Skeleton Key(98)

“Jesus Christ,” Stacey said. “They’re going to turn us over.”

Gregor didn’t think it was impossible. The rocking had picked up momentum. Stacey didn’t dare rev the engine, for fear he would end up killing someone—and in the long run that would ruin him, even if the death were accidental, even if it were entirely justified. The car was now sometimes lifting off the ground on the left side. It wasn’t lifting very far off, not yet, but it would get farther. Gregor tightened his seat belt.

“I’m going to make a break for it,” Stacey said.

“No.” Gregor leaned across the front seat and hit Stacey’s horn, as long and as loud as he could. He didn’t know what make of car this was—he didn’t know what make of car any car was, unless somebody told him—but he knew in no time at all that this one had a very loud horn.

“You’re breaking my eardrums,” Stacey said.

The two men who were rocking the car had not been deterred by the noise. They were still rocking. Gregor looked up the drive and saw what he had hoped to see. Four tall state policemen were heading in their direction, coming at a run. It took them a couple of seconds to assess what was going on. Then they ran at the two men rocking the car as if those men had been boxing dummies.

“Get ready to get out of here as soon as they peel them off,” Gregor said.

“I’m watching,” Stacey said.

The two men gave one last heave. It was as if they were willing to risk anything to get the car turned over. It didn’t work. The car went up dangerously on one side, but it came down again. Seconds later, Gregor saw the crowd of state policemen pull the two men off and away.

“Go,” he told Stacey Spratz.

Stacey didn’t need the advice. He hit the gas, hard. The car jerked forward as if it had been launched. Ahead of them, the next sentry stood back to let them pass. They shot up the drive in the direction of all the police cruisers. They came to a stop just in time.

“Jesus,” Stacey said.

Gregor opened his door and swung his feet out. He was surprised to find that he was shaking. He wasn’t sure why. These were reporters he was dealing with. They wouldn’t have torn his arms off. He looked back down the drive and saw that both of the men who had been rocking the car where now in handcuffs, and surrounded by a large part of the crowd. Absent any other kind of a story, their story would do.

“Mr. Demarkian?” Stacey Spratz said.

He was standing in the drive next to Mark Cashman, who looked as ashen as Gregor had ever seen a man look in his life.

“She’s in the barn,” Mark Cashman said. “Just like Zara Anne Moss. She’s been dead—I don’t know. For a while.”

“Maybe we ought to go in and look around,” Stacey said.

“Tom Royce is in there,” Mark Cashman said. “Along with a million other people. Except it’s different from the last time. I don’t know what I mean.”

“I do,” Gregor Demarkian said.

“I was thinking maybe I wasn’t cut out for this,” Mark Cashman said. “I didn’t sign on for—I don’t know what. You can go fifty years in a town like this and never see a single murder.”

“Could we get down to practicalities here?” Gregor asked. “Could you tell me who was murdered?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stacey Spratz said. “I didn’t even think about that. I just came hauling out here and I thoughts-Christ.”

“It was Margaret Anson,” Mark Cashman said. “Is Margaret Anson. I don’t know how to put it.”

“All right,” Gregor said. “How did the police find out she was dead?”

“We got a call. From Annabel Crawford. She’s—her parents have a place in New Preston. She’s sort of famous around here for having more fake IDs than an international terrorist. We’ve all picked her up at one time or another. But—”

“But?” Gregor prodded.

“Well, there’s no harm in her,” Mark Cashman said. “She doesn’t drive drunk, and she never drinks more than about two beers, so she usually manages to keep the guy she’s with from getting behind the wheel and killing somebody else. She’s always with some guy. I mean, she would be. Wait till you see her.”

“She’s one of those debutantes,” Stacey Spratz said.

“She’s still here?” Gregor asked.

Mark Cashman nodded in the direction of the house. “She’s in the living room. She’s a mess, really. And I don’t blame her.”

“I’m going to go talk to Mr. Royce,” Gregor said. “Unless either of you mind?”