During the drive home his fatigue was exacerbated by a deepening depression at the realization of his failure to uncover the identity of Mr. In-Between.
He knew now that he had been wrong-ridiculously wrong, as he recalled the pitiful figure of the shaken, unnerved banker-to have imagined that Stanhope could have filled such a role. Unlike Closter and Wanda who; he was convinced; had been forced to take part in the scheme under duress, he had knowingly allowed himself to be used. Even if he had not exaggerated the cost or seriousness of his wife’s illness—or its impending culmination-it was apparent that his primary objective had been to finance his ambition of transforming himself into an English country squire as soon as she was dead. The millions of tax-free dollars that he had earned for performing the duties of host/landlord-or the major portion of it-undoubtedly had been safely salted away while he waited patiently-or, perhaps, not so patiently-for his wife’s agony to come to an end. He wondered if Stanhope would now be able to accept the inescapable termination of his dream or if he would try to salvage what he could by running. Or.?
But that was his problem and he was left with the problem of the still unidentified leader of the gang. With Closter dead, Bentley was probably the only one left who could give substance to the shadowy figure of Mr. In-Between. But, would he? Or would he be willing to take his punishment in silence? Or-another possibility to be considered-would Mr. In-Between take steps to insure his silence? If Bentley did not; or could not; talk, the nucleus of the drug smuggling scheme would remain intact, and ready to be reactivated, since both the source of supply and the purchasers would continue to be free to organize a new operation. There would always be a market for Mr. In-Between’s merchandise as long as he was able to keep open his lines of supply and demand.
It was frustrating to give up on his investigation short of the goal of identifying the real organizer and leader of the gang. But, he remembered his promise to Elise and tried to content himself with the thought that he had done his best. He tried, but did not succeed, and knew that he would never be satisfied until Mr. In-Between had been identified and apprehended. He realized however, that it would be futile to try to go ahead any longer on his own and hoped that Bentley would be persuaded to talk and simplify things for everybody. Still, if he did not, well.. But for now, he had other things that were demanding his attention. Like, for instance, his missing wife. Because, as he pulled into the driveway and saw that the garage door was still closed and locked as it had been when he left last night, he was sure that Marie still had not returned.
For a moment, he sat in the car gazing in helpless perplexity at the ornate, wrought iron scrollwork of the large script “T” in the middle, with their two names spelled out on either side, which Marie had bought and had affixed to the door shortly after they had moved into the house. It was the type of ostentation that he considered unseemly and unnecessary but, she had been so pleased, that he had felt constrained to admire it. Unfortunately, he was a poor actor and he knew that she had been aware that her decorating effort was being ‘damned with faint praise’. As he looked at it now, he wondered if that could have been the first step along the long, tortuous road that now had ended in her inexplicable disappearance.
Entering the house, he took off his jacket and hung it in the closet just inside the door. He glanced quickly around the living room and kitchen as he passed by, and walked back to Marie’s room. As he had deduced from the locked garage door, there was no sign anywhere that she had been home during the night. Her bed was unwrinkled and nothing else had been disturbed as far as he could tell. For the first time since she had disappeared, he felt a small knot of fear forming in his stomach and wondered if Phil and Elise had been right after all, and her absence was somehow connected with his investigation of the smuggling/hijacking operation. But, again he dismissed the idea as illogical and incomprehensible.
He walked back to the kitchen and, sitting down wearily on one of the counter stools, he reached for the phone and punched the buttons for the Adamson’s number. Phil answered.
“Phil. It’s Mark,” he told him.
“I saw you drive up,” Phil responded non-committally. “Just getting home?”
Sybil must be standing by, her curiosity at fever-pitch. “Yes. How did the pictures turn out?” he asked.
“Fine. Better than I expected. Would you like me to bring them over?”
He was grateful for the suggestion. Besides feeling too tired to walk over there, he was in no condition to contend with Sybil’s inquisitiveness. “I’d appreciate it if you would, Phil. Can you bring them over now?”
“Right away,” he replied and hung up.
While he waited, he put on some water to heat and took out a jar of instant coffee. As he poured the steaming liquid over the chocolate colored granules in his cup, the doorbell chimed musically announcing his neighbor’s arrival. He walked to the door and opened it, by now used to the look of amazement that appeared on Phil’s face as it had on Dave’s and Stanhope’s when they first saw him.
“My God, Mark!” he breathed in awe. “What’s happened to you? You look as if you’ve been in a fight?”
“It wasn’t much of a fight and the damage isn’t as bad as it looks,” he told him.
“I hope not. If it was, you probably wouldn’t be able to talk about it.” He paused to look at him quizzically before asking, “Who was your opponent?”
“You have a picture of him in there,” he said, indicating the large manila envelope he held in his hand.
Phil’s eyes widened again and he quickly opened the envelope and extracted the photographs which it contained. He had made three enlargements of each matrix in varying degrees of contrast, cropping out all but the center portion containing the figures of the two deputies and the truck driver. Although some of the sharpness of the originals obviously had been diffused by the enlarging process, the contrast between the dark and light areas was, if anything, more pronounced and made identification of the three figures-and their activityat the time the pictures were taken-positive and irrefutable. In particular, the picture of Flynn kneeling astride the prostrate form of the driver with his hands clasped over his nose and mouth; while Bucheck stood by watching intently; was unquestionably a chilling, frozen image of murder in the making.
He placed his finger on the kneeling figure of Flynn. “Him,” he said in answer to Phil’s question.
“Good Lord! Was he trying to do the same thing to you as he’s doing in the picture?”
“He would have, if I hadn’t stopped him,” he replied.
Phil looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Obviously you did stop him or you wouldn’t be here. But, I’m almost afraid to ask how.”
He could see no reason not to tell him. It would be common knowledge in a few hours anyhow. “The only way I could at the time. I shot him.”
Phil blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. “This whole affair is utterly fantastic! I thought things like this only happened on television.”
“Unfortunately, they don’t,” he responded. “Although, I must admit that my experience with such things was similarly limited until a few days ago.”
Phil continued to gaze at him apprehensively. “Is he.. .dead?”
“I’m not sure. I think so. But, it won’t be any trouble to prove self defense, especially with these.” He tapped the photographs laying on the counter.
“No. I suppose not,” Phil agreed. “Incidentally, I kept the negatives in case you want more copies.”
“These should do for now. You can give the negatives to the FBI when they get here.”
“Have you called them yet?”
“No, I was waiting to see how these turned out first.”
“Well, maybe you’d better not wait any longer.” He started towards the front door and turned back. “Still no sign of Marie?”
“No. I was going to ask you the same thing.”
He shook his head. “We haven’t seen her since she left Tuesday afternoon.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“I didn’t, but Sybil did.”
“Did she speak to her?”
“No. She just happened to be getting the mail out of the box when Marie was leaving.”
“What time was that?”
“About three o’clock, Sybil said.”
“Was she alone?”
Phil shrugged. “I believe so. Sybil didn’t say anything about anyone being with her.”
“Did she say how she was dressed?”
“No. But, I’m sure she’ll remember if you want me to ask her.”
“Yes, do. Also ask her if she noticed if Marie was carrying any luggage.”
“Is there some missing?”
“Not that I can tell, But, I’m not sure.”
Phil hesitated, as if reluctant to ask the question that was uppermost in his mind. “Do you still think there’s no connection between her.absence, and the other things you’ve been involved in?”
He had half-expected Phil to ask it, but still could not bring himself to accept the premise. “I don’t know, Phil. She’s never done anything like this before-but then, I’ve never been mixed up in anything like this before either. If there is a connection, I can’t see it. As far as I know, she has no knowledge of anything that’s been going on, and doesn’t know any of the people involved. It simply makes no sense to believe that one has anything to do with the other.” He paused to drain the last of the now lukewarm coffee, and was tempted to tell him that he was not the only one who thought there was a possible connection. But, it would have only led to further questions which he wanted to avoid for the time being. “Still, I guess I’d better tell the FBI about her when I call them.”
Phil nodded. “It’s probably a good idea, even if you’re right.”
He followed him to the door. “I should be able to take Cassandra off your hands by this evening.” If Marie was still not home, he would take her with him when he went to see Elise.
“There’s no hurry, Mark. We love having her,” Phil answered.
“She’s lucky you do, the way her parents have been neglecting her lately.”
Phil made a disparaging grimace, and started to say something else as the phone began ringing. “Go ahead and answer it. I’ll see you later,” he said, turning away to walk down the path to the road and across to his own house.
He closed the door and walked back to the counter, reaching for the phone.
“Mark Tues.”, he started to say.
Dan’s shout cut him off. “Mark! For Christ’s sake, boyo! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you all last night and again this morning.”
“Sorry Dan. I’ve been busy.” A classic understatement, if he ever heard one. “What’s up?’
“What’s up!” Dan responded incredulously. “Hollander’s temper is up! That’s what’s up! You don’t think he was satisfied with the little tidbits of information you fed him yesterday, do you?”
“I suppose not,” he conceded. “But, at the time, I had good reasons for not trying to appease his appetite any more than I did.”
Dan grunted, lowering his tone. “Mark, boyo, I know how you operate and I know that when you’re ready you’ll tell him everything. But, Hollander doesn’t know you like I do and he’s ready to swear out a warrant against you for concealing evidence.”
If he was not so weary he would have been a lot angrier. “Tell him not to bother. I was just about to call him, but now I’ll tell you instead and you can relay it to him.”
“Ahh! That’s a good lad.” Coming from anyone else it would have sounded ludicrous. But, with Dan, the term ‘lad’ or ‘lass’ was a sign of deep affection. “Is it a lot? Should I turn on the tape recorder?” he asked.
“Perhaps you’d better. It will be easier than trying to remember it all”
There was a faint click on the other end. “Okay, Mark. Go ahead,” Dan said.
“For openers, there’s a young girl named Wanda Skrnczak” (he spelled it for him) “in the county hospital in Plainville who needs protection. She’s a waitress at the Interstate Truck Stop, and she knows how, when, where, and to whom the drugs from the hijacked shipmentshave been distributed. She can provide names and dates for the last two years, at least.” He hoped Wanda’s memory and her willingness to cooperate were still both as good as they had seemed when he left her. “Also, she can positively identify Arnold Stanhope as the man who handled the distribution.”
Dan’s voice exploded in his ear. “Stanhope! The banker! You’ve got to be kidding, Mark!”
“You know me better, Dan,” he responded. “Stanhope’s lodge on the top of Jacob’s Mountain is the place where the drugs, and other hijacked freight, is stored until it’s distributed. I was up there myself last night and found the six cases of caviar and the sweaters that were taken in the Central States hijacking on Monday. Each jar of caviar contains a plastic pouch of heroin. I brought two of them back with me.” He told him how to get to the lodge and where he could find the rest of them, and continued. “One of Bentley’s deputies, Flynn, found me up there. He knocked me out and would have killed me, on Bentley’s orders, if I hadn’t shot him first.”
“Shot him! Good God! Did you kill him, lad?” Dan asked in a tone of horrified concern.
“I’m not sure. He looked dead, though. Anyway, it was Bentley who made the deal with Stanhope six years ago to rent the lodge. And, it was also Bentley who coerced Wanda into taking the job at the truck stop following the accident she was involved in two years ago with Stanhope’s son.”
“That’s where I heard the name before!” Dan interrupted. “Are you sure she’s not just trying to get even with.”
“No chance. God knows she’d be entitled to a little revenge after what both the son and the father have done to her, but she’s not lying to get it. I’ve just come from talking to Stanhope and he virtually admitted everything-even the fact that Bentley and Grossman conspired to force her into prostitution and that he, Stanhope, was her first customer.”
“Oh, for the love of God!” Dan muttered with evident disgust.
“She’s in the hospital now because of a beating she received from Flynn and Bucheck after Grossman saw her talking to me at the truck stop on Tuesday. I would have told you and Hollander about her yesterday, but I didn’t know how much, if anything, she knew and; after what happened to her as a result of the Beamer accident; I didn’t want to turn her in until she had a chance to tell her side of it. I believe her, Dan. I’d believe her even if I hadn’t already verified most of what she told me. But, she’s scared and I think Bentley may try to get at her through his receptionist, a young policewoman named Sally. I’ve got the interns at the hospital looking out for her, but Hollander better get somebody out there as soon as he can.”
“All right, Mark. If you believe her story, it must be true. Besides, its too fantastic not to be. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. I’ve got pictures of Flynn and Bucheck in the act of hijacking the Central States truck and attacking the driver.”
“Pictures! How the devil.”
“Closter took them. His wife found the Polaroid negatives in his suit coat and gave them to me. His murderer must have got the originals. They had been taken from a distance and the images were very small. Too small to be positively identified. But, my neighbor, Phil Adamson, made some enlargements that leave no doubt. I’ve got them here now. But, they can keep until after Hollander makes sure Wanda is safe and picks up Bentley, Stanhope and the others before they try to make a run for it.”
“I’ll call Hollander right away. Is that all? Do you know who’s the ringleader? Is it Bentley?”
“No. It’s not Bentley. I’m sure of it. It’s somebody who knew both Bentley and Closter, but managed to keep them from knowing each other-at least, neither knew that the other was involved in the operation.”
“Well.. .maybe Hollander can sweat it out of Bentley. If that’s if then, I’ll.”
“There’s one more thing, Dan”
“What’s that?” Dan sounded slightly impatient, and he regretted delaying him from contacting the FBI man, still not convinced that there was any need to interject Marie’s absence into the picture.
“I’m not sure it has anything to do with what we’ve been talking about,” he replied, “but Marie’s been missing since Tuesday afternoon.”
There was a brief silence on the other end as if Dan were having trouble comprehending what he had just heard. “Marie? Missing? I don’t understand, Mark. Do you mean.?”
The doorbell began chiming insistently.
“Hold it, Dan,” he cut in.” There’s somebody at the front door now. Maybe it’s her.”—although he could not imagine why she did not use her key.
Laying the phone on the counter, he went to answer it. There was no one visible through the small glass panel in the center of the door and, without thinking, he opened it and was confronted with the comically contrasting figures of the short, slender Bucheck backed by the hulking, rotund Bentley. It would have been comical except for the oversized, pearlhandled revolver in Bucheck’s hand, which was jammed painfully into his taped ribs as Bentley stepped forward propelling the deputy ahead of him through the door.
“Back up, Tuesday,” Bucheck snarled, shoving him backwards with the muzzle of the gun.
“What the hell do you two want?” he demanded, moving back and away from the stabbing gun barrel.
“We want you, Tuesday,” Bentley rumbled, “for the murder of Deputy Flynn. You’re under arrest.”
“Arrest! Don’t be ridiculous, Bentley! You’ve got no more than a few hours before you and your helper here will be under arrest yourselves. I shot Flynn in self-defense, to keep him from killing me on your orders-and you know it!”
“You killed Flynn in the performance of his duty, you bastard!” Bucheck screamed, his face a mask of fury and hate.
To keep their attention diverted from the open phone and the pictures laying on the counter, he backed down the two steps to the sunken living room. It put him at a disadvantage since he was then lower than where they stood on the landing, but it put their backs to the kitchen.
“Duty hell, Bucheck!” he replied, shouting the deputy’s name as he had Bentley’s to be sure Dan heard him. “I suppose he-and you-were just doing your duty when you hijacked the truck Monday and killed the driver? And what about Wanda? Were you just doing your duty when the two of you beat her up and raped her? And Closter? Did the two of you also kill him in the line of duty?”
Bucheck spluttered incoherently and stepped forward raising the gun to the level of his eyes. Bentley grasped his wrist forcing his arm down.
“Take it easy, Stanley,” he said in the tone of an adult admonishing a child to mind its manners. “ Mr. Tuesday’s just guessing. He’s got no proof of anything.”
“The hell I haven’t Bentley,” he retorted. “Aside from what I found up at the lodge, I’ve got proof that Flynn and Bucheck were responsible for the death of the driver.”
“What kind of proof?” Bentley inquired in the softly menacing tone he had used when he had told him who Closter was.
“You’ll find out after I’ve turned it over to the FBI. Added to what Wanda can tell them, it will be enough to put the two of you and Grossman, and Stanhope, behind bars before the day is over.’
“That little bitch must have really spilled her guts,” Bucheck fumed.
“She told me the whole sorry story, including the Sheriff’s part in turning her into a prostitute.”
Bentley’s thick lips curled into a derisive sneer. “She was born a prostitute. I just showed her how to make money at it. But, if all you’ve got is her story, then it’s just her word against ours-and yours.”
“Maybe not. Stanhope seemed willing enough to talk when I saw him earlier.”
Bentley smiled. “Stanhope’s not going to be talking to anybody anymore. He thoughtfully blew his brains out right after he called me to tell me about your visit. And Sally should be taking care of little Wanda just about now. So, that just leaves you Tuesday, and I could just as well let Stanley shoot you where you stand, because you’re a cop-killer.”
There was a small, indefinite sound from the phone, and the two of them turned their heads to see where it came from. They looked at each other in mutual anger and frustration before Bentley turned and, nimbly for his bulk, moved quickly to the counter to pick it up. He listened intently for a few seconds and slammed it back on its cradle. He started to turn back, but stopped as he spotted the pictures scattered on the counter top. With hunched shoulders, he stood looking down at them and then gathered them up in his thick, pudgy fingers. Checking the manila envelope, he saw it was empty and threw it disgustedly on the floor. Brandishing the pictures he returned to stand beside his deputy who had kept the gun pointed steadily at his head.
“How did you get these?” Bentley demanded.
The fact that he asked ‘how’ and not ‘where’ indicated he knew ‘who’ had taken them. So there was no reason not to tell him.
“Mrs. Closter found the Polaroid negatives in her husband’s suit and gave them to me.”
Bucheck craned his neck to see what Bentley held in his hand. “Jesus! I thought you said the big man told you he got them all!”
“Shut up, Stanley,” Bentley warned him. “Where are the negatives for these, Tuesday?”
“Now you don’t really think I’m going to tell you, do you Sheriff?”
Bentley studied him in silent, obvious anger. “Who was that on the phone?”
“The FBI. They’re probably on their way here now. You haven’t much time if you’re thinking of trying to escape.”
“Goddam you, Tuesday. Why the hell couldn’t you mind your own business?” he murmured almost to himself.
Bucheck stretched out the arm holding the gun, his hand quivering. “Let me kill him, Sheriff. Let me kill the mother-fuckin’ son-of-a.”
He did not finish as, without warning, the front door was suddenly and violently flung open, and Marie stumbled in.
All three of them stood frozen with heads turned to her in open-mouthed astonishment at her unexpected and unheralded appearance-as if an apparition had materialized in their midst. In their absorption with one another, they had not heard any sound warning them of her approach. Now they could only stand gaping at her, as if their minds and bodies had been immobilized, waiting for some word or gesture from her to set them in motion again.
Her clothes were rumpled and her hair disheveled, and she swayed slightly as she stood rooted in the opening clutching the doorknob. He started to move to go to her, thinking that she must be ill or hurt, but his movements were tentative and hesitant as if he was not sure that he could move at all. Mounting the steps to the landing, he was stopped by Bucheck’s gun still pointed at his head. He started to move to one side to go around him, but was blocked by Bentley’s bulk. Looking past them at Marie he saw her eyes widen with recognition of what was-or had been-taking place. She looked wildly from him to Bentley, to the gun at the end of Bucheck’s outstretched arm, and back to him again. He could see the decision forming in her face, and her body tense to carry it out. Oblivious of the gun, he moved to stop her, his voice breaking the silence and mingling with Bucheck’s scream and Bentley’s hoarse bellow, as they all came alive again simultaneously.
“Marie! No! Don’t!”
“Keep away from me!”
“Goddam it, stay back!”
But, it was too late. Her face contorted with rage, she lunged at Bucheck, one hand clawing for his face and the other grabbing for the gun. Howling in pain as her nails raked his cheek, the deputy tried to twist away and pull the gun out of her grasp. Bentley tried to squeeze between them as he also moved alongside Marie and they all began a tug of war for the gun which she now gripped by the barrel with both hands.
“Marie! Let go! I’ll get it!” he told her.
“Let go of me, you bitch!” Bucheck screeched.
“Don’t let him get the gun!” Bentley shouted.
—and she let go as the roar of the gun drowned out their voices, and she was hurled back into him. He staggered backwards off the landing and down the two steps to the living room. Bentley and Bucheck backed away from her as she turned slowly, looking from one to the other of them with an expression of pain and surprise, embracing herself with both arms. She turned full circle and seeing him, reached out, falling off the landing into his arms. As he caught her, he saw the spreading red stain covering the front of her dress and was shocked at how much blood she already had lost in the few seconds following the shot, which still had not even ceased echoing in his ears.
She grasped at his shoulders trying to hold herself erect, but her body felt empty as if all her bones had suddenly dissolved. He lowered her gently to the floor, kneeling beside her and cradling her head in his lap. He felt benumbed and helpless with an indescribable horror and stupefaction, and was powerless to do more than brush her hair from her eyes and stroke her face, rocking her slowly in his arms. Her eyelids flickered open and, with a straining, pain-filled effort, she tilted her head to look up at him. Clearly, distinctly and incomprehensibly he heard her say, “Oh, Mark honey! I’m so sorry!” Her lips continued to move as she struggled to say something else, but no sound came. Her face slackened and she went limp, as the life swiftly ebbed from her.
He looked up at where Bentley and Bucheck still stood looking down at them from the landing-as if hoping one of them could explain what she had to be sorry for. Bucheck shook his head as if to say he did not know and then shrilled, “I didn’t mean to shoot her! Who the hell was she, for crissake?”
“His wife, stupid!” Bentley informed him. “Who the hell do you think she was? His fairy godmother?”
Incongruously, and sickeningly, the exchange between the two of them sounded almost amusing. He also noticed that they had used the past tense as if they believed that Marie was already dead. But, he was sure they were wrong. She was not dead. She could not die as long as he kept holding her.
“You might as well kill him too,” he heard Bentley saying. “You’ve been wanting to and it doesn’t matter now, one way or the other. So, go ahead!”
He turned his gaze to Bucheck and could barely see his savage, sallow features behind the seemingly enormous muzzle of the gun. He could see the knuckles of the deputy’s surprisingly small hand whitening around the grip and his finger tighten on the trigger. Then, the gun wavered and was lowered from his fascinated stare.
To his amazement, he heard Buchek’s almost whimpering voice. “No! I.I can’t! The hell with him! Let’s get out of here!”
“Why, you lily-livered little bastard!” Bentley roared. “I always figured you didn’t have any real guts. Give me that!” He snatched the gun from Bucheck’s limp grasp.
He knew he should do something. If he did not seize the opportunity to do something, he would surely be killed. But, he could not let go of Marie. If he did, she would certainly die. It was his life, or hers! His life, or hers! She had tried to save him, now he had to try to save her. But, if she was already dead, then her sacrifice would be wasted, if he let himself be killed-if he did not at least try to prevent it. He glanced down at her to see if she was still alive. Her eyes were open, but he could not be sure if they looked at him or beyond him. He wiped a thin, rivulet of watery blood from a corner of her mouth and looked back at Bentley—and into the muzzle of the gun.
That damned gun! He was sick of having it stuck in his face!
He let go of Marie and started to rise-and saw the red flash burst from the end of the barrel. A vague sense of amazement overwhelmed him at the power behind the bullet as it struck him high in the chest, knocking him back to his knees. There was no pain-only the dying echoes of the shot reverberating in his fast fading consciousness. And, as the blackness enveloped him and he felt himself fall across the body of his wife, he thought how strange it was that they had drifted so far apart in life, and were now coming so close together again, in death.