by Brian Harper
It had seemed so clear and tangible, more real than everyday life. Three more years, and she would be in college-someplace far away, maybe New England-far from the brooding tension and explosive outbursts of the Kent household.
Things would make sense in college. She’d been quietly certain of it. Nothing made sense here, not anymore. Her mom would be smiling one minute, in tears the next. And through her tears she would insist everything was fine, while her dad’s mouth worked soundlessly and his left eyelid twitched.
The hostility between them, so chronic yet for the most part so carefully suppressed, was more unsettling than violent fights would have been. She had often wished they could just get it out in the open, talk to each other, instead of simmering in this hothouse of mistrust and hate.
It got to her sometimes. Like at the Carltons’ Christmas party, when her folks kept needling each other with sharp, hurtful barbs, smiling sarcasm, cutting wit, until finally she couldn’t take it any longer and she yelled at them to stop it, just stop it, stop it, stop it, and of course the party had frozen, everybody staring, her parents mortified, and the long, silent ride home-God, what a joy that had been….
Oh, yes, it was great fun growing up rich and spoiled in the Kent household.
College, though, would be her sanctuary. She would study anthropology, her chosen field. Hearing of her ambition, people always assumed she hoped to become the next Margaret Mead. Ally thought Mead had been a sentimental fraud, romanticizing life in Samoa. That wasn’t the kind of anthropologist she intended to be. No lies for her, no cover-ups, no smiling through tears.
She would do field work, teach, write books, make documentary films, run a museum. Okay, realistically she might not be able to do all of that, but pieces of it were possible.
Or had been. Now nothing was possible, and her future had turned out to be only another lie.
For some reason she thought of Officer Robinson, remembering her in the moment when her eyes-amazing eyes, electric blue, their hue distinct even from across the room-had been focused on the gun in Cain’s hand.
Cain hadn’t shot her. He’d drowned her in the lake.
But on Ally he would use the gun. She’d seen him lightly touch the holster while saying, “I’ll do the honors.”
He would point the pistol at her, maybe put it in her ear or her mouth, and squeeze the trigger-perhaps one instant of unbearable pain, then nothing-and she would be as dead as Officer Robinson, as dead as her best hopes.
Damn. She wished she’d let Cain rape her. Wished she’d shut her eyes and just let him stick it in her. Anything was better than being dead at fifteen.
Don’t cry, she told herself. Not again. But she couldn’t help it.
She must have cried in the delivery room, when she was spanked into this world, and she would cry now as she was ushered out.
29
Staying low, Trish crept around the gazebo, past a thicket of olive trees.
A flagstone walkway, lined on both sides by three-foot hedges of fragrant lavender, slanted diagonally toward the patio. Head down, knees bent, she followed the path, using one row of bushes for cover.
Chills crawled over her skin. Fear Maybe just cold. She was still wet all over, her hair plastered to her forehead, her underpants groping her like clammy fingers.
On the patio now. To her right, a canvas porch swing and a scatter of redwood lawn furniture. To her left, the open door.
The tinkle of wind chimes covered the squish of her shoes as she crossed the patio to the whitewashed stucco wall.
Fast along the wall to the door frame. She took a breath, then spun inside, assuming the Weaver stance.
Nobody was there.
Into a hallway, narrow and bare. A glow from the rooms ahead guided her as she crabbed forward, her gun held close to her chest. The steel cuffs glinted faintly below the spots of dried blood on her knuckles and the bruises swelling her wrists.
From the front of the house came rare, desultory noises of destruction-shattered glass and slashed fabric. Someone was trashing the place but doing it in a strangely half-hearted way.
As the dining area and the living room came into view, she saw the extent of the wreckage in the weird patchy light of the one remaining lamp. Nearly everything breakable was in pieces.
Two of the killers, their backs to her, were methodically sweeping glazed earthenware pitchers and crystal vases from the glass-and-steel divider.
Both had taken off their masks. One was the woman, the other a blond ponytailed man.
At the intersection of the rear hall and the east wing she paused. The kitchen lay behind the wall to her right. To get inside, she would have to pass through the dining area.
A major risk. At any moment the killers might turn. But she had no choice.
Now.
Balancing speed with silence, she pivoted through the kitchen doorway and ducked behind the wall.
They hadn’t seen or heard her. The carpet’s thick pile had muffled her steps.
She looked toward the west end of the house. Past a laundry nook was a side door. She could exit that way.
First the keys. She holstered the Glock to free her hands. After a rapid inspection of the key rings, she chose the most complete set, cramming it deep in her pants pocket.
Got it. All right, get going, move.
She almost stepped away from the noteboard but hesitated, her gaze drawn to the phone on the wall. For a bewildered moment she had no idea why she was looking at it. Impossible to call from inside the house; the risk of being overheard was too great.
But this phone was cordless. It could be operated anywhere within range of the base unit-even in the backyard.
She might not need a boat after all.
Heart pumping, she lifted the handset and wedged it under her gun belt, hard against her hip.
In the next room a door creaked open.
She froze, motionless as the rabbit she had seen.
“I’m glad to report Mr. Kent has given his approval,” said a voice she recognized too well, the voice of the man with steely gray eyes. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kent”
Charles’s voice, drained of strength: “God damn you, Cain.”
Cain. Trish filed the name away.
“I take that to mean yes,” Cain answered.
Laughter from the other two. Trish had no idea what that exchange had been about, and no time to contemplate it.
“You two get started on the den.” Cain again, crisply authoritative. “Bag the loot and trash the place.”
Dangerous to listen any longer. Time to go. Right now.
She eased away from the wall, then heard footsteps, rapid and heavy.
“This way, Mr. Kent.”
The two of them-Charles and Cain-they were coming. Straight for the kitchen, it sounded like.
They would be here in five seconds. She could never get out the door fast enough. She was trapped.
Her gaze swept the kitchen. Under the sink, a cabinet. Big enough to hold her It had to be.
On her knees. Clawing at the double doors. They swung open. Household cleansers cluttered the left side. The other side was clear
The footsteps-close. Go.
Pain flared in torn muscles as she squeezed in backward. Her hair brushed the garbage disposal, her shoulder bumping the trap of the sink drain.
Folded inside, she pulled both doors shut.
Darkness. Wet clothes. A cramped, airless space.
Abruptly she was back in the trunk, water rising as she groped for the latch. She suppressed a suicidal impulse to burst free.
Boots and dress shoes thumped on the kitchen tiles.
“Why are we in here” Charles murmured in the voice of a dead man.
“Brandy on your breath. Remember”
They stopped directly before the sink.
Too late, she remembered her wet shoes. The trail of footprints must point to the cabinet like an accusing finger.
She unholstered the Glock. The h
andcuff chain jingled softly. She did her best to steady her trembling arms.
Behind her head, a metal riser hooked to a valve hummed briefly with running water.
“Take this,” Cain said. “Rinse out your mouth…. There you go. Good as new.”
“Never be good as new. Never again.”
“Think positive. Twenty million bucks can buy you one hell of an overhaul.”
“Cain. Don’t hurt her. Please.”
An impatient sigh. “We already agreed-“
“I know what we agreed. But what I mean is … when you do it … don’t make her suffer.”
“Your darling little girl will never know what hit her.”
Trish listened, her mind swirling with a rush of half-formed thoughts.
Charles Kent was part of this. Millions of dollars were involved. Barbara Kent was heiress to the Ashcroft fortune. Charles must have set her up. Hired Cain, arranged the breakin, staged the whole thing.
Now for some inexplicable reason Ally had to die. That development clearly hadn’t been part of the plan, but Charles had acquiesced in it just the same.
Hollow clunk overhead-a drinking glass had been set down on the counter. The two men stepped away from the sink, and Cain grunted as if catching his balance.
“Watch it. Floor’s wet.”
Her shoes and her dripping uniform must have left a puddle directly in front of the sink.
Teeth clenched, she aimed the gun at the cabinet door. She could shoot right through it, hope for a lucky hit—
Cain again: “You spilled some of your water, Mr. Kent.”
“Spill …” Charles sounded confused.
“Guess you couldn’t help it. You’re shaking almost as bad as that rookie cop when I said she wasn’t needed anymore.”
“I … I don’t think I-“
Cain ignored the denial. “What you need is a maid.” He chuckled as their footsteps receded. “Just take a look at that living room. It’s a goddamned pigsty.”
Gone.
Trish allowed herself to exhale.
Warily she opened the cabinet, crawled out. Her joints crackled as she stood.
She could leave now. Use the cordless phone to call 911 from the backyard.
But the response time to this location would be ten minutes even for a code three call.
Ally might not have ten minutes.
Most likely Charles was rejoining his wife and the Danforths at this moment. That was why he’d rinsed the residue of liquor from his mouth.
Once Charles was locked up, Cain would be free to do the job he’d promised.
She crept toward the kitchen doorway, heading for the east wing-and Ally’s bedroom.
Of course Trish had to save Alison Kent. There was no question of that, no slightest doubt.
She might be crazy to risk it. Her lifetime allotment of luck surely had been used up by now. But …
No medals for quitters.
At the doorway she peered into the living room. Empty. From the den rose muffled thuds and crashes. The destruction, purely for show, continued.
Okay. Go.
Through the dining area. Into the side hallway.
At the far end-Cain and Charles Kent, their backs to her. Trish ducked back into the dining area, hugging the wall.
After a mental count of ten she dared another look. The two men were gone. Must have entered the room at the end of the hall. Through the doorway Trish saw a vanity and a mirror. Master suite, presumably.
Ally’s room was closer. First door on the left, if her visualization of the house’s layout was correct. She crept toward it.
Movement in the master suite.
She froze. Was it Cain
No, only her reflection in the vanity’s mirror.
But if she could see herself in the silvered glass, anyone in the master suite could see her too. Either Charles or Cain might notice at any moment. Hurry.
She reached Ally’s door. Locked Please don’t let it be locked.
The knob turned freely.
Before opening the door, she lifted the Glock in her right hand.
Ally had appeared to be alone, but not every corner of the room was visible through the windows. There might be a guard.
Go in fast.
Her left hand swung the door ajar, and she pivoted through the doorway, her gaze sweeping the bedroom.
Canopy bed. Computer work station. Crowded bookcases. TV and VCR. Navajo rug tacked on the wall. Ally bound to a chair.
Nobody else.
The girl’s mouth formed a round shape of surprise. Trish silenced the half-voiced cry with a wordless shake of her head.
Softly she eased the door shut and locked it.
Ally stared through a skein of disheveled hair. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “You’re dead.”
Trish managed a smile, her first in a long time. “Not yet.”
30
“My God.” Barbara stared at Charles as he stumbled into the closet, shoved by the tall ski-masked man with gray eyes. “What did they do to you”
Charles didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even understand. He blinked vapidly.
The doors swung shut, darkness slamming down.
“Charles” Philip laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right”
“Did they … hurt you” Barbara whispered.
No reply.
Outside, a chain rasped, a padlock clicked, footsteps retreated.
When Barbara was sure the man had left, she switched on the flashlight she’d hidden behind her back. Charles blinked in the wavering beam.
“Philip found it on the shelf while you were gone,” she said. “We put a box of earthquake supplies in here, remember”
Still Charles was silent. She studied his face, chalky in the pale circle of light. She saw no bruises, no sign of injury, yet an awful change had come over him. His smug assurance was gone. He was a broken man, a concentration camp survivor, all hollow eyes and bloodless lips.
Then an explanation occurred to her, terrible in its plausibility.
“Is it Ally Is she …” She couldn’t finish the question, wasn’t certain what horror she imagined: rape or torture or murder, or all three.
Finally Charles roused himself, a man climbing out of a deep sleep.
“No,” he said in a dusty voice. “Not Ally. Ally’s fine.” He nodded. “She’s fine. I saw her. She’s fine.”
“Where is she”
“Her bedroom.” Still nodding, nodding. “She’s comfortable. She’s fine.”
“Then … what happened”
“I opened the safe. That’s all.”
“But why do you look so … so …”
“I’m okay,” Charles said. “Really.”
Barbara exchanged a baffled glance with Judy, whose hand was absently stroking the spot between her collar bones where the crucifix had hung.
Like a patient father leading a small child, Philip ushered Charles to the wicker hamper. “Why don’t you rest your feet”
The hamper had creaked when Barbara sat on it earlier. But it registered Charles’s weight not at all, as if he weren’t really there, as if only his image inhabited the closet.
“That better” Philip asked.
“Much,” Charles said without visible reaction. “Much better.”
The flashlight was trembling. Barbara bit her lip. “Oh, Charles.”
Distantly she was surprised to hear herself speak her husband’s name with a tenderness she hadn’t felt in years.
31
Ally stared at Trish Robinson as she crossed the bedroom. Her attention was held by Trish’s eyes, electric blue, gleaming with an intensity that was almost scary.
They were the eyes of a jungle animal, grimly determined, hypervigilant, focused exclusively on the immediate moment. Eyes that could stare death in the face.
Maybe they already had.
Then her focus shifted to Trish’s hair-a wet mop-and her uniform-soaked through.
&nb
sp; “The lake …” Ally whispered.
“What”
“That’s where Cain said he put you.”
“Temporarily.”
“You got away” The question was hushed, almost awed.
Shrug. “I’m here, aren’t I”
Trish holstered her gun and leaned over the chair, tugging at the knotted sheets. Her hands were shaking, her fingers clumsy, and Ally saw for the first time how scared she was-weak with fear but doing her best not to show it.
The fear made her more human, more real, not an apparition in a dream.
“You know martial arts” Ally asked. “Is that how you did it”
“They call me the dragon lady.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously-I just got lucky, okay”
Lucky. No way. She’d been fighting. Maybe not with kung fu and tae kwan do, but it had been a battle, all right. Ally noted the abrasions on her wrists and knuckles, the cuts and bruises on her bare forearms.
But how could she have fought anybody She was still handcuffed, her arm movements severely restricted.
Handcuffed …
“Hey, didn’t they cuff your hands behind your back”
“I moonlight as a contortionist.” She gave up trying to loosen the stubborn knots and unsheathed a knife.
Cops didn’t carry knives on their belts, did they No, wait. Ally had seen Tyler remove Trish’s belt before slinging her over his shoulder. The equipment she was wearing-it belonged to one of the bad guys.
Ally didn’t think any of them would have given up his gear voluntarily.
“How come you know Cain’s name” Trish asked, cutting into her thoughts.
“Oh. I-uh-I know all about him.” The mention of Cain made her heart speed up. “I’ve seen his face. He’s ugly.”
“Big surprise.”
“He wants to kill me.”
“What he wants and what he’ll get are two different things.”
Though Trish tried to say it with cool nonchalance. Ally could hear the strain stretching her voice taut, could see the tic of a muscle in her cheek that gave the lie to her smile.
The knife blade sliced neatly through the binding, and Ally was free.
She stood on wobbly legs and took a step toward the door. Suddenly her only impulse was to be out of this room, this place where she’d been certain she would die.
