You Will Pay

by Lisa Jackson

  “Just open the door!” Kinley said, seeming to tamp down her fear as footsteps pounded in the staircase and the door at the end of the hall was shoved open to bang against the wall.

  A heavy-set African-American man dressed in a white shirt and dark pants jogged toward them.

  “Everyone back up,” he ordered, dark eyes flashing. “Clear this hallway.”

  As Jacqui slid her passkey into the lock, the man pushed through the group that had collected and the minute he heard a buzz that indicated the door was unlocked, he shoved it open and stepped into the suite.

  Jacqui stood blocking the entrance as Kinley leaned against the hall. From inside the room, the security guard yelled, “Call nine-one-one! Get an ambulance.”

  Bernadette’s heart sank.

  “What the hell happened?” Reva yelled. She struggled to get past Jacqui, but the hotel manager, cell to her ear, stood fast.

  “Back up!” Jacqui warned.

  “Is it Jo-Beth? What’s going on?” Reva was wild-eyed and appeared desperate. “What happened? Where is Jo-Beth? Oh, God, what the fuck is wrong?”

  The guard reappeared. “Everyone, out. Now!” His bulk blocked the doorway. “You heard me, this is a crime scene.”

  “What?” Sosi whispered. “A crime scene?” she said, as Jacqui connected to the emergency dispatcher and was shaking and demanding help.

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Jayla’s hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes rounded and she began mumbling a prayer.

  Kinley’s chin was wobbling and she was sliding down the wall opposite Jo-Beth’s door. “I saw it,” she said almost woodenly as if she were saying the words to everyone, but no one. “I have it all on tape.”

  “Have what on tape?” Bernadette asked.

  “She was murdered.” Tears in her eyes, Kinley had sunk to the floor and was rubbing her arms.

  “Murdered?” Annette whispered.

  “No, you can’t be serious. No. No.” Reva was backing up, shaking her head. Then she stopped. “I want to see her.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll stay on the line,” Jacqui was saying into her cell phone, her free hand over her opposing ear as she listened to instructions. “Please, just hurry. We need that ambulance.”

  “It’s too late,” Kinley said tonelessly, as if she were in a trance. “He killed her. Dear Jesus, I watched as Tyler Quade killed her.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Camp Horseshoe

  Then

  Tyler

  The bitch is going to ruin everything! Everything! You can’t let it happen, Ty! You’ve got too much going for you, and it’s all over if Monica tells anyone she’s pregnant. Jo-Beth is right, Monica will stop at nothing to tie you down and ruin your damned life. So, do it. Do it now! You’re running out of time. She’ll be here any second. Fucking do it!

  Sweating, his heart jackhammering, his adrenaline rushing through his veins in the creaky chapel, Tyler knew what he was doing was dangerous, but it had to be done. He had to screw up his courage and stab himself. Not only that, it had to look good, as if he’d been attacked.

  In the dark he adjusted the butcher knife, the hilt wedged into a niche he’d carved in the sofa’s frame, the blade protruding from the cushions in exactly the right spot. There was no room for error. Not tonight. He didn’t want to risk nicking an artery, or vital organ, or his damned spinal cord. What would be the point to survive but not be able to walk or maybe even fuck?

  He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, quick patter of footfalls indicating that Monica was nearby, but all he could discern was the scratch of tiny claws. Mice? Rats? He didn’t care.

  There wasn’t much time. He would have to work fast. Quickly he stripped off his clothes, didn’t want any evidence of blood spatter to mess them up. Then he threw his shorts and T shirt into a pile on a dirty pew.

  Jo-Beth had done her part and supplied him with the weapon, sharp enough to slice easily into his skin and muscle and embed in the backside of one of his ribs. Careful not to cut himself, he readjusted the hilt to ensure that the blade would hold steady until he flung his body against it with enough force that it would stick into his bone and muscle so that when he straightened, the knife would protrude from his back.

  You can do this.

  Once the knife was set into his back, he would stumble his way back to the pews and lie down to wait. He had already stashed the smaller, folding knife on the floor beneath one of the benches, pushed into the rotting pages of an old hymnal, right where he could reach it easily. He would make certain his fingerprints weren’t on it and then hoist it into the woods or ocean. If it happened to be found, it couldn’t be traced to him.

  Tyler had swiped the jackknife from Dustin Peters, after he’d seen Peters playing mumblety-peg, tossing the blade into the dirt behind a tool shed over and over again. But when Dustin had left the jackknife on the fence post when he’d gone into the stable to check on a horse, Tyler had pocketed the blade.

  Jo-Beth thought he just wanted to scare Monica, but that was just Tyler’s cover story. He intended to snuff her tonight. No more seduction, no more teasing, no more sex, and no more crying jags. Most of all, no more coercion. And, for the love of frickin’ God, no more threat of a baby. Real or not. Hell, no!

  Now, the butcher knife was finally in position.

  He tested it. Sitting where he needed to on the edge of the couch, he leaned back and felt the prick of the blade. Perfect. At least according to that incredible video he’d gotten from a friend and watched over and over again, enough times to make certain he wouldn’t permanently harm himself.

  He knew he could hold his breath several minutes if he had to. His pulse would be a problem, but he’d slow it as best he could, Zen out as much as possible, force himself not to blink, and hope that she would be freaked enough to not check, or misread the signs. Hopefully there would be enough blood to panic her.

  Everything else was set. He’d even positioned a tree branch on the other side of the stained glass window. Inside, in the near dark, the branch’s murky silhouette looked enough like a person that, again, if Monica were as frantic as he suspected she would be, she’d think someone was around and then he’d take off after her.

  And he’d kill her.

  Hunt her down and twist her neck, then slit her throat with the smaller knife. He kept telling himself it was just like killing a deer or maybe a bear. He’d hunted all his life and he’d just dehumanize her, make her the prey.

  And your own baby, the one she says is growing in her womb? You’re willing to snuff out that life, too?

  Yes. If it even existed. She’d probably lied about that. And it didn’t matter. Even if she was pregnant, it had been a mistake and she couldn’t be more than four weeks along, right?

  He counted backward slowly from ten. Calming himself. Readying himself. He leaned back once more, felt the prick of the tip of the knife again, just to be certain the position of the blade was perfect. Then locating that area of his brain he used when hunting, the place where his patience and concentration were so intent nothing else existed, he centered himself. The darkness faded, the smells of rot and decay were no more, the scurrying of rodents’ feet and the sigh of the wind disappeared. All he thought about was the knife entering his skin. He set his jaw—couldn’t afford to let out a sound—took in three deep breaths.

  Now!

  With a Herculean effort, he propelled himself backward.

  Zzzt!

  The knife pierced his skin, the hot sting of the blade centered just an inch from his spine. The cushions gave to the force of his body weight, but the butcher knife held fast. Fixed. Searing pain radiated from the spot. He sucked in his breath. Refused to let out the tiniest sound. He didn’t wait for the pain to start throbbing, but knowing the knife was secure, pushed himself upright. His legs felt a little wobbly from the shock, but came back, and he quickly felt his way to the pews.

  Then he lay down.

  He slowed his breathing, straining to hear.
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  Two minutes passed.

  Blood oozed from the wound.

  Three more minutes.

  What was taking her so long?

  What if she didn’t show up?

  What if this whole charade was for nothing?

  What if he’d gone to all this trouble and pain, nearly killed himself and—

  He heard footsteps.

  She was here!

  A final movement, to make sure the old hymnal and its hidden weapon were within reach and then he relaxed every muscle, every fiber in his body, and drew in a deep breath. He would wait until the last moment to twist his body so the knife could be seen, then stare upward at the decaying ceiling and feign death.

  Footsteps on the porch.

  A door creaking and then her voice. “Tyler?” she whispered, and he had to force his heart to keep from pumping wildly at the thought of what was to come. Could he do it? Could he chase her down and kill her and throw her body into the sea?

  Of course he could.

  He’d just had the balls to thrust himself against a razor-sharp knife, hadn’t he? He almost grinned. He might even enjoy it.

  A few beats. She was entering. He heard her. Felt the slight vibration of her feet moving on the floorboards. “Ty?” Her voice quavered, barely audible over the rush of the wind. More footsteps and he thought he could sense her fear. Good. Then she called out to him, “If this is a game, it isn’t funny.”

  You’re right about that, baby.

  It’s definitely not funny.

  Not funny at all.

  CHAPTER 37

  Averille, Oregon

  Now

  Lucas

  “It’s Bernadette,” she said across the wireless connection, her voice sounding tight. Strident. “Lucas, you have to come here. To the hotel! I think . . . I think Jo-Beth may be dead!”

  “Dead?” Lucas repeated. He was holding the cell phone to his ear as he hauled his stakeout equipment bag down the stairs from his loft. He stopped on the third step, thought maybe he’d heard wrong.

  “Probably. I mean, I think so. Oh, God, I don’t know what to think. Some of us had gotten this weird text and we wanted to talk to Jo-Beth, but her room’s been cordoned off.” She was talking fast, breathlessly. “The manager came and a security officer has put a call in to nine-one-one. Kinley Marsh swears that she saw Tyler Quade kill Jo-Beth, right there in her room. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. This is awful!” she said, and he heard other voices in the background, maybe someone crying, someone else praying, and another, more serious voice telling everyone to calm down.

  “Wait a second. Slow down. Take a deep breath,” he advised, unable to keep up with her disjointed story. “How does Kinley know that Quade killed Jo-Beth? She was there? She escaped?” On the move again, he snagged his keys from a hook near the front door. Roscoe was waiting, whining to be let out. “Sure. Fine,” he said to the shepherd as he opened the door. Roscoe shot through.

  “What?” Bernadette said.

  “Nothing. I was talking to the dog. You were telling me about Kinley . . . ?” He locked the door behind him while the dog streaked across the wet grass to dance and spin at the side of his Jeep.

  “Yes, oh, yes. I mean, no, Kinley wasn’t actually there in the room when Jo-Beth was . . . was attacked. Believe it or not, Kinley was spying on us. Electronically. Somehow she’d gotten into Jo-Beth’s room and had set up equipment. You know, microphones and cameras and that sort of thing. She says she was just trying to get information for the series of stories she’s writing about what happened to Elle and Monica, to find out what we all knew. Anyway, so while she was watching, she witnessed the whole awful thing as it happened.” Bernadette’s voice was tight, as if she were trying to maintain control. “Can you imagine? Lucas, she saw it!”

  “I’m on my way.” Opening the driver’s door, he watched Roscoe sail inside to claim the passenger seat. “Stay on the line.”

  “I don’t think I can. They’re making us leave, herding us to some conference room or dining room, somewhere downstairs. They won’t let us leave or go back to our rooms.”

  “The cops are there?”

  “Yes, a couple of deputies.” She was still breathless but sounded a little less frantic. “So far. I think, I think more are coming.”

  At that second, he heard a short series of beeps indicating he had another call coming in. Maggie Dobbs’s number flashed onto his screen. “Just do what they say,” he told Bernadette. “I’ll be there in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Sooner if I can.” He fired up the Jeep and was already speeding down his lane as he clicked over to the incoming call.

  “Hey.”

  Without preamble, Maggie said, “I’m on my way to the Hotel Averille. There’s trouble.”

  “I heard. I just got off the phone with Bernadette Al—Warden. I’m heading that way, so don’t give me any bull about not being assigned to the case.”

  “I won’t. You deal with Locklear yourself about all that,” she said, surprising him as he cut a corner a little too close and his back wheels hit gravel. “I actually want you there. I think you could help. You know these people. You could be a calming effect.”

  “Then I’m not a suspect?”

  She paused and his jaw tightened.

  “No,” she finally said, “not a suspect. Come on, Lucas, you know I don’t think you’re a criminal.”

  “Comforting,” he said tautly.

  “But Locklear’s right, you could be perceived as having a major conflict of interest, so just be cool. Don’t talk to anyone without me or a deputy present. We need to cover our asses. And whatever you do, don’t get in my way or make me regret not banning you from the scene.”

  “Got it,” he said. Not liking the terms, but understanding, he slowed for the ess curves, still taking them ten miles over the posted limit. The cops were already at the scene, he had no reason to hit the panic button, but he couldn’t stop himself from worrying.

  “Okay. Good. So here’s what I know—” She told him about Kinley spying on Jo-Beth and the others, hoping to come up with a newsworthy story. Through hidden cameras placed in Jo-Beth’s room, Kinley had watched and listened as Tyler Quade had entered room 302; the couple had drinks, then sex that had turned violent immediately afterward. “The way Kinley tells it, Jo-Beth asked him if he’d murdered Monica O’Neal, and he’d gotten upset. Acted as if she knew he’d killed her.”

  “He admitted it?”

  “Basically, according to Kinley Marsh. We’ll find out. She taped it and we’ve already got the digital copies.”

  “Jesus,” Lucas muttered.

  “Some people will go to any lengths for their career.”

  “All of this is highly illegal, you know. Bugging the room. Could be a snag when we’re taking Quade to court. His attorney—”

  “Hold on a sec. That’s really getting the cart before the horse. And tell me something I don’t already know. Kinley Marsh is already worried about it, her part in the illegal bugging. She was stunned, kind of out of it just after the attack, but she’s pulled herself together and figures she could be in serious legal trouble. She’s already talking about working some kind of deal. But, you know, we’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Like Quade. Where is he?”

  “Don’t know. He and his truck are gone. I’ve already set up a BOLO for it. We’ll get him, though. He can’t be far. This all went down less than a half hour ago.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there. I’m three minutes out,” Lucas said.

  He reached the hotel in two. Maggie, already at the inn, met him on the first floor, where she told him Bernadette was with the others, all of the women being questioned.

  “I need to see her,” he insisted.

  “You will.”

  Irritated, he decided not to argue. Maggie filled him in on a few more details, then, despite the fact that Locklear might hit the roof, she even allowed him onto the third floor, which had been cordoned off to anyone
but the police. He peeked into the hotel suite, where in the bedroom attached to a living area Jo-Beth Chancellor Leroy lay naked and very dead, someone from the ME’s office examining her, pictures of the room being taken, a thin layer of fingerprint dust everywhere.

  After viewing the crime scene, Maggie walked him to the next room, 304, registered to Kinley Marsh. An open suitcase, laptop, and various other pieces of equipment were being gathered by a deputy.

  “You’ve seen the tape of what happened?”

  “Part of it,” Maggie said as they headed downstairs. “The important part, where he practically admits to Jo-Beth that he killed Monica O’Neal. When she seems surprised and he thinks maybe that she’s going to rat him out, he puts a pillow over Jo-Beth’s head and murders her, not ten minutes after screwing the living daylights out of her.”

  “Premeditated?”

  She thought. Shook her head as they reached the first floor. “More of an act of passion or self-protection. This time. With O’Neal, definitely premeditated.”

  “Kinley March couldn’t have prevented this?”

  “She claims she was watching on a bit of a delay. Maybe two minutes, but she might just be covering her ass. Again. She’s pretty into that. Anyway, who knows?” Maggie thought about it a sec as they passed through a hallway on the first floor. “Kinley says that when the attack on Jo-Beth went down, well, when she was witnessing it, delay by a hundred and twenty seconds, she flew into action. She ran downstairs and got the hotel manager, but by the time they returned to the room, via elevator, he was gone, the tape shows him leaving through the French doors that lead to a long deck out back, staircase at the end near the parking lot.”

  “Damn.”

  “Garcia has already looked through security footage of the hotel. Sure enough, Quade climbed into his pickup and drove toward Main Street less than five minutes before the security guard gained access to Jo-Beth’s room. The footage on the camera shows that he headed south.”

  “He lives in Roseburg? That’s south.”