Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  It was a rhetorical question; Brent rushed on. "She came home from college one summer. For the first time she wouldn't sleep with me. She claimed she wanted us to date other people. I followed her and found out her new love was my own father.

  "He couldn't be satisfied with making me feel like shit every day of my life. No, not the almighty Ward Farenholt. And he wasn't satisfied that he'd betrayed Mother by screwing the girl she loved like a daughter. He never gave a damn about anyone but himself. It probably thrilled him to know he'd seduced the one woman I could ever truly love."

  Royce inhaled sharply, half thinking her lightheadedness was from the cuts Brent had made on her hands and arms, but that wasn't the cause. The profound sadness in Brent's eyes solidified the air in her lungs. Of course, she'd known he was crazy from the first moment she'd opened the front door, but the depths of his insanity now shone clearly in his eyes.

  "I waited, thinking Caroline would come to her senses and realize she loved me."

  "Didn't you ever love anyone else?" she asked, thinking of Maria.

  "Hell, no. You were the closest I came." He cupped one breast in his hand and squeezed slightly.

  Royce couldn't help noticing the bulge in his pants was growing. Oh, Lord, he was sick. Heaven help her. She hadn't imagined that finger signaling to her, had she? Mitch really was out there, wasn't he?

  Yes, of course he was. She sucked in a calming breath. Despite what she'd done, Mitch loved her. He'd come to save her.

  "You were a hot number in bed," he continued, gripping the knife, but managing to stroke her with the same hand. "If you hadn't come on to Durant, I wouldn't have paid Linda Allen to plant that cocaine in your house."

  "What about the jewels?" She turned her head to one side. Clearly, he was aroused, but she didn't want him to see how disgusted she was.

  "Mother put them in your purse. She didn't think you were worthy of me. She was right, wasn't she? Mother loves me."

  Royce mentally applauded her intuition. Eleanor Farenholt had been behind this—part of it anyway. She was as loony as her son. How was it people like this went free and women like Lolly Jenkins didn't get the psychological help they needed?

  "Mother confessed to me right after you were arrested. She loves my father so much. She was terrified of what he might do if he found out." He continued fondling her breast, then moved to the other, dipping his thumb in her blood and smearing it over her nipple. There was no question about it; he found this sexually stimulating.

  "I love Mother. She was always there for me. My father always made me feel like shit. Nothing pleased him. I told her to keep quiet. No one could prove she put the jewels in your purse."

  There was a long pause. "I'm surprised Caroline satisfied your father," Royce said—just to keep him going.

  "She was a younger, more malleable version of my mother. Ever notice how much they look alike? She's like a daughter to my mother. Can you imagine how devastated she would have been had she discovered Father was planning on leaving her for Caroline?"

  "You mean, when Caroline inherited her trust your father—"

  "Was moving to the south of France with Caroline. That's why she was selling her house." Brent shook his head, genuine pain etched his face. "The humiliation would have killed Mother. I spared her that by getting rid of Caroline.

  "Never think it was a spur-of-the-moment crime. It took years of planning. I saved cash so there wouldn't be a paper trail. I kept up the good-ole-boy front, so no one suspected me. When the time was perfect, I took back what was rightfully mine—Caroline. Now Father knows how it feels to lose the one person you truly love. And I protected my mother."

  "What makes you think Ward will stay with your mother now?"

  "With Caroline gone my father won't divorce Mother. He likes her money too much. Remember, he wouldn't leave Mother until Caroline had her trust. You see, he loves money more than anything."

  "Your father must have been humiliated by your mother. She kept her millions as separate property," Royce said, desperate to keep him talking. What was taking Mitch so long? "I understand she doled out money a quarter at a time."

  "Not to me," he answered with unmistakable pride. "She gave me anything I wanted. Most of the money to buy those drugs I had Linda Allen plant at your place came from Mother."

  "But the forensic accountant didn't find any unusual withdrawals or deposits in anyone's accounts."

  Brent chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. "I saved the money, asking Mother for a little at a time. Who knows how much a wealthy woman spends in pocket money? Do you think I was stupid enough to deposit it in a bank where the IRS—or anyone—would find it and ask questions?"

  "No," Royce conceded. "You're too clever for that."

  He grinned. "That's right. I outsmarted everyone."

  Royce searched for something else to say. What was keeping Mitch? The telltale erection in Brent's trousers gave her an idea. If he were really excited, he'd put down the gun.

  Her hands were tied to the corners of the bed. Royce shifted positions seductively—she hoped—splaying her breasts from side to side without being too coy, too obvious.

  "Please," she whimpered, even though ten minutes ago she would have died before she begged him, "don't kill me."

  "Be real nice to me and I may let you live"—he smiled that intimate smile that she knew from experience was a prelude to sex—"awhile longer." He lowered his head and licked the blood off her nipple. Circling the nub with his avaricious tongue, he coaxed it upright, then he closed his mouth over it, his head bent low.

  The knife was in one hand, the gun in the other, but neither had his attention. Where was Mitch? Royce desperately looked toward the door. Relief flooded her when it moved a fraction of an inch. Mitch's head edged around the frame, and she sighed, a low moan deep in her throat. Brent took it for a sound of pleasure, for he looked up at her, his chin between her breasts and a triumphant smile on his face.

  "You're so hot, Royce. So hot." He dropped the gun and plunged his hand between her thighs.

  Mitch saw the gun fall onto the bed and he threw the condom full of heavy coins, hurling with all his might, aiming for Brent's head. The condom hit, breaking on impact, coins hailing down on the bed. Brent yelped and jumped back, but not before Royce kicked, catching him squarely between the thighs. He rolled onto his back, landing on the floor doubled up, but the knife still clenched in his hand.

  Mitch charged into the room and pounced on Brent. Royce struggled, desperately trying to free herself, but her hands were still bound to the bed. She wiggled her fingers, clenching them together while Mitch battled Brent. They were rolling across the floor, Mitch grabbing for the knife, attempting to disarm Brent.

  The heinous expression on Brent's face—a vision from hell—terrified Royce. He'd appeared shockingly normal, but he was over the brink now, his face contorted in a hideous combination of jealousy and hate.

  She yanked hard, finally freeing her right hand. Grabbing the gun, she tried to remember what she knew about Glock automatics from a humorous column she'd done on guns. Lightweight plastic, the Glock had a seventeen-round clip. But was the safety off?

  She frantically looked at the men rolling around the floor. She'd never fired a gun. Unless she had a clear shot, she might kill Mitch. Keep your wits, Royce. Bluff.

  "Stop," she screeched, her voice high pitched, panicky. "I've got the gun. I'm going to shoot."

  Her words didn't even faze them. Either of them. Brent was on top of Mitch now, high on his chest so Mitch couldn't knee him. The knife hovered too near Mitch's jugular.

  Still Royce was afraid to shoot, terrified she'd hit the wrong man. She aimed the gun at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger. A flash of light flared out of the muzzle and instantaneously a soniclike boom filled the attic. The kick of the gun knocked her back against the headboard, wrenching the one arm still tied to the bedpost.

  The shot got their attention. Brent hesitated and Mitch looked at her. She
scrambled to an upright position and aimed the gun at Brent. "Get away from Mitch."

  For a moment the only sound in the room was their harsh, breathless gasps for air. Slowly Brent rose to his knees, the knife still in his hand. "You'll have to kill me, Royce."

  Brent faced Royce, an unholy calm about him. Anger gathered like a tornado deep inside her. He was an inhuman monster who'd put her through hell. He'd murdered two women and would have killed her too. And Mitch.

  She wanted to kill Brent, she truly did, but something stopped her. Out of the recesses of her mind surged the memory of her father and all he'd taught her. Peace and love.

  She paused, her finger on the trigger. Could she kill? Why couldn't she hold him at bay until the police arrived? Brent must have sensed her hesitation. He smirked, a knowing grin from hell.

  "Come on, Farenholt," Mitch said from his position behind Brent. "It's all over. Give up."

  Brent smiled again at Royce and everything inside her went on full alert. "Mitch, watch out!"

  Too late. Brent was already whirling around and plunging the deadly knife into Mitch's chest. Mitch slumped to the floor, doubled over.

  Brent charged toward her, the bloody knife still in his hand. It was no longer a question of could she kill. It was survival. He was inches from her, the knife aimed for her heart. She squeezed the trigger and the report of the powerful gun flung her backward.

  For a second the world went black, then her vision cleared and she realized how close he'd been when she'd fired. She was covered with blood and hair and bits of skin. Brent had collapsed at the foot of the bed, a gaping hole where his chest should have been.

  "Mitch," she screamed, struggling to free the hand still tied to the bed. He was lying limp in a rapidly widening pool of blood. If she didn't get help fast, he'd die. Perhaps he was already dead.

  She scanned the room for the knife and saw the force of the shot had sent it flying to the other side. To get to it and cut herself free, she'd have to drag the bed behind her over both men's bodies.

  "The window, Royce," she cried out loud. "It's closer."

  She tugged, dragging the heavy daybed behind her, and managed to get close enough to the window to kick out the lower pane.

  "Help," she screamed, battling the sobs erupting in her chest, hoping to get the attention of a neighbor or a passerby. "Call an ambulance—quick."

  CHAPTER 32

  Paul drove into Royce's driveway and heard frantic screaming. Neighbors were rushing out of their houses, alarmed by the panicked cries. He slammed the car into park and jumped out, the motor still running, and charged around to the back of the house. Royce's head hung out the attic window.

  "Mitch. He's dying. D-dying. Am-ambulance."

  Paul had never run faster. He was back at his car in a second, the car phone in his hand. He dialed the SWAT team's number, instructing them to send an ambulance and their elite force.

  Who knew where Brent Farenholt was? He was one of the most dangerous men that Paul had ever met. Handsome and charming, not unlike the serial killer Ted Bundy.

  Jesus! How stupid can you be? he berated himself as he raced around to the back of the house. Brent had been the obvious choice—once you really thought about it. Royce was still screaming, over the edge now, hysterical.

  "Where's Brent?" Paul yelled as he ran toward the back door.

  "D-dead. Get Mitch help. Please."

  "An ambulance is coming," he shouted, his shoulder to the back door. Ajar, it instantly swung wide. He was up the stairs and in the attic office without even knowing he'd left the kitchen.

  Mitch's crumpled body was on the floor, surrounded by so much blood that Paul's heart caught in his throat. Could Mitch possibly be alive? Paul dropped down beside him, his knees slipping in the warm blood. He rolled Mitch onto his back and pressed both hands on his chest to stem the flow of blood.

  Royce's voice was now too calm, the voice of someone in debilitating shock. "You can save him, can't you?"

  "You bet." Paul forced a positive note into his voice. The knife had come damn close to severing Mitch's aorta. He was alive—barely—but losing blood at such a rapid rate that anything Paul could do would be like trying to put out a five-alarm fire with spit.

  He gazed down at Mitch and began to pray. His friend's face was the parched white cops knew only too well. Oh, God, don't take Mitch. He hasn't really had much of a life. He has so much to live for. So much to give.

  Paul had never had a brother, not a blood relative anyway. But Mitch had always been like a brother. As Paul looked down, his hands still pushing on Mitch's chest, the hot blood trickling through his fingers, Paul realized he loved Mitch. And if he lost him, his life wouldn't be the same.

  Oh, he loved Val with a deep, abiding love that he had thought he'd never experience. But, in an entirely different way, he loved Mitch too. They understood and respected each other. If Mitch died, part of Paul would go with him. Maybe the best part.

  Mitch always challenged him to try more difficult cases and to look into new technology. No question about it, Mitchell Durant was a special person—particularly to Paul. For some reason he thought of a Louis L'Amour quote: "Sometimes the most important things in a man's life are the ones he talks about least."

  Mitch didn't have to tell Paul about his past. He was his friend. He understood.

  In the distance Paul heard the forlorn wail of an ambulance, but he wasn't certain he still felt Mitch's heart beating. With a groan of utter despair he recalled Lolly Jenkin's words:

  What am I going to do here alone without my baby? A wellspring of sorrow so deep, he hadn't even known it existed rose up inside him. Now he understood exactly how Mitch's mother had felt. There were some people in your life, your parents, your wife—a close, dear friend—who were so special. You might genuinely mourn the loss of others, but there were certain people who were forever in your heart.

  Their death took part of you, part of your soul.

  Without that special person—like Mitch—life would go on, but it wouldn't be the same. There would always be something—someone special—missing. And you'd find yourself looking, searching, for someone to fill the void. Forever.

  Royce's cuts had been bandaged and someone had given her clothes. The skirt was too big, corkscrewing around her legs as she rushed into the waiting room, but she didn't notice. She'd refused painkillers.

  Mitch, she prayed, please let him live. His condition had been critical when the trauma team wheeled him into surgery.

  "Royce." Val rushed up to her and gathered her into her arms. "I came as soon as I heard."

  Over Val's shoulder Royce saw Paul. "How's Mitch?"

  Paul said, "He's still in surgery. I just checked."

  "That's a good sign." Val guided Royce to the sofa.

  Royce sat between Val and Paul. Royce tried to listen to Val's soothing words, but all she could see was Mitch's near-lifeless body being put on the stretcher in her attic. At that point she'd become hysterical and screamed over and over for the paramedics to hurry.

  She was calm, now, but every bit as terrified. What if he didn't make it? What if she never had the chance to tell him how much she loved him?

  Now she knew exactly how her father had felt, how difficult it would be to face life alone—without the person you loved so dearly. Had Mitch forgiven her? Was that why he'd come to her home? Or had he come just because he was so intelligent that he'd decoded her message?

  She slumped back against the vinyl sofa and closed her eyes—not because she was tired, she was running on pure adrenaline now, but because she wanted to remember Mitch the way he'd been.

  The night he'd kissed her in the dark. Yes, oh, yes, that was the night that had changed her life forever, bringing her a love she'd only imagined existed. And she'd gone through hell to find it. Still, she wouldn't take back a single second of it. Getting to know him, coming to love him, had been worth the sorrow and the pain.

  Please, God, let him live.


  With her eyes closed she could almost feel his strong arms around her, the way he'd held her so many times, willing his strength into her. Be brave, she told herself, for him. But when another two hours passed and still there was no word, she began to tremble.

  Finally a weary surgeon, his greens splattered with Mitch's blood, shuffled into the waiting room. "He made it through surgery. He's in intensive care right now. We'll know more by morning." He shook his head sadly. "If he makes it through the night."

  "May I stay with him?" Royce asked.

  It was totally unrealistic, but she had the notion that if she stayed with him she could will her strength, her courage, into him. And where did that inner source of power come from? Mitch. He'd given her strength when she'd needed it. Now it was her turn.

  The surgeon led her into the intensive care unit. Mitch looked so helpless, lying flat on his back, his powerful body covered by a white sheet. An IV dripped a clear solution into his veins. Hanging beside it was a bag of blood, replenishing what he'd lost in surgery. And from the knife wound she could have prevented, if only she'd had the guts to shoot Brent when she'd first had the chance.

  If she had, Mitch wouldn't be lying here now, a jumble of wires and tubes connecting him to a bank of beeping, blinking machines. Guardian angels, she tried to reassure herself. Mitch had the best electronic care. And a cadre of nurses going about their duties in white uniforms and shoes so cushioned that their steps couldn't be heard above the machines.

  "Darling, I'm here," she said softly, although she knew he couldn't possibly hear her. The surgeon had explained Mitch was so heavily sedated that he wouldn't regain consciousness until morning. If he lived through the night.

  She kissed his forehead, then sat in the chair beside his bed, cradling his cold hand between both of hers. She longed to gather him in her arms and cuddle him until he was out of danger, but she had to be content with holding his hand, gently caressing his long fingers and planting kisses in the center of his palm.

  "Mitch," she said, convinced some corner of his mind sensed her presence, her support, her love. "Don't give up. You can make it. I'm sorry for what I did. Believe me, I never meant to hurt you... or your mother. I've had a lot of time to think about your mother, and I have an idea."