Mortal Pursuit

by Brian Harper

  They would have handcuffs.

  Two dead cops. Automatic death penalty.

  It was unfair. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, had never wanted them to die. Even so, he was an accomplice, and when Cain and his crew of thugs went down, Charles would go too.

  “What are we going to do” he whispered. “There’s no way out.”

  “Sure there is.” The cool authority of Cain’s tone prompted Charles to lift his head. “Your daughter is the problem. If she doesn’t talk, we’re in the clear.”

  Charles didn’t understand. Cain was speaking nonsense.

  Of course Ally would talk. Why wouldn’t she talk

  Unless …

  It struck him like a blow. He sank deeper into the chair, overstuffed cushions swallowing him. The ceiling fan spun slowly, and the den spun with it in dizzy circles.

  “My God,” he croaked.

  “She has to die, Mr. Kent.”

  It was obvious, of course. He should have seen it instantly. There was a harsh, brutal logic to the idea, a mathematical inevitability.

  “No,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “I understand.” Cain spoke almost kindly, as if he were Charles’s old friend and not a hired assassin. “It’s one thing to set up your rich bitch of a wife … and something else to ice your own kid.”

  “Something else. Yes.”

  And it was. Killing Barbara was ugly and coarse and unpleasant, but not unthinkable. He had, in fact, contemplated the possibility for years, though he might never have acted had their marriage not deteriorated to the point where she was threatening divorce.

  If she left him, she would take Ally with her-and, no less important, the Ashcroft fortune, twenty-five million dollars in real estate, securities, and assorted liquid assets, not to mention miscellaneous baubles of the sort littering the rosewood table.

  He would be left with visitation rights and the earnings from his law practice, sizable earnings but trivial in comparison with what he would lose.

  There was another way to end their marriage. At the wedding ceremony they had vowed, “Till death do us part.”

  Should Barbara die under any remotely suspicious circumstances, her husband would be the obvious suspect. But suppose one evening a gang of armed men broke into the estate and took the Kents and their dinner guests hostage. Suppose the house was trashed, the prisoners terrorized. Suppose the night of terror climaxed in Barbara’s attempted rape-and when she resisted, she paid with her life.

  Even in the unlikely event that the police became suspicious, they could prove nothing.

  To protect Ally, Charles had wanted her out of the house for the evening. Lately, he’d argued to Barbara, their daughter had been too moody, too unpredictable. And there had been that incident at the Carltons’ Christmas party, when she had yelled and made a scene.

  But Barbara, in misguided loyalty to her daughter, had insisted on having her present. And now Ally had seen Cain’s face, and she would have to be …

  His mind censored the completion of that thought.

  Head lolling, he stared at the floor. A black duffel bag lay alongside the chair, the flaps unzipped. Amid the confusion of gear inside, there was one recognizable object: the handle of a gun. One of those Austrian pistols Cain and his crew were toting. Glocks. This must be a spare.

  A gun like that would end his daughter’s life as soon as he gave the word.

  Would Cain put it in her mouth That was how he’d promised to do Barbara.

  He remembered the big man talking, laughing, as they sat together in Charles’s BMW, parked at the Oxnard marina after dark.

  Your wife’s gonna suck my pistol, Mr. Kent, he’d said with a crooked smile. Bet I can get off just watching her. And when I come-she goes.

  Yes, Barbara could die that way. But not Ally. Not Ally.

  “Not Ally,” he said aloud. “Not her. It’s … it’s out of the question. I refuse to permit it.”

  “Permit” Cain laughed. “I don’t need your permission.”

  “You work for me.”

  “But I won’t die for you. I’m going to do this. I only wanted to get things straight between us so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding later, when the rest of the money comes due.”

  The rest of the money. Five million dollars to be parceled out to Cain and his associates over the next five years.

  “You think I’ll pay you,” Charles asked incredulously, “for murdering my daughter”

  “You’ll pay.” And suddenly Cain closed in fast and gripped Charles by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the headrest. “Or I’ll come after you next.”

  The grip of his gloved hands tightened, and Charles felt the raw power of this man’s fingers, fingers that could dose over his throat in an instant and crush his windpipe like a paper straw.

  A wild fantasy bloomed in his thoughts. Wait for Cain to release him, then snatch the Glock out of the duffel and shoot him, yes, just shoot the sociopathic son of a bitch.

  But if he did, Cain’s accomplices in the next room would kill him for it.

  Anyway, he couldn’t murder anybody. That is, not with his own hands. He could order it done, he could pay for it, but to do it himself … to do it personally … physically …

  He groped for the delicate distinction that eluded him.

  “You’ll pay,” Cain said again, a feral edge to his voice, and Charles understood that he was in the presence of a man who never made fine distinctions of conscience, a man who was more than his match in any violent contest.

  That man was his contractual agent in name only.

  Tonight, in every way that mattered, it was Cain who was in charge.

  “Well, Mr. Kent”

  Beaten, Charles nodded, retaining just enough dignity to do it slowly. “I’ll pay.”

  “And Ally will die.”

  He couldn’t answer that.

  “I want to hear you say it. I want us to have a verbal agreement. It’s as good as a written contract in this kind of deal.”

  “I … I can’t …”

  “You can.” Cain shook him roughly. “Face reality. You’re not backing out now. You’re in for the duration. So here’s the new plan: I pop your wife and your kid. Two for the price of one. What do you care You’ll be dirty rich. You can buy yourself a brand-new baby girl to bounce on your goddamned knee.”

  The words were too cruel, there couldn’t be this much malice in the world, and Charles couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t endure the flood of memories the words released-his newborn daughter wailing in the doctor’s hands, a caul pasted to her red face-seven years old and flying higher, still higher, on the swing that once stood out back-thirteen and delivering the valedictory address at her eighth grade graduation, so proud in her cap and gown.

  Replace her A new daughter He couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand it, and most of all he couldn’t stand knowing that he would let it happen, because he had no choice, and because he was afraid, deathly afraid of this man Cain, and afraid of himself for unleashing Cain on his family-stupid, so stupid-the money didn’t matter now, nothing mattered except Ally, and it was too late for her.

  Shaking, Charles clutched his head in both hands and wept.

  27

  Crouching under the white branches of a eucalyptus tree just inside the rear gate, Trish surveyed the yard.

  Getting in had been no problem. The gate had been left open, presumably so the man at the dock could reenter when called.

  She doubted anyone was on patrol at the back of the house-the dock sentry would be expected to block access from the rear-but she was taking no chances. It was her modest ambition to still have a heartbeat in the morning.

  The backyard was large, perhaps half an acre, but its layout was simple enough.

  The paved path from the gate ran between the house’s west wall and the detached garage. East of the path lay a stretch of open lawn, then a gazebo. Beside the gazebo was a garden; beyond that, a swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and caban
a.

  No guards were in sight. Slowly she stood.

  Mounted on a post next to the eucalyptus was a security system controller. She spared a moment to examine it. If she could rearm the system with the rear gate open, the alarm would be triggered and help would come.

  No good. Evidently the operator had to punch in a numeric code, similar to the personal identification number used when interfacing with automatic tellers. She didn’t know the code.

  Was there a panic switch Some systems offered a single button that could be depressed to trip the alarm. Not this one, though. It might be possible to activate the panic feature by typing in some special code or symbol, but she had no idea which keys to press, and she couldn’t stand here all night.

  Okay, back to Plan A. She was thinking anyway. She was full of bright ideas.

  Cautiously she moved forward, the Glock gripped in both hands, her arms shoulder high and horizontally extended in the pose of a tennis player at the net. Her bare forearms glistened, radial flexors standing out like taut ropes. Between her wrists the handcuff chain rattled softly.

  The gazebo was her immediate destination. But reaching it would be dangerous.

  She would have to cross twenty-five feet of open lawn, and although the yard was dark, she couldn’t know if someone was watching from a window.

  Flashback: glow of a red-orange diode, a laser beam stamping a bull’s-eye on her forehead. Flashback: a bullet blowing past her face underwater.

  Mustn’t think about that. Mustn’t think about anything.

  Like those stupid ads said: Just do it.

  Fast.

  She darted across the treeless ground. Behind the gazebo she slid to her knees, panting.

  No shots fired. At least she didn’t think there had been. Those guns were silenced, though. And she’d heard you couldn’t always tell if you’d been shot.

  She patted her legs, her torso, looking for holes. None.

  Okay. Okay.

  Her stomach rolled. That granola bar hadn’t settled too well. Briefly she worried that she would be sick again.

  No, ridiculous, she was fine, and every second she spent inside the Kent compound increased her odds of being seen, so come on, hurry up, get it done.

  With shaking hands she put down the Glock, then unfolded the binoculars from her pocket. Warily she lifted her head over the gazebo’s low wall and scoped out the house.

  Lights burned in three rear windows. One pair, in the east wing, framed what looked like a bedroom.

  Ally was in there. Through the binoculars Trish could see her, squirming in a chair. Tied up-and alone.

  Strange that the girl had been separated from the others. Disturbing, too, as if the killers had special plans for her.

  The rear entrance had been left open, the doorway a rectangle of darkness.

  She focused on the remaining lighted window, closest to her. The kitchen. Barbara Kent’s vantage point when she’d glimpsed a prowler by the gazebo.

  Now Trish was the prowler. Peculiar thought.

  The kitchen appeared empty. Only a small portion of the room was visible: the corner of a refrigerator … part of a cabinet … a wall-mounted telephone … a laminated noteboard littered with partly erased messages.

  Below the noteboard, keys hung on a row of pegs.

  The kitchen, then, was her objective. One of those key sets would surely include keys to the boats. If she—

  Behind her, a rustle of bushes.

  She whirled, dropping the binoculars, grabbing the gun.

  Darkness. No movement.

  But she’d heard something.

  One of them Hiding Drawing a bead on her

  There.

  Not a bad guy, not death in a black jump suit. Only a rabbit, small and brown, frozen in profile ten feet away, observing her with one unblinking eye.

  She lowered the Glock. The slight movement was enough to send the rabbit scurrying into shadows.

  Catching her breath, fighting to control her racing heart, she stared after the rabbit. Such a little animal, so vulnerable, surviving only by constant watchfulness born of constant fear.

  Tonight she knew the same vigilance, the same terror.

  She knew how it was to be hunted.

  28

  Ally was afraid.

  She stared at herself in the mirrored doors of her bedroom closet-dress torn, body twisted at an unnatural angle in the tubular desk chair, wrists lashed to the padded armrest with strips of bedding.

  The room felt hot and stuffy. Stagnant air clogged her lungs like paste.

  Having the windows open didn’t help. It only reminded her of the man who’d watched her through the backyard fence on those other nights.

  Watched with binoculars as she stood naked, feeling the night air on her breasts. Watched as she emerged, towelless and dripping, from the shower in the adjacent bath. Watched, perhaps, as she lay in the canopy bed and touched herself, legs twisting languorously, the sheets damp with sweat.

  Cain might have seen all that.

  She knew his name now, his name and his face, along with the names and faces of two associates of his. That knowledge, more than anything else, was what made her so very afraid.

  They had hidden nothing from her … as if it no longer mattered what she saw or heard.

  Cain hadn’t even bothered putting on his mask again after the attack. She’d been left weeping in a corner as he stepped to the doorway of the den.

  “Lilith, get in here.”

  The soft crackle of the police radio had preceded her entrance. Ally had found it somehow obscene to see Officer Robinson’s walkie-talkie clipped to this woman’s belt.

  Lilith had worn no mask either. She was short and frizzy-haired, pretty except for her eyes-small, glittery eyes that liked pain.

  “You heard what happened” Cain asked.

  “I heard.”

  “I think young Miss Kent needs to go to her room.”

  Lilith studied her with a stalking cat’s feral gaze. “Why not take care of things right now”

  “I need to make it square with the management.”

  “After you do-“

  “I’ll do the honors.” His gloved hand brushed the gun at his hip.

  She pouted. “You never let me have any fun.”

  Ally had understood at least part of what she heard but somehow couldn’t make the implication real. She had offered no resistance as Cain hustled her out of the den.

  They had been entering the east wing when another man, unmasked also, appeared out of the rear hall. Lanky and sun-blasted, he could have been a movie cowboy if not for his blond ponytail and storm trooper costume. Ally recognized him as the one who’d carried Officer Robinson out of the house.

  “Done” Cain asked with a smile.

  The cowboy nodded. “Done.” His squinty eyes narrowed. “What’ve we got here”

  “Minor problem,” Cain said, handing Ally over to him. “You and Lilith handle it. I’ll get started trashing this place.”

  She had been escorted into her bedroom. From the front of the house came noises of breaking glass, as distant and unreal as the soundtrack of a movie.

  Briskly Lilith unmade the bed and tore a floral-patterned sheet to ribbons. Although Ally understood that the strips would be used to tie her up, still she raised no protest. She was numb with shock and fear.

  Only when the cowboy lashed her wrists behind her had she finally reacted-kicking, squirming, mewling like a hurt animal.

  Lilith subdued her with a slap that brought fresh blood to her mouth.

  “Stupid little slut,” she lisped. “You should’ve let him do it. He wasn’t gonna off you. He just wanted to put in his dipstick, check the oil.”

  “Check the oil,” the cowboy said. “I like that.”

  “You can look under my hood anytime, Tyler.”

  “Cain might revoke my license if I did.”

  Cain. That had been the first time Ally heard the name. Instantly she knew who was mean
t. The scarred man. And the cowboy was Tyler.

  She had registered the names with a sick feeling of dread, while desperately searching Lilith’s face for some shadow of compassion.

  “The thing is,” she had whispered, shamed by the tremor in her voice, “I’ve never … you know.”

  Lilith gave her a closer look. “You a virgin”

  Was there empathy in the question “I’m fifteen,” Ally said, thinking perhaps a connection had been made.

  “Fifteen,” Lilith echoed. “That’s only two years younger than me.” Her face turned hard, any illusion of tenderness instantly erased. “So what’s your problem, baby You frigid or something”

  Ally looked away, her last hope crushed. “I’m just not ready,” she murmured.

  Lilith mimicked her with cutting accuracy. “I’m just not ready.”

  Tyler produced a heartless chuckle as he knotted the binding.

  “Cain had me when I was thirteen,” Lilith added. “Practically busted me open, he was so frigging big. Hurt like hell.” A delicious shiver racked her. “Sister, you don’t know what you missed out on.”

  Tyler had pushed her into a chair and tied her wrists to the armrest, winding additional strips around the vertical arm support.

  “What are you going to do to me” Ally asked desolately as the two of them departed.

  Tyler paused in the doorway, a wide grin cracking his face. “Let’s just say this ain’t exactly ladies’ night.”

  Then he and Lilith had strolled down the hall, toward the sound of wreckage in the living room. Not long afterward her father had been marched past, the door pulled shut before she could do more than call out to him.

  She couldn’t guess what they wanted from her dad. But their intentions toward her she understood fully.

  She was to be killed. It was the only explanation for why Tyler and Lilith hadn’t worn masks, why they’d spoken so freely. To them she was dead already.

  Staring at the closed door, waiting for Cain’s heavy footsteps. Ally thought about her future, the future she wasn’t going to have.