Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  Stacey followed him. “I’ll lock up behind you. Still want to be safe,” she said. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “On it. Go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir. Keenan, maybe...maybe this will break the whole enterprise.”

  “At least,” he told her, “we’ll get it crumbling toward the ground.”

  He heard the door lock and hurried to his car.

  Seventeen

  Was it possible? And if so, why? And if Sandra Smith really was the person who had approached Mrs. Kendrick, was Congressman Smith involved, too? He was the one who had known both Jess Marlborough and Billie Bingham. They’d suspected him from the beginning. But...

  Stacey dialed Jackson, filling him in on where they were and what they had learned from Anita Kendrick.

  He told her he’d talked to the agents watching the congressman’s house just an hour ago; he’d check in with them again and let them know that Keenan was on his way.

  Keenan would be bringing Sandra Smith in, even if they only had twenty-four hours before they’d have to charge her. And if Anita Kendrick would agree to view an identification lineup the next day, Sandra would be put under arrest. And pray God, she wouldn’t make bail.

  Stacey’s call completed, she pocketed her phone again and started back to the smaller sitting room.

  She paused, a strange dizzy sensation seizing her. She stopped.

  The fireplace.

  Every damned house they’d been in had a hearth. Her apartment had a hearth.

  She was wide awake, but she was suddenly experiencing the dream. Fog seemed to fill the parlor area, dense and rich.

  It wasn’t real, she told herself. It was the way her dream-visions came, because they weren’t clear. But she felt as if she was experiencing her dream; she was on the outside looking in, now, removed from the action, but seeing far too much.

  Not the killer in the flesh there before her. But near. She could feel his mind, as if she were on a phone, or somehow hearing what played in the gray mass of his thoughts.

  He was ecstatic.

  She still couldn’t see his face—but she could feel his mind!

  Yes, for him...the time had come.

  Stacey stood very still, trying to remember details of her dream and compare them to the present.

  This didn’t seem right. There was the hearth; there was the mist. But in her dream, the room had been smaller.

  Yet, the killer was there. Somewhere, in or around the house. She could sense him. Feel him.

  They were all in danger. She had to move quickly and quietly. She didn’t even dare another phone call.

  She hurried on, carefully, back to Mrs. Kendrick’s smaller parlor, but paused outside the door and carefully looked in.

  Neither Jean Channing nor Anita Kendrick was there. No, she was wrong. Anita Kendrick was there.

  Lying on the floor.

  Still desperately trying for silence, Stacey strode swiftly to her, then knelt down.

  The woman had a pulse. Weak, but there. She needed medical help. Fast.

  Stacey went for her phone: she needed help fast, too.

  But she heard something—near. A strangled gasp, as if someone was trying to cry out but could not.

  Stacey drew her gun, looking carefully out into the larger room, surveying it in whole, before walking through.

  Someone else had come into the house. They hadn’t come through the big parlor; she would have seen them.

  There was a back door, of course. Whoever had come in must have slipped through the back. Maybe he’d even done so while Keenan was still there. Maybe this exit had been planned.

  And even though she lay on the floor now, Anita Kendrick might have been in on it, might have known.

  She might have wanted a new heart that badly.

  The promise of life was a sweet one.

  Whoever had come in, whoever now had Jean Channing, might have just arrived, too.

  And now, they had to have moved to the back of the house. To the dining room and kitchen or office or bedrooms, whatever lay to the left side of the house.

  Stacey stood very still, and she heard the desperate, strangled gasping sound again. She couldn’t use her phone; she’d be heard.

  She had her Glock, and she was a crack shot.

  Take him down, fast, and then get help for Anita Kendrick.

  Carefully, not making a sound, she started to move through the small parlor—to the door that lay beyond.

  Which was it? What had happened?

  Was Anita Kendrick a liar, the best of the actors they’d yet seen? Did she want a heart so badly that she’d make up an encounter to lure law enforcement so that the killer could manage his deed? Kill her—or kill Jean. Or both.

  Only one of them could be the killer’s Mary Kelly.

  It would be her: Mary Kelly had been the youngest victim. She was the youngest one here.

  Her movement was silent and careful. Her weapon was ready.

  The door swung open and she took aim.

  But she stood dead-still, waiting.

  Because the killer was there, holding Jean before them, the business end of a scalpel against her throat.

  And Jean was about to die.

  * * *

  Keenan’s phone rang before he had driven more than a few blocks.

  The caller ID showed it was Jackson, and he answered it quickly.

  “You’ll be able to get Mrs. Sandra Smith, but not her husband. Sandra is shopping—she does that a lot. But our people following the two of them lost Smith. He was with his wife not an hour ago, going in and out of stores. She went into a dressing room, he went to see what she was trying on, and he apparently disappeared from there.

  “Wait, they lost Colin Smith?”

  “Yes, and don’t start swearing. It happens. The agents couldn’t go into a dressing room. She’s at that shop she likes so much. There must be a delivery door beyond the dressing rooms. Smith is gone. His wife is still there, though. The agents could see her as we talked.”

  “All right, but, Jackson, I’m not going to go in and take her. Have them bring her in—and make sure she’s held for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back. I don’t like the fact that Smith has disappeared.”

  “We have Henry Lawrence. I thought you believed that we were looking for a woman.”

  “We are, and it may well be Sandra Smith. But he’s a loose end. And Jean Channing and Stacey are back at the Kendrick house.”

  “You want back up?”

  “I don’t want bells and whistles. I’m going back quietly. Just in case. Maybe...”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe she’s a liar. Maybe Anita Kendrick did want a heart, and the killer gave her a way to get one.”

  “But we have Dr. Lawrence in custody.”

  “And maybe he does the transplants, but not the killing,” Keenan said. “Whatever, I’m going back. Yes, can you get out here, but quietly. No announcement that you’ve arrived.”

  “I’ll be there myself,” Jackson promised.

  He ended the call and swerved his car around.

  He didn’t have dreams that warned of evil things that might happen.

  He had intuition.

  And right now, he knew that something was wrong.

  Dead-wrong.

  He parked down the street from the house and slipped out, wondering if he should go and break the door down and just get in, or if he’d be risking someone’s life.

  There was no reason to believe that Colin Smith was here, and he didn’t know if the man was involved. Maybe he just wanted to run out on his wife. Possibly understandable.

  Instinct told him there was something happening, and he was furious with himself.


  Stacey had been targeted. She’d been targeted when she’d received the piece of kidney, maybe long before. She might have been paying for her father’s prowess at investigation.

  He crept toward the house and came around to the side, hoping to look into the small sitting room through a window.

  The windows were open, and the first room he looked into was the dining room. No one.

  He crept down the length of the house.

  The next room he recognized as the sitting room.

  He twisted and strained to see the whole of it.

  And he knew then that he’d been wrong. Wrong about Anita Kendrick. She lay on the floor at the side of the table, closest to the window.

  He could see no blood. But the woman wasn’t moving: she appeared to be broken and gone. The design of the windows obstructed a good view, but he thought that he saw a red spot smearing the top of her snow-white hair.

  Had the woman been as innocent as she seemed? Or had she jumped in here to save those doing the transplants, not against the deaths of others—lesser, throwaway people—but desperate to save her own life?

  He called Jackson back and reported.

  “She needs medical help,” Jackson said. “Now. It’s our duty.”

  “Give me five minutes. Stacey and Jean are in there.”

  “You know that five minutes can be life or death.”

  “I’m trying to save three lives.”

  “Go.”

  The killer was in there somewhere. But how could he have known that they would come? Or had he sent his accomplice out to set a meeting with Mrs. Kendrick, knowing that she was honest and a woman possessing ethics? She would report what had happened to the police, and through that call, he and Stacey would come?

  But the woman had pointed out Sandra Smith—and Sandra Smith was still shopping.

  He realized they’d have to unravel the truth bit by bit, later.

  Right now, he had to get in that house.

  Without the killer knowing.

  And he had to pray that the man wasn’t going to kill swiftly, slashing another victim’s throat with power and ferocity, and bringing an almost-instant death.

  * * *

  “You really are an idiot!” Stacey said.

  Colin Smith arched a brow; he drew the blade closer against Jean’s neck, drawing a line of blood.

  “I’m an idiot?”

  “I have a Glock trained on you.”

  “Shoot him! Shoot the bastard!” Jean insisted.

  There was terror in her eyes. But Jean was a good cop. She might be frightened as all hell, but she was dedicated to taking down men like Colin Smith.

  And she meant it: Stacey should shoot him rather than give in to him.

  “I’m an idiot?” he repeated. “I’m the one holding all the cards.”

  “You’re holding me, jerk,” Jean said. “And nothing else. This place will be surrounded by cops any minute.”

  “You could have gotten away with it all,” Stacey told him. “We have Dr. Lawrence in custody. He could have taken the fall for this. Now you will get caught because Henry Lawrence can hardy kill anyone while sitting in his jail cell.”

  “You know, I was supposed to keep the organs. But I guess that won’t matter anymore. Anyway, drop the gun, or I kill her.”

  “If I drop the gun, you’ll kill us both.”

  “Pull the trigger!” Jean said. “You’re right—he’ll kill us both. And then he’ll go on to kill again and again. He does have power. Henry Lawrence is in jail, keeping his mouth shut, because he believes that we can’t prove anything, and that Smith will get him out. If this bastard can’t get him out—or if it gets dicey—he’ll see that Henry Lawrence has an accident in jail, or that he gets a quick shiv from another inmate!”

  Stacey couldn’t let Jean die. The woman was a good detective and a good human being. And no matter how brave her words, the terror in her eyes was real.

  “Drop the gun. I’ll let her go,” Smith said.

  “Did you kill Mrs. Kendrick?” Stacey asked.

  “Hope so,” he said casually. “Just thumped the old bat on the head. Don’t worry, she didn’t see me. I made sure. Now, you want to talk about idiots... She could have had a new heart! I mean, this whole thing works on desperation for life at all costs, right? And if you’re rich, you can buy life. That old bitch looked as if she was being offered poison instead of life.”

  “There are moral people in the world,” Stacey said. She wasn’t sure why but she didn’t know if Anita Kendrick would survive now.

  She prayed that she did. Even if the woman only had a few more months because of heart disease, Stacey hoped that she would survive. She was the kind of human being who gave others hope for humanity.

  “So, let’s see if I have this right. Billie Bingham and Henry Lawrence met at McCarron’s trial, all those years ago. They talked about what a wonderful business this would be. Billie was a beautiful young woman. She figured she could make some start-up capital by running her escort service. Is that how she brought you into it? And to think we thought it was your wife!”

  Smith let out a snickering sound. Stacey didn’t want to amuse him: it caused him to laugh, and the deadly sharp blade of the scalpel jiggled on Jean’s neck.

  “My wife! My darling wife. Well, don’t kid yourself. She made use of Billie’s escorts, too—she didn’t just hire women, you know.”

  “What a perfect family—enjoying the same recreational activities!” Stacey said.

  “We both enjoy money,” Colin Smith said. “And politics. You can make it work. Money helps in politics, politics helps in making money.”

  “Wow.”

  “Capitalism. It’s the American way.”

  “As you see it. I see the American way as being a people who are born equal, with the same unalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “An idealist! See where that gets you!” Smith snorted.

  The blade against Jean’s throat had moved a few times too many.

  Stacey had to get him to let her go.

  How? Well, at least she was keeping him talking. Keenan would call soon enough—they’d have the man’s wife. And when they did, he’d call her, or he’d return...

  “Put the knife down, and then I’ll put the gun down. I’m not letting you out of here.”

  “Fine. Watch me kill her. If I go down, I’m taking you both with me.”

  “Oh, you will go down. Keenan has gone to get your wife, you know.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I do know. I knew that you would walk him to the door and lock it—and that Jean, here, believed the old lady. I knew the old bitch would need something, and that Detective Channing here would go to the kitchen for it. Had to clock the old woman since she wouldn’t play the game. But... I’m damned good at this.”

  “But you wanted a grand finale, right? A Mary Kelly killing. How the hell are you going to do that here and now? Keenan is coming back. The FBI and other police officers will soon be swarming this house.”

  He smiled. “You’re going to walk outside with me. Out back. A florist’s van is waiting. We’re going to hop in that van. When you do, I let Detective Channing go.”

  “I don’t think so. Because I still don’t see how. I’m not putting my gun down until you let Jean go.”

  “I’ll just slice a little deeper...”

  Jean couldn’t help it; she let out a cry of pain.

  Stacey winced inwardly. Shoot him. Shoot him, she told herself.

  No. No matter how fast the bullet moved, he just needed to jerk and Jean was dead.

  “Who else is involved in this?” Stacey asked.

  He laughed softly. “Well, yes, there are others. But for obtaining the right victims—we had a pretty good thing going—a bizarre ménage à tr
ois, if you will. Billie, me and my beautiful, darling witch of a wife. We found the clients and the victims. Henry Lawrence did the transplants. He liked money, and he was never the man you thought he was. But enough of this. Shoot me, or let this woman live. Your choice. Otherwise, I’m out of time. Put the gun down. Hey, you’ll have some hope! I’m not slicing you up here. There’s a charming little building where I keep an empty loft for...storage.” He grinned. “Not in my own name, of course. You’ll have a chance... We’ll see if your heroic agency can do something fast enough. I really had wanted to take my time with you. Really. Chop, chop, slice, slice, get all gooey and sticky with your blood...but I’m afraid that it’s time to get away. Still, you’ll have a chance.”

  “They have your wife.”

  “Yes, God bless them! I’ll be heading off to a South American beach without her! Oh, I won’t be alone, but I won’t be with that virago! So, you tell me, how do we do this? I’ve been a politician, Special Agent Hanson. I play for keeps. I’m sick enough, you know, not to care if I die with a blast to my head if I get to watch Detective Channing’s blood spurt everywhere as I do. It’s all or nothing for me, now.”

  “I guess you’re not winning the next election.”

  “No problem. People whining, whining, whining. One wants to control climate change, another is crying over bears in caves, another wants more drilling rights... Politics! Hey, it was fun when I needed to be in it, and now...all or nothing.”

  He’d grown deadly serious.

  “Wait!”

  “For what? She and I die—or you try to save her.”

  “Why did you target me?”

  “You—and your father. There were whispers in the courtroom about PI Hanson having a daughter who warned her dad he was going to be killed. Henry Lawrence heard that. Funny thing is, he told us that McCarron never knew that he had killed Vargas. Of course Vargas knew. That Henry Lawrence is another delightfully sick man—he enjoyed watching Vargas die!”

  He laughed.

  She couldn’t make him laugh. The ring around Jean’s neck was growing brighter.

  “Didn’t you brilliant people figure that out yet? Henry Lawrence killed them! Oh, not that McCarron wasn’t guilty of a dozen murders—just not those murders! Lawrence hated Vargas; he’d been approached by McCarron because McCarron needed to buy a liver or something for a cousin of his, and Vargas had said that he had to match all the criteria, that organs were precious. Lawrence was up for it. All he had to do was get rid of Vargas.”