Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

“There was the field trip on that Wednesday, wasn’t there? I couldn’t have seen her Wednesday because she wasn’t at school.”

“You seem to be up to date on her whereabouts,” added Frank.

“I read about it in the papers,” said Russell.

“You might have seen her in the parking lot Wednesday,” I offered, catching him off guard. “Darleen returned to the school to catch the bus home after the field trip.”

Ted Russell looked uncomfortable, but why not? He was being grilled by the sheriff and the press at the same time without his lawyer present. He managed an apologetic grin and repeated that he hadn’t seen Darleen at all on that Wednesday.

“Where were you that afternoon?” asked Frank. “What time did you leave school and where did you go?”

Russell tried to recall but could not produce a convincing alibi. He said he’d left school at his normal time. Probably about three forty-five or four. He said he’d returned home but doubted anyone saw him or could corroborate his statement.

The sheriff’s men arrived at the door, having scoured the area, which they pronounced clear of Figlios. Frank asked Ted Russell if he felt confident of his safety. Russell shrugged and said he supposed so.

“I’ll leave a man here for the night,” said Frank, pulling his coat on. “I hope you appreciate it, ’cause it’s cold out there. Tomorrow you’ll be on your own if this kid doesn’t show.”

Ted Russell nodded his head, helped me into my coat, and saw us to the door.

“I appreciate your help, Sheriff,” he said then caught my hand. I looked up at him startled, and he smiled. “Come back later,” he whispered so Frank wouldn’t hear. “Good night, Sheriff. And thanks again.”

Outside, I asked Frank if he’d thought about searching Darleen’s locker.

“Sure. I’ll look into it,” he said, climbing into his car. I doubted he thought it was worthwhile.

I backed down the hill, knocking down a couple of trash cans as I went. No harm done, and it was too cold to stop to right them again. I turned west onto Route 5 and accelerated, intending to pour myself into a warm glass of Scotch as soon as I got home. The car responded, but there was a voice behind me.

“Stop the car now.” Joey Figlio.

Twice in one day! I felt ice-cold metal against my neck and took my foot off the gas.

“You’re not going to take my car again,” I warned as I continued down the middle of the road.

“Pull over,” he said. “We’re not going through this again, are we?”

“Come on, Joey, be reasonable,” I pleaded. “You can’t leave me out here. I’ll freeze.”

Then he nicked my neck with his blade, and I screamed.

“Pull over or we both die in the wreck,” he said. “Darleen’s gone. I don’t have much to live for except to avenge her.”

I pulled to the shoulder, wishing I had Stan Pulaski’s gun. I’d never fired one before, but I was sure I could put a bullet between Joey’s eyes at close range. I’m not normally a violent person, but for the first time in my life, I felt I could kill a man.

The car came to a rolling stop, crunching heavily over the snowpack. I sat at the wheel, seething, holding my gloved hand to my bleeding neck. It was just a scratch, really. The night was absolutely still, frozen, and deserted on Route 5. No cars coming or going. We were four miles from New Holland, and I was not keen on walking them. The wipers continued to rattle back and forth over the ice, and I waited.

“Move it,” he said, shoving me to the passenger side, as he climbed over the seat.

I slid over, hoping for some kind of opening to take the knife out of his hands, but in reality I doubted I could overcome him anyway.

“Now get out and start walking,” he said.

“Joey, I’m not getting out of this car,” I said. “Not again. It’s five degrees out there.”

He shoved me again with his right hand, which was clutching the knife. I flailed, slapped at his arm, and tried to hide my face. Then I remembered the door. The door that wouldn’t close. I leaned back and, risking knife wounds to my ankles, kicked him as hard as I could with both feet. I pushed and kicked and thrust, knowing that everything depended on it. He yelled in protest, recoiled, moved back against the driver’s door, which opened obediently, and Joey Figlio suddenly found himself on the frozen pavement. There was no time to lose. I scooted across the seat, threw the car into drive, and gunned the engine before I’d even squared myself behind the wheel. The tires spun, and the car jumped forward. Joey was on his feet again, but I was already out of reach. Soon I was roaring down the highway, driver’s door flapping open and shut in the icy wind, as I watched Joey Figlio recede into the black night of the rearview mirror. I hooted and hollered in victory. I’m not proud of it but, if I’m honest, I have to confess that I actually wished him frostbite and worse for the trouble he’d caused me that day.

About a half mile down the road, I slowed and pulled over at a lonely phone booth. I jumped out and quickly dialed the sheriff’s office to inform them of Joey’s reappearance and whereabouts. Deputy Wycek patched me through to Frank over the radio.

“Joey Figlio tried to steal my car again,” I panted into the receiver once I had the sheriff on the line. “He’s about a quarter of a mile behind me on Route Five, heading toward the city.”

“Got it, Ellie. Sending Stan right now,” said Frank. “Get in your car and get out of there.”

I hung up and climbed back into my warm Dodge. Shifting into drive again, I threw a glance in the rearview mirror, and what did I see but Joey Figlio jogging out of the darkness into view. He