Black Orchid Blues (30 page)

He was sure by now that Queenie had returned. He feared that this part of him was growing stronger every day, because he himself felt weaker. He was missing blocks of time and sleeping all day, exhausted for no apparent reason.

Then came the day when Sheila confronted him about the Cinnamon Club, and he knew.

It had been a grave mistake to return to his parents’ house. He would’ve been better off starving somewhere else, anywhere else, than living like a prince here, shackled by memories that weren’t simply phantoms of the past, but very real manifestations of the present.

He had a horrible, abiding sense that he was running out of time, that he was about to drown, that he had to do something fast to save himself—and save Sheila—or it would be too late.

The first pale rays of daylight were stretching across the sky when Junior finished telling his story. He seemed exhausted, utterly spent. I again mentioned the possibility of surrendering, and this time he responded with silence. He sat there gazing out at the snow-covered landscape through the broken windshield.

“I’d like to sleep now,” he said finally. Then, without another word, he leaned against the door, hunkered down, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his chest indicated the slow, even, rhythmic exhalations of the deep sleeper.

Once again, I faced the issue of whether to run. If Junior woke, he wouldn’t go after me. He was as gentle as Queenie was murderous. But he was also very vulnerable. In fact, his spirit seemed broken.

The gun felt heavy in my lap. I checked it and found that it had one bullet left, one that could’ve killed him. But instead of going off, the gun had simply jammed. I didn’t believe in signs, but this was hard to ignore. I removed the bullet and dumped it into my purse. As for the gun … I should’ve tossed it out the window, but I was so tired, beyond even the simplest of decisions. My gaze returned to Junior’s tear-stained and bloodied face.

It was strange to finally meet Junior, after hearing so much about him. I could see why Sheila loved him. He must have appeared to be everything she’d dared dream of: attractive, intelligent, well-spoken, the son of a socially prominent pair, but neither arrogant nor insensitive. And he genuinely loved her and would never have hurt her. Of that, I was convinced.

But would the courts?

Would a judge and jury believe that his mind was split, his body host to a second personality, one with diametrically different attitudes, ambitions, and hostilities? Would they believe it wasn’t Junior, but his “other” who was to blame for the murder and mayhem?

Not likely.

Was I really choosing to stick by his side? Like Sheila, I’d begun to feel protective toward him. And those feelings certainly didn’t get her far.

I closed my aching eyes. The throbbing in my rib cage was dull but present. I let my head fall back on the headrest and then I too was gone.

My sleep was anything but restful. There were dreams, nightmares, of chasing sirens, blood-spattered walls. There were voices of the people Queenie and Olmo had killed. Last, but not least, was Sam’s voice.

What are you doing, Lanie? Where are you? I need you. Come back to me.

C
HAPTER
49

I
t was two in the afternoon when we stirred. I felt fingertips touch my lap, felt something being dragged away, and then a rough hand shake my shoulder.

My eyes opened to stare down the barrel of the .38 I’d taken from Junior. The gun was empty, but he didn’t know that. Queenie didn’t, that is. Junior’s dark eyes were once again light, flecked with a hard gold and brimming with anger.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. Even the voice had changed. His eyes darted around, taking in the broken glass, the unfamiliar landscape. “Where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know. We had an accident. I fell asleep and the car went off the road.”

Queenie touched his forehead and grimaced. He had a bad swelling where his head had met the windshield. He regarded me with suspicion. “You do it on purpose?”

“No,” I said. “Obviously not.”

“What were you doing with my gun? You try to run away?”

“If that’s what I’d wanted to do, then I would’ve already made tracks. You were in no condition to stop me.”

I should’ve guessed that this would happen, or at least that there was a good chance that upon waking Junior would be gone and Queenie back in his place. After all, Junior was the weaker personality. He’d only been able to come out because of the head injury. And then to be confronted with the terrible news of what his alter ego had been up to—it was inevitable that he would try to escape, as he always had, whether consciously or unconsciously, by turning inward. And that meant an invitation for the Black Orchid to step out to once more take control and deal with a difficult and terrifying situation.

I should have known.

Deep down, I had. I had known that Junior was still in danger, more danger than ever, from himself.

Just as Sheila had.

And like Sheila, I had this stubborn desire to save Junior. He had put himself in this mess, yes, but only due to what his parents had done to him. As for Queenie, despite what I had seen in that house—or maybe because of it, and because of what he had told me—I felt not only horror, but sympathy too.

Queenie was a murderer. He was also a victim. It was Queenie who’d had to endure the brutal rapes, week after week, month after month, year after year, while Junior hid. It was Queenie who’d had to serve as a sacrificial lamb, over and over again. His sole raison d’être had been to suffer. He had been forced to be the warrior when in fact he was still only a child. That child had seethed with rage at the abuse he’d suffered. Was it any surprise that he’d grown into an adult, a monster by many people’s definition, driven by fury and a desperate desire to break free?

I wasn’t apologizing for him. Nor did I find his heinous actions just. But I did find them understandable.

Did I really think I could talk Queenie into surrendering? I didn’t know. There was a slim chance, perhaps, that I could. If the police caught up with us, there was an even slimmer chance that I could talk them into letting Queenie live, instead blowing holes in him—that is, if they gave me a chance to talk, if they didn’t “accidentally” blow holes in me as well.

All this went through my mind. Thoughts battled. I couldn’t abandon Junior—or Queenie. Then I told both sides to be quiet. I knew what I had to do.

“What now?” Queenie asked, still dazed and openly worried. “Well, I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I’m hungry.”

* * *

We ate the last of our food. There was just enough to take the edge off my hunger, but Queenie was still bad-tempered and ravenous. We got out and examined the damage to the car. The front was smashed up pretty badly. In fact, it had crumpled like an accordion. There was no point in even trying to get it started. We took in the surrounding countryside: not a house within sight.

“Do you know where the hell we are?” Queenie asked again.

“Somewhere north of Tarrytown, I think.”

“Where the hell is that?”

I didn’t answer, just started walking.

Queenie followed. “Where are you headed?”

“Back to the road.”

Queenie yanked me back. “No road. We’ll stand out. In the car, no one noticed us. But like this … no way.” He gestured over toward the trees. “We’ll stay undercover. Find a house, maybe.”

“And then what? Kill everyone in it?”

His eyes were cold. “Be nice, Slim. Be nice.”

We had left our fur coats at the Casino, so Queenie had found substitutes at the house. The coats were warm, but not meant for long exposure to freezing temperatures. The same was true of our shoes. We were both wearing lightweight Mary Janes, suitable for the car, but inappropriate for trudging through ankle-deep snow.

After twenty minutes, we were freezing. Queenie’s vision was blurred, perhaps due to the head injury he suffered in the accident. Every now and then I had to close my eyes against the pain in my ribs.

We had just rounded a copse of trees when we saw a trail of smoke rising from a not-so-distant house.

“Yes!” Queenie said in an intense whisper. He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me along, full of renewed energy.

It was a small farm consisting of two buildings: the main house and a barn. There was a fenced-in area, but no sign of livestock.

“You go up to the door,” Queenie said, pointing to the house.

“And do what?”

“Knock. Get them to open it up for you. Then I’ll come in behind you.”

For a long moment, I just stared at him. Then I said, “No.” My voice echoed in the stillness. That one word rang as loud as a pistol shot.

Instantly, he brought the gun up and pointed it at my face. “I’m getting tired of you sassing me. Now, do as I say or—”

I shook my head with grim determination. The pain in my side was increasing. “I’m not going to help you kill more people. You want to go in there, then go ahead. But you’ll get no help from me.”

He pulled the trigger. My heart thumped. The gun clicked. He pulled the trigger again. And again and again. He looked at it with confusion and then at me in rage.

“You took my motherfuckin’ bullets. Bitch!” He reared back and smacked me with the butt of the gun.

The blow connected with my jaw and pain exploded in my head. It radiated outward from the point of contact like fractures in glass. I stumbled backward and landed on my side. The jolt to my ribs unleashed another bolt of agony. In two seconds he was over me, ready to deal another blow.

“You want me to kill you, don’t you? Because that would wreck my plan. Well, I’m not going to do it. Not yet. Now where the hell are my bullets?”

“You didn’t have any left.”

He ripped the purse out of my hand, tore it open, and came up with the sole bullet. Disgusted, he rammed it into the gun barrel and then squatted down next to me with his lower lip curled angrily.

“I swear, if you trick me or defy me again, I’ll …” He was so angry, he could barely get the words out. “Let’s just say there are lots of ways to achieve immortality. A reporter isn’t the only one.”

It took all my strength not to show fear of that gun or grimace at the mind-numbing pain in my side. After several seconds, some of his thunderous rage faded.

“Tell me you understand,” he said in a gentler voice.

I closed my eyes against the pain.

“Tell me,” he repeated.

I looked at him, saw the sadness in his eyes, and gave a jerk of a nod. He put out a hand and helped me to my feet. That’s when we heard it, a sound that made us both stiffen and freeze, the sound of a rifle being ratcheted behind us. We slowly turned.

A man who appeared to be in his sixties, wearing a green hunter’s cap, a ripped plaid red-and-green hunting jacket, and a tattered oatmeal-colored knit scarf, stood ten feet away. He had a rifle pointed directly at us.

“Hands up, the both of you.”

He had clear blue eyes in a face of wrinkles and a full gray beard. Granite-gray tufts of thin curly hair stuck out from under the sides of his cap.

Queenie slowly raised his hands. After a moment, I followed suit. “Drop the gun,” the farmer told Queenie.

He dropped it.

“And step away from it.” Queenie did as instructed.

“Now, who are you?” the farmer asked, squinting at Queenie.

“My name’s Alice,” Queenie said. “My friend here—” He gestured toward me, but the farmer cut him off.

“Your friend? If you’re friends, then why’d you have a gun on her?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell you what, why don’t we go inside and sort it out there?”

“Look,” Queenie said, “this is all a misunderstanding. We had an accident with the car—”

“Where?”

“Oh, about a half mile back.”

The farmer glanced at me and I nodded. Then he snapped his head in the direction of the barn. “Over there,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Queenie licked his lips, his eyes darting between the barn and the rifle. “What do you want us in there for?”

The farmer hitched the gun a bit higher. “No reason not to tell ya. I heard a report on the radio. Something about two niggra women, one tall, one small, ’cept one of ’em wasn’t a woman at all. Was some kinda pervert, dressin’ in women’s clothing. Report said he killed a coupla cops. Got good reward money out for him.” The farmer arched an eyebrow. “Got any more questions?”

Queenie’s face hardened.

“I said
move
!” the farmer barked.

I started trudging toward the outer building. Blinding pain radiated from my side at every step. Queenie dragged behind.

“If you don’t get a move on,” the farmer said, “I’ll shoot you down. That reward money said dead or alive.”

I glanced back to see Queenie tighten his lips. He was angry, but he picked up his pace. As a matter of fact, he passed me and got to the barn first.

The doors were unlocked. Queenie stepped inside, and I followed. In the gloom, I could make out a Studebaker. Ten seconds later, the farmer entered. Queenie knocked me backward into him. The old man went down hard on his back and I landed on top of him. Queenie grabbed the rifle and stood over us.

“Now, you take orders from me, old man. Get over here.”

He stepped back and the farmer and I got to our feet, then Queenie motioned to the car.

“That work?”

The farmer nodded. His cap had been knocked off and his hair looked wild. His weathered face was drawn. He was scared but he wasn’t cowed.

“Give me the keys,” Queenie said.

The farmer reached for his jacket pocket, then stopped. “I ain’t got ’em on me. Just remembered. Left ’em on the kitchen table.”

“You sure ’bout that now?”

The farmer hesitated. I prayed he was telling the truth. He swallowed, then looked at Queenie and gave a slow nod.

Queenie jammed the rifle up against the farmer’s temple and the old man winced. “Search him,” Queenie told me.

I didn’t move. The farmer stared at me, pleading. Once again, Queenie was making me an accomplice.

“No,” I said. “If you want to check his pockets, then you do it. I’m not going to help you with this.”