Liv crawled out, wobbled on the warped board for a few heart-clutching moments, tumbled forward to catch Bruno's outstretched hands, and was yanked to safety. Kev dropped back inside the window, breathing hard. Still alive, and so was she. He was dizzy with relief.
Crunch. The bedroom door jolted open farther. He pumped a few shots through the crack in the door while trying to figure out a way to get his unconscious brother out the window and onto a tiny fire escape.
His imperfect solution was to slide out backward, leaving his back as a shield and his ass as a tantalizing target, while reaching in to grip Sean under the armpits, dragging his brother's limp body out onto the fire escape. There was barely room for one, let alone two, but he wrestled Sean into place over his shoulder and forced his trembling legs to unfold. Balance. Every muscle shook. Sweat dripped off his chin. Bruno's face was a blur in the background, Davy's and Liv's beside his.
He pulled them into focus. Big mistake. He let them blur into the background again. The raw fear on their faces did not help him at all.
Something bigger than a gun exploded below. Shouts, yells. He didn't dare look to see. He swung his leg over the fire escape, set his foot on the board. Balanced on that quivering leg on the warped plank while he lifted the other foot off the relative stability of the fire escape.
It would be three or four shuffling steps before he could pass his burden to the outstretched hands on the other side. One. The plank jiggled and bowed under their combined weight. He waited for a bullet to punch into him from below. Not yet. Two. Three. Davy and Bruno leaned forward, reaching desperately to grab Sean--
Bang, a bigger explosion. Whump, crash. Crack, a bullet from the window behind him scored the side of Kev's shoe. He did a wobbling dance step as the board shuddered loose of its place on the fire escape.
He heaved Sean to Bruno and Davy with the last instant of purchase he had left, and then he was dancing in midair, legs flailing--
He caught himself on the scaffolding, and hung there, by the same damn hand that had caught Sean over the railing. The same arm that had been smashed by the tree trunk in the waterfall incident.
Fucking ouch. He struggled to breathe. Looked down at his feet, waving over the blur of lethal activity beneath.
Davy and Bruno were squeezing off shots at the guy in the window. He was shooting back. Kev thought of the waterfall. Crazy laughter bubbled up from deep inside. This felt so familiar, somehow. What the hell he did to deserve this crazy shit, he did not fucking know.
A hand clamped over his wrist. Davy had braved the fat guy's bullets and climbed down the scaffolding to pull him up while Bruno covered him, spraying bullets into Kev's bedroom window. With some grunting and straining and excrutiating pain, he hooked a knee, then a foot. Davy hauled Kev up by his sore arm and tossed him facefirst into the dim building. Kev fell to his knees, gasping and coughing.
"We don't have time for this!" Bruno yelled. "You shot? Wounded?"
"Fine," he gasped, choking and coughing. "I think."
"Then move your ass! Fast! Now!"
They dragged him along. He stumbled, running where he was led, thudding through forests of pillars and steel cables. Davy carried Sean without apparent effort. The situation looked dire as they peered out of the bottom floor. Then a car horn began to blast. Tony's old Chevy pickup appeared around the corner, Zia Rosa at the wheel, mouth open in a battle yell. She leaned out the window, screamed, "vaffanculo, you stinkin' sonzabitches!" and laid on the gas, heading for a black SUV.
Men leaped to get out of her way. Crash, she rammed into them, and put the truck in reverse. Bam. Zia's windshield shattered. Tony and a lanky guy that Kev didn't recognize leaped out from behind the Dumpster and dove into the bed of the pickup. Tony screamed at Rosa to drive, drive, drive. Another guy came running with a limp from behind the smoking ruins of the SUVs.
Tall, long hair. Connor. That was Connor. They were all here.
The Chevy slowed. Zia Rosa howled for them to hurry. A bone rattling thud as he jumped? fell? was pushed? into the pickup bed. Sean thudded in after him. Liv, Davy, and Bruno followed. The tires squealed as Zia Rosa reversed, braked violently, and took off.
Some moments later, he hoisted himself up, and looked around.
Liv lay on her side, cradling Sean's head in her arms, staring at him. Davy stared at him. Con stared at him. Bruno and Tony and the darkhaired guy stared, too. All of them were staring at him.
Oh, shit. He was in for it now.
Tom looked away, stoic as the EMT dressed the wound on his shoulder. His teeth were clenched so hard his skull ached. But not against the pain. It was the anger that he could hardly control.
That sneaky son of a bitch Larsen had fucked him up the ass. Seven men dead, four in the explosion in the apartment, three in the firefight. Three more injured, one with a crushed pelvis from being rammed by the pickup, driven by that crazy hag, whoever the fuck she was. Tom would find out, soon. Oh, yeah. She would pay. Larsen and his fucking motley band were going to see what happened to people who messed with Dr. O's army.
Detective Widome of the PPD was talking. His jowls flapped. Tom breathed down the impulse to rip the man's slack, ugly face off his skull. Before throwing him facedown and crushing his vertebrae into pebbles, one by one with his boot heel. "Excuse me," he said, through his teeth. "I was woolgathering. Would you repeat that?"
"Certainly. I was just saying that we need a formal statement as soon as possible about your involvement in--"
"I told you! Charles Parrish contracted my security firm to deal with Kev Larsen, aka McCloud. I'll demonstrate that accord at my earliest opportunity. Tragically, we were unable to protect Mr. Parrish from his killer, but when we got a tip Larsen had returned, we came down on the bastard." Tom waved his arm at smoking vehicles, the shattered glass, ambulances, body bags. "This was the result. The story is straightforward. There won't be any surprises in my statement."
Widome chewed his lip as he surveyed the carnage. "I'll still be interested. Quite a fight, hmm? Bit off more than you could chew?"
Tom swallowed back killing rage. "We underestimated his resources," he ground out. "We weren't aware that his brothers were already backing him up. It was just a manhunt before. Now it's a war."
"I don't think so." Widome gave him a big smile. "I think you'd better step aside and let us deal with this, Mr. Bixby."
"I have to fulfil my professional obligations." Tom smiled back, even bigger. "I'm sure we can work together. Help each other."
"Of course," Widome said. "Within the confines of the law."
"Of course. And now, if you'll excuse me. I need to see that my employees are getting the care they need. And contact the widows of the men who died today. Later. OK?" He crunched through the broken glass, nose stinging at the stink of burning rubber, and called Des.
Des picked up, and started to babble. "I've got a problem. I need your people to go to the Parrish building to dismantle the boxes we put in the library for Larsen this morning. The Parrish bitch is flapping her jaw. No one appears to be listening, yet, but just for safety's sake--"
"You call that a problem?" Tom let out a harsh laugh. "I'll tell you problems. Seven dead guys. A fortune spent on their recruitment and training, lost. Claymores exploding in our faces. Two armored vehicles, essentially destroyed. Three men in the hospital, with bullet wounds. One rammed by a fucking truck. The press nosing around, the police three miles up my ass. And Larsen, gone. Because of your little fuck buddy. Ava the wonder cunt."
"Gone? How?" Des's voice cracked. "How the fuck did you--"
"I didn't! Your girlfriend was jerking herself off, and she muffed it. He cuffed her, gagged her, and locked her in the fucking supply closet. I left her there, by the way. In the closet. To reflect upon her personality flaws. You go let her out. I didn't have the stomach."
"Holy shit," Des muttered. "Where's Larsen now?"
"Who knows," Tom said. "He blew up his apartment with my guys in it, shot up
the rest of my men with his psychotic brothers, and now they're gone. Off to plot how best to fuck us next, no doubt. So if you've got your thumb on Edie Parrish, keep it there. We end this tonight."
"Tonight? But I--"
"Tonight. We get the big family bloodbath all over with. I do not want this fucking freakshow to drag on and on. I am done."
"But Ava needed Edie for--"
"I don't care," Tom told him. "My profit margin just took a fucking nosedive twenty minutes ago. I won't stick my ass out any further just because your girlfriend wants to diddle herself some more."
"Tom, listen."
"No. You listen. Finish it tonight, or the deal is off. I withdraw my support, and you deal with the McClouds yourself." He focused on a body bag being rolled onto a truck. "Trust me, you don't want to do that. Go get your girlfriend out of the closet before her head explodes."
Tom hung up. He hoped the dickhead managed to wrangle that crazy bitch into shape fast, because Ava would need to put in some serious X-Cog crowning action soon to sell this fucked-up scenario to the law, and the press. It was spinning out of control.
But Tom was itching to get his hands around McCloud necks. To feel veins throb, eyes pop. See faces turn purple. His heart pounded.
A final gift, to lay on that dark altar. In honor of Dr. O.
CHAPTER 33
Dusk faded to dark while Edie lay there, cuddling Ronnie, who slept like a rock. She herself couldn't hope for sleep, not unless she asked Dr. Katz for some in pill form, and she'd sooner drown herself than do that. Besides, she had to stay sharp. Not that she felt sharp, except in the sense of jittery and jagged. Fragile as crystal.
Kev hadn't called. Of course, he wouldn't have Ronnie's number unless he'd gotten in touch with Bruno. So he'd been missing all day.
Or he wasn't calling her on purpose. Because he'd gotten what he needed, and he was done with her now.
No. She rejected that voice nattering in her head. She wouldn't be fooled. Not by fear. But neither did she want to cling to a sweet lovely lie, and hide her face from the painful truth. That was no good, either.
There was a TV on the dresser. Edie grabbed the remote and turned it on, just for a little chatter. The silence was so heavy, she felt like she would asphyxiate under it. Local news started to play.
She stared at it, zoning out. The crumpled e-mail was still clutched in her fist. She took at look at the paper, smoothing out the wrinkles.
It was a picture of Des. His eyes glowed, as if a light shown out of them. The effect was chilling. She studied every element, mixing them up, turning them upside down. She wished her psychic ability came with a glossary handbook. Her subconsious mind was so damn convoluted. She had a hell of a time figuring this stuff out.
Des wore a crown in the drawing. Not surprising. She'd always perceived him as the crown prince of Helix. But that empty glow, brrr. He looked like someone possessed. And there were hearts. Bunches of them, like something a lovestruck thirteen-year-old would draw all over her school notebook. Around the signature word of the e-mail, Des, she had drawn a larger heart, and behind it, two crossed bones.
The symbol for poison, but with a heart, not a skull. Hmm.
Hearts, like the ones she'd drawn all over her mother's portrait.
Odd, that her mother and her father had both received visits from Des on the days of their deaths. But then again, they probably had both received visits from Des on a daily basis. She was being fanciful.
An image on TV caught her eye. She did a double-take, and jolted upright, upping the volume. It was a photo of the redhaired girl. The one who had come to the booksigning. The one she'd drawn.
"...at large, but a manhunt is underway for Craig Roberts, prime suspect in the murder of Victoria Sobel, a Portland University student who was found strangled in her dorm room last night," said a female newscaster. "Sobel had been involved with Roberts, a local radio disc jockey, for the last few months, according to friends. Roberts was last seen in the Clackamas area..."
The words faded away, drowned out by the roar in her head. So telling Vicky about Craig hadn't saved her. No escape for Vicky.
She flipped off the TV. Better to face the smothering silence than get slapped in the face with how ineffectual she was. She saw Vicky Sobel's freckled, laughing face in her mind's eye, even with the TV off. Tears slid down her cheeks.
She thought about Kev's lurking spider, and her stomach flopped.
But Kev wasn't like Vicky. And neither was she. The thought stirred in the depths of her, beneath the pain and the fear. A quiet voice, not the scolding one. Reminding her of the flat, undeniable truth.
I was right about Vicky Sobel. I always call it right. Always.
It wasn't particularly comforting, but it straightened her slumped spine, even while her chest shook. Tears streamed down her face.
She slid down, butt sliding off the bed and onto the braided rug, shaking with sobs, which was better than that hard, bruised ache in her chest. She hadn't shed tears all day, except for that first shallow explosion, with Bruno, and that had been more shock than anything.
It had finally started to flow. She cried for the father she'd never had, the one she'd never have. No chance to redeem herself now.
She didn't know poor Vicky Sobel at all, but that distant, awful tragedy unlocked the floodgates of her own. By the time it all worked through her system, she felt deeper, softer. Calmer. And very clear.
She was going to trust herself. She was worth trusting. And she was going to fix this mess. She was not going to sit around and meekly swallow this evil, lying, ridiculous bullshit down. No way. No more.
She got up, paced restlessly around in the twilit room.
"Hey." Ronnie's voice, soft and whispery. "You're here. Good." She rubbed her bleary eyes.
Edie spun around, dove for the bed, and the two of them lay there, hugging tight. The knowledge twisted and ached inside her, that she was going to have to leave her sister alone again to solve this problem. Some malevolent entity was at work, someone who wished her ill. She had to fight it. She could not be passive and just hope for the best. Truth would not prevail unless it was helped along, vigorously. By her, personally.
She thought about the kidnappers. The banquet. The vials of poison inexplicably planted at her apartment. And now, this. Kev's disappearance. Kev, on that video. Her father, killed. Kev framed.
Just as she'd been framed.
Somebody wanted...what? Money? A mess this big, violence this awful, it could only be about money. Or revenge. Kev was the only candidate for revenge that she knew of, and she had ruled him out.
That left money. Ronnie ostensibly had it, now. But whoever was making this happen was probably not going to leave matters that way.
She buried her nose against Ronnie's shirt, and pondered the spooky sketch she'd drawn of Des Marr, with his empty eyes and his crown. The e-mail to Mom, from Des. The hearts. Poison.
If Ronnie died...the bulk of her father's multibillion dollar fortune went to the Parrish Foundation, to support medical research. Des was on the board of the Parrish Foundation.
But Des? What could he have against her father? The Marr family was immensely rich in its own right. Des was successful, admired, adored. Charles Parrish had liked and respected him. Had mentored him since business school. Something was so strange about it, so twisted. She shivered. Thought about the boxes Kev had mentioned in his text message.
Either Kev was lying, or Des was. She knew who she wanted to believe, but wanting wasn't enough. Certainly not for the police.
"Ronnie? Baby? I'm going to have to leave you for a while," she whispered. "There's something I need to check on, before it's too late."
"I'll come with you," Ronnie said.
She considered it, and regretfully shook her head. Ronnie had to be safer here, surrounded by security personnel, than wandering around with her bumbling sister Edie, with her empty wallet and her borrowed Ruger six-shot. "You can't," she said, helplessly.
"Things are too dangerous. I don't have a plan, or any money. I can't keep you safe."
"I'd rather be with you than be safe." Ronnie's arms tightened.
"Please, baby. Just for a while. Somebody's setting Kev up, and me, too. I have to go check some possible evidence. Before it's too late."
"You?" Ronnie's eyes got big. "Setting up you? For what happened to Dad? But that's nuts. Nobody who knew you would believe that!"
Edie was intensely grateful her father hadn't told Ronnie about the planted vial of poison. "Marta believed it," she pointed out.
Ronnie rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well. Marta is Marta." Her eyes sharpened. "You look more guilty if you run, you know."
"I'll look guilty no matter what I do," she said.
"This is so they can't put you in the nuthouse, right?"
Or worse. She thought of the kidnappers, the cold blade at her throat. "Yeah," she said. "Something like that."
"If you run away for good, I want to go, too," Ronnie said, with quiet intensity. "Don't leave me here. Promise you'll come back for me."
Edie grabbed Ronnie. "I promise," she said softly. "I don't know how, but I promise. If you'll promise me something, too."
"What?"
"Be careful with Des Marr."
"Why? He's always been so nice." Then Ronnie's eyes widened. "Oh! I see. Did you do one of your special drawings? Can I see it?"
Edie hesitated, and then pulled it out and unfolded it. Ronnie stared at it for a few moments.
"Yikes," she said slowly. "Spooky. You don't have any idea what--"
"Nope," Edie said. "Not a flipping clue. Just please, be careful with him. Don't ever be alone with him. Don't go anywhere with him. OK?"
"OK." Ronnie pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, and a charger off the desk. "Take this, all right? I won't tell anybody that you have it."
Edie took it, and realized that it was turned off. Duh. Of course Aunt Evelyn would have turned it off, after they'd dosed Ronnie.
Kev could have called while it was off. Her heart leaped, her fingers twitched to turn it on, check for missed calls. But not now. She slid it in her pocket, stuffed the charger in the other. "Thanks, sweetie."
Fade to Midnight Page 46
