Dark. Quiet. The Maglite beam bit into the gloom and showed her the path. She moved quickly now, ignoring the scent of rot. If it had been summer, it would have been worse. Instead, it was simply cold, hard, like frozen flesh.
She counted off thirty paces before she saw the door to the house fifteen yards in front of her. She stopped and turned to her right. The key was on the ledge, a foot from the door, right where Joshua had said it would be. She held it in her palm and took a few deep breaths.
No turning back now.
A bit of light bled from the crack under the door. Taylor eased the key into the lock and turned. The door opened silently, no old squeaking hinges, like it had been oiled down for just that purpose. A trap? Maybe, but a chance she was willing to take. A dark hallway led away and up from the entry. She clicked on the Maglite for just a moment and flashed it up the stairs, just so she could see what was ahead of her, then turned it off, shut the door behind her and stepped into the gloom.
She shut her eyes and let the darkness surround her. Acclimated. It smelled musty and damp, the house had been closed up for almost a year. Old air, recently disturbed.
She opened her eyes and saw the silhouette of the stairs. Back stairs. Servants’ stairs. Narrow and steep and dark, not at all like the open staircase rising out in the front of the house.
Stairs for those less worthy. Perfect for her right now.
She climbed them slowly, silently, controlling her breathing. Waved a cobweb away from her face. Listened with each step. Joshua had said that Copeland would be in the attic. Four flights up. She was on the second when she heard crying.
Sam.
Taylor forced herself not to take off at speed, but stepped up the pace. Third floor now, and she heard him talking. She stopped to listen, gritting her teeth. She needed to ascertain where he was in the room so she didn’t hurt Sam when she came in shooting.
She crept up four more stairs. She’d go with the self-defense plan. She drew her Glock from its holster. She could see the light under the partially open door.
Sam was crying, soft, kittenish mews. She was in pain. Copeland, she assumed it must be Copeland, was talking. About his sister. A running dialog. It sounded like he was pacing, too. Taylor could smell blood, was just happy that Sam was still alive, alive enough to cry. It meant she still cared, that whatever horror Copeland had visited upon her, she still had the presence of mind to find it terrible. Taylor had seen too many women brutalized who were silent, blankly staring out of dull irises.
She crept two more stairs, only two to the door now. She could hear him clearly, talking, incessantly talking.
“You know, Sam, my sister, Ruth, she was a good girl. Personality of a paper cut, but once you got to know her, she was a really sweet, loving, kind girl. She missed her call in, I would assume she’s dead. I kind of thought I’d have a moment to say goodbye, that her ghost would come and talk to me. Do you think the ghost of your baby will talk to you?”
Taylor forced herself to bite her lip. One more stair now. The shadow was crossing the doorframe, back and forth. She just needed to listen to his voice carefully, ascertain when he was facing away from the door. That was when she’d make her move.
The last stair, and he was still talking. “My mother was a sick bitch, too, you know that? She used to cut me. Just to see the blood pool. And then she’d beat me when I bled on the sheets. My hands were always red and chapped from all of the bleach I had to use to get the blood out. Look at the time. Where is Miss Taylor? I thought she would be here by now, her cavalry with her. That sweet, nice Dr. Baldwin, riding at her side. Were you jealous when they met? I imagine it must have been hard to give up your slavishly devoted best friend.”
“Fuck. You,” Sam said.
Atta girl, Taylor thought. She heard the steps move away from the door, the voice grew fainter. Now. Now was her chance.
She kicked the door open and entered the room, gun raised. The room was small and she was quick. He didn’t see her coming, turned with a look of pure shock. She grinned wildly—she’d caught him by surprise. She had him. He moved toward her and she lashed out with the weapon, caught him on the temple. She followed with a roundhouse left, caught him square on the cheek. His head snapped back, she heard a crack. She’d broken something, blood bloomed bright on his cheek. His fragile cheek. She got her first unencumbered glimpse of him as he was going down. It was Iles all right. He didn’t look anything like the man she’d seen in Control. It was hard to believe that was the same man, it was astounding how much work he’d had done. He had smooth, unnaturally tanned skin, the nose straight and narrow, the chin full and square. She threw another punch toward his chin as he went down.
He grabbed at her legs and she kicked him hard, twice, right in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. She glanced at Sam. Her face was screwed up in pain, the cream cashmere sweater she was wearing bloodied around her waist. She was handcuffed to the chair, her arms behind her. Taylor saw the ammonia—he must have been using it to keep Sam alert while he cut her. She saw the extra blood on her, in between her legs, on the floor beneath her.
Oh, God.
The baby.
She hadn’t been in time to save them both.
Taylor turned back to Copeland in a rage. He was starting to get up, she stomped on his thigh as hard as she could, gloried when he screamed. A broken femur would slow him down. He reached for his leg, crying out like a wounded animal, fighting not to pass out from the pain. She stepped back, took a deep breath, steadied herself. Pointed the Glock at the son of a bitch’s head. Smiled at him when his eyes got wide.
“Let’s play,” she said.
Fifty-Six
Baldwin drove while Marcus called it in and got them backup. They weren’t taking any chances, but Baldwin knew they were going to be too late. Taylor would do anything to save Sam, including going into the house guns blazing and getting herself killed in the process.
Did she think she would get away with killing Copeland? Was that why she’d been so quiet over the past few days? He should have seen it, should have recognized that she was going to take it upon herself to end the Pretender’s life.
If he’d been less worried about himself and his own stupid problems, he’d have seen her withdraw. He could always read her, and he hadn’t even bothered. This was his fault. It was all his fault.
His phone rang, Charlaine Schultz’s name popped up on the screen.
“Charlaine, what’s up?”
“I just sent you the most recent picture of Ewan Copeland. The plastic surgeon said he’d done at least five facial procedures on him in the past ten years.”
“We know who he’s supposed to be, let me just confirm with your picture. Hold a sec.”
He pulled up the attachment, recognized the face easily as the death investigator Barclay Iles.
“That’s him. Good job, Charlaine. We know where he is now, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”
“Be safe, boss.”
“I will. Thanks.”
They were screaming down West End. Thank goodness they were going against traffic, people were still flowing into downtown, the morning rush hour compounded by the untimed stoplights and joggers, mostly Vanderbilt students getting a run in before classes started for the day. They were at the tail end of rush hour, though, and heading out of town, so they were able to make good time. They passed Centennial Park and the roads cleared. Baldwin ran the red light at West End and Murphy Road. Time. He looked at the dashboard clock, it had been two minutes since he’d hung up with Taylor.
He shared Charlaine’s information with Marcus. “It’s confirmation, at the very least.”
Marcus shook his head, face tight. “I can’t believe we’ve been working with this guy the whole time. What a devious prick.”
“No kidding. Go faster.”
It would take another five minutes to get to Belle Meade, even speeding through the lights.
He caught himself praying. “Please, G
od. Don’t take her from me. Let me get there in time.”
Fifty-Seven
Copeland had the common sense to look scared. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Taylor saw the pain and fear in them. It was perfect. Just like she’d been dreaming of.
He was incapacitated enough that she felt comfortable getting Sam out of there. Without looking away, she said, “Are you okay, Sam? Can you walk?”
Sam was crying. “I don’t know. Thank God, Taylor. I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“I lost the baby.”
The quiet, cracked voice of her best friend nearly tore Taylor in two. Sam was the strong one, the fearless, the good. Taylor had visited this upon her. She’d never forgive herself.
Another death at Copeland’s hands. Taylor had to force herself not to squeeze the trigger. Not yet. She couldn’t let Sam see her do this. She needed to get her from the room.
Sam’s hands were awkwardly handcuffed to the back of the chair. Without looking, Taylor used her key and undid the cuffs with her left hand, a little awkward, still pointing the gun at Copeland’s head. He watched her, wary now. There was no confidence in his gaze.
She helped Sam to her feet. She wobbled, then got her balance. She clutched onto Taylor’s arm so hard that Taylor felt the bruise begin.
She walked her across the room, stepping backward carefully, the gun never wavering.
“It’s going to be okay, honey. I promise. Go out the back stairs. There’s a short tunnel. You can get out there—it goes into the garden. Baldwin should be on his way. The front door is locked, so be sure you show him the back entrance in. Go. Go now.”
“Thank you, Taylor,” Sam said softly. She took the first steps unsteadily, without looking back, her hands cupped around her bloody stomach.
Taylor shut the door behind her. They were alone. She heard the first siren then. Copeland did, too, his mouth turned up in a bloody grin.
“Here comes your boyfriend.”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk to me. You get to listen.”
“But don’t you want to know why I chose you?”
She hesitated, and he took the quiet as permission to continue. He spat a large bloody wad toward her boot, and she didn’t move.
“You laughed at me.”
“I’ve never met you before in my life.”
“That’s not true. You pulled me over. Right after I killed Tommy Keck, as a matter of fact. You had everyone out on the highways looking for the shooter, remember? I’d already changed cars, you had no hope of finding me. But you pulled me over and questioned me, like a good girl. I asked you to dinner. And you laughed at me, you bitch.”
“You’ve hurt all these people, killed so many, because I wouldn’t go to dinner with you? You’re insane.”
“Not the dinner, no. It was the way you laughed at me, like I was just a piece of shit you’d gotten caught on your boot. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t deserve the opportunity to talk to you. I’ve been waiting for this moment for four years. For a chance to tell you that all of this is your fault. That you killed everyone. That you dug the baby from your best friend’s womb, that you stole the sight from your father figure. All these things you’ve done to yourself, Taylor. If you’d shown a little courtesy, been a little nicer, I’d have gone on my way and never come back.”
Voices now, shouts from the driveway. Reinforcements had arrived. She needed to make this quick. She sidestepped to the window, keeping her eye on Copeland. She took a quick glance out, the window overlooked the driveway. She hoped they wouldn’t hear the shots.
Her head was only turned for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough. Copeland attacked her from behind, punching her low in the back. She stifled a scream, whirled around and lashed out with her leg. She felt her boot connect, heard the sickening crunch as his arm broke.
He grunted in pain and collapsed on his side. She kicked him in the ribs again, hard, and heard the breath whoosh out of his chest as more bones gave way.
She felt nothing now but the pure, fine energy of her wrath. It made her strong, omnipotent, yet anchored her cruelly in the moment. She must stop. She must. Her breath came in ragged jags, the veil was lifting from her eyes. It took every ounce of her being to stop her fists, to stop the beating.
Taking back all that energy was a near impossibility at this point. She staggered four feet away, bent over to catch her breath. After a moment she stood up, and pulled the Winchester hollow point round from her jeans pocket. Two strides and she was on top of him again, legs straddling his body, teeth gritted with the effort it took not to smash her boot into his face. He wouldn’t look up, just stared at the ground. He was defeated.
Walk away, Taylor. Walk away. He’s beaten.
It just didn’t feel like enough to her.
She couldn’t help herself—she snarled at him, holding the bullet in her left hand. “You see this, you son of a bitch? This is the one you sent me. I’ve been carrying it with me, just waiting for a chance to put it in your brain. And here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. The great big bad Pretender, whimpering on a dusty attic floor in the house of the man who made him. You couldn’t even become a killer on your own. You had to use the people around you. You are nothing. And this is the end of your story. Some end, huh?”
Taylor ejected the bullet already in the chamber and dropped the magazine into her hand. Inserted the Winchester. Popped the magazine back in. Pulled the slide and smiled as the bullet slid into the chamber. Troy, Barclay, Ewan—whatever the hell his name was—wouldn’t meet her eyes, just cowered on the cold floor.
The window was closing. They were still alone, just for a moment. There was no one to see. No one would know. He had lunged at her. She had been fighting for her life, the gun between them. It went off in the struggle. She could do it.
Jesus, God, she could pull the trigger and end his life. She wanted it so bad, she could taste it. Death was metallic on her tongue.
The gun never wavered.
“Get on your feet,” she said.
He crawled to a sitting position, then pulled himself up the wall until he was upright.
She watched carefully, there was still some fight left in him. He eyed her, listing to one side, favoring the broken leg.
He finally spoke, his voice strong, mocking, despite the obvious pain. “After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to kill me.”
“Do you have another suggestion?”
“You could let me go. I hate for our dance to come to an end. You’ve been a worthy adversary. It’s always been you. If I can’t have you, I’d take death quite willingly.”
“You will never have me. But tell me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“What were the copycats about?”
“Oh, them. I like an audience. I promised them I’d kill you using their copycat’s MO. And the Boston Strangler was by far the front-runner. He would have gotten the reward of a lifetime, watching me fuck you and strangle you. Too bad. Such a shame that we couldn’t see this to its proper end.”
She curved her finger into the trigger. Eased the pad of her finger into the metal. Just needed a bit more pressure.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s too bad he’s not here to watch me end your miserable existence. I only need to pull the trigger once. That bullet is either yours or mine. And I’ve got a few things left on my to-do list.”
Point at the heart, critical mass, center shot.
“Goodbye, Ewan.”
More pressure. The trigger started to cave. The voice spoke to her again.
This is murder. It’s murder, and you know it. What are you doing, Taylor? This isn’t you.
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. This is justice.
How many more pieces of your soul can you shear away and still be capable of living, Taylor? Every bullet, every life, chips away at your soul. He’s helpless. He can’t run. This is wrong. This isn’t
the way to do it. It’s not the way.
“What are you waiting for?” Ewan asked. “Do it already. I’m tired of this. Do it, Taylor. Do it!”
She felt the anger building in her, the fevered pitch of desire to end this, to end him. To stop all the worry, the pain and the suffering he’d caused, not just for her, but for Fitz and Susie, for Sam, for her unborn child, for the strangers who’d died at this man’s hands.
An eye for an eye.
She caught the movement almost before it began. He lunged at her, but she coolly stepped aside and let him lose his balance. He fell to the hard cement floor with a crash, groaning, holding his leg.
“Do it, you bitch,” he snarled at her. “Just get it over with.”
She eased the pressure back off the trigger.
Felt a calm steal over her.
“No. You’re not worth it,” she said, then holstered the Glock. She heard a noise and turned her head toward the stairs.
“That was the last mistake you’ll ever make, Lieutenant.”
She heard the click, spun back just as Baldwin came crashing through the door. Saw Ewan rise on one arm. Her weapon was back in her hand instantly, and the bullets began to fly.
She started to move to her left, but her legs wouldn’t work.
Pain. Pain beyond comprehension. Burning. She reached for her head, her hand didn’t move.
Tears, now, she was crying, the cement hard and cold beneath her cheek.
And then there was nothing.
Fifty-Eight
“She’s hit, she’s hit. Taylor’s hit!” He heard the words screaming from his mouth.
It happened too quickly. He’d gotten into that room as fast as he could. They’d found Sam, bloody and crying, in the garden, all her strength gone. She’d told him where Taylor was.
Taylor had turned, saw him enter the room full speed, the look on her face not exactly a smile, more like satisfaction, and relief, as if she were saying, “See, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it.”
So Close the Hand of Death Page 29
