by Greta Boris
"What do you mean?"
"My father's house is on the market again. I want in. I have your key." He dug into his pocket and pulled out an electronic key. "But I don't know the code."
"I'll give you the code." Gwen's words were quick. "Just let me go."
"Not so fast." He waggled the device in the air. "I have another teensy favor to ask. Once we get there, I need you to make a call."
"To who?" Gwen asked.
"My sister." His face clouded again. "I need her there. I want you to call and say you were just showing a client the house and there was a plumbing problem, or... maybe electrical." He stared at the dark ceiling. "No, plumbing is better. The basement could be flooding. She'd have to come then."
"Then what?"
"Then?" he looked at her like he'd forgotten she was there for a second. He narrowed his eyes. "Then I let you go, of course."
Gwen gauged her response. He was crazy, dangerous, but it didn't appear his obsession was directed at her. "That's it? All I have to do is get you into your father's house and call your sister?"
"That's it." A crafty look crawled across his face.
She knew he wouldn't keep his word, but playing along might buy her time.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Mo opened the trunk. Rain splashed Gwen's face. She sucked in air like a diver breaking the surface, her heart pounding. During the drive, claustrophobia had wrapped around her throat like a boa constrictor and squeezed. The breathless ride had seemed an eternity.
She calmed herself by looking at the open sky. The sun was still low on the horizon obscured by a blanket of storm clouds, but there was daylight. This had been the longest night of her life. The sun brought hope, most likely foolish hope, but foolish hope was better than the hopelessness of the dark hours.
She scanned her surroundings. Mo's car was backed into a cracked driveway behind a rickety wooden fence. A large, fig tree hovered over her. She knew where she was. What she hadn't known was this had been Mo's father's home. This was why he hadn't killed her then, why he believed his sister would come when Gwen called. Fiona was his sister. And Fiona was Gwen's client.
He dragged her toward the side of the house where Lance had placed the lockbox. He'd put there instead of on the front door so agents would have to call to find out its location, adding another layer of security. She wondered if all their efforts would backfire on her now. They'd made the house a fort.
She and Mo passed the trash area. There was no odor. Even the garbage cans had been abandoned. That she was truly alone with him became a solid reality. This wasn't a bad dream or the last minutes of a television crime drama where the heroine is rescued by a brilliant detective.
A sob built in her chest, but she caught her breath and wouldn't give it voice. She had to play along, befriend him if she could. She prayed a silent prayer he wouldn't kill her as soon as she gave him her code.
She toyed with the idea of giving him the wrong number, then pleading ignorance when it didn't work. No. Then he'd have no need for her. He'd probably slit her throat right here by the garbage cans.
He pulled the electronic key from his pocket. "What's the code?" he said.
It was the month and day of Emily's birthday. Her throat ached as she repeated it. A fissure of longing for her children, for Art, opened in her chest. It was suddenly clear, whatever she'd seen in the alley alongside Enzo's, it wasn't betrayal. In the deep places of her being she knew her husband. He loved her, and he was a man of integrity.
Mo turned toward her with the house key in his hand. Gwen braced herself for an attack. Maybe she deserved it. Her stupidity had put her here, in this dangerous place. But she didn't want to die without explaining things to Art, without telling him she hadn't slept with Lance whatever it looked like. Without asking his forgiveness.
"Let's go in, shall we?" Mo said.
She exhaled in relief. He must not realize using the key would send a notice to the security company. The hope she'd felt earlier began to revive. If someone was looking for her, surely they'd check her e-key records. But the hope quickly wilted. Why would anyone look for her?
Art and the kids were gone for the weekend. Even Maricela wouldn't notice her absence until Monday. Gwen had thrown up smoke screens between herself and all the people who cared about her to hide her rendezvous with Lance. Regret and shame billowed over her.
She followed Mo to the front door. A jolt of excitement hit her—the alarm system. It didn't deactivate until 5:00 AM. She looked at the sun and tried to remember what time sunrise was this time of year. It could be before five—maybe just.
Mo inserted the key in the lock. Gwen held her breath. He turned it and pushed open the door. Silence reigned. Her pulse slowed from a gallop to a heavy plod. It was after five.
The fresh coat of paint in the entryway surprised her. For a moment she'd forgotten the time she and Lance had spent here. She'd expected to see the house the way it had been before they'd dressed it up.
The primping seemed so pointless now. The house was damaged. There was cancer in its walls. It was a painted prostitute, promising pleasure but delivering disease. How had Gwen not seen it before?
Mo pulled her down the short hallway to the left of the staircase and opened the door. At first, she could see nothing. He pawed at the wall for a moment, and an overhead lamp switched on. A sickly, yellow light illuminated a steep, wooden staircase descending into blackness. Fear lived at the bottom.
Gwen was transported to a time long past. She was on a road trip with her parents. She was ten. She heard the crunch of gravel under tires. Felt the scorching heat of the summer sun. Smelled hot sagebrush and tar. Saw the green and white sign of Carlsbad Caverns.
"It'll be fun, honey," her mother said. Her voice was cheerful, but her eyes worried.
"The caverns are well lit and perfectly safe," her father said. "I've always believed the best way to get over your fears is to face them. You'll be glad you did it."
They purchased tickets. Gwen was promised an ice cream afterward if she would only be a brave girl. But as soon as the cave walls closed around her and the daylight disappeared, she turned and ran.
That same panic welled up from a cold place deep in her stomach. Just as she had at ten, she bolted toward the comfort of daylight. Mo caught her before she'd gone three steps.
"Where do you think you're going?" he said. "I want to show you something. Downstairs."
"No, no please." Her words came in gasps.
"Don't be stupid. There's nothing to be afraid of." He muscled her toward the doorway.
"If you're going to kill me, don't do it down there." The stairway terrorized her more than anything else had in this terrible night. It was even worse than the closeness of the car. At least in the trunk, she'd known she was above ground. Air and light were seeping in through the metal seams.
"I'm not going to kill you. I told you that. Not if you do what I ask." His voice grew angry.
"I will. I will. But don't take me down there. Please," she said, claustrophobia reducing her to a sniveling mess.
He grabbed Gwen by the hair and yanked hard. "I will pull all this pretty auburn hair out of your head if you don't stop being so difficult."
He led her by her hair to the top of the steps and down. She tripped several times, missing one riser, then two. She fell into him twice before they reached the bottom.
Ahead yawned a hallway, dotted every five feet with murky puddles of light. He dragged her forward. They passed doors on either side as they tunneled deeper into the airless place.
After an eternity of sloping descent, the hallway came to a dead end. A wooden door, charcoal-gray with age, blocked their path. Mo reached forward, pushed, and the door creaked open. The smell of mold and rotting wood sighed from the space like sour breath. Nausea rolled in Gwen's stomach.
"The agent who showed me the house the first time didn't want to come down here either," he said.
He flipped on another amber lamp and pull
ed Gwen inside. Dusty shelves lined three walls of a room about twenty feet by twenty feet. They were piled high with bottles, round bottoms glinting through a coating of grime.
"It's a treasure chest." His eyes opened wide, their whites jaundiced in the yellow lamplight. "Some of these wines have been out of circulation for years. There's a 1940 Romanee-Conti Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru, a Chateau Lafite Rothschild, even an early bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet from Napa Valley. It's one of the most amazing collections I've ever seen."
Gwen stared around her at the dirt and decay. "Why aren't they better cared for?" His awe was infectious.
"This place was my grandfather's vacation home for many years. He was the wine connoisseur. His talent obviously skipped a generation. I don't think my father knew what he had."
"Why didn't you tell him?"
Mo's laugh was low and angry. "I only saw him once before his death. We didn't have a... a relationship to speak of." His right hand balled into a fist. Gwen flinched, preparing herself for a blow.
"Because of her." The hand released and clenched three times in rapid succession. "He only cared about her."
The hand moved to his head as if it had a will of its own and fingered a tuft of hair. "My mother wasn't good enough for him. I understand that. I was different, but he never gave me a chance."
Gwen watched in morbid fascination as the hand crawled across Mo's head playing with one lock here, experimentally tugging on another there.
"His wife died eight years ago. I tried to call him then. Tell him I was sorry for his loss. He hung up on me." He addressed his words to the shelves of wine, seeming to forget Gwen presence.
She looked around for a way of escape. The room was bare except for an old table and chair and the walls of wine. There were no doors or windows other than the door they'd entered by.
"I thought maybe if my mother was out of the picture, he would be more receptive to a reunion. Maybe he'd been avoiding me, because he didn't want the complication of having her in his life." He looked at Gwen. "She was difficult."
His fingers stopped traveling and wound themselves into a thick strand of hair.
"So I got rid of her." He gave a quick yank, and his hand came away with the lock. It hung from his fingers like a dead thing. "It didn't change anything. Fiona was the problem, not my mother."
He put the hair into his mouth. He sucked on it and gazed at the wine with a thoughtful expression. He stood this way for so long, Gwen wondered if he'd gone into a fugue state.
She shrank away from him, backing toward the open door—an inch at a time. If she could only make it into the hall before he came to himself. Her plan was sketchy. Not really a plan, more an idea.
She would shut the door, and wedge something—she didn't know what—against it. If she could barricade him in the wine cellar, she would run upstairs, into the world of light and sound and people, and she would find help.
It was as if his hand read her mind. He never took his eyes from the wall, but the hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she'd gone two feet. He looked at her with eyebrows raised as if he was as surprised as she was by it. The hair dangled from his lower lip like a limp cigarette.
"But the good news is," he said with abrupt cheerfulness, "I don't think anyone knows this treasure trove is here except me, and now you. Based on the coating of dust, no one’s been in here for years."
"Why not take it then? I could help you. We could carry it out to the car right now." Gwen tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.
"But I want a family reunion." He flashed a smile. "And this is where you come in. You can get her here. She'll come for you."
Gwen nodded, pushing away her fear and disappointment. "Should we go up and call now?" she asked, making her voice bright.
"No." Mo pulled her toward the chair. "Not now. Tonight. I have to pour wine for a wedding shower this afternoon. It's a big event. I'll be busy all day."
"You're not going to leave me here?" Gwen's voice grew shrill. The thought of staying in this place with the weight of the house bearing down, smothering and suffocating, terrified her.
"You'll be fine." Mo pulled a roll of duct tape from a shelf.
Gwen ran for the doorway again, but Mo backhanded her with such force flecks of light flashed behind her eyes. She staggered into arms that closed around her like a vise. Out came the blade. She felt its pinch in her neck close to her pulsing carotid artery.
"Let's try this again," he said.
She allowed herself to be pushed into the chair and wrapped with duct tape. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Agatha opened the door of 278 Sailor's Haven Drive. She'd come to clean every Saturday, come rain or shine, for the past fifteen years. She put her purse on the small table in the entryway and scowled. Someone had made a mess on her stairs, and it sure looked like that someone done it on purpose. Something dirty dotted every single riser.
Now she'd have to vacuum before she did the dusting. She liked to vacuum last, so as to leave the carpet all nice and smooth with no footprints. But she didn't want to risk grinding that dirt deeper into the rug.
She told Mary Beth putting a lockbox on the house was a bad idea. No telling who'd come in or what kind of things they'd do. Agatha heard stories about people putting those boxes on their front doors then coming home to find everything from pot parties to beds full of strange panties. Real estate agents were a racy bunch. Always wearing animal print skirts and spiked heels.
She shook her head, scratched around the mole on her nose, and headed to the broom closet. She vacuumed her way up the stairs. "Jeezum," she said to no one when she reached the top. Piles of dirt like the scat of an over-sized rabbit marked the carpet all the way along the hallway into the master bedroom. She poked at one with the extension hose and realized it wasn't dirt at all. It was a blackened, dried rose petal.
Someone had some nerve. Rose petals only meant one thing, an assignation. Disgusting. Doing the deed in your own bed was bad enough, she couldn't imagine doing it someone else's.
Well, it was no use getting her gorge up. What was done, was done. She turned the suction on, swept the floor with the hose, and dragged the machine behind her. She slowed as she reached the bedroom doorway, worried about what she might find around the corner.
If she saw a pair of black lace panties, or worse, red ones, she wasn't going to touch them. Not with her bare hands. People who leave their underwear in other people's beds are the kind of people that carry diseases. No sir. She loved Mary Beth, but she wasn't touching anything like that.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the bedroom. "Jeezum," she said again. The room was a mess. The bedclothes had been pulled this way and that, the broken bits of what had once been a lamp littered the floor. Mr. Charles' golf trophy lay on the carpet next to a big, brown stain.
The room smelled funny too. She sniffed—Mary Beth's favorite bath salts. Now, wasn't that the cherry on top of the crap heap? "Can you imagine?" she said aloud with her hands on her hips.
Wait until the Frobishers found out. She wouldn't say, "I told you so." Nope. She didn't want to rub their noses in it. They could see for themselves she'd been right. Right as rain.
She picked up what was left of the lamp and vacuumed up the broken glass around it. She started to straighten the bed then stopped. Mary Beth and Charles would be home in a few days. They ought to have fresh, clean sheets for their homecoming. Especially since she was none too sure about what had been going on in that bed while they were gone.
She tore the linens from the mattress and was grateful she didn't find any unmentionables. Then she headed to the bathroom hamper. When she reached the open door, she sniffed again. There was something rotten under the sweet floral scent of the bath salts. Not wanting to look but not daring not to, she dragged her eyes to the source of the smell. The linens fell to the floor with a swoosh. Bobbing in the bloody tub was the bloated, white body of a naked
man.
"Jeezum."
CHAPTER FIFTY
"Daddy," an insistent voice buzzed in Art's ear. "Daddy, I'm hungry." Why Emily felt waking him with a whisper was any better than shouting, he didn't know.
"There's cereal." He rolled to his other side, turning his back to her.
"I want donuts." She climbed on top of him, riding his hip like a pony.
"Later, okay?"
"I'm hungry."
A small earthquake erupted under his bed. A moment later a hot tongue slapped his cheek, and dog breath filled his nostrils.
"Good morning, Rocket," Emily said and hugged the dog to her chest. Rocket attempted to wiggle out of her grip, tongue seeking her face now. She giggled.
Art squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the wrestling match taking place on top of him. It was useless. Sleep was gone.
After settling Emily and the dog in front of the TV with instructions to wake the boys if she needed anything, he left the house in search of breakfast. His first stop was the market for milk, bread and eggs. Then he noticed the fuel gauge in the van. Almost empty. He made it to the gas station and filled up before heading to the donut shop.
When he turned onto his street forty-five minutes later, panic punched him in the chest. Two cars, a police cruiser and a plain sedan, were parked in front of his house. He pulled into his driveway and ran up the walk. A uniformed officer and the same female detective he'd seen at the Laguna Beach crime scene, Investigator Sylla, stood outside his door.
"The kids. Are they—" he said.
"They haven't let us in, so I can't say," Sylla said.
"Gwen?" A new kind of dread filled him.
"Your wife is fine as far as we know, Mr. Bishop. But I need to speak with you. Can I come inside?" Tyler and Emily peered out through the front window.
"What's going on, Dad?" Jason opened the front door.
"I don't know, J-Man," Art said. "But I need you to take your brother and sister into the den. Keep them busy, okay?"
