Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
A cheer went up in the sports department and Beth said, “Maybe we’ve seen the end of it. Maybe there’ll be no Boxing Day killer this year. Here it is after one o’clock and nothing’s happened yet.”
Sergeant Bates grunted and prepared to leave. “How late are you working today?”
“Till four — unless a big story breaks. I started at seven this morning.”
“Suppose I come by at four to pick you up.”
“Pick me up? I have my own car.”
“I know. Maybe we could have a drink for the holidays.”
Those words were about the last thing she expected to hear from Matt Bates. They’d had a friendly enough relationship over the past three years, but it was a business relationship only — the press and the police. Now, suddenly, he seemed to be inviting her out on a date.
“I... I don’t know.”
“Sure, why not?”
“All right,” she agreed. “There’s a little place in the Distillery District that’ll be open today.” She wrote down the address for him.
“Great! I’ll see you there at four.” He paused at the newsroom door. “If you go out on an assignment this afternoon, call me. Okay?”
“What?” she asked, not certain she’d heard correctly. But by that time he was gone.
Beth strolled into the sports department to watch the game. The station was showing an old Christmas movie and she couldn’t blame them for choosing football instead. Walker and Merritt and LeFavre were all grouped around the TV monitor tuned to the Buffalo station, and she saw that Foxy o’dwyer had joined them. All seemed convinced that nothing was going to happen this year. The killings were over.
She remembered her questions to Bates about the third victim and decided to check the files. It would have been done a year ago, of course, and surely any arrest would have been noted. There was only one file film for Earl Sydney, in the spring of 2003, addressing a luncheon of the small business council. Seeing it again, she remembered that the station had run it at the time of his murder. She shut off the monitor and went back to the football game.
It was nearly three o’clock when Glen Walker took a call and told her, “Beth, there’s a truck skidded and overturned on the QEW in Mississauga, just past the Dixie Road exit. Take Foxy along and get some footage for six o’clock.”
O’Dwyer grumbled and got to his feet. “I’d rather watch the end of the game. Come on, Beth. We can take the van.”
She remembered her four o’clock date with Matt Bates. He’d said to phone him if she went out on assignment, but she figured she’d be back in time. “I’ve got an appointment after work. I’d better take my own car.”
She followed O’Dwyer out of the Broadcast Centre parking lot, in the shadow of CN Tower, and onto the Gardiner Expressway, which became Queen Elizabeth Way. The expressway was noted for its heavy traffic, bound for Hamilton, Buffalo, and Niagara Falls, but on Boxing Day it was surprisingly light. They encountered only minor delays on the way to the accident. The sunny day had turned cloudy, though, and as their vehicles approached the overturned truck a light snow was falling. O’Dwyer raised the tower of their transmitter and Beth checked her makeup in the car mirror. Then she got the clip-on mike from the truck and found a likely police officer to interview. The driver of the truck and been taken to the hospital in an ambulance but his injuries did not appear severe.
Even on a slow news day the story didn’t rate more than a few minutes. She thanked the officer and gave the mike back to Foxy. Her car was parked just behind the news van and as she opened the door he called to her. “Looks like your tire’s flat, Beth.”
Indeed it was. She cursed silently and reached for her cell phone. “I suppose most of the garages are closed today too.”
“Do you have a spare?”
“Sure, but I’m not up to changing it myself in this weather.”
He smiled at her. “I can do it. Wait in the van, out of the cold.”
“Thanks, Foxy. You’re a doll.”
He followed her into the van. “I’ll need the key to your trunk.”
She turned to hand it to him and a stark white odor seemed to blot out her vision. She had a fleeting memory of a childhood hospital stay, and then nothing.
Beth awoke gradually, trying to focus on what had happened. She realized at once that she was unable to move or speak. Her wrists and ankles were tied, and a piece of tape covered her mouth. She was lying on a rough blanket of some sort, and when she opened her eyes she could see the outlines of a dimly lit garage. A window was covered with a burlap sack, but she knew it was after dark.
Then Foxy O’Dwyer came into view. “You’re awake. I didn’t want you to wake up, but don’t worry. I’ll give you another dose so you’ll sleep through it all.”
She grunted and tried to speak through the tape, but only panicked noises came from her. Then she caught sight of a half dozen boxes of various sizes, piled on top of one another. Fully awake now, she tried to roll away from him.
He grabbed onto her leg and held her. “I didn’t want it to be you, really I didn’t! I spent the whole year hoping someone else would turn up. But there was nobody. A sacrifice had to be made, and you were the only one. Every year, on the day after Christmas, to keep the terrorists away. And it’s worked, hasn’t it? You’ll be the fourth, and there’ll be two more, if I can find them.”
He was mad, insane, and he was going to kill her. Six, why six? And why her? She saw him take up the cloth again and douse it with chloroform. “I’m sorry, Beth,” he said and stepped toward her. “Real sorry.”
She kicked out at him, forcing him back for just an instant. Then the burlap-covered window exploded inward and a familiar voice shouted, “Police! Hands up!”
O’Dwyer cursed and dove toward her, and Matt Bates fired a single shot to bring him down.
It was ten o’clock that night before Beth saw Matt Bates again. They’d checked her out at the hospital and were sending her home when he appeared at the door of the examining room.
“What happened?” she asked at once. “Is he alive?”
“Just barely, crazy as a loon. He made a statement. I guess you’d call it a confession.”
“How’d you know? How’d you find me?”
“I had a hunch the killer might have you targeted. When I found that matchbook from your station I wondered if one of your co-workers might be the Boxing Day killer. The matches hadn’t been available for years, but a station employee might have had some. And I noticed, as you did, that each of the victims had been seen on your TV news prior to their deaths. If you were the target, the fire might have been set to lure you out there. The killer would know you’d be sent for a fire report while everyone else was off. But with your cameraman along there’d be no chance to get at you. Not unless Foxy himself was the killer. When you didn’t show up at four o’clock I checked with the station and found that you and Foxy were on assignment. I found your car with the flat tire, conveniently caused by Foxy, and figured out what had happened. I raced out to his house and found the station van in the driveway. I heard his voice from inside the garage and smashed in the window.”
“He was apologizing, Matt, as he got ready to kill me! He said he needed six people and this year he couldn’t find anyone but me.”
“I realized it some time back, your connection with the three previous victims. He’d have taken you this morning at the fire scene if I hadn’t happened along. I stuck close to you lately for that very reason.”
“He said it was a sacrifice to prevent more terrorism.”
“That’s what it was in his crazed mind. One victim each year on Boxing Day, their names representing cities on each of the six inhabited continents. Durban from Africa, Amsterdam from Europe, Sydney from Australia.”