Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  "Oui, Papa." She saw with satisfaction that the courtesy address had disarmed him.

  Gracie's head lifted out of its niche in the contour of her mother's neck. "But Elbis Don' lee gon' be my daddy," she protested, and Emma's arms clamped around her in terrified reaction, her hand raising up to cup the back of her child's head and to press Gracie's face back into her shoulder. In warning. In a wordless attempt to caution her to say no more.

  Bon Dieu, not quickly enough. Grant's attention was drawn to her daughter. Assessingly, he studied the back of Gracie's head, the possessive clasp of her little arms and legs around her mother.

  Not knowing if she were opening up a whole new can of worms, wanting only to divert his attention, Emma demanded, "What about Big Eddy, Papa?"

  He stared at Gracie's back for several nerve-wracking moments longer, but then finally raised his gaze to Emma's face. His expression was noncommittal. "What about him?"

  "Why did you do it? I'd been livin' with you for three years by the time he was scheduled to be released.

  I would have stayed with you if you had only asked me to."

  "No," he contradicted flatly. "You liked him best; you would have gone with him when he got out. But you were my special girl, Emma Terese; I wasn't about to start sharing your affections again. And I sure as hell wasn't going to allow him to take you away. Eddy'd had his chance, and he hadn't done that good a job of keeping you safe." The look he leveled at her was rife with self-righteousness. "No, it was much better my way. He was incompetent and careless. I, on the other hand, could give you what you needed."

  Emma had to turn away, knowing there was no way she could disguise her hatred. She gritted her teeth against the pain; her eyes squeezed shut. Ah, Eddy, she mourned. She'd suspected it; bon Dieu, she had suspected it since the moment she'd first viewed the tapes. But to have it confirmed!

  She wanted to cause him pain. Oh, God, she wanted to strike and strike and strike at him until he was annihilated. Eradicated from the face of the earth.

  Ruthlessly she composed her features, drove the desire from her eyes. She sidled a few steps sideways and a few feet closer to the woods. Then, her face carefully free of expression, she turned to face Grant once again.

  The smile she forced felt grotesquely stiff. She opened her mouth to tell him again that she "understood," but she simply couldn't force the words past her lips one more time.

  She couldn't. Her mouth reformed the sickly, unnatural little smile as panic beat at the corners of her mind, threatening to smother her ability to reason, to plan. Think, dammit! Damn you, Emma, think!

  Allowing the smile to drop away, knowing it wouldn't fool a soul, not even a man in the grip of a delusion that permitted him to see only what he wanted to see, she groped for a way to get Gracie safely to Clare. But her mind had gone blank. She simply stared at Grant.

  Ah, sweet Jesus, she had to think.

  * * * * *

  Elvis snapped off the siren when he turned onto Emery Road. Teeth gritted, hunched over the steering wheel, he piloted the Suburban down the country road at a breakneck speed, stomping on the brakes and sending the car into a sideways skid when he came to Clare's first flare.

  Bless her. Ah, sweet, merciful God, bless her. Throwing the transmission into reverse, he roared back to the turnoff and then threw it into drive and cut the wheel sharply to the right. It nearly killed him, but he kept the speed down as he searched for the next turnoff.

  He was talking into the radio, giving exact coordinates, when he pulled up behind Clare's car a few moments later. It was deserted. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the rifle out of the rack on the cage that separated front seat from back and leaped out of the car, leaving the door hanging wide open.

  It was then that he heard screams filtering through the woods.

  "Why are we out here, Grant?" Emma demanded for lack of anything better to say. She slapped at a mosquito that had landed on her wrist.

  "I wanted a private place where we could talk."

  "Well, we've talked," she retorted, deliberately petulant. She blew her bangs off her forehead. "I've said I was sorry I misunderstood you, but enough is enough! Let's go catch the ferry now and get of this rockpile."

  "But, Maman," Gracie protested, her voice mercifully muffled in the contour of Emma's neck.

  "Hush, Grace Melina!" Emma made her own voice stern, praying her daughter wouldn't choose this of all times to dig her heels in. "I'm talking to your grandpapa, not you." It almost gagged her to honor him with that title.

  Gracie's head reared back. "But, Maman, we can't go. We haffa mawwy Elbis."

  Oh, please, bebe, please. You gotta be quiet now or we're both going to be in deep, deep, trouble. "There's been a change of plans, angel pie," she said gently.

  Grant was looking at the two of them, and he nodded his head decisively, apparently coming to a decision. "Leave her," he ordered. "Let's get going."

  Emma's head went back. "What? "

  "Leave Gracie here. I thought at one time that she, too, would be my special girl. But she has no loyalty—she's turning out to be too much trouble."

  Emma was stunned by his cavalier dismissal of a child he'd once considered his pampered grandchild. "She's three years old, Grant, and you scared her half to death! Of course she's leery of you." Sweet merciful mother of God. What kind of monster proposed just walking off and leaving a child on her own in the woods near a cliff? His being delusional was one thing, but surely he didn't believe she would blindly fall in with this plan. Did he? No, it was a test of some sort. One she was about to flunk. Emma's arms tightened protectively around Gracie as she prepared to run for their lives.

  "I don't care," she heard Grant replying through the red mist that fogged her reasoning processes.

  "Leave her here. I'm tired of her shit, and from now on, it's going to be just you and me."

  Belatedly, Emma's brain kicked in. This is it, you idiot, she berated herself. This is how you get Gracie into Clare s keeping. Looking Grant straight in the eye, she nodded her head. "Oui," she agreed. "You're right, of course. You and me."

  "And me, Mommy; and me!"

  Emma could have cheerfully slit her own throat. Bon Dieu, what had she been thinking? She'd been so busy looking for a way to keep Gracie safe that she'd overlooked the fact that never in a million years would her vocal little daughter realize the words being said here didn't necessarily represent the truth. Gracie took the spoken word at face value, and what she was hearing from her own mother's lips was clearly detrimental to her well-being. There was no way she was going to accept this without voicing an argument.

  As if to underscore Emma's realization, panic colored Gracie's voice when she insisted, "You 'n' me, Mommy. Go home, now, 'kay? 'Kay, Mommy?" She nodded vigorously and her voice picked up volume, lost control. She screeched when Grant suddenly reached out for her, and she batted him away with one arm. "No! I don't yike you—go 'way!" She appealed to her mother, who had danced them out of Grant's reach. "I don't yike him, Maman. Wanna go home now, 'kay? Wanna go home to Elbis."

  "Hush, Grace Melina," Emma murmured in her daughter's ear. "Take it easy now, S'il vous plait." She fended off Grant when he reached for her child again. "Give me a moment!" she snapped. "Can't you see she's scared?" Swinging them away, cupping Gracie's head in one hand and holding it to her lips, she whispered directly into her child's ear, "Mrs. Mackey's over there in the woods, chere. She"s waitin' to take care of you. You go to her, now, and Maman will get rid of Grandpapa. I'll come get you in a minute, bebe. In just a minute."

  But Gracie was beyond hearing, let alone understanding. She'd progressed into full-blown hysteria, screaming and sobbing and clinging, while frantically drumming her feet against her mother's thighs. Emma grimly held her clamped to her torso and did her best to immobilize the thrashing legs. She murmured soothing reassurances into Gracie's ear.

  "Give her to me," Grant suddenly roared, losing all patience. He reached out to snatch the little
girl from her mother's arms, but Emma twisted away. "Goddamn little snot!" he fumed. "I should have snapped her neck while I had the chance. Hand her over, Emma. I'm going to put an end to this caterwauling once and for all."

  "No," Emma snarled, skipping back from him. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and her heart pumped overtime with fear for her child's safety. Oh, Dieu, why hadn't she foreseen this? She'd used a goddamn euphemism for Bill Gertz's murder; there must have been other words she could have used to phrase this so her child wouldn't think she was being deserted in the woods by her mother and grandfather. "Just give me a moment to settle her down."

  "I've given you all the time I'm going to allow. It's time for us to go. Now hand her over!"

  "Excuse me!" A third voice suddenly intervened with strident authority. The drama on the barren mesa froze like a children's game of Statues as Emma's and Grant's heads swung to look toward the woods. Gracie continued to sob aloud.

  Clare came striding across the plateau, not halting until she was directly in front of them. "Who are you people?" she demanded. "And what is all this ruckus? I'll have you know you're trespassing on private property." She latched unto Emma's upper arm. "Come. You have to leave. I'll escort you to your car."

  She had dragged Emma several steps, not toward the car but the woods, before Grant recovered from his surprise. He stopped trailing the two women. "Now see here," he began, only to be overridden by Clare.

  "No, you see here," she snapped. "All you city people are the same. You think you can just waltz onto our island and make yourselves at home wherever you darn well please! Well, I don't know you from Adam, sir, and this is my property, so I'll ask you to take yourself off it or I'll call the sheriff."

  Gracie's hysteria had been dwindling during this tirade. Her grip on her mother's neck loosened, and she raised her head, craning her neck to look at Clare. Knuckling her eyes, she said in bewilderment, "But, you know me, Miss-us Mack—"

  Emma thrust her into Clare's arms. "Get her out of here," she shouted. Not waiting to watch Clare whirl and run for the woods, with the once again hysterical Gracie in her arms, she spun around and rammed her shoulder into Grant's mid-section, knocking him off balance. Then, Gracie's screams ringing in her ears, she ran hell-for-leather in the opposite direction from the one Clare had taken—toward the cliff's edge.

  It wasn't the most ideal spot for a showdown with a lunatic, but then she didn't have a lot of alternatives, or the luxury of time to plan. Her only conscious hope was that if Grant were presented with an option, he would choose to pursue her. All she could do was assure he wasn't granted the opportunity to seize both her and Gracie.

  But, oh, God, what if it didn't work? The smart money would be on recapturing Gracie. After all, if he had her, he as good as had Emma, since she would do anything to prevent him from hurting her child. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

  And a scream exploded from her throat when she saw him mere feet behind her.

  She put on a burst of speed, cursing whatever fate had led her to choose today of all days to trade in her Keds for a pair of skimpy-strapped, leather-soled sandals. At least Grant, too, had the disadvantage of wearing city shoes, and she had, by the grace of God, stuck with her original decision to wear walking shorts. For a while that morning she'd leaned toward a skirt. A short, tight skirt, which would have been disastrous on this terrain.

  She was younger and faster than Grant, but her feet slid on the rough surface several times, slowing her down. Then her toe caught on a half-buried rock and she stumbled. She saved herself from a fall, but it cost her dearly. Grant lunged for her, catching her arm and swinging her around just as she regained her balance.

  She came around swinging, catching him with a lucky punch to the jaw. He swore viciously, but let loose of her arm as his hand flew up in a reflexive action to cup the injured area. Feet scrambling for purchase, she lurched away, head whipping from side to side to determine their position.

  They were too near the cliff's edge so she whirled to run for the woods, but Grant brought her down in a flying tackle. Blue sky and dried-out scrub grass whirled in a sickening kaleidoscope as they rolled over and over. Brush scraped at her skin; small rocks and pebbles bruised her as they wrestled on the ground. Then she was on her back, looking up into Grant's face as he straddled her hips.

  She'd freely bruited the word "delusional" about in her own mind this afternoon, but she knew now, looking into the face of this man she had once loved, that she hadn't fully realized its actual meaning. "Mad" was a word she'd always used to connote anger. But it was madness in its purest form that she saw when she looked up into Grant's eyes.

  The urbane man who had always surrounded himself with the trappings of civilization was gone. In his place was a feral animal, intent on harm. His clothing was rumpled and stained, his hair was in disarray; she'd never before seen him in such a state. But it was his eyes that terrified her. They were the eyes of a stranger, dead and vicious. Devoid of humanity. He wanted to ravage her, to torture and mutilate. He wanted to inflict unbearable pain.

  Using her heels for purchase, Emma scrabbled, using her hips and shoulders to push herself back a few feet. Grant knee-walked, keeping pace; then his knees abruptly tightened around her hips, preventing her from going any farther. Panicked, she reached for his eyes, clawing and scratching. His hand swung up and back and then flashed forward, giving her a vicious crack on the side of her head.

  Pain exploded in her temple and sensation zinged through her extremities, a weakening that she fuzzily equated to experiences in the past when she'd hit her crazy bone. Her hands dropped like lead onto the prickly grass. Blinking back tears, she stared up at him.

  And saw the blood lust in his eyes as he reached for her throat.

  * * * * *

  Elvis ran through the woods. He was close to the edge of the clearing when Gracie's screams seemed nearer, and he halted, not knowing what to expect. Distinguishing the sounds of someone clumsily thrashing in his direction through the underbrush, he swung the rifle up, stock to his shoulder, barrel braced by his hook, and closed one eye as he sighted down the barrel. Then he swore and pointed it up at the sky as Clare, carrying a struggling, screaming Gracie, stumbled into view. He loped over to intercept them.

  "Oh, thank God you're here," Clare panted and allowed him to scoop Gracie out of her arms. The child continued to screech and wriggle and fight, oblivious to who held her.

  Elvis knew he wouldn't get any information about Emma until he ti quieted Gracie, so he handed off the rifle to Clare, brought his fingers up, and without compunction tapped the child smartly on her cheek.

  Her eyes went wide in shock, and he raised her up until their eyes were on a level. "You be quiet, Grace Melina," he ordered sternly. "I've got to get your Momma away from your Grandpa before he hurts her—"

  "Hoots hew," Gracie agreed on a sob.

  "—and I can't do that with you screaming down the forest and carrying on this way, so just knock it off." To his satisfaction, her hysteria subsided into normal tears, and he hugged her to him, whispering, "Good girl; that's my girl." She shuddered in his arms, her little lungs heaving to pull enough breath through clogged passages, and Elvis whipped out a handkerchief, holding it while she blew her nose. Breathing freely again, she let her head drop limply onto his shoulder and her thumb sought out her mouth. He looked over her head at Clare. "What's the story?"

  Clare was fighting back some hysteria of her own, but she managed to say with commendable composure, "He's got her, Elvis, and they're too close to the cliff. Too close!" As soon as she and Gracie had reached the safety of the woods, she'd stopped to determine the situation. Seeing Emma and Grant rolling on the ground within feet of the cliff's edge had resurrected in her mind every nightmarish memory of Evan's death. Seeing the edge crumble out from under her son's feet, she'd turned and blindly fled, in search of the road and rescue.

  Elvis snatched back the rifle and transferred Gracie into Clare's arms
once again. "Go back to the car,” he instructed. "Stay with it until backup arrives, then direct them to us." Gracie started to stiffen up again, and he shifted the rifle to the crook of his arm, cupped his hand around the back of her head and pressed a kiss into her forehead next to the tiny red scar. "You be good for Clare," he instructed her sternly. "You hear me, Gracie girl? Momma and Daddy are gonna be back for you real soon." Then he turned and raced for the clearing.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust when he burst out of the woods onto the sun-washed plateau. His heart drummed heavily in his chest, and he dreaded what he would find, cursing the time he'd taken to settle Gracie; then he located Emma, struggling with Woodard near the cliff's edge. Still alive, he rejoiced as he swung up the rifle. But struggling. She was on her back, flailing with arms and legs, getting in any punch she could while scrambling to get out from under Woodard, who, facing Elvis, rose above her on his knees.

  "Police, Woodard!" Elvis shouted. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

  There might as well have been an invisible, soundproof shield between him and the people on the cliff. Neither Emma nor Woodard indicated, by so much as a hesitation in their actions, that they heard him. Meanwhile Emma was loosing ground. Sighting down the barrel, Elvis got Grant in the crosshairs, but it wasn't a clean shot. Woodard hunched over and straightened, twisted from side to side; Emma swung at him with both arms, lifting her torso off the ground with the use of her stomach muscles. It brought her in and out of Elvis' line of fire.

  He swore to himself. "Stay down, sweetheart," he pleaded under his breath. "Dammit to hell, Em, just stay down for a minute."

  He used to test excellent at marksmanship. But that was when he'd had two good hands and had practiced regularly at the police range. Nowadays, he practiced strictly with a handgun and didn't quite trust his ability to take his opponent out with a high-powered rifle—not while that man was struggling with his woman.