by Jenna Ryan
The safe was a foot square at most Inside, Vachon spied a single object, a brass box, greening slightly around the edges. Too small for storing files, yet obviously important to Deana.
An icy tingle of dread snaked along his spine. He ignored it and drew the box out. The filigree clasp contained no lock. He was about to open it when Martin suddenly grabbed the container and held it fast.
“Forget it, Vachon. You broke into Dee’s safe. You have no business going any farther.”
Manny’s shoulders slumped. All the anger seemed to drain out of him. He glanced at Vachon, then closed his eyes. “Open it,” he said without inflection. “Just open the damned lid and look inside.”
Uncertain, Martin stood there, suspicion warring with the first trace of fear on his handsome face. “Open it? Why?” he asked. “What do you think—”
Unable to endure the tension, Vachon reached for the box, set it on the desk and flipped back the lid.
What he saw inside made his pulses, already beating a rapid tattoo, pound like a kettledrum.
He stared at the contents in astonishment Manny let his head fall backward, eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together. Only Martin spoke. “Why would she lock up a bunch of—”
It hit him with the force of a locomotive. His startled gaze rose to meet Vachon’s grim one.
“Hair!” he finished softly. “Strands of red and blond and black hair—locked inside Deana’s office safe!”
LOCKED HER in the closet…
She would learn if it killed her.
Dean Hawthorne’s cheeks purpled at Lally’s revelations. Blotchy purple, Nikita noted, easing Lally behind her. A classic sign of uncontrolled fury.
She’d heard about Dean’s violent temper from Adeline. She’d seen it herself on occasion. Was it violent enough for him to have locked his daughter in a closet for breaking one of his medical instruments? If Lally’s vision had any merit, apparently so. They had to get out of here.
“Dean,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Enough! This is outrageous.” His arthritic fists clenched. “You of all people, Nikita, should know better than to believe such drivel.”
“Is it drivel?” Nikita pushed Lally toward the door.
He made a jerky motion with his arm. “Of course it is. Perhaps I did shut my daughter in her room once or twice when she was a child—and I emphasize, her room, not her closet—but only when my lectures fell on deaf ears.” He advanced on Nikita, who gestured subtly to Lally to continue her retreat “It was your fault on those occasions when she wouldn’t listen.” He shook an accusing finger at her as he approached. “You were headstrong like your grandmother, and your wayward father saw no need to correct the fault. But I was not about to let your willfulness rub off on my daughter. I would direct her career, not you.”
“Not Deana, either?” Nikita challenged. Good God, why was she being so bold?
A reason lurked inside her, but she couldn’t seem to grasp it. All she heard was Lally’s off-key solo, her poor attempt to mimic Shirley Temple singing “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” or Lally-pop, as Lally had sung it.
Funny, though, Nikita reflected, groping her way past Deana’s swivel chair, of all people to mimic Shirley Temple, Lally was the worst That was Deana’s part to play, a natural for her—if indeed she’d been inclined to play a role. As a child she hadn’t played much of anything. She’d dreamed and demurred and been Daddy’s good little girl—until the day she’d married Martin, and Daddy had imploded with a blend of shock and despair.
A situation out of his control was how Adeline had described it. Unfortunate, she’d added, that the one time in Deana’s life when she’d chosen to assert her will the result had been such an unmitigated disaster.
Dean’s finger continued to shake under Nikita’s nose. His right forefinger, she noticed with a shudder. Her searching hands found the paneled wall. Unable to retreat farther, she inched sideways, praying under her breath that Lally would stay well ahead of her and reach the door before Dean did whatever it was he intended to do.
“Children cannot be allowed to think entirely for themselves,” he declared hotly. “That is for responsible adults. The master dictates the dance, Nikita, and in my home, I am the master.”
It had to be terror that made Nikita hear his last words echoed in a woman’s voice. Or had a woman spoken them to her?
She scrambled through her recent memories. Shirley Temple’s features sprang to mind. Dimpled and sweet—except it hadn’t been Shirley Temple who’d spoken. Someone very like her, but not Shirley herself.
I’m the temporary director here. Round brown eyes regarded Nikita solemnly from the realm of memory. The master dictates the dance.
Icy tendrils of fear spiraled through her veins. Master of the dance. Oh, but any number of people used that phrase. She was being absurd.
Dean’s censuring finger blurred. She sidled past the file cabinet to a bare expanse of paneled wall. Control, her brain prodded. This whole gruesome business was linked to control. But did the key lie in the maintenance of it, the pursuit of it—or a thirty-year lack of it?
“Oh, God, no,” she whispered, pausing in her bid for escape. Nausea churned in her stomach. “It can’t be. Not that. Not…”
She heard the sound before she comprehended it. She had no time to react. One minute the wall was there, the next it had vanished
Nikita stumbled backward with a startled gasp. She would have fallen if she hadn’t bumped into someone standing rigid as a statue behind her.
An arm covered with a black raincoat snaked viciously around her throat Of course, with a three-inch height advantage, a person could do that.
A needle appeared, pressing uncapped against the side of Nikita’s neck. She knew better than to fight Instinct told her that this syringe contained a far more toxic drug than barbiturates.
“Stop!”
The order was fired point-blank at Dean. It held a ragged quality of hatred that Nikita hadn’t heard in all her years of practice. She swallowed and forced herself not to pry on the arm wrapped around her throat.
“You.” Her captor spoke to Dean with all the heat of a fire-breathing dragon. “You made me do this. You’ve ruined everything!”
Dean stopped in mid-denial, his right forefinger poised in the air, his face a mask of utter astonishment.
Nikita stood still. This had nothing to do with her. It might not have had all that much to do with the first three victims, either.
Several pieces of the jigsaw puzzle slid chillingly into place. Lally’s Shirley Temple song, the unidentified “she” Lally had referred to only moments ago, the significance of the broken index finger on the corpses’ right hands, even the strands of hair tied around them. How many times had she known Dean to tug teasingly on a lock of her hair? Tug on it by coiling the hair around his finger.
Control, Nikita thought frantically. It all boiled down to control, in this case, the attainment of it through murder, the most powerful control for anyone to achieve. Anyone whose mind had snapped, that is. Dear God, why hadn’t she seen this earlier?
“I…I…” For the first time in his life Dean could find no words.
In her peripheral vision, Nikita saw Lally plaster herself to the wall. Run, she begged her silently. Run and get Vachon.
“This…How could—” Dean still had his hand up, his finger extended. “What—”
“Shut up! Just shut up, and let me think!”
The rough command resounded in Nikita’s head. The needle was lodged against her carotid artery. Please don’t let it go in, she prayed.
The gloved hand tightened its grip. “You were my friend, Niki,” a familiar yet alien voice said. “Friend and rival. You had a mind of your own. So did I. Only my mind got stifled early on. Like a clogged artery that can’t be unblocked, because if it is, some minuscule fragment of that clog might shoot into the brain and, barn, you’re dead. But I didn’t buy that theory. I beat the odds. I am completely unclo
gged and free to act without direction. Don’t move, Lally.”
Lally froze, then swiftly hunkered down, too cowed to flee despite the fact that she could easily have escaped.
Nikita took a deep breath and did her utmost to relax her quaking muscles. “This won’t solve anything. You must see that.”
“Must I?”
The hand at Nikita’s throat whipped back to seize her hair and spin her around. The syringe jabbed ominously against the tender skin beneath her chin. An evil smile played on the killer’s lips.
“I have news for you, Niki. There’s nothing anymore that I must or must not do. I’m free. I’m the master. I am anything I choose to be. I control the dance now. No more Dean Hawthorne’s dutiful daughter. I am Deana Sorensen. And tonight, I choose to kill you.”
Chapter Twenty
“Son of a—” Vachon snatched up his gun. “Move,” he shouted to Manny, behind him, and to Martin, who stood numbly in his path. “Get over it, both of you. Lally said it was Nikita’s turn to die tonight. Tonight! That means Deana’s here.”
Manny collected himself with an effort, though his shoulders still sagged. “You’re right.” He scrubbed his face. “She has to be stopped.”
Vachon shot him a black look. “When this is over, partner, you’re going to tell me every damned thing you’ve been holding back.”
Bleak-faced, Manny nodded. “Where was Nikita the last time you saw her?”
Vachon had to shove Martin to get him moving. “She should be in Drake’s office.” If she’d listened to him, that is, which was far from a sure thing.
He ran into the corridor. A shaft of light spilled onto the carpet twenty feet ahead.
Deana, a murderer. He couldn’t believe it. But he should believe it. He was a cop.
Nikita’s assertion haunted him. “Lally wouldn’t kill anyone.”
Why hadn’t he listened? Psychiatrists weren’t shams, and he loved this particular one. He should have believed!
He refrained from calling to her as he approached the office. A murmur of voices warned him to proceed with caution. Still, it took every scrap of his willpower not to charge in like a white knight attempting a belated act of chivalry.
“Damn you, Manny,” he swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Both hands on his gun, he glanced at Manny and Martin far behind him. Martin looked shell-shocked, and Manny—well, his feelings were plain enough. He loved Deana. How deeply, Vachon could only speculate. However deeply, though, Manny’s feelings were no match for his. Nikita would not die. Not tonight or any other.
A sharp cry reverberated through the air. Vachon’s breath constricted in his chest. Nikita!
“Stay away, Daddy. Don’t move, Lally!”
Vachon heard the strident commands, closed his eyes and forced himself to regroup. Deana was in Drake’s office, where Nikita had remained with Lally Monk.
“I can’t believe…. I can’t…”
To Vachon’s shock, Martin walked straight past him, his expression zombielike. He reached the doorway before Vachon could intercept him and stared inside. “I just can’t believe…Dee?”
“Shut up,” she shouted. “Get him, Daddy. Get all of them. Vachon most particularly. And don’t tell me he’s not there, because I know he is. He’s Niki’s magical champion.” Her tone became a warning snarl. “I’ve got her, Vachon. At needlepoint.”
Vachon stepped away from the wall and into view. His face blanched when he saw Deana wrench Nikita’s arm behind her while threatening to stick the tip of a syringe into her neck.
“Smart man,” Deana congratulated him coldly. “Gun down, on the floor. You too, Manny,” she instructed without a glimmer of feeling.
Gone, Vachon realized through a haze of throbbing tension, was the Deana Sorensen he’d known. The button eyes, the pert nose and the masses of ringlet curls remained, but in the doctor’s place there stood a monster, the once-sweet features contorted with rage.
Hatred spewed from her eyes. Thank God, Nikita offered no resistance. One wrong move and that needle would pierce her skin for sure.
“It’s all ruined,” Deana shouted, stomping her foot “No one was supposed to find out.”
“Dee,” Nikita said softly.
“Don’t talk to me! He spoiled everything by coming here and talking to you. I came to the door. I heard him. I saw that finger of his. I see it in my sleep, shaking at me. ‘You’re not Niki,’ he said and said and said to me. ‘You don’t want to be like her. You want to be better. I want you to be better. You will listen to me.’” Her eyes flashed with fury. “But in the end, the best wasn’t good enough, was it, Daddy? Niki was still better. I even think you liked her better deep down.”
“No, Deana,” he said.
She gave Nikita’s arm a violent jerk. Vachon’s insides twisted.
“You did,” she shouted. “You like her better. Why? Because no one likes a puppet, that’s why. You wanted Pinocchio for a daughter, but you didn’t like her once she became Pinocchio.”
Vachon took a cautious step toward her. “You’re not a puppet, Deana. You married Martin. Your father never wanted that.”
As if lit by an inner fire, Deana’s overbright eyes impaled him. “No, Daddy didn’t want me to marry Martin. I did. But what makes the whole thing such a kick in the head is that Daddy was right. I defied him to marry Martin—and he was right” Her laughter contained a bitter edge. “Daddy still won. Pinocchio off her strings goofed royally.”
Nikita spoke again. “Dee, please—”
“I said shut up.” Deana’s mouth stretched into a grotesque line. “It’s your turn to die, Niki, even if I can’t pin this one on Lally’s freaky friend. I’ll disappear when I’m finished here. I can do that now. I’ve been saving my strength. The controlled is now the controller, the master of any dance she chooses.”
BEFORE NIKITA could gasp from the pain of having her arm wrenched halfway up her back, Deana was hauling her into the passageway. The hidden passageway that led to a rabbit warren of staircases and corridors and God knew what other dark, nasty places.
“Dee, don’t!” she cried, and with her heel caught the other woman hard in the shins.
Deana let out a yelp and raised the syringe.
From that point on Nikita wasn’t entirely sure what happened, whether Vachon lunged or Manny leaped, whether she kicked again or Deana simply tripped on a loose floorboard. Maybe it was a combination of all those things. Whatever the case, Deana lost her grip on the syringe. Nikita heard it hit the floor and roll into the shadows.
As if relieved of a giant weight, she fought Deana’s grasp.
“Niki!” Vachon pulled her wrist.
“No!” Deana screamed, her face a parody of insane fury. Her fingers clawed at the air over Vachon’s shoulder. “I have to kill her. I decided. I have to do it tonight!”
Possessed of an almost superhuman strength, she broke free of Vachon’s restraining grip, ducked through Manny’s outstretched arms and hurled herself, fingers curled, at Nikita’s throat.
It was a nightmare Nikita would never forget. The expression of absolute loathing on Deana’s once-pretty face, her wild eyes and flying curls, the clawed fingers that would have raked the skin from her throat…
Her muscles responded at the last possible second, impelling her to jump sideways. She tumbled into Vachon, who appeared just in time to break her fall.
Another face appeared at the doorway, a stern, disapproving face that had the dimensions of a thundercloud.
“Dean.” Nikita’s voice trailed off as Vachon drew her into the shadows.
“Stop this at once, Deana,” Dean Hawthorne ordered.
“The syringe,” Nikita whispered.
Behind Deana, Manny moved. He grabbed the needle just as Deana dived for it.
Vachon and Nikita reacted in tandem, scrambling to secure Deana’s flailing arms. But Nikita suspected it was her father’s tone more than anything that stilled the woman’s violent
struggles.
“This is preposterous,” he declared in a reproachful, albeit slightly shaken, voice. “You are my daughter, Deana. You will do as I say. Get up from the floor at once. At once, do you hear?”
Deana faced him like a raging bull at first. Then, gradually, as if a disguise were being stripped away piece by piece, her bravado faded and finally vanished into the darkness.
Her eyes resembled brown saucers as she regarded her father’s forbidding countenance. “Daddy?”
Nikita appealed to Vachon, who gestured to Manny to take her place. She did not want to hold her friend in this way. Help her, yes, but not hold her like some pathetic prisoner.
She didn’t see Dean raise his index finger. She only knew that suddenly he was shaking it under Deana’s nose, scowling and shaking and censuring her for her inexcusable behavior.
“Vachon!” Nikita cried, but it was too late, and Manny’s grip on Deana’s arm was too light She broke free before either man could stop her. She stumbled, snatched up the syringe and launched herself at her father.
He staggered sideways, staring at her, his expression incredulous. “Deana,” he croaked, then dropped slowly to his knees.
Smiling smugly, Deana bent over him. All innocence, she replied, “Yes, Daddy? Did you want to say something?”
He would have fallen facedown on the floor if Vachon hadn’t caught and gently lowered him.
Deana moved backward. “I guess not,” she said, eyes shining as she regarded the empty needle in his neck. “Bye-bye, Daddy. It looks like your dance is over forever.”
The scream that filled Nikita’s head was entirely her own. No one spoke a word.
Then, as if someone had turned up the volume on a bad recording, a voice penetrated Nikita’s shock. Forgotten in the chaos, Lally crouched against the far wall and warbled raspily. “On the good ship Lally-pop…”
NIKITA THANKED GOD that it was over, Well, almost over. In a fury to match anything Deana could mete out, a blizzard had descended on the Boston area only a few short hours after Dean Hawthorne’s death. Uniformed police arrived in a gale-force blast of wind and snow, but everyone involved knew they wouldn’t be leaving the hospital until dawn.
