She loved him. And she knew the power of that love would see her through this. If need be, her love for him would see her through to the end. In those black minutes as she contemplated her own death, she drew strength from him, knowing in her heart that, if he was able, he would come for her.
Clinging to that thought, she made her way to the bathroom and switched on the light. Her eyes scanned the room for something she might be able to use as a weapon, but there wasn't much. No plunger, no can of hairspray, not even a water glass. On impulse, she opened the medicine cabinet.
Her heart jumped when she spotted the black leather manicure kit. She reached for the case and unzipped the cover. A pair of gold manicure scissors gleamed lip at her. Knowing they could mean the difference between life and death, she pulled them out. Checking the point with .the tip of her index finger, she found it razor sharp. She was in the process of tucking the scissors into the waistband of her slacks when the bedroom door swung open.
* * *
Randall hit the interstate at eighty miles per hour. Clint's antiquated Toyota vibrated as the speedometer's needle slipped past ninety, but he kept his foot down, oblivious to the danger. He'd discovered the keys on the kitchen counter and found the small pickup parked in the alley garage. He hadn't needed any prodding to steal it.
Desperation drove him now, hurtling him along the outer fringes of control. He no longer considered the repercussions of his actions. He did what he had to, his only, single-minded goal to find Addison in time to save her life. Because he knew Tate was going to kill her.
If he hadn't already.
Randall knew he was skating a thin line. It was as if the same sinister resolve that drove men like Tate had been unleashed inside him. The need to kill. To enact the ultimate revenge.
At the crook of his neck, he cradled Clint's cell phone. A map of Baltimore lay spread out on the seat beside him. With one eye on the interstate, he dialed the hospital number and waited to be transferred to Jack's room.
"What do you have?" he asked when his older brother's voice rumbled through the line.
“The name of the boat is Anastasia. Eighty-three-foot President 830 motor yacht. D.C. registry."
"Where does he keep it?"
"He usually winters it in Fort Lauderdale. The Bahia Mar Hotel. But he didn't move it this year. It's at a country club in Baltimore."
"What's the name of the club?"
"Sparrows Point Yacht Club."
In the background, Randall heard Van-Dyne barking out orders that were ridiculous at this point. He wondered if he was going to get any help from the police. "Has Van-Dyne contacted the Baltimore PO?"
"He won't touch it."
Randall cursed in frustration. Dammit, he needed backup. He didn't have time for policy and procedure. He sure as hell didn't have time for departmental politics or political correctness. "Jack, see if you can get the Baltimore PD interested. Tell them anything. Just get a couple of black-and-whites out to Sparrows Point."
"I'll do it."
Randall disconnected and switched on the dome light. Folding the map, he squinted at the image of metropolitan Baltimore. If Addison was being held in Tate's yacht, that ruled out north and west Baltimore. He creased the map, catching the steering wheel just in time to jerk it off the shoulder of the highway.
He backed the speedometer down to eighty as his eyes scanned the myriad inland waterways that made up the city's coastline. The Patapsco River to the south. The Back River to the east. Curtis Bay. Frustration clawed at him.
"Where the hell are you?" he asked in a voice so strange it frightened him.
Tossing the map aside, he snatched up the telephone, punched city information, and asked for the number to Sparrows Point Yacht Club. He dialed. A recorded voice told him the club's office hours were between eight A.M. and six P.M.
Muttering an oath, he snapped open the map. "Come on, you—"
At the tip of his thumbnail lay Sparrows Point. Just past the Francis Scott Key toll bridge at Bear Creek. Silently, he began to pray. That he wasn't wrong. That he wasn't too late. That God would spare the only woman he'd ever loved.
He couldn't stop thinking of what she must be going through. They'd discussed Tate enough in the last week that she would know what she was up against. She knew what the odds were of her coming out of this alive.
The thought tore him up inside.
Knowing he was at least ten minutes from downtown, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.
Chapter 26
The sight of him stunned her. Addison’s breath jammed in her throat. A surge of adrenaline jolted her. Terrified and somehow amazed, she stepped back, half expecting him to strike at her like an angry viper.
Garrison Tate stared at her through steel gray eyes. Her last living relative. Her birth father. The only human being in the world with the power to terrify her.
His stare touched her, with an almost physical force, intruding into places she didn't want him to see, places that made her feel unprotected and powerless. In the last hours, her defenses had been shattered. As much as she hated the thought, she sensed he drew some sort of twisted satisfaction from her fear.
He appraised her without emotion, the way a prospective investor assesses a ten-thou sand-dollar piece of horseflesh. He was taller than she'd imagined. Well over six feet. His European suit was tailored to a physique that bespoke of personal trainer finesse. But he had just enough softness around the middle to tell her he was a man accustomed to fine dining. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at each temple. His presence was commanding. His posture spoke of power and status and arrogance. But it was his eyes that unnerved her most.
Her only thought was that there was no resemblance between them. With that realization came a bizarre sense of relief that meant little in light of what she faced in the coming hours.
"You're quite a resourceful young woman." He motioned toward the narrow door that led into the hall. "Shall we go into the salon?"
The cold amusement in his expression chilled her. Had there been a route of escape, she would have used that moment to flee. But she knew there was no escape. Addison felt that acutely as she stared at his outstretched hand. She was trapped within this monster's lair. A murderer in disguise. A man who'd fooled a nation of millions.
She refused his handshake with the best go-to-hell look she could manage.
He smiled. "Ah, you impress me, Addison. I knew you would. I'm very, very pleased with you."
"You son of a bitch." Her voice shook, but she didn't care.
"This will be much easier for both of us if you stay calm and cooperate." Frowning, he reached out and touched the cut on her cheek . "I see you've met Kyle."
Addison endured his touch without reacting.
"I'll have a word with him about ... his tendencies."
She wondered what he could possibly have in mind for her. What he could possibly have to gain. What sort of twisted game he was playing. The only thing she knew for certain was that her life was at stake—and she didn't intend to lose.
"Come with me. I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes." He motioned toward the door. "Please."
Hoping to stall for time, she obeyed.
The hall led to a wide salon that smelled of eucalyptus and heated air. The mini-blinds had been drawn and closed tightly. A curving double settee upholstered in white leather lined the port side. Twin ebony coffee tables complemented the settee. Opposite, an entertainment center replete with a large-screen TV and stereo system dominated the entire starboard wall.
"Please, sit down."
Addison started at the sound of his voice. She'd been staring at the opulent surroundings, tormented by the thought that it would be the last place she'd ever see.
Turning, she faced him, acutely aware that her knees were shaking. "Why am I here?"
"I wanted to meet you, of course."
"You'll never get away with this," she said, swallowing the fear that had lodged in her throat like a
sharp bone.
"Get away with what, Miss Fox?"
"You brought me here against my will."
"I merely want to talk to you. Sit down."
She sank into the settee.
He walked to a small bar and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler. "Would you like a cognac?"
"What I'd like, Tate, is for you to tell me what the hell this is all about."
He poured a second drink and carried it over to her, setting it on the end table next to her when she refused to accept it. With the verve of a dramatic actor, he raised his glass in a solitary toast. "Power, Miss Fox." Never taking his eyes from her, he sipped. "It's all about power. More valuable than gold. More sought after than money. The greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Wars have been waged over power. More men have been killed for power than for all the jewels in the world." He set the cognac on the coffee table. "Frankly, I'm not willing to give it up for the likes of you."
"You murdered my parents."
"Unfortunate, but necessary, I'm afraid. Your father knew who your birth mother was. I couldn't risk exposure. I had no choice but to silence them both."
"Agnes Beckett. Jim Bernstein. You murdered them in cold blood."
"How else is it that you kill someone? With warm thoughts? With regret?" He smiled. "I don't think so. A man does what he must to survive."
"This wasn't about your survival."
"I have no desire to see my life ruined by scandal."
He spoke of the people he'd murdered as though their lives had had no more significance than that of an insect. It took every ounce of her control not to launch herself at him, if only for' a fleeting moment of primal satisfaction. For an instant, she imagined gouging those gray, emotionless eyes with the manicure scissors, slashing his face, drawing blood.
Instead, she forced herself to relax and focus. It was time she needed now. Time was her only hope.
"Politicians have been forgiven for much worse than an illegitimate child," she said. ''Ted Kennedy and Chappaquiddick."
"Ah, but there's so much power in a name. Look what happened to poor Mr. Edwards back in the election of 2008. One indiscretion and he was ruined forever."
She pretended to consider his words; all the while her mind scrambled wildly. She needed time. To think. To plan. Questions would keep him talking. "What about Agnes Beckett?"
"The mistake of a, shall we say, irresponsible young man."
"Mistake? You beat and raped a sixteen-year-old girl. That's not a mistake. That's an atrocity committed by a monster."
In the backwaters of her mind, she saw the tiny mobile home in the poor section of a town so small it barely made the map. She remembered the bloodstains on the cheap paneling, the ghastly pictures Sheriff McEvoy had left for her to see.
"Your mother was nothing more than a piece of white trash. An ignorant and uneducated whore who knew more about the carnal pleasures by the time she was sixteen than most women know in a lifetime. The only thing she had going for her and ever would was her body. I gave her exactly what she wanted that night. I drove her home. Things got hot and heavy. She didn't know her place." He shrugged. "I was just a kid. I had a bright future ahead of me. I couldn't let her ruin that."
"You're a monster."
His eyes glinted cruelly. "Insatiable is the word the men in town used to describe her. She liked it rough. And she knew what she was getting into. Let's just say she got paid to submit." He studied her, rubbing the cleft of his chin with his thumb. "The likeness is incredible."
"You son of a bitch." She reached for the decanter and swung it with all her might. His face went from composed to utterly astonished. She aimed for the side of his head, but he deflected the blow with his forearm. The decanter slipped from her hand.
Out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands grasped her arms from behind. Cruel fingers sank into her biceps and jerked her back.
"You're a coward," she said between clenched teeth. "When this hits the media, you're finished."
Tate's face tightened with anger. "Let her go," he said to his bodyguard.
The man released her.
"Leave us," Tate said.
Over the pounding of her heart, Addison heard the other man leave the room. "Why now?" she asked. "After all these years?"
"You were getting too close."
"How did you know?”
A smile whispered across his features. "I kept tabs on you and your activities through our mutual friend, Mr. Bernstein. I employed him when I first learned he was delving into your mother's case."
Denial welled up and overflowed. "I don't believe you. Jim wouldn't . . ." The sense of betrayal sliced her. She couldn't finish the sentence. "He had no reason to—"
"The man had four sons." His eyes glinted like ice. ''They all wanted to be lawyers like their esteemed father. Imagine the cost of sending four ambitious young men to law school. I simply offered to finance his children's' education for his cooperation."
"Then you killed him."
"He'd served his purpose." He studied her intently. "If it's any consolation, Bernstein felt quite badly for what he did to you."
Addison stared at him, speechless and sick to her soul.
Tate continued. "Bernstein had been hoping Beckett's death would satisfy your curiosity about your birth parents and end your search. He was an idiot. I knew sooner or later you would cause problems for me."
"Now you're going to murder me, too. Is that it? Is that how you're going to solve this?"
"I never wanted it to come to this, Miss Fox. Murder is an unpleasant business to say the least."
'''Especially when you get caught."
Cold amusement played behind his eyes. "You've got guts. I admire that greatly. This time, unfortunately, your bravery won't be rewarded."
Addison fought off nerves and struggled to keep the conversation moving, keep him talking. "I don't know why I'm here. What do you want from me?"
"I'm not sure what I had expected tonight. I was curious, I suppose."
"Curious about what?"
"You. My daughter."
The words sickened her. Without realizing it, she stepped away from him as if she'd suddenly realized that he was a carrier of a terrible disease. "You're insane."
"I assure you, I'm quite sane. You see, my wife has been told she'll never bear children. She's infertile. Therefore, you're probably the only offspring I'll ever have. I'm really quite sorry that our time together has been so short. It would have been interesting to know you better. Not many people intrigue me. You do, Addison. You're a very intriguing young woman."
He strode to the coffee table nearest her. Reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt, he removed a, brown prescription bottle and tapped three blue pills into her drink. "This should make the corning hours easier for you."
Addison's heart banged against her ribs. He's going to kill me, she thought with an eerie, calm.
He swirled the tumbler and handed it to her. "Drink it."
Terror thrashed inside her, like a bull whip slapping at her nerves. "No."
"I can tell you now that your death won't be a pleasant one." Patiently, he set the tumbler on the coffee table. "In a few minutes, Kyle will return. On my orders, he will bind your hands behind your back, Then we're going to go for a little ride out to sea."
"There are enough people who know about this to put you away for the rest of your life."
"Like your private detective?" He chuckled. "Don't be naive. Surely you realize he's dead."
"He's not dead," she choked. "He's not."
For a moment, he looked almost sympathetic, but his eyes remained as cold and hard as granite. "I've hired Kyle to take the Anastasia to Fort Lauderdale for the winter. Once out at sea, he will weight your body with the auxiliary anchor he keeps onboard for such occasions, I don't need to tell you what will happen next, do I?”
A shudder ran the length of her.
He grimaced. "It's not my intent for you to suffer. I wish you'd reco
nsider and take a few sips of the cognac. The Valium will ease your panic. Death will be much easier if you're calm."
The thought of such a horrible death turned her insides to jelly. She choked on the bile that crept into her throat, and found herself wanting to reach for the tumbler.
After a moment, he shrugged. "We've got another hour or so. Let me know if you change your mind." His gray eyes sought hers and held them for perhaps a full minute before turning abruptly to depress an intercom button built into the wall. "Kyle, we're ready."
The Perfect Victim Page 30
