The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  The lights of the BMW behind her died, and the car door opened and closed. Clay walked to the window of Elizabeth’s car and dropped into a crouch so he was eye level with her. They both looked up at the house.

  “You sure this is the place?”

  “This is the address Sara Dixon gave me. Only one way to find out for sure.” She yanked the key from the ignition, got out and closed the door, locking it with the remote as they crossed the street and approached the front door. Sure enough, the key was where Sara had told her. She slid it into the lock and paused.

  Clay’s eyes met hers. “What are you waiting for? They’re not home.”

  “It just feels weird going into someone else’s house.”

  “They said you could.”

  He was right. Sara Dixon wanted to know that Amy’s death wasn’t by her own hand. Elizabeth had offered them a fine thread of hope that she could prove it. But what if she was wrong? What if she’d raised their hopes for nothing? She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

  The interior smelled stale, as though the place had been locked up for months. When Clay flipped on the light, they found themselves in an open entranceway, a staircase to the second level right in front of them, a formal living area to the left. Clay moved into the living room and switched on a table lamp. The place was furnished in soft peach colors, dark brown leather sofa, a fireplace with a gray and black stone mantle set into the far wall. Deep peach-colored floor-to-ceiling drapes covered most of the remaining wall. Clay drew the corner back to reveal a set of French doors leading out into a barbecue area, a covered pool just beyond.

  Clay opened the door, peered out, then closed the door again. “Nice place. How long are they gone for?”

  “I have no idea.” Suddenly saddened at the thought of what these parents must have gone through, Elizabeth turned for the stairs. “Sara said the package was in Amy’s room. It’ll be up here.”

  At the top of the stairs a wide hallway led toward the rear of the house. The first room had been turned into a library with mahogany wood shelving standing on each of the three walls facing her; a second fireplace stood facing three deep-seated leather armchairs set around a glass coffee table.

  “Not in here.” She flipped off the light and moved on.

  The next room on the right was clearly Sara and Ron’s, the third a bathroom, and finally Amy’s room, evident by the plaque on the door with her name embellished in red and surrounded by butterflies.

  Just as Elizabeth placed her hand on the door, that welling sense of sorrow seemed to suck the breath from her. This had been the Dixons’ only child. They’d lost her—their precious daughter stolen from them. Elizabeth had come so close to losing her own child. She dropped her head, closed her eyes a moment while she wrestled for control.

  “Are you okay?”

  How could he even ask? Was it because he’d never known what it was to have a child? Someone so beloved that the loss of them was almost unbearable?

  Without answering, she pushed the door open and flicked on the light, almost afraid to enter.

  Amy’s bedroom was decorated in pastel blues and pinks, the bed set with a dozen or so teddy bears. On the wall above was a framed copy of the Serenity Prayer: “…the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, the wisdom to know the difference.”

  Amy had had the courage. Elizabeth wondered if perhaps it was the wisdom that had failed her.

  Clay stood close in behind her, peering over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  Without replying, Elizabeth stepped into the room, feeling like an intruder sullying the memory of the Dixons’ beloved daughter.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she told Clay. “We’re just looking for the box.”

  He lifted his hands briefly and dropped them as if to say, “Understood.”

  There were no boxes or parcels evident. Whatever Sara Dixon had received from the prison, she’d tucked it away out of sight. Perhaps preferring to remember her as the child they’d had, not the child they’d lost.

  A mirrored door stood ajar to Elizabeth’s left. The closet. She moved over to it and placed her fingers to the handle. She gently pushed it open to find two rails of clothing running from the doorway to the rear wall. She moved down the rows, searching the floor beneath the dresses and shirts, then the shelves above. At the end was a brown cardboard box a little larger than a shoebox, wide clear tape running top to bottom and side to side forming a glossy T on the front. Amy’s name and address were visible beneath the tape, handwritten in wide black marker pen.

  Elizabeth reached up and took the parcel down just as Clay moved into the closet behind her.

  “Is that it?”

  She turned the box to find the prison’s stamp on the underside. “Looks like.”

  Wishing now that she’d come here alone, she waited until he’d exited the closet, then carried the parcel out to the dresser and set it down.

  They both stood there looking at it.

  “Well? We’ve come all this way. You gonna open it?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll open it later. We should leave.”

  “Why not now? What difference does it make?”

  Something in his words pricked at the back of her brain. She turned to regard him. “I don’t have anything to open it with.” It came out a little more harshly than she’d meant it to. She gave him a brittle smile, trying to lighten the moment. “And I’m not breaking my nails on it.”

  “Here, use this.” Clay reached into his pocket and took out a pocket knife, black, with a two-letter logo.

  At the sight of it, a montage of images flashed through her mind: the flattened cartons, the awards dinner, Eileen Grant’s parting words—what were they? Almost at once, she felt the color drain from her face, the sickly sensation of acid rising in her stomach. Seemingly without noticing the shift in her demeanor, he leaned past her and slit the tape before tucking the knife back into his pocket. With a quick tilt of his head, he moved back. As if he’d opened a car door for her. As if he’d done something gentlemanly.

  But that feeling in her gut had swelled and the flesh on the back of her neck began to prickle.

  She turned and gave him a forced smile. “Thank you.”

  “Open it.” His tone lacked the previous warmth now.

  Feeling the intensity of his gaze on her, she turned, pressed her thumbs between the flaps on the top of the box, and eased them apart. Then closed them, both hands holding it down.

  “I know. Why don’t I take this home and do it later? I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have.”

  This time when she turned, the smile was gone. The chilly glint in his eye mirrored the shift in his demeanor. “I think you should do it now. Don’t you?”

  She didn’t want to, but she had to ask. “How did you know where Millcreek was?”

  “You told me,” he said.

  “I don’t believe I did.” She dropped the forced smile. “What’s in there?”

  A zero-degree grin, both palms raised. “How would I know? There’s only one way to find out. Open it and see.” Another tilt of the head, hands on his hips, suggesting she had no other option available. “You want me to do it?” The words were more like a threat than a suggestion.

  Her chest tightened and a flush of adrenaline hit her system. When she spoke this time, the words hooked in her throat, causing her to swallow involuntarily mid-sentence. “No. I’ll do it.”

  Turning to the box once more, she pressed both thumbs in under the outer flaps, then eased the opposing ones apart. Inside was a stack of garments neatly folded in a clear plastic bag. Alongside it, and tucked down the side was a second bag containing a toothbrush, deodorant, a cup, and a number of assorted toiletries.

  Keeping her eyes on the parcel, but keenly aware of his proximity, she made a feeble search, then went to close the box again. “I don’t think there’s anything
here.”

  “You didn’t look very hard.” His voice came over her shoulder, standing so close now that she could feel his breath on her neck.

  Almost paralyzed by his overwhelming presence, she slowly lifted the toiletries out of the box and placed them on the dresser. Then she lifted the plastic bag of garments, set it alongside the first. Now that she’d removed everything from the box, she could see a familiar line of fabric lying along the center of the folded garments, like something hidden between the underwear and tee shirts and towels. Parting the layers of the plastic surrounding them, she pressed her fingers into the stack, and drew out a fine cream blouse made from the very same fabric she’d seen in the workroom at Millcreek Fashions. Fascinated, she slipped it from the pile and shook it out, then held it up by the shoulders, studying it—the seams, the back, the darts, the label …

  The sight of the wording sent another blast of adrenaline through her. Her breath caught and her eyes widened.

  “Rue Xeeba?” Her words were a hollow whisper.

  Scrunching the blouse to her chest, she turned to him, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

  A cool grin deepened those dimples into creases. “And here was me thinking you were the smart one.”

  She lifted the bunched blouse. “This?”

  He reached up, took it from her.

  “Took you long enough. For a while there I was worried you were going to give up.” He shook the garment out, studying it from top to bottom. “Lucky for me, you hung in there. I have been searching everywhere for this.” He lifted the blouse briefly, like a toast. “Thank you.”

  “This is about … Oh, for crying—!” She dropped her hands to her sides as those words rang out in her head. “There is no magic wand. That’s what Eileen Grant told me. I didn’t understand what she was trying to say. But she was referring to this,” she said, dismissively flicking a hand at the blouse. “You were what she was talking about. The Magician of Manufacturing.”

  Another tip of the head, that smile deepening the dimples again, as if acknowledging a compliment. “That’s what they call me. And they’re not wrong, you know. I am pretty damn spectacular.”

  When she spoke this time, her voice was low, resonating with the hatred and rage that roiled in her gut. “Spectacular at what? You don’t have any ‘groundbreaking business model.’ That’s all bullshit.”

  He flinched theatrically on the word, sucking in air like he’d been burnt.

  “Elizabeth. Such dirty talk. Keep it up, I love it.”

  She took one step back. “All your amazing workforce initiatives are a crock of shit—an industrial empire built on prison labor. Twenty-five cents an hour,” she spat out. “No downtime, no sickness or absenteeism to have to pay for. No vacations messing up your precious production line. Just top-quality products at slave labor prices. Oh, and just a little murder or two to keep things running smoothly.”

  He threw up a hand, seemingly amused. “Whoa there. I can categorically say that I did not murder anyone.”

  “And what about Christine Wentworth? What did she have to do to keep your dirty little secrets covered?”

  One side of his mouth tugged back in a regretful smile. “Oh, boy, she’s a tough cookie,” he said, as though he’d had to pull out all the stops but finally succeeded. “She’s a terrific gal, but I doubt she’d have approved of our logistical arrangements. She kept threatening to go out to Millcreek. Seriously, I was running out of excuses to keep her away.”

  “And you expect me to believe that? I doubt you’d have stopped her. Another little pawn in your game. Another mug to do all your dirty work. After all, you wouldn’t want to do anything that might wreck your precious business plan, not until you got the best share price on the stock market.” She glared at him, more disappointed than she could have known. “Why? Why do all this? Was it about the money? Or was this all about sitting in Walt Straussman’s chair while someone else picks up the pieces? Playing your fiddle while Rome burns.”

  One side of his cheek twitched and the self-assured smile evaporated. He screwed up the blouse in one hand and shook it at her. “It’s just business, Elizabeth. You think we can compete in this market? Huh? You think I’m stealing jobs from hard-working Americans? The hell I am. If prison labor wasn’t making these, who do you think would be? We’d be slugging it out with Bangladesh, Mexico, China. Not Americans. Our cost of labor wouldn’t be in the same ballpark.”

  “You think this is about the ethics of using prison labor?”

  He ignored her, shouting now. “People like you with your bleeding-heart ideals and your sanctimonious attitude have no idea how the world works, Elizabeth. I worked my ass off to get to where I am. Me,” he said, beating his fist into his chest. “No handouts, no rich daddy to help me along. Just me.”

  “Oh, what a guy.”

  His expression soured and his voice dropped. “Do you know how many do-gooder assholes tried to stand in my way? Let me tell you, there were a lot. And I beat every single one of them at their own shitty little games. Me—The Magician. And I did it all with this.” He stabbed his finger to his temple. “I outsmarted every asshole that tried to knock me down, and I walked away the winner.”

  The hatred in her gut twisted. “Oh, like you outsmarted Amy Dixon? You murdered an innocent child. And for what? Because she found a blouse? Because Eileen Grant put all the pieces of the puzzle together and figured out your little scam?” She spat out a breath of disgust. “And what about Stacy?”

  “Stacy May was doing fine until you decided to let her out of prison. So technically, this is your fault.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. “My fault? Oh, of course. And that’s why you were so eager to help me find her. Well, weren’t you just the good Samaritan?”

  His demeanor cooled. “When you’re in business, you have to make tough decisions.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  He jabbed a finger at her. “Stacy was warned not to apply for that program. I had to shut her down.”

  “Because you were terrified that once she was out, so was your secret. So that’s why you came kissing up to me? All the flirting, asking me on dates?”

  He shook his head, seemingly amused again. “Don’t take it personally, Elizabeth, but older women aren’t really my thing. Not when I can have my pick of any girl I want.”

  “Screw you,” she said.

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” he said, and reached to brush away a stray wisp of hair on her forehead. “You keep this dirty talk up, I could get to like you after all.”

  She slapped his hand away. “I wouldn’t let you touch me if my life depended on it. Where’s Trish Tomes? What have you done with her? Or did you use a magical wave of your hand to make her disappear?”

  His expression morphed into one of mock sorrow. “Unfortunately, our Trish became somewhat … bothersome. Then Kathy Reynolds came to me with a much better deal. I offered Trish an exit package. She refused. I had to let her go.” He lifted his shoulders briefly. “Strictly business. Nothing personal.”

  She didn’t want to ask. But she had to. “So where is she now? What did you do with her?”

  “I didn’t do anything with her.” The grin spread slowly once again as he spoke. “Now, if you’d been half as smart as you think you are, you’d have realized you’ve been driving past her for the last two days.”

  Elizabeth clapped both hands to her mouth, one over the other. “Oh, God. She was in that Dumpster.”

  “Like I said, my friend has the best seafood restaurant in the city. I dropped by, picked up a little insurance against anyone digging too deep. You know, you cannot rely on anyone these days. Those trash collectors were supposed to pick up on Saturday morning. So what was I supposed to do?”

  “You bastard. You covered her in garbage. You threw her away like a piece of trash.”

  He said nothing, just stood there blankly regarding her.

  Behind him was the open door. To her left, a heavy pho
to frame—a picture of Amy as a child.

  Elizabeth snapped her hand out for the frame but he beat her to it, hooking her around the waist with one arm and jerking her back, knocking the frame from her hand. She stumbled backwards, cracking her elbow on the dresser, but managed to stay on her feet. As soon as she’d collected herself, she went for the door but he grabbed her again, swinging her around and throwing her backwards.

  She had to get to the door, had to get out. She ducked and made another dash, but this time he grabbed her, running her backwards and slamming her into the mirrored glass on the closet door. She felt the glass behind her shatter. Before she could gather herself, he was on her again. This time he grabbed her by the front of her jacket, drew her straight up, and slammed her against the door again and again, smashing her against the broken glass until her vision blurred and her legs went out from under her. When he let go, she slid down the door with a thousand tiny slivers of glass slicing into her scalp, hooking into her jacket, and knifing into her back until she hit the floor.

  Despite the vibrations echoing through her head, she tipped her head up far enough to see him standing a few feet in front of her. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, watching her. She twisted around, one hand flat on the floor to ease herself up, but her movements were slow, her actions jerky and mistimed. She went to get up, but her knees buckled, so she dropped to her hands and knees and lifted herself, ready to go, like a runner off the blocks, but he grabbed her, flipped her onto her back, and swung one leg over to sit astride her, his knees pinning her elbows. She twisted and kicked under him, desperate to free her arms as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny vial.

  He popped the top with his thumb, saying, “Open wide. A pharmacist friend of mine formulated this. It’s a little like Rohypnol, no memories, no residue in the system, only this is much faster acting.” He clamped one hand on her forehead and pried her jaw down with the hand holding the vial. “C’mon, Elizabeth. Just relax. You won’t feel a thing.”

  His grip was like a vice. She felt her lips pried apart, felt two drops of bitter liquid hit her tongue. She jerked her arms loose and fought against him, head rocking from side to side, fists pounding on his chest, at his arms, and his face until tiny dots of blackness popped across her field of vision and spread into black splotches. Again she clawed at him, but her head was swimming, her strength draining. A floating sensation flooded her brain, pressing in, tightening.