A Blind Goddess (31 page)

The Scout was giving me all it had, but Bone was flying along. On the hill above me, I spotted Binghamton in his armored car, the big wheels churning up ground as fast as I was. The M8 could make
over fifty miles an hour, but not in this soft and undulating terrain. It could be tricky to handle cross-country, but Binghamton was going for the most direct route, a straight line to the open ground where Bone was heading. Once there, we had him pinned.

The armored car was speeding downhill at an angle, the slope of the land increasing as it approached a jumble of rocks. Binghamton had no choice but to go left and head straight down, losing his advantage and increasing the distance from Bone. Or so I thought.

I saw him slam his hand on the turret, shouting down to the driver, his words lost in the snarl of engines. The M8 picked up speed, its left wheels sinking into the soft ground, as it kept on course, narrowly avoiding the boulders, but tilting at a precarious angle, Binghamton hanging on, clutching the .50 caliber.

It looked like he’d make it. Even ground was about fifty yards away. But then gravity took over, and the tilt was too much for the eight tons of steel to sustain. I could tell the driver was trying to compensate, but it was too late. The M8 went over, sliding on its side as Binghamton ducked his head in, finally rolling over, once, twice, then plowing into the ground, coming to rest on the path we’d been making for.

I slowed, hesitant to give up the chase, hoping Binghamton and his crew weren’t badly injured. I hadn’t know him long, but he seemed like a decent guy, and a friend to Tree. I circled the vehicle as dust settled from the violent impact, gear and men rattling about inside. I slowed, rounding the car, one foot skittering along the ground. What I saw wasn’t good. I stopped.

Binghamton was half in, half out of the turret, his back bent sideways at an impossible angle. Crewmen bolted from the hatches as Binghamton flailed with his arms, trying to get his useless legs to work, to pull himself out of the vehicle. I jumped up onto the M8, screaming for someone to get a medic.

It was pointless. He must have been tossed partway out as the armored car turned over. His spine was snapped, and the internal injuries had to be terrible. He was choking on blood as he frantically
tried to get his body to move, his eyes fixed on some distant spot, still chasing Bone, still leading his men, dreaming of glory as he died.

“Hold steady,” I said, trying to grip his arms. “You’re only making it worse.”

His eyes widened, and I thought he might actually see me. He struggled, still trying to move. He gagged on blood and I raised his head, cradling it in my lap.

“Medics are on the way,” a GI said, and I heard the distant siren. Binghamton thrashed in my arms and I struggled to keep him immobile, even as I knew he was dying.

“Binghamton,” I whispered. “Quiet, quiet. Say a prayer with me.” I held his hand as I spoke into his ear, reciting that everyday prayer, the only thing that came to mind. “Our Father, who art in heaven.”

By the time I got to “deliver us from evil” he was gone, and not for the first time in this war I was glad a man was dead, if only to put a halt to his suffering.

Your will be done. But His will didn’t make much sense right now. Binghamton had missed his chance to lead his men and face the enemy, killed by a murdering child rapist.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

M
ARGARET
H
IBBERD
. S
HE’D bicycled up to the Avington School but no one saw her leave. Because she took the path in the gardens around back. She’d been spooked by Miss Ross calling the police, and darted off, out of sight. Which put her on a course straight to Ernest Bone and his sweet shop. Mr. Bone and his charming pony. Perhaps he’d been out back with the pony, and young Margaret had stopped to chat. Or had she gone into the shop?

That part didn’t matter. Tears burned across my cheeks as the wind whipped my face. I drove along Hungerford Road, watching for the turnoff to High Street and Hedley’s Sweet Shop. I had to beat Bone there, although I doubted any sane man would return to his own house after Blackie Crane’s bony coal-black finger had pointed in his direction. Still, I swept the road with my eyes, looking for US Army green and a bald head. No sane man raped and killed young girls either.

High Street came up on my right and I took the turn fast, righting the Scout as it came out of the curve. If I was right, there was still a chance that Sophia Edwards was alive. For the moment. Pieces came together in my mind, not so much like a puzzle, but like the pieces of paper and photographs Dad used to mull over in his den, late into the evening, when a case was going nowhere. He’d look and look at the same thing, until something made sense. Like now.

It all fit. Bone was a killer and a child molester. He’d set up shop
here to entice his targets with candy and charm. The way I figured it, when Margaret was killed he had to have another. Sophia’s disappearance fit with the best estimate we had of the date of Margaret’s death. I shuffled some more papers in my head, and there it was. Stuart Neville and Ernest Bone. Had Neville seen something at the sweet shop? Or recognized Bone when he was ditching Margaret’s suitcase near the Millers’? George Miller would have made an excellent scapegoat.

But all that didn’t matter right now. What did was the sign ahead, for Hedley’s Sweet Shop. And the jeep parked next to it.

I cut the engine and coasted to a stop several houses away. The street was silent. The wail of a siren in the far distance echoed along the valley. No one was out. People were either at work or returning from the maneuvers, at a much slower pace than Bone or I had. I crouched low and scurried along the front of houses and shops until I came to the corner of Hedley’s. I ran to the jeep and ducked behind it. Taking out my pocketknife, I slashed the front and rear tires on the passenger side. If Bone got by me, at least he wouldn’t enjoy a high-speed getaway.

I circled the store, listening for any sign of movement. I heard a faint thud from inside, perhaps an inner door closing. It had a heavy sound, not like a thin bedroom door but more solid. Something that couldn’t be broken down. His storeroom, maybe? I duck-walked under a window and raised my head to the corner of the glass. It was his kitchen. Large pots were arranged on the counter next to a black cast-iron stove. Hard candies were laid out on trays, ready to entice the innocent. There was no sign of Bone.

The rear entrance led directly into the kitchen. I tried the door but it was locked. Time was running out for Sophia, if she had any time left. The kitchen door was solid; there was no way to get at the lock. I went back to the casement window and worked on it, but it was shut tight. His toolbox was set up outside, next to a pile of lumber. I grabbed a hammer and went to work on the window.

It was loud and slow work. The glass was thick, and the metal frame around the panes was reluctant to give way. I reached inside
and fumbled for the latch. As it gave I felt something warm on my hand. I pulled it open and squeezed through, blood dripping from my palm where the glass had sliced the soft flesh. I fell into the kitchen clumsily and got to my feet, looking for my next move.

I checked the storefront and found it empty. I darted down a hallway, opening doors with my good hand to a bedroom and a study, both empty of all but the most functional furniture. The pantry off the kitchen held shelves of jars and tins of sweets. It looked like enough inventory for the rest of the war. So where was the storeroom renovation Bone said he was working on?

I went back into the store, wanting to check the jeep and make sure Bone hadn’t got out some other way. The counter and cash register were on my left. I moved quietly on the bare wood floor and peered over the counter. A narrow carpet was bunched up in the corner, revealing a latch set in the floor. A trapdoor. I pulled out my revolver and gripped it as best I could, blood oozing from my palm. With my good hand I took hold of the latch and pulled. The door swung up with surprising ease. A set of wide stairs led down into a well-lit cellar. I held the revolver ahead of me and took a step.

“Come down, Captain Boyle, by all means,” I heard Bone say. “But leave your pistol behind, or I shall slit this poor girl’s throat.” He drew out the
poor girl
in a macabre imitation of pity.

“You’re going to kill her anyway,” I said, continuing down the stairs. It was what I needed to say to Bone, but as soon as I saw Sophia Edwards I regretted it. Bone held her bound hands at her back with one hand. The other hand had a knife at her throat. She was gagged, which only brought out the deep terror and anguish in her eyes, which stared straight at me.

“But now it will be because of you, Captain Boyle,” Bone said, edging closer to me in the narrow space. Behind him was an open door, the room beyond which had been first Margaret’s prison, then Sophia’s. It was painted a cheery yellow, with a bed covered in a quilt, a nightstand with a lamp, and stuffed animals in the corner. It made me sick. “You and Inspector Payne, that is. It felt good to lay him out like that. I trust his injuries are serious?”

“Bone,” I said, taking one step and lowering my pistol. “You can’t get away, not in a US Army jeep with every constable in the valley looking for you.” I didn’t mention Sophia. It made sense that he was going to kill her, if only to not be encumbered by her.

“Certainly not,” he said. “Now lay down that revolver and step aside.”

“I’m not giving you my weapon,” I said. He was using Sophia as cover. Even if my hand hadn’t been sticky with blood, it would be tough aiming well enough to incapacitate him. If I put it down, he’d go for it. I didn’t have many cards to play, but the pistol was an ace.

“Sensible of you,” Bone said, moving around me with his back to the basement wall, Sophia tight in his grip. “Be my guest and remain here. The bedroom is quite cozy.”

“I’ll drive you,” I said, holding up my hand. Bone tightened his grip and a muffled shriek escaped Sophia’s lips beneath the gag as the blade pressed into her neck.

“I don’t need you.”

“With me driving the jeep, there’ll be no questions, right? Isn’t that better than taking your chances at the wheel?”

“Captain Boyle, I do not wish to harm this pretty face, but if you don’t put that gun away, I shall. A nice scar along one cheek would do the trick.”

Bone had something up his sleeve. He should have been more concerned, but he seemed calm for a pervert killer with no getaway vehicle. Which meant he had a plan.

“No,” I said, backing up. I holstered the revolver, wincing as the pain got to me. There was really too much blood on the floor. I felt a bit dizzy. “How’s that?” Keep ’em talking, that’s what Dad always said. If they’re talking they’re not doing anything else, for the moment.

“Good enough to stay the blade,” Bone said. “Move farther away from the stairs.” There wasn’t much room; it was a tight space. I could see the evidence of fresh-cut wood where Bone had built an interior wall for the bedroom prison. His own do-it-yourself project.

“I can still drive you,” I said, shuffling to the side. “Your car or mine.”

“That wasn’t so hard to work out, now, was it? Leave nothing to chance, I say.” Bone approached the stairs, turning so he’d pull Sophia up behind him. His eyes flitted upwards and then back to me. He was calculating the odds. If he left me in the basement and locked me in, how long would it be before I was discovered? Long enough? Probably not. He needed me silenced, preferably someplace away from here. I saw the hint of a smile and knew he’d decided. He was the kind of guy who thought he was smarter than everyone else, who saw other people as fools, who enjoyed thinking two steps ahead.

“I’ll leave the revolver down here,” I said. “I’ll come up after you and we’ll all leave together.” It was too good a deal to turn down. My only prayer was to stick with Sophia and hope for a chance.

“Wait,” he said, pulling Sophia up the stairs. When he was at the top, he peered down at me. The knife was still at her throat, but his grip was relaxed. He had the upper hand, after all. “Let me see you lay it down.”

I withdrew the .38 from my shoulder holster. The butt was smeared with drying blood. I laid it on the floor and held up my hands for him to see. He nodded and I took the stairs. Bone stepped back as I came up and instructed me to close the door and put the carpet back over it.

“Now,” he said. “Go ahead of me, out back through the kitchen. If you try anything at all, Sophia will suffer a scar that will haunt her for the rest of her life, if it doesn’t kill her. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing a dish towel to wrap around my cut palm as I passed through the kitchen. It was obvious he wasn’t going to kill her right away and lose his leverage. I went out the door and turned as Bone stayed in the doorway, looking around the backyard.

“Open the shed doors,” he said. Sophia whimpered beneath her gag. The shed was about twenty feet away, and I had a view of the road. It was still quiet, except for the distant sound of engines echoing along the valley. I had hoped for a dozen constables and maybe a Tank Destroyer or two, but we were alone in the midday stillness. I opened the double doors.

The shed was small, and I never would have guessed a vehicle
could fit inside, but this was an Austin Seven, a tiny, black two-door British car about as long as I was tall. Bone ordered me to get in and pull it forward. I folded myself into the driver’s seat on the right and started it up. The engine sounded tinny and the frame shook. I drove it out of the shed and stopped. Bone whipped open the passenger door and dove in, pulling Sophia cruelly by her bound hands. She landed in a heap in the cramped back seat with him, moaning from an injury, fear, or both.

“Drive,” Bone said. “Right on High Street and then the next right. Like a Sunday excursion, Captain Boyle, or else I’ll have to put this knife to work. Now you, dear Sophia, you get down on the floor.” I heard more muffled cries as he pushed her down, out of sight.

“Let me guess,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road and the speed respectable. “You’ve done this before.”