by Linda Lovely
General Irvine played with the cuff of his jacket. His eyes didn’t meet mine. “Agent Weaver and the FBI will follow the money trail. Let her do her work. I’m sure all the guilty parties will pay. In time.”
“In time,” I repeated with disgust. “Okay, now it’s time for me to go home.”
“Let’s ask the doctor,” Duncan said.
A namby-pamby answer if I ever heard one. “Let’s not,” I snapped. “I have to see Ross and May with my own eyes, convince myself they’re okay.”
The general laughed. “It’s a wonder the colonel lasted in the Army. She doesn’t like to follow orders.”
He gave a jaunty salute. “I have to leave. Just wanted to say thanks.”
When the general exited, Duncan took my hand again. “May and Ross sat vigil with you most of the night, until the doctors insisted they leave. Doc Johnson worried May’s health would suffer if she didn’t get some sleep. He gave her a sedative and sent her home with Ross. They’ll both be asleep for hours. So there’s no rush.”
“I still want to go. Please.”
Duncan helped me dress—a strange reversal of roles. Despite the strenuous objections of the nurse on duty, I signed myself out without a doctor’s blessing. As usual, the hospital triumphed with its final humiliation, insisting Duncan roll me away in a wobbly wheelchair. It was early morning, seven a.m.
Duncan drove us straight to Eunice and Ross’s house. Queenie and Empress yelped as soon as our feet hit the front path. Some things had returned to normal. The barking hubbub made the doorbell superfluous. Eunice greeted us instantly and hugged me tight.
I winced at the pressure on my newly upholstered arm.
“Oh, sorry. I’m so glad to see you. I’m up early for me, but I wanted to make sure no one bothered Ross and May. They need their sleep.”
“I just want to see them.” The tears I’d been holding back sprang a leak. “I promise I won’t wake them.”
Eunice nodded and led me to a ground-floor master bedroom where Ross hugged a pillow. A smile tugged at my sleeping cousin’s puckered mouth. He looked about five years old—and cuddly—though he’d refute the adjective.
Next I followed Eunice upstairs, where she carefully opened a guestroom door. May’s snoring confirmed her presence before her fluffy white perm came into view. Her lips gently puffed open with each exhale.
“Thank you.” I hugged Eunice again then headed down the staircase.
Duncan waited in the hall, patiently petting the Shelties. They’d attached themselves like Velcro to his pant legs. As a rule, Queenie and Empress regard men with disdain. Their acceptance of Duncan seemed a good sign. Or maybe not, since the dogs were none too fond of me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and shuddered. No one had mentioned my black eye or the nasty bruises coloring a fair percentage of my body.
“Why don’t you stay?” Eunice suggested. “Sleep here. I’ll make up another guestroom.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” I answered. “Think I’ll head to May’s and soak out some of this soreness in a hot bubble bath. Clean clothes and hot coffee sound wonderful.”
I’d actually gotten a fair night’s sleep at the hospital, even though my slumber was the pharmacologically-induced kind that leaves me groggy for days.
I smiled. “Please, please call as soon as Ross and May wake up. I’ll come running.”
“Of course.”
“I love you.” I kissed my cousin’s cheek as we left.
“Love you, too.”
Though Duncan offered to keep me company, I sent him away with a kiss and a promise of more to come. His cool head and pluck under pressure impressed me. His willingness to pull sentry duty for a hospitalized friend added brownie points. Of course, Duncan’s superb performance ratings in other areas didn’t hurt my overall fondness for the man.
Yet I wasn’t anxious for anyone’s company. Duncan needed sleep; I craved a little self-pampering and solitude. A few hours to relax without a single demand.
But first I figured I’d wrangle an update from Weaver. Surely she’d figured some new avenue to prove Hamilton and Kyle pulled the strings.
Weaver answered my call on the first ring. “Marley, I can’t talk. I’m at Vivian Riley’s house. Kyle’s dead. So are Nancy and Vivian. All three shot in the head with a nine-millimeter Glock. Eric, our presumed shooter, is missing.”
“What!”
“Later.” Weaver hung up before I could digest her news.
Kyle Olsen, another of my mastermind candidates, lay dead. Why would Eric kill all three of them? Had to be some drug-induced psychotic rage.
It felt like I had ten-pound sacks of potatoes tied to each appendage. My drooping eyelids also signaled defeat. I dragged myself to May’s bathroom and turned the faucets to fill her oversized spa tub then added a generous dollop of lavender bubble bath. Steam filled the room as the hot water ran. The tub sloshed a little water on the tiled floor as I slid in.
I’m a shower person. Baths are too much trouble, too time consuming. Yet this felt wonderful. What’s more, the nurse had given stern instructions to keep my stitches dry for at least forty-eight hours. With my left arm draped on the tub ledge, I submerged all other body parts except for a small breathing oval of eyes, nose and mouth. The bubbles tingled. The lilac scent soothed; the heat consoled.
Eyes closed, I let my mind drift. Would Darlene and Julie ever feel safe enough to come home? I was convinced Kyle and Hamilton were behind all the deaths. Still Weaver theorized the killers had little to gain by pursuing a vendetta against Darlene and Julie. They’d been convenient scapegoats, not targets.
If I were Darlene, I’d feel uneasy until the bloodthirsty half-brothers traded pinstripes for prison stripes.
And now Eric was shooting folks.
TWENTY-FIVE
I have generous ears. You can pick any Carr relative out of a lineup—me, my sister, my cousins—solely by the size and shape of our ears. This time, my submerged, plus-sized hearing appendages failed me.
My eyes popped open when the bathroom door swung wide and ushered in a cool breeze. An apparition stared down at me. Paralyzed with fear, my scream caught in my throat.
Had anyone—even Aunt May—entered, I’d have shrieked in shock. But Eric, oh, God, what did he plan to do?
Jake’s orphaned grandson loomed in the doorway. He wheezed. His face ruddy from rage, exertion or both. His light blue eyes looked wild. Their crazed, shifting focus scared me shitless.
He was the spitting image of every murdering maniac conjured up by film noir. My total vulnerability didn’t help. You can’t get much more vulnerable than reclining naked in a tub.
His right hand grasped a large butcher knife. It swung to and fro like a shiny pendulum on a grandfather clock. At least the sharp blade wasn’t dripping blood.
Inexplicably, his weapon transformed my fear into righteous—I’m sure some would say menopausal—wrath. I refused to cower in front of this deranged, wet-behind-the-ears killer. The past twenty-four hours overloaded my nervous system with one too many shocks. The gleaming blade cut it.
“Okay, Eric,” I screamed. “Stab me. Just get it over with, punk. Nothing I can do. But you’ll kill me without the satisfaction of hearing me beg. What are you waiting for, you frigging idiot? Afraid you’ll miss a vital organ because you can’t see through the suds? Well, how’s this—I’ll help you decide where to aim?”
I violently pushed off the tub’s ledge and levered my nude body fully erect to its five-foot-seven-inch height. A tidal wave of soapy water splashed over the tub and rolled like an ocean breaker across the floor. The bathroom tsunami inundated Eric’s running shoes, then retreated in a wash of muddy detritus. Would this be the last sight I’d see?
The twenty-year-old spun, turning his back on my naked body. He blubbered like a baby. Not exactly the expected reaction.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he whimpered. “I tried to shoot him, but I couldn’t. My han
ds shook too much. Uncle Kyle’s blood made me dizzy. I guess I dropped the gun.”
Full-body sobs jerked the kid’s shoulders up and down. “I don’t even remember grabbing this knife. Musta seen it when I ran through the kitchen.”
My adrenaline-soaked brain wobbled from thought to thought. What in the hell was this boy saying? Could I snatch that knife from his hand?
“Who did you shoot? Your uncle?”
Eric slumped against the doorjamb. “A mistake. He’s coming for me. I gotta kill him before he kills me. He doesn’t scare you. I heard him talk about you. Help me. Please.”
Gingerly, I climbed out of the tub and slipped behind him. My wet hand closed over his trembling fingers. Miniature soap bubbles burst on my skin as I guided his arm toward May’s aqua commode and unwrapped his fingers. No resistance. The blade splashed into the toilet bowl. Step one.
Step two. Calm him down. Had the boy truly blocked out the fact that he’d killed Kyle Olsen? “Why did your uncle want to kill you?”
While waiting for an answer, I snagged a towel wrapper and nudged Eric ahead of me out of the bathroom. The young man hadn’t quit crying long enough to speak.
“Sit on the bed,” I ordered.
He sat, head in hands, and rocked. His sobs came in anguished waves.
“Eric, your uncle can’t kill you. He’s dead. You have to turn yourself in.”
The kid’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I just talked to Agent Weaver. She’s at Vivian’s house. Kyle Olsen is dead. So are Vivian and Nancy. Do you remember shooting? Maybe it was an accident.”
Eric leapt toward me. Not good. The chords in his neck stood out. “He killed them all. I didn’t do it.”
“Sit. Back. Down.” I made it a command, no choice but to submit.
His lanky frame folded in on itself. Maybe I’d get out of this alive.
“Why would your uncle kill Vivian and Nancy and then kill himself?”
“Not Uncle Kyle. That other man. He taunted him. Told him he had to do it.” Eric’s blubbering made his next words unintelligible.
“Snap out of it!” The notion of slapping Eric to stop his hysterics held a certain appeal. But that meant letting go of my towel cover. I snagged May’s pink robe on a nearby hook and shimmied it over my head.
“In the living room.” I pointed the way.
Eric staggered to a couch. “I rang the bell. When no one answered, I broke in to wait for you. Then I heard water running.”
The front door stood ajar, a sidelight window broken. Time to get the kid back on track. “You mentioned another man. What man?” If Eric meant Hamilton, I wanted him to say so without coaching.
My fingers itched to dial 911 while Eric appeared docile. Yet this might be my one chance to get him to talk. Traumatized, the not-quite-grownup seemed willing to spill his guts. Whatever Eric wanted to get off his chest might lighten Darlene’s load. Not often does one land a blubbering, voluble defector from the enemy camp.
“That Hamilton fellow. The security guy.”
Bingo. We were getting somewhere.
“Did I hear my name?”
The oily voice made my bowels shrivel. I turned toward May’s front door as Hamilton nudged it closed with his backside. His right hand, encased in thin surgeon’s gloves, held a Glock aimed squarely at my chest.
Eric leapt up from the couch.
“Sit down or you’ll have another death on your conscience,” Hamilton barked. “One more step and I shoot Marley. Behave and she might live.”
Yeah, right. I willed Eric to rush Hamilton. With the gun pointed at me, he had a chance. I’d be dead either way.
My mental telepathy failed. The kid collapsed on the couch in defeat.
“Good boy.” Hamilton glanced at Eric. “Those last three murders are all your fault. If you’d kept swallowing your pills, you’d never have overheard your uncle and me.”
Hamilton hadn’t ordered me to sit. I stood maybe eight feet away. Too far to down him before a bullet ended a tackle. I held my breath and inched one foot forward. Hamilton’s head snapped in my direction. His glare pinned me. “Don’t get cute, Colonel. Sit. Now.”
I backed up. May’s recliner sat directly behind me. I veered left and gingerly lowered myself onto a cane-bottomed chair, one of May’s recent antique finds. The wooden chair was heavy yet light enough to lift. Could I swing it like a club?
“I assume you plan to kill me and blame it on Eric.” My calm tone seemed to surprise and irritate my captor. “Let the boy live. No one will believe him if he accuses you.”
Hamilton’s smug smile chilled me. “You’re right about that. My alibi’s airtight.”
“So why track Eric down?”
He shrugged. “I wiped the gun clean. No fingerprints. That didn’t quite jibe with a drug-crazed killer. So much neater if the FBI found Eric holding the proverbial smoking gun.
“I wondered where the sniveling brat might run. His shiny red car advertised he’d come calling. Killing you, Colonel, wasn’t part of my plan. Just a nice bonus.”
I maintained direct eye contact. I didn’t want him to notice my fingers. My aunt had plans to repair the loose chair arm. As my fingers pried at it, I thanked heaven she’d procrastinated. Free of its pegs, the dense wood would make a solid club.
“So why kill your half-brother and the women? Wouldn’t it have been easier to do away with Eric?”
Keep Hamilton talking.
He chuckled. While his right hand trained the Glock on me, his left pulled a syringe from his pocket. “A heroin overdose for Eric would have been a tidy solution, but Kyle had a sudden bout of conscience. While we argued, dopehead here found a gun and fired at me.” Hamilton smiled. “Dopey dropped the pistol after he winged Kyle. When I settled down, I realized Kyle had become a liability. So I set up an alibi and doubled back to finish him off. Nancy and Vivian blundered in. Bad timing.”
I nodded, willing Hamilton to keep his eyes locked on mine. Eric stirred. Was he going to rush Hamilton?
“Handing over military secrets to homegrown terrorists didn’t bother you? You knew they planned to kill thousands, maybe millions, of innocents.”
The chair’s arm came free. I settled it lightly on its dowel and scooted my hand further back until I reached a narrow section I could grip like a bat handle.
Hamilton bared his white teeth in what passed for a smile. “We both know no one’s really innocent, don’t we? I had sympathy with the cause. I figured Bo’s clowns would get caught after they killed off a few thousand wetbacks. My contribution to solving our immigration problems.”
“They’ll catch you,” I growled.
“No, they won’t. That two million Glaston transferred to a Swiss bank is sitting in my account, got ten million more from Bo after his successful field tests.”
Hamilton’s eyes traveled down my body. He snickered. “Your death costume adds an extra touch of humiliation. You look like a bag lady who stole a smaller kid’s clothes.”
Eric sprang. Hamilton’s taunt morphed into a grunt. He crashed to the floor, Eric on top. The gun boomed, and plaster rained from the ceiling. Hamilton dropped the syringe, but not the pistol. I jumped to my feet, solid armrest in hand.
The twenty-year-old straddled his adversary, pinning one of the older man’s wrists in each hand. Too bad a steady diet of drugs had sapped the kid’s strength. His hold wasn’t enough to keep Hamilton from steadily inching the Glock upward. In a minute, it would tuck under Eric’s chin.
The men rolled. Positions flipped. Hamilton claimed the top. Time to act.
I sprinted and swung my makeshift club. Hamilton saw it coming and ducked. The armrest connected with floor not flesh. A jarring wave of pain shot from my wrist to my shoulder.
The gun coughed, and May’s Tiffany lamp exploded.
I refocused on the squirming men. When Hamilton coiled to escape my club, the kid seized the distraction, pinning the corrupt exec’s gun arm beneath his body. But the ex
perienced older man had a new weapon. He’d recovered the hypodermic syringe. A weapon just as lethal as the gun. Using his teeth, he plucked the plastic cover off the syringe. Armed and ready.
Eric gripped the man’s forearm, wrestling to keep the hypodermic needle away. He was losing the battle. Hamilton scissored his legs in an attempt to heave Eric off. I threw myself across his whipsawing legs, anchoring them in place. It was like riding side-by-side bucking broncos.
The deadly needle moved closer to the young man’s face. I slid further up Hamilton’s legs. His knees battered my ribs, but I’d gained a clear shot at his groin. Rising up, I dropped all my weight on my elbow between Hamilton’s legs. His whole body arched, accompanied by a scream that climbed two octaves.
Eric’s arm rose. He’d seized the syringe. Blood spurted as the needle plunged into Hamilton’s eye. Eric’s fingers pressed the plunger. The legs beneath me bucked in a wild frenzy. When they stilled, the only sounds were my labored pants and Eric’s gasps for air.
The kid rolled off Hamilton and lay spread-eagled on the rug. His chest heaved with every intake of air.
I attempted to stagger up. My body felt limp, boneless. Get up, call the police.
A shriek coaxed me to hoist my body up on one elbow. Had some new enemy come to murder us?
May’s elderly upstairs neighbors swayed in the doorway, a twin portrait of fear. A blue-veined hand covered the woman’s open mouth. Her stooped husband held her up by her elbow.
“We called 911,” he said. “A bullet came through our floor. Scared us silly. Are you okay, Marley?” His gaze swept over the still body and Eric gasping for oxygen.
“Yes,” I answered. “Thanks.”
Sirens blared nearby. Just the tonic I needed to prompt action. I wobbled to my feet and pulled the hem of my borrowed pink robe to cover my still-soapy thighs.
***
Sheriff’s deputies swarmed the condo and stood guard over the scene until Agent Weaver arrived with her team. She ushered Eric and me into the guest bedroom for a chat while the crime scene techs combed May’s living room, and Gertie examined another dead body. I hoped all evidence of the bloody melee could be erased before my aunt returned to the condo she viewed as her quiet, safe haven.
