached past the frame of the windshield and popped up the door lock, then swung the door open, found the trunk release, and pulled it.

Suitcases, coats, paper sacks, and cardboard boxes—just as she had suspected, he was loaded up and ready to go. This was good. He would have brought traveling cash. Cash to start a new life. She pulled out the suitcase on top and opened it. Nothing but clothes, apparently. She upended it over the parking lot and shook everything out—shirts and underwear, trousers, a pair of heavy black shoes. She tossed and grabbed another, smaller suitcase—money-sized?

It was full of the same kind of crap, all of which she flung over the wet ground, this time heaving the empty suitcase to hell and gone toward the railroad tracks where it hit a metal pole with an alarming clunk and rebounded onto the ground. There were suit coats on hangers in the trunk, which she flung away one by one. Then she rooted through the boxes beneath, tearing one open at random: jewelry and knickknacks, gold chains, old watches, antique Chinese snuff bottles … Hell! It was the stuff she had considered stealing from the store! The stinking, greedy old pig! He had already cleaned the place out himself!

she crammed her pockets full, shoveling jewelry into her purse, then spotted a small travel bag among the rest of the stuff in the trunk. She zipped it open and dumped out a litter of toiletries, filling the empty bag with as much of the rest as she could cram in. What else was in this treasure trunk? She saw another carton, taped up, and she scraped the end of the tape with her thumbnail and jerked the lid back so hard that the cardboard flap tore half loose from the box.

Money flew out in bundles, jarred by the violence of her tearing at the lid. The sight of it stopped her cold, and she stood breathing heavily, looking down at the bills, unwilling to believe her sudden good luck. Carefully, licking her lips, she picked up a stack of bills from the ground, set the box down in the open trunk, and flipped through the stack. No fakes this time, no photocopies, no cut-up newspaper, no kidding. How much was it? How much was here?

She took out another stack and thumbed through them. Shit! They weren’t all fifties and hundreds. There were stacks of ones and fives, stacks of tens … too damned many ones and fives, the crazy old coot. Still, there were fifties and hundreds, too, lots of them, enough so that Appleton could afford to throw away the bills in the suitcase that he had given to her earlier. Maybe she wasn’t an heiress, exactly, but she didn’t need to work for minimum wage anymore either, not with money like this, not for a couple of years, anyway.

She bent over to pick up the rest of the bundles that had fallen to the ground, dumping them back into the box, then walked toward the tracks to retrieve the suitcase she had thrown away. There was something low-class about money in a cardboard box, about anything in a cardboard box. You didn’t walk into a hotel or a car rental agency carrying cardboard. The suitcase was undamaged—a good piece of hard-sided Samsonite. Not elegant, but substantial. She found that she was on the verge of laughter now, but she contained herself. She could laugh later, as much as she wanted.

She turned back toward the car, but then stopped and stood stock-still in disbelief: standing at the edge of the open trunk, holding the carton of money,
her
carton of money, was the fat woman from this afternoon—Betsy’s kidnapper. Her appearance in the momentary moonlight was almost supernatural. She had a squint on her face that made her look hellish, and the hair stood out from the sides of her head.

Anger surged up into Elizabeth’s throat, and she strode forward holding the suitcase by the handle. It was shit-kicking time. She swung the suitcase back when she was six paces away, ready to clobber her, when out from behind the cardboard box the woman produced a little bitty gun.

“That’s far enough!” the woman said. “
Stop
right there. I’ve caught you at it this time, haven’t I? You just can’t keep your hands off other people’s things, can you? This gun is cocked. It’s loaded. And you’re a goddamned little sneak-thief whore. I’ll bet you a new pair of shoes you’re in cahoots with Phil Ainsworth. I’ve had his number for a
long
time now. It looks like the whole damned gang is down here.”

Elizabeth couldn’t speak. Her throat was closed up. This woman was a psychotic. Worse than that—a psychotic with a gun in her hand. She watched the little Derringer carefully. Why the hell had she put her purse down! She’d show the bitch a gun! She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe, thinking hard and fast. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she said contritely.

“That’s right,” the woman said. “Of course it isn’t. You’re innocent, aren’t you? I’ve been watching you, missy—the way you smashed in the window on this car and looted the trunk. What you were going to do is load that suitcase up with someone else’s money and drive on out of here. There’s no two ways about it. You’re caught red-handed. Where’s Phil and his other woman?”

“Robbing the priest,” Elizabeth said without hesitation, looking down at the ground with what she hoped was an ashamed expression. She hugged the suitcase to her chest, and glanced over the top of it. The woman was looking at her shrewdly. “What the hell are you talking about? Robbing a
priest?
”

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with it,” Elizabeth said. “That’s why I didn’t go in there. There’s… there’s an object inside the mission that’s very valuable. …”

“I know all about these damned objects. You’re talking about the one that you thought Betsy had in the bag. Pm not a fool.”

“That’s the one. And I promise I don’t think you’re a fool. What was your name again? Pm sorry, I … When we met …”

“Hannah Darwin. Go on about this object.”

“It’s a crystal that’s worth … God, I don’t know … maybe a quarter of a million dollars. It’s cut out of a single piece of blue Persian sapphire. It’s very old and dates back to the Bible. It’s complicated how it got to the church here, but it actually belongs here. The thing is, Phil had it just this afternoon, but didn’t know what it was. He apparently was out here today and gave it to the priest, because he thought it was just a paperweight or something. My employer, you met him—”

“I
know
who your employer is.”

“Well, he wants it too,” Elizabeth said, moving toward the car now. “He’s holding Betsy as ransom for the crystal, but Phil couldn’t give it to him because he’d already given it to the priest this afternoon when he didn’t know what the hell it
was!
”

She began to cry now. Crying on demand had never been a problem for her. She caught her breath in little sobs and said, “Now everything’s screwed up and Mr. Appleton’s holding Betsy hostage and he’s got a gun and Phil’s brought a gun with him, too. He seems like a nice guy, but he’s more dangerous than you think he is, and—”

“Don’t
begin
to tell me what I think. I saw through that nice-guy routine
long
ago.”

“Well, neither am I,’ Mrs. Darwin said, and in that moment Elizabeth lunged forward and swung the suitcase at her hard, smashing it heavily against her head and shoulder. Mrs. Darwin staggered sideways with the blow, and Elizabeth pounded her again, the bundled money scattering across the asphalt, the box thunking down into a puddle.

Elizabeth threw down the suitcase now and bent into the trunk, grabbing up her purse and opening the clasp. She reached in, pushing her hand in past the gold chains and pendants and rings that she’d dumped into it only minutes ago. Cursing, she hauled the pistol out, jewelry spilling onto her shoes, chains entangling in the trigger guard and trigger, looping across the hammer and barrel. Mrs. Darwin stared at her and then at the pistol with a look of evident surprise. She still held onto the Derringer, which she waved at Elizabeth now. “Drop it!” Elizabeth shouted. “Drop it!” And Mrs. Darwin shook her head rapidly, looming toward Elizabeth, clearly panicked at the sight of the revolver.

Elizabeth stepped away, turning her back on the woman, fighting with the jewelry that entangled the pistol. She heard a noise escape from her own throat, and realized that it had sounded like the noise from an animal. Suddenly enraged, she shook off a loop of chain, got a thumb on the hammer, and managed to cock it, listening to the woman behind her, hearing every shouted word, half expecting to be hit or pushed or tripped or shot. She spun around to face her, looked at the pointed Derringer, and simply raised the revolver and pulled the trigger, waiting for the crash of the gun going off.

The woman jerked her head down between her shoulders at the instant that the hammer struck, closing her eyes, still pointing her little popgun. But there was no report from the revolver. Nothing had happened. Elizabeth gaped at the gun. A gold chain had jammed it, a tangled knot of it crammed in front of the hammer. She tore at it like a wild thing, shouting “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” at the pistol and at Mrs. Darwin both, her hands fumbling, pulling the hammer back again.

Mrs. Darwin’s eyes flew open, her mouth gaped, and before Elizabeth could make good on her promise, she fired the Derringer.

Elizabeth heard the gun’s explosion, saw the muzzle flash, felt the bullet tear across her cheek like a hot brand. She spun halfway around, her right eye blinded as she shrieked and slid down the slick car fender to the asphalt, putting up her hand to touch her torn face. In that moment she was suddenly and uncannily conscious of the night around her, and she felt the first drops of a freshening rain. She heard her own rapid breathing, the nearby barking of a dog, and the sound of a train whistle in the distance. And then, after what seemed like a long, long time, she heard the scuffing of Mrs. Darwin’s shoes on the asphalt as the woman hurried away.

JEN RAN TOWARD
where the two men struggled near the water’s edge. Phil heard her shout something, but she was past him and away before he made sense of it, and he followed, seeing Betsy half-hidden behind a bearded man, a man whom he had never seen before. Appleton. It had to be. His eyes were wild, lost. Betsy struggled up out of the water, her hands bound. The water leaped and roiled, as if agitated from below, surging out over the flat stones. Betsy stumbled a half-step forward, gasping for breath, and Appleton turned his back on her, grasped Colin by the shirt front, and flung him down with an immense effort, back into deeper water. He turned again to Betsy as Jen waded in past him and clutched at Colin, trying to pull him back to safety. Phil rushed to Betsy, and Appleton grabbed for him, the man’s mouth working. Phil hit him under the chin with his forearm, swinging hard from the elbow. He heard the man wheeze, saw him go over backward. As he fell he jerked Betsy down with him, and Phil lunged forward, grasping the rope that tied them together, regretting immediately that he had knocked Appleton down. To save Betsy he would have to drag Appleton to safety, too, and already he was in deeper water, scrabbling to get his feet braced on solid ground. It was impossible to right himself. The water tugged and pushed at him, tearing at him. Jen had told him what it was like in the well, but he hadn’t really understood her. He felt as if he was falling headlong into a pit rather than fighting to swim, and the water rushing in his ears sounded distractingly like voices, tens of thousands of clamoring voices. There was light and bubbles, then shadow and deep cold, a maelstrom of living water. He found the rope around Betsy and held onto it tight with his right hand, struggling with his left to find the knot that tied her to Appleton.

Something yanked around, hauling him across the stone floor of the pool. He gulped in a breath of air and staggered a step up the slope, still holding Betsy. He fell, went under again. Appleton clutched at his arm now, holding on rather than fighting with him, and Phil pulled him along, against the steady pressure of the rope. He got his knees under him, found a foothold, and pushed himself up, stumbling forward out of the pool now, holding Betsy. Jen stood above him with Colin, both of them grasping the rope, their feet set. Phil saw the knotted rope now, and he slipped the knots, freeing Betsy from the old man, and the man himself from the longer rope.

It was over. They were free of the water, of Apple-ton’s weight and fear and determination. The old man sank to the stones, defeated, the now-quiet water lapping around him.

Betsy was resolute, glaring at Appleton, holding her hands out as Jen hurriedly untied her. Phil picked her up and carried her farther up into the room, away from the spring, leaving Appleton to himself. And then Phil heard what sounded like a weirdly echoing voice, shouting, calling out to them, demanding entrance. He looked at Colin, at his father, who was staring at the door. An arm thrust through it, then pulled back again, and the door shivered inward across the loose rope. Something banged into it again, and it flew open now, slamming back against the wall.

Hannah Darwin stood staring in the doorway, holding a torn cardboard box, wet and disheveled, clearly in the grip of vast emotion. “I’ve shot the tramp,” she pronounced, looking at each of them in turn, as if to see how this struck them. In her free hand she held the little Derringer that she’d threatened Phil with earlier, and now, as if on impulse, she threw it hard into the waters of the spring.

She saw Betsy then and strode forward, setting down the carton and holding out her hands to gather her up, but Betsy ducked behind Phil and put her arms around his waist. Mrs. Darwin stopped, blinked heavily, sat down on the ground, and began to cry, gasping out sobs. She spoke through the sobbing, calling Betsy pet names, uttering over and over that it wasn’t her fault, that none of this was her fault, that it was self-defense, that she’d saved the money at least, that she’d had enough of them all, that she hadn’t meant to kill anybody. …