Paige halted her breath, listening.
A muffled rolling sound.
The sliding glass door?
She sat up. Leaned forward, head cocked. Had she imagined it?
No more sound. But her heart drummed like the rataplan of rain on a roof.
Paige pushed to her feet. Stood still, shoulders drawn in. An inexplicable sense of evil stole over her, blanketing her limbs. She bit her lip, trying to discern what was happening.
A man materialized in her doorway.
SIXTY
Rachel drives through the dark streets, a woman on the run with no place to go. Her spine is stiff, her fingers glued to the steering wheel.
Questions sear her mind.
How long will the dirty cops look for the purse at her mother’s house? Police have radios. They’ll know her license plate. What if they find signs of her being there? A hair, a shoeprint? Will they try to pin the murders on her?
Surely some detective could tell the two men shot each other.
Yes, but can he be trusted? These are cops . They stick together. How can she trust any of them?
Rachel passes the street she would turn on to head home. She needs to get out of Pensacola. Maybe even out of Florida. Headed where, she doesn’t know. She just has to get somewhere safe long enough to figure out what to do . . .
She heads toward Interstate 10.
What are those cops’ names Rosa told her? Rachel curls her fingers around the steering wheel, forcing herself to remember . . .
Roland Newell, that’s one.
And Ron something. Starts with an H.
Come on, come on. Ha . . . Ha . . . Hardinger!
The third? Last name is Veretsky. Bob?
No. Bill.
Roland Newell, Ron Hardinger, Bill Veretsky. Rachel whispers the names over and over until she knows she won’t forget.
At the freeway she turns west. She does not allow herself to think. Just drives.
Rachel doesn’t stop until she hits Mobile. There she takes an exit, finds an all-night grocery store, and pulls into the parking lot.
Locks her doors.
With trembling fingers she draws the purse off the floor of the passenger seat. Sets it firmly in her lap and opens the latch.
The painted box yawns open.
She peers inside.
Money. Rachel gasps.
By the light of the parking lot she can make out a thick stack of bills, bound with a slender rubber band and lying on its side. She looks around her car, making sure no one is near, and withdraws the money from the purse.
Beneath the stack lies a second.
Breath stalling in her throat, Rachel pulls it out as well. She blinks in wonder at them both, turns them face up. A one-hundred-dollar bill lies on top of each. She checks the bottom bills. Also one hundred. Rachel sets one stack on her lap, flips through the other. All hundred-dollar bills. Same with the other one.
How much money is this?
Heart racing, she sets the stacks side by side on the console. They’re of equal height — about two inches each. She takes the rubber band off one of them and counts.
One hundred . . . two hundred . . . on and on Rachel counts. Three hundred . . . four. And sixty-five more. Four hundred and sixty-five bills. Times one hundred.
Rachel’s mouth sags. She is holding $46,500 in her hand.
And that’s only one stack.
Ninety-three thousand dollars. Rosa gave her a purse containing ninety-three thousand dollars.
Air seeps from Rachel’s throat. A dozen thoughts bounce through her head. For this much money, those cops will search the state for her. Surrounding states too. People will kill for this much money.
People already have.
Now what? What can she do?
She can’t go back. She can’t turn over this money. No doubt it’s from drugs. There would be questions, long interrogations, while the tainted cops watched in feigned innocence. How could she explain?
Whom can she trust?
Terror rises in Rachel, ice-cold and stinging. She has to get out of here now . She has to go . . . somewhere, anywhere. Just get away. Far, far away. And never come back.
Limbs shaking, she stuffs the money into the purse and shoves it all far underneath the passenger seat. Heads out of the grocery store parking lot, back toward I-10. There she turns west again.
She drives all night, frozen to the wheel, thoughts sinking into a glacial lake of numbness. She does not stop to sleep until she hits Houston.
SIXTY-ONE
Leslie slowed the Accord and leaned to her right, frowning at the white letters on a black mailbox. Childress, they read. Number 2751.
Not far to go. She hit the accelerator.
Her phone rang and she jumped. Leslie scooped the cell off her lap and glanced at the ID. It looked familiar. She sucked in a breath. FOX News.
She flipped open the phone. “Leslie Brymes.”
A tight curve loomed ahead. Leslie braked, gripping the steering wheel with one hand.
“Ms. Brymes, this is Alison Votle. We’re just outside the Kan-ner Lake area. I’ve been making phone calls along the way and am already formulating a story, but if you’ve got some things you think we ought to know, we’d still like to talk to you.”
Trying not to sound too needy, are we? Leslie gauged the curve, taking it as fast as she could. Time to cut to the chase with Ms. National. “Ms. Votle, I have information that no one else has, I can guarantee you that. Perhaps even more than the police. And I’m just about to learn more. When you’re setting up your truck here, do call me. If you’re willing to interview me on camera, I’ll help you break this story. Otherwise, no deal.”
“I see.” Alison’s tone was cool. “Well, if we need you, we’ll get back to you.”
A mailbox up ahead. Leslie strained her eyes to read the numbers. “Fine. I gotta be going now.” She clicked off the line, hoping to heaven she’d win the dicey gamble. She glanced back and forth from the mailbox to the road. The numbers grew readable — 3142.
Almost there.
SIXTY-TWO
Numbness gripped Paige. She stared at the man, her heart stalling.
“And so we meet, Paige.” He spoke the name with sarcasm, one corner of his mouth curling. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, one glove-covered palm up and spread across the opposite side. Beneath his facade, Paige sensed a venomous anger, one that could strike at any moment. “Although not quite as I had planned.”
Paige’s lips parted but no words came. Deep in her brain a faint memory stirred. Medium height, slim. Brown hair and eyes, a pasty, angular face . . .
“Ah, I detect a filament of memory.” He smiled and it chilled her to the bone. “I was in your store yesterday. You know — when you threatened to kill Edna San?”
Air backed up in Paige’s throat. In a flash she pictured the scene — red-faced Edna, the two sisters. A male customer who followed Edna out to the sidewalk.
The man’s hand fell from the doorway. With a sigh he moved toward her. “I just had to tell her what you said.” His smile faded. “Such fast thinking on my part, don’t you think? Although she wasn’t very happy to hear it.” He stopped two feet away, studying her, drinking in her terrified understanding.
Paige’s tongue lay dead in her mouth. “Wh – what do you want?”
His face blackened. “I’ll ask the questions. What did you do with the body?”
Her ankles shook, the tremors traveling up her legs, her torso.This man had lied about the death threat. This man had killed Edna San. Was he here to kill her too?
He sprang.
In an instant he’d whipped her around and to his chest, her arms pinned between her back and his body. The crook of his elbow jammed against her throat. “When I ask you a question, you answer, hear?” The words oozed venom.
Paige’s jaw dropped open as she fought to breathe.
The elbow tightened. “Talk to me.”
Choking sounds spilled f
rom her mouth. “I — Sh – she’s in the lake.”
The man spun around and threw her onto the bed. She landed on her side with a cry, head bouncing against the wall. He hulked above her, arms stiff and eyes slitted. “How did you know she was here?”
Paige flinched from him, drew her knees up to her chest. “I found her in the hot tub. In the night.”
Slowly he straightened, his chin lifting. He drew a deep breath, regarding her with utter, cold contempt. “How very clever of you.”
Paige pulled her arms around herself. “Why?” Her voice was flat, dead. “Why did you pick me to blame it on?”
Dark amusement creased his face. “Can’t you see the brilliance of one death covering for another? Now your outrageous actions last night will only convince everyone of your guilt.” He gave a mock bow. “I thank you for your help, although truly it was not needed. You may not know I was here yesterday, while you were at work. Picking up your earring.”
Earring?
His mouth flattened into a cruel smile. “And now, Miss Williams, the time has come. Your despairing, murdering conscience is about to catch up with you.”
SIXTY-THREE
On the drive into town, Vince’s adrenaline rose like a swelling river. Given Paige’s lack of personal ties to the town, she was too much of a flight risk. He needed something, anything solid, to give him reason to arrest her. With Paige detained for a few days, he’d have a little more time to pull evidence together. Besides, he had a hunch that the taciturn Miss Williams would break pretty quickly behind bars.
He opened his cell phone, mind pinging from one detail to another. First he checked with the crime scene techs — they were finished and back at the lab. Among other things, they’d lifted fingerprints and vacuumed Edna San’s bedroom carpet. Now to see if anything they’d picked up was foreign to the house. Prints from the earring and the Spirit Lake pay phone also would be examined. Next Vince made a call to Officer Jim Tentley, out with the search crews. Jim told him they’d found no trace of Edna San. Third he phoned Officer Waitman, still standing guard at the gate to the estate, who informed Vince that news vans were gathering like vultures. Finally Vince called C. B. at the station. C. B. complained phones were ringing off the hook, with calls coming in from the media as well as townsfolk. News about Paige Williams had spread like wildfire.
Vince sighed. “All right, I need something from you right away. Ignore everything else for now and focus on tracking down a judge. I’m coming in to write up a search warrant. Let’s just hope every judge in Bonner County isn’t out on the water somewhere.”
C. B. promised to get right on it.
Stopping at the first light in town, Vince rubbed his temple, thoughts flitting to Nancy and tomorrow’s fast approach. Please, God, let me get a break in this case — for Nancy’s sake.
At the station he gunned into a parking space, Frank pulling up beside him. Inside the small building Vince aimed straight for his office, spewing orders to Frank over his shoulder. “Hop on the phones too. Help C. B. round up that judge. I’d like to be able to head out as soon as I’m done with the paperwork.”
He heaved himself into his chair and punched on the computer, thrumming his fingers against the desk, mind already composing the warrant. As the machine booted up, Vince’s eyes fell upon the photo of Tim and Nancy on his desk. He focused on it, the wounds in his heart seeping.
The opening screen on his computer appeared. He clicked to create a new document in Word and began to type.
With careful attention he laid out the mounting evidence against Paige. Her argument with Edna San. Her apparent lies during questioning. Her scraped palms. The tips about her dragging something across the deck and perhaps driving her car in the middle of the night. A distant view of the grass in her backyard, apparently flattened. Their cursive sweep (with signed consent) of her home, and what they’d found. He listed the items they would be looking to seize in the search. Some he knew about specifically, such as the gloves and sheet in the washer. Perhaps all evidence on them had been scrubbed away, but he had to be sure. Just in case, he also described the earring that could be a match to the one found at the crime scene. Beyond that he’d search for hair, a piece of lint, anything that might be traced back to Edna San —
“Hey, Chief.”
C. B.’s voice made him jump. Vince turned to see the officer in his doorway.
“Sorry to bother you.” C. B. bounced his knuckles against the wood. “But I just got a call from someone who says you’d want to talk to him. Name’s Officer Daryl Brumley. From somewhere in Kansas?”
Vince sat back in his chair. “Put him through.”
C. B. disappeared. Vince waited, his gaze pulling back to the picture of his wife and son.
His phone jingled and he snatched it up. “Officer Brumley. Thanks for calling me back so soon.”
“No problem.” Brumley’s voice held a note of intrigue. “Actually, the information you wanted wasn’t too difficult to find, once I had the chance to get to your request. I discovered some interesting answers for you.”
Vince pulled a pad of paper close and picked up a pen.“Shoot.”
“Okay, I located the parents, Justin and Betty Williams. Had to trace them through a relative who still resides in Whitsung.”
“The parents are alive?”
A chuckle. “Very much so. They were quite surprised by my phone call, I can tell you.”
Vince stared at his desk, assimilating the news. “Go on.”
“They moved away from Whitsung in 1987. They now live in Roanoke, Virginia. However, on April 12, 1981, when they still resided in Whitsung, Betty Williams gave birth to a baby girl — Paige Beth Williams. So I have no doubt we’ve got the right people.”
“Yeah, sounds right. What did they tell you about Paige? Despite her clean record, she must have done something.”
“Oh, she did something, all right.” A pause. “Probably not quite what you’re expecting.”
SIXTY-FOUR
One death covering for another?
Paige’s eyes widened, her mind flailing to make connections. Dark scenes from her past sooted her brain. Had she survived all that — to die for an act she hadn’t even committed?
She swallowed. “Who are you?”
Hooded eyes measured her. “Black Mamba.”
He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, angling toward her, a calculating satisfaction twisting his mouth. He reached out a hand, ran a finger down her cheek. Paige shrank from his touch.
“Like it or not, in my work I’ve occasionally had to kill.” Mamba’s voice was low, dripping poison. “I shot a detective in his bed in Ohio. Drowned a Vermont judge in his bathtub. Cut up a woman and her pregnant daughter in California.” He stroked Paige’s skin. “Now you — for your insolence in breaking the rules — will die slowly. But with no marks except those on your lovely neck.” He trailed his fingertip down to the pulse in her throat. “I don’t need a weapon to make you obey. I can make you writhe in pain with my bare hands. If you run, I will catch you in an instant. Do you understand?”
Her head nodded.
“Good.” He cupped her chin in his palm and smiled. Then eased to his feet. “Now get up. We have work to do. First you will write for me.”
Write?
Paige wasn’t sure her legs could hold her up. Without taking her eyes from Black Mamba, she pushed off the bed and onto feet of jelly. Her thoughts wouldn’t focus. She searched inside herself for some semblance of strength, some cunning move toward escape. But where would she go? She didn’t even have a car to run to.
Leslie.
The realization sizzled through her. Leslie was coming.
No matter. He would kill her too.
“Into the kitchen we go.” Mamba slipped behind her, one hand massaging her back.
Paige obeyed.
At the kitchen table he pulled out a chair, nudged her into it. He spotted the pen she’d used to write down Leslie’s number and p
icked it up. “You keep paper in here?”
For a moment her mind went blank. Paper . . . She shook her head.
He exhaled, then spotted the napkins on the table. Reached for one and laid it before her. “This will suffice.” He held out the pen. “Now write what I tell you.”
Paige felt herself reach for the pen, avoiding his touch. But her body suspended on some other plane, watching in shocked detachment. Her heart fibrillated; her head turned light.
Mamba moved close, rested a heavy hand on her shoulder.“I’m sorry I killed Edna San.”
Paige looked up at him, staring numbly. “What?”
His fingers dug into her flesh. “Write it.”
She looked at the napkin until its white texture blurred. Like some goblin’s hand, her own touched down the pen point and wrote:
I’m sorry I killed Edna San.
“Very nice.” Mamba drew the second word into a hiss. “Now explain where you put the body.”
Paige’s arm trembled. This couldn’t be happening. She pressed her wrist against the table for steadiness. How to tell where Edna was? Her brain wouldn’t work.
“Come on.”
The pen touched paper.
Her body is in the lake at the old swimming hole where the drop-off is.
“Good, good. Now sign your name.”
Paige Williams
He chuckled. “You still don’t understand, do you? You think Edna San’s death was about her? No, no. This has always been about you. Lying, scheming, thieving you.” He caressed her shoulder. “Sign your real name.”
Like a locomotive rushing out of darkness, the truth hit. Paige’s body seemed to break into a thousand pieces. This man was from her past. Of course. Why had she been so stupid to believe she could simply disappear? Her mother’s final warning echoed in her head.
Paige’s eyelids slipped shut. If only she’d left the purse behind. If only.
“Sign it.” Mamba pressed his knuckles against her neck.
Worn, exhausted, and defeated, she wrote her name on the napkin.
Violet Dawn Page 22
