Thirty-eight

It was Monty who had fled Battle Lake shortly after the incident, who knew too much about it, who had made sure to drive me tonight once he knew I was getting too close to the truth. It was likely even he who had placed the threatening phone call. He was the fourth Musketeer, the missing link, the man who had a record and a lot of incentive to not return to prison.

“What’s the most difficult item you’ve ever blown?” My voice came out squeaky.

He shot me a glance. “Trees are hard. People request them a lot around Christmas.”

“What sizes do they come in?” I was inching toward the passenger door. I slid my mittened hand around the solid metal of the handle. As soon as we reached Battle Lake, I was jumping out, running to the nearest car or house and begging the owner to bring me to the police station.

Monty looked at me again. Ahead, a twinkle of light broke through, marking the Standard Oil gas station on the south edge of town. “It was the dress, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” My pulse was knocking at the back of my throat with gagging force.

“I mentioned the color of her dress. It gave me away.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a handgun. It was long-nosed, a poison shade of silver, glittering in the dashboard lights. “My apologies.”

A wave of nausea-crested inertia threatened to overwhelm me. I forced myself to stay focused. “Did you talk Clive into shooting Tom?”

“I was there the night the suggestion was made and the check written.” He flicked his right turn signal and steered with the same hand, easing onto a back road to Hallie’s. The black eye of the gun stayed trained on my face. “I’d ask you to move away from that door. There’s no place to run. This town is asleep.”

He was right. The unplowed streets were virgin white, unmarred by prints, animal or vehicle. The heavy snow made it difficult to see farther than twenty feet. A person would be crazy to be out in a night like this. “How could he have done it? They were best friends.”

“Jealousy is an ugly incubator.”

“How about Lyle? Did Clive do that?”

“I’m afraid that was me. Clive got cold feet.”

I pictured the vehicles raised on car lifts in Lyle’s garage the night he was murdered. How had I not recognized the old Ford pickup I was currently sitting in? The Jeep must have been a rental. “And you think Hallie is the only loose end.”

“Besides you. I’m sorry. That’s the way it has to be. I’m not going back to the stony lonesome for anyone.”

I grabbed for purchase. “What about the statute of limitations?”

He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles of his left hand were white. “Doesn’t apply when there’s DNA evidence.”

“You’ll get caught.”

He curled his lips. “I imagine someone will. My guess is Clive. He’s already looking suspicious after Tom’s death. This is one of his guns.” He tipped the pistol before retraining it on my face. “I used it to shoot Lyle, and left some of Clive’s belongings at Lyle’s. Freddie’s got almost as much as I to lose. He’ll never talk.”

“Hallie doesn’t know. I’m sure of it.”

“Too many chances of her finding out with all those medical tests they run. We already covered that.” He pulled up in front of her grand old Victorian. The bay windows facing the street flickered with the glow of a fireplace. “Let’s go. Quick will be better.”

I stepped out of the car, acutely aware of the gun pointed at me. I landed in snow halfway up my calf. The street was deserted. I could make out one street light on either side of me through the blizzard. The only sound was the mouse-soft footsteps of snowfall.

Monty came around the truck and stood behind me. “Come on.”

I started trudging with him at my back. I couldn’t bring the devil through Hallie’s door. If I yelled for help, though, I’d be shot. My survival instinct warred with reality. Better one dead than two, I decided. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I pretended to fall, twisting to the side and away from the barrel of the gun. On my way to the ground, I shot out my foot, kicking toward Monty’s knee. I heard the sickening wet sound of knee cap popping, and Monty toppled into the snow with a scream.

Frantic, I searched for his gun, but it must have landed underneath him. I tried to run, but the deep drifts handicapped me. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew it had to be away from Hallie’s. All her neighbors’ lights were off. If I risked one of their doors to find out it was locked, I was dead. I plowed through the snow toward the alleyway on the opposite side of the street. My navigation wasn’t always true, but I was pretty sure if I followed it three blocks, I’d come out at the Rusty Nail parking lot. The bar would be open. I risked a glance behind me. Monty was dragging his leg 20 yards away and moving toward me with superhuman speed, a black demon in the howling snow.

A sob pushed out my lips and I forced my legs to pump faster. I felt the rush of the bullet past my ear before I heard the crack of it firing. I screamed in fear and zagged left, into the alley. I was out of his line of vision and prepared to bolt toward civilization when I came face to face with the wall of ice. The city had been storing the snow plowed from the street here. I was trapped.

“I’m sorry, Mira. I really am,” he yelled over the shrieking wind.

I whipped around and backed against the two-story snow bank. Monty stood at the mouth of the alley, his face screwed up in pain. He held the gun with two bare, shaking hands.

The shot exploded.

I screamed.