She paused for so long, Stanley was about to prompt her, when she said, “All of a sudden, he was silent. He wasn’t crying anymore. I didn’t realize for the longest time why, that I had hit him with the golf club, the back of his head. I didn’t even remember swinging it. But I must have, because when I looked, his head was all caved in and the club was covered with blood.

  And Josephine was fit to be tied, she was so frazzled she couldn’t even bark, she just kept making these little wheezing noises and bouncing up and down like some kind of spring toy.

  And he was just lying there. I was half afraid he wasn’t dead yet, that he would rise up and accuse me of trying to kill him.”

  Stanley couldn’t think what to say, he could only stare in horror at her through the darkness. But, now that she had started, she needed no prompting to continue her bloody story.

  “I turned him over and dragged him to that big rock nearby, and I lifted his head and brought it down again and again on the rock, as hard as I could, till I was sure he was really and truly dead, and they would never be able to say what he was killed with.” She was so worked up she was all but panting. She struggled to get her breathing under control, and after a long moment, she said, “Then I took Josephine and went home.”

  She said the last so calmly, in such an emotionless voice, she might have been discussing the weather. Staring through the darkness of the boat at her, Stanley thought that she was probably mad as a hatter, maybe had been for years. That realization, however, did nothing to raise his spirits.

  208 Victor Banis

  “But, Carl, when they arrested him, weren’t you concerned?

  Your own brother. Didn’t you worry about what would happen to him?”

  She gave a derisive snort. “It was an accident. That’s how they saw it. That’s how he saw it himself. He’d never even have gone to prison if you’d stayed out of it. If he’d stuck with his original story, admitted that he’d done it, they’d have given him a smack on the hand, and no one the worse.”

  “Except Donnie McIntosh,” Stanley couldn’t resist adding, unable to hide his anger.

  She smirked. “You think I regret killing him? No more than I’ll regret killing you, and for the same reasons. A pair of queers.

  Why should anyone care if the world has two less queers in it?”

  “And you don’t regret killing your mother either? She wasn’t queer.”

  “She was a burden I’d had to carry for years. But that wasn’t why I killed her. I had to. She knew what I had done. Not then, she didn’t put it all together at the time. But she saw me, that night. I came in with the golf club. I was washing the blood off of it when she came into the kitchen, demanding to know why Josephine was so upset. I told her a coyote had tried to grab Josephine and I’d killed him with the golf club. She was all right with that, she believed me. But, later, when you and your friend started talking about someone clubbing Donnie to death, I could see she remembered the golf club, that she was thinking about it. I realized that’s why she wanted to talk to you. I’ve been keeping her doped up, but I couldn’t do that forever.

  Sooner or later, you two were going to link up.”

  “So you murdered her. In cold blood.”

  “You could say it was you two who killed her, as far as that goes. And Libby. If you’d all stayed out of it, kept your mouths shut… but, really, it’s better this way, believe me,” she said hotly. “For everyone. She was a pitiful unhappy woman, and she couldn’t be satisfied without keeping everyone else unhappy too. Have you ever looked at Carl, really looked at him? That was what she did to him. Her favorite, her pet, all his life, and she made a vegetable of him, a spineless, sniveling baby who’d let another man do things like that to him. And what did she do DEADLY WRONG 209

  to me? She robbed me of any chance of happiness. I’m the one who always had to take care of everything, of everyone, I’ve never had a life of my own. Can you even imagine—?”

  “Libby’s okay. She’s not particularly unhappy.”

  “Libby?” Her voice dripped with scorn. “Of course she’s happy. She’s gay, isn’t she?” She gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “She’s never had to deal with any of it, not with Father, not with Mother, not with Carl. All she’s ever done is pursue her own ugly life—just like Mother.”

  Stanley chanced another look over his shoulder, but he really had no idea where they were. Somewhere near the middle of the lake, presumably. The lights looked far distant. On the other shore, a car played peek-a-boo in and out of the trees. He wondered if he could dive into the water before she shot him, and decided probably not. Even if he managed to get out of the boat unscathed, into the water, and that was unlikely, she’d still have a good shot at him.

  “You can’t just kill me, Hannah,” and added, on a burst of inspiration, “for one thing, my car is parked out front of your house. They’ll know I was there.”

  She chuckled, sounding not at all rational. In the dark of the night, far out on the vast plain of the lake, it sent a chill up and down his spine. “No it’s not. I looked. You must have walked over from Libby’s.”

  “Okay, I lied.” He had continued raising his voice throughout their conversation, and the power of suggestion was having its effect. Hannah was gradually raising her voice as well.

  “But, the insulin. The doctor knows she wasn’t on insulin.

  They’ll guess right away—”

  “The doctor prescribed the insulin. After I showed him the chart I keep of her sugar levels. They’ve been through the ceiling. Obviously the pills weren’t working. He wrote the insulin prescription just this morning. But he’s down below, in San Bernardino. And there’s no reason for anyone to check with him. Everyone knows she’s diabetic. She told everyone who would listen. Who would know she hasn’t been on insulin for months, years?”

  “Libby? Or Carl?”

  210 Victor Banis

  She scoffed. “Do you think either of them ever helped take care of her? No, I did it all.”

  “I’m quite sure the doctor didn’t prescribe that big a dose.”

  “Who will know that? When that boy died, they said in the paper that they didn’t do autopsies anymore unless the death is suspicious. Who will suspect anything, no reason even to question the doctor, or do any tests to see how much she took?

  Even if they did, Mother prepared the shot herself. I told her to wait for me to do it, but she’s always been bullheaded. And, of course, her eyesight isn’t good. She must have misread the markings on the syringe.”

  Meaning, he thought, this wasn’t some spur of the moment thing, like killing Donnie McIntosh. She had planned this well ahead. Cold blooded murder indeed, and well planned.

  A wind had come up, snatching at his shirt. Waves roiled the surface of the water and made the boat rock. A surge of anger, frustration, and fear that fell just short of panic swept through him. It was cool out here on the water, almost cold, and he found that he was shivering, but not from the cold alone. He moved his feet and touched the length of chain with them. His discovered his hands were shaking. Unless he did something, and soon, he was going to die out here, on this godforsaken patch of water, at the hands of this crazy woman. But what could he do?

  He became aware that at some time it had begun to rain.

  Did that deaden the sound of their voices? Raindrops glittered on her coat like a scattering of diamonds. It reminded him suddenly of the ring, and when she reached a hand to throttle up the outboard slightly, the enormous amethyst on her finger glinted briefly.

  Oddly, the movement helped to settle his nerves. His reasoning mind took over again from the one threatening panic.

  Maybe she wasn’t quite so crazy, either. Probably, he thought, she would inherit—house, bank account, whatever her mother had besides the amethyst ring. That was the usual arrangement when one person took on the role of caregiver.

  So, for all Hannah’s griping, at bottom this could be just another case of old-fashioned greed, dressed up with DEADLY WRONG 211

  accumulated grievances to make it look better. What did she care if the things she acquired were sticky with blood? Other people lived lives of sacrifice, of harsh duty, far harsher in some cases than what she had borne, and not all of their souls were curdled, remade into rank evil.

  Somehow, that gave him hope. A madwoman, you were totally at the mercy of her whims. But a calculating murderess, there was always the chance you could outwit her. And he didn’t think Hannah was the brightest star on the tree. The tumult inside him began to subside. There had to be something he could do.

  Think, Stanley, think, he told himself, or very soon there’s going to be one less fairy at the bottom of the garden. Or one more at the bottom of the lake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  He chanced another glance around. He could see one or two other boats in the distance, a far off chug of outboards. Night time fishermen, he supposed. Probably heading in, with the increasingly inclement weather. Maybe one of them would hear them, as loudly as they had been talking. Or maybe someone passing by on the shore.

  But how far did the voices carry, and how clearly? Even if there were someone on the shore, and they could hear the voices, would they make out the words, actually hear what was being said? For all he knew maybe all they would hear was a murmur of quarreling voices. They’d be more likely to think it was a pair of lovers having a spat wouldn’t they, than a woman with a gun getting ready to shoot a visiting San Franciscan?

  The wind came in gusts now and the rain began gradually to increase in intensity. Stanley shivered. As if the night could be any more dismal. Compared to his present situation, Lady Macbeth had been on a picnic.

  Over Hannah’s shoulder, in the far distance he saw the lights of a boat, brighter than the others, like searchlights. They raked the water’s surface, sweeping to and fro, coming closer.

  Stanley’s spirits lifted momentarily. Maybe someone had heard the voices and was coming to investigate; but the next moment, the searchlights veered away from them, at an angle to the left, and began to grow more distant again.

  “So,” he said, sounding to his own ears by this time as if he were fairly shouting, “What exactly do you plan to do with me?”

  “That’s easy. You’re going for a late night swim.”

  He looked over the side of the boat, at the restless black water, and back to her. “I’m not going in that damned water, I don’t care what you say. It’s ice cold. Besides, I heard there are piranhas in there.”

  She laughed. “Vegetarian piranhas, didn’t they tell you?”

  214 Victor Banis

  “Yeah, well maybe one of them will decide I look tasty enough to change his diet. Anyway, how long do you think it will take my body to wash ashore? Even if the piranhas strip it clean. I’ve had a lot of dental work over the years. There’ll be no problem identifying me. And they’ll know who killed me, too.”

  “Why should anyone suspect me? I never saw you tonight.

  Who even knew you were coming to my cabin?”

  “Everybody,” he started to say, and stopped.

  She laughed again. “No one, right? If your boyfriend knew, he’d be with you. Anyway, it will be years before they find your body. You’re going to be at the bottom of the lake. That’s what the chain is for. You’re going to wrap it around yourself before you dive in.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m never going to do that. You’d have to shoot me first, if…” He stopped in mid-sentence. Even in the dark, he could see the malicious grin she gave him.

  “Well, if you think,” he said, ratcheting the volume up another notch. Pretty soon he’d sound like Johnny Weismuller in those old Tarzan movies, summoning the elephants . Um-gawa, Cheetah!

  She suddenly said, “Ssh.” Maybe he had gotten too loud, or maybe she had belatedly realized what he was trying to do. She motioned with the shotgun, cocking her head to listen.

  Stanley listened too, and heard the sound of a powerful engine, another boat, this one an inboard, closer than the others and coming rapidly nearer, growing louder as it approached. He glanced off to the left and saw running lights now, sparkling the tops of the waves. And the searchlights, the same boat as before, the lights still swinging back and forth, but narrowing in on them, like a cat following a scent.

  They sat, frozen, both of them watching the bright searchlights arcing back and forth over the surface of the water off to their left, until suddenly one beam rose, shone over their heads for a second, dipped again—and zeroed in on them.

  Hannah shielded her eyes against the unexpected glare and with the other hand, lowered the shotgun slightly, out of sight.

  DEADLY WRONG 215

  Thunder exploded suddenly off to their right, making them both jump and turn their heads in that direction. Stanley stared into the darkness. Thor’s hammer, the ancients called it. What was that old saw? When it came from the left, it was an evil omen—but when it came from the right…

  “Ahoy there,” a voice called across to them. “Lake Patrol.

  Identify yourself.”

  In the moment that they had been distracted by the boom of thunder, the approaching boat had sidled up nearly alongside them. Hannah looked in the direction of the voice, and back at Stanley. The gun was low enough to be out of the light, but it was still trained on him.

  “It’s Hannah, Hannah Hunter. Is that you, Merle?” she called back.

  “Merle’s sick. It’s Jerry.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You’ve got no running lights. Law says you’ve got to have running lights at night. Especially when you’re out in the rain.

  Somebody could run right into you in the dark, never even see you.”

  Stanley suppressed a smile. He couldn’t see anything past those powerful beams, but he recognized that voice. He’d know it anywhere. Especially in the dark, which was when he liked most to hear it. The cavalry to the rescue.

  “I’ve got ‘em.”

  “You need to turn them on, then.”

  “Sure.” She reached a hand around behind her, pantomimed throwing a switch. “Damn,” she said. “They’re not working.

  Must be some kind of short, I guess. Tell you what, I’ll head straight in now. Won’t take me but five minutes, ten if I go nice and slow. I’ll be real careful, keep an eye out for any other boats.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll escort you.” The newcomer’s engine revved. The boat began to slide slowly closer, turning sideways to them, became a large, sleek silhouette, low to the water.

  Obviously a fast boat, its engine’s sound, though muted, smooth and powerful, like the purr of a mountain cat.

  216 Victor Banis

  “I can see well enough to make it back to the shore,”

  Hannah said, frowning. “No need for you to trouble yourself.”

  “No trouble.” The speedboat was only a few feet away now, riding roughly parallel to them and bobbing closer. Someone stood up in the stern, a shadow against the dark sky.

  For a long moment, frozen as she was in that merciless light, Hannah looked as if some malignant deity had turned her to wood, the dark gargoyle of a face immobile and deeply etched, her whole body rigid.

  The spell broke, the wood melted, the gargoyle came to decisive life. She cursed sharply under her breath and the shotgun swung away from Stanley. She raised it slightly as the patrol boat moved alongside theirs.

  As she lifted the gun, Stanley lunged, shoving the barrel of the gun up at almost the same moment Tom jumped. The gun went off, pointed skyward, and the boat rocked and tipped and, as Tom landed heavily in it, pitched over. In a minute, they were all in the water.

  Stanley went down, weighted by his clothes. He managed to slip his shoes off. That helped. He was struggling with his belt when strong hands grabbed him, pulled him up to the surface, and he found himself in Tom’s arms—and a kiss that tasted of lake water, but was one of the sweetest he’d ever known regardless.

  They treaded water for a moment, smiling at one another.

  “Zowie, if you’d been a minute or two later…” Stanley said.

  “Nah. You knew your old man would get here in time to save your sweet little ass,” Tom said, grinning.

  “Hmm. I think I know what for, too.”

  “Christ, this water’s like ice,” Tom swore. “Do you swim?”

  “Like Esther Williams. How about you?”

  “Haven’t in years. We could wait here, hang on to the boat.”

  “And freeze to death. Where’s Hannah?”

  Tom looked over his shoulder. “She’s making for shore like a shark.”

  “Don’t let her get away.”

  DEADLY WRONG 217

  “Relax, the locals are there. The patrol boat’s tracking her, and Wooster and gang are on shore. They’re a little slow on the uptake, but once they get their asses in gear… they’ll pick her up.”

  “Good. Talk about a bitch. Come on, let’s swim.”

  They started for the shore. “Jesus, that’s miles away,” Tom said.

  “We can make it.” The cold water had shocked Stanley into full consciousness, and he’d been in the mountains long enough for his lungs to adjust to the thin air. He struck out with long strokes, kicking his feet hard, glad he’d taken time to shed his shoes.

  It was quickly obvious that Tom, though, not yet acclimated to the altitude, was running out of breath.

  “You okay?” Stanley asked.

  “I’ll make it,” Tom said, puffing and stroking frantically. “I don’t know why I’m so out of breath.”

  “It’s the altitude.”

  Tom was struggling now, losing his rhythm. “Give me your hand,” Stanley said, reaching for him.

  “No,” Tom said in a stubborn voice. “I’ll make it.”

  “Uh, Tom…”

  “But, just in case I don’t make it, though,” Tom said, gasping, “there’s something I have to say to you, Stanley. I have to tell you…”

  “You can wade.”