“I know.”
The body was not pretty. Decomposed. Scavenged. Naked on a morgue slab.
Was it Seanna Walsh? Given the condition of the body, there was no way to be completely certain without DNA. Still the wavy black hair and the shape of the face and body seemed to fit.
The proof that she’d been moved could be seen on crime scene photos—drag marks in the dirt, the position of the body, haphazardly covered, postmortem bruises.
Evidence of murder? That was tougher. According to the report, the needle had gone in awkwardly, suggesting someone else injected her. Given that Seanna was an experienced drug user, Evans’s private eye had said it was unlikely she’d OD’d.
As I read, my gaze kept being pulled to a crow fluttering outside the window. Only one, which should have been fine, but if it was at a window, that was different. Another omen of death.
I clutched the warm coffee mug and struggled to keep my attention on the report, but I kept feeling the pull of that crow. Kept thinking about the poppies by the road.
Was it a warning that I was in danger here? That Evans was plotting something?
Or a warning that I wasn’t viewing this evidence with a clear and disinterested mind? I didn’t want Gabriel to be guilty. In my gut, I was certain he wasn’t because…
Because I trust him.
Dear God, had I actually just thought that? I trusted Gabriel Walsh? The guy I knew was capable of pretty much anything to get what he wanted? The guy who’d already betrayed me once? This was the man I trusted over a respected, elderly psychologist who’d never been anything but helpful?
I liked Evans. In spite of my feelings about shrinks and even in spite of his involvement in MKULTRA, I liked him. I just thought he was mistaken about Gabriel.
I trusted Gabriel. At least in this. There was no rhyme or reason for it. No logic. My gut told me he was not trying to frame Evans. The scheme was too complicated; bringing me into it was too risky.
Evans continued, “I know I said earlier that I wasn’t certain of Mr. Walsh’s motives, but I’m convinced now that it seems to be blackmail. As I said, I believe he is not unfamiliar with the concept.”
When I didn’t argue, Evans frowned, leaning forward. “You do know his reputation, don’t you, Olivia? You seem to take this all very calmly, which leads me to believe you don’t think he’s capable of committing a crime.”
Sure he was. Lies, deception, threats, blackmail, drugs, assault … they were all tools in Gabriel’s arsenal. From the way Evans was studying me, I wasn’t reacting appropriately.
“Olivia?”
“I-I don’t know what to think,” I said, injecting as much uncertainty into my voice as I could. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you believe he’s trying to frame me?” Evans asked. “For the murder of my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe I’m capable of murdering my son?”
My surprise then was genuine. “No, people don’t—”
“They do, Olivia.”
“But not for something like this. There was a senate hearing on MKULTRA. It’s part of history. If your son found out, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Yes, it would. But not in the way Gabriel seems to think.” He folded his hands on the desk. “I am ashamed of that part of my life and would have hated for my son to know about it. That’s why his mother and I agreed to keep it a secret.”
“So Peter never found out.”
“No.”
“Actually he did. Peter found out just before he died and he told Josh Gray.”
“Who?”
One word. That’s all it took. One single syllable and with it, I knew Evans was lying, and I felt a thud in my gut. I’d wanted to believe he had nothing to do with this. Really wanted to believe it, so much that I’d barely dared entertain the possibility.
I’d been wrong.
“Josh Gray,” I said. “Peter’s best friend.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know all my son’s friends, and I’ve forgotten those I did—”
“Josh called you yesterday.”
A shot in the dark, but Evans went very still.
“We confirmed the phone records,” I lied as I set my coffee on the desk. “By the way, would you try this? It tastes off.”
“Wh-what?”
“My coffee. It doesn’t taste right.”
He looked at my cup and when he did, I could tell he knew exactly what I was talking about, and if I’d entertained any last shred of doubt, it died there. Evans was involved. My coffee was dosed. I was in danger. I tried to keep my breathing steady.
Where was my gun?
In my jacket. Which was on the back of my chair. I could get to it if I needed to, but there was no way to do so quickly, not without Evans noticing. My cell phone was in my jeans pocket, which meant there was also no way to discreetly text Gabriel. I had to play this out.
“My coffee tastes wrong,” I said. “I think the cream’s bad.”
A soft exhale of relief. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I misheard. I’ll get Maria to pour you a fresh cup. Now, about this friend of Peter’s, Josh Gray. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.” He paused, as if considering. “Gabriel told you this, didn’t he? About Gray and the phone records.”
Before I could answer, the phone rang. He glanced down at the call display. Consternation crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I do need to take this.”
He rose to carry the cordless phone elsewhere so he could speak privately. I rose, too, leaning over the desk to see who was calling.
E. Chandler showed on the base unit call display.
Evans looked startled by my rudeness.
The phone had stopped ringing. He set it back in the base. “I suppose Maria or my wife got it. They’ll take a message.” He cleared his throat and looked about, as if he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. After a long pause, he lowered himself into his chair. “As we were saying…”
The door opened. Evans jumped. Then he let out a breath as the housekeeper walked in. She carried a plate of cookies.
“Thank you, Maria,” Evans said. “That’s very thoughtful. Before you go, there seems to be a problem with Ms. Jones’s coffee. Could you please—?”
Maria dropped the tray. As it clattered to the desk, I noticed something gripped in her hand. My brain didn’t have time to fully process the image before I heard the shot.
Evans’s face exploded in a shower of blood. As his chair toppled backward, Maria put two more bullets into him.
There was a moment where I didn’t react. Couldn’t react. I just stood there, frozen in shock.
Evans’s housekeeper just shot … No, that wasn’t … Couldn’t be…
But it was. It took only a split-second for the shock to crumble. For me to realize, without a doubt, what had just happened. That Evans’s middle-aged housekeeper had shot him. That he was dead. That she was still holding the gun. That I’d witnessed a murder.
I grabbed my jacket from the chair, fumbling to pull out my gun—
Maria pivoted toward me, her face and blouse spattered with blood, her face empty. Again there was a second where my brain just seized up. Her expression was so terrifyingly blank that I couldn’t quite comprehend it. Then I saw the gun rise.
I hit the floor as she fired. I’d lost my grip on my jacket, and it lay a few feet away.
I rolled just as Maria fired again. Then I sprang for her legs and knocked them out from under her. The gun went off. Probably dumb luck that the bullet didn’t hit me. And that my assailant was double my age and twice my weight. She fell like a rock.
The gun flew from her hand. It sailed across the room. I started to go after it, then stopped.
That’s the gun that killed Evans.
I couldn’t touch it.
I kicked the gun under the desk and went for my own, still in my jacket. Maria scrambled after her gun. I pulled out mine and trained it on her.
“Stop,” I said.
<
br /> It was as if she didn’t hear me. She just dropped to her hands and knees, and reached under the desk.
I stepped closer. “I said stop!”
Not even a flicker of expression crossed her face. There was a gun pointed right at her, an arm’s length away, and she just calmly retrieved her weapon. Then she pushed to her feet.
“Stop,” I said. “I swear if you lift that gun—”
She swung it up, right at me and—
I shot her. Point blank. In the chest.
She went down. I stood there, gulping breath.
I told you to stop. Why the hell didn’t you stop?
I forced myself to close that gap between us. I was sure she was dead, but when I stepped around her, I saw her face, eyes open, lips working, looking confused, as if wondering how she got on the floor.
My hands tightened on my gun, ready to fire again if she reached for hers. She didn’t. It was right beside her, and she just lay there, mouth opening and closing.
Was she dying?
I swallowed.
Should I help her?
I looked at Evans’s body, then back at Maria.
Why?
How?
It made no sense, but I couldn’t stop to think about that. Couldn’t stop to help her, either. I needed to get out of there.
Chapter Sixty-four
I kicked Maria’s gun out the door while checking back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn’t getting up.
“Olivia.”
Gabriel came around the corner, Chandler’s big .45 in hand. I gave Maria’s pistol another kick and he saw it. He bent to scoop it up.
“Don’t!” I said. “It was used on Evans. I don’t want to leave it where—”
He lifted it by the barrel.
“Or I could have done that.”
He caught my arm and tugged me into the living room as he whispered, “Shhh. The wife and housekeeper are still here.”
“We don’t need to worry about the housekeeper. I…” I glanced down at the gun in my hands and swallowed. “I shot her. I think she’s dead. Or dying.”
He shot me a look. Quizzical. Confused.
“Okay…” he said slowly. He straightened. “We’ll handle this. We’ll say that Evans shot himself, and she walked in—”
“No, she shot Evans.”
Full-blown “Huh?” on his face now, and I realized that whatever he’d seen from his post, it wasn’t enough to understand what had happened. That’s why he’d been bewildered when I said I’d shot the housekeeper. He didn’t know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.
Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn’t seem to be running. Just heading this way.
Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.
He started shoving me toward the sofa. “Get behind it. I’ll handle this.”
“Don’t hurt—”
I barely got the words out before his frown killed the rest in my throat. Whatever he meant by “handling it,” his plan did not involve hurting Evans’s innocent wife. I should have known that.
The footsteps continued. He pushed me toward the sofa. I grabbed his wrist and hauled him along behind me.
“I can’t—” he began.
Now I tightened my grip, not looking back, just pulling him with me until we were at the sofa. It rested a few feet from the wall. I nudged him in first.
“I won’t—” he whispered.
I gave him a shove.
What he’d been trying to say was that he wouldn’t fit. Which wasn’t exactly true. He could crouch, very awkwardly, behind it, with me beside him. It was the “very awkward part” that bothered him, judging by his glower as I wedged in. Or the indignity of hiding from an elderly woman.
As we squeezed behind the couch, I thought I smelled cat pee and I froze. I don’t know why. My heart hammered, and I swore I could smell that acrid urine stink, but then it vanished and I shook off the feeling and pushed in deeper.
Now we waited … for Mrs. Evans to walk into the study and see her dead husband and dying housekeeper. I thought of that. The horror of it.
I could spare her. Jump up and say she didn’t want to go in there. Pull her out. Force her back.
But I only held my breath and listened to her footsteps as they approached.
“Once she sees the bodies, we’ll leave.”
I jumped as Gabriel whispered the words at my ear. He squeezed my shoulder, and I’m sure it was more a restraining gesture than a reassuring one, but it felt good, the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and I realized my heart was pounding.
I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath.
“We’ll back out,” he whispered. “Move fast. Get outside. Call 911.”
I thought of telling him to shush. It really wasn’t the time to be talking. But maybe I wasn’t the only one a little freaked out.
“It’s best if we call,” he said. “The wife knows you were here.”
I nodded.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “I’ll look after it.”
I twisted, saw the concern on his face, and knew that’s what he was worried about—that I was going to have to admit I’d shot the housekeeper. He couldn’t shield me from that. In that brief moment, mid-crisis, the wall came down, blue eyes clouded, allowing himself, for a moment, to be worried.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
The wall swung back up. “Yes, of course you will. Now, shhh.”
Right. Because I was the one talking.
Mrs. Evans had to be close to the study door. It seemed to take forever, her steps excruciatingly slow.
I heard her shoes squeak as she must have turned in. Yet there was no scream. Not even a gasp. Her steps just continued, as if she’d seen the blood and the bodies and kept going.
She’s in shock.
Gabriel put a hand on my shoulder. “Follow me,” he whispered.
He stood, stooped, ready to duck again as his gaze scanned the room. Then he nodded and exited the other side of the sofa. I followed.
From where we stood, we couldn’t see into the study. To get out of the house, though, we had to pass that open door. Gabriel made it two steps before Mrs. Evans said, “I’m here.”
Gabriel stopped. His gaze swung back, measuring the distance to the sofa.
“Yes,” Mrs. Evans said. “I’m in the study.”
She was on the phone. Calling 911, it seemed, her voice dead with shock. I motioned for Gabriel to keep going.
“No, the girl isn’t here,” Mrs. Evans said. “Just William. He’s dead. And Maria. I think she’s dead, too.” A pause. “There’s a lot of blood. She isn’t moving.”
I stood there, staring toward the study, mentally looping her words. It sounded like a child speaking, the words simple, matter-of-fact. And her tone. There was no tone. Her voice was completely flat.
“No. I don’t see a gun.” Pause. “Yes. In the desk.” Pause. “I will.”
Gabriel nearly yanked me off my feet as he dragged me at a jog across the room. As we passed the study door, I glanced in to see Mrs. Evans pulling a gun from the desk drawer. She’d pushed her husband’s chair back, his body still draped over it. Pushed it aside as if it was a piece of furniture.
I stutter-stepped as I saw that. I caught a glimpse of her face. Her blank, expressionless face. Just like Maria’s.
That’s her husband, the man she must have been married to for almost fifty years, shot dead, and she’s shoving his body aside. What the hell is going on here?
She looked up. She saw me and she gave no reaction. None at all.
When I’d first seen Gabriel without his sunglasses, I’d thought his eyes looked empty. They weren’t. Frosted over, yes. Walled off, yes. But not empty. Mrs. Evans’s eyes were empty. Blank pools of nothing.
I flashed back to that morning. I heard Rose and Patrick, talking about mind cont
rol. That’s what I was seeing. As impossible as it seemed, that was the only answer.
I remembered Maria’s face when she walked into the study. The way she dropped the tray and fired like a seasoned assassin. A middle-aged woman told to play assassin. Triggered by a phone call. From Edgar Chandler.
I started to run. I didn’t need Gabriel’s help anymore, but he kept his iron-grip on my arm.
Mrs. Evan’s shoes thumped on the hardwood. It was a slow thump. Methodical. Just following orders.
Orders to kill me. That’s what Chandler had been telling her on the phone. The “girl” had escaped and now Mrs. Evans was to make sure I didn’t get far.
I looked down at the gun still in my hand. I could kill her first. Easily, I was sure.
The thought barely flitted through my head. If this was mind control, then Mrs. Evans wasn’t a killer; she was merely the puppet of one.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’d been in on it all, even her son’s death. If I’d known that for certain, I could have killed her. Protected myself and Gabriel. But I didn’t know. So I kept going.
We made it out of the living room easily. Mrs. Evans was an old woman and her orders obviously hadn’t been “run after the girl.” Chandler knew the limits of his weapon.
We reached the front hall. The hair prickled on my neck and as I turned, the edge of a shadow crossed on the sidelight.
I yanked Gabriel back as the front door flew open. The young gardener stood there, spade in hand.
I saw the gardener’s eyes—those empty eyes—and I heaved Gabriel off balance just as the spade swung at his knees. He twisted. The spade hit his calf instead. It struck with such force that he gasped, leg buckling.
The gardener pulled back for a second swing. I lifted my gun. I heard the shot. Saw the gardener crumple, and for a second I was certain I’d pulled the trigger … until a second bullet grazed my shoulder and I stumbled back. Gabriel swung around, gun raised, in time to see Chandler’s bodyguard—Anderson—dive to the side, out of sight.
Gabriel started for the door. I caught the back of his jacket as pain ripped through my arm. Gabriel stopped. We couldn’t see Anderson, but we knew he was there, and any second now, his gun could swing around the doorway and fire.
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