Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘I know.’

‘Why did they have to kill her?’ she says.

‘Why don’t you tell me.’

‘Oh, God. None of this was supposed to happen,’ she says. ‘They promised us.’

‘Who?’

My question draws her from her reverie over Marcie.

‘Why did you come all this way? What’s your interest?’

‘I represent a woman who has been charged with the murder of Melanie Vega. She didn’t do it. I think you know that.’

‘Ahh.’ Her head is now making big lazy circles, nodding, the way people do when they are dazed. The pieces slowly beginning to fit for her.

‘And you think I can help you?’

‘Before Marcie died she told me some things.’

‘What things?’

‘That whoever killed Melanie Vega had been hired to carry out the murder. That you knew something about this.’

‘I’m sorry that your client is in trouble. But I can’t help you.’

With this she adjusts her glasses back on her head.

‘I think you can. Just tell me what happened.’

In the distance there’s the sound of rubber on gravel. The blue sedan I’d seen moments ago out on the highway, coming this way like there’s no tomorrow. Some tourist in a hurry, a lot of speed and dust as the car slides to a stop in the lot.

For several seconds my question lies dormant, punctuated only by the sound of the car’s engine rumbling in the distance.

‘Mrs. Merlow?’

She’s frozen in place, looking at the vehicle, which is stone-still, its motor running, no one getting out.

‘We have to talk,’ I tell her.

‘Not now.’ Her eyes are on the car.

‘When?’

She’s ignoring me.

‘All I want to know is what happened. Give me a hint.’

‘I didn’t see a thing,’ she says.

‘Then your husband?’ I say. ‘He knew something, didn’t he? And he told you?’ I’m thinking Melanie and her carnal welcome wagon. Maybe she and George, Jack and Melanie, were doing a foursome, some erotic swap-meet. Maybe that’s why Kathy Merlow doesn’t want to talk.

‘Leave us alone,’ she says.

‘No. I won’t leave you alone. A woman is being charged with murder in a crime she didn’t commit. Sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me what you know.’

‘I don’t know a thing, and neither does my husband.’

‘You expect me to believe that the two of you left Capital City in the middle of the night immediately after Melanie Vega’s murder because you didn’t like the weather?’

‘Frankly I don’t care what you believe.’ As she says this she’s giving me eyes-right, less than her undivided attention, her gaze glued to the car in the parking lot.

‘Is he with you?’ she says.

The vehicle’s occupant is now standing beside the car, its motor still rumbling. He’s leaning against the open driver’s door, looking this way, lighting what looks like a big cigar, a large stogie with a glowing red tip.

I squint in the sunlight. I had been particularly careful driving, watching the rearview mirror for other cars.

‘No.’

‘He’s looking at us,’ she says.

‘I don’t think so. He’s looking at the cemetery,’ I tell her. ‘A tourist, probably trying to find Lindbergh’s grave,’ I say.

‘Listen. I can’t talk to you now.’

‘Later?’

‘Perhaps. But I do have to go now.’

‘Tell me where I can find you.’

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

‘Maybe doesn’t cut it,’ I say.

She looks at me, reading my mind. The road back to Hana is narrow and slow. I could follow her and she knows it.

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock. Here,’ she says.

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

Like some pesty insect, it settles first on her right temple, a tiny red prism of light, a dot no bigger than the point of a pen, dancing like reflections through the facets of a crystal. She stoops to pick up the paint box, and the light disappears, only to find its way into her hairline as she straightens up.

It takes an instant before the image registers. Like a cigar with hot embers at the tip, but different, a beam of light, one moment it’s there, the next it’s gone, red glowing like some diffused demonic gaze.

With all the force my body can muster from a standing start, I shove Kathy Merlow. I send her sprawling onto the grass and land on top of her.

The crack of the speeding bullet snaps the sound barrier overhead and passes into the brush beyond. Silenced. Guided to a near miss by the deadly accuracy of its laserscope.

‘What! Are you crazy?’ She’s pushing me off, clawing at my face like I’m some sexual predator.

‘Get up.’ I grab her by the arm.

‘Get away from me!’ She’s pushing at me, trying to dust off her clothes with one hand.

I’m on one knee, crouched. She’s on her feet, standing upright. And it hits me — she doesn’t realize a shot has been taken.

I’ve got a grip on her arm like a vise. She will be black and blue if she lives. I’m pushing her along ahead of me, moving laterally toward granite headstones and the church.

‘Let — let — ’ She repeats this three or four times. ‘Let me go,’ she says. Waving arms and flailing hands trying to shake free. ‘Are you crazy?’

Another crack through the air, no more than an inch from my chest, and something buries itself in the grass near her left foot. With this, her eyes go wide, twin saucers. For a single beat she’s frozen in place. A few tentative steps, then she breaks into full flight. Sandals flying from her feet, she leaves me kneeling on the grass.

In two seconds I overtake her. We are now running, stride for stride. From the corner of my eye I can see the guy setting up over the windowframe of his car door for another shot. Behind the banyan tree, Lindbergh’s grave between us, I can hear the guy swear, fifty yards away, a list of expletives to make a sailor blush. Movement in my peripheral vision as he raises the muzzle of the gun and starts to move parallel to our flight. He’s crouching behind a low stone wall, looking for one more opening.

A flash. Something nicks my cheek. Sparks off stone as he squeezes off several rounds, the gunman spraying and praying. They ricochet off tombstones like pinballs in a machine.

Off the grass, Kathy Merlow is hopping gingerly, barefooted, over the sharp lava pebbles on the path. We run through a fusillade of bullets, targets in a penny arcade, until finally we are covered by the shrubbery surrounding the church.

Behind the building we stop. She is down on one knee, wincing, picking a rock from the bottom of her bare foot.

‘Are you okay?’

She nods. Winded but not wounded.

‘Where’s your car?’

But before she can answer I put a finger to my lips. The crunch of gravel, footsteps at the front of the church. The slide and click of precision metal. Our man is reloaded. The wonders of modern methodical murder.

She points away from the back of the church to a fence overgrown with vegetation, a small gate leading away. She moves toward it, then looks for me to follow.

I shake my head, then point emphatically for her to go.

She waves me on.

I shake my head one more time.

Left with no choice, she disappears through the jungle of vines that cover the gate. I see it open. Her form disappears and the gate closes. I will draw cover. One woman is already dead because I pursued my questions.

I am alone now at the back of the church, my only companion a weathered wooden door. I suspect that this leads to the sacristy, the area behind the small wooden altar inside.

More footsteps. This time they come from the area around the side of the church. He is working his way through the graveyard toward where I am crouched.

I try the door. The knob turns, but I look at the rusty hinges and think twice about noise.