by Bush, Nancy
September froze as he looked her way. She’d pushed the buttons on the phone from memory, hoping she was making the right moves, sliding through the screens to the call list on her phone.
“She saw the fur,” he said, sounding disgusted. “She knew it was her cat.”
September’s throat throbbed. She was having a little trouble following. “You—killed her cat?” she asked in horror. She purposely shook her head, moving her body in the process. As she did so, she hit her thumb to the top of the phone screen, where her last call, either in or out, had been made. The top two calls were Jake and Gretchen. If she reached either one of them they should be able to hear her.
God, she hoped so.
“She lived right next door,” Cargill was going on. “I thought she was you, y’see? I thought she was you! Then they looked at me . . . they both looked at me and started laughing.”
“May and Erin. You’re talking about May and Erin Boonster. . . .” She remembered driving near the Boonster farm when she and Gretchen had gone to talk to Stuart Salisbury and his mom. She’d mentioned to Gretchen that they were near May’s friend’s house. Erin Boonster.
She slid her hand from her pocket, afraid he would notice soon that it wasn’t on the floor. She lifted it to her face, just to prove where it was. She didn’t have to fake its trembling.
“Put your hand down!” he barked, and she immediately dropped it.
Was the phone on? Had she connected? She hoped she’d calculated correctly and hit the right button. She needed to talk, to give whoever was listening some clue to her whereabouts. “But this is Westerly Vale Vineyards,” she said. “Someone will come. There are people around. Colin Westerly or Neela . . .”
“Neela,” he repeated.
“Colin’s wife. They live in an apartment here, on site at Westerly Vale Vineyards. There are people at the tasting room. You can’t get away.”
He gazed at her hard and her heart pounded. It felt like he was looking right through her. “There is no getting away. This is where we belong. Outside . . .” His eyes looked past her. “At the end . . . in fields where they lay . . .”
When Nine’s number popped up on his screen, Jake snatched up his cell and wanted to scream into the phone. But Nine was already talking about her sister May and Erin Boonster. And then she was saying “. . . Westerly Vale Vineyards . . .” and he knew instantly it was some kind of message. He’d been sitting in his car at her apartment, sick with anxiety. And then when he heard a man yell, “Put your hand down!” he’d known. He’d covered the bottom microphone of the cell with his hand and slipped the Tahoe into gear.
He kept the cell to his ear as he drove madly, wildly. He should call someone but he didn’t want to lose his tenuous hold to Nine. And as the conversation went on, his insides grew colder and colder. Cargill had her at Westerly Vale. And he’d killed May Rafferty and Erin Boonster!
September’s heart raced. “What about Sheila Dempsey? And Emmy Decatur? And Glenda . . .”
His pacing had intensified. “I had the beast under control,” he hissed. “But then you started playing games with me. You did that. I saw your picture. You became a cop! You set the beast free!”
September gazed at him helplessly. The beast? “You saw the article in the Laurelton Reporter.”
“Yes. You put it there. And I couldn’t control the beast any longer. The hunt started and there was Sheila. At that cowboy bar. She looked like you and she knew me. She knew about the knives. The beast wanted her. You started it.”
“Tell me about Emmy,” she said, licking her lips. Her throat was on fire.
“She was at Grandview. Thought she was better than me. Got me in trouble, but I almost got her to the park.”
“The park?”
“I wanted to take her to the park, but . . . I had to wait . . . years. And then I saw her again. At that other bar. There she was, dancing, grinding away on those men.” He gazed at September, dead-eyed. “They all go to bars and dance. She recognized me and she wanted to have sex. She was begging for it. I took her home, but then . . . but then . . . she started fighting. Changed her mind. But she wasn’t you, either.”
“Peter, I think you might have the wrong impression of me.”
“Wart,” he stated flatly. “Dance for me.”
“I wasn’t trying to play games with you.”
“DANCE FOR ME!”
“I—I’m no dancer,” September protested.
“C’mon. Get up. Get on your feet.”
He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up. September swayed. Her head was woozy and thick. Her throat ached and burned.
“Dance!” he commanded.
She took two steps forward and stumbled. He caught her and pulled her close. She felt bile rise in her throat and tried to hold it back. He stroked her hair and started crooning to her. “Lovely, lovely hair. You want it, don’t you, Nine? You and I. I always knew it. Come on. We’ll go outside. Forget upstairs. That doesn’t count with him. You and I . . . we’ll go into the fields.”
He was fifteen minutes out when his phone cut out and Nine was gone. Had Cargill found out about their connection? Did he know? Jake didn’t know, but he didn’t hesitate. He phoned the Laurelton PD station again and barked that he needed to speak to Detective Sandler. This time Sandler came on the phone faster. “Yes?”
“She’s at Westerly Vale Vineyards. I’m on my way there. He’s got her.”
“If that’s true, you need to stand down, Westerly. You need to—”
“Bullshit. Just get there!”
He clicked off.
A faint sound was heard. A tinny voice. Oh, God, the phone! Did he hear?
September was still in his embrace, fighting an inward battle with herself. She wanted to knee him in the crotch, or punch him in the nose, kick and spit and fight. But she knew she was more likely to infuriate him than incapacitate him for long. She needed some space. A way to run. And a weapon.
Hearing the voice, Cargill suddenly thrust her to arm’s length. He cocked his head and September realized at the same time he did that it was coming from outside, not from her phone.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered furiously. He stood her on her feet, then suddenly pulled the cord from her neck, over her head. September eyed him warily, but then her hopes sank when he grabbed her hands behind her and reused the cord, red with her own blood, binding her hands together behind her back.
“Sit down,” he snarled at her.
She glanced around the room looking for something—anything—that she might be able to use to fight him.
And then from down the hall, a male voice called: “Neela?”
Colin!
Oh, God.
Cargill clapped a hand over her mouth and slowly sank with her to the floor. He’d set the gun down on the worktable in the center of the kitchen, but now, as he pulled away from September, he snatched it up. He pointed it at her briefly, his eyes silently warning her not to make a sound.
Colin’s footsteps neared, but then made an abrupt turn before they reached the kitchen. The apartment, September realized with relief. He wasn’t coming into the kitchen.
Cargill held the gun in front of him, aimed at the door that Colin would come through if he did. September could tell how unfamiliar he was with it. But the knife was another matter. It was in his other hand and he twirled it unconsciously, a familiar old friend.
She couldn’t let Colin meet his doom without any warning. She inhaled to take in a breath, ready, should he decide to keep coming. But then his footsteps retreated toward the living room and the front of the building.
Cargill left her and moved almost silently from that door, back to the swinging one that led to the dining room. He opened it a crack, putting his eye to it. “He’s going,” he said with satisfaction. “Along with those fucking tourists.”
September gathered herself, poised for flight, but then he suddenly turned back to her and she didn’t move. He was lean and tough and had the bl
ankest eyes she’d ever seen. Had she gotten through to Jake? Or Gretchen? There was no way of knowing if she couldn’t look at her phone.
The tinny voice was heard again, along with some soft pounding. Cargill swore and looked through the back window. “I’ll have to kill her,” he said, as if he were talking about the weather.
“Who? Neela? You’re talking about Neela?”
“If she’s the blonde in the trunk,” he said, then dragged September by her bound hands over to the table. Quickly, he worked the bonds until he had enough cord to tie her hands to the table leg. “Make a sound and I slit her throat,” he said, then he headed for the back door.
“Don’t hurt her,” she burst out.
He’d opened the door, but now he paused to look at her hard. “It’s our time, Nine. Only ours.”
“Wait, Peter! Wart!”
He swept back and hit her with the gun and she saw stars and slumped down.
Time seemed suspended. She heard something outside, but she couldn’t place it beyond the ringing in her ears. Bastard, she thought suddenly, violently. Bastard.
She fought the dizziness.
The phone. In her pocket. Could she still reach it with her hands bound?
She struggled, but she was tied to the table leg. Fighting to get her feet under her, she put her shoulders beneath the table and then she strained and pushed, lifting it with an effort, till it suddenly tumbled over with a loud crash. Staggering, she yanked her hands free of the leg, then looked anxiously around the kitchen.
There was a wine bottle opener on the counter. Her eye had passed over it before, but now she could see it had a small foil-cutter knife tucked inside. She backed over to it and maneuvered it between her hands, then quickly lay back down on the floor and began to moan as he returned noisily inside the back door.
He yanked her forward by her feet, breathing hard. “Bitch!” he cried. She dared not open her eyes, just moaned and moved her legs as if in pain. He threw himself on her, pulling open her eyelids. “You think you can get away from me?” he snarled.
“What?” she said. “What?”
She saw then that there was blood on his knife. Blood on his shirt.
“You’re playing games. It’s your fault.”
“Neela . . .” September asked unsteadily, staring at the blood.
“Not her. Westerly’s brother. She’s just . . .” He didn’t finish his thought as he grabbed her by her upper arm and yanked her to her feet once more. “It’s our time now,” he said.
Westerly Vale looked deserted in the late afternoon sun. Bronwyn only worked in the mornings and it looked like Neela had closed the wine tasting room early because no one was around. Nine had said she was at the house, so Jake parked outside the tasting room and made his way toward the back of the building, though he knew anyone looking through a window would be able to see him.
But the first person he saw was Colin. On the ground. Unconscious and bleeding from a knife wound to the chest. He ran forward, scared and sick. “Colin? Colin?” he asked anxiously.
His brother made no response, but he was breathing!
With shaking hands, Jake dialed 911 and before the dispatcher could ask him what the nature of his emergency was, he spit out the address and demanded an ambulance, telling her there was one person with a critical knife wound to the chest and possibly more victims. He left the phone on and placed it next to Colin, then he moved in a crouch to the back door.
They were heading into the vineyard, he was half-dragging, half-carrying her. September was heartsick and afraid. She needed to call for help.
She’d managed to pull out the knife blade from the opener, but the pace was too fast and she couldn’t manipulate it to free herself. Maybe when they stopped, she could stab him. An elbow to the nose was another defensive move that could give her a few moments, except her hands were tied and it would be difficult. He had the knife in his free hand and the gun in his pocket.
And then she heard the sirens.
He grabbed a hank of her hair and jerked her head up. She cried out from the pain but he shook her. “What the fuck? What did you do? What did you do?”
He threw her down in the dirt and jumped on her. The wine opener popped from her grasp. Her arms felt like they were breaking as he dug in her pocket and ripped out her cell phone.
“You called them!” he screamed.
She felt the opener at the end of her fingers. She worked it closer, pulling the knife blade to her bindings. “I don’t know. I couldn’t call. I didn’t do it,” she babbled.
“Liar.”
He pulled out his blade and cut open her blouse, exposing her bra.
She gazed past him toward the house and the road and seeing her eyes, he jerked his body around as well. She sawed with all her might. The cord was thin but taut. Puk. She felt one strand release. Then, puk, puk. She was free!
She pulled her arms out just as he turned back. “You!” he cried in outrage, lifting his knife. But she was faster. She swung her arm up in an arc and stabbed him in the lower neck, driving the little knife home, feeling his blade slice into her shoulder at the same time, biting deep.
“Augh!” he cried, reaching upward to the knife.
She pushed him hard with all her strength, toppling him back.
Then she scrambled to her feet and ran.
Jake heard Cargill’s scream of fury and bounded through the front door of the house and across the porch. He was running full speed in the direction of the vineyard as a Jeep slid to a stop on the tarmac of the parking lot followed by more police cars. Gretchen had called the cavalry.
September felt Cargill behind her, ran, tripped, ran some more. He grabbed at her hair, bellowing. She slashed backward and he grabbed her hand and twisted, throwing her down. His eyes blazed with fury and he raised his knife.
She grabbed his wrist, fighting with everything she had. Then suddenly he was pulled off her by strong hands and the knife skittered into the vines.
“I’ll kill you,” Jake’s voice snarled. “You hurt her. I’ll kill you.”
Seeing him, Cargill scrabbled for the gun.
“Jake!” September screamed.
Jake jumped him and they crashed past September. She was trying to get to her feet, trying to help. Footsteps were pounding and then suddenly:
Blam! Blam!
“Oh, God . . .” She got her feet beneath her, her gaze focused on the two men on the ground. Cargill was on top. There was no movement.
Then Gretchen was there, holding her gun on Cargill. September smelled the cordite and realized it was Sandler who’d fired. “Don’t move, motherfucker,” she snarled.
“Jake,” she said brokenly.
Then blood bloomed on the back of Cargill’s shirt in two spreading red pools, and Jake moved from beneath him, working his way free.
As he got to his feet, he murmured, “September . . .” in a scared voice.
She saw the growing red stain on her own shoulder and felt the hot pain beneath it. “I’m okay. I think I’m going to be okay.”
And then her eyes fluttered closed.
Chapter 23
There was something about the smell of a hospital that seemed to permeate everything. September was only half awake during the ambulance ride, and then was put under for the surgery to mend the knife wounds. When she came to, they told her she was remarkably lucky and she felt it, especially when she learned Colin Westerly’s surgery was far more extensive as he’d been stabbed in the chest and suffered a collapsed lung and nicked artery. Jake spent time with her but was beside himself over Colin, and Neela, rescued unhurt except for minor cuts from the trunk of her Impala, couldn’t stop the flow of silent tears until she heard that he was going to be all right.
They wanted to keep September overnight, but she couldn’t bear the thought. She was in a post-op room and told them she wasn’t going to a hospital room, but in the end her decree was overridden.
“You’ve got a nasty neck wound here, too
,” she was told by one of the emergency room doctors. “Damn lucky whatever damn near garrotted you didn’t sever your carotids.”
She didn’t tell him that it had done the job Cargill was looking for by choking her to unconsciousness.
Gretchen was the first one to come see September. “Took forever to get done with them,” she said. “Them” were the IAD agents who investigated officer-involved shootings, and as soon as they’d gotten Gretchen’s report she’d come to the hospital. Peter Wharton Cargill had died from his gunshot wounds and Gretchen had been placed on administrative leave as was the policy of the department.
“Wes called,” Gretchen told her. “He wanted to know if he should come to the hospital.”
“I’m going to be out of here by tomorrow,” September said.
“Well, it looks like he might be your new partner until I’m cleared. As soon as you’re ready to go again.”
“I’m ready. And thank you,” September told her, with heartfelt gratitude.
“Save your thanks for your boyfriend,” she said with a smile.
She had thanked Jake, but he’d tried to minimize his part in the Do Unto Others capture. As Gretchen left, he returned to her room.
“Colin’s in ICU,” he said. “But he’s awake. It’s good.”
“I think I could go home,” she said.
He gazed at her tenderly. “You’ve got a bandage wrapped around your neck and your left shoulder is taped across your chest. You look like you’ve been in a war.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Worse,” he said. “Is there any way I can talk you into another profession? I don’t want to sound like your dad, but since we’re going to be living together, I just want to at least be able to vent.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to living together?”