Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“Is it here with you? In this building?”

“Yes,” I said, when he shook me again. Think . “Yes, yes, let me take you to it.”

“No.”

“It’ll take you hours to find it. Maybe more.”

He didn’t reply. Panic gripped my gut. Then he said, “Get up,” harshly, with just a shade of doubt. In this I took comfort. Apparently, Chef Well-Organized didn’t have a plan to cover this exigency. Think . How could I get away from him? The agony in my brain made mental work impossible.

“Please undo my hands,” I whispered. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. “I’ll fall if I can’t get balanced.”

“No way,” he snapped. Then he lifted his flannel shirt, revealing a flat stomach—and a small pistol. He pulled the gun out of his waistband. “Don’t move unless I tell you to, don’t fall, don’t run, don’t yell. If you do, I’ll kill your son at your house in Aspen Meadow, once I lure your husband out of the house. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said angrily, still trying to think. On my feet, I shuffled through the long, shadowy kitchen. Why had the TV people left without checking on me? They must have figured I’d gone down on the gondola. I should have kept somebody with me. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to Tom’s warnings? Hindsight. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Easy. You’re going to die hitting a tree. You hiked out of the bistro, got confused, and bam . We’ll get more snow by morning, nobody will ever know it wasn’t an accident. Move.”

I shambled groggily toward the hall that led to the storage-area stairway. Think . What do cops advise in a situation like this? Talk to the criminal. Use his name .

“Jack,” I begged, “Eileen’s my friend. I was just trying to help her—”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, prodding the gun painfully into my back to push me forward. “I knew you were looking for something, and guessed it had to do with Nate because today you brought Rorry here. I quizzed Magill, found out about the camera, and figured out what you were doing.” His voice deepened. “You’re not on Eileen’s side. You’re on the cops’ side, that’s why you came here in the first place. To set me up, figure out Portman’s scheme. You’re not going to steal Eileen from me, trying to prove to her I killed Fiona.”

Reggie Dawson’s call echoed in my brain: Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?

“But you did, didn’t you? You killed Fiona. That’s what’s on the tape. How’d you kill Doug Portman? I thought you were prepping for lunch on Friday—”

He laughed and shoved me. “You give your staff a ton of prep, they don’t notice whether you’re there or not.”

“Jack, were you the one who hit my van on the interstate—”

He opened the door to the storage area. He didn’t need to answer; of course he’d tried to get rid of me. He just hadn’t been successful the first time. “Get down those stairs,” he commanded.

“Jack,” I said softly, “did Eileen know you bribed Portman so you could be paroled early?”

“She knew and she didn’t know.” He announced it triumphantly. “I needed ten thousand a month for six months, but she never asked what for.” He gave me a shove. “Alimony?” Another shove. “Child support?” Shove. “Surely not bribery, Jack?” He laughed sourly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

We’d reached the first landing. The foul smell of trash rose up to greet us. “Please, Jack,” I begged. “Please stop, I have to rest.” I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. “So, you framed Barton Reed? Your old prison chum? You knew he had cancer, knew he’d had the Duragesic, knew he hated Portman?”

Jack shrugged. He was so marvelously good-looking, it was hard to believe he was so evil. “Portman said he sniffed an investigation coming. He was skipping out. What if they got him, with all that money I’d paid? He’d go to prison. If he did, so would I. I had to get rid of him. Making it look as if Reed had done it seemed like a good idea, since he didn’t have long to live anyway. Reed figured out what I’d done. Too bad. So he tried to get back at me, mow me down on the slopes. And he nearly killed Eileen instead. I could have killed him for that—I wasn’t married to her yet.”

“And you needed the money from Eileen that you didn’t inherit from Fiona.”

Jack shrugged, then poked me with his ugly little gun. “Time to get moving.”

The pistol in his hand was a .22, accurate only at close range. Six shots, unless he had more ammunition. We were coming down to the rail that led to the canisters. I had to run away from him, hide, run out onto the slope, hope I could get away from him—something, or else I’d die, like everyone else who’d stood in Jack Gilkey’s way. I had to act .

I tensed my leg muscles and kicked Jack’s washboard stomach with all my might. He gasped in pain and surprise and banged into the wall. Then I jab-kicked him hard in the back; he fell to his knees. I ran, clumsily, stupidly, as fast as I could. I ran for my life. Down the steps. Down the hallway. Down the rail toward the canisters. I could hear Jack stumbling down the stairs after me, cursing.

Five canisters were lined up. Oh, when did the night crew arrive? No telling. I squeezed along the wall and tried to figure out which one to duck into. The one farthest from Jack, of course. It was poised right at the large double doors, and it was half full of food scraps and garbage. Beyond the front canister was darkness made silvery by moonlight. I clumsily climbed up the sides, jumped into the canister, and slithered down into the trash. It was all I could do to keep from gagging.

I heard a shot. Jack was firing into the canisters. One shot, two, three. This was going to be it, I thought, and prayed for Arch and Tom. With taped hands, I used my body to burrow as deep as I could into the trash. I thought I was going to vomit again.

Then, without warning, there was a loud kee-chunk , and the canister quivered violently. I could hear male voices in the distance. The night workers? Were they coming? I was surrounded by rotting lettuce and meat fat. Would the workers hear me if I squirmed to the top of the garbage? Could I risk calling to them, with Jack—armed—so close to the canisters? No. Clink. Ke-chunk, clink . It was the clank of metal doors being closed on trash canisters, followed by the whir of the descending gondola.

Behind me, a loud pop was followed by a zing. Another shot. Jack was shooting at my canister. Pop-zing .

I could hear Jack howl. Then my stinking, packed canister swung out into the darkness.

The night air was stingingly cold. But I’d escaped Jack. I knew the gondola operators at the top could stop the cars, but they could not reverse their motion. That could only be done by the operator at the bottom. So even if Jack knew I was in this canister—and he didn’t—he wouldn’t be able to bring me back. With a startling suddenness the canister dropped and I was swaying, out of range of Jack’s lethal little .22. Would he hurt the canister workers? I doubted it. He had only one target tonight: me.

I wriggled between two bags of mind-numbingly smelly garbage. My head hurt, my cheeks hurt, everything hurt. The stink was inconceivable. I’d never get the smell out of my hair, I thought, and giggled insanely. The canister had holes in its walls and top. Through the holes overhead, a distant light was shining. The canister shook; an almost full moon came into view.

Down, down the canister rolled. In my mind’s eye, I saw the gleaming container, suspended twenty feet above the ground, streaming noisily through the night.