Double Take
Page 117
Charlotte said, “So what are you going to do? Set off another bomb? Blow up Judge Sherlock’s house with everyone in it?”
Dix lifted his head a fraction to take in the three of them. He saw Makepeace’s dead eyes glitter. “Hey, not a bad idea, wiping out all the losers at once.”
“You go murdering a bunch of FBI agents,” Pallack said, “kill a federal judge, his wife, and whoever else is staying in that house, the cops will hunt you forever.”
“Let them hunt, they’ve done it for years. No cop in the world will ever get close to me. They won’t get you either, Pallack, if you’re as smart as you think you are.”
Charlotte said, “They’re too close now. Kill Julia if you must, but leave the rest of them alone.”
“Look, Makepeace, I’ll pay you the hundred thousand to get rid of the sheriff but you must promise to leave Julia Ransom alone.”
There was thick hot silence.
Makepeace was looking over Thomas Pallack’s left shoulder. He said at last, “We have a deal. Wire the money to the same bank account you wired the other million.”
Dix sensed Makepeace was looking at him now, deciding how to get him out of here, where to kill him.
Dix was wrong. Makepeace wasn’t finished enjoying himself. “Do you know, after I took Ransom’s journals, I found I had a little down time? So I did a bit of reading. In this one section, Charlotte, I read that you look just like Thomas’s mother—like the other woman did—and I found myself wondering what it was all about. Now that I’ve met the sheriff, I’m thinking his wife had the misfortune of looking like Pallack’s mother too. Was she the woman Ransom wrote about in his journals?”
There was stone silence until Charlotte said, “Yeah, can you believe it? Two of us who looked like that old witch. Only the sheriff’s wife, Christie, wouldn’t go away with him, so he killed her.”
“Shut up, Charlotte!”
“I really don’t care if you whacked the First Lady, Pallack. But I do have to tell you—the whole thing with your dead mother— it’s sick, crazy, you know?”
“You call me crazy? You’re a hired assassin, a psychopath. And I didn’t kill Christie, it was an accident, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Makepeace actually laughed. “Maybe she thought you were a little old for her, Pallack. You think?”
Dix’s wrists were raw. He felt the stickiness of his own blood, smelled it. He realized that more than anything he wanted his bloody hands around Pallack’s fat neck. He wanted to kill him the same way he’d killed Christie. He heard Pallack say in a sad, dreamy voice, “I promised her the earth, but she wouldn’t be reasonable. She tried to get away from me. I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident. My mother wanted to know about her, through August, and he knew. I didn’t want him dead either, I needed him, but I had no choice. None of it was my fault.”
Dix could see Christie arguing with Pallack, begging him, then finally, trying to escape him. Only she hadn’t made it. He’d killed her—and he believed it wasn’t his fault.
Charlotte said aloud what he’d been thinking. “You talk about none of it being your fault, Thomas, yet even now my brother is missing.”
Pallack said, “I don’t know where David is, I’ve already told you that.”
“But why would he run, just because the FBI asked him some questions?”
Makepeace looked from one to the other, and said, a smile on his face and malice toward Pallack in his eyes, “I guess your husband didn’t tell you he asked me to have David killed? Yep, I made the calls.” He snapped his fingers. “And no David.”
“You bastard!”
“Go ahead, Pallack, tell her. You might as well.”
And Pallack yelled at Charlotte, “Let me tell you about that sleazy brother of yours! He knew I’d killed Christie, the bastard had followed me, he confronted me. And then he laughed at me, did you know that? He laughed, then he told me he had a sister who looked just like Christie, who could easily fill Christie’s shoes. He said you had no ties to anyone, and all you wanted from the world was money. Your precious brother and I struck a deal—I paid that mealy-mouthed bastard what he called a finder’s fee. I knew he called you—told you how Christie wore her hair, what color it was, how she walked. I knew you were setting me up, and I wasn’t sure, but when I saw you, I was happy. I felt blessed. Imagine, there were two of you in the world.”
Dix lifted his head a fraction to take in the three of them. He saw Makepeace’s dead eyes glitter. “Hey, not a bad idea, wiping out all the losers at once.”
“You go murdering a bunch of FBI agents,” Pallack said, “kill a federal judge, his wife, and whoever else is staying in that house, the cops will hunt you forever.”
“Let them hunt, they’ve done it for years. No cop in the world will ever get close to me. They won’t get you either, Pallack, if you’re as smart as you think you are.”
Charlotte said, “They’re too close now. Kill Julia if you must, but leave the rest of them alone.”
“Look, Makepeace, I’ll pay you the hundred thousand to get rid of the sheriff but you must promise to leave Julia Ransom alone.”
There was thick hot silence.
Makepeace was looking over Thomas Pallack’s left shoulder. He said at last, “We have a deal. Wire the money to the same bank account you wired the other million.”
Dix sensed Makepeace was looking at him now, deciding how to get him out of here, where to kill him.
Dix was wrong. Makepeace wasn’t finished enjoying himself. “Do you know, after I took Ransom’s journals, I found I had a little down time? So I did a bit of reading. In this one section, Charlotte, I read that you look just like Thomas’s mother—like the other woman did—and I found myself wondering what it was all about. Now that I’ve met the sheriff, I’m thinking his wife had the misfortune of looking like Pallack’s mother too. Was she the woman Ransom wrote about in his journals?”
There was stone silence until Charlotte said, “Yeah, can you believe it? Two of us who looked like that old witch. Only the sheriff’s wife, Christie, wouldn’t go away with him, so he killed her.”
“Shut up, Charlotte!”
“I really don’t care if you whacked the First Lady, Pallack. But I do have to tell you—the whole thing with your dead mother— it’s sick, crazy, you know?”
“You call me crazy? You’re a hired assassin, a psychopath. And I didn’t kill Christie, it was an accident, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Makepeace actually laughed. “Maybe she thought you were a little old for her, Pallack. You think?”
Dix’s wrists were raw. He felt the stickiness of his own blood, smelled it. He realized that more than anything he wanted his bloody hands around Pallack’s fat neck. He wanted to kill him the same way he’d killed Christie. He heard Pallack say in a sad, dreamy voice, “I promised her the earth, but she wouldn’t be reasonable. She tried to get away from me. I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident. My mother wanted to know about her, through August, and he knew. I didn’t want him dead either, I needed him, but I had no choice. None of it was my fault.”
Dix could see Christie arguing with Pallack, begging him, then finally, trying to escape him. Only she hadn’t made it. He’d killed her—and he believed it wasn’t his fault.
Charlotte said aloud what he’d been thinking. “You talk about none of it being your fault, Thomas, yet even now my brother is missing.”
Pallack said, “I don’t know where David is, I’ve already told you that.”
“But why would he run, just because the FBI asked him some questions?”
Makepeace looked from one to the other, and said, a smile on his face and malice toward Pallack in his eyes, “I guess your husband didn’t tell you he asked me to have David killed? Yep, I made the calls.” He snapped his fingers. “And no David.”
“You bastard!”
“Go ahead, Pallack, tell her. You might as well.”
And Pallack yelled at Charlotte, “Let me tell you about that sleazy brother of yours! He knew I’d killed Christie, the bastard had followed me, he confronted me. And then he laughed at me, did you know that? He laughed, then he told me he had a sister who looked just like Christie, who could easily fill Christie’s shoes. He said you had no ties to anyone, and all you wanted from the world was money. Your precious brother and I struck a deal—I paid that mealy-mouthed bastard what he called a finder’s fee. I knew he called you—told you how Christie wore her hair, what color it was, how she walked. I knew you were setting me up, and I wasn’t sure, but when I saw you, I was happy. I felt blessed. Imagine, there were two of you in the world.”
