by Lydia Grace
Now Jon had only one thought in his mind. He must get to Lauren—before it was too late. His stomach clenched again and adrenaline shot through his veins, accelerating his heartbeat as his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Chapter 16
Lauren fought against consciousness. She didn’t want to open her eyes; she wanted to recede back into that abyss where there was no feeling. But consciousness was insistent. Her whole body seemed a mass of pain, her arms and wrists especially, and her previously injured shoulder was now cramped in fiery protest. However, something was nagging at her, a busy itch in her mind that insisted she face it. Then a glass was pressed against her lips, and water, cool and soothing, tipped in a thin rivulet down her throat. A soft damp cloth wiped gently over her forehead and cheeks, and instinctively she raised her face towards its comforting coolness. Too soon, it was jerked away, and Lauren finally opened her eyes to see Stephen Wallace’s dark figure crouched over her.
“Ah, Lauren, even now you’re so beautiful. We could have had so much together, you know. With you at my side, I know I could have made things work. But like everyone else, you betrayed me,” his voice was quiet and calm, but there was no mistaking the insanity which danced in his eyes and spilled from his lips.
Lauren looked around her, dazed. She was slumped against the heavy oak baluster at the bottom of the stairs, her arms wrapped around it and handcuffed tightly together at the wrist. Her mind flashed to the protesters who tied themselves to trees to prevent the loggers’ progress, but shook her head then to clear her mind.
“Stephen—I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” she managed, her voice a croak. “How can you say that I betrayed you? Just because I said I couldn’t go to dinner…” Her words were cut off in a sobbing gasp as he slapped a vicious hand against her face.
“Shut the hell up, Lauren! You flaunted yourself at me, but then my cousin crooked his finger and you thought he was the better target. You thought he was richer and more powerful, could give you what you wanted—wealth and power! Isn’t that what women like you sell themselves for?”
There it was; the scrap of information that had itched at her mind.
Swallowing over the pain, Lauren gasped out, “Your cousin? I don’t know your cousin, Stephen.”
His smile was ugly, brutal, as he ground out, “Jon Rush, president of Rush Co., is my cousin. Wallace was my mother’s maiden name.”
Lauren’s mind reeled. Jon! This was the connection, the missing piece! Through the fog of pain that clogged her brain, one thought beckoned like a candle in a window on a stormy night. If she could keep this man talking, maybe she could find some way out of this. She had to find some way to stay alive long enough to warn Jon. Because Lauren knew now that Stephen wouldn’t stop with killing her. Some mad plan had been set in motion and would only end when all the players were dead. She shuddered, the movement causing pain from cramped, bruised muscles to shoot through her, leaving her gasping. When she could speak again, she caught Stephen’s eye.
“But I still don’t understand why you’re doing this. What has Jon done to hurt you?” She fought against a wave of faintness that threatened to swamp her and wash her back into that dark abyss from which she had emerged so reluctantly. Yet this time, she knew if she slipped into the darkness, she would never return.
“I know you’re playing for time, but it will do you no good. All your artsy-fartsy friends are going to the committee meeting, aren’t they? And your lover-boy is in Toronto, trying to save his precious company,” Stephen’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were icy with hatred.
“Someone will come around, Stephen, if I’m not at the meeting. So many things have been happening, and people will worry. Why don’t you undo these handcuffs, let’s talk, and see if we can work this out. Whatever there is between Jon and I, it isn’t something I went looking for, you must understand that. But most importantly, I enjoyed the time you and I spent together and when I said I couldn’t see you because I was too busy, that was the honest truth. I didn’t meet Jon until after that, at the first public meeting. If I’ve hurt you, I am really sorry.” She spoke softly, half expecting another savage blow from this unpredictable man.
It didn’t come. For a second, violence flashed across his face and was gone, replaced by something akin to sorrow. Despite her predicament, Lauren was touched by an unexpected compassion that welled up in her breast for this man who was so obviously causing hurt out of his own deep pain.
“I can’t do that, Lauren. Don’t you see? It’s all too late. I’ve done everything wrong. My father told me I’d never be any good, and he was right.” Tears ran in slim rivulets down Stephen’s cheeks, and he wiped them away with an impatient hand. “My father was a great wildcatter, one of the best, but he had no head for business. When they made the first really good strike, back in the fifties, his brother—Jon’s father—cheated my father out of his shares of the property. Dad realized too late what had happened, and he got to drinking.
“My mother—you’d have liked her. She was a beautiful, gentle creature, but she couldn’t take the hard life of never having enough, and she died when I was just nine years old. Dad died a few years later, and when I was twelve, I was sent to live on my Uncle’s charity.”
Bitterness twisted Stephen’s once handsome features at the memory of past wrongs. “Oh, he treated me well, I suppose—always claimed he raised Jon and me like we were brothers. But it was never really the same. I knew I was there on sufferance, that I was second-best after his real flesh and blood son. After Jon left to live with his mother in the States, I thought it would be better. I thought Uncle Jon would turn to me, take me to his heart as the son who hadn’t deserted him. Instead, he buried himself in the business, and at night, he’d sit in his study and drink. The only time he seemed to come alive was when Jon came back for one of his brief visits, looking for a handout. When Jon went in the army, it just about killed him, but still, everything was Jon this, and Jon that.” Stephen was silent, staring inwards to some long past emotion.
“Then Jon inherited everything, all the money, and the power of Rush Co., while I got a few hundred thousand and a job—a job—at Rush Co. The company I should have owned. I tried, Lauren, I really did. I did the best work I could but I knew everyone sneered behind my back, laughing, saying that I was really only there because Jon had promised his father he’d take care of me.”
“After a while, the humiliation got to be too much, and I decided to claim some of the money I was owed. It was so easy. I set up my own company, investing in land here and there, getting building projects under way, and having Rush Co. foot the bill. Then it all started to go wrong. The economy took a nose dive and I was left with unfinished, unsold buildings, and land that had lost its value. All of it beyond my control, none of it my fault, but Jon was still there in his ivory tower, having people fawning over him and raking in the dough. That’s when I really started to hate him, and I thought I’d cause a few little ‘incidents’ at Rush Co., let him feel what it was like to not be in total control.”
“But then that clever bitch Pippa Williams poked her nose in where it didn’t belong. I knew everything was over when I overheard her on the office phone, asking to see Warren Dillon on an urgent matter.”
“There’s still time to stop, Stephen.”
He looked at her, his expression incredulous. “I’m not going to jail.”
“Only for a little while. Then you could start all over again…”
“Like my father tried to start all over again? With nothing but the shirt on his back? Oh, I don’t think so, Lauren. Besides, I wouldn’t survive two minutes in jail. No, no,” he shook his head, his expression sad. “Everything has been set in motion, and I’m going to see it through.”
Pulling a mobile phone from his pocket, Stephen deftly dialed and listened for a moment to the ringing tone. Holding the phone to Lauren’s mouth, he told her.
“When Jon answers, tell him you have to see him. T
ell him to come here immediately!”
“Go to hell!” Lauren flashed back, and saw Stephen’s hand rise in anger to slap her again. Just then, the telephone was answered, and Jon’s beloved voice spilled into the room.
“Jon—it’s Lauren. Stay away from here, Jon—your cousin Stephen—Oh!” her words cut off in a cry of pain as Stephen grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back painfully.
“Stephen—Stephen, if you’re there—don’t hurt her!” Jon was shouting down the telephone line, his heart pounding at the desperation he’d heard in Lauren’s voice and the terrible sound of her pain as the words cut off.
Then the line went dead as the other phone was closed down, and Jon desperately juggled the steering wheel as he tried to dial Stephen’s number with fingers gone clumsy in panic. However, there was only the ringing sound of the telephone, and then a stranger’s official voice invited him to leave a message.
*
Stephen got up from the spot where he’d been crouched beside Lauren and went quietly out through the front door. For a moment, Lauren thought he’d left and hope was blossoming in her breast that somehow the worst was over. Then he returned with a gallon can in his hand and began sprinkling liquid around the tiny cottage. Turpentine fumes made Lauren’s nose burn and her eyes water, and suddenly she saw Stephen’s plan with gut-wrenching clarity.
“My God, Stephen, what are you doing? You’re going to burn us alive!” she screamed, pure panic almost choking her.
He turned to look at her, eyes dark with madness.
“Not us, Lauren. Just you. Artists’ studios burn all the time, don’t they? All that paint and turpentine. You’ve brought this on yourself, you know, through not inviting him here as I asked you to. I would have waited until Jon came and you could have been together. But don’t worry. You won’t be alone for long. You see, Jon is going to die tonight, too. Only, before he does, he’ll know that he’s also responsible for your death and a pretty horrific death, too.”
With a last casual wave of his hand, Stephen grinned at her and left.
Lauren wildly tugged at the handcuffs, but couldn’t free herself. The slick, sticky feel of blood coated her hands and arms as the wicked steel bracelets dug in and tore the delicate skin of her wrists. Frantically she levered her shoulders against the banister rail, hoping to dislodge it from its joint at the baluster. Sobs racked her body and tears caused by fear and turpentine fumes blurred her vision.
Then she froze in her struggles as she heard the back window shatter. Moments later the kitchen curtains caught fire with a gentle whoosh, and she knew Stephen had set the match that would turn her beloved studio into her funeral pyre.
*
Jon had broken all the speed limits, and probably a number of records, too, in his crazed flight from Toronto. But since Lauren’s frantic telephone call, his foot had been floored on the accelerator and the one thought hammering at his mind was that he had to get to Lauren, had to keep her safe.
Because I’m in love with her, I can’t lose her now! The thought hit him as he made a fast pass into another lane to overtake a sports car, venturing recklessly into the path of a huge juggernaut, and caused him to pause briefly when he should have been mashing his foot down on the accelerator. The truck driver blasted him with a multi-note horn, the angry sound attracting the attention of the longhaired young man in the sports car, who laughed and flipped Jon a thumbs-up sign as Jon steadied the Jeep and glanced in his rear-view mirror. It wasn’t a thumbs-up sign that the truck driver was flashing in his direction and judging from his red, angry face, the words he was mouthing didn’t look very pleasant, either.
At the moment however Jon didn’t care. Drumming in his brain were the words, I’m in love with her; I’m in love with Lauren Stephens. And like the knell at the end of the world, I can’t lose her now!
Haunting him, too, was the terrible knowledge that, despite her own danger, Lauren had taken her one opportunity to warn him of what was happening. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he knew that in doing so, she might have signed her own death warrant. Helpless anger flooded through him, and he slammed an impotent fist against the steering wheel.
Cutting in front of another car, he saw the West River sign coming up, and earned a blast of the horn and a surprisingly good-humored shake of the head from the laid-back sports car driver as the Jeep swerved across the lane to position itself in the exit lane. It was then that he saw the smoke, saw the faint orange red glow in the distance. And he knew. He knew with a certainty that brought bile into his throat, even before the mobile chirruped and Chief Ohmer’s tension filled voice barked in his ear.
“Jon, we’ve had a fire call-”
“God, Oh, God, I know, I can see!” Jon’s voice was a ragged sob as he slammed the phone down onto the leather seat beside him.
He gunned the accelerator, ignoring traffic signs and the angry shrieks from other cars as he hurtled from the highway onto the quieter rural roads towards Haverford Castle where flames were already spilling from the rear windows of Lauren’s small cottage studio.
*
Lauren twisted again, bracing her body against the baluster as she swung her feet up against the banister rail. The movement was awkward because of the handcuffs that hugged her firmly to the big oak pillar, and pain shot through her feet, jarring along her legs and spine as she kicked against the banister. Loudly she cursed her own habit of wandering around the studio barefoot and briefly imagined how much easier it would be, and less painful, if she was wearing her hefty walking boots. But when she laughed out loud, she heard the sharp note of hysteria in the sound and loudly berated herself, dragging her attention back to the task in hand. A coughing fit took her as choking smoke began to curl towards her from the blazing kitchen area.
Hysterics aren’t going to get you out of this alive, kiddo, the voice in her head told her sternly, and they’re not going to get you safely back into Jon’s embrace.
At the thought of the man she loved, Lauren felt a steady sense of purpose steel her, all hysterics gone. She had to get through this, for Jon’s sake. The memory of Stephen’s face as he promised that Jon, too, would die that very day punched into her brain. With all her strength, Lauren swung around, throwing her torso backwards as her legs and feet came up. Gasping as the pain jarred through her again, Lauren felt a rough thrill of victory—she’d managed not just to kick the banister this time, but to wedge her feet up against it and maintain the position. Bracing herself against the baluster, ignoring the screaming pain in her wrists as the steel handcuffs dug in even deeper, Lauren pushed hard with her feet against the smooth wood of the banister and was rewarded with a loud crack.
It’s working! She exulted, bracing herself for another effort. This time she screamed as her injured shoulder joined in the cacophony of pain that paraded through her body, led by her rapidly numbing hands and wrists. One more try!
Focusing her mind on Jon’s face, Lauren used every ounce of fear-ridden strength to push at the banister rail, and this time the joint gave completely, the dry oak splintering away. Lauren fell back; her ravaged wrists and shoulders taking further punishment as they bore her weight, and she lay slumped against the oak pillar, gasping for breath. She was bathed in sweat from the effort, but glancing over her shoulder, she knew that the open-plan studio was getting hotter and hotter. The flames had taken hold in the kitchen, fanned by oxygen from the broken window, and they were creeping hungrily towards the stairs where she lay.
Forcing herself to her feet, Lauren inched around so that she could stagger up two steps of the stairs. From that position she was able to drag her now almost lifeless arms up, up, and then over the top of the baluster. She screamed with pain as she finally fell free, and found herself gulping in huge lungful of filthy smoke.
Smoke, exhaustion, and pain were her enemies now, and time. Time that was flowing so slowly in a distorted way, so that it seemed like hours since she’d watched in horror as Stephen splashed turpentine
around the studio, but in fact, it had been only minutes. Falling to her hands and knees to be below the smoke, Lauren almost fainted from the pain shooting through her from her bloody, semi-paralyzed hands and wrists, but with a mighty effort of will, she forced herself to begin a slow, pain-racked crawl towards the front door. Behind her, there was a huge whoosh as the flames reached the spot below the north-facing window where her paint supplies stood by the easel.
Lauren glanced backwards to see the whole thing turn into a fireball. Her easel wavering before her eyes in the heat as flames engulfed it. She heard a sobbing sound, stopped to wonder if someone was close by, and then realized the terrible sound came from her own lips.
Almost mindless now with fear and pain, Lauren’s entire world had coalesced into the tiny space before her where the door handle beckoned her to safety. Remembering too late her injured wrists and hands, bloodied and swollen where the steel handcuffs had bitten deep into vulnerable flesh, Lauren grasped the metal handle. Pain shot through her hands and arms and she fell backwards with a scream of agony, clutching her injured hands to her chest. But she couldn’t stop.
Painfully she struggled to catch the tail of her sweater in her hand, hampered still by the cruel pull of the handcuffs. With this small padding to protect her hands, and with terrifying slowness, she awkwardly raised herself up on her knees and grasped the handle again. Her lungs were screaming, sweat was flowing from her body, and her eyes swollen almost shut from the smoke, the heat, and the vicious blows from Stephen’s hands. But on the other side of that door lay clean sweet air. Friends. Jon. Life.
With her last ounce of strength, Lauren turned the handle and yanked at the door. It didn’t move. Frantically she felt for the key that she left in the inside lock when she was home, but her scrabbling fingers found nothing. The door was locked from the outside.
