“Takes a lot of stupidity to taunt the man who’s holding a gun on you.” Martin walked toward the open door and waited there. “Let’s go. I’ve got plans to make. I can’t screw around with you anymore.”
Teryl went first with John right behind her, his hand resting at the small of her back. With Richard Martin right behind him, she didn’t want to think what he felt in his back.
Martin directed them to the kitchen, then through a side door into a combination utility/workroom. A battered washer and dryer stood in one corner, a worktable in the middle. Shelves of tools were braced along one wall, and a hot water heater filled the corner. The room smelled faintly of fabric softener and lint and almost overpoweringly of modeling clay and gasoline. The source of those last odors was the items laid out on the table. A five-gallon can of gas. Four one-gallon glass jars. Clay. Timers. Wire filaments.
“Everyone who’s come into contact with you believes you’re delusional, John,” Martin said from the far end of the table. “They know you think you’re me. It won’t be too hard to convince the authorities that you were insane. You became obsessed with Simon Tremont, began having delusions that you were Tremont. You blew up your own house and Teryl’s to try to convince people that someone was trying to kill you to keep you quiet. When you failed to prove your claims, you became violent, as mentally ill people sometimes do, and you decided to kill me. However, something went wrong, and one of the bombs detonated before the others were in place, killing you and the poor unfortunate woman who was foolish enough to believe in you.” He smiled, enormously pleased with himself. “Hey, I’m pretty good at this. I ought to be a writer.”
John leaned back against the windowsill, his arms folded over his chest. “Your plot has holes,” he said flatly. “For starters, not everyone thought I was crazy. Rebecca knows I was telling the truth. For the sake of her reputation, she’s not going to do anything about it—so far—but if Teryl and I turn up dead, how long will she stay quiet?” He paused only briefly. “And what about my family? They know the truth. They know about you. Do you think they’ll sit back and let you win?” Another short pause. “What about Teryl’s family? They’ll never accept that she was helping a madman try to kill someone when she died. And D.J. She may hate Teryl as much as she loves her… but the same can be said about her feelings for you, can’t it? Knowing that you killed her sister will eat at her. It will destroy her… and she’ll destroy you.”
“Minor details. I’ll take care of them all once you two are out of the way.” He waved the gun again. “Get started.”
Teryl looked at John, who glanced at the table filled with equipment, then smiled thinly. “If you think I’m going to put together the bombs that you’ll then use to kill us, you are crazy. You want to blow us up, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Before Martin’s movement even registered with Teryl, he was halfway around the table and holding her wrist in a vicious grip. He yanked her to him, holding her tight against his chest, and pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple. “I don’t like that response, John,” he said mildly. “Come up with another one… before I blow her fucking brains out.”
Looking regretful as hell, John left the window and approached the rickety table. She watched as he uncapped the gasoline can, then tilted it over the first jar, dribbling it out in a thin stream. When it was half-full, he stopped and looked up at Martin. “You have to give me directions. I’ve never made one of these before, and I didn’t stop to examine them closely at Teryl’s house. How much gasoline?”
“That will do. Go ahead and fill the rest.”
She wondered what the chances were they would get out of this alive. Probably not very good. She wished she had known the last time she’d seen her mother that it would be the last time; there were things she would have liked to tell her. There were things she wanted to say to John, too, starting and ending with I love you and with about a million I’m sorrys in between. She was sorry she had ever doubted him, sorry she had distrusted him, sorry she had demanded proof, sorry she had thought him crazy, sorry she had gotten him into this in the first place.
Following Martin’s directions, John placed the filaments next, suspending them in the space between the mouth of the jars and the surface of the gasoline. Teryl wished there was something he could do to save them. She wished she had the courage to tell him not to worry about her, not to obey Martin’s orders simply to protect her. If she had to die—and it was looking very much as if she did—she would prefer a gunshot to the head over the blast of a bomb and the flames that would follow. If she absolutely had to die, it might as well happen right now, before she had to endure Martin’s touch any longer.
Almost as if he’d read her mind, Martin drew her even closer, brushed her hair back, and murmured in her ear, “Do you know how long I’ve fantasized about you? About what I would do to you and how you would look and act and sound? That’s the only reason I ever did it with Debra Jane—because when I was inside her, I felt closer to you. I wanted to be close to you. Do you understand that, Teryl? I only wanted to be close to you. It’s your fault that he has to die. It’s your fault that you have to die.”
He lowered his head, kissing the soft skin just beneath her ear, and her stomach began churning, bile surging high, threatening to make her ill. On the opposite side of the table, a murderously cold look came across John’s face, turning him into as much of a stranger as the man behind her. Before he could act, she did, raising her hand, digging her nails into Martin’s face, making him shriek with pain. He hit her in much the same way he’d struck D.J., the clammy steel of the pistol coming into contact with her cheek, creating waves of pain that dulled her senses to everything else, sending her staggering against the table. It swayed precariously beneath her weight, then, suddenly, John was supporting her, holding her against him, warning Tremont, Martin, or whoever the bastard was not to touch her again.
As her vision cleared, she saw that she had knocked over two of the glass jars, their fuel seeping through cracks in the wooden table, dripping to form a puddle on the ancient linoleum. The smell made her sick, and the blow to the head had left her woozy. If John weren’t holding on to her, she wouldn’t even be able to stand.
Then sheer terror brought her upright in his arms. The floor, as in so many old houses, slanted just the slightest bit toward the outside, and the gasoline pooling there was following its slope straight toward the water heater. “Oh, God,” she whimpered, her tongue thick, her voice weak, the words of warning she sought evading her.
It wouldn’t have mattered if she could speak, though, because John was muttering his own prayer as Martin, cursing savagely, raised the pistol and pointed it straight at them. The safety was off, and his finger was on the trigger, pulling slowly, squeezing so damned slowly. “Fire,” Teryl whispered weakly, and John thought damned right he was going to fire. The bastard was going to kill them both right now.
With a whoosh that seemed to suck the very air out of the room, a wall of fire burst up through the center of the room, engulfing Martin in its flames, muffling his tortured screams with its rush. The heat was intense; in the second it took John to remember the window behind them, it seared his skin and parched his lungs. He fumbled for the lock but couldn’t budge it. Grabbing the first tool he found on the shelves, he smashed the window, using the crowbar to rake away the glass, then kicked out the screen. He lifted Teryl to the ground, then, flames licking at his skin, he followed her out, scooped her into his arms and ran like hell.
The concussion from the first explosion knocked them to the ground; it made his ears ring and his chest go tight. A second and a third explosion followed, sending flames out shattered windows, reaching high into the sky, consuming old wood and shingles as if they were paper. John rolled onto his back, feeling the sting of burns on his arms and neck, and pulled Teryl, her expression dazed, her face bruised, into his arms. Together they watched as the house, fully involved now, collapsed inward on itself. She began crying
softly—for D.J., he thought, until he saw the slender red-haired woman standing a safe distance away, openly sobbing, obviously heartbroken.
Richard Martin was still inside.
He regretted that the man had to die, even after all he’d done to John and especially to Teryl. He also regretted his own loss. All the Tremont papers were gone for sure this time. All the documentation of his career. Eleven years’ worth of work, of suffering, of healing, turned to ash.
Richard Martin wouldn’t die alone in this fire. His precious Simon Tremont was dying with him.
But John Smith was coming to life. It was time to stop hiding, time to give up his isolation, time to appreciate all that life had given him, starting with the woman at his side. The wind shifted, sending the thick, choking smoke the other way, and he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with sweet, clean air. He had a future, and he had Teryl.
Those were reasons enough for living.
Epilogue
Two weeks had passed since the fire that destroyed the old farmhouse. Richard Martin had, indeed, died that day. His body, charred beyond recognition, had been recovered from the rubble hours later by firemen. D.J. had escaped physically unharmed, but emotionally… She had answered all of the detectives’ questions, had described her nine years with Martin in detail, had revealed his plan and how he had succeeded, and then she had simply stopped talking. She had responded to no one, not even Teryl and her parents when they had paid her a visit in the hospital three days ago. She had simply withdrawn, the psychiatrist had told them. Martin’s death, added to all the problems she was already suffering, had been more than she could bear.
Teryl could understand that. Losses and hurts could easily add up until a person’s heart simply said no more. She just might be a prime candidate for that condition herself. Already she’d lost her job and her home and had twice almost lost her life. She’d lost her best friend and, in a very real sense, her family. Her parents had confirmed what D.J. had told her, what John had later admitted that he’d already suspected. Her mother hadn’t miraculously given birth to her before some vague problem had turned her and Philip to adoption and foster care. Teryl—like D.J., Rico, and so many of the others—had come from someplace else, someplace cruel, violent, and best forgotten.
Why hadn’t they told her? she had demanded. All of her brothers and sisters had known the details of their adoptions from the very beginning, and it had never mattered, anyway. Every child, whether adopted or not, had been treated the same. Why hadn’t she been told?
Because the doctors had advised against it. Because she had been so fragile when she’d come to them. Because they had feared that telling her the truth might unlock the terrors still hidden inside her. Because, at the time they’d adopted her, they hadn’t intended to make a practice of it. Because a year had been too soon, as had five years, ten years, and fifteen. Because they had grown accustomed to thinking of her as their own, had come to treasure her as their very own.
So many answers, reasonable and logical but not a hundred percent acceptable. Not enough to ease the betrayal. Not enough to deny this sense of loss.
Soon—a few days, a week at most—she was going to face the biggest loss of all. Soon she was going to lose John.
She was sure that was why he had brought her to New Orleans. Their affair had begun here, and he probably thought it appropriate to end it here. He had promised to make up to her for all that he was putting her through, and on this trip he’d certainly made a good start. Their hotel suite was, by far, the most luxurious she had ever seen, and the staff treated them like royalty. They had eaten at restaurants known worldwide, had seen a few sights and made a lot of love, and John had spent more than a little time shut up in the bedroom on the phone. Even now he had brought her here to the Café du Monde, then gone off for some bit of business or another. Arranging for the purchase of his Pacific island? Determining where he would go and when he would leave her? Planning his last farewell?
With a forlorn sigh, she took one last sip from her soda, then stuffed the napkin into the paper cup. She was rising from the table when she saw him coming toward her. He was smiling, and even though she’d never felt less like it, she couldn’t help but smile in return. His injuries from the last blasts had been minor—a few small burns, some cuts from broken glass—and they were healed now. Hers were almost healed, too, the swelling of her face finally gone down, the bruise where Martin had hit her only a shadow that makeup could conceal. Considering what they’d been through the last few weeks—and the heartache she was sure to face in the future—they didn’t look too bad. John, in fact, looked pretty damned good.
“Are you ready?” he asked when he reached her.
“For what?”
“There’s something I want to show you. It isn’t far—just a few blocks.”
They crossed Decatur and walked along the uneven sidewalk. It was hot, but the humidity was manageable. The faintly sour smell of garbage perfumed the air, along with exhaust from passing cars and the mingled aromas of food from the restaurants they passed. Hot, noisy, smelly—and she couldn’t think of anyplace she’d rather be or anyone she would rather be there with.
Their destination was Chartres Street, an address in the middle of a quiet block. When she would have walked on past, John caught her arm and drew her through an open gate that led back into a courtyard complete with a fountain, sun-warmed stone benches, crepe myrtles in full bloom, and beds of periwinkles and phlox. “What is this?” she asked, slowing her steps until he had to stop or drag her along.
“It’s a gracious old home with a courtyard.”
She looked around again, taking in the paving stones, the small sections of emerald green grass, the giant live oak draped with Spanish moss near the back wall of the garden. “Whose gracious old home?”
“Yours, if you like it. If you’ll have it.”
Hers. So this was to be the consolation prize. He was even more generous than she’d expected. She would have been no less happy with a little trip down here, a few more days of his company, a few more nights in his bed, and a plane ticket back home when it was over.
Hers. She took yet another look, this time focusing on the brick-and-stucco house, the broad gallery, the tall windows, the graceful wrought-iron balconies. The house towered three stories over them, plenty of room for a family, for children both natural born and taken in, but much too big for one lonely woman who might live the rest of her life in the same solitude that John had spent the last eleven years.
“You don’t like it.” John tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. Granted, there were plenty of other places for sale in the city, but when the realtor had described this one to him over the phone, he had been pretty sure it was what he wanted. Seeing it this morning had confirmed his hunch. It had a garden to fulfill Teryl’s passion for flowers, high walls for privacy, lots of rooms for all the kids they could manage, and a separate guesthouse tucked in the back corner that would make an ideal office for him. It met the scant requirements she had stated when they were here the first time. I’d want a place down here in the Quarter, one of these gracious old homes with a courtyard… He had thought she would love it.
“It’s a beautiful house.” She went to stand near the fountain, watching the water as it spilled from the small bowl at the top to a larger carved basin and landing at last in the pool at the bottom. “Have you already signed the papers?”
“No. I wanted you to see it first.”
“It’s lovely.” Her voice sounded odd, strangled. Teary. “But what would I do with a place like this?”
He went to stand behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders. She struggled against his efforts to turn her around, but he was stronger, though gentle, and finally she was facing him and staring at his chest. “I kind of thought you would live here with me,” he said evenly, “and have my babies and raise our kids and anyone else’s kids who need two parents to love them.”
Her head jerked back, and
her gaze flew to his face. He could see the surprise, the shock, and the tears she’d been trying to control. She had thought he’d brought her to New Orleans to say good-bye, he realized, and that the house was her reward for helping him reclaim his career. He gave her his most charming smile. “I can be generous, sweetheart. I can give every last penny I have if that’s what it takes to make you happy. But buying you a house to live in alone?” He shook his head. “I’m not that generous. I can’t let you go, Teryl. I can’t walk away from the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She didn’t yield easily. He would have been disappointed, he thought with a grin, if she had. “What about your Pacific island?”
“We can do that, too, if you want. I have a lot of money, Teryl. I never had anyone to spend it on, so after the Colorado house was built, the rest of it has been invested and reinvested for the last eleven years.”
“What about living alone?”
“I’ve spent damned near half my life living alone. I want to spend the rest of it with you.”
She was thoughtful for another moment. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything except these clothes that you’ve bought me. I don’t have anything to give you.”
“Except love. And babies. You do love me, Teryl. You can’t hide it worth a damn.”
Her smile was the sweetest sight he’d ever seen. “Yes. I do love you.”
“So will you accept the house as my gift to you? Remembering, of course, that there are strings attached. You have to marry me first.”
Turning but remaining in his arms, she leaned back against him, holding his clasped hands with both of hers, as she surveyed their new home. “Strings?” she echoed. “I was thinking of something a little more substantial.”
Passion Page 43
