by Beck Jones
“Sure,” he said, trying to sound offhand.
With her free hand she took the flashlight gently from his hand and waved it toward the path ahead. She pulled the hand she was holding. “Come on. Once we get to the bluff, you can see the river.” She glanced upward. “The moon is waxing, but I’ll bet we’ll still get a good view.”
A bluff. The river. Suddenly nothing felt right. How the hell had she come up here with a man who was paid to kill her, and she walks away with just a black eye? Even if she ran. And how could she outrun a man paid to kill her?
And why would she want to see the river?
She pulled on his hand again, but he stood firm.
He wasn’t some kind of stupid tool who would fall for this.
“What happened to the hit man, Scarlett?”
Her expression was hard to read in the darkness, but her voice was matter of fact. “I killed him. I set a trap for him, and I killed him. Up there at the bluff overlooking the river.”
In a way it was a relief to know the man was dead. If she was telling the truth.
“So why are you scared if you killed the killer? And why is it so important that I go up to that bluff with you? Don’t bullshit me, Scarlett.”
She stepped back toward him so that her face was close to his again. “I’m scared of what I’m becoming,” she said softly. “That’s what I’m scared of. Gabe, I was never honest with the people at Take Stock. Even with Russ. I gave Russ this story about being a troubled young girl who ran away from home, but that was bogus. The truth is my father is a criminal. He’s in prison for murder among other crimes. For a lot of my growing up, I was in the witness protection program after my mother testified against him. So I guess that’s why when that guy followed me down here—the hit man—I knew what he was, in my bones. And I enjoyed toying with him. I actually enjoyed it.”
Her voice dropped to a smoky octave. “Gabe, I had sex with him. Multiple times. Once up on that bluff. All the while knowing I was going to kill him.”
Her eyes were shiny, like she was starting to cry. He was aware again of the smell of alcohol.
“What does that make me, Gabe? I don’t want to believe that I’m like my father.” She squeezed his hand. “I want you to take me up there and make love to me, to wash me clean. And no, it’s not because you’re going to be a big star. All those other woman can have you then. Right now you’re still sweet young, inexperienced Gabe, who’s as innocent as the driven snow.”
She put her face even closer, her lips aligned with his, barely an inch away. “Please,” she whispered.
He felt the boner bloom. Sweet? Young? Inexperienced? The package in his pants could tell her otherwise.
Oh yeah, he would show her who was in whose league.
He hardly registered the rest of the climb. They moved together in unison, faster as they got higher it seemed, so that when they emerged on the bluff his heart was pounding.
She dropped the flashlight and then she finally dropped his hand, which he realized was wet with sweat. Then she smiled, as she began backing up toward the edge.
“Be careful,” he said. “That’s the wrong way to go.” He tipped his head backward in a nod toward the ground behind him. “A lot softer over here.”
“I’m not looking for soft,” she said, still smiling. “I’m looking for hard.” Her right hand disappeared into her jacket pocket and came out with a gun. A revolver.
He was both stunned but not surprised at all. He was afraid, but he was also furious. She had always been a cunt.
“I’m looking for answers to the hard questions,” she said. “Like why Russ? Why Phoebe? Why Vanessa? Why me? Why, Gabe, did we all have to die?”
Maybe Scarlett Sharpe’s father was a murderer, but she sure as hell didn’t have what it took to shoot somebody at close range. He just needed to stay calm. “You’ve had too much to drink, Scarlett. Just a few minutes ago, you were accusing Eleanor. I didn’t have anything to do with any of this.”
“Don’t make me shoot you.”
She stepped forward.
“You’re in shock,” he said, as sweetly as he could, considering the damned gun was still aimed at him. “You’re grieving over Russ.”
“You’ve probably got some kind of PTSD,” he added as she started another step closer.
But as she took the step her ankle turned, and she went sprawling. She let go of the gun and it skittered across the ledge. He leaped past her and snagged it. God, it felt good in his hand. He was getting used to this. He wouldn’t get sick or lose his nerve this time. Yeah, he had wanted to fuck her, but killing her himself would be just as satisfying.
“I guess I’ll have to finish the job,” he said. His voice was calm, and he felt calm. “This one will go on Paul’s ledger, too. Get up, Scarlett.”
Slowly, she sat up but then crossed her legs, and rested her face in her hands, her elbows on her thighs. “No,” she muttered into her hands. She looked up. “I won’t get up until you at least tell me why. That’s the least you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
Her voice was cold. “Russ gave you your start. How could you do it?”
Infuriating how little she understood and how much she thought she could judge him.
“It wasn’t my idea. It was Paul’s to kill Russ and dump his body in that lagoon. He came to me once he realized he was really out of the game for good. The network wasn’t hiring him back. Nobody was hiring him. He knew I was getting screwed over at Take Stock, and this was my chance. He needed some eyes and ears on the show to make sure we were rolling along on Argofel. You really had to hand it to Paul. He could always spot a good story.”
Scarlett frowned. “So this was before the fake suicide.”
“Paul is the one who went to Lenny the Lisp to arrange his fake suicide, and then he set up a back channel to communicate with him in prison. Very anonymous. I used it to set up the hits on you and Phoebe. I took care of Vanessa myself. This way Paul is out of the picture, too. It was never good for him to know my part in all this. And I needed some other crimes to pin on Paul, first, just so the dumb cops would get that Paul hated Russ’s guts, which he did, and would do anything to bring him down. Also this way I’m the hero. Good visibility and a chance to go on air.”
“But why us? Why Phoebe? Why Vanessa? Why me? And why poor Liz Stockton?”
He snorted. “Poor Liz Stockton? She was in on the job from the first, too. She didn’t know about me, but I knew about her. She was going to split Russ’ life insurance with Paul.”
He was starting to enjoy this. “And why you, Vanessa and Phoebe? Why did I decide to kill you? Because you three cunts were the snottiest interns to ever work on Take Stock. You were fucking Russ, and you would barely give anybody else the time of day. Besides, it’s disgusting how you females are taking over the business. You’re intruding, and you’re screwing up all the chances for the good men out there.”
He waved the gun at her. Nice old fashioned revolver. And the safety was off.
“I’ll shoot you right there where you’re sitting, Scarlett, and I’ll just drag your body over the edge. It’s more work, but not a problem. As you have now figured out, I’m not some dumb kid.”
He felt the presence behind him at the same moment he heard the man’s voice.
“Not so smart, either. Drop the gun, Gabe.”
He wheeled around. Two men pointing guns at him.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Right,” the man said. “Not so smart. FBI.”
And from behind him now, he heard Scarlett’s voice. “I’m sorry you turned out the way you did, honestly.” And then some how she was standing beside him, pulling the wire from the low-cut shirt.
“Gabriel Huntsman,” the agent said, “You’re under arrest for the murders of Paul McGann, Liz Stockton….”
He didn’t bother to listen to the rest; the names just burrowed into his ears like some kind of little gnawing an
imals.
SCARLETT
She let herself lean against the passenger side of the car. Agent Mackintosh, his arms folded, stood close to her. Protectively close. Probably a force of habit.
It had been good to see Mac, for more reasons than one. Even if he did bring up old memories.
“You know,” Mac said, “We’ve got Gabe on the wire, and we’ve got a few circumstantial things between Lenny the Lisp and the contractor. A woman by the way. Svetlana Petrov. But below that—"
“You mean ‘Colin,’” she said and raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, well, we’ve got him for your assault, and we’ve got a text he sent from here to Petrov, but there’s nothing in the text that’s incriminating. Nothing to connect him to Phoebe, so it depends on Svetlana Petrov’s cooperation. And neither she nor Gabe may feel it’s in their very best interest to roll on Lenny.”
“So you’re saying ‘Colin’ could be out in less time than I would like.”
Mac nodded. “Look, I know you value your freedom, Scarlett. But actually preserving your life is important, too. Your books—” He paused with a grin. “Your books are something else. But they really put you out there.”
“Ah, come on, Mac,” she sighed. “Over half of the killings of American women are related to some kind of domestic bullshit. Intimate partner. I could die from the perfect romance. Speaking of which, I’m flattered that you actually read my books.”
“I do. But I can’t say I would call them happily-ever-after romances. But I particularly liked your ending for Northrup Gold. The long fall off the penthouse balcony. Guy starts out on top of the world and ends up a splat on the pavement.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I don’t think ‘Colin’ got a chance to read that far.”
“So this one you’re working on now, got a good ending in mind?”
“Father and son die fighting each other in a barn fire. They go out in a blaze of glory.”
“And your heroine?”
“She inherits the estate, frees the slaves and turns it into a commune.”
Mac laughed. “Well, I gotta go placate NYC’s finest for poaching their case.”
As she watched Mac walk down the winding access road clogged with cars and flashing lights, she saw a tiny figure coming her way. As the woman drew closer, it was a shock to realize it was Eleanor. She seemed so frail.
Yet Eleanor King was, as usual, already up to speed.
“Why didn’t you tell me what Gabe was doing?” she said, her voice wavering. “You call the FBI but not me? Why? Why didn’t you trust me?”
“Eleanor, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was Gabe until this morning. I thought I saw a man who looked like Paul at the crab shack a couple days ago, but nothing made sense until I saw Gabe on the air.”
Eleanor’s tone turned fiercer, and bitter. “I would have dealt with Gabe eventually. I would have. When—when—” She stood quiet and trembling for a moment, but then a sob fairly racked her small body.
Scarlett folded her into her arms. It was a strange feeling, comforting Eleanor, and it was fleeting. Eleanor quickly pulled away.
“I still have things, lots of things, that I have to do,” she said, wiping the tears off her face. “Life goes on,” she added, her voice still thick with tears.
L A T E R
SCARLETT
“You’re late,” she said as Eleanor eased into the booth. “Not like the Eleanor I know.”
But then Eleanor didn’t even look like Eleanor any more. Her cheeks were fuller, and her skin, with its perpetual tan, looked blooming now.
“What kind of beauty regimen are you on?” she asked Eleanor. “You look fantastic.”
“Not a beauty regimen. A riding regimen. I bought a horse. Keep it stabled upstate. I’m thinking about moving out of the city. You may not have heard, but I’m being forced into retirement. Even though Gabe was obviously engaged elsewhere, I’m still not the number one pick. And the new guy wants his own team.”
“New guy?”
Eleanor shrugged. “Some new female would probably want her own team. Unless she’s scrambled her way to the tippy top, an older woman isn’t just isn’t valued much in my business. But honestly I don’t care. I’m putting myself out to pasture. To greener pastures, you could even say. I want a big spread.”
“Ahh, a horse farm.”
“Something like that. Luckily, I’ve saved a few pennies. That’s one thing about working in the news business. If you keep your ears and eyes open, there are a lot of opportunities. As for you, I guess you’re just banking on those books and no wonder. How’s your project going?”
“Good. In the editing stage.”
The server came to take their order. Tiny little Eleanor ordered a huge lunch.
Scarlett laughed. “You don’t even eat like the old Eleanor.”
Eleanor shrugged. “Well, the old Eleanor, she’s gone.”
“I’m sorry about Russ.”
Eleanor simply shrugged again. “I think I’m finally coming to terms. It would have been easier if they’d found his body.” She made a wry face. “You know before I realized what Gabe had actually done, I yelled at him about not helping Russ out of that lagoon. I told him I would have jumped in to rescue Russ. But I was out there that night. Of course, I didn’t understand what was happening. But what it comes down to is that I didn’t help Russ either.” She gazed out the window of the restaurant. “He just stumbled out to his end alone. So yeah, it would have been better if things had turned out differently, but that’s life.”
It felt wrong to ask and yet Scarlett couldn’t help herself. “Why were you always so nice to us? The interns. You never said, but I know you knew about me and Russ. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. I realize it’s none of my business, but you and Russ….” She let her voice trail off. “I’m sorry if I’m stepping over the line here.”
Eleanor looked down for a long moment, and then looked back at Scarlett. “I’ll answer that question if you’ll answer this one. Be honest this time. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on down there?” She squinted her eyes in exasperation. “In my own house no less. Did you think, at least at first, I was the one who wanted you dead?”
“No. But at first I wasn’t sure who wanted me dead. Then I realized it had to be someone from the show. Someone who was either protecting Russ, or as it happened, not protecting him. I never trusted Gabe anyway.”
“Little creep.” Eleanor shuddered a little. “Tapping my phone was awful, but at least it was in service of his evil little plan. But the other.”
“Yeah. All those photos and the other stuff about me and Vanessa and Phoebe. He hated us, he was obsessed with us. But then again, maybe he’s not so different from a lot of guys, just a little more extreme.”
Eleanor looked alarmed. “Do you really believe that?”
Scarlett shrugged. “My frame of reference is probably a little skewed. But the short answer is that I didn’t tell you because I didn’t need your help. It was just easier if I handled it myself.”
Eleanor leaned in to speak quietly. “Yeah, about that frame of reference. I always trusted you Scarlett, but I never trusted your story. I just figured it wasn’t my business. But after what happened down there, I was curious. And if I could follow your trail, I’m sure others can. Your books—they’re everywhere, and your photo is, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve already been lectured. Look, you like to ride horses even though you know they could toss you off and even kill you. But you still ride them. I like living on the edge. And if someday I feel it’s too dangerous for me, I’ll look you up and you can hire me on as a farm hand. I don’t know much about the different equine breeds, but so far I’ve been able to handle men, since there’s mostly just one breed of those.”
Now it was Eleanor’s turn to laugh.
“Back to my question,” Scarlett said. “Didn’t you resent us?”
Eleanor leaned back against the back of the booth. “No, not at all. If you wa
nt to know the awful truth I wasn’t nice to you for your sake. I was nice to you for my sake. When I came to New York all those years ago, I thought it was like a new frontier. And yeah, I knew a lot about handling horses but not nearly as much about handling men. I was—enthusiastic. And on the one hand, it might seem that Russ broke me, domesticated me, even without marrying me. But my feelings for him, however utterly undeserved by him, were pure. To resent young beautiful intelligent girls being young beautiful intelligent girls? Ugh. How different would I be from Gabe? So you see, Russ never broke my spirit, and in the end, that’s what counts.”
THE FROG KING
The Frog King gazed out at the sun setting against the side of the hill, Sharp rays shattering against the car bodies that crowded against each other as if for warmth, though it was a humid August night. From inside the trailer office, he pulled out the rusty lawn chair so that he could settle into his throne for the night, watching over the kingdom of Doyle’s Salvage & Body Parts, which he had been told was the largest junkyard in North Carolina. He believed it.
This was his favorite time of day. He still loved the Violet Hour. Daylight marked with the finery and camouflage of night. At the Violet Hour, all things still seemed possible, whereas even in this rural outpost daylight was a prison. Not that anyone ever recognized him in the crummy little stores where he satisfied what passed for his needs these days.
At first he had worried about it—Say, aren’t you? Didn’t you?—but he quickly realized that no one could bear to look at his face long enough to discern the outlines of the man he had once been. In the mirror he could still see those outlines and beneath them the face that women once called “strong,” but his features had been smudged and stretched and scalded, and there was the swelling that seemingly would never go away.
It was not a strong face anymore. It was a monstrous one.
But the face had made his current fortune. A chain link fence ran along the front of the yard, but Doyle probably thought that rumors of a scary dude watching over the place at night was also helpful. Some of the locals called him the Frog King.
