Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “Aunt Helen said now she was passing all the stories down to me. She said it had to be our secret, that no one was to know or she couldn’t imagine what would happen. Maybe the ring would disappear, maybe it would even stop working. That was a lie and at first, I didn’t understand. I thought she was crazy. She scared me, but the ring didn’t ever, even when she showed me what happened when she held the ring and said the word. She could always tell me if something strange was about to happen, things she had no way of knowing otherwise. It was a game she played with me. But she wouldn’t let me use the ring myself; she said I wasn’t ready for it.

  “I felt such power, and I was only twelve years old. I knew it would belong to me, no one else, only me. I asked her over and over when that would be, and she smiled at me and said we’d have to see.

  “And four years later, Uncle Milton was gone and so was the ring. We felt such anger, such despair, both of us together, an unbreakable bond between an old woman and a teenager.”

  Lucy said slowly, “I am my grandmother’s direct heir, not you. I think if she hadn’t been so distraught when my mother died, if she hadn’t lost her bearings, she would never have spoken to you about it, shared its power and secrets with you, and you know it. She would have waited and given the ring to me.”

  “Dream on, Lucy. Who cares why she picked me? The fact is, she did, whatever her reasons. You were Uncle Milton’s choice, but he had no right to decide anything; the ring wasn’t his. I was Aunt Helen’s choice. You read the letter; you know everything he wrote was true. Aunt Helen was strange, it’s true, she was obsessed with the ring, and if that sent her to me, then so be it.

  “Maybe you were too young to remember, but I was always over at your house after school so she could spend time with me, teach me about the ring. I’ve thought about this ring for over two decades, thought about what I could have done with it, how it could have changed my life.

  “I’m thirty-eight years old now. I think it was fate you found Uncle Milton because it brought me back this ring. Now, finally, it’s mine as it was meant to be.”

  “You were twelve years old when grandmother showed you the ring, showed you what it could do. You never said anything to your parents? Your brother?”

  “That’s right, I never told them. Why should I? I don’t think Father even knew about it, or if he did he paid no attention. He and Court, it’ll be a grand surprise to them when I leave with the ring, since they have no idea what I can do with it. As for my mother, she always cared about only two things in her life—being my father’s wife and looking like a million bucks. She’s the perfect wife for my father, since all he ever wanted was to make more and more money and have a beautiful woman on his arm.” Her eyes went sharp and cunning. Lucy wondered if she was thinking about humbling both of them, proving she was the superior one.

  Lucy kept gently working her wrist back and forth. The rope was loosening.

  “I dreamed, Lucy, I dreamed for years about what I would do with this wonderful ring.” She squeezed the ring tightly in her hand. She frowned. “Is it always cold? Odd, but I don’t remember it being hot or cold.”

  Cold? What was this? Lucy said, “Yes, it’s always cold. Miranda, what do you plan to do with it? You have only eight seconds. That’s very little time to change much of anything.”

  “What did you do with it, Lucy?”

  “I saved my boss’s life when a psychopathic killer shot him. I had just enough time to shove him down away from the bullet.”

  “That must have been exciting. And your boss didn’t even know he was dead.” Miranda smiled at her. “Lucy, you are such an innocent. I bet if you had the ring you’d go through life trying to right wrongs, fighting your never-ending battle for truth and justice. Ms. Superwoman. Do try for a little imagination. Do you realize how much money I will make with this ring? Think about a trip to Las Vegas, think about playing blackjack. The croupier deals out the card and you say ‘SEFYLL,’ and you know exactly what the next cards in the deck will be. Think of roulette or poker, any game you wish. With a little imagination you could win at all of them at will. Can you imagine how rich you could become? And if you were careful, no one would ever suspect a thing, would they?”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Lucy said honestly. But would she have thought of that after some time? As Miranda had?

  “I’ve had years to think about all the things I could do.” She paused, closed her eyes, and squeezed the ring tightly. She looked, Lucy thought, radiant.

  “Yes, I’ll be getting a lot of people to do most anything I want them to do—it won’t take hardly any effort at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How often have you wished you could take back something you’ve done or said? I’ll be able to do just that, whenever it suits me. If things aren’t going my way, if someone doesn’t react the way I want them to, I’ll simply say ‘SEFYLL’ and try something else. Henry Kissinger couldn’t have outnegotiated me, because I’d know what he was going to say before he said it, or realized he would say it. You see how easy it is?”

  Experimenting with people, manipulating them—“It wouldn’t really be living your life, more like living your own personal video game.”

  “I know what I want, Lucy, and I’m smart. I know no one in my family thinks I’m worth much at all—you included—but I am smart, do you hear me?”

  “You’re practically yelling it at me; of course I hear you.”

  “I’ve seen my father look at my mother and shake his head. This last time I moved home, he offered to find me a job, and he has before, boring jobs that were a waste of my time and my talents. How could I care about a payroll account or checking some idiot’s job benefits after holding this ring in my hand?

  “Yes, I’d sit there while Dad went on about his stocks and bonds, preening at his own brilliance, and all the while I was thinking about what I could do with eight seconds—eight whole seconds to buy or sell. I could be the richest person in the world, if I wanted to be.” Miranda kissed the ring, then thrust it up in a victory signal, and took a waltz step around the small room. She laughed.

  Lucy watched her as she continued to work her wrist. Another minute. She wondered what Miranda could have become if Lucy’s grandmother had never shown her the ring. “Miranda, since you ordered those men to kill me and take the ring, you obviously didn’t think you needed me. So why did you even bother to bring me here?”

  Miranda still clutched the ring in her hand. “Do you know, I regretted having paid those men to kill you. All I really wanted from you was my ring. But they said you were an armed FBI agent, and no matter what I wanted from you, they weren’t going to leave any witnesses. I should probably have done it myself.

  “Do you realize, Lucy, that the real magic of the ring is that no one—absolutely no one—ever knows that anything has changed in those eight seconds? To them, time is time and what happens simply happens. You have this extraordinary power, yet no one knows you have it.” Miranda paused for a moment and frowned, then she squeezed the ring again and a blazing smile lit her face. “But you will know, Lucy, when I make it work, won’t you? You won’t experience it with me, but you’ll know, and you will believe me when I say it, because you’ve done it yourself. You’re the only other person in the world who’ll know, and understand the power of it.

  “What do you think my first experiment should be? Should I shoot you, and then undo it? You won’t know, but I will. And when I tell you that you were dead eight seconds before you died, you will believe it.”

  Yes, she would, indeed. Lucy swallowed. “Why not try another experiment, Miranda? Like crashing that clock to the floor and saying ‘SEFYLL,’ and then see if it’s back on the nightstand again?”

  “Shooting you would be such a glorious proof.” She sighed. “But all right, it’ll be my first time, best try something easy. All right, the bloody clock.” She threw it to the floor and yelled, “SEFYLL.”

  CHAPTER 69

  No
rth Carolina

  She’d shot him. Coop yelled with the shock of the sharp punch of pain in his side. He lay there panting, trying to get hold of himself. He felt blood spreading over his side, through his shirt, onto his shearling coat. He had to slow the bleeding or he’d die, since he couldn’t picture Kirsten hauling him to an ER.

  Kirsten was smiling down at him. “Not such a big mouth on you now, Mr. Agent. All laid out and bleeding. Here, get the bleeding stopped, I don’t want to drive.” She threw him a black T-shirt from a pile of clothes she’d heaped on the backseat. “Lucky for you I kept some of Bruce’s clothes. That T-shirt ought to do it. It’s clean enough. Too bad. I was going to keep that shirt.”

  Coop pulled up his shirt, eyed the wound. Thank God it was through and through, and shallow, but it was still bleeding. He folded the T-shirt, pressed it over both the entry and exit wounds, and fastened his belt around himself. That should hold it. He drew a deep breath, getting his brain to accept the pain and set it aside. There was blood on the inside of his shearling, but somehow no bullet hole. Realizing he’d even thought about his coat made him smile.

  “What are you smiling about? I shot you, you moron! Come on, move! You don’t drive, then you die here, your choice.”

  Slowly, Coop got to his feet. He could function, but he knew it wasn’t enough. At least she’d proved she didn’t want to kill him yet; she wanted to use him as a hostage, or at least as a driver. But it was up to him to stop her, there was no one else to do it. “I’ll drive.”

  “Thought you would. Let’s go, haven’t got all day, now, do we? In a couple of hours, we’ll stop at a motel, get some sleep.”

  When they reached the highway again, Coop saw a flash of black. It was a Porsche, Savich’s Porsche.

  CHAPTER 70

  Sherlock saw them merging into traffic ahead of them. “That’s Coop. In the Dodge!”

  Savich quickly eased the Porsche behind a big SUV. “I see them. We’ll hang back, wait for Coop to stop again.”

  Suddenly a silver North Carolina Highway Patrol cruiser, with its distinctive wide black stripe and State Trooper logo, pulled out around them and sped forward.

  “Not good, Dillon. I’ll bet they’ve spotted Kirsten.”

  The cruiser was a missile headed right for the Dodge. They saw the officer holding his radio in his hand, speaking into it, his partner, his head out the window, probably shouting back that the license plate was too dirty to read.

  Savich accelerated. Drivers all around them were staring now, rubbernecking, and traffic was slowing down.

  The cruiser’s siren came on.

  Sherlock got on her cell to the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

  They watched, helpless, as the Dodge sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose the highway patrol. Good luck with that. They could see Coop clearly now, and Kirsten, looking back at the cruiser, then at Coop. They saw her waving a gun, pointing it back toward them. Then, suddenly, the highway patrolman in the passenger seat began shooting.

  CHAPTER 71

  Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

  Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, and all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

  Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

  He’d never have a better chance.

  Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.

  She lurched away, hit her head against the glove compartment, and was thrown back again, her head bouncing off the seat. Then she slumped over, unconscious.

  Coop brought the car to a sliding stop in the middle of the field. He saw his SIG on the floor where Kirsten had dropped it. He was looking for her gun when he heard the highway patrol cruiser pull to a stop right behind him, heard the cops shouting at him.

  He had to respond or they’d probably shoot him. The pain in his side ripped through him, but he ignored it and shoved his door open, one eye on Kirsten. He raised his hands.

  “You the FBI agent?”

  “Yes. Cooper McKnight. I hit her; Kirsten Bolger’s in the car, unconscious.”

  Coop was never so happy in his life to see Savich and Sherlock cruising toward them, Savich careful to keep the Porsche between the mown rows of tobacco stalks, so as not to scratch up that perfect paint job.

  “Don’t shoot at the Porsche. They’re FBI!”

  Coop waved, then turned to watch one of the cops answer his cell, nod, then say, “You sure she’s out of it, Agent? Hey, what’s wrong? Geez, you’re shot!”

  Coop waved a hand and looked back into the car. He couldn’t believe it, but Kirsten was gone. He ran around the front of the car and saw her crawling through the rows of tobacco stalks several dozen feet from him. “She’s headed toward that house! Kirsten, stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Kirsten looked back at him over her shoulder, lurched to her feet, and started running toward the house in the distance.

  Coop took off after her, his side forgotten, two highway patrolmen behind him, both firing toward her. He heard Savich shout, “Coop, we’ll try to cut her off before she gets to that house! Don’t hesitate—bring her down if you can.”

  Yeah, Coop thought, breathing hard, feeling his blood slick on his skin. It was enough, it was more than enough. He paused, aimed his SIG, and fired.

  CHAPTER 72

  Allenby Motel

  Lucy and Miranda stared at the smashed electric clock on the ancient rag rug that lay next to the small nightstand.

  “You didn’t break it twice, did you?” Lucy asked, though she almost yelled out with relief.

  Miranda was shaking her head back and forth. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened. Aunt Helen swore to me it would happen for me. I’m her direct relation, just as you are. She’s my father’s sister; it has to work, it should!”

  Miranda grabbed a pillow off the bed and hurled it against the door. She yelled, “SEFYLL!”

  Please don’t let it work, please don’t let it.

  Both women stared at the pillow, still on the floor against the motel room’s door.

  Lucy nearly wept with relief, though like Miranda, she didn’t understand why nothing had happened. Thank you, Sweet Lord, she didn’t shoot me.

  The ring is cold for Miranda.

  Miranda was moaning deep in her throat, pacing, cursing, shaking the ring, saying “SEFYLL” over and over.

  Lucy had the rope loose enough now to slip her hand out of it. Miranda still held the gun in one hand, the ring in the other. But she wasn’t paying attention. Lucy knew she had to act, with the ring or without it, or Miranda would likely kill her out of jealousy and despair.

  She whirled to face Lucy. “It has to work for me, Aunt Helen promised me, so that means I’m not doing something right. Tell me, Lucy. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  Lucy stared at her. “Miranda, when I hold the ring, when it lies against my throat, it f
eels warm. Very warm. I don’t do anything different than you did.”

  Miranda said slowly, “You said it was cold for you, very cold.”

  “It seems I’m not such a crappy liar after all.”

  Miranda howled. She flung her tote against the far wall, screamed, “SEFYLL!” Miranda’s tote remained on the floor.

  Lucy said slowly, “I can think of only one reason the ring doesn’t work for you, Miranda. It’s not meant to.”

  Miranda stared at her. She began shaking her head back and forth. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible. I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!” Miranda ran toward her, waving the ring, beyond herself, beyond reason. “I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!”

  When Miranda was close enough, Lucy jerked her right hand free, roared up out of the chair, and smashed Miranda in the face.

  She fell hard, and Lucy turned to frantically work the rope loose. She heard Miranda stir just as she pulled her wrist free. She didn’t see her SIG, didn’t see Miranda’s Kel Tec, either, but she saw the ring. She grabbed the ring off the floor and ran out of the motel room.

  She heard Miranda screaming after her, ordering her to stop or she’d shoot her.

  Lucy ran. She was surprised by the crystal-clear sunlight that nearly blinded her as she ran.

  Down the motel steps. She shot one look at Coop’s Corvette, but she didn’t have her purse. A bullet tore through her arm. She whirled around, yelled, “SEFYLL!”

  Time stopped, and then she was closer to the motel again, Miranda screaming after her, and she ran again. This time she veered left, behind a steel trash container, and she heard more gunshots, but none were near. She didn’t have her cell phone, but she had her legs, and she had the ring. She remembered Ann Marie running as fast as she could from Kirsten, and she did the same, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs as she ran, keeping her turns random past warehouses and across parking lots. She ran until she reached a rundown shopping district and came across a policeman in his cruiser pulled into a strip mall.