SEVENTY-ONE
Ward sat holding the gun in one hand and Natasha's hand in the other. Alice was seated with her legs bent under her, playing an electronic game in a chair to one side of them, her face illuminated by the small screen. She was absorbed in the whistles and beeps. Leslie sat with her ankles crossed on the ottoman in front of her chair, ab-sently tapping the blade of the butcher knife on her thigh. She was glaring at Alice.
“I should take a walk around and check the doors,” Ward said.
“Take the gun,” Natasha told him.
“You keep it,” he said.
“No, I insist,” Natasha said. “It freaks me out.”
He walked through the kitchen to the garage door. Turning on the light inside the garage, he stared out at the vehicle closest to him— Natasha's Lexus—and his heart sank when he noticed that the two tires he could see were flat. Gismano had flattened the tires of the vehicles. If they had already been flat when Todd had slipped out, neither had noticed in the dark.
“Shit,” he said.
“What is it?” Natasha said, startling him. She had come up behind him.
“Nothing,” he said, flipping off the light. He led her back to the kitchen.
“Obviously it isn't nothing,” she insisted.
“I was just looking at the cars. Silly since the driveway is blocked. That's all.”
“That isn't all,” she said. “I know you, Ward. What else?”
“He punctured the tires of your Lexus, probably all three cars. I couldn't see the Beemer or the Toyota's tires, but I assume he got them as well.”
“We have to get Alice and Leslie out of here. They aren't involved in this,” Natasha said. “It isn't fair for them to be in danger. It isn't fair for you to be either.”
“I'm with you about them, but I'm sticking with you. He's our problem, and with Todd's help we'll get through this. And I do have a gun. That's an edge. Isn't it?”
“One thing,” Natasha said. “He got into the garage, and we know he's gotten into the house before. So, can't he do it again?”
SEVENTY-TWO
“Don't you think it's like really weird?” Alice asked. “That this shit happens on the anniversary of your son's.… you know.…”
“Barney's death,” Natasha said. “Yes, it's an unpleasant coincidence, to say the least.”
“That does seem very odd,” Leslie said.
“Maybe it isn't a coincidence at all,” Ward said. “If this Gismano character has been watching us, he knows what today is.”
“He marked it on the calendar,” Natasha said wearily.
“Maybe this Gismano guy set all of that up,” Leslie said. “And timed it all for the anniversary. Tonight.”
“You ever think what if he killed your son?” Alice said, without looking up from the Game Boy screen.
“He didn't,” Leslie said reflexively “Barney died from faulty wiring. Nobody killed him. It was an accident. This guy Louis loved his son. I doubt he would murder an innocent child.”
“Leslie's right,” Ward said, wondering if Gismano could have rigged the wiring to electrify the place where Barney stepped, wet from swimming in the pool. It was too monstrous an act to consider. Or could he have done it believing that Ward or Natasha would be killed, and he hadn't considered that the boy might be the victim? No, Ward couldn't believe that kind of indifference to a life so precious was possible. He and Natasha had never considered that pos sibility, and the investigators would surely have found evidence to point to tampering, and they hadn't. The ground-fault interrupter hadn't been put on the line and saturated ground had allowed the electricity to find its way out through a bare spot in the insulation and kill his son. Barney had not fallen into a trap that had been set for Ward. Ward's heart palpitated at the thought.
Ward also let himself wonder if the virus might have been a killer's doing and that the hacker's and Trey's murders were committed by the ex-soldier to cover his trail. Not that it mattered now.
Ward said, “Right now we just have to keep him at bay until help gets here, which should be very soon. Todd will get word out and his guys are on their way here.” And he wondered if Todd had indeed made it out to a good signal.
Leslie said, “Can we talk about something else? He's just a crazy man, and talking about him won't get rid of him. We have to figure out a plan to kill him.”
“Did you guys ever have a séance to talk to your son? Maybe he like has an idea. Séances are so cool.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Ward opened the .38 and looked at the candle's reflection on the brass circles, the contrasting silver primers in their centers. He closed the cylinder carefully, hearing the positive snap of steel on steel as it locked back in place.
Sitting in the silence, he heard a squeak over Alice's Game Boy that was so slight he almost missed it. The women heard it, too, and turned toward the sound. His house had been built using expensive hardware throughout, but even the best metal hinges, when not lubricated regularly, would make a noise when opening.
“Natasha, take Leslie and Alice to our bedroom and lock the door,” he whispered. “You can escape through the window. Once I know he's in here, I'll yell.”
“Maybe it's Todd,” Natasha whispered back.
“No, he'd knock,” Ward whispered.
Alice turned off her Game Boy and looked at Ward. Without saying anything, Leslie took the butcher knife, Alice lifted her tote bag, and they followed Natasha out of the room, moving fast down the hallway.
Ward blew out the candle, got behind the chair, and aimed the .38 at the kitchen door thirty feet away across the dining table. He heard the bedroom door slamming shut behind the women. He blinked and waited for his eyes to become fully accustomed to the darkness.
Using the back of the chair to brace his extended hands—one gripping the weapon, the other under the butt—Ward felt his gun hand shaking. Never in his life had he been in mortal danger. He knew Louis Gismano was in the kitchen; to get into the rest of the house he had to come through the kitchen door, which Ward could just make out. Once through the door Gismano's choices were to make a hard left turn to the foyer, or come in the darkness straight toward Ward through the dining area. When Louis left the kitchen to come into the den, he would be in range. The only problem was that Ward had never fired a gun at any living thing before.
“Louis,” Ward said in a louder than conversational tone. “I know why you're here. What happened to your son was a terrible tragedy, but it wasn't my wife's fault. There are people with guns coming any minute. You can just go,” Ward said, his voice breaking up slightly. “I have a gun. I don't want to shoot you, but I will if you don't give me any choice.”
He jumped at the sound of Natasha's voice drifting eerily out from the kitchen. “Little guy, Mama loves you so very much.”
He knew the recorded voice came from the stuffed bear that had been stolen.
Ward wondered if his mind was playing a trick on him, or if there was a figure filling the kitchen doorway.
Rage replaced his fear, and remembering Todd's instructions, and trusting his instincts, Ward let his brain tell his hand where to send the bullet, and he slowly tightened his grip, squeezing the trigger back evenly. For a split second when the trigger broke, his hand jumped, bright light filled the large space, and the explosion deafened him. In the flash Ward saw a man standing there. As Ward's eyes adjusted, he was sure the door frame was now empty.
“Shit,” Ward said.
He was answered with a loud, eerie burst of laughter and Natasha's recorded voice: “Little guy, Mama loves you so very much.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
Holding hands, the three women strode in controlled panic down the hall in the dark, entering the master bedroom. Natasha slammed and locked the heavy door after them.
“The killer is in the house?” Alice asked.
“Not now,” Leslie snapped.
“Well, excuse me for asking questions,” Alice shot back. “There is a mania
c after me.”
“Sorry, Alice,” Natasha said. “Why in God's name are you two here? It isn't fair. We have to get you both out safe.”
“What about you?” Leslie said, holding the knife down by her side.
“He wants me,” Natasha said. “Worst case, he gets me. Go, you two. Out the window. Go to the road and flag down a car, or turn right and go to the subdivision and call the sheriff.”
Taking the window crank in hand Natasha started turning it counterclockwise and the window began to slowly open out. As she was about to get it open enough for them to get out, there was an explosion, loud even through the solid door.
“Ward!” Natasha cried out.
“Was that a gun?” Alice asked.
“Ward must have shot at him,” Leslie said, hopefully. “Maybe he got him?”
Or maybe he shot at Ward. “Leslie, you and Alice go now! Get away while he's in here.”
“What about you?” Leslie said. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Alice went to the window and looked out. “It's a long way down,” she said. “I could get hurt jumping down there.”
“You could get killed in here,” Natasha said. “Now go. You, too, Leslie.”
“You're not coming?” Leslie asked, incredulous.
Through the door the women heard the killer's muted laughter.
“Ward needs me,” Natasha said. “I won't leave him. Give me that knife and go.”
“You want the knife?” Leslie asked.
“What, are you going to fight a killer?” Alice asked.
“If need be,” Natasha said.
“But you're a doctor,” Alice said. “What do you know about killing people?”
SEVENTY-FIVE
“Nobody's coming. Hartman never made a call.” The odd, lilting voice came from the kitchen. “The doctor has to pay for murdering my son.”
A sinking feeling captured Ward when he knew that Todd hadn't made it out. But, he thought, Todd had already called for backup, and Louis had no way to know that.
“Todd called for help,” Ward called out in the darkness.
“Ward, I never made any calls. I hope you can forgive me for deceiving you. I never called my guys. But I want you to know I did tear up the check you wrote me.”
“Todd?”
The voice changed, became instantly rec ognizable. “No, I'm Louis Gismano. I've only been Todd Hartman, P.I., for three years. Hartman was a buddy of mine from Bragg. Nice guy, too, if a bit simple. He was an MP from Muncie, Indiana, who married a sweet gal from Australia and moved to Sydney. We stay in touch. I got his birth certificate and switched our fingerprints and DNA records. He's a successful private investigator because I put in a lot of legit hours, when I wasn't watching you two, or Howard Lindley.”
Ward was still aiming at the doorway, but his hand was shaking worse than before he'd fired the gun.
“You came damn close to doing me serious injury, Ward,” Louis said from the kitchen in a loud voice. The light came on in that room, star-tling Ward. “I've had worse, but for your first shot at a man, it wasn't far off, really. And in the dark and all. I'm impressed. I didn't know I was such a good teacher.”
“I'll come closer next time,” Ward said. “You can still leave.”
“And miss the sight of your intestines steaming on the floor between your wide- open legs?”
“I will shoot you,” Ward called. “And next time I'll kill you.”
“You had your chance and you blew it,” Louis said.
“But I have four more chances and you'll have to show yourself.”
“No, Ward. Take my word. That was your only chance. I just didn't think you could shoot that accurately, even accidentally. Beginner's luck, that's all. I've been bit worse, and I'll survive this little nick.”
“You've left some of your DNA on the floor, I bet. I guess that's a good thing for me, but not so good for you.”
“I'll tidy up before I leave, Ward. Amazing what a little bleach can do to mess up those DNA tests. Ward, you'll get much better accuracy if you cock the hammer before you fire again.”
“I'll try that,” Ward said, cocking the hammer, the sound remarkably loud. Louis chuckled in response. His voice sounded strained.
“Why fight it?” Louis asked. “You're no killer. Tell you what. I'll make it fast for you. What do you have to live for? Your son is dead. Your wife is a baby killer. I'm good with a knife. It won't hurt at all. Promise.”
Ward said, “Your son died, but it had nothing at all to do with Natasha. You know her. You have to know that she did everything in her power to save your son. And for all of your snooping, the only way you missed that is because you are blinded by your thirst for revenge. I will kill you to keep her safe.”
“You're an idiot, Ward,” Louis said. “And you're starting to piss me off defending that murdering slut.”
“There's only one murderer here.”
Ward knew that the longer he talked, the farther away the women would get. Maybe Louis would kill him. Hell, he probably had no chance to survive. After he'd seen that the tires were cut, he and Natasha agreed that if Louis came in, she and the others would go to the bedroom, lock the door, and go out the window. Even after Louis killed Ward, the lock was good and would slow him.
“So,” Louis said. “Should be just a minute or two, now.”
“Until what, Louis? What happens next?”
“I bet you think your wife and the girls got out the window. Don't you know I plan for contingencies? Your wife can't escape this house, Ward. You think I'd leave that to chance?”
Ward sensed he was missing something obvious. He was startled by the sudden light in the hallway and he turned his head without moving the gun from where it pointed. He saw three female figures enter the hallway together and start walking toward him. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Alice was leading the women down the hallway. Natasha was at her side, and Leslie was just behind them. They were almost in the den when Ward saw Leslie holding the knife against Natasha's side.
“Put the gun down, Ward,” Leslie said, making sure Ward could see the blade. “I will kill her.”
“What the hell are you doing, Leslie?”
“She killed Gizmo,” Leslie Wilde said, flatly. “He was our son.”
An icy hand closed around Ward's heart. That was what he'd been missing. So Louis hadn't killed his wife after all. It had been Todd who told them the authorities thought he'd killed his wife. The authorities probably weren't looking for Gismano at all.
Louis called from the kitchen, “Ward, don't tell me you're surprised.”
We're all dead, Ward thought.
SEVENTY-SIX
Special FBI Agent John Mayes was at home in Harrisburg, North Carolina, having just arrived there, when the phone rang. He looked at the ID and opened the phone.
“Where are you?” Bill Firman asked him.
“I just got home,” he said. “Where should I be?”
“You know that duct tape the techs found under McCarty's BMW?”
“What about it?”
“I'm looking at the lab report, and there was a fingerprint on it.”
“That's great,” John said, stifling a yawn.
“Maybe not. The print belonged to Todd Hartman.”
“And?”
“The lab said that tape's been under the car for a very long time. You remember how ratty and filthy it was, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The fingerprint's been there since the tape went on. It was on the sticky side. According to McCarty he hired Hartman the day before the virus thing happened, right?”
“I believe he said something to that effect.”
“That brings up some questions, don't you think?”
“I'll talk to the McCartys,” Mayes said. “First thing in the morning.”
John Mayes hung up. As he stood there looking at the plate his wife had put on the table, his mind started turning that revelation over in his head. He d
ecided that he should call the McCartys. He dialed all of the numbers he had, and each time the phones went straight to voice mail. He put his phone back into his pocket and looked at his watch.
Maybe he should take a run out there and make sure everything was all right. And at the very least, Todd Hartman had some explaining to do.
He dialed his partner's number and Firman answered.
“Bill, I tried the McCartys’ phone and they didn't pick up.”
“I suspect they're talking to people, or celebrating. I would be.”
“Well, I expect you're right. I'm going to eat dinner, and then, if they still don't answer, I'll probably take a ride to Concord and let McCarty know about the tape. Maybe he hired Hartman longer back than he told me.”
“You want me to go with?”
“No. Get some rest. I just don't want to leave it until the morning.”
Mayes hung up, and lifted his fork. The idea that Todd Hartman, a respected investigator, might have been up to no good was crazy. He needed some sleep, and family time—not three more hours in the field.
He set down his fork, and even before he stood, his wife had picked up the plate and put it back into the oven.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Evelyn Gismano turned on the lights in the living room and Louis strolled into the dining room holding a wad of blood- soaked paper towels against his right forearm. He had sliced the long sleeve of his T-shirt from the cuff to his shoulder to get to the injury. The 1911 was hol-stered at his side, and there was a large survival knife in his belt. Ward kept the gun trained on him, but he may as well have been pointing his finger.
“Ward shot you?” Evelyn asked, a note of concern in her voice.
“He sure did,” Louis said. “You're no more surprised than I am.”
The Last Day Page 20
