Cold Turkey

Chapter Nineteen

The sheriff’s hand twitched. He wasn’t dead, at least not yet. Then a muffled cry sounded, as of someone gagged. It hadn’t come from Sarkisian but from somewhere beyond him, back in the farthest corner. Slowly I raised my head and looked at Adam.

He just stood there, shoulders sagged, shaking his head. “Damn it, Annike, why’d you have to see that?”

“See-see what?” I tried, in that stupid way most people have of trying to lie themselves out of a jam. If I ran, did I have a chance of getting to safety? Of reaching the sheriff’s car and radioing for help for him? Sarkisian…

Adam just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Annike.” He took a step toward me.

I backed away. “Why?” I asked. Keep him talking, if I could just keep him talking, anything to delay his disposing of me…

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you know how much this stuff is worth? I know a guy who’ll give me a hundred fifty bucks a case, seven cases a month. That’ll pay for a lot of the things Lucy wants.”

“But-” I shook my head. Theft was one thing, murder another.

“Brody?” he asked as if reading my mind. “He called me from your aunt’s house, said he had a little business proposition for me. Do you know, he actually wanted me to take twice as many cases? And give him two-thirds of the money? If my buyer could have handled that many, I’d have already been doing it.”

I was still shaking my head. He had decided to kill me, too, or he wouldn’t be talking. Possibly he delayed doing the inevitable. I couldn’t believe he was a man who killed easily. But I could no longer deny he was a man who could kill. Well, delaying suited me just fine. “Stabbing isn’t your style,” I managed at last. “If he’d been bashed over the head with something…”

His mouth twisted. “I’m not dumb. I had the drive over to Gerda’s to think about how I wanted to handle him. Lucy’d never come back if I went to prison, so I had to silence him. And I had to do it in a way to divert suspicion. And I’ve taken every opportunity to start a fistfight since, so people would think just what you did.”

“And Dave?” I could only bless the impulse that seized him to talk, to confess. He wasn’t an evil man. He honestly seemed to want me to understand why I was going to die.

He made a toss-away gesture with one hand. “He was on the verge of killing himself, you know. But he kept backing out of it, said he couldn’t face the idea of pain. So I just-helped him along, a little. That should have made everyone think he’d killed Brody.”

“But Sarkisian realized it was another murder.”

Adam nodded. “That made it damned awkward.”

“Look, he knows it was you. He told me. He told others. You can’t get away with this.”

“That’s where I got lucky.” Adam fell silent for a moment, then continued. “He didn’t have proof. He knew that. Hell, I knew that. I was damned careful.”

“Then why…” My gaze returned to Owen Sarkisian’s hand. It no longer moved.

“He’s too tenacious, like a dog refusing to let go of a favorite toy. For all I knew, all that tenacity might have paid off, and he might have found some little detail I overlooked.”

“But there wasn’t any!” I tried. “You never even deposited the money from the liqueurs.”

Adam nodded. “That was the first thing anyone would check for, if they ever realized the inventory’d been changed a little. I’m smart enough to know that.”

“So where did you hide it?”

“In the house. In cash. And I made sure I paid for all the repairs by check, from money that could be traced to paychecks.”

“Then you were safe!” I almost wailed the words. “There was no need for…” I broke off, waving toward the office and Sarkisian’s limp form.

“You honestly think he’d have just shrugged his shoulders and forgotten about two murders if he had trouble finding proof?” His tone dripped scorn. “He’d have kept at it. So I set up a solution that will satisfy Goulding.”

“A… No. Sarkisian knew it was you. He’d never have walked into a trap.”

“Not if he suspected I set it, no. So I didn’t. I had Tony spring it.”

Tony. Tony’s motorcycle, just inside the garage doors. He had to be here, somewhere. But… Then I remembered that mumbling sound.

I swallowed to ease the dryness of my throat. “Tony was helping you?”

“Let’s say he looked the other way for a few dollars. And it was easy enough to get him to play along with a practical joke on the sheriff. I had him call and say he’d found something while sweeping up that might be of interest. I also had him say I wasn’t here, that I’d already gone home. So our good sheriff came, just like I’d wanted.”

“And Tony?”

Adam sighed. “If ever there was a pawn just made for sacrifice, it’s that sniveling little bastard. He’s tied up and gagged.” He jerked his chin to indicate the room behind him. “He’ll be shot by the sheriff’s gun, and the sheriff will be shot by an untraceable one with Tony’s prints. The sheriff will have caught him stealing cases-I’ll set a convincing stage, don’t worry-and they’ll have killed each other. Sarkisian will have been wrong about me. All neat and tidy. And now,” and his voice took on a note of genuine regret, “I’m sorry, Annike. I really am. I never wanted you involved. But I promise, you’ll be unconscious before you go over the ravine. You’ll never feel a thing.” He started toward me.

I turned and ran, back the way I’d come. And that was my mistake. Adam vaulted to the cement floor below. Before I’d rounded the second corner, he’d reached the exit himself and slammed it. He wedged something in the jamb, and I knew that even if I got past him, it would take time to get that door open. And time was something that was rapidly running out for me.

So if I couldn’t go that way, I’d go up. I scrambled through the passage that led to the production floor, then ran for the metal stairs that would take me to the office level, the reception desk, the front door, and freedom. But I was still weaving between rows of fermentation tanks when the night lights flickered off, plunging me into pitch-black.

No windows, no skylights. Nothing. Just me and the dark and literally tons of fermenting brandies and liqueurs in copper stills, just waiting for me to bump into them and set their instruments clattering. The least sound would give away my whereabouts.

“You can’t get out.” His voice sounded calm, reasonable. “I’ve cut the main power switch. That seals the door from the reception area.”

At least he didn’t try to convince me I was safe, that he wouldn’t harm me. I cringed down below the level of the cabinets in front of me. Had he just told the truth or a lie? I tried to recall the door but couldn’t. For all I knew, it did have some sort of emergency lock. It might be a fire precaution. This much alcohol would create a horrendous explosion if it ever caught a spark.

“Aren’t you going to promise not to tell anyone? Give me all the reasons why I shouldn’t kill you?” He sounded disappointed.

I was so desperate that for a moment I thought he might be serious, that he might honestly believe we could both get ourselves out of this. Then logic took over. If I spoke, I’d give away my position. That was all he wanted.

I could hear his own progress as he searched for me. Then a light flickered on. The beam of a flashlight. The production floor was large, with lots of tables and cabinets, but it wouldn’t take him that long to find me. I had to get away…

The light brushed across the stairs. I fixed the location firmly in my mind and inched toward it. I would not believe in the safety lock. I could not. That would be to admit I hadn’t a chance in this world of getting out of this mess alive. I had to cling to some scrap of hope.

His light darted toward me, and I ducked, fast. It passed by, swung back, then continued toward the far corner of the room. I slithered away, every step taking me nearer to safety. Or so I kept telling myself. I had to keep my spirits up somehow. He was coming closer, ever closer. I fought against panic. I wouldn’t have time to reach the stairs, let alone climb them.

My hand that followed the ledge of the cabinet brushed against something that moved. I froze, then allowed my fingers to search with extreme caution. A pen. No, not “a”. Two. The beginnings of a plan took root in my mind. All right, it wasn’t a very good one, but it was all I had. With luck he’d fall for it, simply because it was too unbelievably trite for me to actually try it.

I inched closer to the stairs, then waited, not wanting to get too close. The beam swept back. I ducked, but fixated on the place where the light had touched the metal steps. I could do this. I kept telling myself that my appalling aim, this time, would work, that for once I would throw something that would fly for more than ten feet.

The light swept in the other direction. Now or never. Well, now or I could crouch here like the coward I was until he caught me.

Without giving myself a chance for dithering indecision, I heaved one of the pens, missed the stairs and banged it instead against a copper still several feet from my target. Typical.

Adam reacted at once, though, with all the lack of reason I could have prayed for. He charged toward the sound, oblivious to the fact I could never have made any such noise by accident. But I wasn’t going to complain. I slunk backward, praying he would concentrate his search in the general vicinity of the pen.

His light focused, moving in slow circles, directed just where I hoped he would look. The outer fringe of it brushed the passage into the docks. And it had a door, too, one that could be closed and possibly even blocked behind me. I dove for it, banging against tables, heedless now of everything except reaching that opening before Adam.

I didn’t make it by much, but I did make it. I slammed the door shut, then wedged the other pen beneath it. It might hold him back for a few seconds, long enough for me to free the outer door, maybe even reach my car…

I had thrust my keys into my pocket when I’d entered the building. I dragged them out now, wanting them ready, wanting nothing to slow my escape. Adam already tugged and swore at the door I’d just blocked. It wouldn’t hold long. But would it be enough?

I pelted along the walkway in the dark, bumping against the railing, gasping for breath. I collided with the door, and sure enough, it wouldn’t open. Desperate, I felt along the edges until I found something wedged. I dragged at it, then bit back a cry as something sharp sliced my hand. Swearing under my breath, I felt it with more care. A pocket knife, open. The blade had been shoved in the door. But it was on my side, not like the pen I’d used to hold Adam at bay. If I could just pull it out…

I’d been so scared, I’d taken his word for it that he’d locked me in. But when I yanked at the knife, it came loose in my hand. I dragged open the door, then bolted through as Adam freed himself from my petty hindrance. I slammed the door behind me and shoved the knife into the space between the edge and the jamb, as he had done. I’d only run four steps before I heard it hit the ground.

Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn. I hadn’t wedged it tight enough. Adam would be after me in a moment. I raced down the ramp to my car and scrambled into the driver’s seat. I had both doors locked in another moment and was trying to coax the engine to life.

Adam didn’t waste time trying to beat on my window or drag me from the car. It wouldn’t have worked, and he must have known it. Unless, of course, he’d given that damned flip-top a tug. Then he’d have opened Freya like a can of sardines. I blessed the fact he didn’t know-or at least think-about the faulty latches.

Instead he headed around the corner toward a stand of shrubs and trees. He must have concealed his truck in there, because as Freya’s engine roared and I threw her into reverse, I saw his headlights flash across the asphalt. And he was closer to the road leading out of here than I was. I stomped on the clutch, shoved the car into first, stepped hard on the gas-then swerved just feet short of my escape as he rammed the pickup across the opening.

I spun the wheel, skidding away, and as the duct tape holding the latches popped loose, the turkey screeched its fear. I didn’t blame it. It flapped, its wings hitting me on the back of the head, obscuring my view in the mirror. I made a wild swing, circled the lot, and amazingly Adam backed away to follow me. As soon as he’d turned from the narrow drive, I aimed Freya toward it once more and raced for escape. I had tremendous horsepower with that V-8 engine, but a finicky clutch that made it a struggle to shift gears.

Adam reached the road before me.

I slammed on the brakes and the tires shrieked in protest. The canvas flip-top wobbled and shot back on the over-oiled mechanism, and the turkey went flying forward. I wailed in fear for That Damned Bird.

Adam must have seen twenty-five pounds of terrified feathers coming straight at his windshield. He swerved, slamming on his brake, throwing himself into a spin. The pickup crashed head-on into the retaining wall, crumpling its hood. Steam hissed into the cold night.

That Damned Bird settled to the ground where it screeched and squawked in fury. I tried to shove poor Freya into reverse, but I was shaking too hard. For a long moment I stayed just where I was, trembling, my skin clammy with the aftermath of my terror.

I couldn’t just sit here like this, staring at Adam’s unconscious figure slumped over his steering wheel. Sarkisian lay in the building hurt, bleeding, most likely dying, and Adam would come around at any moment and come after us again…

I took a deep breath to steady myself. Help. I needed to get help. And the faster the better. When this was over, I promised myself, I was going to break down and get a cell phone, and to hell with people trying to call me. I could leave the damned thing turned off unless I wanted to use it.

I positioned Freya behind the truck, knowing that if Adam came around he would probably ram my beloved Mustang to make his escape. But I had to do something. I staggered back to the Honda, found it mercifully unlocked, dragged out the radio and called the dispatcher.

“An ambulance,” I screamed. “Sarkisian’s hurt. Officer down,” I added, remembering that line from some TV cop show Tom and I had laughed over. “We need backup.” I gave our location then hung up. I didn’t have time to waste on questions, such as who the hell was I and what I was doing on the sheriff’s radio.

A quick check of the backseat revealed a real live pair of handcuffs. Handcuffs. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I walked unsteadily to the Chevy.

Adam still slumped over the wheel, blood dripping from his forehead. Risking all, I pulled open the door. He didn’t move. Not a trick. He really was unconscious. I couldn’t believe my luck. I fastened one side to his wrist, the other to the steering wheel. I had no idea where the key was, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that bother me.

And now that I knew Adam couldn’t come after us again I could let myself worry about Sarkisian. And I did worry. Except for that hand that had twitched, he’d been so still, there’d been so much blood. I turned back, the rain mingling with the tears that slipped down my cheeks. If he’d been seriously hurt, if he were dead…

I raced back up the ramp to face the darkness of the interior. At least the parking lot lamps filtered inside through the door I left open, casting a garish amber glow over the cement. I should have looked for Adam’s flashlight. Or better yet, remembered the one I kept in Freya for emergencies. This was definitely an emergency.

Swearing at the wasted precious seconds during which the sheriff’s life’s blood might be seeping away, I ran to my rain-soaked car and found That Damned Bird once more a sitting tenant in the backseat. I fished out the small halogen flash from under the dash and flicked it on. A meager light wavered and went out. I shook it as hard as I could, and it came back on again, faint but willing.

This time I made it into the building and around the walkway before it failed. This time, no amount of shaking would get it started again. I groped my way forward until my fingers encountered an open door.

“If you move,” said a slurred, wonderfully familiar voice, “I’ll shoot you.”

“Owen!” I gasped his name in relief but obeyed orders and held my ground.

A moment passed. Then, “Annike? What the hell are you doing here?”

“The cavalry.” My voice quavered, but I didn’t care. He was alive. “Tedi Bird and I rode Freya to the rescue.”

Sounds of movement came from within, then the creaking of a chair as he eased himself into it. “Damn, that hurts. Turn on the lights, will you?” Then more sharply, “Where’s Fairfield?”

“Out cold and handcuffed to his steering wheel. And he cut off the lights, and I don’t know how to turn them on again. And he nearly wrecked my car.”

“Better it than you,” he declared with an intensity of feeling that shook me. “Annike…” He reached out, finding my hand.

For a moment I returned the clasp, then pulled free. We were getting too emotional. I could hear it in his voice, feel it inside me. It wouldn’t work between us. I was a good six years older than he. He should find someone nearer his own age, someone who didn’t already know the bleak despair of losing a sheriff husband.

It was time to switch focus, talk instead about the things that really mattered. “My car’s getting drenched!” I said, accusingly. “The top’s down.”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, switching his own mental gears. When he spoke he sounded more like his normal self. “Put it up again.”

“Well, if you’re not on the verge of bleeding to death, I will.”

“He only got my shoulder. It burns like hell, though. If I hadn’t hit my head and knocked myself out… Damn, you’re not going to let me live that down, are you? And to top it off, I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“Good for you. I hate men who pretend nothing ever hurts.” I turned on my heel, only to stop. “Oh, God. Tony.” I peered through the darkness of the room. “Tony? Are you all right?” Then, when no response came, “Are you here?”

A mumble that might have been a groan answered me at last. I fumbled my way around the office, banging my shin against the bottom of the desk, and at last found the young man’s leg by cautious feel. A rope, padded with sheepskin, bound his ankles. Adam really had planned and prepared well for tonight.

“Here.” Sarkisian handed me something heavy and metallic that proved to be a box cutter.

“Thanks.” I sawed through the knot, not without a bit of sotto voce swearing at the difficulty, then groped my way to find his wrists. In only five minutes-I never said I was good at cutting people free-Tony managed to sit up and pull his own gag from his mouth.

“He was going to kill me!” the young man wailed.

“Sheepskin?” Sarkisian asked. Apparently he had found the discarded stuff and examined it.

“So as not to leave any unexplainable marks on the body.” I felt so tired I only wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. Instead I gave them the short version of what Adam had confessed to me.

Sarkisian muttered a few words that expanded my vocabulary. “I really walked into that one,” he finished on a note of self-disgust.

“At least you’re going to walk out again. And now,” I added as I stumbled my way to the door, “I’m going to rescue what’s left of my car.”

“Annike.” His quiet voice made me stop. “Thanks.”

“Oh, your department will get the bill if my upholstery’s ruined,” I assured him, forcing a teasing note into my voice. If he got all serious on me, our friendship-and it was going to remain a friendship and nothing more-wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

“I’ll put you and your turkey and your car on the payroll.” It would have sounded more like a solemn promise if the amusement hadn’t crept back into his voice.

“Don’t even joke about it!” I turned to face him, searching for his features in the dark. “I swear, Owen, never will I have anything to do with a murder investigation again! It’s too hard on me.”

He started to laugh, but broke off on a groan.

“Serves you right.” The fact that it was too dark to see seriously hindered my dignified stalk to the door. Of course, Sarkisian couldn’t see it, so I guess it didn’t matter.

In the distance, the first wail of a siren sounded.