FALSE PRETENSES

by Catherine Coulter

  “I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit—how to kill the two of you, that is. It’s got to appear an accident—that, or I’ll have to live in South America. Draper and Moretti hate you, Elizabeth, but they aren’t stupid and they are sworn to mete out justice, whatever that means. Now, I do believe I’m a bit thirsty. Watching you two is tiring and boring. Shall we go to your cabin, Harley?”

  He was going to play with them, Jonathan realized, relief flooding him. He was going to brag and show them how great he was. Excellent. Now he had a prayer of doing something. The twenty-two was in the cabin. There was hope. And Hunter would have to make it look like an accident. How?

  “Come, Lizzie,” he said, and helped her stand.

  “Don’t call her that again!”

  Jonathan froze at the rage in the man’s voice. He looked at him, and now he believed he was insane. “All right, I won’t call her that. You’re thirsty, Hunter?”

  Christian ignored him. “Elizabeth, come here, with me.”

  She froze. She could feel Jonathan coiling beside her. She took a step forward, then another.

  She wondered if she could hurl herself at him. Jonathan could perhaps escape. Yes, he was fast, he was strong. The distance seemed endless, one step after the other. With each step, she saw vivid images of herself, fragments really. She was in high school, playing Christmas carols for the choir, wearing red and green, wishing she could be singing and not playing. Then in Paris with Claude, seeing the Louvre for the first time and feeling insignificant.

  One more step. She would save him. She felt strong. She felt in control.

  26

  Elizabeth felt strangely detached from the woman who was walking toward Christian Hunter. One more step. One foot in front of the other. No more fragments, no more meaningless memories. Just now. She forced herself to keep her eyes on Christian’s face, and not on that gun.

  One more step.

  She heard a sea gull squawk loudly, just overhead. Suddenly she smiled, and looked up, for just an instant. Christian’s eyes followed hers.

  She jumped straight at him, her hands like claws, trained on the gun. She grabbed his wrist, throwing her weight against him, jerking upward with all her strength. He fell backward. She knew Jonathan yelled, but all she really heard was Christian’s surprised intake of breath.

  The gun went off, loud and obscene.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She was rolling with Christian on the rocky beach. He was cursing her, slamming at her with his fists. It was over quickly.

  “Stop where you are, Harley! Or the bitch is dead!”

  Jonathan stopped cold. Hunter had her pinned beneath him, the gun pointed at her temple.

  Christian didn’t move. He saw that Harley was still now, and he looked down into Elizabeth’s face. He gently pressed the muzzle against her temple.

  It was cold, so cold.

  He felt her beneath him, quivering just slightly, and pressed himself against her. He heard a yell of rage from Harley, and just smiled. “You like that, Elizabeth?”

  All she could think about was that she’d failed. She stared up at him, saying nothing.

  “That was a stupid move, Elizabeth,” he said, and lifted himself off her. “Come along now. No more attempts to save this stupid husband of yours, or I’ll put a bullet in the middle of your face.”

  She believed him.

  Jonathan thought of Rambo at that moment, and nearly laughed aloud. What would Rambo do? He’d not have a shirt on, that was for sure, and there’d be a magazine of bullets strapped across his chest, and an M16, or whatever the newest military toy was, in his hands, pointed at his enemy like a huge phallic symbol. Too bad Stallone wasn’t here to write a script for him, a script in which the hero won out.

  All he said was, “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”

  She nodded and came up on her hands and knees. She was aware of pain in her ribs. She shook her head, clearing it, and rose slowly.

  “Now, let’s go.”

  Christian kept the gun pointed at her throat now as he walked beside her. Jonathan was just ahead of them. He’d taken karate classes a while back, had gotten pretty good, but suddenly he couldn’t remember a thing. It was like his body belonged to someone else. He’d always thought self-defense was a game, nothing more, not really. What wasn’t a game to him was running. How could he disarm a man with running? Or a dynamite breaststroke, for that matter?

  “Rustic,” Christian said. “Just the spot for newly-weds to scream and yell in bed with no one to hear them. Open the door, Harley.”

  Jonathan opened the door and walked inside. His eyes went immediately to the small desk on the far side of the living room. Top drawer, under a couple pieces of paper. Loaded and ready to go.

  “Get me a Scotch, Harley, with ice. Dear Elizabeth and I will wait for you in here.”

  He was walking away from the desk. Think, you damned fool, think.

  “Well, Elizabeth, it was all the watch, wasn’t it?”

  He sounded so very normal, amused almost.

  “Yes,” she said, “it was the watch. Timothy had never worn it until the day you murdered him.”

  “That was stupid of me,” Christian said easily, stretching out on the sofa, looking relaxed and very pleased with himself. “I knew then that you would think about it, wonder perhaps. Unfortunately I had no idea that the old bastard hadn’t ever worn it. Too bad. But I’d already lost you by then, hadn’t I, Elizabeth?”

  “I was never there for you to lose, Christian.”

  “Even though I saved you from Rowe Chalmers? You’re ungrateful, Elizabeth. I wanted you so much that I didn’t even mind that you’d been screwing him.”

  “No, Christian, it wasn’t me you wanted. You killed a man who’d never harmed you and all because of a phantom you created in your mind. She was never real, Christian.”

  Jonathan heard her speaking and sloshed some Scotch from the glass. God, she was telling him he was insane.

  The ice cubes fell onto the counter, sounding like bullet cracks. It was then that Jonathan began wishing frantically for something to put in that Scotch. Rat poison. Anything.

  “You want to know something, Elizabeth?”

  Jonathan breathed a sigh of temporary relief. Hunter sounded calm, as if her words hadn’t penetrated. Perhaps they hadn’t. He put two ice cubes into the glass, but waited a moment.

  Christian continued, “I used to go to Susan after I’d been with you. I wanted you so badly, but you never wanted me. I didn’t realize it then, I believed you so scarred, so wary, vulnerable, but you were just toying with me. You were afraid I’d tell Moretti that I’d lied for you and that you were your husband’s murderer.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “No.”

  “Well, no matter now. Ah, my Scotch. Sit down, Harley, and be a good chap. Elizabeth, you will take a drink first, if you please.”

  Thank God he hadn’t found any poison. Jonathan watched her take a small sip, then another. Hunter waited a moment, then nodded to himself, satisfied.

  Jonathan watched him sip the Scotch. It was good stuff. He was remembering so many movies where the hero kept the killer talking to gain time. Didn’t movie plots come from real life? Hell, it was worth a shot. Maybe the Scotch would slow Hunter’s reflexes.

  He prayed that Elizabeth wouldn’t try to go after Hunter again. He saw her hands fisted in her lap.

  “You know, Hunter,” Jonathan said finally, “there’s not a chance in hell that you’ll get away with this.”

  Christian’s eyes slewed toward him. He looked disdainful, contemptuous. He gently rolled the Scotch around in the glass. The ice cubes clicked together. The noise sounded like death itself to Elizabeth.

  “Christian, listen to me. I’m the one who hurt you. I’m the one you hate, not Jonathan. He has nothing to do with you. Let him go.”

  “Shut up, Elizabeth.”

  “Let her beg, Harley. I find her devotion touching. Misguided, but touching nonethe
less. My dear, I do wonder why you married him, though. Fear of me, perhaps? You knew retribution was coming and you wanted to attach some fool to protect you?”

  “He’s a man,” Elizabeth said quietly, looking Christian straight in the eyes. “He’s honest and loyal and the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. Let him go, Christian.”

  “You’re boring me now, Elizabeth.” Christian set the glass on the table beside the sofa. “You want to know something? I knew you were involved with him, even before I found out who he was. And you lied to me, told me he was just a business acquaintance. But I knew, Elizabeth, I knew you were betraying me.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Well, it’s a little late now. I think it’s time to end this farce. We’re going for a ride. Get the boat keys, Harley.”

  Jonathan just stared at him for a moment. The damned boat. Both of them found drowned in the Atlantic off Christmas Cove? Jonathan walked toward the desk, but Hunter’s voice drew him up.

  “The boat keys are on that hook over there, Harley, by the window.”

  Jonathan got the keys and tossed them to Hunter. He caught them, grabbing Elizabeth’s arm as he did so. “I told you not to try anything, Elizabeth.” He bent her arm painfully behind her and she winced, but made no sound.

  “Now, Harley, I want you to fetch some nice strong cord for me.”

  “No.”

  Christian wrenched her arm back and upward. Elizabeth bit her bottom lip but was still silent. “Now, Harley, or I’ll break her arm.”

  “I don’t have any, at least not here in the cabin.”

  “Where?”

  “The boathouse.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He waved the gun at Jonathan.

  Suddenly Elizabeth stopped. “No, Christian, I’m not moving. You want this to be an accident? Well, I won’t let you. If you want me dead, then shoot me now, here. Even Moretti will be after you.”

  Jonathan sucked in his breath. Hunter would shoot, he knew it. The man was crazy, and so twisted that the thought of the New York D.A. after him probably didn’t make a ripple in his mind.

  Christian looked down at Elizabeth. He smiled. “You want it here and now, my dear? All right.”

  “Look, Peabody, I am the district attorney. And this is a possibly critical situation. Get over to Jonathan Harley’s cabin in Christmas Cove. He and Mrs. Carleton are in danger, I’ll bet on it.”

  Homer Peabody looked at the plate of beef stew in front of him, warm and spiced with tangy mustard. His wife thought he was crazy to eat mustard on beef stew, so he usually ate it in his office. It was getting cold even as this idiot crank was bending his ear. He started nodding, then realized that he was on the phone. “All right, Mr. Morelli—”

  “Moretti! Anthony Moretti, you damned fool.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Moretti. I’ll get right over there. Don’t you worry, now.”

  “Take some men with you. Hunter is dangerous. He’s already killed three people.”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

  Moretti cursed and slammed down the phone.

  Homer Peabody shook his head sorrowfully at the crank’s rudeness. Wasn’t nothing going to happen. He’d been here for fifteen years. There was a murder once, a long time ago, but it was an out-of-stater who’d stabbed his wife. The district attorney of New York calling him. Fat chance. He scooped up a spoon of stew and took a satisfying bite. He’d go out to Christmas Cove—oh, yeah, he’d go. He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. That mustard was the best.

  Moretti dialed the number of the state police. His hand was shaking. That damned fool Draper had lost Hunter, and now he was long gone. After Elizabeth Carleton. He felt it in his gut. And it was his fault. “Shit,” he said softly.

  “I beg your pardon?” said a woman’s outraged voice on the other end of the line.

  “Excuse me,” said Moretti. “I need to speak to Mark Cunningham.”

  “He’s at lunch at the moment.”

  Moretti stared at the phone. “Then get me his next in command. This is a damned emergency!”

  “You needn’t yell or use profanity,” said the woman.

  Moretti gritted his teeth.

  Then the line went dead. The woman had cut him off. He cursed, then dialed the number again.

  Elizabeth didn’t even see his fist coming. It slammed against her jaw.

  Jonathan dived toward him, but Christian grabbed Elizabeth under the arms and pressed the gun against her breast. “Just stop, Harley.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Hunter.”

  “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are. Now, pick up the bitch and let’s get to the boathouse. You try anything, Harley, and I’ll put a bullet through her.” Christian knew Jonathan Harley was at the edge. He added very softly, “I don’t care if I die, Harley. It’s even possible that after I fire once you’ll get to me. But she’ll be dead. Very dead.”

  Christian dropped Elizabeth to the floor. “Pick her up, Harley. Now.”

  Jonathan lifted her over his shoulder. He hoped her jaw wasn’t broken, and almost laughed at his concern. It seemed so trivial, but his blood still boiled with rage. He wanted to kill Hunter, very badly now. He had to think, to come up with something, dammit, not react like a bumbling fool, like a man who would lose everything if he lost her.

  He walked out the front door of the cabin, steadying Elizabeth with his arm across the back of her thighs.

  He saw Hunter’s shadow behind him, off to his left. The terrain was gentle here, no dangerous crags or hidden sharp rocks. Just sweet sweeps of winter grass.

  At the boathouse he gently laid Elizabeth on the floor and straightened.

  “The cord, Harley,” Christian said, waving the gun at him.

  You’re going to tie me up, then take Elizabeth out and dump her in the ocean.

  “You got it,” Christian said, and Jonathan started, not realizing that he’d spoken aloud.

  Unfortunately, the cord was in plain view. It was strong nylon cord used on the motorboat. Jonathan reached for it, his mind racing. Oh, yeah, he knew what he’d do now. He felt the rush of air behind him and lurched around, but he wasn’t fast enough. The butt of Hunter’s gun hit him on the temple. He sank to the wooden floor without a sound.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes very slowly. She was first aware of the loud hum of an engine, then movement beneath her. And Christian Hunter. She didn’t rub her hand against her aching jaw. No, she just cracked her eyes open a bit. Christian was at the wheel, steering the boat out of the cove, out into the open sea. Where was Jonathan? She nearly cried out when she realized he wasn’t there in the boat. What had Christian done to him? Killed him already? She felt bile rise in her throat and she felt the utter horror of helplessness. For an instant, the last year and a half rolled through her mind, and she saw herself weak and vulnerable, then strong, but driven to bury that other Elizabeth.

  “No.”

  Christian turned quickly about to face her. “Hello, Elizabeth. Not much longer now, my dear.” Even as he spoke, he turned off the motor.

  “What did you do to Jonathan?”

  “I killed him,” Christian said calmly.

  She managed to come up on her hands and knees. The boat was swaying gently in the swell of the waves.

  “I killed the damned bastard,” he said again.

  She raised her face and looked at him. He was smiling. I killed him.

  The sun was bright overhead. She heard Jonathan telling her, a smile in his voice, “Cover up, love. I don’t want to make love to a peeling lobster. Even though it’s December, that sun is damned hot.”

  Christian was smiling at her. He looked boyish, happy, with a lock of hair over his forehead.

  She felt the salt breeze on her face, felt her hair lifting and falling about her shoulders. I killed the damned bastard.

  Everything fell into place.

  Elizabeth lurched to her feet and the boat swayed precariously.

  “Sit down!” />
  But she didn’t. She didn’t see anything, feel anything, but knew that she wanted to die and to kill. Both.

  “Sit down!” He brought the gun up, pointing it at her stomach.

  The gun meant nothing. It was a little piece of black metal.

  Her eyes narrowed on him and her world became only her hatred.

  Then she jumped.

  Christian drew back, his legs hitting against the motor. She was on him like a wild thing. He pulled the trigger, knew that he’d hit her.

  She felt a prickling in her arm. Nothing more, just an irritating little sting. Nothing but a piece of black metal. It couldn’t hurt her.

  Her fingernails were on his face, tearing downward. She heard him howl, felt his hands striking her, in the stomach, in the chest.

  She was yowling like a wild animal, screaming with rage.

  He got her arms down, and she brought up her knee and sent it into his groin. He froze, then screamed.

  “I want you to die!”

  Her voice sounded hoarse, crazed. And she kicked him again, and with all her strength heaved him overboard. But he grabbed at her, pulling her with him. She hooked her leg around the motor and smashed her fist into his stomach.

  She felt his grip loosen and drew back her arm. Her elbow went into his throat. He made an odd gurgling sound, then plunged backward into the water.

  He thrashed and she watched him. He called out to her. She watched him, not moving.

  Then the water closed over his head once, twice.

  Elizabeth felt fierce triumph. I killed him.

  “Elizabeth!”

  A woman’s voice . . . but no, that made no sense. She turned slowly and saw another motorboat careening toward her. A woman waving frantically toward her. It was Catherine. Rowe Chalmers was at the wheel.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She looked down at the frothing waves, stirred up by the other boat. She didn’t even wonder how and why Catherine was here, Rowe with her. She just stared down at the water. She was aware that she was moving to the edge of the boat.