Darkness Before the Dawn

by Anne Stuart

  He wouldn’t be doing it for the money; Randall didn’t need money. He spent what he had on possessions, rare and precious works of art that could be very expensive indeed. But he had no weaknesses, no obsessions, no drug or alcohol addictions; he wasn’t a gambler or a spendthrift. If he had turned traitor, if he was in this whole mess up to his armpits, then he was doing it for the same reason he started helping out the CIA: For the thrill. To alleviate the boredom that had stalked him most of his adult life, the boredom that didn’t suffer fools lightly.

  It was a terrifying thought, and Maggie could understand how Kate would panic at the suggestion of Caleb’s involvement. It felt as if the very ground were sinking away beneath her.

  Two cups of coffee helped. Sitting by the kitchen window and looking over the city as it came to life helped. Telling herself that even if Randall was a traitor, it wasn’t the end of the world, as long as Chrissie was all right, helped.

  It wasn’t as if Randall meant anything to her, after all. She was immune to him; he had no power over her, no effect on her whatsoever. Sex was merely a biological function that reared its ugly head during moments of stress. She wasn’t going to bed with Randall again, ever. She didn’t like him or trust him, so it didn’t really matter if he was a traitor. Did it?

  “You don’t answer doors anymore?” His warm, rich voice broke through her abstraction, and she turned from the city landscape to look at him. He’d changed into an artfully rumpled beige linen suit. The welt across his forehead had paled with the passing of hours, and his eyes as they looked into hers were oddly warm and concerned.

  “I didn’t hear you ring,” she said, moving slowly away from the window, watching him out of curious eyes. Could he have betrayed her once again? Not just her, but his entire country? Not just his country, but humanity, by stealing a helpless infant? Was he as monstrous as she sometimes wondered?

  “What’s wrong, Maggie?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

  “Didn’t Kate tell you?”

  “Is Kate back?” he said, momentarily diverted. “I didn’t see her.”

  “Then who let you in?”

  “I’ve already told you that locked doors don’t keep me out. I passed the CIA’s course on B and E with flying colors, unlike you. You still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He frowned, becoming impatient. “I’m not interested in playing twenty questions, Maggie. Why are you looking at me as if I’m Frankenstein’s monster?”

  “Have you been leading me on?”

  His reply was an unexpected burst of laughter. “What the hell are you asking me, Maggie? If my intentions are honorable? If I’m going to make an honest woman of you?”

  “I’m not talking about sex, Randall. I’m talking about treason. I’m talking about military secrets and Red Glove Films and Alicia Stoneham.”

  The light of humor vanished as quickly as it had come. “Maggie,” he said meditatively, “the fact that you’re a woman isn’t enough to stop me from punching you in the mouth for asking something like that.”

  “Try it.”

  “What’s going on, Maggie?”

  “It just occurred to me that I’ve been awfully trusting. Someone has known just what we were up to, someone has been on our trail from the very beginning. And I wondered if you hadn’t been using me as part of a smokescreen to cover your own involvement.”

  “You’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Did you come to any conclusions?” His voice was flat, unemotional.

  Maggie watched him out of weary eyes. “Yes.”

  “You want to tell me what they are?”

  All his defenses were up. He was watching her out of those stormy gray-blue eyes and his expression was blank, slightly wary, waiting.

  “I decided that I had no choice but to trust you,” she said, and his expression didn’t change.

  “Your vote of confidence is inspiring,” he said, and she suspected he still wanted to punch her in the mouth. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Chrissie’s been kidnapped.”

  “No, she hasn’t.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Randall, she most certainly—” The words died in her throat as she stared up at him, incredulity and rage warring within her. “What have you done with her?”

  “She’s with my sister. I had her fly in from Boston last night. They’ve got a suite three floors down from your mother at the Mandrake, and Chrissie’s having a wonderful time playing with my three-year-old-nephew.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to do something to protect the kid, Maggie. This isn’t a parlor game we’re playing. People use real bullets, they’re desperate, and a baby would be a wonderful pawn. It would have been their next move—I just got there first. Would you rather Caleb or Alicia had gotten her? It looked as if it might come to that.”

  “So the Almighty Randall decided to make his move, without asking anyone, without telling anyone.” She spat out the words. “You couldn’t trust me enough to tell me, to save my sister and my mother the anguish of thinking Chrissie might be in danger—”

  “It didn’t seem to be a risk worth taking.”

  “You heartless bastard,” Maggie said calmly. “Who the hell gave you the right to interfere in our lives? If I had a gun, I would shoot you.”

  “Then let’s be thankful you left yours in New York,” he said. “Are you going to stand around in that transparent nightgown, or are we going to see how my plan worked?”

  “The very first thing I’m going to do is tell my sister what you’ve done.” She headed for the door, but his tall, lean body was ahead of her, blocking her.

  “No, you’re not. Chrissie’s absolutely fine, and Kate will survive the next few hours. I’m sure you’ve already told her that Alicia took her, and she thinks Alicia isn’t really dangerous. We can’t afford to have anyone guess what’s going on.”

  “Are you going to move, Randall?” Maggie asked sweetly.

  “Not until I have your word that you won’t tell your sister,” he said.

  Randall was good, and he was fast, but Maggie had the element of surprise on her side. Without a moment’s hesitation, she kneed him in the groin.

  He moved fast, but not quite fast enough for her to miss entirely. He doubled over with a muffled grunt of pain, and forced herself to move past him into the hallway and raced toward Kate’s bedroom. Randall had recovered enough to come after her, but she had a head start. She yanked the door open and burst into the room.

  “Kate, Chrissie’s safe …” The words trailed off as she surveyed the empty bedroom, the still-made bed.

  “Flown the coop, has she?” Randall inquired from the doorway.

  Slowly Maggie turned to look at him. His face was still slightly pale around the edges, with just a hint of pain lingering around his grim mouth. “She’s probably gone after Alicia,” Maggie said in despair. “You see what you’ve done with your damned game-playing? Even if Chrissie’s safe, Kate’s in danger. If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, showing no remorse. “Are you just going to stand there threatening me, or are we going after her?”

  Maggie stared at him for a long moment. “It’ll take me five minutes.”

  “Make it three.” And he turned from the doorway and headed back into the living room.

  She made it in two and a half, still pulling on a battered Nike as she stumbled out of her bedroom. Randall was standing by the window, his body stiff and unyielding. He turned, and his face was impassive. “Are you ready? Or do you want to call your mother first?”

  “Why?”

  “To tell her Chrissie’s all right.”

  “Learned your lesson, did you? That’ll teach you to mess with … superwoman.” She said the word deliberately, waiting to see his reaction. “Sybil can wait.”

  “Superwoman, eh?” he echoed. “You’ll have to convince m
e.”

  “Didn’t I just do that?”

  He shook his head. “Not by a long shot. Come on, Maggie, let’s go catch us some spies.”

  twenty

  Caleb McAllister was waiting for them as they left the building. The August heat was already baking the air; the smell of exhaust and gas and summer sidewalks rose up and surrounded them in a cocoon of city life. Maggie saw him first, his tall, angular body tense and angry, and she nudged Randall ungently in the ribs.

  “Here’s your chance to find out if he’s involved,” she said quietly.

  Frustration and something else shadowed Randall’s eyes. “One of us needs to go after your sister and make sure she doesn’t get herself killed. We don’t know for sure that Alicia didn’t kill Francis. And even if she didn’t, there’s another murderer loose if Caleb is innocent. Someone who wouldn’t think twice about killing to protect himself.”

  “You take Caleb,” Maggie muttered. “I’m going after Kate.”

  “Maggie—” But she moved quickly out of reach, directly into Caleb’s path. Randall’s mouth shut with an angry snap.

  “Hi, Caleb. Why aren’t you at the studio?” she demanded abruptly.

  “The studio’s closed on Wednesdays. What the hell does that matter? Listen, Sybil called me—”

  “Where does Alicia live?” she broke in.

  “42557 Springhill Estates,” he said automatically. “I have to talk to you, Maggie.”

  “Talk to Randall,” she said, rushing past him and grabbing the first taxi that was lined up outside the hotel next to Kate’s building. She didn’t even look back as they zoomed out into the midmorning traffic.

  It was a long drive. The taxi driver had an all-news radio station on, and the crackle and buzz rattled Maggie’s nerve endings as she prayed she’d be in time.

  The built-up newness of the city deteriorated into the shabbiness of the older neighborhoods, then began to brighten up as middle-class suburbs approached. Those thinned out, and random, sprawling estates took their place. Maggie’s palms were cold and damp with sweat.

  The radio was blaring on about hurricanes in the Gulf, and Maggie shut her eyes for a moment, trying to block out the intrusion. And then her eyes shot open again at the newscaster’s laconic tone.

  “Admiral Jefferson Wentworth was found dead in his Arlington, Virginia, apartment today, an apparent suicide. Admiral Wentworth served on the Naval Intelligence Committee before his retirement in 1984. The police have not ruled out the possibility of foul play.”

  Maggie’s stomach lurched, and her nails bit into her palms. Why the hell had she left her gun in New York when her sister’s very life might depend on it? But she knew why—she’d been too befuddled with Randall Carter. That was another she owed him.

  “Gates are closed, lady.”

  The driver’s voice pulled her attention back to the present, and she looked up, startled. Wide iron gates spanned the curving drive that led up to an imposing, utterly tasteless white stone mansion. Kate’s slightly battered Datsun was parked at a haphazard angle in front of them, blocking entry. There was no sign of her sister.

  “This is good enough,” Maggie said, shoving money at the driver and almost falling out of the cab. Her sense of disaster was getting stronger all the time, and it took every ounce of will to calm herself. Panic wouldn’t help Kate; calm, rational planning would. First of all, she had to figure how to get past the high stone walls that guarded Alicia Stoneham.

  In the end it was easier than she’d imagined. Although the front gates were securely locked, the narrow door in the thick stone wall was unlatched. Maggie simply walked through, breaking into a stealthy run as she reached the other side of the curving drive.

  Her Nikes were silent as she raced up the driveway. The cold sweat that covered her body evaporated in the blazing heat, and the last of her panic left her. She was calm and very determined and ready to take on anything.

  The voices were loud enough to alert her. Kate’s usually soft voice was angry, carrying on the stifling summer air, and Maggie moved around the house to the wide back terrace, following the sound unerringly.

  “I want you to tell me where my baby is, Alicia!” The two of them were turned away from Maggie as she lurked by the corner of the big white building. She could see Kate’s profile, the tangle of brown hair, the furious eyes, the determination in her mouth.

  Alicia waved a cigarette-laden hand at her. Her fuchsia-painted mouth looked garish on her unusually pale face. “How many times must I tell you, honey, that I have no idea where she is? I don’t know why you think I’d touch little Chrissie, but if you don’t calm down and leave, I’ll call the police.”

  “Do you want to tell them about Francis?” Kate demanded. “About Red Glove Films and your brother and how you’re managing to keep Stoneham Studios afloat? I’m sure they’d be very interested in hearing about it.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Kate,” Alicia snapped, her horse-face devoid of color. “You must have slipped a cog somewhere. Hell, I can understand it—you’ve been under a lot of pressure with that stinker of a husband. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, and I’ll call that sister of yours to come get you? You need a vacation.”

  “I need my baby!” Kate cried. “Just tell me where she is, and I won’t say a word about the spying. I can keep Maggie quiet, too—she’ll do as I tell her.”

  Alicia leaned forward and stubbed out the turquoise Sobranie on the glass-topped patio table. “I’m afraid we can’t count on that,” she said suddenly, her voice flat and dead. “You know I hate violence, honey, but you leave us no choice. We’re going to have to shut you up.” And her hand came up with a small, efficient gun in it, trained directly on Kate’s chest.

  Maggie froze. If she made any sudden moves, Alicia might shoot her sister, whether she really wanted to or not. Slowly, carefully she edged closer to the corner of the building. The two women were within several feet of her; if she found the right sort of projectile, she could knock the gun out of Alicia’s hand. Maybe.

  “I don’t give a damn what you do to me, Alicia. I just want to know where my baby is.”

  “I really don’t know. We didn’t take her. You might ask your sister.”

  Kate’s mouth curved in grim smile. “That’ll be a little difficult, won’t it, if you’re planning to kill me?”

  Maggie had already slipped off one of her Nikes, preparing to aim it at Alicia’s gun hand. She weighed it in one hand, then lifted her arm overhead to throw it.

  “You’ll have plenty of chances to talk to her,” Alicia said. “Won’t she, partner?”

  Maggie felt body heat close behind her and saw the shadow on the terrace in front of her. She quickly started to wing the sneaker at Alicia, but an iron hand clamped around her wrist, grinding the bones together. Another hand grabbed her rear. She didn’t need to hear the mocking voice to tell her who it was or to assure her that neither Caleb nor Randall had anything to do with this treasonous tangle.

  “Not so fast, sweetbuns,” Bud Willis murmured in her ear. “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?” And he shoved her out onto the terrace.

  “Thank God, Maggie,” Kate breathed.

  “Don’t thank God yet, Kate,” Maggie said, her voice thick with self-disgust as she stumbled toward the two women, aided by Willis’s rough hands. “I’m not helping matters.”

  “You surely aren’t, and that’s the truth,” Alicia said, putting the gun back into her pocket. Maggie considered diving for it, but then she felt the unmistakable chill of a larger-barrelled gun in the small of her back, and she forced her muscles to relax. “We’re going to have to take care of them both, aren’t we?” Alicia asked. “No way around it?”

  “No way around it, old lady. We have to cover our tracks as best we can. These two can go with the house; Carter and McAllister at the studio. You’ve already got your plane tickets.”

  Alicia nodded, looking very old. “It was worth
a try,” she said, lighting another cigarette, this time a pink one, and shoving it into the long black holder. “I thought I could save the studio. I should have known it was impossible.”

  “At least you’ll have enough money to keep you and your brother living in style,” Bud said, moving around to smile his skeletal smile at Maggie. “And I won’t come off too badly, either.”

  “You’re absolutely crazy, aren’t you?” Maggie snapped. “Have you been behind this all along?”

  “Hell, no. I just cut myself in on the action two weeks ago when I found out what was going on. It seemed like too good a scam to pass up.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “That stupid little faggot got cold feet and turned state’s evidence. It was pure luck that he got passed over to me. I persuaded him to keep quiet, then came out here last week and cut myself in.”

  “What happened to Francis?” Maggie prompted.

  Willis shrugged. “Well, he seemed so eager to talk, I had to shut him up, didn’t I? I thought it was a nice touch, bringing him over to your sister’s place. I heard you were due for a visit, and I figured she’d have Superwoman bail her out. I was hoping you’d be the one to find him and not your sister—maybe it would remind you of the Polack. At least you ended up dragging him around the city. Damned funny.”

  A light shiver of horror iced her skin at Bud’s cheerful malice. “But why did you send Randall here?” she demanded.

  “To keep you busy. I knew he’d be so involved trying to get between your legs that the two of you wouldn’t notice if hell froze over. And Randall’s got the advantage of having no paper work, no records at Langley at all. When he buys it today, no one down there will even notice.”

  “And you’ll get away with a nice sum of money.”

  “I will indeed. Come along, sweetcakes.”

  “Where?”