Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  The first try came up short, at least fifteen feet out. She meant it to, getting the feel of the process. She stared at the puzzle, letting the first run settle into her muscles like a practice shot on the basketball court, figuring just how far out to shove the pendulum. Meanwhile, she checked the strap over the heavy Colt in her shoulder holster. It was firm. No point in getting up there empty handed. The cop radio at her belt stayed silent, so the shit hadn't hit the fan yet.

  Her stomach calmed, going off to sulk in a corner because she was ignoring it. She swung the boat out again, further, gauging the angle of wind and water, threw the wheel over, and blipped the throttle. This time she cut the ignition and stepped to the side, bracing against the roll.

  The boat came up into the current and swung — closer, closer, closer. It paused. She shook her head. Five feet out. She wasn't about to jump that.

  She restarted the engine and powered out again, sighting down the cliff past the gazebo, trying to gain just that plane-shaving's extra angle she needed. The fog seemed to be lifting; more trees and rocks loomed down that way, and she thought she could pick out the gray-on-gray of the steeple in the village. She chose her instant, held the wheel over, threw an extra two seconds on the power, and switched off.

  The boat swung in, in, in. It paused about a foot out, a cushion of water trapped between hull and rock, and she stepped up on the gunwale and reached across. The boat dipped away under her weight and she hit the cliff like a lump of clay, full-body, and grunted as air slammed out of her lungs.

  The cliff surged up and down under her. Her left hand slipped, losing skin to the coarse rock, that missing fingertip coming up short on friction. Her workboots scraped and grabbed at the rock. She felt the granite sandpaper her cheek as she slid downwards. Then she stopped, attached to solid ground. Except that it was still moving. She stared at a vein of quartz, willing it to stop. It finally obliged. Then she checked on the boat.

  It was swinging out on the anchor rope, obeying wind and tide, bobbing as if it was glad to be free of such a lousy sailor. Good riddance to you, too. And your mama. But that widening gap of seawater did look kind of final. Kate sniffed, searching for the smell of burning bridges mixed in with the salt and kelp. She'd better have chosen the right heap of stones, or she was going to have a long cold swim to her next choice.

  Well, she wasn't going to rescue Little Nell by just lolling around on the seashore, working on her tan. Kate settled her feet and started looking for handholds. Like she'd said, she'd done this before. Three points of support, always, hands and feet and your nose or chin if necessary. Then she was reaching, reaching, reaching, her right foot finding nothing but smooth rock.

  Hey, I could use a little help here. Alice always said I could talk to stone. So where's the magic stairway? One toe found a nubbin of the cliff and took her weight. She moved up on to it, grabbing a fresh handful of rock and a breath. Then she started climbing fluidly, an endless flow like a snake up the side of the cliff.

  The granite seemed to like her. She couldn't tell if the stone formed handholds where she asked for them, or told her where they were so she reached right there. Whichever it was, she reached the top without another pause. She stopped there and knelt behind a bush, looked like a holly of some kind, not native. The Pratts had spent some serious money on landscaping over the years.

  Kate flexed her left arm, checking on that stitched-up cut. No pain. She bent over and patted the rock. "Thanks, guys." A vague sense of pleasure came back, sort of like Dixie purring as you rubbed her forehead.

  Now she was hearing some bit out of Alice's opera, swirling strings and the triumph of brass, big chesty blonde sopranos bellowing away in stainless steel bras, selecting the fallen heroes on the field of battle. Valkyries, that was the name, the choosers of the slain.

  Sounded like a messy job when you got right down to it — walking around the typical battlefield, gathering loose arms and legs, winding loops of intestine up on a reel. Then you load it all on a flying horse and carry it back across the bridge to Valhalla. Some assembly required.

  The music gave her another image. They'd used the same theme for a helicopter attack in some old Vietnam War flick Jackie and her friends used to rent, must have been a dozen times. Kate couldn't remember the name, but she knew it didn't turn out well. Everybody ended up dead, bombs and fire in the jungle night. Maybe someday she'd learn to quit asking for omens.

  She didn't know the Pratts' grounds all that well. The house, the garage, the gazebo, those she knew. Landscaping was someone else's job. She could get from the gazebo to the garage, though; a path connected them. She thought that was the view the pool had given her.

  The radio burped static, and she switched it off. If it started yammering while she was sneaking through the woods . . .

  A man lay in the gazebo, bound and gagged. Cops wouldn't use duct tape instead of cuffs. Cops wouldn't leave a prisoner behind, unsupervised. Maybe this wasn't another drug raid. If she could get in and out without being caught, maybe Bernie would never know. Maybe Kate could save Alice Haskell's witchy little butt and still keep her badge.

  If she got the boat back to Keith Bauer's place undamaged. Maybe she could get her cousin John to run it across.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe she'd still be alive when the sun went down. Whoever had taken this guy out had left a silenced KG-9 lying on one of the gazebo seats, safely out of reach. That implied he, she, or it was carrying something more potent than a 9mm full auto machine pistol.

  Kate started humming a dirge of her own, that old union song: "Which side are you on? Which side are you on?" The Morgans? Some other drug crew, like the Pelletier's Quebecois Mafia?

  To hell with sneaking. She stood up and strode out, heading down the path towards the garage. It was a gut reaction, reading the atmosphere. If those guys were taking people down alive, they probably wouldn't shoot a cop.

  Probably.

  And Kate wasn't very good at sneaking, anyway. She didn't have the build for it. At least her size XXL jacket gave plenty of room to advertise "POLICE" at fifty paces. Anyone who shot at that knew what he was doing.

  Trees loomed through the fog, dripping down on the shrubs and rock. Kate followed the picture in her memory, trying to fit the curve of the trail, the shadows, the shape of space, into the scene. It was close, but not a match. She tried to remember the distance from the gazebo to the old carriage house.

  Pratts had something like forty acres out here, but most of it was forest. The house was set with a distant sea view, over open stone and shrubs. Make it a hundred yards of clearing, then the main house, the carriage house, and another hundred yards or two through the woods and out to the gazebo. They had a guesthouse off on the other side, tucked out of sight.

  The path curved again, rounding a boulder left by the last ice age. Kate saw a shadow in the mist ahead, child-sized. It was Alice, just like in the vision, walking that remembered walk. Kate drew the Colt and held it muzzle-high and two-handed, ready to drop down on any target.

  She lengthened her stride, closing on Alice. The world narrowed and clarified, every caw of the crows and mew of the gulls, every drip of fog, every whiff of pine or spruce cutting across Kate's senses like a knife.

  The pictures merged, the frame in front of her eyes perfectly aligned over memory. She was twenty yards behind Alice. She could just see the edge of the garage, the Pratts' old carriage house. A bulky shadow slipped out from a dark mass of laurels and aimed its pistol. Kate notched her own sights on the back of the square form. She pulled the trigger, and the .44 magnum boomed.

  The shadow jerked. Its own pistol cracked twice, and Alice stumbled. Then the figure spun and fired again, twice again, fast and instinctive from belly level. Kate felt two bullets punch into her body, low and high. The shock dropped her sights off target.

  She couldn't bring them back.

  Jackie! The shadow was Jackie. Halfway to the crumpled form of Alice, Kate faced her own daughter carrying he
r own gun. Kate felt her knees grow weak.

  The girl didn't seem surprised. She just shook her head. "Sorry, Mom. Bulletproof vest. Too bad you never bought one."

  Kate tried to bring her gun back up, to fire again. The damned Dirty Harry special was too heavy. Jackie just watched, smiling slightly, keeping a firm sight picture with no sign of remorse. Kate knelt down in the path, swaying. The Colt dropped to the gravel. Yeah, she thought. I never bought a bulletproof vest because there was always something you needed.

  Jackie turned away with a shrug, walking towards Alice, standing over her body. She raised the stolen Browning again, drawing a bead. Kate wanted to scream but couldn't find the air.

  Her daughter turned back. "You know, Mom, you never really understood. You or Aunt Alice. You just don't have a clue how much crap I've swallowed about you two. Kids hate queers. I've been eating it since kindergarten."

  She aimed down at Alice, staring at bloodstains spreading across the back of the beaded vest. "Hasta la vista, baby." The Browning cracked, Jackie's hand jerking in time with Alice's body. Kate moaned. That was all she could find strength for, but inside she keened with grief. Twenty years she'd fought against loving Alice. Now she'd never have a chance to say the words out loud.

  Jackie took aim again and then shook her head. "No. Stupid bitch isn't worth another shell." She looked back at Kate. "See you around."

  She turned and strode away, swapping magazines just like she'd been taught, even though there would still be a couple of rounds left. Kate slumped full-length on the gravel path, blinking against the black fog that kept washing over her. The ground was moving again, just like the waves heaving under the Boston Whaler.

  She didn't want to fight them. Alice was dead.

  Jackie had barely reached the garage when flames blossomed out of the windows with the hiss and whump of a gasoline explosion. She darted around the corner. Kate heard the Browning crack again, twice, just like she'd taught her daughter to shoot. A high-powered rifle blasted back: a single shot, a pause, then three more shots full auto. The heavy blasts echoed away in the fog. Silence washed back, broken by the crackling chatter of the fire.

  AK-47, Kate thought, automatically. Deputy Dawg had one out on the range for the boys to play with.

  She whimpered to herself and closed her eyes. They weren't working right, anyway. One shot to the center of mass. If your target doesn't drop, assume body armor. Go for the head.

  Everybody dies.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Caroline caressed the water with her right blade, nestling the kayak against the cave's floating dock. That speedboat looked like some serious fun, long and low and darkly dangerous. Maybe she could steal it on the way out. Gary's spare set of lock-picks held all sorts of possibilities for an enterprising young woman.

  Later. First, we have some other games to play. She hauled herself out of the kayak, holding the bow line in her teeth. Docks weren't the easiest way into or out of a kayak, but at least this one sat lower than the lobster boat. And it had a ladder. No wonder Gary had wanted that net rigged over the side. Sea kayaks posed some problems she'd never met while playing with their white-water cousins.

  She tied her line off on a cleat and stood up, stretching and loosening her hips. Time to kick ass. She grinned to herself, showing the world some teeth — the kind of smile her friends said looked like a barracuda. She thought they meant it as a compliment.

 

 

 

  The ramp slanted up to a fixed landing and the door, hinges on one end and tethered rollers on the other, adjustment for the tide. It squeaked and groaned gently with each swell. Right now, the slope was low. Just past high tide, she guessed, water starting to ebb out of the basin and tunnel. She checked the line to her kayak again, making sure it wouldn't go for any little solo trips while she was busy.

  Caroline stopped for a moment, staring at her hand. Her newfound brother had pointed out an oddity she'd never noticed, the slight webbing between each finger. He'd called it "The Mark," a genetic trait of the Morgans. It extended just a fraction of an inch more than normal. It extended a possibility, as well.

  I bet I can do it, she thought. I bet I can change, just like him. She'd never met a puzzle she couldn't solve, a possibility she couldn't make real. Her aunt called Caroline's attitude hubris, pointing out that Greek tragedy was full of that kind of crap. Caroline called it self-confidence and considered it a virtue. But selkie genes were a question for another day.

  Instead, she slipped her hand into the cargo pocket on her right thigh and pulled out the little .22 automatic that Aunt Alice hadn't caught. Caroline never had felt much like a mouse.

 

  A click echoed through the cave, followed by an electric whine and the rumble of metal wheels against a track. She twisted around, tracking the sounds to their source. The sea gate was closing behind them.

  She sprinted up the ramp and through two doors into something that looked like NASA Mission Control, electronic consoles and TV monitors up the yin-yang. She skidded to a stop beside Gary. The banks of switches and indicator lights confused her: green lights glowing steady, red lights blinking alarm, a few yellows scattered across the board. A loud mechanical bray filled the air, coming from a red grille up by the ceiling. "Fire Alarm," the sign next to it said.

  Gary flipped toggle switches here and there as if he knew what he was doing. He glanced up at her. "They've gone into some kind of automatic lock-down mode. Look at Camera 5."

  It took her a moment to decipher the displays, small digits in the lower left corner of each monitor, just a number and date/time. The image on Camera 5 seemed to be an outside view of a garage and driveway. Big garage — she guessed maybe an old carriage house, four arched doors with ornate iron strap hinges, a high roof with dormer windows and funny curved eaves like a thatched roof.

  Flames licked out of a window to the left while black smoke poured from the one in the center, shattered as if something had exploded inside. One of the carriage doors burst outward with another explosion, and Caroline could see cars inside, blazing furiously. One looked like some kind of high-rent antique, with a big front radiator all chromed and crowned with a statue.

  A body lay by one corner of the garage. Caroline's barracuda grin widened a touch. "Cousin Ron" was kicking some ass of his own. "That's our diversion."

  "Yeah. But we've got to divert our butts outta here. Pretty damn soon, somebody's going to check on their buddy out by the door, and we won't give the right answer."

  "How the hell are we going to get out? That gate in the tunnel's closed down!"

  "Override switch." Gary pointed at the board. "We can open it from here."

  She reached for the switch, but he caught her wrist. "Don't jump the gun! If we open it now, they might notice. Wait until we're ready to go."

  Her fingers twitched. Patience was not her strong point, and that closed door felt like a noose around her neck. Gary sounded confident, but she wanted to know that the way out was clear.

  "Hey!" He was staring at her other hand. "Ditch that gun. You start shooting down here, the shit will really hit the fan!"

  "Can it, buddy! Maybe you can kill people with a touch, but I can't! This is my black belt!"

  He winced and squeezed his eyes shut. "He was turning. I never thought about that in practice. I spun around behind him and he tried to follow me. I turned his head in the opposite direction." He swallowed. "The kempo was designed to work with that. I didn't mean to kill him!"

  "Forget the bastard. He had it coming." Caroline scanned the other monitors, looking for Peggy and Ellen. An outdoor scene caught her eye, two bodies on a gravel path. One stirred, crawling toward the other.

  Shit!

  Aunt Alice! She froze, rage surging thr
ough her blood. Where? That big lug has to be Aunt Kate!

  But she didn't have a map, nothing to show where the camera was. A quick scan of the walls didn't help. "Where the hell's Camera 6?"

  "System manual on the shelf over there. We don't have time for that. Get the girls. Remember what Aunt Alice said: they're down the hall, up two flights of stairs, second door on the right. Damned place is a maze . . . ."

  But his voice faded behind her. Caroline was out the door. Camera 6 had to be near Camera 5, somewhere near that garage. They had to be numbered that way.

  *~*~*

  Gary shrugged, exasperated. Damned uppity know-it-all! If she'd waited half a second, he'd have tossed her the keys. Get in, get Dad and the girls, get out. That was the mission profile, simple as hell. Nothing in there about kicking ass. Make them pay after the hostages are out!

  He switched two more monitors to outside cameras. Maybe that would cover her butt as well as his own. Then he threw the master control over to the other station and set his console on automatic mode, hoping they'd read it as the downstairs guards coming up to help. With any luck, they'd be too busy with their own problems to change his settings back.

  Unplug the cameras? His brain raced down branching probabilities. No. A dead camera was an alarm bell, drew attention to itself. Pictures of empty corridors and empty rooms meant safety. Cameras can't cover everything. Stay out of view whenever possible.

  He flipped the security room camera back on and ducked out into the corridor. "Third door on the left," Aunt Alice had said. That was where the bats had heard somebody. All he heard were his sister's footsteps clanging up a metal stair. A door slammed, heavy like armor, and left silence behind.

  His fingers shook as if they were scared to open the lock. The fifth key worked. Gary eased the door open, afraid of what he'd find, checking for more guards, spotting the monitor camera, eyebrows rising at the scorched electrical outlet down by the floor. Then he saw his father.

  Gary clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them again. The scene hadn't changed. His father just slumped in a chair like a stuffed dummy, staring at the wall, glassy-eyed. Bruises covered his face and arms, fresh red and purple overlapping the yellow and green of fading injuries. Those were bad, but his father's eyes were far worse. They were blank, saying that he had given up all hope.