by Wendy Tyson
Vaughn had been sleeping restlessly, but the squeal of tires on gravel jolted him awake. He sat up, startled, and fumbled for his glasses. He looked outside. Both his car and Allison’s were still in the lot. Probably kids, he thought. Still. He traded sweats for jeans, brushed his teeth and packed his bag. The clock by his bed read 4:08. Too early to wake Allison.
He looked out the window again. Why were kids driving around so early?
It was dark, and by the weak light of the parking lot spotlights, he could only make out a few cars. The motel office lights were on, though. Maybe there’d be coffee.
He opened his door and stumbled into the hallway before remembering that he had to go outside to get to the office. He’d forgotten his coat. He headed back in, and that’s when he noticed it: a small can of hairspray on the ground, by Allison’s room.
Vaughn pounded on the door. “Allison, are you okay?”
No answer.
He knocked again, then tried the doorknob. Locked.
Adrenaline coursing through him, he sprinted down the hall and outside. He slammed the door to the office open so that it ricocheted against the back wall. The lights were on, but no one sat behind the small counter. A sign next to a pile of Maine brochures indicated that those arriving late should ring the bell. Vaughn rang the bell, and then he shouted, “Hey! Wake up! I need some help out here.”
A few seconds later, the skinny woman from earlier came out from behind a partition. “No need to yell,” she scolded. She squinted at Vaughn. “What?”
“Room twelve. I need to get in.”
“You, too?”
“What do you mean, ‘you, too’? Who else was here?”
“The woman’s husband. About two hours ago.” She frowned. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m not getting into the middle of some love triangle—”
“Let me into the room.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
Vaughn took a threatening step in her direction. “Someone’s life is in danger because you are an idiot. That man was not her husband. Let me in the damn room.”
Looking frightened and confused, she took a second to make up her mind. Finally, she reached beneath the counter and grabbed a set of keys. “I’ll take you,” she said.
They found the room just as he was afraid they would—empty. Allison’s bag was still on the dresser; even her shoes were there. What he did not see were her phone or her laptop.
“Describe the man who came by.”
Like a hand-shy dog, the woman edged away from Vaughn. She said, “Medium height, forties, a little paunchy.” She shrugged. “Nothing special.”
Vaughn fought a losing battle to keep his temper in check. “Why the hell would you give him a key?”
“He said she was expecting him, but he didn’t want to wake her. He knew the make of her car. I just thought—”
The flush in her face and her downcast eyes gave her away. Whatever she thought, it had been helped along by cash.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Vaughn said. He glanced around, trying to figure out what to do next. The description of the guy didn’t sound familiar. Someone Allison knew? Someone who’d followed her up here? Whom had she been talking to lately? He realized he didn’t know. It could be any one of a dozen people.
He’d start with Eleanor. And on the way over, he’d call the police.
THIRTY-NINE
The dogs really were worthless. Eleanor thought maybe they’d at least bark, but the interior of Doris’s cabin was as quiet and serene as a Christmas card photo, while out here Eleanor sat against the side of Bic’s car with her head cradled in her hands. She regretted drugging them. Her face hurt, her skull hurt and, perhaps most of all, her ego hurt. She had been so close…so damn close to escaping with both her money and her life. How the hell had Bic and Brad found her here?
How, indeed?
She didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. Within minutes, a second car pulled into the driveway. A plain Chevy that screamed rental car, the vehicle swerved around the man standing in front of Eleanor with his gun poised, and parked next to Doris’s Subaru. Eleanor recognized the driver as Mark Fairweather. She recognized the blond beside him, too, as the image consultant Scott had slept with, Allison Campbell. Scott had been obsessed with her, convinced she was the way out of his mess.
Instead, she was their undoing. And now, Eleanor was pretty certain this woman had led the others to her.
Eleanor waited until Mark got out of the car. He came and stood in front of her, aiming a gun at her head.
“I should just finish this now,” he said.
“Mark,” Brad said in a warning tone. “Not yet.”
Mark looked back at Brad, then Bic. There was tension between them, tension she’d tried hard to use to her advantage over the past eighteen months. She’d been successful, making them doubt their plan, making them doubt each other. Although that friction had backfired. Their jumpiness made them trigger happy. First Scott, then, as a warning to her, Ginny.
Maybe she could use that friction now.
“That’s right, Mark,” she said. “Listen to your puppet master. Wasn’t this whole thing your idea? Yet somehow you seem to be the one always taking orders.”
“Shut up,” Bic said. “Or I’ll let him pull that trigger.” Bic nodded toward the car. “You have the other one?”
With a wary glance in Brad’s direction, Mark nodded. “I followed her from Pennsylvania, after she left my office. She’s alone.”
“Did you touch her?” Brad asked.
“No.” Mark pulled open the door to the sedan and helped the woman out of the car. She was cuffed. “She’s fine.”
“For God’s sake, she’s wearing pajamas,” Brad said. He coughed and it took a minute for him to regain his breath. “You are truly an asshole.”
Eleanor looked at Brad sharply, a smirk on her face. “Kettle, black,” she said.
But Brad didn’t respond. Ever since this started, she’d been persona non grata to him. Someone to use and discard, only he would never see it that way.
Bic said, “Give her a coat.”
“She’s barefoot.”
“Really, Brad? Does it matter? We’re going to kill her.”
Brad looked from Bic to Allison and back again. Even with limited light thrown by the flashlights, Eleanor could make out Brad’s expression: sorrow.
“It matters to me,” he said. Brad looked at the Campbell woman. “I’m sorry you’re mixed up in this. Sometimes, you have more ability than sense, my dear. You have always been like that.”
Allison said simply, “Why, Brad?”
“Because life is not fair.”
“That’s an excuse, Brad, and you know it,” Allison said. “I would have expected so much more of you.” She paused. “I always had such respect for you. And now…?”
But Brad had turned away. “Get those handcuffs off her,” Brad said to Mark. “And get her clothed.” He looked at Eleanor, acknowledging her for the first time. “If you would be so kind, Eleanor. Your coat and your shoes, please.”
“No way.”
“Oh, Eleanor.” Brad motioned to Bic, who raised his gun higher. “I have no time for your nonsense. Take off your shoes and coat.”
“I don’t want her shoes or coat,” Allison said. But even as Allison was saying it, Mark was on top of Eleanor, pulling off her parka.
“Fine. Here.”
She shoved Mark away and took off the coat. She tossed Allison her sneakers, too. She was thankful for the Thorlos padded socks. She’d be warm for a while, at least.
The other woman rubbed at her wrists. Only at Brad’s insistence did Allison put on the shoes and coat. She looked ridiculous, standing there in her cotton flannel pajamas with Doris’s coat and Eleanor’s oversized running shoes.
“What now?” Eleanor said. “You want the money back? I can give you that.”
Brad shook his head slowly, back and forth. “Both of you, come.”
“Where are you taking us?” Allison asked.
“The woods, my dear. I’m afraid we’re heading into the woods.”
Vaughn drove ninety down Dunne Pond Road. It was still dark, and the road was completely unlit. He knew Doris Long’s house was somewhere along the long stretch of country road, but he couldn’t make out a damn thing. On the third pass, he slowed down and looked for light, movement, anything that might indicate people.
He saw nothing.
At the mouth of some kind of old resort, he turned around to try again. Doris’s house was here. Somewhere.
Allison was terrified, but she refused to let her terror show. She followed Brad and the others toward the darkened tree line, about a hundred yards away. Mark had a gun to her back; Bic had a gun aimed at Eleanor.
She was cold. The wind swept through the small clearing. Her pajama bottoms did little to warm her legs, and her head and hands remained uncovered. She knew that was the least of her worries. Nevertheless, that, and guilt for wearing the other woman’s ill-fitting clothes, still occupied her mind. It’s the little things, Allison thought. In the end, it’s always the little things.
Her mind was catapulting in a thousand directions, trying to get a handle on what was happening and why. Her hunch that Brad and Bic were working to defraud the company seemed right. She hadn’t expected to see Mark, but now that she thought back, it made sense. He’d been the one to get his brother the job. And if this scheme had been his idea, he would have wanted someone he could control. Scott would have been controllable because of his vices and his status as the younger brother. Scott had been a perfect choice.
Until he wasn’t.
“Move,” Mark hissed. He shoved the gun into her back. Brad reached out and smacked him in the head.
“Stop. I warned you, Mark.” To Allison, he apologized. “Antonia would never forgive me if she knew.”
“You don’t need to do this, Brad. Please. Think.”
“I’m afraid I really have no choice.”
He looked suddenly old, much older than his sixty-some years. “Cancer?” Allison asked, not unkindly.
“AIDS.”
Allison glanced at him sharply.
“But there are so many treatments, Brad.”
“Not once it’s advanced to this degree.” He smiled a dying man’s smile. “I told you, life is not always fair. It’s not easy being married to an invalid, no matter how deeply you love her. One time I strayed. One time too many. Unforgivable.”
“And Antonia?” Even in the midst of this crisis, Allison found she cared.
“Negative for HIV. But then, she would be.”
His scorn for Eleanor, even Julie, made more sense.
“Brad, it doesn’t have to end this way. You do have a choice.”
“I’m afraid it does. There’s just too much at stake.”
“Whoever let Mark into my motel knows I’m here. There’s a trail. First Ginny, now us. You won’t be worth anything to Antonia in prison.”
Brad turned suddenly to Mark. “Is this true about the motel?”
“I had to get to her somehow. Don’t worry. They think I’m her husband. No one will make a connection.”
Still, Brad seemed unsettled. Allison was thinking of a way to take advantage of the situation when from somewhere in the darkness, two shots rang out.
“What in the hell?” Brad shouted.
“I’ll tell you what will be in hell!” A woman’s voice screamed. “Your sorry asses!”
Another shot blasted from somewhere near the house. Allison stared in the direction of the sound. She saw light emanating from the small cabin. A woman was standing in the driveway with a rifle pointed in the air.
The woman lowered the rifle and aimed it in Bic’s direction.
“What the hell do you think you’re all doing on my property?” She screamed. “Three seconds to answer.”
No one moved. She shot Bic, hitting him in the leg. He screamed.
“Answer me!”
Eleanor took off, into the woods. As the irate woman aimed the gun toward Mark and Allison, Mark dropped for cover. With only a fleeting glance in the shooter’s direction, Allison fled. She headed for the woods, following Eleanor’s lead. She could see the metallic stripes on Eleanor’s sweatshirt.
Allison ran hard, harder than her lungs could handle, trying not to trip over the rocks and branches that littered the forest floor, and cursed every gym class she had skipped as a kid.
She heard running and heavy breathing behind her. It was Mark, who had scrambled up to chase her.
“Stop!” he yelled.
But Allison kept going. She knew from self-defense classes that when you’re in the sights of a gunman, you should weave back and forth. Make him work for it. Allison did that—or tried to. She used the trees as shields, running from one to the next.
It was getting harder to keep up with Eleanor, though. “Please wait,” she yelled at one point. She was almost as terrified of getting lost in the woods and dying of exposure as she was of being shot. Eleanor glanced back but kept going.
Mark was gaining on her. He fired. The sound rang out, hurting Allison’s ears and making her stumble. She righted herself, using a tree as a crutch, and kept going. Tears stung her eyes. Her breathing was ragged and burned.
She thought of Jason and asked silently for his forgiveness.
She thought of her niece, who she would never get to know.
She thought of Vaughn. Vaughn. Mark wouldn’t have known about him because he arrived so late. Would Vaughn follow her here? Would he put two and two together?
That was her hope. She kept running, propelled by the knowledge—the faith, really—that her friend was nearby.
FORTY
Vaughn heard gunshots through his open car windows, but he still couldn’t find the damn turn-off. It was just too dark. He had a sense of where the road should be, though. Using the sounds of the shots as guides, he parked and started hiking along the road. Eventually, he saw a gap where the trees didn’t quite meet. He bent down and touched dirt. Bingo. He sprinted back toward his car.
Where were the police? They’d sounded unconvinced but had agreed to send a car. Hopefully they’d arrive soon. Vaughn would call again, once he saw what was going on. If they had Allison…he didn’t even want to consider that possibility. The thought of explaining all this to Jason left him cold.
He pulled the BMW onto the dirt road, following it as fast as his chassis would let him. If these situations continue, he thought, I’m getting myself a more rugged vehicle.
And a damn gun.
Allison’s lungs were searing. Mark was still behind her. He fired off another shot, then another. She stumbled, almost fell. He was gaining on her. She dug deep, willing herself forward.
“Damn,” she heard Mark hiss. She closed her eyes when she heard the click of the trigger. Then nothing.
He was out of bullets. Allison swung behind a tree, resting her back against the rough surface of the trunk to catch her breath. Her eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness, could make him out, down below on a small ridge. He was bent over double, staring at the gun he’d flung to the ground. Giving a silent prayer of thanks, Allison took off again, heading in the direction Eleanor had gone.
She didn’t get far. About fifty yards away, she found Eleanor kneeling on the ground, her hand covering her upper left thigh. As Allison approached, Eleanor said, “He got me.”
Allison looked behind her, debating. Finally, she squatted beside Eleanor. The woman was shivering, and while Allison couldn’t see the extent of the damage, she saw enough blood to know it was serious.
Rustling from below ca
ught her attention. “He’s coming,” Allison said.
“Don’t leave me.”
Allison stood. She should leave her, just like Eleanor had gone ahead without her. But she couldn’t. If she was going to die tonight, Allison didn’t want her last act to be one of cowardice. With a resigned huff, she put her arms around the Eleanor and helped her up. “We need to wrap that leg,” she whispered. “But not here.”
“I know a place,” Eleanor said. “Go that way.”
Eleanor pointed off to the left and Allison followed her direction. Eleanor was leaning on her, which made going tougher, but the woman was still strong. Allison soldiered on.
A few hundred feet later, Eleanor whispered, “Over the ridge. There’s a shack. Beyond that, there’s an abandoned cottage. Go there.”
But Allison couldn’t make out anything other than more trees. The sun was rising over the horizon, but in this pocket of the woods, it was still dark.
Although, she reminded herself, as the hunted, not the hunter, darkness was an advantage.
Together, they crossed the ridge. As Eleanor had promised, they came upon a small shed and, beyond that, a dilapidated cottage. Evoking memories of another time, another murder, Allison headed reluctantly toward the cottage. What choice did they have? At least there they could hide.
The scene was pure chaos. Two men down, one woman shot. Vaughn rushed to the woman first. She was older, out of shape, and had the dull look of someone who spent way too many hours watching television, but she was alive. A gunshot wound to the shoulder had rendered her helpless. Vaughn grabbed her rifle and jogged toward the other two forms. One he recognized as Brad Halloway. The other, a dark-haired man in his thirties, was a mystery. Bic Friedman, maybe. Didn’t matter now. He was dead.
Brad was alive, but with the wound in his stomach, maybe not for long.
