She took her foot off the brake and hit the gas. Chloe figured Jeremy would leap out of the way, but he held his position for a second longer than she thought he would.
Could she really run someone down?
Could she run her father down?
Instinctively, she cranked the wheel, the tires squeaking on the floor as they did a dry turn. Jeremy vanished from her field of vision, having jumped at the last second. The vehicle was now pointed at the doors, and the broad hallway beyond.
Chloe held her foot over the gas.
Nicky said, “What are you doing?”
“You might want to buckle up,” said Chloe, who had seconds earlier fastened her own seat belt.
Nicky jumped into the passenger seat, grabbed the seat belt, and clicked it into place. Jeremy was running alongside the Winnebago now, banging on the sheet metal below Chloe’s side window.
“Stop!”
Chloe punched it.
The RV shot across the office. It burst through the double doors, ripping them off their hinges. Behind them, a shot rang out. The Winnebago’s rear window shattered.
The vehicle had minimal clearance as it went down the hall. Barely two inches on each side, and that did not take into account the oversized mirrors mounted left and right. They were immediately buckled back toward the vehicle, scraping the street-side window, and on the other side, stripping the framed photos from their hooks. The pictures hit the floor, glass shattering everywhere.
But the RV kept on plowing through.
Heading for the stairs. Almost on them now.
Nicky was too terrified to scream.
“Are the stairs wide enough?” Chloe shouted above the clatter. Nicky did not respond. Chloe thought, I guess we’re going to find out.
The front wheels dropped over the top step. From the two seats up front, it felt like going over the edge of a cliff.
Nicky’s eyes were wide, her mouth open. She spoke:
“No no no no no!”
Chloe took her foot off the gas and feathered the brake. Gravity would be doing most of the work here.
KATHUMP KATHUMP KATHUMP.
The rear tires were now on the steps, the rig fully committed to its downward, forty-five-degree plunge. Chloe believed she’d heard another shot—Jeremy was evidently in pursuit—but it was hard to tell, what with the noise of the engine, people screaming, the RV crashing into walls and banisters.
The RV was half a dozen steps from the landing. Chloe was going to have to execute a left, followed by another left to get her on the second descending flight.
She turned the wheel, putting her shoulders into it.
The front left fender of the Winnebago ripped out the railing, the tire an inch from going over the edge of the stairs and dropping into the open atrium. If that happened, if the wheels lost purchase, their ride would be over.
The vehicle made the turn, the right side scraping the wall of the landing area. Chloe kept turning left, fighting the obstacles in her path, holding the wheel firm.
She made it to the flight of stairs that led to the first floor.
KATHUMP KATHUMP KATHUMP.
The security guard had somehow gotten ahead of the vehicle. He must have fled the third floor before Chloe turned down the hallway, and was now trying to avoid being run over. Ahead of the security guard was a frazzled-looking Roberta, limping as she descended the stairs on her towering heels.
When the guard reached the bottom step, he spun around. He was armed, as well, and was going to try to fire off a round before the Winnebago reached him.
The windshield shattered. Tiny shards of glass rained down on them inside the cab.
Chloe had ducked at the first sight of the gun, and now was driving blind. But she hadn’t slowed, and the next thing she heard was a loud THWOMP, and when she glanced up, she caught a half-second glimpse of the guard’s head appearing briefly above the lower edge of the windshield opening.
He slipped quickly from sight.
The Winnebago came to a crashing halt as it reached the bottom of the stairs. The front bumper of the RV hit the floor, but momentum carried the vehicle a couple of feet farther. The wheels no long had purchase. The front two were suspended above the floor, and at the back end, the rear bumper rested on a step, the back tires hanging in the air.
The brownstone’s front door was only ten yards away.
“Out, out, out!” Chloe said.
She and Nicky unbuckled their belts and nearly fell out of their seats, since the RV was pitched forward. It might have been faster to go out the open front window, but the sill was a row of jagged glass teeth. So they climbed three feet to reach the RV’s side door, and once they unlocked it and pushed it open, it swung back on its hinges. One at a time, they jumped out.
The two of them came around the front of the monstrously damaged Winnebago, its engine still running, the smell of exhaust and fuel in the air.
They started for the door.
But standing there, between them and freedom, was Jeremy, haggard and wild-eyed, both arms raised, his hands wrapped around the gun.
He had it pointed straight at Chloe.
Jeremy was so focused on her, he barely noticed Roberta running past him. In her rush to flee the building, to get away before the police arrived, she tripped over the corner of a rug, her left stiletto flying off her foot. She hit the floor, but wasted no time getting up, and didn’t bother to retrieve her shoe. She kicked off the other one, opened the front door, and ran off into the night.
On the front step, arm raised as if ready to knock, stood Miles.
He took about five seconds to take it all in. The Winnebago at the bottom of the stairs. Debris everywhere. A dead man under the vehicle.
A man standing with his back to him, only a few feet away, pointing a gun at someone.
Chloe.
The man glanced over his shoulder momentarily, long enough for Miles to recognize him. He’d watched the news. He’d read countless online stories. He recognized the man as Jeremy Pritkin.
A man who was determined to kill the very people Miles had set out to save. A man who was willing to destroy his own flesh and blood to save his own skin.
And now he was going to kill Chloe.
Instinctively, Miles started to run toward Jeremy, to jump him, tackle him, anything to keep him from shooting Chloe. But he’d only taken a step when he spotted one of Roberta’s discarded shoes.
Saw that sharply pointed, four-inch heel.
He bent down, grabbed the shoe by the toe, grasped it firmly, and charged Jeremy.
The man heard him coming and made half a turn, just in time, from the corner of his eye, to see Miles swinging the shoe at him, overhand, cutting through the air like it was an ice pick.
If Jeremy had been able to raise his hand in time, or fire off a shot, he might have been able to stop Miles from driving that spiked heel right into his skull.
ONE WEEK LATER
Epilogue
New Haven, CT
Miles could hear the car approaching the house before he saw it. He slid off the stool at the kitchen island, where he’d been sipping on one of his fancy coffees, went to the front door and opened it.
Chloe’s Pacer was coming down the driveway. The car had sounded ragged enough when Chloe had driven Miles to Springfield in it, but it was sounding even worse now. A hole in the muffler, most likely.
The car came to a stop near the front door, and when Chloe killed the engine, it continued to cough and sputter a few times before finally giving up. Miles walked over to the car as Chloe opened the door.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” Chloe said, lifting the door slightly as she closed it to make sure it latched. “How’s it going?”
“It’s been a long week,” he said. “But I don’t have to tell you.”
He glanced into the back of the Pacer. The rear seat was folded down, and there were several soft-sided travel bags there.
“Going somew
here?” Miles asked.
“Kinda,” she said. “I was going to talk to you about that.”
“Come on in,” he said. “Pick a pod.”
When she got to the kitchen, she did exactly that. “I want something with mocha,” she said. She found one she liked, inserted it into the machine, and while it percolated, she turned and noticed a stack of what looked like contracts and other documents on the island.
“’Sup?”
“Legal shit.”
“What kind?”
“My will, succession plans. Lots of things to sort out before I retire from the company. I want to do some other things before my health forces me to step down. Get it all organized now. An orderly transition.”
“You got someone picked to take over?”
Miles smiled. “Gilbert.”
Chloe nodded. “Makes sense. How’s he doing?”
“Caroline’s funeral was yesterday. He and Samantha will be okay. Better, actually. I think he’ll make a good leader. He’s stronger than I thought. I made a big mistake with him. I’m going to try and make it right.” He waved his hand over the paperwork. “Dorian and I are going through a list of good causes. I want to set up a fund for Huntington’s research. That’s where a lot of the money will go.”
“Dorian?” she asked. “I thought she was gone.”
Miles nodded slowly. “I’ve been rethinking that.”
“Up to you,” she said. “What about me and the other four? Guess we all gotta fend for ourselves, huh?”
“No one’s health is at risk. None of you have my genes. But I was thinking, if you need anything …”
“Look, I don’t need your money. Give it to research. And anyway, me and the others are looking at getting a shitload from Pritkin’s organization. That lawyer you suggested, he’s forming a class action. We’re heirs, right? And we can prove it. The dude may be in a coma but we can still get his DNA.”
Miles’s face fell. “I had to stop him.”
“And thanks for that,” she said. “Listen, by the time this is all over, I’ll be able to buy myself a second Pacer.”
That made Miles laugh. But he quickly turned serious. “How you dealing with that?”
“What? That the biggest scumbag in the world is my biological poppa?”
“Yeah, that.”
She shrugged, but it was a fragile shrug, lacking her usual flippancy. “I’m blocking it out. I’m going to imagine it’s someone else.”
The words hung there for a moment before Miles said, “How’s Nicky?”
“Good. Her mom’s a ditz, but she’s got other family up near Albany, so she’s gone to stay with them for the time being. For a while there, they were talking like she’d get charged with killing that Broderick guy, but then everyone came to their senses about that. And my lawyer says I got nothing to worry about with the guy we ran over, or the one whose eye I sliced open.”
“No one should have to go through what you’ve gone through,” Miles said.
This time, her shrug appeared more carefree.
“And that Roberta bitch, she’s ready to tell all if she can cut some kind of deal that’ll keep her from spending the rest of her life in jail.”
Even with Martin Gold dead, everything he and Jeremy had done was coming out into the open. Between what he’d told Miles, the information his assistant, Julie, could provide, and with Roberta eager to talk, the authorities were putting the story together.
“The others on the list, the ones you didn’t get to,” Chloe said. “They’re going to find out who their daddy is?”
“I think so, but it’s out of my hands. Everyone from the FBI to CNN will be talking to them.” He brightened, remembering something. “I heard from Charise yesterday. She’s on crutches, but a couple more weeks, she should be off them.”
Chloe smiled.
“So tell me,” Miles said. “Looks like you’ve got everything you own in the car. Where you headed?”
“I’m there,” Chloe said.
Miles blinked. “Say again?”
“I’m staying here. I’m moving in. I know you’ve got space.” She came around the island and plopped onto the stool next to him. “But I might jazz up my room some. It’s pretty minimalist. Needs some pillows and shit. Some movie posters.”
“Chloe.”
“Did you know there’s a film school in New Haven? I’m looking into that. There’d be time in between other stuff.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you saying I’m not welcome?”
“No, but Chloe, I’m not too bad right now, but I’m going to get worse. I’m going to reach a point where I need constant care, constant attention.”
“Why do you think I’m moving in, dumbass?” she said.
“Chloe—”
“I’ve thought about this a lot. There’s no point trying to talk me out of it. I’m staying.” She paused. “As long as I can be of help.”
She had to look away for a second, compose herself.
“Chloe, really, it’s going to be rough. You’re young. You’ve got a life. Don’t let me drag you down.”
“Drag me down? What the fuck.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I hate to see you make that kind of sacrifice.” He took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, Chloe. I’m not your father. You’re not my daughter.”
“I’m thinking,” she said, “that this whole fatherhood bullshit is more than a genetic thing.”
He thought back to what she had said when she’d bailed from the car. “But I’m nothing to you,” he said.
Chloe slipped her arm into his and rolled her eyes. “You dumb shit,” she said. “You’re everything to me.”
Acknowledgments
No author does this alone.
I am immensely grateful to the dedicated folks at HarperCollins, in the United States, United Kingdom, and Canada for all their help in getting this book in shape, and into your hands.
In the U.S., thanks go to Liate Stehlik, Nate Lanman, Jennifer Hart, Ryan Shepherd, Bianca Flores, Andrea Molitor, Andrew DiCecco, Christine Edwards, Andy LeCount, Mary Beth Thomas, Virginia Stanley, Chris Connolly, and Lainey Mays.
In Canada, I want to thank Leo MacDonald, Sandra Leef, Cory Beatty, and Lauren Morocco.
And in the UK, I’d be nowhere without help from Charlie Redmayne, Lisa Milton, Claire Brett, Joe Thomas, Rebecca Fortuin, Fliss Porter, Anna Derkacz and Alvar Jover.
Special thanks go to my HarperCollins editors, Jennifer Brehl (New York) and Kate Mills (London), and my agent extraordinaire, Helen Heller.
For her help on DNA-related questions, thanks go out to Barb Reid, Senior Forensic Biologist at the Centre of Forensic Sciences in Toronto. It goes without saying that all mistakes are mine.
Last, but definitely not least, I owe more than I can say to readers and booksellers. You’re what it’s all about.
Gripped by Find You First? Why not try Elevator Pitch?
Another thrilling ride from the bestselling author Linwood Barclay!
Continue reading for an exciting extract from Elevator Pitch.
Prologue
Stuart Bland figured if he posted himself close to the elevators, there was no way he could miss Sherry D’Agostino.
He knew she arrived at the offices of Cromwell Entertainment, which were on the thirty-third floor of the Lansing Tower, on Third between Fifty-Ninth and Sixtieth, every morning between 8:30 and 8:45. A car was sent to her Brooklyn Heights address each day to bring her here. No taxi or subway for Sherry D’Agostino, Cromwell’s vice president of creative.
Stuart glanced about nervously. A FedEx ID tag he’d swiped a couple of years ago when he worked at a dry cleaner got him past security. That, and the FedEx cardboard envelope he was clutching, and the FedEx shirt and ball cap he had bought online. He kept the visor low on his forehead. There was every reason to believe the security desk had been handed his mug shot and been advised to keep an eye out for him. D’Agostino—no relation to
the New York grocery chain—knew his name, and it’d be easy enough to grab a picture of him off his Facebook page.
But in all truth, he was on a delivery. Tucked into the envelope was his script, Clock Man.
He wouldn’t have had to take these extra steps if he hadn’t overplayed his hand, going to Sherry D’Agostino’s home, knocking on the door, ringing the bell repeatedly until some little girl, no more than five years old, answered and he stepped right past her into the house. Then Sherry showed up and screamed at him to get away from her daughter and out of the house or she’d call the police.
A stalker, she called him. That stung.
Okay, maybe he could have handled that better. Stepping into the house, okay, that was a mistake. But she had no one to blame but herself. If she’d accepted even one of his phone calls, just one, so that he could pitch his idea to her, tell her about his script, he wouldn’t have had to go to her house, would he? She had no idea how hard he’d been working on this. No idea that ten months earlier he’d quit his job making pizzas—unlike the dry-cleaning gig, leaving the pizza place was his own decision—to work full time on getting his script just perfect. The way he figured it, time was running out. He was thirty-eight years old. If he was to make it as a screenwriter, he had to commit now.
But the whole system was so terribly unfair. Why shouldn’t someone like him be able to get a five-minute audience with her, make his pitch? Why should it only be established writers, those assholes in Hollywood with their fancy cars and big swimming pools and agents with Beverly Hills zip codes. Who said their ideas were any better than his?
So he watched her for a couple of days to learn her routine. That was how he knew she’d be getting into one of these four elevators in the next few minutes. In fact, it would be one of two elevators. The two on the left stopped at floors one through twenty, the two on the right served floors twenty-one through forty.
Find You First Page 37