Darkness Before Dawn

by Anne Stuart

  Alicia was very still. “What the hell are you talking about, girl?”

  Randall was almost in reach. “You’ve been too busy to listen to the news today. Probably too busy to answer the telephone. Your brother was found dead in his apartment in Arlington. It was supposed to be suicide, but the police think it might be murder. What do you think?”

  For one brief, crucial second, the machine gun dropped. It was long enough. Randall made a flying tackle and toppled Alicia’s rangy body, and Maggie caught the gun as it skittered across the cement floor.

  With calm efficiency she checked the ammunition clip, shoved it into place, and advanced on the wildly struggling old woman. Alicia grew very still as Maggie placed the snub-nosed barrel against her temple.

  “Where’s Willis?” she said gently.

  “Maggie, for Christ’s sake …” Randall began, but the anger and disbelief in his face faded as he surveyed Maggie’s implacable, deadly expression.

  “Shut up, Randall.” Maggie’s voice was still polite and even. “Where is he, Alicia?” And she cocked the gun.

  “Come and get me, sweetbuns.” The mocking voice floated down from overhead, and Maggie looked up, way up, into the catwalks that crisscrossed the top of the cavernous sound stage. It was too dark and shadowy to see him, but his soft, evil voice called to her.

  “Maggie,” Randall’s voice was a plea and a warning.

  She ignored him, rising and moving out of his reach. “I’m coming, Bud,” she said grimly, and headed for the cement stairs.

  The higher she climbed, the hotter it became. The air was thick and suffocating, but she refused to pause. She kept moving upward, flight after flight of cement steps, the gun held at her side, ready to jerk upward at the faintest sound, her heart cold as ice. Down below, she could hear the murmur of angry voices, could even pick out Randall’s outraged tones, but she didn’t look down. Bud Willis was ahead of her, and she was going to do to him what he’d done to Pulaski.

  She reached the first catwalk and stepped forward onto the narrow walkway, all traces of acrophobia banished in her determination. The gun was unwieldy, and her palms were sweating, belying her calm. She heard a noise up ahead, a tiny scuffling that was undoubtedly a rat. Whether it was the human variety or a rodent remained to be seen.

  She was halfway across the wide room when her instincts warned her. A second later, the walkway shook as Bud Willis dropped onto it from the catwalk overhead, and she whirled around to face him, the gun ready.

  He looked like death, a grinning, horrifying personification of the grim reaper. His lips were drawn back in a smile, and the veins stood out in his forehead. Every nerve, every muscle, every cell in his body was geared for confrontation. He also had a gun in his hand, the smaller one Alicia had used before.

  “You’ve got to learn not to let your emotions get in the way,” he said patiently. “You’ll never be any good until you shut out everything. Anger, revenge, even pleasure. Killing has got to be an instinct, not an emotional experience, unless you’re a real expert, as I am.”

  She aimed the gun at him. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

  “Sweetcakes, there isn’t going to be a next time,” he said sadly.

  “You don’t think so? You’ve got a twenty-two pistol, buddy-boy,” she mocked. “I’ve got a sawed-off machine gun. I’m sure you’re quite lethal with that, but my firepower far outdoes yours.”

  “But Maggie,” he said softly, “you can’t do it. You can’t stand there and shoot me in cold blood, no matter what I’ve done to you and yours. You can’t pull the trigger until I fire first—and my first bullet will kill you.”

  She clicked the gun, one incredibly loud little click that brought it one step closer to a spray of bullets. “Try me.”

  She could feel the eyes watching them up there on the narrow walkway, feel the tension radiating up toward them with the heat. Bud Willis’s grin was etched on his face like a stone carving. “I don’t need to. You’re a pussy, Maggie, in more ways than one. I’m going to turn my back on you and walk away, and you won’t be able to stop me. You won’t be able to shoot me in the back. But don’t worry, sweetbuns. I’ll be back for you.” And turning, he presented his back to her, walking away from her down the narrow catwalk.

  She watched him go, knowing he was right, hating herself and her own impotence, torn with frustration. Then Willis began to whistle, a cheerful, insistent little song that Maggie knew far too well. It was a song about love and freedom that Mack used to sing when he was Snake the rock star. Something snapped inside.

  She leapt at him, dropping the machine gun, but she ignored the sound as it tumbled four flights to the cement floor and smashed. She knocked Willis sideways against the wire handrails, white-hot rage blinding her. Then he slipped away, and she clutched at him, unseeing, with a low wail of helpless fury as she felt him escape. She lay there on the catwalk, panting, listening to the crashes, thuds, and screams that floated up to her. Slowly, she rose up to peer over the edge of the walkway.

  Randall was looking up at her, an enigmatic expression on his face. Bud Willis lay at his feet, unmoving; he was either unconscious or dead—Maggie couldn’t tell which.

  “I do wish,” Randall said, his voice floating up to her, patiently aggrieved, “that you’d let me rescue you just once.”

  Maggie grimaced. “Is he dead?”

  Randall nudged him gently with a toe. “I don’t think so. More’s the pity. Come down, Maggie, and have your explanations ready.”

  Maggie had pulled herself into a sitting position, and a cold shaking had taken over. Her bones had turned to jelly, her muscles to yogurt, and all she could do was huddle in the heat and feel the cold sweat cover her body. She had never felt so alone in her life, and for one tiny moment she couldn’t stand it. She had to ask for help.

  “I don’t think I can,” she said in a strangled voice. “Do you suppose you could come get me?”

  A series of expressions flitted over Randall’s face. Exasperation, tenderness, and something possibly akin to love. “Watch her,” he ordered Caleb tersely, who stood with the battered machine gun trained on Alicia. It was a token gesture; Alicia was a broken woman; her garish fuchsia mouth was slack in her pale, freckled face.

  Randall raced up the cement steps, taking them three at a time with his long legs. Moments later, he drew her trembling body into his arms, wrapped his strength around her, pulled her into his lap, and held her there.

  “I know why you did this,” he said as his hand brushed the hair out of her tearstained face.

  She moved closer, seeking his strength and warmth, cold, so very cold inside. “Why?” she croaked out.

  “So I’d get a chance to rescue you after all.”

  She laughed, a raw, rusty sound, and her fingers clutched his shoulders. “I’m ruining your suit,” she said.

  “Screw my suit.” His hand caught her chin and tipped her face up to his; his blue-gray eyes were tender. His mouth touched hers for a brief moment, and she felt her soul come alive in that kiss. The long fingers on her flesh were soothing, and she wanted to sink into him, lose herself. But it was a weakness she couldn’t afford, not right then, and when he moved away, she let him go.

  “Has someone called an ambulance?” she asked.

  “For Willis or for you?”

  You’re all I need, she thought suddenly, and then wondered if she’d spoken the damning words out loud. False words, she told herself. She didn’t need him, didn’t want him. And her fingers clutched his shoulders more tightly. “For Willis,” she said. “I want him to get a chance to suffer.”

  “You’re going to tell me why,” he said, and it was a statement, flat and simple.

  She nodded. “I’ll tell you why. Later. Are you going to get me down from this place, or are we going to leave Kate and Caleb to explain everything?”

  “Sounds good to me. Maybe there’s a back way out.”

  “Randall—”

  He rose,
pulling her up to stand on shaky legs beside him. The sound of sirens in the distance penetrated the huge old building, getting louder. “I guess we’d better face the music,” he said. “Let me do the talking?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  He grinned, a suddenly carefree expression on his usually reserved face. “If you want to come up with the plausible explanations and still not say a thing, you can be my guest.”

  Maggie’s weary smile mirrored his. “No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  “Abdicating, Maggie?”

  “It’s only temporary,” she said, yawning. “I’m too tired to think, to fight, or to lie.”

  “I think I like you this way.”

  “Enjoy it while you can, Randall,” she murmured. “It’s not going to last.”

  “That’s all right. It wouldn’t be the Maggie I know and love if it did.”

  That was a hell of a strange word for Randall to use. Love—when he didn’t even believe it existed. She dared a small, furtive glance, but his face was impassive as always, and she decided it had to be a figure of speech. At that point, she couldn’t handle anything more.

  “Umph,” she said, a noncommittal grunt. “Let’s go face the music.”

  twenty-two

  Sybil Bennett was holding court, surrounded by admiring reporters. She was holding her cherubic granddaughter and regaling everyone with the horror of the last few days and the insidious spy drama that she had somehow managed to become a central figure in.

  Her daughters stood by, watching with the forbearance of long habit, listening to their mother’s fantasies with an indulgent ear.

  “There are times, Maggie,” Randall murmured in her ear, “that you still manage to amaze me. Your mother is absolutely perfect. She’s got those reporters eating up every word she tells them, and if anything even slightly resembles the truth, no one will notice.”

  “Mother has her talents,” Maggie agreed lightly. “You shouldn’t give me credit for siccing her on the media, though. It would have been impossible to hold her back.” She peered over at Kate, who usually had less tolerance when it came to her mother’s playacting. At the moment she was too involved in Caleb’s whispered words to pay the slightest bit of attention.

  Maggie sighed. “Happy endings are so nice.”

  Randall’s face was very still. “I suppose they are.”

  “I mean, look at the two of them. Fighting like cats and dogs a week ago, and now blissfully happy. Slimy old Brian even dropped his custody suit.”

  “I missed that development. Why did he do that?”

  “Not out of the goodness of his heart, you can be sure of that. For one thing, Kate told him to stuff his child support. For another, his new wife is pregnant, and she decided that she didn’t want two infants interfering with her jet-setting life-style.”

  “Happy ending indeed,” Randall said cynically. “How long do you think their marriage will last?”

  “You underestimate my sister, Randall, and you underestimate Caleb,” she said in an even voice. “This is happy ever after.”

  “Sure it is, Maggie. I don’t underestimate them; I simply don’t believe in happy endings and true love.”

  She looked up at him. “Message received. Over and out.” And she turned away from him to watch her mother.

  “Don’t turn away from me, Maggie,” he said, his hand on her arm. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “In private.” He pulled her, and she resisted for a moment.

  “We don’t really have anything to say to each other in private, do we?” she countered, a thin note of bitterness in her voice.

  “Maybe we do.” He pulled again, and this time she went, following him into her mother’s deserted bedroom.

  He shut the door behind them, and Maggie took the moment to pull away from him. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms in a defiant attitude. “Talk away, Randall,” she offered.

  Instead of answering, he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. She fought for a moment, for an angry, hurt instant, and then she melted into him, opening her mouth beneath his insistent kiss, ignoring the common sense that told her this was useless.

  “Maggie, I need you,” he whispered against her hair. “You can’t even begin to know how much. You’re a rare and precious jewel, and I’ve been obsessed with you for six endless years. I can’t let you leave me again.” His mouth caught hers again before she could reply, sweeping away her defenses and doubts. She drew her hands up between them, feeling the heat of his chest through the thin linen shirt. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons, wanting the feel of his flesh against her, wanting to lose herself in the mindless pleasure he could give her.

  But mindless pleasure wasn’t for her, and Randall Carter wasn’t for her. She pulled away suddenly, and for a moment he clung to her, his fingers possessive and bruising. Then he let her go.

  She moved across the room. As he watched her, his breathing was deep and even; only the stormy depths of his eyes betrayed his emotions—emotions Maggie still didn’t quite understand.

  She’d give him a chance. “Do you love me, Randall?”

  He flinched, and his eyes met hers. “No.”

  She nodded, hiding the pain his expected answer gave her. “Have you ever loved anyone?”

  “No.” The single word was a sharp death knell in the room. “If I did, Maggie, it would be you.”

  She smiled, a wry, accepting smile. “Maybe it would. But that’s not good enough. I’ve been loved the best anyone could ever be loved, Randall. I’m not going to settle for second rate.”

  “Second rate?” His eyebrow rose.

  “Second rate,” she said firmly. “You want to collect me, like one of your stupid paintings or pieces of jade. And then when you get tired of me, you’d let me go, seek out another acquisition. Wouldn’t you?”

  “You might tire of me first,” he said, not denying it.

  “Randall,” she said, and her voice was flat and very sure as she lied to him, “I’ve tired of you already.”

  She didn’t really expect to fool him, and his expression didn’t change. “Are you trying to tell me something, Maggie?”

  “Yes. Good-bye, Randall.”

  He smiled then, a small, cynical smile. And then he moved so swiftly, she didn’t have time to dodge. He caught her in his arms, brought his mouth down on hers, and kissed her.

  It was a kiss fraught with passion and despair, an ending and a beginning. The thought of resistance never entered her mind. She twined her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, answering his mouth and weeping inside.

  “Not good-bye, Maggie,” he said softly, “and we both know it.” Then he left her alone in the bedroom looking after him. It was only then that she realized she’d never told him Willis’s confession, never explained her murderous chase over the catwalks. But what, in the long run, did it matter?

  “Maggie”—Kate charged into the bedroom—“someone’s on the phone for you. …” Her voice trailed off. “Are you all right?”

  “Just fine,” Maggie said, smiling very, very brightly. “Who’s calling for me?”

  “Your boss. Mike Jackson, right? He says you’re supposed to come down to Washington. They’ve moved Willis to Walter Reed Army Hospital, but he’s refusing to talk unless you’re there.”

  “That’s all I needed.”

  “Do you think he’ll make it?” Kate questioned.

  “I don’t know. A mortal wouldn’t have survived that fall, but Bud Willis isn’t quite human. I’ll go.”

  “You’ll be back for the wedding? I need a maid of honor.”

  “I’ll be back,” Maggie said. “What about Sybil?”

  “She’s off with some new suitor. All she’ll tell me is he’s Irish and very mysterious. She keeps muttering something about terrorists and looking tragic.”

  “Typical Sybil. He’s probably a beer-guzzling soccer player.”<
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  Kate laughed. “Probably. Will Randall give you a ride to the airport?” It was a delicate probe, and Maggie didn’t mind answering.

  “Randall’s gone.”

  “He’ll be back?”

  “So he says,” Maggie replied. “So he says.” And she didn’t know whether that was a threat or a promise.

  * * *

  Washington was hot and sultry in the late August heat. Even at eight o’clock at night, National Airport was blanketed in blasts of thermal air. Maggie shook back her thick hair and considered chopping it all off.

  Mike Jackson, head of Third World Causes and nominally her boss, was waiting for her. His affable face with its barracuda eyes was a welcome sight. “You pick a helluva way to spend your vacations, Maggie.” He peered at her closely. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.” She hugged him.

  “You also look better than I’ve seen you in two years,” he said bluntly. “You finally let go of Pulaski?”

  “No one ever said you weren’t observant,” Maggie said wryly. “Is Willis going to make it?”

  “Who knows? He’s a mess, but it’s the good who die young.”

  “He killed Pulaski, Mike.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew?” She stared at him in astonishment.

  “I guessed.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What good would it have done? I had no proof, just a gut-level feeling, and you were hurting enough as it was. I figured it would come out in its own good time. Did he tell you?”

  “Bragged to me. Told me he did it for the hell of it.”

  Jackson scratched his balding head. “That doesn’t sound like Willis. He usually doesn’t do anything unless there’s a bottom line.”

  “I won’t even begin to guess what his motives are. I can’t imagine why he wants to see me. Maybe to ask my forgiveness?”

  “Maybe pigs can fly,” Jackson said. “I promised I’d bring you straight to the hospital. He’s at Walter Reed, you know. You got any energy left?”

  “Enough to see Bud Willis check out,” she said grimly.

  For a while, it looked as if she’d miss that particular pleasure. He’d lapsed into a coma in the last hour, surfacing every now and then to call Maggie’s name, then sinking back. His vital signs were erratic and fading. The doctors looked grim.