They lifted and moved one foot. Then another. Hearing something, she doused the light. The whispers stilled. Lord. There was nothing in the cellar that could hurt them. She turned on the light. They moved forward with the bed. She felt like Hercules next to her sister, but it didn’t matter. They were getting there.
Scanning the heap with the flashlight, she considered and rejected two flimsy metal strips, rusted bedsprings, the bar from a file drawer that couldn’t bend a chain. But that rod might. Crouching and stretching, she walked her fingers and touched, then grabbed the thick iron rod.
Holding the chain in place with her foot and shackled arm, she angled it into the link. No way the link would spread, but she noticed a crack at the base of the hasp. Of course. The welding would be the weak spot. Weak, she thought grimly. She could only pray.
She took the light out of her mouth. “We need to move it back.”
“Why?” Hannah whined. “What difference does it make?”
Not daring to bring Markham back into it, she said, “We just do.”
Hannah’s efforts diminished on the return trip until it seemed they would drag it after all. When they got close enough, Erin went back to work, forcing the hasp in one direction and then the other. The rod proved a good tool for the job, but it could take a very long time—if it worked at all.
Hannah watched sullenly. Erin didn’t try to talk. What do you say to a sister who admits she wishes you were never born? She only had to exist to be despised. No point hoping for reconciliation. Anything that came out of this would be bittersweet.
After a while Hannah said, “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” Sweat beaded her brow and slicked her hands as she strained to separate the hasp from the bed frame.
“Spoil the miracle.”
She wedged in the rod and pulled up with all her strength, feeling the strain in her shoulders, the skin on her palms tearing. What she wouldn’t have given to be pushing through a snowdrift with Morgan at the other end. She pictured the look in his eyes when he eyed her snow-packed clothes, little Livie calling her a snow girl. She needed them so much.
“Why?” Hannah demanded.
“There wasn’t any miracle, Hannah. I don’t expect you to believe me.” She released the rod and pressed her palms painfully together, then took it up again. The miracle would be getting out of Markham’s trap alive.
Morgan had told Mikio Funaki there were two calls he’d have to take when they came. Neither had come. When they broke for lunch, he got no answer from Erin. He tried Rudy with no luck. Maybe they were still somewhere out of service. Rudy knew the wild territory well, and that likelihood allowed him to refocus on Funaki until they finished.
In the late afternoon, just as the meeting was breaking up, William called with the news he wanted. The FBI would deal. Relief rushed in like a river, filling the deep roots of worry he’d tried to ignore.
“I’ll give you the details over dinner,” William said. “Our house, Ellen insists.”
“It sounds good,” Morgan said, entering the down escalator in the business complex.
“You can tell your bride the monkey’s off her back.”
“I’d love to, but I haven’t been able to reach Erin. I know it’s earlier there, but I’m a little concerned.”
“Did she know you were conducting business today?”
“Yes.” He paused and slipped on his overcoat for the sleeting rain outside.
“Then she probably wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
He knew beyond doubt that would be true for William, whose focus on each case was epic. Erin may have made that assumption. Stepping into the rain, he motioned for an available limo cab.
“Well, if she went somewhere after ice fishing—”
“Ice fishing?”
“Yes. The person she’s with is a real mountain man and a good friend.” He climbed into the cab. “I probably shouldn’t worry.” He only wished she’d given him a heads-up before she went off the grid.
“You don’t have the corner market on worry. But it sounds like she’s in good hands.”
If only he could be sure she was.
“See you this evening,” William said. “Seven sharp.”
“I’ll be there.” He wished Erin could too. Why had he thought it better to leave her? Because she was supposed to stay put.
Markham paced the kitchen, his attention snagging on the gun he’d taken from Quinn. His lip peeled up. Had she intended to use it? Of course she had. He could still see the fight in her eyes. She had not admitted defeat, had not felt the helplessness he wanted her to know all the way to her bones.
Would she have shot him? Could she have? He glowered at the gun, jerking with memories. Another dark-haired woman.
Shots. The body falling. The blood. “You saw nothing, kid. Got it?” The stench of his cousin’s breath and her blood had stayed in his nose for years, dulling the flavor and aroma of food, of flowers and fresh air. It had made him throw up at night, and the smell of that joined with the rest.
Quinn had carried a gun. He’d taken it, but even now she was plotting against him. He knew her. She wouldn’t stop unless he made her feel powerless, helpless, hopeless.
He turned on the crackling flooring and started back the other way. What would it take? He could defile her.
Something stirred like shadows shifting.
He’d said it himself. An inciting incident. Chaos. Defeat. Make her. Break her.
He turned back toward the cabinet, stared through the broken glass like a toothy maw. He could drug her, incapacitate and force her.
It stirred again. Swirling darkness. An acid flashback? A trick of the senses.
He paced the other way, brooding. She had to pay—not only in money, but in fear and humiliation. He wanted her powerless, hopeless. And he could do it. He felt a surge inside, recalling what he’d seen on her face when she talked to the man who spirited her away. Break her, take her, break her.
Then he remembered Hannah. Even if he could violate Quinn with Hannah looking on, he would not do anything to diminish himself in her eyes. It stunned and touched him that she still believed. And he vowed as long as she did, she would live.
He stopped pacing. His mind cleared. Hurting Quinn must wait. It was time to implement the plan.
Cabbing to Oyster Bay for dinner with William, Morgan could no longer pretend he wasn’t afraid. With no answer from Erin, he tried calling Rudy again—and got him. “Rudy!” he all but cried.
“Morgan, you sly married dog.”
In no mood, he snapped, “Rudy, is Erin with you?”
“Who?”
“Erin. Quinn. My wife.” He white-knuckled the phone. “Is she with you?”
The limo sedan smelled of something Eastern eaten for dinner, but the back seat smelled of fear.
“No. I haven’t seen her since fishing this morning.”
His heart made a slow thud. “Did she say where she was going? What she was doing?”
“Something about Vera’s daughter and her dad.”
Except she wasn’t with RaeAnne. They’d spoken but weren’t together. Neither had seen her since the morning. “Rudy, can you do something for me?”
“Wh—”
“Wait a minute.” His call waiting beeped. He looked at the caller and switched. “Erin, thank God.”
“Who?”
It wasn’t the question that chilled him. It was the voice. Markham Wilder’s voice saying, “Who’s Erin?”
Cold adrenaline shut the panic off like a faucet. Every part of him went still. Markham using Erin’s phone meant one thing. Jaw clenched, he said, “If you touch my wife, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
The driver flicked a glance in the mirror.
“Given that I have the blade at her throat, you’re in no position to make threats.” Markham’s tone set his teeth on edge. “Tell him, Quinn.”
He heard a sucked-in cry.
“Hear that? Just a little prick
with the blade.”
He had never known if he could kill, whether some barrier would prevent him. Now he knew. But sinking to Markham’s level would cancel his advantage. “What do you want?”
Another soft whimper went straight to his heart. Erin would be fighting the sounds with all she had, furious and humiliated. He heard sobbing, but it wasn’t Erin, at least not as he’d ever heard her. “I said what do you want?”
With a voice like the devil, Markham rasped, “I want her to suffer.”
The pit of his stomach liquefied.
“To know what it’s like having someone else in total control. To know I can hurt her. I can kill her.”
Desolation opened like a chasm, but he slammed it shut with the force of his will. “What will that get you?”
“Satisfaction.”
“Then what? Back to prison?”
After a pause, Markham laughed. When he spoke again it was a different person. “Have a better offer? What’s your wife worth to you . . . ? Oh, wait. It’s wife and kid, isn’t it?”
Morgan flinched. “Name your price.”
“What fun is that? Let’s bargain. What will you give for one prime, pregnant woman—a twofer.”
Another sound from Erin shot all sorts of images to his brain, but he let Markham keep talking.
“What is it, a million-dollar baby?”
“If you say so.” The man wanted power.
“So Quinn must be worth two. That’s three million if you can’t do the math. A full return on my investment.”
“Take the blade away from her or you don’t get a cent.”
Markham laughed as if they were two frat boys being cool and getting wasted. “You still think you have power here. You’re used to that, I know. But the truth is”—the other voice came back—“you have no idea what I’m doing to her, what I’m going to do in the time it takes you to get the money into my hands.”
He was not playing this sick game. “This is the way it’s going to work. You want the money, I’ll get it. If I find . . . Quinn completely untouched, you’ll get transportation. A private jet to take you anywhere you choose.” He could almost hear Markham salivating.
“How do I know it’s not a trick?”
“We’ll drive to the airport together. There’s a small one not far from Juniper Falls.”
The silence stretched.
“I’ll have two million in hundred-dollar bills with me. The third on the jet waiting to take you out of there.”
Breathing heavily, as though fighting a great resistance, Markham spoke in a strangled voice. “It’s a deal.”
“Where’s my wife?”
“Old dark hole in the ground. No sniper windows. New bolt on the door, and I hold the key.”
The cellar.
“I took the precaution of stocking it with propane tanks. Besides the blade, I have a gun—your wife’s to be precise. You bring law enforcement, we’ll have fireworks.”
He closed his eyes. “I want to talk to her.”
“You got your proof of life. You have until noon tomorrow to get the money here. Or the deal’s off.”
“That’s not enough time.” He didn’t have that kind of cash readily available. Liquefying assets, converting and transporting the money would take much longer.
“Noon tomorrow.” The line went dead.
His chin fell to his chest.
But then Rudy’s voice came on. “Morgan? What’s going on?”
He quelled the panic rising. “The guy who chased Erin has her.”
“Markham Wilder?”
“I think he’s keeping her in the asylum cellar at Vera’s.”
“I’ll get the sheriff.”
“No. He’s rigged the place with propane.”
Rudy swore.
“I need to be there by noon tomorrow with ransom money. Can you watch the house without being seen and let me know if anything changes?”
“You know I can,” Rudy said. “What if he takes her somewhere else?”
“In a perfect world, you’d follow.”
“My world’s pretty perfect.”
Morgan swallowed. “Thanks.”
The limo pulled into William’s compound. Entering without knocking, he found William in his library.
William tipped his head up, all joviality fading.
Morgan said, “The Satan-spawn has Erin.”
Giddy, Markham released Quinn’s hair and drew his blade away. He was going to get more than he’d dreamed when this was done—a miracle of multiplication, just like his vision. He pulled a paper and pencil from his pocket. “Write it all down. Everything to access the account you funded.”
With a shaky hand, she did.
“I will check it upstairs and know if one digit is wrong.” He had no way to verify it, but she didn’t know that.
“It’s not. That’s everything you need to get the money. Please let us go.”
“You weren’t listening. That’s only half of what’s coming.”
Looking into her face, he felt a burn in his gut as it slowly sank in he’d been outmaneuvered. Morgan’s offer had surprised and dazzled him. The cash and transportation. A jet to take him anywhere.
And all he had to do was leave Quinn unharmed. That was the razor in the apple.
She wasn’t weeping like Hannah, afraid of the dark. She looked at him with judgment and loathing. He’d heard her cry when he pricked her with the blade, yet she still glared back. Maybe he should take Hannah out and leave Quinn in the cellar alone, but then he’d have to deal with Hannah.
He had to think. There had to be a way to have it all. He’d rigged the cellar with propane tanks as a deterrent. He didn’t need to blow it up. And now Morgan was doubling the take—more money than he’d ever make in scams. If he killed Quinn, he’d have to kill Morgan.
Then he’d lose the jet and a chance for freedom he’d never experienced. The black knight had guarded his queen admirably. But it twisted the worm inside.
Markham stared into the darkness past the illumination of the lantern. What was that shifting and stirring? Kill her, kill them, kill her anyway.
He’d exterminated his cousins and left the world a better place. Could he say the same about Quinn? What did it matter if he left her alive? He clenched his hands, resisting. He wanted the jet to take him away. So Quinn would live. But he could still make her suffer.
“By the way.” He fixed her with a stare. “Your grandfather sends his regards.”
He saw her stiffen.
“Or would, I’m sure, if he could.”
Chest heaving, her voice came in breathy bursts. “What did you do?”
“Nothing that old degenerate didn’t deserve.”
“Markham?” Hannah blinked, and for the first time he saw doubt and accusation.
“He was bound for hell, Hannah. Your father said so himself. Only Quinn, here, held out hope and affection. Pity.” He blinked. “Your last conversation provided the cover and distraction this ‘rotted soul’ needed to get close.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, tears swarming her eyes.
“Never fear, Quinn.” He raised her chin with the flat of the blade. “He’ll be in hell to greet you.”
She slumped in the dark, head in hands when the door closed. Hannah whimpered but didn’t ask for a light. No cruelty Markham could inflict compared to knowing she’d gotten Pops killed. Agonizing guilt drained her will to fight. Somewhere in her mind, she knew Morgan was coming, but this sorrow would not end.
“Stop it,” Hannah said.
“Stop what?” she barely answered.
“Whispering. Stop whispering about me.”
Through her fuzzy head, thoughts flickered.
“Don’t.” Hannah’s voice cracked. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not talking, Hannah. Whatever you hear it’s not me.”
“It is. You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Tears clogged her throat. “But Pops is dead. And we’re resp
onsible.”
“No.” Hannah clamped her hands to her head, the chain jangling. “Stop it.”
A dim awareness grew. Jerking her head up, she saw the shadows shift. “Think of your favorite psalm, Hannah. The one hanging on your wall.” The most commercially available psalm in the world because of its beauty and consolation. “‘The Lord is my shepherd . . .’”
“‘I shall not want.’”
“That’s right. Keep going.”
As Hannah recited it, Erin pushed up to her knees in a wash of anger and sorrow. She stuck the rod into the weakened hasp, bent but still clinging to the frame. Her hands were a misery of torn and swollen skin. The pain nothing, compared to her heart. Oh, Pops.
And then she seemed to hear him say, “What are you crying for? Put some muscle in it and get your wee self out.” Clenching her teeth, she forgot the pain. She pressed the rod as hard as she could and broke the weld, freeing the chain from the hasp.
She was free. She could get out. She could use the rod as a weapon and get past Markham. She could escape before Morgan put himself in danger. Except the cellar was rigged with propane.
The thought of starting over on the other shackle brought tears to her eyes, but she rasped, “Your choice, Hannah. Are you staying here for Markham or coming with me?”
CHAPTER
36
Markham had said noon. With William’s help, he’d be there an hour before. Aboard the law firm’s jet, Morgan read the file Anselm had compiled. He read it to know his adversary, to learn exactly who Markham was.
Born to an addict who didn’t live past his first month, the infant Mark Withers was placed into the care of a cousin, Leon Gaines, who lived with a woman of low character for the first four years of the boy’s life. She disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and Withers and Leon moved in with another male cousin, Hugh Bower.
While sympathy escaped him for the man Markham became, Morgan admitted the boy had stepped up to the plate with a broken bat. Lying probably saved his life more than once, if the arrest records for the cousins were any indication. For the next fifteen years, the three worked scams together until both men were found dead, at which time Mark Withers was questioned and released—with grave misgivings.
The Breath of Dawn Page 42
