by Nancy Bush
“What?”
“Turn the car around.”
She edged the SUV forward and pulled into the neighbors’ drive, hoping they would come outside and see, but they were never home. As she reversed back onto the road, she ventured to ask, “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you both home,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s showtime, folks. All the work’s been done and now I get to reap the benefits. And I’m just an innocent bystander. No one knows about me, and that’s the way I want to keep it. Of course, I do have a partner in crime, but hey, if they all want to blame someone they should look at Andre and Teresa. They’re the ones who put the whole plan in motion. It’s endgame time now, and all I’ve done is pick up the ball and run with it. Now it’s time to clean up the remaining mess. Can’t wait to see the looks on their faces as they realize they’re all doomed.
West drove north on the 101, fighting rush-hour traffic. Half an hour earlier he’d said, “I’m out of here,” to Dorcas as he got up from his desk and stretched his back. It was going on six o’clock and it was looking like Mike Theron wasn’t going to call him back today. He’d put a call in to Bibbs, too, but had learned the detective was on vacation. Since Osbirg was no longer on active duty with the LAPD, he was stuck with the case notes on the Cantrell homicide and they weren’t all that enlightening. But if Theron didn’t return his call, he might have to chase down one or the other of the two detectives who’d handled the case.
Through Bluetooth, he punched in Callie’s cell number, but was sent straight to voice mail. He wanted to text her, but that would necessitate pulling over and he didn’t feel like wasting a minute. He would be at her place soon enough if traffic didn’t get any worse.
With time on his hands, he next phoned the Coalinga hospital, hoping to talk to Victoria’s doctor directly. After being directed and redirected a couple of times, he finally connected with the man who told him Victoria had woken up briefly and seemed to know who she was and where she was. Encouraged, West thanked him, aware how relieved he was that Victoria would live. It was something of a revelation that he felt so protective of her when all she’d ever done was try to deny his existence—that is, until she’d needed him.
Freeway traffic was moving steadily, if at a snail’s pace. He had to contain his impatience and was doing a piss-poor job of it when his default ringtone trilled. Snatching up the phone, he didn’t recognize the number. He almost didn’t answer, but finally clicked on and said, “Detective Laughlin.”
“I believe we were cut off earlier. This is Diane Cantrell,” she said snappishly.
Dorcas had given out his cell number to her, he realized. His partner wanted nothing to do with the Cantrell case, especially since he’d learned West was involved with Callie. Though Dorcas had been amused at that, he’d also warned West to watch himself. Getting involved with anyone connected to a case was asking for the kind of trouble West didn’t need.
“Was there something else?” West asked her.
“I’m trying to help you, Detective,” she said, exasperated. “Callie has now suddenly found a key to a security box of some kind and she lured my brother to her house but she won’t let him see what’s inside. She’s playing some kind of game, and she’s unstable. Did you know she spent over a month in a mental hospital? I know you’re trying to find out what happened to Jonathan and Sean, but you’re looking far afield when she’s right there!”
“Are you suggesting Ms. Cantrell had something to do with the accident?” West asked in a dangerous voice.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, no.” Diane backed off immediately. “But she’s hiding money, and I would hope the LAPD would consider that a crime.”
“What you’ve described sounds more like a legal issue. You might want to consult a lawyer.”
“We already have,” she said, ruffled. “But you need to investigate Callie. There’s a pattern here, that you people seem to be missing. That’s all I’m saying.”
West heard a beep in his ear, signaling another call. He just managed to stop himself from saying, “We people will look into it,” instead, ending their conversation by politely assuring her he had noted her concerns before clicking off from her and on to the next call. “Detective Laughlin,” he answered.
“This is Michael Theron. You called me earlier?”
“I sure did,” West said. Quickly, he explained what Bob Vincent had told him about feeling one of Theron’s other employees had stolen his car, which had then been used in a homicide a little over a year earlier.
“I thought that was ruled an accident,” Theron said.
That was Osbirg’s fault, West thought, annoyed. The detective had assumed it was a random theft and had let the case languish because he thought digging further was a waste of time. “It’s an open investigation. Mr. Vincent said he didn’t know the employees’ real names.”
“Look, I hire men on the spot when construction is going and blowing. Sometimes they have ID, sometimes . . . well, I just need bodies, y’know?”
West understood that he was saying he hired illegal aliens among others. “Do you remember any of the names? He called three of them by nicknames it sounded like he’d given them himself.”
“I know who he meant.” Theron snorted. “Bob drinks too much, but he’s a good worker. I’d still hire him. You can tell him that, but he might not believe you. He got all wrapped up in the insurance problems and tried to sue them and me, and I was pretty pissed for a while. Those three, though. They didn’t really want to work. Especially the one who thought he was God’s messenger, or some such thing.”
“Preacher?” West put in.
“Yessirree, that’s what Bob called him. The guy spent way too much time on his cell. He never had wheels of his own. Got dropped off by a couple different women. Mostly pretty good-lookin’. He could draw ’em in like a magnet. Actually, now that you reminded me, I think I did see him lookin’ at Bob’s car once while he was on the phone. Thought he was gonna offer to buy it.”
“What’s Preacher’s real name?” West asked, wondering if there might be something to Bob Vincent’s accusations after all.
“Mmmm . . . Andrew Something. Can’t remember.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. That’s right. Wanted us to call him Andre.”
West jerked. “Andrew Laughlin?” he asked sharply.
“Mighta been,” Theron allowed, rolling that over. “I think you might be right. He didn’t work for me long, and he didn’t work much when he was there. He was the first one to leave of those three. Huh. Like your name.”
West’s mind was reeling. Had to be Andre, from his description. Andre . . . the stolen vehicle . . . Teresa’s fingerprints . . . the Cantrells . . . “You have an address for him?” West asked without much hope. Transient workers didn’t often give out accurate information, and he’d already heard how strange and secretive Andre was. Callie sure hadn’t liked him. . . .
He had a moment of cold fear, a premonition of sorts that made him itch to call Callie again.
“Actually, I do, sort of,” Theron said thoughtfully. “I heard him on the phone once, complaining about the neighbors and he mentioned the address. Carmella Lane, Laurel Canyon somewhere. I remember ’cause it’s my aunt’s name.”
“Thanks,” West said hurriedly. He hung up and immediately called Callie. Once again he went straight to voice mail.
Where was she?
He next put a call in to Dorcas. When his partner answered, he asked, “You still at work?”
“Just leaving, pal. Don’t ask me to do anything.”
“Can you look up Carmella Lane? Laurel Canyon somewhere. Just give me a general idea. I don’t want to stop and look for it.”
“This the Cantrell homicide?”
“Can you just do it?” West shot back.
Muttering beneath his breath, Dorcas went silent for a few minutes, then gave West the location, which West pinpointed in his mind. “It’s a small, dead-end s
treet,” Dorcas said. “What’s there?”
“I’m following a lead on the stolen car that pushed the Cantrell Mercedes over the cliff.”
“You got something?” He was interested.
“I’ll let you know soon. I’m going there now.”
“Thought you were going home.”
“Have to check on this first.”
He hung up, attempted to reach Callie one more time, then tried to tamp down a bad feeling that persisted. He should have listened more closely to her complaints about his dark-horse cousin.
The house Andre guided Callie toward was a dark brown bungalow with a steep driveway that rose from the sloped street below. The place looked like it could use a coat of paint or two and one eave dipped down toward the hedge that ran along the north side.
“Turn around, then stop on the street,” Andre said. The first words he’d uttered in several miles.
Callie had to jockey the Xterra to get it facing down the street toward the exit. Then she pulled over to the curb and squeezed into a parking spot. She set the parking brake automatically, aware that her hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
“Get out and get the boy,” Andre ordered.
He waited until she’d climbed out and opened the back door, then levered himself from the vehicle and came around to her side, all the while pointing the gun at her head. Full night had fallen while they’d been driving.
Callie clasped Tucker’s hand and they walked across the road together. Tucker was shivering. She wondered if it was because he was in a short-sleeved shirt or if it was from fear. Probably both. She was shivering too.
There were houses crouched on both sides of the street. She hoped someone would look out and see that Andre had a gun. He wasn’t really trying to conceal the weapon. He was too concerned that she should understand the threat . . . and she did.
He’d taken the keys from her and now he put them back in her hand and showed her which was the one to the house. She unlocked the front door, her mind spinning. He was sick. There was no doubt about that. If she could use that to her advantage, maybe she could somehow get his phone and contact West. Andre had picked up his cell from the console and tucked it in his pocket, but she could see the end of it, as if it hadn’t been pushed down far enough and could fall out.
But most important was to keep Tucker safe. Find a way to get him free.
A faint putrid scent reached her nose as she stepped inside and into a darkened hallway. Tucker squeezed her hand even tighter.
“What is that?” Andre asked, sounding like the smell was a surprise to him, too.
She’d stopped short but he prodded her in the small of her back with the gun.
She stepped forward reluctantly, almost dragging Tucker as he didn’t want to move. She didn’t either. Something was dead here.
She moved slowly down the hall. Doors were closed on either side and it was cool inside, almost cold. There was no heat. The smell grew stronger and Callie stopped short at a room near the end of the hall. Faint light showed from beneath its closed door.
Andre hesitated, then said loudly, “I am The Messiah!”
He moved past Callie and threw open the door. Callie got a glimpse of a large room with robed bodies lying on the floor. Staring eyes. Bruised throats. Pools of blood. Ashes poured over them. And the smell!
She made a retching sound, grabbed Tucker, and turned around, pushing him ahead of her. She didn’t even have to yell for him to run. He tore for the front door, racing back down the dark hallway and directly into the woman who had suddenly thrown open one of the bedroom doors and jumped in front of him.
Tucker staggered backward and said in a scared, confused voice, “Aimee?”
Callie was almost upon them and Andre was breathing down her neck. She parroted Tucker blankly, “Aimee?”
In perfect English Aimee answered, “You’re going to both have to turn around. Tucker, go in there.” She pushed open a door to one of the bedrooms.
“No . . . Callee . . .”
“Get in there,” she ordered tautly. She held something in her hand. Callie realized in shock that it was a hypodermic needle.
“Yes, go,” Callie said faintly, and Tucker reluctantly moved into the room. As soon as he was inside, Aimee locked the door from the outside. The knob had been turned around to make the room a prison.
“What have you done?” Andre rasped, before Callie could even form a question.
“They’re a sacrifice for you, Messiah.”
Callie’s heart was pounding so hard it deafened her. Was that sarcasm in her voice? Why was Aimee here? Had she killed those women and that man?
“What the fuck, Aimee,” Andre muttered.
“I told you to come home, but you shouldn’t have brought them here,” Aimee retorted. “The boy. This woman? You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he roared.
“I love you!” Aimee shrieked back at him. “I told you when you came to Martinique that I would handle things.”
Callie was between them. She felt faint . . . ill . . . could sense the fog trying to creep in. No. She had to save Tucker....
“But it was always Teresa,” Aimee continued her rant. “Is that why she’s here?” She hooked a thumb toward Callie. “Because she looks like her?”
Callie took a slow step to the side, so that she could get out of harm’s way. They glared at each other. Andre’s gun hand was slack, she saw, and his free hand was pushing hard against his temple. “You killed them . . . and Lumpkin . . . Jerrilyn . . .” he muttered.
“And Teresa,” she said coldly. “Your handmaidens . . . You really thought they were capable of killing for you?”
“Naomi ran down the old lady,” Andre growled.
“No . . .” Callie murmured, horrified.
“Is she dead?” Aimee asked with an edge.
“She will be,” Andre assured her, seeming to get some of his strength back. “Teresa killed for me.”
“Always Teresa,” she said in disgust. “She was supposed to kill Stephen Laughlin, but she got someone else to do that one. Couldn’t quite dirty her hands. She’d had the man’s child and had feelings for him.”
“She killed him under my orders,” Andre snarled. He looked ready to throttle Aimee who seemed not to care about the danger.
“She did murder Jonathan Cantrell, though,” Aimee conceded. “But only because he found your camp here,” she sneered, throwing out a hand to encompass the house. “Stupid ass wouldn’t stop looking for his lovely, lovely Teresa. It’s like a fairy tale, isn’t it? His quest for her. He even married her lookalike. She didn’t love you, Andre. She never loved you.” Her mouth worked as if she were about to cry. She fought back her emotion and dragged her gaze back to Callie. “They didn’t give a damn about killing your kid. Set it up from the start. A test for Teresa.”
There was a beat inside Callie’s head. An angry pounding. She was being goaded but the way Aimee talked about Sean’s death sent blood running hot through her veins.
“He told me about it,” Aimee went on, correctly interpreting the storm gathering in Callie’s eyes. “When he came to Martinique. Gloated about it.”
“You lie!” Andre roared.
“I’m the one who loved you,” she spat at him through her teeth. “But you never even saw me. They were leaving you!” She flung her arm in the direction of the bodies. “But I waited for you. All that time. All that time. Waited while you and Teresa played your games. Conned your marks. When Teresa brought me the boy, I thought, now he’ll see. Now he’ll know what a cheating bitch she is. But she never told you about him.” She gestured to Tucker’s room. “Never told you she’d had Stephen Laughlin’s son!”
“I found out,” Andre shot back. “I knew!”
“Only when I told you,” she reminded. “I kept him for Teresa. Planned to contact you when the time was right and turn him over. But you had those fucking handmaidens! Called yourself Messiah!”
/>
Callie slid another step away from them until her back was against the hallway wall.
“Teresa told me she was leaving you,” Aimee railed on. “Said you weren’t well. And then I saw for myself.” She lifted the hypodermic. “And you still didn’t even notice me. You were on a mission to find Teresa and you couldn’t see what was standing right in front of you. All those wasted years . . . I had to turn to others, Andre. Find someone I could count on. Because it wasn’t ever going to be you and those fucking whores, was it? Even after you told me how to find them, who they saw, what they did. You said you wanted me to kill them! You don’t get to be sorry now!”
Andre was pushing, pushing, pushing at his temple.
“I told you to come home,” Aimee said tautly, “and look what you brought . . . her.” She flung a disparaging look Callie’s way.
Quick as a snake, Andre reached forward and slapped Aimee. Hard. Callie was running for the back of the house before the decision even reached her brain. She had to get free! Save Tucker! Get away from them!
Aimee staggered from the blow but got a hand out, grabbing Callie’s leg, tripping her. Callie went down hard, her cheek slamming into the hardwood floor. The hypodermic flew over her head and into darkness beyond. Andre slammed himself down on her. Callie witnessed his cell phone clatter to the floor and skim across the hardwood before Andre grabbed her by the hair and dragged her forward. Her hands scrabbled for the cell, caught it just as Aimee reeled toward the end of the hall, blindly searching for the hypodermic. Andre smacked Callie’s head against the wood and she momentarily saw stars and went limp. It was easy to play dead. The cell phone was beneath her.
Andre was breathing hard near her ear. Then he backed off and snapped, “What’s in that? You gonna roofie her?”
Callie’s heart sank. Aimee had found the hypodermic.
I work at a clinic . . . Callie dimly recalled Aimee’s answer to West’s question about employment.
“It’s something else,” Aimee told Andre sullenly.
“You brought it from Martinique?” he asked.
