The Confession - Charles Todd [140]
“That’s very kind of you,” she said with heavy irony.
Another silence fell. It lasted longer this time. Rutledge weighed the distance, and how quickly Morrison would react.
He didn’t know how Morrison was armed. He didn’t know whether he had brought out both shotguns or only one. Far more urgent was the question of what Cynthia Farraday would do. Whether he could depend on her to stay out of the way. It was just as likely she would try to throw Morrison off balance, and in that instant, put herself directly into his own line of fire.
There was no way to plan. No way to calculate the odds. Once he stepped out in plain sight, there would be chaos, with no chance to do anything but try for a kill with the first shot. After two years, was he still quick enough?
“You canna’ fash yourself over the lass. If Morrison brings ye doon, she willna’ live verra’ long afterward. Ye canna save her. You mustna’ even consider it.”
“Not by my shot, please God.” But Hamish was right. He had to stop Morrison any way he could. If he wanted to protect Cynthia Farraday, he himself would have to survive.
Bringing out the revolver, he checked again to be sure. One shot. That was all he had.
Then he put it back again.
One deep breath to steady himself, and then he walked out of the shelter at the corner of the house and into the open.
He heard Cynthia Farraday gasp. And Morrison turned to look his way.
There was no time to think, he’d been right about that. Waiting had dulled Morrison’s wits. Danger had sharpened his.
Before the shotgun could swing up and be aimed, Rutledge had retrieved the revolver and fired.
The upward motion of the shotgun hadn’t stopped. Rutledge had no defense.
He watched the man’s finger close spasmodically on the trigger and prepared to throw himself to one side. Cynthia Farraday had her hands in the air, and then he realized in the same instant what she was doing.
Pulling the long pin from her hat, she rammed it into Morrison’s side.
He didn’t cry out. But his fingers clenched prematurely, and the shotgun went off even as his knees buckled and he went down. Rutledge could hear the shot raining down somewhere to the left of him, but he was already in a dead run toward the terrace.
Morrison had died by the time he got to the man, Rutledge’s shot in his heart. In some far corner of his mind, he could hear Cynthia Farraday crying, and peripherally he could see that her hands had covered her face.
Rutledge’s shot had been true. He wasn’t sure how he had managed it, there had been no time to take careful aim. Still, he’d used his revolver all through the war, he had learned to make every shot count.
He was not proud of the skill.
Pushing the shotgun to one side with his foot, he turned to Cynthia. She pulled her hands down.
“I wanted him to hang,” she cried, staring at Rutledge with horror-filled eyes. “He murdered my family too. Why did you kill him?”
He reached out to her, but she spun away, running down the steps, across the lawns to the water. She leapt into the launch, and when she failed to start it, she sat down and stared at him numbly.
Leaving Morrison where he lay, Rutledge walked down to the landing and said, “Let me drive you back to London. There are some things you need to know.”
“I don’t want to hear anything,” she told him, turning her back on him. “Why won’t this launch start?”
“He told you. He disabled it. Leave it. It can be brought in later.” He squatted on the landing, next to the launch. “Listen to me. Wyatt Russell is alive. Notice of his death was a way of advertising for information to help us find this man.”
She half turned her head and said, “Is it true?”
“I’ll take you to him. He’s in my flat at present.”
After a moment, she said, “I think you’re the cruelest man I’ve ever known.”
“The motorcar is by the gates. I’ll meet you there. There’s something I must attend to first.”
She wouldn’t take his hand. Stepping out of the launch herself, she started toward the house.