by Amy Vansant
The shooter must have been in the back yard.
He searched the ground for footprints, but the rain had washed his patio pavers clean.
Seamus motioned to the wall and Declan looked up to see what looked like two silver nubs at the top.
They shouldn’t be there.
Something was on the other side of the wall.
They split again to head back to the front yard and circumvent his wall through the neighbors’ lots.
Declan watched his back neighbor’s rooftop as he approached the opposite side of his wall, surmising the shooter might have set up there.
Nothing moved.
Wiping the water from his eyes, he glanced at the windows of the houses around them. All had the shades drawn.
That’s good.
He didn’t need the people next door spotting him slipping through their yard, gun drawn. It was Florida. They might have guns of their own. A fire fight with his neighbor would not be helpful. He needed to find Jamie or know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’d left, her one shot at catching them off guard during the storm blown.
He hugged the wall and peered around the corner.
Seamus had already rounded his side, making his way toward a ladder propped against the wall.
A gust of wind sent the ladder sliding along the upper edge until it fell, clattering at Declan’s feet.
“They must have shot from up there,” said Seamus.
Declan nodded.
The two men scanned the area. The ladder explained how the sniper gained an angle over the wall, but the shooter was nowhere in sight. The storm had erased any trace of footprints near where the ladder had been positioned.
Declan lifted the ladder and heaved it over the cement block wall into his yard. Maybe they could dust it for prints, though he doubted any would remain after the storm.
He looked toward the side roads, visible down the alley that separated his home from those behind him, searching for headlights.
No sign of Jamie making her getaway.
He frowned. “Let’s get back. I don’t want to leave them in there alone longer than we have to.”
Seamus wiped the water from his face with his shirt. “I’ll stay out front until the cops come. You go—”
Declan heard a crack and both men straightened.
“That sounded like a gun,” said Seamus.
Declan ran for the house.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Don’t say it,” said Corentine, holding her gun pointed at Charlotte’s head.
“Say what?” asked Charlotte, her hands raising into the air.
“My name. Or I’ll have to kill her, too.” The gun wagged in Snookie’s direction.
Corentine took a step back into the hall. “Come with me.”
Charlotte’s mind raced.
How did Corentine get in the house? How did she get past both Declan, Seamus and the trip wires?
What had she done to them?
Charlotte felt a breeze ruffle her hair. She leaned to the left to peer into the hall. The storm sounded closer, the howling wind, louder.
Across the hall, she saw the bathroom window open.
That’s how she got in.
Charlotte remembered allowing Corentine to use the bathroom when she’d been at the house earlier.
She unlocked the window.
Charlotte grimaced.
Stupid. She’d been so fixated on Jamie’s manipulation of the woman she’d treated her like a victim, not an accomplice.
“I said let’s go. Out in the living room,” barked Corentine.
Charlotte leaned forward. Before she could take a step, Snookie slapped the side of her leg, fingers digging into her thigh.
She turned.
“I’ll scream,” said Snookie, her stare intense. A second later her eyes rolled into her head, her breath bleeding from her body.
Charlotte lowered a hand to touch the agent’s arm. “Snookie?”
“Leave her, let’s go.” Corentine took a step back toward Declan’s bedroom door at the end of the hall. Behind it, Abby barked, trapped, helpless to perform her guard dog duties.
Charlotte studied Snookie another moment, searching for signs of life.
Did she just die?
Corentine ordered Charlotte into the hall a third time. She moved, rolling Snookie’s last words around in her head.
I’ll scream.
Such a strange thing to say.
“What are you doing?” asked Charlotte as they entered the living room.
Corentine glanced at the front door. “We’re waiting for your boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“Because you know who I am. I can’t have that. I can’t have you two ruining everything.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
Corentine laughed. “I’m afraid I do. Did you kill those people to draw me out? Why are you after me?”
“What?” Charlotte hoped her genuine confusion showed.
“Are you working for the syndicate?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We were trying to save you. Remember? We told you to get away.”
Corentine scoffed. “So someone could follow me and kill me on the road?”
“No. We were trying to save you from Jamie Moriarty.”
Corentine squinted, her turn to look confused. “Jamie?”
“She’s the one who set you up.”
“How? She’s in prison. She hired you to do it?”
Charlotte closed her eyes. She felt as if they were talking in circles.
“No. I told you, we had nothing to do with any of it. We think she escaped—”
A bloodcurdling scream filled the house. Charlotte had never heard anything like it.
Corentine spun around. Snookie stood at the end of the hall, leaning heavily against the wall, her mouth wide open, screaming.
Corentine jumped, her attention and gun whipping toward the sound.
I’ll scream.
Now it made sense.
Seizing the moment, Charlotte tackled Corentine as if she were an NFL lineman. Corentine’s knees buckled and they collapsed to the floor. The gun fired, a chunk of ceiling falling from above Snookie’s head.
Charlotte grappled for the gun. She stood six inches taller than Corentine, but the woman was built like a fire hydrant and felt equally easy to move.
She saw Snookie move to help, only to collapse to her knees, weak from loss of blood.
Charlotte peeled Corentine’s fingers from the gun, but she needed both hands to do it. That freed Corentine to swing a wild punch, clocking her on the side of her cheek.
Pain radiated through Charlotte’s face. She clung to the gun and twisted her body. Jerking up, she felt the weapon pull free and it flew over her head, landing ten feet behind her against the far wall.
Scrambling toward the gun, Charlotte felt Corentine’s arms clamp around her hips, like a shark rising from the depths to claim its prey.
Charlotte pushed herself to her feet and Corentine climbed up with her. Grappling, they rolled across the back of the sofa toward the shattered glass sliding door.
Corentine slammed Charlotte’s back against the glass and she felt it give.
Oh no.
Corentine pressed again, trying to choke her. The glass ripped from the frame as a sheet and Charlotte fell backwards onto the patio, her skull striking the paver tiles.
Lying on a sheet of cracked glass, Charlotte’s head swam. The hurricane winds whipped her flesh with bits of sand and stinging rain.
Her head lolled too far backward, her neck strained, making it hard to breathe.
How is my neck bending back?
Charlotte’s brain cleared and she realized her predicament.
My head is over the pool.
Corentine straddled her, pushing her upper body backward over the edge of Declan’s lap pool.
My neck is going to break.
With all her strength, C
harlotte heaved upward. She had to get to her knees and buck Corentine from her.
She rolled to her stomach too fast and slipped forward. Her face plunged into the water, high from the rains.
Charlotte struggled against the weight of Corentine pressing against the back of her skull, holding her under. Lungs screaming for air, she pressed against the tiles, trying to lift Corentine off her. She couldn’t budge the woman. She reached behind her searching for anything to grab or scratch.
The pain in her lungs exploded.
This is the worst part. Soon, I won’t feel anything. I won’t be able to fight.
One last idea flashed through her mind.
The tiles are wet.
She remembered Declan complaining he’d been told to get travertine, but not warned they needed to be honed to keep them from being slippery when wet.
With her last conscious effort, Charlotte pressed her palms against the inside edge of the pool and pushed forward.
She slid into the water like a penguin. She heard Corentine fall in with her, knocking her deeper into the pool.
She’d broken free of Corentine’s pressure, but she needed to break the surface of the water. Her foot touched the bottom of the shallow pool and she pushed up, reaching for the sky.
Corentine clung to her leg, an anchor.
It’s too late. Too—
She felt the side of the pool brush her fingertips. Curling her fingers around the bull-nosed tiles, she heaved upward, lights exploding in the darkness behind her open and unseeing eyes.
Where’s the surface?
Her head broke the water and she gulped air, oxygen mixed with rain making her cough.
“Freeze, get away from her!” Snookie’s voice rose above the roar of the hurricane.
She saw a commotion behind her and felt Corentine grab her shirt. The pull threatened to drag her back under and she fought to keep her head above water.
A hand appeared in front of her.
She looked up into a familiar face.
Seamus.
Reaching for her.
He grabbed her wrists and hefted her out of the pool with one mighty haul.
“You’re okay, darlin’,” she heard him say as he wrapped his arms around her.
She couldn’t stop coughing.
Through watery eyes she saw Declan jerking Corentine out of the pool. He’d been the commotion. He’d jumped into the water to pull the woman from her.
Behind him, Snookie leaned on her knees where the patio door once stood, her gun pointed at Corentine. She must have crawled to the doorway, and Seamus had surely returned her weapon to free his hands.
Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Charlotte hauled another chunk of blackened drywall from her house. Declan had agreed to help her fix her fried home and, so far, they made a good team. He broke away the charred remains and she walked them to the dumpster they’d rented for the job. He hadn’t wanted to start on things so soon. He wanted her to take a day to rest after her ordeal in the pool, but the last thing she wanted was to dwell on how close she’d come to drowning.
It turned out any dirty job was a joy when you could breathe.
The ambulance had come in time to save Snookie. Declan and Seamus watched over Corentine until the police arrived. Charlotte almost wished she’d had time to explain to the cops that it wasn’t Corentine’s fault Jamie used her.
But then, she did try to kill them.
Jamie’s frame job had the woman convinced she’d been exposed and she’d dipped back into her murderous past to hunt the two people she thought responsible – Declan and Charlotte.
Corentine might never serve time for her original murders, thanks to her witness protection contract, but she’d definitely serve time for trying to kill them. Maybe attempted murder nullified her original deal. Charlotte was no lawyer, but it seemed to her not killing anyone must have been a condition.
Charlotte squinted into the sun as a noisy mocking jay flew by. The skies had turned blue again, the hurricane having passed without claiming a victim.
Other than Jamie’s.
Declan appeared at her side carrying a burned door.
“What happen to my helper?” he asked, tossing the door into the dumpster.
Charlotte smiled. “Sorry. Easily distracted. Hey, I meant to ask you, did Snookie look familiar to you?”
He shook his head as he fished in his pocket and retrieved his phone. “No. Why?”
She sighed. “No reason. Something about her nose. She just seemed really familiar for some reason.”
“Nope. Didn’t ring a bell. Hey, did I tell you I got a text from Stephanie?”
“Just now?”
“Right after everything went nuts back at the house. I never had a chance to show you.”
Charlotte felt a flash of hope. “Did she find Jamie?”
“Not exactly.” He held up his phone and she peered at the text on the screen.
Went with Mom. Late.
Charlotte gaped. “Late? What does that mean?”
“It’s short for later.”
“No, I know that, I mean why? And where did they go?”
He shrugged. “I guess her mother made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”
Charlotte frowned. As much as she hoped to capture Jamie again, she couldn’t say she wasn’t thrilled to see them both go.
“Hey, Charlotte,” called a familiar voice.
Charlotte turned to watch Mariska wandered across the street toward them.
“You two are doing that by yourselves?” she asked.
Charlotte gasped at Mariska’s appearance. Dark bags circled her eyes, as if she’d lost in the third round of a boxing match. Her hair curled in every direction except the one it should.
“You look terrible,” she said before she could edit herself.
Mariska nodded. “Bob and I volunteered at the nursing home for the storm. We didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Why? The hurricane kept you up?”
Mariska huffed. “Not the hurricane outside. The hurricane inside. Those old people are lunatics. Promise me you’ll never let me get like that.”
Charlotte chuckled.
“I think it’s a little late for that.
THE END
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Other Books by Amy Vansant
Pineapple Port Mysteries
Funny, clean mysteries full of unforgettable characters
Kilty Urban Fantasy - Romantic Comedy/Thrillers
Funny, suspenseful thrillers with a touch of romance & fantasy
Slightly Romantic Comedies
Classic romantic romps
The Magicatory
Middle-grade fantasy
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Vansant is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today best-selling author who writes with an unique blend of thrills, romance and humor.
She has rocked water aerobics at a fifty-five plus community, but has yet to play bingo. She’s heard it’s too vicious.
To keep up with Amy visit her humor blog/author site and sign up for her newsletter at:
http://www.AmyVansant.com
