I nodded. I knew it. “Shepherd’s the only one who’d believe us, and I know he’ll shelter us. We’ve got to get to him.”
“You keep driving,” Gilley said. “I’ll navigate.”
Chapter 18
It took us only fifteen minutes to reach the drive leading up to Basayev’s house, which was an incredible personal achievement given the state of the raging storm outside.
I’d driven like a madwoman, weaving in and out of felled trees, racing over downed power lines, and refusing to stop for any light that wasn’t redder than Rudolf’s nose.
I simply couldn’t take the risk that Sam had managed to catch up to us or had somehow trailed the path of our flight.
As we headed up the hill toward the house on the cliff, Gilley and I were silent and the car was filled with incredible tension. I just wanted to be in Shepherd’s company again, to feel that protective energy he emitted and know that a guy with some power and a great deal of willpower was looking out for me.
Shepherd’s car was in the drive in front of the house, and I parked as close as I could get to it before Gilley and I both bolted for the front door.
The house was eerily dark, but then again, so was half of the island. The storm was raging so hard the surf sounded like a demolition derby.
Gilley reached the door first, and he tried the handle. It was unlocked and we walked right in. “Steve?” I called out.
But no one answered.
“Shepherd?” I called louder.
Silence.
I glanced at Gilley. He took a step closer to me, wariness once again a part of his expression.
I walked past the art collection and deeper into the interior of the house, with Gilley practically glued to my side.
We found Shepherd on the floor in the kitchen, a large pool of blood enveloping his head and spreading out across the floor.
I cried out when I saw him and dropped to his side.
Gilley eased down beside me. “Is he . . . ?” he said, his voice quavering.
I laid a gentle hand on the back of Shepherd’s head, my chest so tight I found it difficult to breathe. “Please . . .” I whispered to him as my eyes flooded with tears. So much meaning went into that word, and my mind filled with all the unsaid things that followed.
Please don’t be dead!
Please don’t be too hurt to recover.
Please don’t leave me.
Please don’t go like this, before I had a chance to tell you who really murdered Lenny.
Slowly, and with a shaking hand, I moved my fingers to the side of his neck and pressed down, searching for a pulse.
When I couldn’t locate one I pulled my hand back and crumpled forward, choking on a sob.
Gilley laid an arm across my back, and as I cried I could hear the sounds of his sniffles.
“Catherine,” said a voice.
My breath caught. Gilley audibly gasped and dropped his phone, otherwise we were both frozen by the sound.
Slowly I turned to look behind me. Maks stood there in the darkened kitchen, a gun in his hand and an expression that was impossible to read. I shrank against his presence, and Gilley leaned hard against me too.
“Is he dead?” Maks asked. His voice flat, uncaring.
My lips trembled too much for me to speak, and I simply nodded. The acknowledgment hurt my heart more than I could say, and I regretted every second I made Shepherd feel bad after he confessed to me about his affair with Chanel.
“Sam said you fled the office,” Maks continued.
My gaze went from his face to his gun, and back again.
“How . . . how did you find us?”
“It was fairly easy,” Maks said. “Given what you saw in my office, I figured you’d go to Shepherd, so I had Sam call the E.H.P.D. and find out where the detective was.”
More tears leaked out of my eyes when I realized that I was the one Maks was really trying to stop. He’d obviously gotten here before us, shot Shepherd, and had been lying in wait for us. If not for the fact that I’d run away from Sam and sought Shepherd out, he’d be alive right now. I was as responsible for his murder as Maks was.
And then my mind went to my boys, and my heart broke anew. They’d be without a mother after tonight, and that seemed so wrong. It went against every parenting instinct I had. So I pleaded with Maks for the sake of my sons. “My boys . . .” I began, my voice trembling so much that I wasn’t even sure that Maks could understand me. “They . . . they need me.”
A sort of quirk formed on Maks’s mouth, and it hit me how cold blooded he really was. He thought it was funny that I was pleading for my life. And there was no mercy in his eyes.
“We won’t say a word!” Gilley tried. He was unwilling to give up. I didn’t know who Maks was going to shoot first between us, and I didn’t know if I wanted it to be me or Gilley, because I could no more watch him die than die in front of him and leave my sons.
“You won’t say a word?” Maks repeated.
Gilley shook his head vigorously. “I swear! Maks, if you let us live, we won’t say a single word to anyone! And Shepherd’s dead, so who would we tell?”
Maks stared at Gilley for a long time, and then he came forward and dropped down in front of us, no doubt to get a better shot at us lest we try to dart past him and run. I grabbed Gilley and he grabbed me. We’d die together.
Maks raised his hand and I closed my eyes tight. I didn’t want to see it coming.
And then I felt something cool against my temple and my breath caught, and Gilley’s posture stiffened anew.
“Why would you think I’d hurt you?” Maks whispered.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, and a sob escaped my lips. He was toying with me, drawing it out. The bastard.
“Catherine,” Maks said. “Open your eyes.”
I shook my head and gripped Gilley tighter. He sobbed too.
And then I heard something like a clunk on the wood floor and felt Maks’s presence get up and step back from me.
I waited tensely for several seconds, but nothing happened, and I couldn’t decide if Maks was simply waiting for me to open my eyes and shoot me, or . . . if something else was going on.
Finally, I took a chance and peeked out one eye, opening it, then closing it quickly again. But I hadn’t really seen anything other than Maks standing at the kitchen island, arms crossed, staring at me.
So I peeked again. Maks held the same posture as before.
After several more moments I finally took a bigger risk and opened my eyes fully. Maks continued to stand there, patiently waiting for me to look at him. So I did, but he didn’t say anything.
“What’s happening?” Gilley asked in a shaky whisper. “Is he going to shoot us?”
Maks nodded and I bit my lip as fresh tears formed in my eyes. He was going to kill us.
But then I realized that Maks wasn’t nodding in agreement. He was nodding toward me. Or, toward the floor in front of me.
I looked down and there was the gun he’d been holding. It was lying on the floor right in front of me.
I tried to speak, but only a hoarse sort of choked sound came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Is this some kind of a trick?”
“No trick,” Maks said. “The gun is loaded, ready to shoot.”
I stared at the gun again. “So if I pick it up, you’ll shoot me with your other gun?” I couldn’t figure out Maks’s game, but I was a little relieved that he was allowing us to stall.
Maks uncrossed his arms and held open his rain-stained blazer. For good measure he even took it off and set it on the kitchen island. “I’m unarmed,” he said. “If you wanted to shoot me, you could.”
I stared at him. Then at the gun. Then at him again, and with both eyes glued to the man, I felt around for the gun until my hand had hold of the handle.
It was cold against my fingers, and heavier than I’d expected. I confess, I’ve never held a gun before. My sister knows how to shoot—she supposedly even owns a g
un—but for me, they’ve always been terrifying weapons of destruction. I hated the touch of the thing, and I hated that Maks had even brought it here to tempt me into using it.
Which I wouldn’t.
At least, I didn’t think I would.
“Why did you give me this?” I asked Maks.
“To make you feel safe.”
“You think giving me a gun will make me feel safe?”
“No. I think giving you my gun will make you feel safe.”
“Why are you arguing with him?” Gilley whispered. “Just point that thing at him and if he moves, shoot!”
I ignored Gilley and continued to hold the gun with the barrel pointed at the floor. “Why did you come here, Maks, if not to kill us?”
Maks breathed in deeply, as if what I said had insulted him in some way. “I came to explain to you about the artwork.”
“We know about the artwork!” Gilley snapped. “You and Sutton were in business together!”
Maks shrugged. “Yes. That’s correct.”
“Ah-ha!” Gilley said, pointing at him. “See? He admitted it, Cat! You’re justified if you want to shoot him.”
Again, I ignored Gilley and stared angrily at Maks. The betrayals all cut so deep, I decided to unpack them. “No one’s seen or heard from Chanel since her release. Did you kill her too, Maks?”
He squinted at me. “Of course I didn’t.”
“So she’s hiding from you too, huh?”
“I suspect she’s hiding from everyone. Most especially her ex, who’s responsible for all of this.” Maks nodded toward Shepherd, but I couldn’t glance at him, because I was certain I’d lose it emotionally all over again.
“We know, Maks,” I said to him. Raw anger was now coursing through me.
“You know what?”
“That you’re her IO. Her insignificant other. The guy she’s really hiding from.”
Maks’s mouth opened slightly and I swear to God he let out what sounded like a small laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong, Catherine. All wrong.”
A tiny seed of doubt crept into my mind. But then I remembered that Maks was a master at deception. He’d lied to my sister—a world-renowned psychic who could detect a liar a mile away—and gotten away with it. Somehow . . .
Damn. That tiny seed of doubt sprouted roots.
So I challenged him. “How exactly have I gotten it all wrong, Maks?”
“I wasn’t Chanel’s lover.”
“We saw the photos on Basayev’s Instagram!” Gilley yelled, bolstering our argument. “You and Chanel at a party. You and Chanel on Basayev’s yacht. You two were obviously a thing!”
“Why would you conclude that from a few photos?” Maks asked.
“Because on that yacht you three were the only ones there!” I yelled. We were all getting a little emotional. “You and Chanel looked super cozy together,” I sneered.
Maks’s gaze flicked between me and Gilley, then back again. “You’re forgetting about the photographer,” he said. “The one who, I guarantee, was never in any of the photos taken. Chanel’s lover, who I unwittingly introduced her to and have sincerely regretted ever since.”
I stared at Maks. It’d never occurred to me that the camera phone being used in the photos was being held by someone, and I couldn’t believe how dumb it was to not have considered the person behind the camera—the one who wasn’t in any of the photos.
“Who was behind the camera?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Me,” said a voice from the corridor.
All three of us stiffened. I knew that voice. I’d heard it in my nightmares for months.
“Oh, God!” Gilley squeaked. He recognized it too. “We’re all dead!”
The Angel of Death stepped into the kitchen, holding a gun with a silencer attached. Although, she needn’t have bothered—the crash from the surf outside as the storm raged was enough to drown out a cannon.
“Hello, Catherine,” Greta said, looking at me with a snarky smile. “We meet again.”
Seeing Greta again, holding a gun pointing at me, brought back a wave of fear that gripped my rib cage like a python. For a long, tense moment I didn’t think I was going to be able to inhale a single breath, but then Maks made the smallest of moves toward me and Greta shifted the angle of the gun over to him.
“Ah-ah, Maksie. Leave the gun be. It’s quite safe in Catherine’s hands. No chance of it going off, you know.”
My gaze dropped to the gun in my hand, and without even thinking about it I pivoted it in my palm, lifted my rib cage, which allowed that first, deep breath of air, and shot Greta.
It all happened so fast that, as the pungent odor of the discharged gun in my hand filled the room, everyone stared at me as if to say, “Did that just happen?”
And then Greta sank down to her knees, her hand going to an expanding red stain just above her hip. “You shot me!”
I started to tremble so violently that I dropped the gun. Greta raised hers to my face when there was a blur of movement as Maks dove for his gun on the floor.
Almost in slow motion I saw Greta change the angle of her arm a fraction before she fired. Maks hit the floor and grunted, but he did manage to grab hold of his gun before rolling into me and Gilley.
We toppled over and panic caused both of us to scramble away from everybody holding a gun.
Gilley gained his feet first, and he grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the kitchen into the hallway leading to the back of the house. There was an exchange of gunfire in the kitchen, and we ducked low, moving behind the sofa.
And then Maks appeared out of the kitchen, both of his arms dangling oddly as he ducked low and shuffled to us. Before he dropped down next to us, I saw that his left arm was bleeding so badly that his sleeve and hand were completely covered in blood. And then I saw another wound to his right shoulder, which left his right hand limp and barely able to hold the weapon in his hand.
He leaned over on his knees, sweat now coating his forehead, and the gun fell onto the floor in front of him. “We have to get to the bedroom!” he panted.
“She’s still alive?” Gilley asked him, his eyes wide with panic.
Maks nodded, his breathing labored. He nodded toward the bedroom and Gilley and I helped him to his feet, causing him to grunt in pain again.
We’d taken three steps when Maks looked over his shoulder and said, “My gun!”
Gilley and I exchanged a look that debated going back for the gun or continuing to move to the bedroom, where, hopefully we could lock the door against Greta and make a frantic call to the police.
Gil pressed his lips together with determination and began to turn back for Maks’s weapon when a vase on the table next to us exploded into a million pieces, pelting us with shards of glass.
I cried out as I felt the sting of tiny shards, slicing open my cheek, but I also reacted reflexively by pulling Maks closer and ducking quickly down the hallway.
Gilley abandoned his effort to retrieve Maks’s gun and we rushed into the master bedroom, where I fell to the floor with Maks while Gilley slammed the door shut and locked it. He then looked frantically around the room for something to put against the door to secure it, but the room was quite utilitarian—only the platform bed and armoire counted as furniture, and I doubted he and I could move either—especially the armoire, which was very large and looked very heavy.
“The mattress!” Gilley said, pointing to the king bed.
I thought he had to be kidding, but we had to try something. I rushed to one side while he rounded the bed on the other.
“Stop,” Maks said, his voice straining with effort.
I looked over at him and saw that the wood floor under his arm had already collected an alarmingly large pool of blood, and it was then that I realized Maks’s wound was far more serious than I’d originally thought. Greta’s bullet had hit an artery.
“He’s bleeding out! Gilley, give me your belt!” I yelled at Gilley, abandoning the bed to rush t
o Maks’s side again. Gilley came down next to me and pulled on his belt to loosen it from around his waist.
Maks collapsed from his seated position onto the floor to lie on his side, his breathing shallow and his complexion growing paler by the second. “Panic . . . room,” he said.
“Shhhh,” I told him, hurrying to find a point above the vicious-looking wound on his arm where I could secure a tourniquet. “We’re trying not to panic, Maks. Just hold still for a moment.”
Maks’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he fought to stay conscious. “No,” he whispered. I pulled tight on the belt, my hands finding it difficult to grip the leather as I trembled in fear. Still, I managed and wound the leather around his arm again, looping it over itself and working to secure it so that it would stem the flow of blood.
Maks winced and shook with each pull on the belt, and I hated that I was hurting him, but I kept at it because otherwise, he’d die within a matter of minutes. Meanwhile Gilley was staring at Maks as if trying to work something out.
And then I realized that Maks was pointing to a corner of the room, and Gilley was turning his head from Maks to the corner and back again. Gilley then got up and hurried to the corner, where he laid his hand on the wall, which was wallpapered with a print of deep teal and small gold squares.
Gilley gasped. “There’s a door here!” he whispered.
I secured the belt as tightly as I could and watched Maks’s wound for any further evidence that it was still the source of so much blood loss, but his fingers began to turn blue and I knew I’d secured it well. I then turned my attention to his other wound, which was also bleeding but not nearly as profusely. Yanking a discarded towel off the small bench at the base of Basayev’s bed, I pushed it onto Maks’s shoulder and he grunted and moaned in pain.
More than anything, this seemed to revive him slightly, and he stared at me with intensity. “Get . . . into . . . the panic . . . room,” he panted.
I glanced toward Gilley, who was still running his hand along the seal of the hidden door.
“How?” I asked Maks.
Maks’s eyes rolled up again, and I knew he was losing consciousness, so, without any other choice, I pushed down on his shoulder again and he moaned but came back to me. “I’m so sorry, Maks, but how do we get into that room?”
To Coach a Killer Page 29