Killing Bliss

by EC Sheedy

  The one thing Sandra wouldn't let him have.

  And the one thing he hoped to have when this thing with Bliss was finally over.

  Linda got up and ambled toward his office, still smiling, and wearing some awful slack suit, the kind where the jacket looked okay, but the pants were all shiny in the ass.

  Linda was no fashion plate, that was for sure, but she always had that wonderful grin, a kind of morning-after, smugly satisfied grin that made promises.

  Grover watched her come toward him and again thought about those bad pants of hers and how he'd like to be in them. He stiffened slightly, and touched himself under the desk. Curl would want to be on top. He liked that.

  But even if he did sort the Bliss part of his life out, there was still Sandra.

  There was always Sandra. He sighed, lifted his hand from his semi-erect penis, and picked up a pen.

  "Hey, Grover, I'm about to make your day." She perched on the edge of his desk and faced him.

  He leaned back in his chair. "I can always take good news."

  "I placed Millie Fawcett. And the home is absolutely perfect for her." She lifted a joyous hand. "And I'll even bet money she won't take off this time. I'm telling you, as foster parents go, these two are the best."

  "Then it's the Johnsons."

  She nodded. "Uh-huh. Like I said, perfect. Am I good or what?"

  Wayne smiled. This was excellent news. Millie was ten, a good kid, but a troubled one. Tough, though. She reminded him of Addilene Wartenski. "That's great. I was getting worried about her." And that was the goddamned truth. Millie deserved a break and now she was getting one. If you didn't celebrate the successes in this business, you'd end up cutting your own throat. Wayne held up his hand for a high five. "Way to go, Curl."

  Linda slapped his hand, her smile nearly splitting her face. "And to celebrate, I'm taking you to Holly's for a beer after work, and I—being on the winning streak that I am—will not take no for an answer. Holly's at five-thirty, earlier if we can swing it."

  He started to protest, stopped suddenly. Jesus, he was a walking freak show. A fucking mental case. Yesterday he'd planned a murder, today he was afraid to go for a beer with a coworker. A tic, signaling the onslaught of yet another headache, jittered low in his skull.

  His heart pounding, he said, "Done."

  She gaped at him. "You're kidding me. You're actually going to have a drink with me?"

  He burned and reddened, knew he'd made a terrible mistake. She'd been kidding him along, expected him to say no. She wasn't interested in him. Why would she be? Sandra was right, he wasn't a real man.

  You call that excuse for manhood, a cock, Wayne? More like a cocktail sausage, you ask me.

  He wanted to slink away, hide, but he was frozen in place, his tongue a tangled knot in his mouth, his stomach a hard clump of organ and sinew being torn apart by metal gloves.

  She stared at him so long he got uncomfortable, tugged at his collar. That's when she grinned. "Grover, baby, you've made me one very happy woman." She leaned forward. "And if you didn't have windows in this office, I'd show you how happy." She stood, straightened her jacket, and gave him an impish grin. "Hell, you start drinking with me, the possibilities are endless." She licked her lips, laughed, then turned and walked out of his office, deliberately giving her shiny-panted ass a shake before she closed the door behind her.

  Grover put his head down, centered his attention on the papers on his desk, ostensibly going back to work, but mainly to hide the wash of relief. He took some deep breaths to calm down.

  Then he started to sweat.

  Sandra would kill him this time for sure.

  If she found out...

  His phone rang. "Grover, it's Bliss."

  The voice punched at him, made his flesh contract, and he swiveled away from his office window, guiltily, stupidly—as if anyone glancing in would know instantly he was talking to a killer and parole violator on department time. "Yes," he said, and choked back the seethe of hatred that made him tremble.

  "Any news on Harding yet?" Bliss sounded bad-tempered and impatient.

  "No. But I've got some calls out."

  "You call me, ASAP, you hear anything. Anything at all. You got that?" he growled. "My bitch is holed up in the goddamn hotel, probably won't make a move until Vanelleto gets to wherever the hell it is he's supposed to be—maybe another day or two. My guess is it's where Harding's got Wartenski. Goddamn losers must be planning some kind of fuckin' reunion."

  "Don't worry, Frank," he said, hating the sound of his own soft, soothing voice, yet finding the play easier with every lie. "I'll find the Wart." He swiveled to hang up the phone, then turned back to the window.

  And when the time is right, I'll tell you where she is. He had a flutter of panic at how long he could hold Bliss off, but shoved it aside. Everything was under control, and he intended to keep it that way.

  How Sandra would laugh if she could see him now, making dates, plotting murders.

  "Not so useless. Not such a coward now, my love," he murmured.

  Still some loose ends, but so far...

  He knew where Bliss was, where Beauty was, and thanks to Susan's excited call to him less than an hour ago, he knew the location of Harding and Wartenski. Vanelleto was still the wild card, but where Wart met the Beauty, Vanelleto wouldn't be far away. He was sure of it.

  Feeling better now, less anxious, Wayne thought about what was in the glove compartment of his car—the knife, the shiny new gun—the keys to a shiny new life.

  He held out his hands to the light coming in his office window. They weren't shaking. He was truly and finally ready.

  Ready to kill Bliss and anyone else who threatened him.

  Ready to play God.

  * * *

  Addy, in the office for the afternoon because Toby had a doctor's appointment, picked up the phone. "Star Lake."

  "Addy?"

  She slumped into the chair behind the counter. "Beauty. Where are you?"

  "Seattle. The Everwood. I drove straight through. Have you heard from Gus yet?"

  "No, but he'll be here, don't worry." Addy coiled the cord of the old phone around her finger until its tip went white. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. I think Bliss is a few hours behind me," she said, her voice flat, carrying none of the fear and emotion of her first few calls.

  Addy heard her take a drink, or maybe drag on a cigarette, she wasn't sure, but she hoped it was the latter. Booze and Beauty were too scary to think about. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Better than okay, knowing Bliss will be six feet under when Gus gets through with him." Her voice was frigid.

  "Beauty, that's not—"

  "Save it, Wart, the die, as they say, is cast." Another pause, another drag or drink. "I should give you this number. Got a pen?"

  "Uh-huh." Addy, her mouth dry as dust, wrote down the number, then said, "Beauty, can I ask you something?"

  This time she heard the tinkle of ice in a glass. Definitely drinking. Damn. "Sure, fire away."

  "That night, when Gus went downstairs and you followed him?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Did you see who killed Belle? Was it Frank? Or Brett?"

  "You know I don't like talking about... what happened. Besides, you asked me that question when we first got to Star Lake."

  "I know. I'm asking again."

  Silence. "And I'll give you the same answer. It had to be Frank, because I'm sure I heard Brett leave before the shooting started. He yelled something to Belle about her being a whore and slammed the door—shook the damn house. Man, that family gave new meaning to the word dysfunctional."

  "But you didn't actually see him do it?"

  "I told you back then I didn't see anything. Why are you asking me this now anyway?"

  Addy rubbed her forehead. "I don't know. I guess I thought after all this time, you might have remembered something." She squelched her own guilty thoughts, the insecurities that had sprung up since she'd talk
ed to Cade. She didn't understand it herself: why, after all these years, she was reliving that night, doubting her friends. What kind of a friend did that, what kind of a person? A thinking, all-grown-up kind of person, she told herself—which didn't make the shaky ground that came with the doubt any easier to stand on.

  "It wasn't Gus, Addy." Beauty said, her tone low. "I know that as sure as I know Bliss is a murdering, lying, raping beast. It was him who killed Belle, then he lied and blamed it on Gus. Not only was Gus handy, Frank hated him." She took another drink. "Besides, Gus was with me. We were in Belle's room, trying to shut up the kid. I had a pillow and—"

  "Dear God. You never told me that." Addy's chest tightened, and her words came out on a gasp.

  "What was to tell? I didn't do anything. I was so scared, so hyped, I wasn't thinking. The kid was fine. Really. Gus took, uh, care of it."

  "Took care of what, for God's sake?"

  "Forget it. You want to talk, we'll talk when I get there. This is hardly the stuff for a phone call."

  "Beauty."

  "Look, I've got to go. Quit worrying, will you? And quit trying to figure things out. What happened, happened, and we can't take any of it back. All we can do is survive the best way we can." She paused, added in a softer voice. "It was such a long time ago. We were kids, Wart. Scared kids with no place to go." She let out a breath, and it came through the line guilt-laden and resigned. "Call me, will, you? The second Gus arrives—the very second." She hung up.

  Addy dropped the receiver on the counter as if it were a dead rat. She couldn't take her eyes off it, couldn't make her brain stop superimposing a new and deadly image over the old—the one framed by trust, loyalty, and lost innocence.

  That wild night, chaos, noise, blood, fear... the gunshots.

  Gus and Beauty in Belle's room, both of them wounded, panicked, and angry, desperate to escape, get out of that terrible house... with a crying baby—and a pillow.

  Had they—

  No. She covered her face with her hands, her body trembling and weak. No. She would not, could not believe they'd hurt that boy. Gus was cold, self-protective, and domineering, but not inhuman, and Beauty might be rash sometimes and irresponsible, but never, never cruel.

  They were her friends, the only two people in the world who'd ever cared about her, other than her mother.

  She straightened away from the desk. In all these years, she'd never believed Gus or Beauty had anything to do with Belle's murder. She wouldn't start doubting them now.

  That Bliss lied to protect himself, she could believe. She could also believe that Bliss... hurt the boy. But why? There was no reason for Frank to hurt him. At least none she could think of. Damn. The whole thing made her head ache. Just because Gus and Beauty were the last ones to see the boy didn't mean—

  Startled when the bell over the office door jangled, she looked up. It was an older couple, an extremely tall man and a woman—much smaller—with silvery white hair and one of those expensive haircuts that put every hair on her head in exactly the right place. She was pretty though, and the man was smiling.

  Grateful for the distraction from her miserable, disloyal thoughts, she went into work mode, and smiled back. "Hi, can I help you?"

  "Sure can, little lady. If you can handle it, we'd like a cabin for a couple of days. Maybe three."

  "That I can do," she said, thinking the term "little lady" would pretty much describe any woman this giant of a man ever met. She handed them a registration card. "My name is Addy Michaels, and I'm the owner of Star Lake." She stuck out a hand in the usual ritual, knowing they'd introduce themselves in return. It was her way of hearing names, rather than having to have them read to her. Names were the hardest of all.

  "Stan Brenton," the big man said, his smile broadening. "And this is the love of my life, Susan."

  His hand was warm, big as a shovel, and equally as firm. Addy nodded. The woman's hand was small and cool; she peered at Addy intently, as if measuring her in some way. Addy, uncomfortable under her scrutiny, said, "I can put you in Cabin Seven, Mrs. Brenton, it overlooks the lake. Will that be all right?"

  "That will be fine," the woman said, momentarily shifting her gaze from Addy and nodding toward the office window. "This place is a real gem—the painted cottages are lovely." The praise was as cool as her hand.

  Addy turned to get them keys. When she turned back, the man was picking up brochures, and his wife was studying Addy as if she were a dissected toad.

  "Thank you," she said, vaguely uneasy. "I've been working on the cabins for some time now."

  "Well, it certainly shows." Susan took her key, but not her eyes off of Addy.

  "Let's go, love," the man said, tugging her arm. "After all that driving, I could use a lie down."

  "If you need anything, let me know," Addy called out as they walked out the door.

  "We certainly will, dear. You can count on that." She looked back over her shoulder, gave her a fierce look.

  Addy's motel-owner smile dissolved into a frown as she watched the twosome get back into their car and drive the few yards to Cabin Seven. The woman went inside, while the man went to the trunk of the big Mercedes and unloaded two small bags.

  When Cade's door opened, and he and Redge came out, her attention switched to him. She stifled a sigh at the sight of his fit, lean body clad casually in a white muscle shirt and runner's shorts. Such a strong body...

  While her thoughts made an unscheduled detour into the mist of last night's lovemaking, and her breath stumbled along her windpipe, she saw Cade nod at the man and sort of cock his head at the woman, who still looked annoyed about something. When Mr. Brenton set the bags by his side, and offered his hand, Cade shook it, nodded, and the two men talked briefly before Cade and Redge headed for a run on the path circling the lake.

  "New guests?" Toby asked, stepping in the door.

  "Yes. Cabin Seven." She watched the man go in and close the door, then turned to Toby. "Just for a couple of nights though."

  "Good thing, we're damn near empty after yesterday. Two couples leaving early and all. This keeps up and this here resort will be running on empty before the weekend."

  "Motel," she corrected automatically, then blinked. "What did you say?"

  "I said if we don't get anybody else checking in, we'll only have renters in Six, Eleven, and Seven come Saturday. That's only a couple of days away." He came around the counter and sat at the computer, a coffee in his hand.

  God, what had she been thinking. "Leave it that way, Toby. Don't rent any more cabins, and put out the No Vacancy sign." She should have thought about this sooner. Dear God, if something did happen here in the next day or two, the last thing she wanted was a motel full of guests. Damn, if her brain weren't so full of Cade Harding, she would have thought of it sooner, and she wouldn't have checked the Brentons in.

  "Are you crazy, girl? You can't afford that." Toby looked as if she'd asked him to burn the place down at midnight.

  If he didn't like the first suggestion, he was going to hate her next one. "And, uh, it might be a good idea if you took a few days off, maybe go visit friends in Seattle."

  He stared at her, his mouth slack. "You are crazy."

  "Just do what I ask, okay?"

  "You firing me?"

  She went to where he sat and rested her hands on his shoulders, a gesture she'd not have made a few days ago. "Of course I'm not firing you. But there's going to be some things happening around here, and I'll need my, uh, privacy." Lame, but the best she could do.

  Toby looked at her for a too-long time. "That check I did on that Cade fellow—you hear what you wanted to hear?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "This no-vacancy business have something to do with him?"

  She hesitated, not sure what to say. "In away."

  Toby's lips curved. "All right, then. It's about time you had yourself some man fun."

  "It's not that, it's..." Wanting to explain, but unable to, she stopped. She'd let Toby think wh
at he chose to think, and if everything worked out, she'd fill him in later. For now, ignorance was bliss. She'd never thought before how very true that statement was.

  "I'll put that No Vacancy sign out right now, sweetums." He got up. "Anything else before I take off?"

  "No, Toby... and thanks."

  He opened the door, stood there and smiled again, his gray head bobbing. "You have a good time, hear?"

  "I will." She went back to stare dully at the indecipherable guest register and to worry. This morning, she'd trusted Cade Harding with her life and with Gus and Beauty's lives, and she'd thought of nothing else since. When she'd told him what was going on, what she wanted from him, he'd gone deathly still, and her stomach had tangled so badly she thought it would never unfurl. Then he'd said he'd think about her plan, which he was probably doing right now, while running like a big dark cat around the fringe of Star Lake.

  Her throat, filled with wishes and fears, seized up tight, and she looked toward the door of her apartment; behind it were her bags, packed and ready to go.

  So what will you choose, Professor? To aid and abet a woman wanted as an accomplice to murder, or will you call the cops, tell them "who's coming to dinner" at Star Lake, and go back to your upright, error-free life with a clear conscience?

  Chapter 19

  "Going somewhere, slut?"

  The voice, a whisper from beside her, nearly made Beauty come out of her skin. Bliss.

  How could she have not noticed him? She tried to keep moving, but he was too quick; his hand snaked out, shackled her wrist. And it was her own dam fault.

  How could she have been so stupid. Feeling stir-crazy and edgy, she'd decided to chance the hotel dining room for an early dinner, sure it would be hours before Bliss arrived in Seattle.

  "Surprised to see me, baby?" He squeezed her too-rapid pulse.

  "Nope, disappointed it happened so soon." She tried to pull her wrist free.

  "How about this for coincidence? I'm in the room across the hall from you." He gave a wolfish grin. "Gotta take care of my investment."