by Lisa Jackson
Blam!
The earth shook violently.
With the explosion, the Caddy shimmied, tires bouncing.
Panicked, Didi hit the brakes. The big car fishtailed.
In the rearview, she caught a glimpse of a huge fireball rising into the desert sky.
Oh. God!
Night became day.
Brett’s Mustang was nowhere to be seen.
Her heart clenched. Her stomach heaved. Her worst fears screamed through her brain. His car blew up! He and everything in it, including precious Ariel, are destroyed!
“No! No! No!” She screamed, her hands gripping the wheel as she stood on the brakes. The white Cadillac shuddered to a stop. Dust rained down on her. This couldn’t be happening. She twisted around to stare out the back window. “Please, please . . . oh, God, please, no.” Her throat was tight, her grief unbearable. Not her baby. Nothing bad could have happened to her precious Ariel. “No,” she whimpered, starting to sob. Horror scratched at her soul, tears ran from her eyes, and for a split second, she thought about turning the car around, driving to the inferno and . . .
And what? What can you do?
The cops will be out here in minutes, and how can you explain what happened out here? Besides, you don’t know . . .
“Oh, God. Oh, dear God . . . oh, oh.” She was trembling, shivering from the inside out. She had to do something, anything! But the raging inferno illuminating that barren part of the desert was burning out of control. No one could have survived.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, then hit the gas and tore away, gravel spraying, mascara running into her eyes, a bump sounding in the rear of the vehicle. Oh, no . . . not a flat tire, not a piece of the Caddy falling off. She blinked and tried to see. If a part of her car were left out here . . . And did she hear a moan? No, that was the pitiful sound escaping from her own throat.
She saw no incriminating piece of her car in the darkness behind her, but would she? Of course not. Unless it reflected off that hellish glow from the fire . . . oh, God, she thought she might be sick.
The car is not falling apart. You’re just freaking out, imagining it, making things worse by your stupid imagination. Stop it. Get a damned grip!
The front right tire careened into a rock and something—some kind of scrub brush—scraped the side. She heard another thud. Told herself to keep driving, to quit imagining that her sturdy, vintage Caddy was losing pieces, and to try not to think of the child she’d left with Brett.
Oh, Lord. Her baby. Her sweet little baby. “Ariel,” she whispered, gasping and sobbing. She couldn’t stop the tears nor the shaking. Terror and self-loathing roiled within her as she drove. Why had she done this? Why? For a few lousy bucks? A quarter of a mil? Or to get even with the hustler who’d gotten her pregnant? Why? Her baby . . . nothing was worth her baby’s life!
Cigarette forgotten, she found a new mantra and started spewing it out loud, as much to drown out the demons in her head as anything. “Don’t think about it. It never happened. Don’t think about it. It never happened. Don’t think about it . . .”
Just go, go, go. Ooh, sweet Jesus, God, no. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it . . . Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Heart thudding, she thought she heard the first sound of sirens wailing in the distance. Heading this direction? Or to some other catastrophe?
Didi Storm couldn’t take the chance.
Despite all of her guilt, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let the police and the world know what she’d done.
She pressed her foot harder still on the accelerator, and the power of over two hundred horses responded, racing beneath the hood of her prized car, propelling them forward toward the incandescence of Las Vegas.
CHAPTER 5
Something was very, very wrong here.
Watching her mother return to the car through the peephole in the back, Remmi bit her lower lip, her mind racing.
Adam? Didi brought Adam back?
But not Ariel?
Didi left the girl dressed in her brother’s clothes with her “daddy”?
That’s how it appeared. Once the transfer for the briefcase had been made, Didi had sauntered back to the car, tossed the case onto the front passenger seat, strapped the baby carrier into place on the wide back seat, then climbed in and began driving. Fast. Somehow managing to light a cigarette. What had just happened? And what was in the briefcase?
Money.
Of course.
With a sinking feeling, Remmi knew.
Her mother had sold her child. The baby had been born with a price on her head.
Remmi thought she might be sick and was only vaguely aware of the sound of a motorcycle’s engine revving nearby and her mother muttering a loud “Idiot!”
The exchange of cash for an infant was unthinkable, even for Didi Storm.
Remmi decided she could hide no longer; she had to find out what was going on. No more conjecture. Maybe there was a plausible, even reasonable explanation. She pounded on the back of the seat just as an explosion rocked the car, the Caddy shuddering and groaning as a burst of light was visible in the rearview. With a scream and some unintelligible words, Didi floored the monster of a car, and Remmi was thrown back, her head striking the roof. She moaned, blinked, and thought she might throw up as the big car raced across the uneven canyon floor. One of the car’s tires struck a pothole or a rock or something. Remmi was tossed around in the tight space and bumped her shoulder.
Damn!
Reflexively grabbing hold of a bar that held the hidden props in place, she clung for dear life.
Something had gone horribly wrong out here. She knew that much. Now, Didi was fleeing, but what had happened to Ariel?
And what was that blinding flash, that explosion that had spooked Didi?
Not the other car. Please, God, not the other car!
But what else would blow up like that in the middle of the Mojave?
Then she heard her mother’s voice, even and toneless, saying over and over again, “Don’t think about it. It never happened. Don’t think about it, it never . . .”
Remmi’s heart turned to stone.
What had her mother done?
Tears blurred her vision, and she bit back sobs as she thought of her baby sister. Ariel. Sweet, tiny girl. For the first time in years, Remmi began to pray.
Please be with innocent Ariel. Please, God, please . . . Keep her safe.
* * *
Blam! Blam!
What the hell?
Gunshots?
No way!
Braking, Noah spun his bike around. Dust kicked up in a cloud that obscured the stars and moon for a second as he got his bearings. Had he really heard shots, or was it a firecracker or a car backfiring?
Heart hammering, he waited. He’d seen the two cars, nose to nose in the desert, and a couple of people getting out to meet in the space between them, a man and a woman. Some kind of drug deal, he figured, as a lot of shit went down at night in the desert, yet there was something surreal about the rendezvous, something a little out of whack. When he’d kicked the bike into gear, roaring closer, the bigger vehicle swung around, turning back toward the lights of Vegas. That’s when he’d recognized the boxy car’s silhouette as a vintage Caddy, about the same make and model as Remmi’s mom’s big boat of a car. Was it Didi’s ride? Was the woman actually Didi herself?
What the hell was she doing out here?
And the gunshots?
No! Not gunshots.
But . . . Oh, Jesus . . . then what?
Over the pounding of his heart, his bike idling, he squinted through the night as the big car sped away.
What the hell was Didi Storm doing out here, and did it have anything to do with the reason Remmi hadn’t shown? He revved the bike just as he saw movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow stealing down the mountainside.
He froze. Focused on the shifting umbra . . . too big for a coyote, too tall for a mountain lion. Had to be a person.
Oh, hell.
Another quick movement and a flash of light.
What the hell?
The guy was definitely shooting. At the damned car. He swallowed hard. Noah revved his engine. Couldn’t let the assailant just fire away. Popped a wheelie and caught the would-be assassin’s attention. He leaned forward, and the front wheel hit the hardpan hard, then he punched it. Hitting the gas and zigzagging across the desert, sure to rattle the guy.
What to do?
Draw fire?
That was crazy.
But the thought that Remmi, or at least her nutcase of a mother, was somehow involved spurred him on. He hit the gas and the bike tore forward. Closer to the Mustang. Knowing he was playing with fire and not giving a damn. He figured he could outrun the bastard. “Hey, dick-wad!” he yelled over the roar of his engine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” And why the hell wasn’t the driver of the sports car speeding away? Was he already hit?
Another round of reports from the rifle, aimed at the car, the sitting duck of a Mustang as the killer approached, walking steadily across the desert floor.
“Drive, you idiot!” Noah yelled.
Flashes from the rifle’s muzzle. Another burst of gunfire.
Papapapapa—
“Oh, shit!”
KaBOOM!
A fiery explosion rocked the desert.
“No!”
Blinding light flashed in a ball of fire that soared toward the heavens.
Noah’s bike bucked, its front wheel lifting off the shaking ground. Muscles straining, he tried like hell to hold onto the grips.
Crack!
Another shot.
Pain, searing and deep, cut through Noah’s shoulder just as he saw the gunman take aim again. “Damn it!” He punched the gas. The bike leapt forward, dusty desert air screaming past him.
Don’t let go!
But his left arm was useless.
Blam!
This time, the bike took the hit and bucked, the front wheel spinning wildly. Noah tried to hold on and failed, his body flying through the air.
Thud! His head smacked against the ground, his bones jarring on the hardpan.
“Oooh.” Agony wracked his body, and he felt the blood oozing from his shoulder, the burn of scrapes on his face and hands. With all his strength, he tried to move. Failed. Sucked in his breath. Coughed out dry grit that he’d inhaled. The world spun crazily for a second—night stars obliterated by the flames, shadowed red rock seeming to swim and dance before his eyes, darkness plucking at the edges of his consciousness.
Get up! Get up now!
He blinked. Tried to clear his head. Attempted to focus. Spat blood. Oh, God, he was in trouble. As if through watery glass, he saw the fireball, the sports car burning in a garish pyre, flames licking toward a smoky sky.
And in front of the hellish glare?
A lone silhouette.
The figure of the tall, lanky gunman who was steadily approaching, a rifle hanging from one large hand, the bill of a baseball cap visible and maybe a thick moustache above a square jaw. Or maybe not.
And he was coming for him.
Why the hell had he goaded the guy? What had he been thinking? That all of this somehow had to do with Remmi? Sweating, fear propelling him, Noah tried to scuttle backward, to crab-walk away, to force himself to his feet, to run as if the hounds of hell were chasing him, but his muscles refused to respond.
Run, damn it. Run like hell.
He set his jaw. Using all his strength, he pushed away from the advancing figure, then collapsed.
His brain was screaming, Run! He tried to scramble away, to scurry backward, to find a hiding spot, to outrun this . . . this assassin, but he couldn’t so much as force a finger to move. Terror gripped him, adrenaline poured through his veins, but his damned muscles were frozen. Unable to propel him.
Still the attacker came.
Walking slowly.
Taking his time.
Enjoying the moment.
Humming something familiar.
Panic strangled Noah. He couldn’t speak or scream or do anything. Worse yet, the blackness kept tugging at him, shrinking his awareness.
He couldn’t let it. He had to fight! His life depended upon it. He was as sure of that as he was that this man intended to kill him.
Move, damn it, Scott! Move your sorry ass. NOW!
With a Herculean effort, he attempted to get his legs under him.
Nothing.
Oh, crap.
Try again!
Still no movement.
Too late!
Noah wretched, spitting up blood.
Slowly, and with deadly determination, the shadowy figure lifted the rifle to his shoulder. For a split second, Noah saw his face in the reflection of the burning pyre that had once been a Ford Mustang. Do I know you? he thought crazily.
And there was something more. That tune, off-key but recognizable. Something he’d heard as a young kid when his grandmother was alive, something she sang along with the hymns from her Catholic youth, something that seemed so out of place.
His stomach convulsed as he faced the killer. The man’s lips moved as he glared down at Noah.
. . . Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine . . .
The Marksman took aim.
Click!
Noah heard the sound of the hammer striking just as blackness dragged him under.
CHAPTER 6
Play it cool.
Rubbing her head and peering again through the slit between the back cushions of the Cadillac, Remmi kept quiet. Confronting Didi now would only cause more trouble. As it was, her mother was a wreck, obviously upset, chain-smoking and crying, her perfect makeup ruined as she sobbed and drove, first onto the pavement from the sparse gravel road in the desert and then steadily into the city, where people were crowding the streets of the Strip and the neon glowed in bright, dizzying colors. As the big car slid onto the side streets and Remmi recognized the neighborhood, Didi seemed to pull herself together. Once she’d parked, she spent a few minutes swiping at her face with her hands and sniffing loudly.
“You can do this,” she said to the rearview mirror just as Remmi pulled her head away from the slit, afraid her mother might see the reflection of her eyes. Within minutes Didi had cleared her throat, grabbed the briefcase and remaining infant carrier, and bustled into the house. Thankfully, she didn’t lock the car.
Remmi sprang into action, climbing out of the suffocating cargo space and into the garage. Using the big car as a screen, Remmi stooped low, then, not hearing the approaching click of her mother’s high heels, slipped through the side door of the garage, scaring a cat that had been slinking near the garbage cans. The cat hissed, and Remmi startled, bit back a scream before carefully climbing up to the open window of her room, pushing herself through and dropping onto the bed.
Within seconds she’d changed, ditching her clothes beneath the dust skirt pinned beneath her mattress and slipping into her pajamas. She tousled her hair, hoping that it looked rumpled from sleep, then hearing Didi in the living room, decided to confront her mother.
Remmi decided she wouldn’t admit to knowing what was happening, would keep up the ruse that she’d been fast asleep all the time. But she would ask about her missing sister.
Forcing what she hoped looked like a just-woken-up demeanor, she padded barefoot from her bedroom and along the hall to the living space with a beige brick fireplace rising to a lofted ceiling. Though she’d taken the time to scrub her face, Didi was still in her Marilyn Monroe getup and was busy pouring herself a martini from the drink cart parked near her favorite chair. The single car seat with a sleeping baby sat on the floor, and Remmi’s heart twisted as she thought of the twin girl.
Guiltily, it seemed, Didi looked up as Remmi, yawning, entered the room.
“Oh. I thought you were asleep.” Didi took a sip from her drink, and Remmi noted that her hands were shaking.
“I was,” Remmi
lied. “What’s Adam doing here . . . and why is he in Ariel’s onesie?”
“Oh, I just grabbed the first thing in the drawer. I, um, went out for a little while, and when I came in, he was fussing, had messed himself something fierce, so I changed him real quick. Adam ended up in pink. It’s not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.” She took a long swallow from her drink. “You know, honey, you’re one of the few people who can tell the twins apart.”
“They’re not identical, obviously,” Remmi pointed out.
“I know, I know. Well, we all know, but . . . they resemble each other and . . . and . . . ,” her voice squeaked. Quickly, she knocked back the remainder of her drink, then found her clutch and cigarette case, only to find the glittery case devoid of Virginia Slims. She stared at the empty pack, then crushed it in her fingers.
“Mom?” Remmi asked, concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No . . . of course.” Didi walked to the kitchen, tossed the crumpled pack into the trash can under the sink, then opened the cupboard over the refrigerator and, standing on her tiptoes, fished out a carton of Virginia Slims and found a new, unopened pack.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Want me to put Adam back to bed?”
“No!” Letting out a long breath of air, Didi shook her head. “Leave him be. He . . . he can sleep in his carrier. He likes it.” When she found her daughter staring at her, she said, “What?” then, after tapping the pack of cigarettes on the counter and removing the cellophane wrapper, returned to the living room. “He’s fine, really. You know what they say, ‘Let sleeping babies lie.’”
“I think that’s dogs, Mom. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’”
“Is it?” She located her lighter and, after cracking a window near the front door, shook out a cigarette and fired it up.
Heart thudding, Remmi decided to push it, force her mother to confess. “I walked by the twins’ room.”
“So?”
“Both the cribs are empty.”
Didi just stared at her. Took another drag.
“Mom, where’s Ariel?”
“Oh, Lordy,” she whispered on a cloud of smoke. “Look, she’s . . . she’s with a friend of mine. You remember Trudie?” She managed a thin smile. “Well, okay—the deal is that sometimes I just need a break, you know, from all this—” She motioned to the room in general. Around the perimeter, tucked between the chairs and tables, were bins of folded clothes and diapers and toys.