Strangers She Knows

by Christina Dodd

  Kellen stopped on her way out the door. “What’s that?”

  “You’re afraid to die.”

  “I’m afraid to die?”

  “Everybody’s afraid to die. Except me.” Mara sounded so certain. “I’m not afraid to die.”

  Kellen started down the corridor toward the stairs, and she thought hard about Mara’s comment. “You don’t believe it’s possible for you to die. You’re a child who’s never had to live with the consequences of your actions. That’s not the same.” Without drawing breath to allow Mara to speak, she said, “I am afraid to die. But I almost died when I was married to my first husband, and almost died again when I was shot in the head, and was blown up while I was in the Army. I almost died after brain surgery, and the life I have now is precious to me.” At the top of the stairs, she turned to face Mara. “It’s precious to me because of the people who are in my life. Max and Rae.” She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. She marched into the pantry and grabbed five nutrition bars.

  She inspected the seals on each one. None had been tampered with.

  When she came out, Mara was handling the shotgun with the loving care of a Chicago gangster. “I’m not feeling as lenient as I was yesterday, so try to stay conscious or I’ll be forced to kill you while you stare, eyes wide and your mind vacant.”

  “You can’t use a Taser on me, so I should be fine.” Kellen peeled back the packaging of a nutrition bar and took a big bite. “Even if you could, and did, there would be no one to watch how cleverly you’ve destroyed me.” She chewed thoroughly. “It always seems to be that way for you, doesn’t it?”

  “I work in the shadows,” Mara said softly.

  “No one appreciates you or gives you credit. Why, if I lost consciousness, not even me, your best friend, would know that you killed me.”

  Mara’s blue eyes blazed in fanatical fury. “Stay conscious, then.”

  Kellen had thought this out. Thought it through carefully. She had to keep Mara simmering with anger, make sure she was on the edge of mania, and at the same time keep her from prematurely killing Kellen in a last, murderous act of vengeance. “You know, Mara, you think you know me. You think we were once best friends. But you don’t even know my real name.”

  “You’re Kellen Adams. Kellen Rae Adams.” Mara was obviously proud of herself that she knew Kellen’s middle name.

  “Kellen Rae Adams was my cousin.” Kellen finished up the nutrition bar and threw the wrapper on the floor. “I’m Cecilia Adams.”

  The wrapper rolled toward the cabinet and under the toe kick.

  Mara watched the motion, mesmerized, then returned her gaze to Kellen. For the first time today, she seemed more bewildered than lethal. “Why are you telling such an outrageous lie?”

  “You know me so well. You know I wouldn’t tell you a lie.” Kellen made her voice warm and persuasive. “I’m not who you think I am. When my first husband killed my cousin Kellen Rae, I took her identity. I’ve been homeless, served in the military, had a baby, married Max, survived brain surgery—and all the while I’ve been lying about who I am. I’m Cecilia. Trust me, Mara. I’m Cecilia.”

  “No,” Mara breathed.

  “Everything you’ve told yourself all these years about you and me, and what friends we are, and how we know each other—none of it is true. I lied to you. I’ve lied to the whole world.” Kellen leaned her palms on the kitchen table, leaned toward Mara, and said, “I’m telling you the truth now, so you know—you can never kill Kellen Rae Adams. She was brave. She was strong. She was your worthy opponent—and she’s already dead.” Kellen’s voice caught on a shard of familiar sorrow.

  That, more than anything, helped the information sink into Mara’s brain. The manic blue eyes lost their heat, grew cool and deadly.

  Kellen allowed her old grief and guilt, and the love she had felt for her cousin, to drive the point home. “I’m Cecilia. Killing me means nothing.”

  “Killing you will make me happy.” Mara pointed the shotgun at Kellen. “I’ll give you a ten-minute start.”

  “Last time, it was thirty minutes.”

  Mara cocked the shotgun. “Run.”

  45

  Kellen raced out the door onto the front porch.

  The wind blew lingering clouds across the island and fed Kellen a much-needed boost of clean, glorious oxygen.

  She jumped off the steps onto the lawn.

  Shadows chased across the land.

  Kellen knew Mara couldn’t—wouldn’t—keep her word. Any minute, she expected Mara to walk out of the door, shotgun in hand and ready. The problem was…Kellen needed every last minute to complete her absurd and desperate scheme. She hoped everything went exactly as planned, and her hand, her slowly-getting-better hand, would perform as her slowly-getting-better brain required. But in the Army, she had learned the true meaning of SNAFU—situation normal, all fouled up.

  Except no one in the military used the word fouled.

  Mara had to know that with every moment of clear sky, the chance of rescue increased. She didn’t want that.

  Nor did Kellen. If Max had survived, he would send law enforcement. Law enforcement would save Kellen’s life. But they would also try to save Mara.

  Mara had to die today.

  Kellen ran across the green lawn toward the biggest oak. As soon as the yard dipped, she cut left, toward the garage.

  Behind her, at the house, she heard a bark.

  Luna. Please God, not Luna!

  A scream. Mara’s scream.

  Kellen half turned to see Luna barking and lunging at Mara to keep her from following Kellen too closely.

  Mara backed toward the door, screaming obscenities. She lifted her shotgun.

  Kellen shouted, “Luna, run!”

  Luna turned, leaped the railing and raced toward the corner of the house.

  The shotgun blasted.

  The dog fell.

  The shotgun blasted again.

  Kellen stumbled, sobbed, righted herself. She sprinted through the tall, wet grass that slapped at her knees and gave Mara a trail to follow.

  Luna. Rae’s darling dog. Old Angel’s assistant. Kellen’s staunch defender.

  All dogs go to heaven, Kellen told herself.

  But she cried as she ran.

  The air smelled freshly washed, as if the breeze had wiped away the blood and horror of the last days.

  An illusion, of course. Luna was dead. Yet more blood would spill. More horror would follow. The question remained—whose blood, and what horror?

  Kellen’s route took her to the garage in three-point-eight minutes. She hit the back door hard, pushing it open, going into the musty, grease-scented garage, then shoving the door closed…

  Almost closed.

  It wouldn’t pay to be too obvious. Mara was an exceptionally clever killer.

  Kellen had this planned down to the second.

  First, she shoved the battery charger close to the F-100, opened the hood and clipped the cables to the battery.

  Next she opened the old refrigerator door and the creaky freezer compartment, grabbed an illumination star cluster flare and tucked it in her belt.

  She pulled out a stick of dynamite, then retrieved a blasting cap and a coil of fuse wire from the vegetable crisper.

  Was there an expiration date? Max had asked her.

  She sure as hell hoped not.

  She should test the fuse, see how long it took to burn down.

  No time. She’d have to take her chances.

  She placed the stick of dynamite on the work table. To attach the blasting cap to it, she needed both hands. She could do nothing about her right hand; it was clumsy, but uninjured, back to the same normal it had been before Mara had Tased her. The bruised and swollen fingers on her left hand were trapped in gauze. She hated to do it, but she
had to remove that bandage.

  Last night’s angel had tied a firm knot, impossible to free with one hand. Kellen scrabbled through the drawers, found gardening shears, and worked them under the knot.

  Rust had dulled the shears.

  The wound throbbed as she tugged and sawed at the gauze.

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Finally the gauze gave way, tearing rather than cutting, and she was free. She unwrapped her hand and glanced at the red, jagged wound where the needle had pierced her palm.

  Awful. Awful.

  So what? No time to mourn the loss of her good hand.

  She set to work as best as she could, depending on her right hand to do what she asked of it and her left to hold and brace.

  She uncoiled the wire and used the shears to cut an eight-foot length. That way, if it burned quickly, Mara would have plenty of time to get in here and Kellen would have plenty of time to get out.

  Taking her time, the time she didn’t have, she attached it to the blasting cap.

  The swollen fingers on her pierced left hand felt as if they’d been dipped in concrete, and served only to hold the dynamite. Her right hand…by God, it did the work her mind required of it. The wire was attached to the blasting cap, and the blasting cap was attached to the dynamite. She had a complete explosive device.

  She wanted to laugh, to rejoice. But no amount of dexterity could compensate for the countdown of the timer.

  No time.

  She looked out the grubby window, expecting to see Mara smiling and skipping toward the garage, coming too soon for Kellen to complete her plan.

  The horizon was empty.

  Where was she? Sneaking up on the other side?

  Kellen glanced out each window, searching for movement. But except for the flight of a sea gull screaming into the wind, she saw and heard nothing.

  She didn’t relax. Mara was cruel and sly, and the pressure to succeed did not ease.

  Kellen would win this battle for Rae, for Max, for their family and their peace.

  Taking the dynamite, she used one moment of precious time to hesitate, to think. What more could she do to ensure success?

  The blue can against the wall called her to attention.

  Kerosene.

  Highly flammable.

  Yes! Exactly what she needed.

  She placed an empty six-fluid-ounce Coke bottle on the workbench. The blue can had a spout; she removed the cap and poured a thin stream of kerosene into the bottle. Pungent, oily fumes filled the garage; she leaned over and shoved the window open. No need to advertise her intentions to Mara. Kellen used electrical tape to cover the neck of the Coke bottle, then united the bottle and the dynamite with the same tape.

  The perfect incendiary device. Not bad for a beginner—if it worked.

  She ran to the truck. As if she was sliding into home base, she slipped under the driver’s side door and taped the dynamite, and the bottle, to the gas-tank-filler tube.

  The tank was located under the truck’s cab.

  She knew the tank was about half full.

  She knew fumes rose off the surface of the gas and saturated the empty space in the tank and in the tube. When the dynamite ignited, those fumes would roar to life, ignite the liquid gas and…

  As she taped, and taped, and taped, she smiled unpleasantly. She had one chance to kill Mara—

  One. Chance.

  —and she wanted that explosive to finish Mara in an ugly, final way.

  Next, she crawled toward the tailgate, looping the fuse wire around the frame on the driver’s side, using tiny slices of tape to hold it in place. Two feet from the tailgate, she placed her final piece of tape.

  She wanted to light the fuse right now…but where was Mara? Had Kellen somehow lost her?

  “Don’t be stupid now,” she muttered at Mara, and crawled out from underneath the truck and looked out the grubby window again.

  Mara had crested the rise and was headed for the garage.

  46

  Mara was limping.

  Kellen wiped at the window for a clearer view. No need to be subtle. After all, she wanted Mara to know she was in here. She needed her to come in, sit in the truck, try to start it while the fuse burned down, ignited the dynamite, set the kerosene ablaze and the gas in the fuel line and the gas tank…and the blast would wipe Mara off the face of the earth.

  She needed Mara to take the bait.

  She squinted out the window; Mara’s jeans were stained below the left knee. That looked like blood. Must be blood.

  Luna had done it. Dear, sweet, loving, protective Luna.

  She would get revenge for Luna, Kellen told herself.

  Lighter in hand, she slid back under the wheel well.

  The safety release required one hand. To light the flame took another. And coordination—they had to be done at the same time. She had a wounded hand, and a balky hand, and a brain that screamed, Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Light the fuse. Light it. Light it!

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t make both hands perform at the same time. She was holding her breath. If she didn’t take control, she would pass out.

  No time.

  No choice.

  She had to breathe.

  She stopped. Closed her eyes. Concentrated on regulating the inhale…slowly. Exhale. Slowly. Inhale… Three times. She allowed herself three deep, controlled breaths.

  She opened her eyes. With one hand, she clicked the safety release. With the other, she clicked the ignition.

  At last! Her hands performed as she required. The spark sang. The flame ignited. “Yes!” Before it could extinguish, Kellen pointed the lighter at the end of the fuse.

  The spark leaped.

  With a hiss, the spark inched toward the front of the truck.

  Kellen threw the lighter low and hard toward the workbench, hoping to send it under.

  But she didn’t watch to make sure.

  It didn’t matter now.

  She crawled out and ran to the emergency radio. She cranked it up, turned it on, twisted the knob. Static blared from the speakers, static that would mask the fuse’s sizzling.

  Kellen glanced out the window again.

  Mara was limping faster, her gaze fixed on the garage.

  Kellen smiled, and for the briefest moment contemplated jumping Mara and beating her into the ground. Physically obliterating her cruelty held an appeal that sang like a siren’s song.

  But Kellen had to be practical. Mara might be injured, but Kellen was hurt far worse and she had no guarantee she would win such a confrontation.

  No. The kerosene and dynamite were set.

  The fuse was lit.

  The only thing left was to convince Mara Kellen had tried to start the truck and failed.

  Mara would comprehend the advantage of having a moving vehicle, but more important—she would always believe that where Kellen failed, she would succeed. It was Mara’s automatic response to Kellen’s failure that Kellen knew she could depend on.

  Uh-oh. Maybe she did understand Mara’s mind a little too well…

  Kellen ripped the charger cables off the car battery. Leaping into the driver’s seat, she turned the key and pushed the ignition button.

  The engine gave that desperate I want to start sound. Once. Twice. Three times.

  It sputtered. It coughed. For one moment, Kellen thought Max had actually fixed that engine and got it running.

  Another fruitless attempt to start. “Come on,” she whispered to the truck. “You can do it.” If she could drive Mara into the ground…

  Sense returned in a rush.

  If she drove that truck over Mara, she’d die in the blast she herself had engineered.

  Kellen gave it one last fruitless try, knowing Mara would snap at the challenge she had set.


  From outside the back door, she heard a mocking laugh.

  She leaped out of the driver’s seat, leaving the door open, the key swinging. She shoved open one of the wide carriage doors and fled outside. She ran. God, she ran, and as she did, her mind built the scene in her mind.

  Mara entered the garage. She saw the truck, the lights on, the driver’s door open. She jumped inside, tried the key, heard the engine almost turn over. Maybe she saw the starter button, maybe she didn’t. Maybe she knew what it was for, maybe she didn’t. Who cared? She sat in that truck. That was all that mattered.

  At a safe distance, Kellen stopped and turned, anticipating that moment when the lit fuse hit the blasting cap, the dynamite ignited, and the garage, and Max’s beloved truck, and Mara vanished in a fiery blast.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Blow!” How long until the fuse burned down?

  Max had never succeeded in making the truck run… He was going to have a hard time with this loss, and the loss of all his beloved equipment… But he was a sensible man and valued her life more than a truck… She was pretty sure…

  She narrowed her eyes at the garage. Maybe, when this was over, she would go looking for a truck for him to repair. A goldenrod-yellow F-100. That would ease whatever heartbreak he felt from—

  From inside the garage, she heard the roar of an engine.

  What the hell?

  The truck came blasting through the garage doors, driven with maniacal fervor by a grinning killer.

  47

  No!

  What the hell?

  No!

  How was this possible?

  Max hadn’t managed to get the truck running. He hadn’t…

  Wait. She remembered. When Rae had come home, horrified by her encounter with the blood-soaked Dylan, Max had been under the truck. That day, he had been sure he would get it running.

  Well, he had. “Oh, Max,” she moaned. Of course, once his baby girl had been stricken, he never thought of the damned truck again.

  Did he even know?

  Mara raced forward, gaining speed through the wet grass, toward Kellen.