Killing Bliss

by EC Sheedy

  And Wart and Vanelleto were still alive. It goddamn well wasn't right.

  He rubbed his crotch, tried to ease the painful throb in his balls, and rolled down the window. Maybe some cold air would clear his mind.

  He figured he'd walk through the trees and undergrowth straight to Star Lake without anyone being the wiser.

  But now that Beauty was gone, he needed an ace in the hole, and for that, Wart would do fine. He smiled for the first time in hours.

  Yeah... by the time Vanelleto arrived, he'd have little Wart trussed up like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey.

  Vanelleto didn't come through? He'd slice her up the same way.

  Chapter 23

  Cade gave up on the idea of sleep. If it weren't so miserable outside, he'd run, but in the mess called weather out there, it'd be a one-way ticket to pneumonia. He tried to read, then tried to write, but nothing worked, so he poked the fire for the hundredth time and paced the cabin.

  His time with Addy left him edgy, unable to focus. Saying what he'd said, when he said it, was a big mistake. He should have waited until the threat posed by her friends coming to Star Lake was over, until he'd proven her as innocent as he believed her to be. If ever there was a classic case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Addy being in the Bliss home that night was it.

  He also had to find Josh Moore. He owed that to Susan, and as he'd finally come to admit, he owed it to the boy—and himself.

  For the third time in as many minutes, he pushed the curtain back and looked outside in the hope Mother Nature had done an about-face. No luck. He glanced toward the resort office. The soft light over Addy's drafting table—situated by the living room window—was on, making the shadow of her head and shoulders, lowered as she flipped the pages of a magazine, only a grayish outline through the sheets of rain.

  Obviously, she was no more inclined to sleep than he was. Small damn comfort.

  "Shit." He went to the door and grabbed his windbreaker from the hook on the right. If not a run, a walk would have to do. He needed to get out of here before he exploded.

  He shrugged into his jacket and went outside.

  Standing on the top step under the cover of the porch doing up his zipper, Cade scanned the deserted resort. Through the blackness of the rain, it looked desolate and bleak. The property was poorly lit at night. There was only a light on the toolshed and another where the driveway turned around a stand of trees, going from there to the main road maybe two hundred yards or so. Neither light was high on the wattage scale. He knew there was a couple in the far cabin at the end of the property, but their lights were out, as were Stan and Susan's. The rest of the cabins sat empty and unlit.

  Walk a few feet in any direction and you'd be traveling blind.

  Resigned to a short, dark, and very wet stroll, he was about to take the first step, then stopped abruptly.

  Something moved on the road leading to the resort, and Cade's breath hitched. Addy? Maybe in the same tense state as himself, out for a walk? He glanced toward the office, where her silhouette was still visible on the blind.

  Not Addy.

  Cade inched back, deeper into the shadow of the porch overhang. For a second, there was only the sound of the downpour on the cedar shake roof, the hiss of wind through the willow on the lake.

  Then a snap—a crunch on the gravel.

  Unable to see clearly through the rain, he gauged the noise as coming from the cabin across from his. Cabin Twelve.

  Narrowing his eyes, he peered through the gloom in time to see a shadowy figure take the two steps leading to the cabin's door and enter without a sound. Cade waited a minute or two, but no lights were turned on.

  Had to be Vanelleto, determined to keep a low profile.

  Cade went back into his cabin, retrieved the Glock from his bedside drawer, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  He'd been looking for a diversion, and now he had one, a chance to meet and greet the mysterious Gus Vanelleto.

  Seeing no reason not to take the shortest distance between two points, he went across the gravel and grass separating his cabin from Twelve, the element of surprise squarely in his corner.

  He guessed Vanelleto wouldn't bother to lock his door, and he was right. He opened the door and stepped into the room.

  In the cabin, there was barely enough light for shapes and outlines.

  "Who the hell are you?" The voice was low, cold, and completely calm. Cade knew the cabins were all pretty much the same, a bedroom and bath, and a living room with the cooking area separated by a counter. The voice coming through the dark told him Vanelleto was behind the kitchen counter.

  "The name's Harding. Cade Harding."

  "You lost?"

  "No. I'm a friend of Addilene Wartenski."

  Vanelleto greeted that announcement with silence, then Cade heard movement and water running from the kitchen tap. His eyes more accustomed to the light now, he saw Vanelleto take a drink of water, then turn and put the glass in the sink, obviously in no hurry to resume their conversation.

  Leaning casually against the counter, he said, "Must be some kind of friend if you know that name."

  "Good enough to not want to see her get hurt."

  Vanelleto crossed his arms. He had a predator's stillness about him, and if he had any nerves, none were in evidence. "How long has this friendship been going on?"

  "When I think that's your business, I'll tell you."

  "Which means not very long. And that means you know more than it's healthy for you to know."

  "I'm healthy enough." Cade reached under the shade of the lamp he knew sat beside the chair inside the door, found the switch, and turned it on.

  Vanelleto eyed him impassively.

  "Seems to me it's your—and Beauty's—health we need to worry about," Cade said, straightening away from the lamp. If he expected a response to his use of Beauty's name, he didn't get one.

  In the dim light from the lamp, the two men faced each other, assessed each other. Vanelleto, in black jeans and a black shirt—expensive black shirt, Cade noted—eyed him with the fixated absorption of a cobra.

  The scar on Vanelleto's face cut a jagged swath from the front of his earlobe to under his jaw. Rough and uneven, as though the skin had been torn wide open and never stitched, the scar marked a lean, dark-skinned face that without it, and the square jawline it accented, might have been labeled pretty. In height and weight, the two were evenly matched, Cade noted, but Vanelleto's body, more tightly wired than his own, emanated a promise, or threat, of speed and lethal agility.

  Cade gestured at the scar. "Belle's handiwork?"

  Vanelleto's eyes, black from where Cade stood a few feet away in the dimly lit room, centered on his, more curious than alarmed. "The Wart has been busy. You sleeping with her?"

  Cade let his question slide off, recognized the technique, a question for a question. "She told me part of her story, not all," he said, studying Vanelleto's hard jaw and say-nothing eyes. He'd met his share of men like Vanelleto in his time, sat in the cold gray confines of an interrogation room with them, where the game of self-protection played out for the highest possible stakes—freedom. It was a game Cade was an expert at. "I was hoping you'd fill in the blanks," he added easily.

  "Can't think why I'd do that."

  "Addy says you're innocent. All of you. She thinks Bliss killed his mother."

  "And you believe her."

  "Shouldn't I?"

  Vanelleto snorted, raised an eyebrow, then shook his head slowly. "Jesus. You're a goddamn cop." The idea didn't seem to bother him; it seemed to amuse him.

  "Was a cop."

  "When it comes to cops, I don't believe in the past tense."

  Cade left a shaft of silence in the room. "You don't have a choice, Vanelleto." Cade lifted his hands. "Here I am. And considering you're not going anywhere until Bliss and Beauty get here, it's as good a time to talk as any."

  "Yeah? And what would we have to talk about?" Vanelleto's ton
e shifted lower and his expression flattened.

  Cade didn't like it. He met his cold, assessing gaze, and asked the question that most needed to be asked. "Josh Moore. Where is he?"

  "Never heard of him." He pushed himself away from the counter, moved toward Cade. "Now if you'll get the hell out of here—"

  "You've heard of him, all right. Josh is the boy who disappeared the night Belle Bliss was murdered. His grandmother hired me to find him."

  His remark was rewarded with the barest flicker of an eyelash.

  * * *

  "This place got cable?"

  Addy, startled, spun to see a tall, muscular man standing in her doorway, looking at her as if she were roadkill.

  "Can I help—" Her heart slammed against her chest, and she shot to her feet, stumbled backward until her shoulder banged into the wall.

  The man scanned her from her sock-clad feet to her still-damp hair. "You grew up good, Wart. Who'd have thought it?"

  Jesus, it was Frank Bliss. She was so stunned she couldn't find her voice.

  His face was bloody, and he touched one side of it carefully. When he pulled his hand away and looked at the blood on his fingers, a dark, angry look claimed his handsome face. A face Wart would never forget. A face that brought the past back with such a rush her knees buckled.

  "Shit." He held out his bloodied hands to look at them, his brow furrowed in frustration. It was as though the sight of his own blood negated her presence in the room.

  One cheek had four long gouges in it; some of the blood was dry, more oozed from the slashes to seep down and drip from his chin. Pushing some of his long blond hair back behind his ear, he said, "Where's your bathroom?" He barked. "I need to clean up."

  If he thought Addy cared, he was wrong. "Where's Beauty?" she demanded.

  His mouth turned down. "I guess you could say her and I had a little misunderstandin'." Again, he touched his bleeding face. "I dropped her off"—his lips turned up in a parody of a smile—"a few miles back. Now, where the hell's the bathroom?" He pushed away from the door and headed toward her.

  "What do you mean you dropped her off?" If her stomach muscles got any tighter, they'd snap. She had the wild urge to run and never stop. Instead, she pushed herself away from the wall and faced him.

  He walked past her, looked around the room. When he spotted her bedroom door, still open, and the bathroom beyond it, he headed toward it.

  Addy grabbed his leather-clad arm, gripped it tight. "Answer me. Where's Beauty?"

  He glared down at her, pulled her hand from his arm, then squeezed her fingers until she thought they'd break. "My guess? She's as dead as she tried to make me. And you know what? I don't give a shit." He twisted her wrist, nearly took her to her knees, then pushed her aside and headed for the bathroom only a few feet away. "Stay where you are. You and me have some talkin' to do." He stared at her, his blue eyes hard, then he gestured at the phone. "I can either tear that sucker from the wall, or you can be smart enough to not even think of making any calls. 'Cause if you do, I'll come back in here and wring your skinny neck." He pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. "Or use this." He walked into the bathroom dangling it from his hand.

  She couldn't have moved if she wanted to.

  Dead. Beauty was dead. No. She couldn't be. Beauty couldn't die. Couldn't be... gone forever.

  Addy slumped back against the wall, numb, paralyzed.

  For years, she'd wondered what happened to her friend, and angry and hurt as she was when she'd taken off, she'd missed her, worried about her, and somehow always believed she'd see her again. Alive. And with all the recent phone calls, the sound of her voice across the line, the connection between them had reestablished, grown strong again. Beauty was right; they'd been sisters, and nothing could change that. Thinking of her as dead, it was as though a part of her had been ripped out. And it was all her fault.

  If it hadn't been for my stupid scheming...

  Tears muddied her vision, and she brushed them away, tried to think. Her plan in ruins, another thought forged through: when Gus found out Bliss had killed Beauty, nothing under the sun would stop him from killing Bliss.

  "My guess..." Bliss's words poked up in her brain, and her breathing stilled in her chest.

  He'd said "guess." Which meant he wasn't sure. Which meant there was a chance Beauty was alive.

  Addy pressed a hand to her chest, told herself to calm down. She brushed away the moisture on her cheeks, sniffed to clear her nose, and squared her shoulders. This was no time for tears. She would not cry for her friend until hope was dead.

  If she could reach Cade... she glanced at the phone, then at the open bathroom door, a few feet away.

  Too dangerous. Bliss would kill him on sight.

  No. Finding out about Beauty, keeping Bliss occupied until Gus got here was her job. And she wouldn't let Bliss—or her own fear—get the better of her. If he smelled her weakness, she'd be useless.

  Adrenaline replaced pain, and she hurried back to her drafting table, rifling the surface papers for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hand touched the six-inch scissors she used to cut out pictures from her magazines, and she shoved them hastily into the back pocket of her jeans and tugged her long-tailed shirt down to cover it. As protection they weren't much, but they'd have to do.

  Bliss came out of her bedroom, holding a towel to his ravaged face. He went to the sofa and slumped into it as though he were exhausted. He even rested his head back for a second or two; obviously, he didn't consider Addy a threat.

  It didn't surprise her. He'd always ignored her, even back then, always focused on Beauty. And after what he'd done to her, Addy had counted herself lucky. Being ignored, or better yet underestimated, had its value.

  She took a deep breath, her mind going at the speed of light. She wanted information, and she wanted it now. "Beauty do that?" She pointed at his ravaged cheek.

  He grunted.

  "Why? What did you do to her, Frank?" She kept her voice flat, deliberately used his first name.

  He scrunched his eyes together before opening them and, exhaling a long noisy breath, said, "I didn't do nothing. She asked for it." Her question appeared to rattle him, and his response sounded oddly defensive.

  "Asked for what?" Addy took a step closer, stood over him. Her skin felt like a blanket of fire over her flesh.

  Bliss surged to his feet, towered over her, his face dark with rage. "Quit with the fuckin' questions or I'll fuckin' show you what I did to her." He shoved her aside, ran his hands through his hair. "When's Vanelleto coming?"

  Addy crossed her arms. "You don't answer my questions, I don't answer yours." She met his gaze, her heart a fear-tightened knot in her chest.

  He backhanded her, the blow so sweeping and powerful that the bones in his knuckles cracked. She tumbled backward, her ear slamming against the metal edge of her drafting table, sending a sharp, intense pain deep into her head, before she crumpled to the floor.

  Addy panted a second or two, got her bearings, then surged to her feet, the action more reflexive than courageous. If that was the back of Bliss's hand, she didn't look forward to meeting the front.

  She leaned against her table, took another couple of breaths, and clutching the back of her chair, she rolled it between them. The side of her face pulsed from his blow, and blood ran warm and thick down the side of her neck.

  "I said where's Beauty?" she repeated, clinging to the paltry protection of the old office chair.

  "Jesus, bitch, you want more of the same?" He frowned.

  "No, although I'm sure you'll be happy to provide it. You always did like beating up women... among other things." She paused, told herself to shut up, not to goad him too far. But, dear God, she'd forgotten what a beast he was. She tightened her grip on the chair. "Now, let's talk about Beauty."

  He took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped in front of the chair separating them. He smiled, his lips twisting cruelly. "You really want to know?"

  "
You really want your money and for Gus to let you live long enough to spend it?"

  He gaped at her.

  "Talk, Bliss," she ordered, and kept up her pretense of courage, even though it seeped steadily into the floor beneath her like oil from a leaky tanker—like the blood from her torn ear.

  He studied her face, his own a ravaged carcass. "Let me see if I remember now. Oh, yeah... Beauty made me stop at this real nice motel—said she couldn't wait to get in my pants, ya know." His smile was malicious, his voice low. "Said she never forgot what I gave her at Ma's house. That nobody afterward measured up." He rubbed his crotch boldly and narrowed his gaze on Addy. "How about you, you want some, Wart? Plenty to go around."

  Addy dug her nails so deeply into the cheap vinyl on the chair back that her knuckles hurt. "I'm interested in Beauty, Bliss. Not the tinker toy in your pants."

  "You got a smart mouth. Always did have."

  "And you've got a hearing problem. Always did have." To keep him at a distance, she pushed the chair forward until he stopped it with his foot.

  "You want to know about Beauty? I'll tell you about Beauty." He put his knee on the chair seat, anchored it, and leaned over until his face was inches from hers. "After I fucked her blind, I tossed her over a cliff a few miles back."

  "What cliff?"

  He paused, but didn't seem to hear her. "She died one happy hooker. Did her a favor really, because after you've had true Bliss"—he grinned, a cold twisted grin, and rolled his hips suggestively—"heaven's the only place higher. You be a good girl and maybe I'll do you a favor, too." He chucked her under the chin.

  Somehow she managed not to move back, continued to stare into the threatening face inches from her own, but her breath shortened to a series of gusts and backed up in her throat. Her face was hot. Jesus, even her eyes were hot, but she refused to take them off Bliss. "What cliff?" she repeated.

  "Jesus." he looked angry, but amused now. "Aren't you a goddamn dog with a bone." He studied her from under lowered lids. She saw his mind chugging at a snail's pace, then he took his knee off the chair and a step back. "About a half hour or so before here, near that long skinny lake," he said. "Maybe a sixty, eighty-foot drop, I'd guess." He made a diving gesture with his hand, watched her. "Long way down."