Where would they go? Would Gary take her through Nogales and kill her in Mexico? Had he only told Chelsea they were going to Patagonia to get her to go with him? They could be anywhere.
Ben looked at the photograph. The snapshot looked nothing like the clean-cut Gary Phillips Ben knew. This man was about ten years younger; his hair was long and curly, he wore wire-rimmed glasses and sported a Fu Manchu. But the face was Gary’s.
Gary Phillips. Jack Perrault. Jack Garrett Perrault.
According to Sean Barrie, a man fitting Jack’s description had been a suspect in a 1978 murder in Los Angeles. And, also according to Sean Barrie, Jack Perrault had probably killed the heiress in Mexico, his wife . . .
His wife.
Ben thought of the night he met Perrault at the Copper Queen, remembered the man’s reaction to seeing Ben and Chelsea together. Perrault’s eyes had been flat, smooth, covering up the momentary fury Ben could have sworn he saw there.
Sean Barrie, his bitterness assuaged by blackmail money: “I put the idea in his head,” the old man had told him. “I wanted revenge. I thought it would be a kick if he married into the McCord family. But I never thought he would try it. No sir.”
Not until Sean Barrie saw Dorothy Perrault’s notebook, the notebook he had stolen from her hospital room after she’d fallen into a coma. The clippings had proven that Jack Perrault was dead serious about marrying Chelsea. And how long would the marriage last once Jack got his way?
Ben’s gaze wandered to the houses on the south side of the highway, registered a man raking freshly cut branches together in the center of the lawn.
Ben drove over and asked the man if he had seen a blue van carrying two people, a man and a woman. He produced the photograph of Jack.
“That kind of looks like him,” the man said after careful consideration. “Only more modern, you know? Like a business man on his day off. But he was driving a car. A foreign job.” No, he didn’t recall the color. The girl was real pretty, about five six, five seven, blond. They went up the old road toward Harshaw.
Chelsea looked at her watch. Two-thirty. She and Gary had been out here for almost two-and-a-half hours.
He was directly below her now, but still far enough away that she judged his gun wouldn’t do him much good. She would have to follow the ravine farther up. Maybe she could swing around and get to the car.
But without the keys, what could she do?
You should have paid more attention to those detective shows where the hero hot-wires the car.
Chelsea moved slowly, her feet skittering on the dry oak leaves and rocks.
Gary’s voice carried up the hill. “Why don’t you give up?”
Chelsea slipped through the dappled shade, up and up the ravine.
“I’ll find you eventually. You can’t win.”
Quiet. Chelsea moved carefully, testing the ground to make sure she didn’t make a noise.
There aren’t any houses for miles.” A twig snapped, as loud to Chelsea as a rifle report. With dismay, she saw that Gary had heard it. He started running in her direction. Chelsea had to run now. She pelted up the hill.
Ben stopped at the cemetery in Harshaw. A family picnicked among the Sycamore trees along the riverbed, some of them painting the headstones and decorating the graves. Yes, they had seen a car here. A late-model, gray car had left just as they arrived. A young couple—the woman had blond hair.
He might be following the wrong people. But he was committed now. Ben drove slowly, his eyes traveling restlessly over the terrain on either side of the road. He almost missed the turn for Mowry.
To his left, among the trees, metal reflected the sun. A car? He floored the accelerator, and the Silverado gained the hill.
Chelsea scrambled up onto the ridge. She had lost sight of Gary some time ago. He must be down below somewhere.
She slowed to a walk, looking around her. Had to catch her breath.
Where was he?
She skirted a deep crevice in the hill. It must be a mine shaft. The ground dropped away sharply. She couldn’t help staring down into the dark fissure—it appeared to be bottomless.
Gary burst from the foliage right in front of her.
“Just where I wanted you in the first place,” he said, gun pointed at her chest. “How accommodating.”
Chelsea froze.
“No one’s ever going to find you,” Gary continued, his tone conversational. He leaned against a tree trunk, his gun steady. “Any more questions, Chelsea? I’ve got all the time in the world, and you’ve got all eternity. So ask me what you want, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Play for time. The instinct to survive remained, even though part of her was ready to surrender. “I don’t see how you’re going to get away with this,” she said at last.
“You don’t? Then I’ll enlighten you. Sydney is the last McCord. She may not be blood, but Bob McCord will acknowledge her. And even if he didn’t, he’d have to acknowledge me.” His eyes were bright and fevered. He’s insane, Chelsea thought. Shrewd, maybe. But utterly insane.
How do you reason with a crazy person? But reason was the only weapon left to her, so she’d better come up with something fast. Her mouth felt dry; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. But she had to talk. And talk fast. “Uncle Bob’s not leaving Sydney the estate. He doesn’t trust her. She’s getting a stipend for the rest of her life so she can live comfortably But that’s all.”
“He’ll leave it to me then. I’m a McCord.”
Was there a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes? Stay calm. Take charge. Chelsea shook her head. “No, he won’t.”
“I have proof. A letter from Lucas McCord to the Perraults. Any court in the land—”
“And what about me? I couldn’t just disappear. Wouldn’t they suspect foul play? It seems awfully convenient, Gary, marrying Sydney and then showing up on Uncle Bob’s doorstep with your piece of paper after his only blood relative disappears. Wouldn’t he suspect you?”
Gary’s smile was a little less certain. “He doesn’t know me. I made sure he never saw me.”
Chelsea shook her head. She was feeling stronger every moment.”I don’t think Uncle Bob would ever acknowledge you. Why should he?”
“I’m his heir, that’s why!” Gary shouted.
“As I see it, the courts could tie you up for years. And sooner or later, someone would suspect that you had something to do with my disappearance. Ben, for one. He’d never leave it alone. How could you think he would?”
Rage suffused Gary’s face. His voice rose in pitch. “You’re just trying to bluff your way—” Then he smiled. “You’re just trying to save yourself. That’s understandable. You’ve been pretty lucky up to now. But your luck has just run out.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Chelsea saw Ben’s Silverado in the clearing below.
“Ben!” she screamed.
Gary’s gun jerked up. “Shut up!” Then he grabbed Chelsea and dragged her toward the mine. “I want you to die,” Gary said. “Even if I never see a cent, you’re going to die!” He put the gun to her temple.
“Chelsea!” Ben’s voice drifted up to them.
Gary’s face was right next to her own, and Chelsea could see the bright, crazy light like shards of glass in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was thick with gleeful hatred. “We’ll just wait until your boyfriend gets a little closer, shall we? We wouldn’t want him to miss out. That wouldn’t be fair, would it? He should get to see the show.” He held her tightly, looping his gun arm around her neck and shoving her head down. She saw sand trickling into the gaping hole and swallowed by the darkness. Fear pulsed in her throat, threatened to choke her. This is it, she thought. I’m really going to die.
Gary’s voice in her ear: “Look at this shaft. I wonder how far it goes? A hundred feet, two hundred? Maybe it’s bottomless. Which would you prefer, Chelsea? A quick shot to the head or the chance to see just how far this shaft goes?” With his other hand, he twisted her arm sidew
ays, pushing her within inches of the shaft. Her feet scraped on the loose dirt. Dislodged earth and rocks fell into the emptiness below.
No way Ben could get here in time. Chelsea tried to lean back, tried to let her weight pull her backward, tried to sit down, but Gary held her firmly.
“It’s been great, Chelsea, but I think—”
Suddenly his grip loosened. At the same moment as he let go, she felt her feet slip forward. She sat down hard in the dirt, aware that Gary had stepped away from her.
Gary stood at the edge of the pit, his eyes wide with fear. He was facing away from the mine, his attention on something just outside the clearing.
Gary backed up, unaware that he was now dangerously close to falling into the mine himself.
Chelsea followed his gaze.
A black panther crouched under the dark oak leaves, not two yards away. Crouched to spring.
Gary’s face, white and twisted.
With a rushing like wings displacing air, the panther shot forward.
Gary stepped back, hands up to ward it away. And stepped into the mine just as the black panther collided with the air above Chelsea’s head and vanished into black smoke.
Gary’s eyes darkened with terrible knowledge; then his scream ripped up through the bowels of the earth as he slid down into the black hole.
His hand caught a clump of grass as he fell, jerking it out of the ground and sending up a showering spray of dirt.
And then he was gone.
Shaking with adrenaline, Chelsea didn’t notice that the ground underneath her had begun to shake, too. Sand trickled down the incline into the darkness, a few clumps of dirt breaking off and pattering down the slope.
From where Ben was, the whole side of the mountain seemed to shift and flex. Gary’s fall must have caused a cave-in down below.
“Chelsea! Get away from there!”
Chelsea didn’t hear him. The panther was back, hovering in the air above the shaft, twice the size of a real jungle cat. It crouched low, its black fur shining like thousands of pinheads, rippling with a blue-velvet sheen that hurt the eyes. Its gaze held hers, twin globes of opaque blackness ringed by yellow.
Chelsea could feel the pull, feel her shoulders come forward slightly, her muscles tense. She knew that in another moment, she would stand up and walk toward it and reach for the knowledge in those eyes, those midnight eyes.
“Chelsssseeeeeeee,” the panther whispered. Its teeth were needle-sharp, white. “Look at me.”
The eyes, black—so black. Pulsing with mysteries just beyond human vision. Expanding until there was only one eye; and that eye sucked the life force out of the air like marrow from bone, sucked the bird song, the vibrancy from the blue sky, the emotion from Chelsea until all she knew was its darkness, calling her.
She dug her heels into the earth, the palms of her hands tensing as she started to rise.
The ground settled.
More dirt shuttled down into the black hole.
Like the lens of a giant camera, the eye filled the sky. Roiling with half-realized images, the writhing black forms ever-changing, the eye stretched before her like an abyss. And then one of its company separated from the rest and loomed into the light.
Lucas McCord, in his funeral suit. Clutching the black box camera and grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s my camera, Chelsea,” he crooned. “I was right, wasn’t I? I told you plain, it’d fix your wagon, and by God, it will!” His laughter froze Chelsea’s soul, a shrieking maniacal sound. “Fix your wagon!”
Chelsea tried to look away.
“Oh, don’t be so squeamish,” Lucas cackled. “I’ve got better things up my sleeve! The show’s just beginning!”
Suddenly, with a loud pop, a sheet of flame consumed him. The gust of hot air shot upward, clawing at Chelsea’s breath. She saw a burning figure dancing in the flames, a face carved in agony. John’s eyes, bright with fear and anger, peered out of the flames, one hand reaching out in anguish. The curtain of flame shimmered as John faded and something else crawled out of the fiery maw.
Chelsea’s heart squeezed. The thing sliding out of the conflagration looked familiar. She stared at the fingers probing the air blindly, at the malachite ring on one puffy, blackened finger.
Uncle Bob.
His shock of white hair glistened, freshly washed—a hideous contrast to the black skin that made Chelsea think of fermented grapes. His head had swollen so that it was impossible to distinguish his features. But she knew it was Uncle Bob. Knew it from the ring and the white hair.
Maggots teemed out of his toothless mouth and ringed his good eye, which gaped at Chelsea, sightless. The other was gone, its hollow socket cleaved like a broken gourd.
He crawled on his stomach, reaching thick sausage fingers toward her. A desert landscape stretched around him, burro weed and creosote blanched by moonlight.
Panic gripped Chelsea’s throat. She was unable to scream. She felt her mouth move, knew she was mouthing incoherent things, ridiculous things, in the face of this horrible truth. Uncle Bob was dead; he was lost to her forever. Kathy had killed him.
She stood in a half-crouch, spellbound, as the thing who had been her great-uncle slithered toward her. Heart pounding, Chelsea didn’t feel the ground shifting under her feet, the way the dirt started to give, tiny avalanches of fine-grained sand sifting down into the mine.
“I will show you things,” whispered Uncle Bob, his voice an insect rattle. “I will show you—”
Chelsea averted her eyes.
Fire crept up on Uncle Bob and started to eat into him. “What’s the matter, Chelsea? Look at your old great-uncle, girl. Look at me. Chelsea! Chelsea!”
“CHELSEA!” Ben’s voice. Chelsea’s head whipped around at the sound. There was Ben, standing not five feet away, his hands out, palms toward her. “Don’t move suddenly. The ground’s caving in.”
Chelsea stared from Ben to the body, now consumed by flames. “It’s Uncle Bob,” Chelsea whispered. “He’s—”
“Just ease backward. Slowly.”
“Uncle Bob’s dead!” She stared at the fire. “Can’t you see it?”
“I can’t see anything, Chelsea. Listen to me. The ground’s caving in. You’ve got to crawl away from the mine.”
Chelsea stared back at the flame. Kathy stood in its center, wearing a white blouse and navy-blue skirt. She was achingly beautiful. She put out her arms toward Chelsea. “Come with me,” she whispered. Her voice was like a cool stream on a hot day, inviting.
Chelsea leaned forward.
“What are you doing?” Ben shouted.
“Come, Chelsea, come to me.”
Legs trembling, Chelsea stood. She was oblivious to the black hole at her feet.
“Chelsea!” It was Ben’s voice. Why did he sound so scared?
“Come home, Chelsea,” Kathy whispered. Her voice was soothing, and despite herself, Chelsea wanted to go to her.
Chelsea extended her own arms as far as they could go, almost brushing Kathy’s fingertips with her own. A large slab of dirt broke apart not two feet from her, but she didn’t notice.
Ben’s arms came up around her in a vise and jerked her back, just as the ground buckled. With a heaving roar, a huge chunk of hillside broke apart and plunged into the darkness.
Stunned, Chelsea lay in the shelter of Ben’s powerful body, feeling his heart pounding against her own. Gradually, she felt the sting of scraped skin, the weight of his arm across her chest.
She looked toward the mine. She had almost stepped into it, just like Gary.
The ghost hovered in the air, her eyes bright with unfathomable sadness. “Chelsssseeeee.”
“Do you see her?” Chelsea asked.
Ben nodded. “Yes.”
“What do you want?” Chelsea asked the apparition.
Kathy extended her arms again. “Come with me,” she whispered.
“You killed Gary and Uncle Bob. You probably killed Lucas, too. Isn’t that enough
?”
“Chelsseeeeeee.” Kathy was so beautiful, ethereal. For a brief moment, Chelsea felt herself wanting to go to her. There was the funeral to go through, and she would have to live with the speculation, the hounding reporters, the cruelty of those who thrived on scandal and misfortune. Gary had betrayed her. And Jason.
“Come,” whispered Kathy.
How simple to step forward into space and leave all her troubles and grief behind.
Chelsea eased out of Ben’s embrace and stood up.
“Don’t listen to her.” Ben’s voice seemed to come from far away.
Ben’s voice. Ben.
“Come,” whispered Kathy.
Ben. There was Ben. He loved her.
Ben’s voice, closer. Weighted with concern for her. “Chelsea, please.”
And the trance was broken.
“It’s all right.” As she said the words, Chelsea realized it was true. Kathy’s power over her had been broken. Chelsea faced the ghost. “You can’t hurt me.”
“Chelsssseeeeeee.” The voice was fainter, tinged with sadness.
“No.”
Kathy started to fade, like a TV screen image snowing up with interference. Her hands came up in supplication. “Please.” This last came in a long drawn-out sigh.
Chelsea stood her ground. “Go back where you came from.”
The mist hovered for a moment longer, then vanished.
Only blue sky remained.
Chelsea felt Ben’s arms enclose her body. She shuddered involuntarily, glad for his warmth.
“She’s gone,” Ben said. His voice betrayed his puzzlement.
“Yes.” There was no doubt in her mind that Kathy was truly gone.
“Do you really think it’s true? About your Uncle Bob?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” Chelsea was surprised at how calmly she accepted it, as if she had known all along it would come to this.
“She tried to kill you.”
Chelsea shook her head. “She saved me from Gary. She saved my life, Ben.”
“She wanted to kill you both.”
Chelsea struggled to put into words what she knew in her heart of hearts to be true. “She wanted me to go willingly.”
Darkscope Page 34
