CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

George Baumann stops in front of the gate. He wears a long leather coat and sweats profusely in the summer sun. His face is beet red, and I'm amazed that he hasn't fainted from heat exhaustion.

He opens the coat, and I realize the purpose for the attire when I see a pair of sturdy bolt cutters. He mutters something, and this time, I understand what he says. "Thought you'd lock me out of here, huh? Well, this is what you get, bitch."

The vulgarity is disquieting, even if it's not particularly surprising. George lifts the bolt cutters to the lock and strains as he tried to break through the steel.

The handles of the bolt cutters move slowly toward each other, then stop. George strains until his red face turns purple, then stops, gasping and shaking. He stares in amazement at the lock and mutters, "What the hell?" then tries again.

This time, when his face turns purple, he bares his teeth and growls, continuing to squeeze the bolt cutter. The handles still, then slowly approach each other again.

Then, with a loud snap, the handles crash together. George pitches forward, hitting his head on the bars. He hisses with pain and drops the bolt cutters, backing up and pressing his palm to his forehead as he bobs up and down in an effort to endure the injury without shouting. The effect is hilarious, but I can't judge him since I was in an equally comical situation only a moment ago.

Well, I can't judge him for that , anyway.

After a long moment, he shakes his coat off and tosses it angrily away. It lands on the bush I'm hiding behind, and the acrid odor of sweat stings my nostrils. Thank God the soiled coat didn't land on me.

He leans against the fence, shaking with exhaustion and breathing out curse words. His portly belly squeezes like a bellow as his body tries to recover from what is probably the most exercise he's had in decades.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and looks at the padlock. He turns the base, and when it slides away from the severed ring of hardened steel that loops around the iron bars, he crows with joy. He catches himself a moment later and freezes, looking around anxiously. When he realizes no one is rushing to find out who made that noise, he relaxes and picks up the bolt cutter.

It comes apart in his hands, and he stares stupidly as one half falls to the ground. After a moment, he chuckles and says, "Should've just cut the damned bars. Would've been easier."

He removes the padlock and opens the gate. He walks two steps, then stops. "Fuck! A shovel. I forgot a fucking shovel!"

He sighs and leans against the open gate, breathing heavily. He looks up at the sky as though begging it for an answer to why he's so unprepared for the most important day of his life.

Finally, he sighs again and pushes from the gate. He shakes his head, sighs a final time, then heads into the garden. Apparently, he's decided he'll just have to forgo the shovel.

I check my phone. It's now one-thirty. I presume he knows when the family typically returns from work and feels confident he can dig up what he needs before they arrive.

I have to act now.

I intend to do this after I uncover whatever's under the geraniums, but there's no guarantee I'll have time to do that. In fact, I have to admit to myself that there's no guarantee I'll live long enough to tell anyone what's under those flowers if I confront George.

And I will confront George. I have to. I can't risk that he'll destroy the evidence and escape justice.

So, I send a text to nine-one-one. It's my understanding that most cities in America support that function for cases where a complainant is unable to make a voice call. I provide the address and report an intruder. I give directions to the geranium garden from the gate as clearly as I can, then snap a picture of the broken padlock and open gate and send that with the text.

I wait until I receive a response. As I suspect, the dispatcher asks if they can call me. I reply, No. My life is in danger. Then I put my phone on silent, just in case. This will have to be enough.

I stand and walk toward the open gate, gripping the shovel tightly. If I'm lucky, I'll reach George and knock him out before he sees me.

I can hear sounds of digging as I walk through the short, hedged corridor that leads from the gate to the geraniums. George continues to mutter and curse as he digs, mostly complaints that he's on his hands and knees digging through dirt and promises to ruin the Greenwoods as soon as he possibly can for not just giving him the damned document in the first place.

I round the corner just when George says, "Finally! Got you, you bitch!"

There are certain things in life that are too horrible to put into words. The sight of Lila Benson's body as George drags it out of the ground is one of those things. The sound of her bones cracking and her clothing tearing as he forces the corpse out of the small hole he's dug is another, and that is far worse than the sight.

I stand and watch the scene, too stunned to act. I have the shovel upraised, prepared to strike George with it, but I don't swing it. I suppose this is a blessing in disguise. I may be a petite middle aged woman, but a strike to the back of a middle aged man's head with a cast iron shovel requires little force to kill.

My mind shouts at me to move, to do something other than stand there and watch as George digs through the body, snarling, "Where is it? Where the hell is it? Damn it, I know you know where it is!"

Greed has driven him mad, just as it has driven Elizabeth mad. Perhaps in her case, it's desperation rather than greed. I wonder if any part of him realizes what he looks like now, if any part of him cares that this is what he's become.

Unless, of course, this is who he always was.

He curses again, then drops the body and starts digging through the grave. My stomach turns, and I force my eyes to remain on George and not the corpse.

"Where is it? Damn it, you have to know something! Where is that document? I know it's here!"

This is when it occurs to me that I can't just attack George. If I kill him, then I'll be a murderer myself. I can moralize all I want about the fact that George deserved to die, but that won't hold up in a court.

I've called the police already. The right thing to do is wait until they arrive.

My phone! God, I'm a fool! I could have recorded all of this!

I carefully lower the shovel and pull my phone out of my pocket. I open the camera and am about to record when George shouts. "God damn it!"

The sudden noise startles me. I flinch, and my foot comes down on a branch. It snaps, and George whips around to look at me. We stare at each other in shock for a moment. Then his eyes narrow.

He lunges for one half of the bolt cutter, and I shriek and pick up the shovel, dropping my phone in the process. "Stay back!" I cry out, holding the shovel in front of me.

He lunges toward me, and I swing the shovel wildly. It catches the bolt cutter and knocks it out of George's hands. I grab it, but he grabs the other end. After a brief struggle, he tears it from my hand.

I shriek again and grab the shovel. It has a longer reach than the bolt cutter, which is probably the only reason I'm still alive.

"The police are coming!" I cry.

My voice is trembling and thready. Rather than sounding intimidating, I sound terrified. Well, I am terrified.

"You called the police?" He seems genuinely shocked, as though it would never occur to him that someone would involve the authorities in this.

"Yes! They're on their way! They know you're here, and they know you broke into the garden. If you kill me, they'll know it was you."

George glances at Lila's body. He reddens and glares at me. "They'll already know it was me, idiot!"

"You can say it was the Greenwoods!" I argue, desperate to keep him at bay until the police arrive. "You can say you just wanted the document and that you had nothing to do with the body."

"Oh, sure," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So that's what? Trespassing, abusing a corpse, burglary, and maybe they won't think I'm a murderer? That's at least five years in prison, maybe ten, and while that happens, I just end up in more and more debt so I can declare bankruptcy when I'm out and end up homeless. Sounds damned wonderful, doesn't it?"

"It's either that or you get life in prison. Or the death penalty."

"Or, I kill you, take what I need and buy myself a new life somewhere else. Yeah, I think I'll take that option."

He rushes forward, murder in his eyes. I swing the shovel again, but this time, he anticipates the strike. He sidesteps and lunges with the bolt cutter. I barely avoid the blow and swing again with the shovel. He reaches for it, but I manage to pull away and maintain control of the shovel.

I'm fighting for my life right now. I open my mouth to scream, but he lunges again, and instead of calling for help, I gasp, backpedaling and nearly falling. He presses his advantage, stabbing and slashing with the tool.

I swing the shovel and catch him on the face. It's a glancing blow and not enough to knock him out, but it stops him and gives me time to regain my feet.

He clamps one hand to his jaw and glares at me. "You bitch! Oh, you bitch!"

He pulls his hand away, and I see that I've opened a cut in his cheek. Blood trickles down his chin in rivulets, and when he sees the blood in his hand, his eyes widen.

He looks up at me, and then his eyes narrow again. "I'll kill you!"

He runs toward me, and I swing the shovel with all of my might. He catches it with one hand and, with the other, thrusts the bolt cutter toward me. I release the shovel and jump back. The blade doesn't pierce my chest, but as I trip and fall backward, it slices a ragged line through my dress. The fabric falls open, but I don't have time to be concerned with my modesty.

I scramble backwards, but before I can get to my feet, he lifts the bolt cutters high and with a roar brings them down. I roll over and feel the blade tear into my dress again. I get to my feet, the fabric tearing further.

"Help!" I cry out. "Someone help! He's trying to kill me!"

His fist moves like a blur. I feel it crash into my temple like a club, and the world goes dark for a moment.

Light returns when I hit the dirt. I gasp and roll onto my back. My vision swims, and my head feels furry. I see George pull the bolt cutter from the ground and try to call for help, but no sound comes out. I try to move, but it's all I can do to stay conscious.

He lifts the bolt cutter, and time slows to a crawl. This is the end, I fear. I have finally come across an opponent I can't bring to justice. The knowledge that the killer is nothing more than a greedy failure galls me, but what I feel more than anything is guilt.

I'll never know what happened to my sister. I'll never know if she was killed or if she's still alive. I'll never know if she suffered. I'll never know if she ran away or was taken or changed her name and appearance and hid in plain sight.

I had a chance. I could have investigated her death, and I chose not to. Now that chance is lost to me forever.

I'm sorry, Annie. I'm so sorry.

The bolt cutter descends.

"Hey!"

The bolt cutter freezes. I frown and blink to clear my vision.

George stands over me, his eyes wide with shock. He doesn't look at me, though. Instead, he looks over at the gate.

I turn to see Detective Donnelly approaching, gun drawn. Behind him are several uniformed officers, all with guns drawn as well.

"Back away from her now!" Donnelly commands. "Or I will shoot, and I promise you I will aim to kill."

George continues to stare stupidly at the detective for another moment, but when Donnelly pulls the hammer back on his gun and aims it at his forehead, he backs away. He tosses the bolt cutter and raises his hands, glaring hatefully at me as he does.

"On your knees!" Donnelly shouts. "Jarvis, take him."

One of the officers holsters his weapon and rushes forward to handcuff the kneeling George. Donnelly holsters his weapon and looks at me. "Are you all right?"

My head still swims. I manage only one more word. "Lila."

He frowns, and I point a trembling hand toward the geranium bed. He turns toward it, and when he sees Lila's body, he gasps. "Oh, shit."

The other officers release similar exclamations of surprise. A few retches at the sight and one, a poor boy who can't be any older than Annabelle, actually vomits.

I sigh and allow my eyes to close. Donnelly calls my name, but I don't answer. I'm sure I'll live, but right now, I need rest. I've done my duty. I've brought justice for Lila. Everything will be all right now.