Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “When word got to me that she was in labor, I sped toward the hospital, but I was detained by that pileup on the freeway. When I finally made it there…” He rubbed his eyes. “I went a little crazy when the doctor said they’d already declared her brain-dead.”

  Cat’s eyes were still streaming tears, but she was no longer angry. She was captivated by the tragic story. Intermittently she hiccupped small sobs. Otherwise she didn’t interrupt.

  “The agent from the organ bank introduced herself to me. She didn’t pressure me. I’ll give her that. She was apologetic for the intrusion at that most difficult time, but reminded me that Amanda had designated on her driver’s license that she wished to be an organ donor if anything ever happened to her.

  “That’s considered a legal document. Even so, she said they wouldn’t proceed with retrieval without my permission. Amanda had no living relatives. The decision was entirely up to me.

  “Someone desperately needed Amanda’s heart, she said. Without it, the other person would die. The organ had to be harvested quickly. Haste was imperative. So if I could please grant permission…”

  His voice trailed off, and Cat knew he was no longer with her. He was back in that hospital corridor, numbed by grief, being asked for permission to cut out his lover’s heart.

  “We were together for five years, but I never gave her what she wanted most, and that was my name. It wasn’t a popular name around Houston at that time. I thought she’d be better off without it. Or maybe I was just too goddamn selfish.

  “I knew I loved her,” he continued. “I knew I wanted to live with her and our baby for the rest of my life. But I didn’t realize how much I depended on her emotionally until she wasn’t there anymore.

  “Ironically, I’d resigned from HPD that day, something she’d been urging me to do since the shooting incident. She wanted me to devote all my time to writing. She believed in my talent. At least that’s what she told me,” he said with a poignant smile.

  “After burying her, I emptied our apartment, threw away all the baby stuff, and stayed drunk for several months. It wasn’t until after I got sober and linked up with Arnie that I thought to inquire about her heart recipient.

  “Since the procurement agency wouldn’t tell me anything, I became obsessed with finding the recipient myself. It haunted me to know that her heart was living inside someone else.

  “I began reading newspapers from every major city published on the date of her death and for several weeks afterward. I searched for stories about heart transplants. If recipients are media savvy, they can sometimes discover who their donors are just by reading the headlines. I thought it might work in the reverse.

  “I read everything available on the topic. I learned the criteria necessary to make a good organ match. I wrote down those criteria and sketched a profile of the recipient, much as I would for a character in one of my books.

  “Your transplant had been a media event. Using former police contacts, bribes, any method I could devise, I learned from hospital personnel in California the time your transplant had taken place. It was cutting it close, but still possible. Your blood types matched. You were comparable in size. The more I researched it, the more convinced I became that you got her heart.

  “I was actually planning a move to Los Angeles to try and meet you when it was announced that you were coming to San Antonio. I moved up here from Houston immediately.” He paused. “You know the rest.”

  “I know you’re a sneaky, lying son of a bitch.”

  “At first, yes. Seeing you through that screen door hit me like a blow to the gut. I knew,” he said, making a fist for emphasis. “I knew I was right. The more I was around you, the more convinced I became. You have traits that are so similar to hers.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Your expressions remind me of her. Your likes and dislikes are the same. You even have the same sense of humor, the same optimistic attitude.”

  “Stop it!” She covered her ears.

  “I had to make love to you, Cat. I had to.”

  “You used me like a medium.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice becoming a hiss. “I had to see if I could reach her. Feel her. Touch her just once more.”

  “Ah, God!” Cat cried, shattered by hearing him admit it.

  “And I did feel a cosmic connection. But was it Amanda? Or was it you? What happened between us had been so good that I started feeling guilty for betraying her.”

  “Surely I wasn’t the first woman you’d been with in four years?”

  “No. But you’re the first one I’d been with where it meant something, where I woke up knowing your last name. That’s why I broke it off with you. I no longer trusted my motives. I was falling in love with you, and it had nothing to do with Amanda.

  “I no longer wanted to know if you had her heart. I nearly swallowed my tongue that morning you told me you’d asked the organ bank about your donor. Immediately after you left, I called the agency that had retrieved Amanda’s heart and canceled my long-standing request for information. If you’d gotten her heart, I didn’t want to know. At that point, all I knew or needed to know was that I loved you.”

  “Do you expect me to believe this drivel? As for this…” She swept the files to the floor, scattering their contents. “You’ve gone to a hell of a lot of trouble for nothing. For all either of us knows, I don’t even have her heart!”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure. I didn’t experience that tug of recognition with any of the others.”

  “It’s still only a—” She broke off abruptly when the realization of what he’d just said hit her full force. “The others? The other transplantees? You met them, too?”

  Her tears dried instantly and she saw the truth with crystal clarity. “Oh my God. It’s you!”

  “Cat—”

  She charged him, ramming both fists into his chest and taking him off guard. He lost his balance and careened into the shelves, knocking books to the floor. Cat ran out the door and slammed it behind her.

  She raced down the hall, through the living room, snatching his car keys from the end table. The front door was locked. Her nerveless fingers grappled with the bolt. She heard his bare feet running on the carpet behind her. Without an instant to spare, she shot through the front door and dashed to his car.

  He came sprinting after her. “Cat, wait a minute,” he shouted.

  “So you can kill me like you did them?”

  She pushed the gear shift into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. The tires squealed on the pavement and spun out of control. He was almost within grasp of the door handle before she was able to get traction and speed off into the night.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Where was that stupid bitch?

  Only Kismet wasn’t so stupid, Cyclops bitterly reminded himself. Like an asshole, he’d fallen for her act.

  For days he’d been mulling over how he could find her. So far, he’d had no brilliant ideas. It would have been a miracle if he had. His brain was pickled. He’d been subsisting on a continuous cycle of booze and drugs.

  He’d asked around, but none of his acquaintances knew where any women’s shelters were. His inquiries had resulted only in smart-ass remarks about how he couldn’t keep his old lady under wraps. They’d laughed at him.

  Damn! He had to find her and drag her back, if for no other reason than to save face with his friends. He was even losing the respect of his enemies, which was worse.

  When he did get his hands on her—and he was certain it was only a matter of time before she came crawling back to him—he’d make her sorry she’d ever double-crossed him.

  She wouldn’t have gotten so brave if not for that Delaney broad. The blame for all this really belonged to her. She’d shown up out of nowhere and gotten Kismet worked up about Sparky again.

  Keeping Kismet in line was a cinch. All he had to do was threaten the kid and she became as meek as a lamb. There was no limit to what she’d
do to protect Sparky’s spooky little bastard. But he could hardly control her, much less punish her the way she deserved to be punished, if he couldn’t even find her.

  Only one person could tell him where Kismet and her whelp were hiding. Well, actually two people, but he’d just as soon not tangle with that Pierce character unless it was absolutely necessary.

  In any event, sitting on his butt and brooding wasn’t accomplishing anything. He’d thought the situation through till he was sick of thinking. It was time to take action. The heat would have cooled by now. The cops would have other things on their minds; they wouldn’t be looking for him.

  He came to his feet, reeling drunkenly before gaining enough equilibrium to make his way to the exit of the bar. The night air was chilly and bracing. It sobered him somewhat.

  As he mounted his Harley, he patted it as though it were a living thing. When he gunned the powerful engine, he welcomed the familiar thrumming that vibrated up through his thighs and sex and belly. It imbued him with a sense of manliness and confidence, which the fiasco with Cat Delaney had squashed.

  If he let that redheaded bitch get away with screwing up his life, he’d just as well hand her a butcher knife and let her castrate him.

  “No way in hell,” he snarled as he roared off into the night.

  Bill Webster had spent a sleepless night.

  For the umpteenth time he checked the clock on Melia’s nightstand. It was now past midnight. He threw off the covers and climbed out of bed. His pants were neatly folded over the chair. He was stepping into them when Melia sat up and groggily spoke his name.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s time I left.”

  “Now? I thought you told Nancy you’d be away all night.”

  “I did.”

  “Then why don’t you wait until morning?”

  “It is morning.”

  She frowned, disinclined to split hairs at that ungodly hour. “I hate waking up alone,” she said crossly.

  “It can’t be helped this morning.”

  “What’s your rush?”

  “There’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “The sooner the better,” he said cryptically.

  She tried her sexy best to lure him back into bed, but couldn’t persuade him. He left in a hurry, without even kissing her goodbye.

  Alex cursed viciously as he watched the taillights of his car disappear around the corner, but he didn’t waste time on regret.

  He hurried back inside, ran up the stairs to his bedroom, and pulled on some clothes. He retrieved his revolver from the top bureau drawer, grabbed a handful of bullets, and dropped them into the breast pocket of his shirt as he raced back downstairs.

  On his way out the door he glanced at his wristwatch and cursed again.

  His motorcycle was still in the shop. So, with the grip of the pistol, he broke out the driver’s window of his neighbor’s BMW. Within seconds he’d hot-wired the ignition.

  As he sped away, he looked at his watch again. He was no more than five minutes behind Cat.

  She was too frightened to cry. She would cry later. After he was behind bars and she was safe, she’d give vent to her heartbreak. Right now, she had to concentrate on surviving.

  It had been Alex all along. There was a possibility that she had his dear Amanda’s heart, so he planned to kill her as he had the others. Today was the day—the anniversary of a day that had meant new life for her, but unbearable grief for him.

  He’d said he was haunted by the thought of Amanda’s heart beating inside another body. So he had tracked possible recipients and, using his bluffing skills, gotten close enough to kill them without arousing suspicion. Then he conveniently moved on to his next victim and laid the next trap.

  Who better to commit such perfect crimes—which the authorities hadn’t even deemed crimes—than a former policeman who wrote ingenious novels? He knew how to cover evidence and plug up holes in a plot.

  Cat shivered, and only partially because all she had on was his shirt. The leather upholstery was cold against her bare bottom, and her arms and legs were pimpled with goosebumps.

  As soon as she reached her house, she would call Lieutenant Hunsaker. But first she had to get there. She kept one eye on the rearview mirror. Although she’d left him afoot, he was resourceful. She half-expected another car to overtake her.

  That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? He could force her off an overpass, then speed away. Her death would be ruled an accident, and no one would suspect him because she’d been killed while driving his car. Yes. That would make a believable story. She’d spent the night with him, but had left early in the morning to return home. He’d loaned her his car.

  “I can’t believe it,” he’d say when notified of her death. He would mourn and look bereaved. And they’d believe his innocence.

  Just as she had.

  Why hadn’t she listened to Dean? To Bill? They’d warned her about him. They’d sensed his duplicity. Why hadn’t she? His “dark side,” as she’d preferred to call it, was so dark it was murderous.

  He’d played his role so well, with the finesse and skill of a master. First he’d pursued her, disarming her and charming her. Then he’d spurned her, making her want him even more. Then he’d become her friend and confidant just when she most needed one. And finally he’d become her lover in the strictest sense of the word. She’d professed her love out loud. And all the while—

  She was sobbing dryly as she took the exit ramp at triple the recommended speed. She tightly gripped the steering wheel and navigated the few remaining blocks to her house, reminding herself that she couldn’t dwell on the personal aspects now. If she lived through this, there would be plenty of time to nurse her broken heart.

  She wheeled into her driveway and brought the car to a jarring halt. Shoving open the door, she barreled out and dashed to the house. When she reached the porch steps, she stumbled against someone sitting on the top one. She cried out in alarm.

  Her unexpected guest surged to his feet and grabbed her arms.

  “Cat! Where have you been?”

  She almost collapsed, first from fright, then with relief.

  “Jeff, thank God!” Clutching the sleeves of his jacket, she leaned against him and tried to catch her breath. “You’ve got to help me.”

  “Good God, Cat, you’re virtually…Where are your clothes?” he stammered.

  “It’s a long story.” She unlocked her front door and disengaged the alarm. He followed her inside. “I’ve got to call the police,” she told him. “Alex Pierce is the one who’s been terrorizing me.”

  “What?”

  “Because of a woman he loved. She died giving birth to their son. He consented for her heart to be harvested.”

  While explaining Alex’s motivation, she pillaged the contents of her handbag, looking for Lieutenant Hunsaker’s business card. “Where is that damn thing? I know it’s in here somewhere. I’ve got to call him right away. Today’s the anniversary—”

  “I know. I realized it at midnight. I got worried because I hadn’t heard from you all day. I came over to see if you were okay and to stay with you if you were alone.”

  “He’ll come after me, Jeff. If for no other reason than to shut me up about the other three murders. He’s incredibly resourceful. And relentless. You wouldn’t believe how methodically he’s carried out his plan.”

  The doorbell rang, followed by a hard knocking. “Cat!”

  They froze. Then Jeff stepped in front of her and faced the door, using his body to shield her. At any other time, Cat would have laughed at his heroic but comic attempt to protect her.

  “The police are on their way,” Jeff shouted.

  “Cat? It’s Bill.”

  She moved Jeff aside and rushed to open the door.

  Bill Webster strode in. “What the hell is going on? What are you doing h
ere, Doyle? Cat, why’re you dressed like that?”

  “Alex Pierce is the one who sent her those clippings,” Jeff told him. “He killed those other transplantees and now he’s after Cat.”

  Bill was as astonished by this development as Jeff had been. “How do you know it’s Pierce? Where is he now?”

  “I just left him.” Both men took uneasy glances at her bare legs. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed. “I’m calling Lieutenant Hunsaker.”

  She quickly described to them Alex’s locked room, the files she’d discovered, the vast amount of information he had collected. “It all makes sense now,” she said. “He must have been gloating on the inside when I pleaded with him to help me find my stalker. He fed me the clues about Sparky. He ‘discovered’ Paul Reyes and needlessly put that poor man and his family through a terrible ordeal today.”

  “Who’s Reyes?” Bill asked.

  She gave them a thumbnail sketch of the trip to Fort Worth. They were as astounded as she by the lengths to which Alex had gone to throw her off track.

  “Here it is.” She held up Hunsaker’s card and reached for the telephone.

  “I’ll do that while you change,” Jeff suggested.

  “Thanks.” She headed for her bedroom, but Bill detained her.

  “Cat, are we still friends? Can you forgive me for Melia?” he asked in an undertone.

  It was strange how quickly a life-threatening experience snapped everything into a new perspective. Priorities came into sharper focus. “I was angry and disappointed in you. But it’s not my place to forgive you, Bill. And of course we’re still friends.”

  It suddenly struck her as curious that he was there. “What brought you to my door at this hour?”

  Before he could answer, Jeff told them that Hunsaker was on his way. “He said he’ll be here asap.”

  “Will you stay with me until he arrives?”

  In unison, the two men agreed to. Cat thanked them and retreated to the privacy of her bedroom.

  Dr. Dean Spicer laid the plastic key on the dresser and left his hotel room.