Murder, She Wrote Page 19

  I unzipped the side pocket of my shoulder bag to retrieve the note from Jepson’s aunt Darcy when a deputy approached and said, “Sheriff, the SWAT commander wants to talk with you.” Mort took off, following the deputy, leaving me with the note and quartz stone in my hand.

  I saw Brian standing with a group of young men, including Hank Thompson, and walked to where they stood in a circle of uniformed state police, some of whom had binoculars trained on the small cabin. He saw me approaching, waved, and broke away to join me.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Wow! I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  I started to explain about having found his map and the note from Jepson’s aunt Darcy, when a police helicopter swooped down from behind a ridge, its engine drowning my words. The blast from its rotors was strong; I instinctively reached for my hair as though to ensure that it hadn’t been blown away.

  “You found the map,” he said once the chopper had passed.

  “Yes, with Alice’s help,” I replied. “Why did you violate the sheriff’s order and leave your house?”

  “I couldn’t just stay there knowing that Stinky was up here.”

  “Here? In this cabin? How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know for sure, of course, but we used to come here when we were hanging out together. It was one of our secret places to meet up. He told me once that if he ever wanted a safe place to go underground he’d look for the highest cabin he could find. This one fits that description.”

  “Who owns the cabin?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t think anybody does anymore. It’s been abandoned for years. Every time we came here it was empty, didn’t have much in it.”

  “Food?”

  “Maybe some canned goods, left by others who used the cabin. It’s kind of camping courtesy to leave something for the next hikers who come along. There’s usually a tin of something sealed up and some basic utensils, tin plates, stuff like that that the mice can’t get to.”

  Mort beckoned to Brian, and I followed him to listen to their conversation. “Can you tell me what it looks like inside?” Mort asked.

  “Pretty standard one-room cabin,” Brian replied. “Central door, kitchen area to the left, bunk beds to the right, bathroom in back.”

  Mort, who was a few feet from us and stood behind a tree fifty feet from the cabin, held up a yellow electronic bullhorn.

  “Darryl Jepson, this is Sheriff Metzger,” he said into it, his finger on a trigger that activated its amplification. “We know you’re in there and that you have a—that you have a hostage. Don’t make things any worse than they already are for you. Release your hostage and come out with your hands in the air, and no one will get hurt.”

  All eyes were on the cabin door.

  Please, I thought, let Maureen come through that door.

  There was a deathly silence as we waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Brian said to me, “I suggested to the sheriff that he let me talk to Darryl through the bullhorn, but he brushed me off.”

  “That would seem worth a try,” I said.

  I turned to Mort. “Why not let Brian try to talk Jepson into releasing Maureen? They were buddies years ago.”

  Mort glared at me, a look that I’d become familiar with over the years of our friendship.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to try,” I pressed gently.

  Mort grunted and looked at the ground while considering what I’d said. Finally, he motioned for Brian to come to his side.

  “Go ahead, Kinney,” he said, handing the bullhorn to Brian. “Just don’t say the wrong thing and make it worse.”

  Brian took the bullhorn and pondered what to say.

  “Tread on your prior friendship,” I said to Brian. “Tell him you don’t want to see anything bad happen to him today.”

  Brian drew a deep breath and started talking into the bullhorn.

  “Pull the trigger,” Mort growled.

  Brian did as instructed, and now his voice was amplified.

  “Hey, Stinky, it’s Brian, Brian Kinney. We got some of the old gang here to help you out. Hey, man, I know you’re in a tight squeeze here, but nobody wants to see you or anybody else get hurt. Come on, man, let the lady go and come out. We’ll do whatever we can to make it easier for you. I promise.”

  The answer came from the single window at the front of the cabin, which was cracked open. The barrel of a rifle suddenly appeared, pointed in our direction.

  “Where’d that gun come from?” Mort shouted. He grabbed the bullhorn from Brian’s hands and growled, “That’s enough. He hears you and he starts firing. Everybody move back, get behind something.”

  We did as we were told. My legs, which had gained strength since leaving the deputy’s car felt weak again, and my hands shook.

  The officer in charge of the state police came to Mort. “We’re not making any progress,” he said. “We’ve got a new protocol in these situations. No more waiting it out like we used to. I say we go in and take him.”

  “With my wife in there?” Mort said. “Not on your life. I’m in charge of this operation, and I say we wait a little longer, give it time to resolve itself.”

  “But now we know he’s got a gun.”

  “Yeah,” Mort said, “but we don’t know if it’s loaded. He could just be waving it around as a threat.”

  Mort’s response obviously didn’t please the state police commander, who muttered under his breath and returned to where he’d been crouched with a half dozen of his officers.

  I remembered the note I had.

  “Mort,” I said, “about that note that Jepson’s aunt wrote to him. Here it is.”

  “What’s it say?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. The envelope is sealed.”

  He started to say something, but I interrupted. “Mort,” I said, “I have this feeling that Jepson might listen to me if I’m the one to tell him about the note.”

  “You? Why?”

  “Because—well, because I was the one she entrusted the note to. Besides, Jepson has no reason to dislike or distrust me. With you he—”

  “Yeah, I know, he’s no fan of mine.”

  “He blames you for putting him behind bars when actually it was his lawyer, Wes Caruthers, who did such a terrible job that he was convicted of a higher charge. Look, Mort, the last thing I want to do is get in your way, but because Jepson’s aunt wanted me to deliver the note to him, I think that I’m the one to do it.”

  “‘Deliver the note to him’? Not a chance, Mrs. F. The man’s a murderer. He won’t hesitate to kill you, too.”

  “Then I won’t suggest that I give it to him, but at least let me try to talk sense to him. As I said, he doesn’t have any reason to distrust me.”

  Mort processed what I’d suggested. “All right, Mrs. F. You can talk to him through the bullhorn. But like I told Kinney, don’t say or do anything to make things worse. Maureen is in there with him and—”

  His voice cracked as he handed me the bullhorn. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but this wasn’t the time to be sentimental. I’d been handed the means to communicate with Jepson and knew that it would be my only chance.

  I examined the bullhorn as though it were an alien device, some bit of electronics from another planet. I’d never used one before and hoped that my voice would remain steady as I spoke into it. I sensed that everyone who’d formed a perimeter around the cabin now looked at me.

  Do it, Jess! Do it right!

  My hands still shook as I raised the bullhorn to my mouth and pulled on the trigger. “Hello,” I said, weakly; the bullhorn made it sound loud but tinny. “Hello,” I repeated, a little stronger this time. “Darryl Jepson, can you hear me?’

  I realized immediately how silly that question was. Of course he could hear me, and it was unlikely
that I’d receive an answer.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher, Darryl. I’m here with the police, but I’m not one of them. I’m here because a very dear friend of mine, Maureen, is with you, and I’m sure she’d like to walk away from the cabin a free woman.” I glanced at Mort before continuing. “I know that you have a beef with Sheriff Metzger, but that’s not a reason to take it out on his wife, who has done nothing to hurt you. Please, Darryl, let Maureen go.”

  No sound came from the cabin.

  “What about the note?” Mort said to me.

  “Right. The note,” I said. I raised the bullhorn again and spoke into it. “Darryl. It’s Jessica Fletcher again. I spent time with your aunt Darcy recently. She’s such a nice lady and loves you very much. She told me that you’d had a rough bringing-up and that—”

  My impromptu speech to Darryl Jepson was interrupted by the arrival of two state police officers from the hostage negotiating team and a third carrying a drone. I’d never seen one in person and was fascinated as they prepared to use it. I asked an officer standing behind me what it was intended to accomplish.

  “They can fly it right up to the window and take a look inside,” he said. “It’s got a camera that’ll transmit pictures back to the monitor they have.”

  My first thought—a worry actually—was that seeing the drone hovering just outside the cabin window would panic Jepson and cause him to do something foolish. But I put those thoughts aside as the officers launched the drone and directed it to the window using a handheld device of the sort that model plane lovers use to guide their small aircraft. I shifted my position enough to be able to look over the shoulders of the officer flying the drone and his colleague who peered at the handheld monitor.

  The drone flew to a point above the window. Then, through a signal transmitted by its pilot, it slowly descended until its camera sent back a picture of the cabin’s interior, at least the portion of it in the camera’s field of vision. I gasped. Although the cabin’s interior was dimly lighted, Maureen Metzger could be seen standing next to a bunk bed. I strained to better see. It appeared to me that she was tethered in some way to the bed. I craved to get a better view of her, but it wasn’t going to happen. Jepson poked the muzzle of his shotgun out the window and batted the drone to the ground. The drone fluttered, then fell. The monitor screen went dead.

  “He hit it out of the air,” the officer who’d been controlling it snarled.

  “She’s alive,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The sheriff’s wife, Maureen Metzger. She’s alive. I saw her.”

  “I saw her, too,” Mort exclaimed enthusiastically.

  I put the bullhorn back up to my lips and said, “Darryl, it’s Jessica Fletcher again. I have a note for you that your aunt Darcy wrote. I don’t know what’s in it, but she wanted very much for you to have it. Can I—would it be all right if I give it to you?”

  I didn’t expect a reply. But then, to my surprise and I’m sure to the surprise of others on the scene, a man bellowed through the half-open window. “Darcy gave you a note?”

  I looked to Mort, who indicated I should answer him.

  “Yes,” I said through the bullhorn. “It’s a personal note to you. She wanted me to promise that you would receive it.”

  Everyone waited for a response from Jepson.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “She also gave me your lucky stone, the one you found with your father.” I held up the stone but had no idea if he could see the smoky quartz in my hand.

  “What’s the note say?” Jepson yelled.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s in a sealed envelope. She wanted only you to see it.”

  “Bring it to me,” Jepson commanded.

  Mort shook his head.

  I ignored him and said, “I’ll be glad to bring it to you, Darryl, provided you allow Mrs. Metzger to go free.”

  “Bring it to me,” he said, “and no tricks. You bring the note to me and keep the sheriff away. Got it?”

  “What about letting Mrs. Metzger go?” I asked through the bullhorn.

  “When you bring me the note.”

  “Can I trust you to keep your word?”

  Behind me I could hear Mort grumbling. “You can’t trust him to do anything.”

  A face appeared in the window: Darryl Jepson’s face. “Come on,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Bring it here.”

  I handed the bullhorn to Mort. “I’ll do what he says,” I said.

  “No, you won’t, Mrs. F. I don’t want your death on my hands.”

  “He won’t kill me, Mort,” I said. “He has no reason to. If I can gain access to the cabin, it might help Maureen get free. Please. I know it’s risky, but I’ll be fine. At least let me try.”

  The state police commander who’d overheard our conversation said to Mort, “If she’s willing to risk it, it’s worth a try, Sheriff. We’re not getting anywhere standing around like this.”

  As he walked away, I said, “Mort, the state police are getting impatient. I know that you have jurisdiction, but they can overrule you if they think the situation has deteriorated. If they decide to storm the cabin, Maureen will be in greater danger than she already is. Please. Let me try. I was with Maureen when she disappeared, and I want to be instrumental in helping free her.”

  “Go ahead, Mrs. F.,” he said, “but don’t push Jepson. Hand him the note and get out of there.”

  I agreed, drew a series of deep breaths, and started walking toward the cabin. There was stirring among the armed officers, but they were told to stand down.

  I’d never realized before how aware one can be of steps being taken. Each one I took seemed meaningful, monumental, one foot in front of the other, my senses on high alert for any sounds coming from the cabin. I was halfway there when I wondered whether I should abandon the mission, turn around, and flee back to the safety of the dozens of armed men. But I knew that I couldn’t stop now.

  The cabin didn’t have a porch; two slabs of rock led up to the door. I took them one at a time and reached out my free hand, the other carrying the note and piece of quartz. Should I try to open the door or knock? I knocked. I heard shuffling inside, was aware of someone breathing deeply on the other side of the door. The doorknob slowly turned. It swung in. I was face-to-face with Darryl Jepson, who held a rifle.

  It was pointed directly at me.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The sight of the rifle brought forth a gasp, and my hands automatically went to my chest in a defensive motion. I almost dropped the note and stone.

  “Close the door,” Jepson growled.

  My instinct was to drop the note and stone and try to run back through the door to safety, but I looked past Jepson and saw Maureen Metzger. She was seated on the lower bunk, which contained no mattress, only the innerspring. It’s amazing how much you can notice in only a second or two. Maureen’s one arm was tied to the bunk bed’s frame. She still wore what had once been a white T-shirt and tan shorts, but her pink clogs were gone. She was barefoot. I almost didn’t recognize her face. It was thin and drawn, the skin peeling off in flakes. Her red hair hung in lank ringlets over the sides of her face.

  Jepson was barefoot, too. He’d obviously been injured during his flight from the authorities. His feet were crusted with dried blood. I looked up at his face, which also bore proof of his having encountered solid objects and sharp vegetation. He’d obviously come across a change of clothes, probably in one of the many cabins in the area that were seldom used. He wore a torn blue denim shirt and a pair of chinos that were much too big for him. They were secured around his waist with a length of clothesline. His beard was matted, his eyes wildly darting back and forth between me and the open door.

  “Close it, I said!” he snapped.

  I reflexively reached back and closed the door
.

  “Go over there,” he said, indicating with the rifle that I was to cross the small room to where Maureen was seated.

  “Jessica,” she said in a voice so small it could have belonged to a child.

  “Hello, Maureen,” I said. I didn’t know whether Jepson wanted me to remain standing, but if he did, he was disappointed. I sat next to Maureen and placed my arm over her shoulders. “It’ll be all right.”

  She started to weep, each shudder sending her shoulders into spasm. I tightened my grip and kept saying over and over, “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

  Jepson approached. “Gimme the note!” he said.

  I held it out, and he snatched it from my hand.

  “And the stone. Let me see the stone.” He grabbed it from my hand, staring down at a piece of his past, his last connection with his father.

  Maureen and I watched as he went to a far corner of the room, keeping the rifle aimed in our direction. He tore open the envelope and began to read. He was silent as he read. He finished the first of two pages and started on the second. That was when he started to cry, a few gulps at first, then more sustained, the rifle pointed at the floor.

  I was moved by his unexpected reaction, as well as jolted into wondering whether it might provide a time for us to escape. I removed my arm from Maureen and twisted away from her to allow me to see the bonds that secured her to the bunk bed. It appeared to me that the rope he’d used was loosely knotted; Maureen’s slender wrist could probably slip out of it with some encouragement. I surreptitiously used one hand to gently pull on the rope. I’d been right. Maureen, who sensed what I was trying to do, manipulated her hand and wrist until it was almost free. But as she completed the maneuver and pulled her hand loose, Jepson, who’d been in a sullen crouch across the room, stood and waved the rifle about.

  I stood.

  “Darryl,” I said, “isn’t it time for you to let Mrs. Metzger go, and turn yourself in to the authorities?”

  His gaze was that of a bewildered, trapped animal. It was impossible to read what he was thinking or planning to do next.

  “She hasn’t done anything to hurt you,” I said.