Behind Closed Doors m&f-1

by Shannon McKenna

  “Someplace safe,” he snapped back. He was grateful she was speaking, in spite of her accusing tone. He preferred her pissed off and snappish to catatonic. Or worse, crying. God, how he hated that.

  “I want to go home, Seth. I need some time alone.”

  “Dream on. No way am I leaving you alone. Not after today.”

  Her eyes blazed. “Seth, I am this far from losing it.” She held up two fingers in a circle that didn't quite close. “Take me home, right now!”

  “Home is a piss-poor idea. I can feel it.”

  “I feel, too, Seth. Too much. But right now I need to lock myself in my room and lie facedown on my bed for a long time. Completely alone.”

  He darted into another lane. “You can lie facedown in the hotel.”

  “Not with you around. You take up a lot of psychic space, Seth Mackey. No. Turn this goddamn car around and take me home.”

  “You're tormented by the fact that you betrayed your beloved uncle, hmm? And after he gave you that pretty necklace, too.”

  She stared down at her shaking hands, and clenched them into white-knuckled fists. “My God, you make me angry.”

  “Truth hurts, don't it?” He was unable to keep the sneer from his voice. “Victor may be your uncle, and he may be rich and powerful, and he may give you presents and treat you like a princess, but he's a murdering scumbag who deserves everything that's coming to him. So if you're having a crisis of conscience, hold off. Wait till we get to the hotel. You can have it in the bathroom, where I can't see you.”

  “Fine.” She unsnapped her seat belt and shoved her door open.

  He was too busy braking on the rain-slicked pavement to grab her. “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

  “Someplace where you can't see me.”

  Raine slammed the door shut behind her and darted into the traffic. The light went green. Horns blared and traffic surged around him. He tried to follow her gray-clad figure out of his rearview mirror as she climbed over the median and darted across the opposing line of traffic.

  He was losing her in the gloom, two lanes too far to the right to turn after her with all these goddamn cars in his way, and by the time he managed to get over to the left and turn around, she was gone.

  He was screaming obscenities into the windshield, and other motorists were giving him nervous looks. One was eyeing him while talking urgently into a cell phone. He lunged for his own and rumbled with it, hitting the sequence for Connor.

  Connor picked up instantly. “It's about time you got back to me,” he snapped. “I've left you six messages already, and we have to—”

  “Connor, do me a favor. Open up the X-Ray Specs on Raine's house. Now, quick. Don't take your eyes off them until I get there.”

  There was a startled silence. “The shit must have really hit the fan for you to be calling me Connor,” he said slowly.

  “No time for wise-ass bullshit. I'm tailing her home, but she's got too much of a head start on me for the sick feeling in my stomach.”

  “Gotcha,” Connor said, with a businesslike air. “Later”

  The phone clicked off. Seth grabbed the handheld from the glove compartment. There she was, five kiloms ahead, almost out of range, blipping away. He dropped the monitor to his lap and concentrated on driving too fast, a skill at which he fortunately had a great deal of practice. He wove through traffic, ignoring the cacophony of offended horns, hoping like hell that no cops would spot him.

  The cell phone rang. His stomach sank lower than he ever knew a stomach could go. “Yeah?”

  “It's a bad scene at Templeton Street.” Connor's voice was hard and tense. “Your lady's got company in the garage. Black ski mask and gun. You're closer than any of us. Floor it.”

  She'd thought that getting away from Seth's taunts and jeers would make her feel better, but surprise, surprise ... she felt worse.

  She shivered in the back of the cab. Just the short dash to the shelter of the bus stop had drenched her. The beautiful Prada boots were clammy from splashing through puddles, but she barely felt the chill. She couldn't register that sensory information and still think about Victor's revelation.

  Her father. How was it possible?

  One thing was certain. She didn't dare tell Seth. His reaction to learning that she was Victor's niece had been bad enough. She cringed at the thought of his reaction to finding out she was Victor's daughter.

  She stared at the lights that blurred through the rain-streaked glass, hoping that Seth wouldn't storm into her house tonight. She didn't have the strength to deal with his anger. It was all she could do to process the shocking knowledge that touching the Corazon pistol had revealed to her.

  She had told Seth that she'd faked her reaction to the gun, but she had lied. The gun had vibrated in her hand, like a trapped animal. Both hot and hideously cold. The memory made her queasy. She wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to think of something else. Eagles swooping, snowcapped mountains at sunrise, the ocean.

  No image of tranquil beauty was strong enough to cleanse her of the remembered sensation, like a blow to the solar plexus. And the images, racing through her mind: white carpet, spattered blood, tulips scattered across the floor. Screaming. Oh, God. She pressed her hand against her stomach, wondering how long this would last. It was worse than the dreams, because there was no waking from it. She just had to grit her teeth and endure.

  Being with Victor on Stone Island had tuned her like a radio to this awful new frequency. She felt raw, torn open. Too much information pouring in. Maybe it was her overwrought imagination, she told herself bracingly. A chorus of sarcastic voices cackled and hooted in her head at the lame attempt to deny reality.

  She was Victor's daughter. She had to avenge her uncle against her father, not the other way around. She could go crazy, reasoning it out, but nothing had changed, really. Murder was murder.

  The cab pulled up at her house, and she sighed with relief. It would be dark and cold, but at least it would be private. Her stiff hands could barely handle the money. The bills and coins kept sliding from her numb ringers. She got out of the cab.

  The house looked desolate, almost menacing. The untrimmed hydrangeas spread out long branches, dripping with rain. The windows that flanked the front door regarded her like cold, unfriendly eyes.

  She spun around to tell the cabbie to stop, but his tail-lights were already receding, picking up speed. Too fast now to chase him down. He turned the corner, and was gone.

  Don't be fanciful. Don't be ridiculous. Don't let your imagination run away with you. Alix's scolding tone echoed in her head as she moved slowly up the walk. It was just an empty house, and her car was parked in the garage. If she didn't like the place, she could go in, get her car keys, pack her suitcase and check into a hotel.

  That was a great idea, in feet. That was exactly what she would do. She approached the house so slowly that raindrops began to sneak into the collar of her coat, like chilly little fingers.

  After today, it would be a miracle if she weren't paranoid, Raine told herself, fumbling with the key. The phone was ringing inside, but there was no use in hurrying. Her fingers would not cooperate.

  She had been an idiot to run away from Seth. He might be rude and difficult, but she would have given anything to have him beside her right now, saying something sarcastic and infuriating. His warm, solid presence would drive away any goblins that inhabited this murmuring darkness.

  How embarrassing. The first big tantrum she'd ever had in her whole, decorous, polite life; and she had to end up feeling like a fool. She dropped her key for the third time, and almost yelled with frustration.

  Finally, she made it inside. It was cold and dark, but nothing jumped out to bite her, thank goodness. She stripped off her coat, turned the thermostat up and flipped on light after light on her way to the bedroom. The phone rang again as she perched on the wingback chair and started unlacing the soggy boots. She'd left muddy footprints all over the beige carpeting. Should
have taken them off in the foyer. She let the phone ring, unable to contemplate talking with her mother.

  She peeked at the machine. Five messages.

  Strange. She never had so many. It wasn't like Alix to call obsessively, and no one else knew she was here. None of her far-flung friends had this number. Her stomach did a slow, lazy flip.

  The machine clicked on, the outgoing message played. The beep sounded. “Raine, are you home? Pick up the phone. Now! Move it!”

  She lunged for the phone, weak with relief. “Seth?”

  “Christ, Raine, you turned off your fucking cell phone!”

  “I'm sorry. I—”

  “Never mind. No time. What room are you in?”

  “The bedroom,” she faltered. “Why—”

  “Does the door lock?”

  She was shaking so hard she wanted to fall down. “It has a flimsy little lock, yes,” she said, teeth chattering.

  “Shit,” Seth muttered. “Lock it. Get a weapon. A lamp, a bottle, anything. Then get into the bathroom, and lock that, too. Move it.”

  “Seth, please, what's happening? Why—”

  “Get off the fucking phone and do it!”

  The strength of his will leaped through the wires like a blast of hot wind. The receiver flew out of her fingers like a live thing, pulling the cradle off the table, thudding onto the floor in a tangle of wires.

  In the silence that followed, she heard it. The swinging door that led from the dining room to the stairs. The squeak was quickly silenced.

  There were no more doors to squeak. The stairs were thickly carpeted There would be no more warnings.

  She lunged for the door. Bright, metallic panic pumped through her body. Step one, lock bedroom door. Done. Step two, find a weapon. Her umbrella was in the basket in the foyer. Her pepper spray was in her purse, next to the cell phone on the table in the foyer. The knives and the cast-iron skillet were in the kitchen. Bedrooms yielded a pitiful household arsenal.

  He was coming up the stairs. This was not her imagination. It was horribly real, and she had to react, right now. She rummaged across her dresser. Hair sticks, too small and fragile. She grabbed the hairspray, the hair dryer. Her eyes fell on the bedside lamp, made of brass. She grabbed it just as the doorknob turned. Rattled.

  She dove for the bathroom with her armful of makeshift weapons. The stuff crashed to the floor, the bulb of the lamp exploding across the tiles. She flipped on the light, yanked the door shut, locked it.

  Three loud, awful, crunching thuds and she heard the bedroom door splinter and give. She was huddled on the floor next to the toilet, shaking so hard she could barely move, tears of panic streaming down her face. White, all around her, white tiles, white fixtures ... it was the curse of the Corazon, she should never have touched the hellish thing; it was speeding through time and space, coming to get her, and there would be crimson spattered all over the bright white—

  Raine gritted her teeth and made a choked, growling sound deep in her throat. She was not a sniveling coward-She would not go out like this. She was a Lazar. She hadn't come so far and tried so hard to end up a pathetic victim. She struggled to her feet and seized the brass lamp from the top, so the weighted pedestal would serve as a club.

  Monster man was going to have to fight for her blood.

  The bathroom doorknob turned, rattled Her lips curled back hi a silent snarl. She raised the lamp high in her shaking hands and waited.

  She had to make this split second count. She stifled a whimper as monster man rammed his shoulder into the door. Once, twice, with a grunt and a muffled obscenity. That was a relief. At least he was mortal, not some demon from the beyond. The monster of the Corazon.

  Smash, crunch. He burst in, a huge, black-clad figure.

  She swung the lamp down with all her strength. He spun around and parried the blow with his forearm, howling with fury. He slammed her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. She struggled to draw air into her flattened lungs, clawing at the mask that hid his face.

  “Fucking bitch,” he hissed. His bloodshot dark eyes glared through the eyeholes at her. He stunned her with a sharp backhand blow across the face. With the first gasp she managed to draw, his smell hit her. Old sweat, liquor... and fear.

  The smell of liquor made her think of her father. Uncle, her brain corrected, inanely. What a ridiculous thought at such a time. She gasped for breath. “Why?” she croaked,

  “Shut up.” He seized her by the neck of her sweater and spun her around, twisting her wrists up with a painful wrench. He smacked her, face first, against the wall. She felt a bursting, the warmth of blood running from her nose. Then pain. Everything went black.

  Seth chambered the round as he bolted for the front door. Locked, of course. Panic was making him stupid. He cursed the lost seconds as he fumbled with the keys Raine had given him. He threw open the door and tore through the foyer, the SIG ready in his hand. He stopped dead at the foot of the stairs, staring up. Time slowed, to a frozen tableau.

  A big man in a ski mask was poised at the top of the stairs, gun in hand, holding Raine in front of him. Her eyes were closed, blood was running from her nose, but she was alive. On her feet, and blocking his line of fire.

  Ski Mask stared down. Seth stared up. Each waited for the other to turn over a new card.

  The world exploded into movement. Ski Mask shoved Raine ahead of him down the stairs. She bounced against the wall, tried to get her balance, toppled and fell. Seth leaped to catch her with a shout. Her weight and momentum carried them down, and they crashed against the newel post, bringing it and a chunk of banister down with them. Raine landed on top of him, bounced and rolled.

  Ski Mask leaped right past them, burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen and ran out the garage.

  The hunting frenzy inside him screamed for him to give chase, but when he rolled up onto his knees, he saw Raine lying very still on the carpet, the blood on her face hideously bright against her pallor.

  He forgot about Ski Mask, about Lazar, Novak, Jesse, everything. Panic wiped his mind clean.

  He felt for her pulse, and almost wept in relief when he found one. Strong and steady. He moved his trembling hands gently over her body, feeling for injuries. He understood, with all the raw energy of fear, how precious and unique she was. That what he valued about her had nothing to do with beauty, or with sex, or power. And everything to do with that bright place in his mind that she inhabited; that encompassed the tiny baby she once had been, the beautiful old lady she would someday be. If he had anything to say about it.

  Seth's heart swelled and ached as he ran his hands over her, repeating her name, his voice rough with entreaty while an incoherent litany repeated in his mind: please wake up, please be all right, please don't leave me alone now that I know the truth, please....

  Her eyelids fluttered. They opened, dazed. She focused on him with difficulty. Tried to smile.

  He sagged over her like a puppet with cut strings and pressed his face against her chest. Her arms moved. She draped them over his shoulders. Cold fingers patted his hair. He tried not to burst into tears.

  He got the number wrong the first six times he dialed it. He needed a drink, to chill him just enough so he could make his big fingers hit the right goddamn buttons on the goddamn microscopic phone. His arm was swelling. The spiteful bitch had given him a wicked crack with that lamp. She was more like Alix than he'd thought.

  God, what a fuck-up. He could have shot the girl's lover. Or controlled him by using her as a hostage. There were a million things he could've done, if he'd had the brains and the guts for them.

  He finally got the number right, and the ring sent a fresh wave of dread through him. His stomach cramped and burned.

  The phone line clicked open. “Yes?”

  “All—there's been a problem,” he stammered. “But if you'd just give me a little time to fix it—”

  “What happened?” The very gentleness of Novak's voice made chills crawl
across Riggs's sweating back.

  “Her, uh, boyfriend got in the way, and I—”

  “I am very disappointed, Edward. I chose you for this job for artistic reasons, not practical ones. To have her father's murderer be the one who brings her to me—the theatricality of it appealed to me. Now I regret having been so fanciful. I regret it very much.”

  “No, no, please. I swear, I have the situation under control.”

  “I thought that even a pathetic failure such as yourself would be able to handle such a simple task.”

  Riggs squeezed his eyes shut. “The guy just appeared in her house, out of nowhere. There was no way to get her out of there without killing him, and I thought—”

  “Ask me how much I care if you are forced to kill someone, Edward. Go on. Ask me.” “Please, let me try again” he pleaded. “I've still got her on the monitor. They're not moving yet. I've got her cold. I swear to God.”

  “And her lover? Are you equal to the task?”

  Riggs tried to swallow, but his throat just bumped, dusty and dry and thick. He thought of the death that had looked up at him in those glittering black eyes, waiting for him to make a wrong move. The gun, held easily in his hand, the loose-limbed crouch of a trained fighter.

  And him, his gut burning like a bed of barbecue coals, his liver shot, no luck left in him at all. Oh, God, Erin. He let his breath out heavily. “The guy's a professional,” he admitted. “Either I kill him, or he'll kill me. It's a fifty-fifty call.”

  And that was a hopeful estimate, he thought.

  Novak was silent. A minute ticked by, then another.

  “Follow them if they move,” he ordered. “I will now give you the number of a certain person. You will call him to communicate your location. You will rendezvous with him. You will lead him to the girl, and you will keep out of his way and let him do his job. Understood?”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “And—and—”

  “What? Speak up, man.”

  “Erin,” he said desperately.