by Gayle Wilson
“We’re waiting, my dear.”
“If you’re waiting on me to tell you anything, I should probably warn you to get comfortable. It’s going to be a while.”
There was a small silence.
“It’s seems our little darling has grown rebellious,” Marguery said.
It was the same tone he had used to such effect in the past. She steeled herself against its sarcasm, which had once bothered her almost as much as the physical punishments he’d meted out.
“She’s just not ‘your little darling’ any longer.”
She sensed rather than heard movement. Before she had time to wonder what it meant, the back of his hand exploded against her cheek, splitting her lip. The shock of being struck blindly, unexpectedly, was worse than the pain.
For a moment she became that child again, cowering before his displeasure. Then anger replaced those hard-learned lessons of fear and humiliation.
“She isn’t anything that belongs to you anymore,” she said defiantly.
That had been Monty Gardner’s gift. He had taken her away from her aunt and uncle and provided her with the only stability she’d ever known, even though he had been forced to destroy her identity to do so. If he had kept her with him, he had feared that eventually they would find her. So he had given her his grandmother’s name and then had hidden her among hundreds of other girls her age.
Even after Marguery’s suicide, mistrustful of Sabina’s intentions, Gardner had kept her hidden. She had grown content in her new life, one that was, for the first time in her memory, without threat or intimidation.
From his kindness had been born her wish that Mr. Gardner could be her father. She had thought of him as her protector for so long that eventually desire became her reality. Although at some point she had known it was fantasy, the leap to thinking of him as her father had been seamless.
Now once again face-to-face with her real family, she had been forced to recognize that the bond she had so desperately wanted, so desperately needed, wasn’t true. The life she had created for herself was based on a tissue of lies. With the reappearance of her uncle, it was tumbling down around her like a house built of cards.
Not all lies. Not all. She clung like a lifeline to the testimonials in the file Cabot had shown her.
And to the tenderness of a good man. A man who had loved her with both gentleness and respect. A man who believed that she, too, was a good person.
“It will be far easier if you tell us what we want to know,” her uncle said. “You will in the end, you know.”
He sounded so certain. And why shouldn’t he be. He had always been able to make her do what he wanted. Even when she tried to resist, he had always worn her down.
“Not this time,” she promised.
She had nothing with which to defend herself but her will. Against an enemy who knew all the ways to break it.
EVENTUALLY THEY WOULD send someone out here to check on him, Ethan told himself again. All he had to do was be patient. And not think about the glimpse he’d gotten of Raine, lying unconscious on the back seat of the other police car.
Under the directions of that bastard Ellington, the sheriff and his deputy had manhandled him past the cruiser, using their nightsticks in ways that had made his struggle to get to her not only useless but costly. And incredibly painful.
The image of her face, colorless except for the bruise on her temple, had haunted him since they’d dragged him to the root cellar and pushed him down the short flight of steps. He’d been semiconscious by then, but the sound of the trap door slamming over his head had created a sense of despair so deep it had maddened him. Despite what he now believed to be a broken collarbone and a couple of cracked ribs, he had assaulted the boards, pounding on them with the fury he wanted to expend against the sheriff and his deputy.
They had ignored everything he’d tried to tell them, deferring to the prissy Englishman. Sabina had called him a buffoon, but obviously he was her buffoon.
The niece had probably been instructed to phone him when she’d gone back to the kitchen. That’s what she’d communicated to Sabina when she’d handed her the tea.
Ellington had then set up the roadblock, using the locals who were apparently used to taking their orders from the old woman. The last link to the powerful family who had lived in this county for more than two hundred years.
He didn’t know what story Ellington had told them. Maybe that he and Raine had stolen something from the house. That didn’t explain why they would agree to bring them back to Myrtlewood rather than arrest them, however.
Despite his anger that the sheriff had bought in to whatever lies he and the old woman had concocted, Ethan acknowledged that the reason he was still alive was undoubtedly the presence of him and his deputy. As soon as they left…
The image of Raine lying injured and helpless flashed through his consciousness again. He should have done something—anything—rather than let those bastards separate them. He should have kept fighting. He should have made them beat him to death right there by the cruiser.
And what good would that have done Raine?
That realization, combined with the locals’ willingness to use their sticks, had convinced him to stay alive, even if that meant their being separated. He was still functional, and eventually someone would open that damned door. With the element of surprise on his side, he might have a chance.
To keep from losing his mind while he waited, he began again to run his hands around the perimeter of his prison. He had already explored its features as well as he could, given the pitch darkness, but doing it once more was far better than wondering what was happening to Raine.
Think, he urged himself. Outside the box they’ve put you in. Griff had always told them that if they came to a wall they couldn’t go over, they had to find a way around. Despite trying to do exactly that during the endless minutes he’d spent in this hellhole, he hadn’t discovered one.
He hunched his aching shoulder in an attempt to ease the pain of splintered bones, but it didn’t seem to help. He leaned forward, putting his forehead against the stone wall. He closed his eyes in despair, despite the blackness that surrounded him.
And then, too disheartened to pray, he finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for. Someone was coming down the walk that led from the back of the decaying mansion to the root cellar.
He pushed away from the wall and listened. The footsteps were definitely headed his way. He could tell nothing about them other than their direction. Not even if they belonged to a man or a woman.
Moving as soundlessly as he could, he sprinted across the room, stooping at the side of the steps that led up to the slanting trap door. If they lifted it, there was no way in hell they were going to get it closed again with him inside.
His heart in his throat, he listened as the bolt was drawn out of its slot. Marguery? Or the cops?
It made no difference, he thought as the powerful muscles in his thighs tensed in preparation. As soon as the door began to lift, he would charge up those steps, get his shoulders under it, and throw it open. He didn’t allow himself to think about what that would do to the damaged collarbone, which would have to bear part of its weight.
The sound of the door being lifted was accompanied by a widening rim of lesser darkness that outlined the opening. It took him a moment to identify the other sound that filtered in with the moonlight as the drumming of a hard rain.
He forced himself to wait a second or two, adrenaline roaring through his body, dulling the pain. Making him forget everything but the possibility of escape and of getting to Raine.
The opening continued to widen, and then whoever was up there directed the beam of a flashlight into the cellar. As it began a slow sweep across the dirt floor, he knew he couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
Now.
He put his palm flat on one of the steps and vaulted onto the stairs. He clambered up them, getting his shoulders under the door just as he’d planned.
Ethan was aware of it rolling away from them, but he was more concerned about what its light had revealed in the seconds before it hit the ground. For an instant, framed against the night sky, had been an amorphously shaped creature. Ethan immediately identified the long dark object it held as a weapon. He latched onto that with both hands, wrenching it away.
As soon as he had control of what he now had discovered was a shotgun, he brought the weapon around in a vicious arc. The stock connected with the side of his victim’s head with a hollow thud, felling him.
Panting from his exertions, Ethan reversed the weapon and stood over the fallen body, watching for any movement that would indicate consciousness. The rain pounded down, running out of his hair and down into his eyes.
When his quarry offered no sign of resistance, Ethan scrubbed his forearm across his face to clear his vision. When he could see again, he realized that the person he’d downed had appeared to be shapeless because they’d been wearing a plastic poncho.
He straightened slowly, keeping the shotgun still pointed downward. The adrenaline was fading, its loss leaving him exhausted and in pain.
But alive, he reminded himself.
He stepped over whoever he’d knocked out to pick up the flashlight. He directed it at the flaccid face that was half hidden by the hood of the raincoat and recognized Elga Marguery. Sabina’s niece.
She had either been sent to bring him into the house or, more likely, to finish him off. Which meant the sheriff must be gone.
That left the old woman and Ellington inside. Unless there had been someone else in the black car this afternoon. It wouldn’t be impossible to drive and shoot that kind of high-powered weapon at the same time, but he believed the accuracy of the gunfire argued against it.
He had to plan as if there were three of them. Better odds than before, he acknowledged.
Not that it mattered. Whatever the odds, he was going to get Raine out of that house.
He managed to drag Elga down the first few steps, and then he closed the trap door over her, pushing the bolt home. When he picked up the shotgun again, he looked up at the mansion, silhouetted against the rain-shrouded darkness.
And this time he breathed the prayer he hadn’t been hopeful enough to whisper before.
Chapter Twenty
When the knob of the back door moved under his hand, Ethan released the breath he’d not been aware he was holding. Elga Marguery must have left it unlocked when she’d come out into the rain. Not having to break into the house lessened the risk that he might be discovered before he was ready.
He eased the door open and then stepped into the dark hallway, pulling it closed behind him. There was a light coming from the room where Sabina had entertained them this afternoon. In the stillness he could hear voices, which also seemed to originate from there.
They were too low for him to identify, although the timbre of one was clearly masculine. And the other…
Despite listening for several seconds, he couldn’t tell. Raine or the old woman?
He shifted the weight of the gun, supporting the heavy barrels with his left hand as the index finger on his right curled over one of the triggers. The double-barreled shotgun wouldn’t have been his choice, but in this situation, having any sort of weapon was an unbelievable gift.
He began edging down the hallway, keeping his back to the wall opposite the room he was approaching. His shoes squelched slightly with each step. In spite of that noise, the tone of the conversation in the parlor never altered.
He hesitated before making the move that would bring him in line with the open doorway, allowing him to see into that room. He took a final look down the long hall toward the front door. There were no lights at all in that part of the house. It seemed everyone was gathered in the room across from him.
He took a deep breath, and then, in preparation for what he was about to do, he blew it out soundlessly through pursed lips. He lifted the shotgun and took the step that would position him before the door.
For a few seconds none of the three occupants of the room realized he was there. He had time to catalogue their positions, a procedure his training made automatic.
He had found Raine first. She was in a straight chair, her back to the door. He couldn’t see her face, but the fact that she was sitting up was reassuring.
Directly in front of her was Charles Ellington. He was standing before the fireplace, one arm casually draped along the mantel. He held a whiskey glass in that hand, its amber liquid reflecting the lamplight.
The old woman was to Ethan’s right, enthroned in the same chair from which she’d greeted them this afternoon. She spotted him first, dark eyes widening in shock before her mouth opened to shout a warning. He didn’t understand the language in which the words were spoken, but their intent was clear.
Ellington’s eyes lifted to the doorway. He straightened, as if preparing to move.
“Don’t even think about it,” Ethan warned, moving the deadly, side-by-side barrels so that they pointed at the psychologist’s chest. “No matter how quick you are, some of this shot is bound to get you.”
Ellington’s chin lifted, and for a split second Ethan thought he was going to be foolish enough to put that to the test. His finger tightened over the trigger before the psychologist nodded his agreement, sagging back against the fireplace. Of course, Ellington had never struck Ethan as someone willing to fight—or to die—for his principles.
Hearing his voice, Raine had turned to face the doorway, revealing the black half mask over her eyes. With the handicap of the heavy weapon and his injuries, Ethan realized he couldn’t remove it right now. Nor could he untie her.
That would have to wait until he had had the situation under control. In the meantime, for her own protection…
“Don’t move, Raine. Not unless I tell you to.”
Her mouth opened as if to protest that command, but she closed it quickly and nodded her understanding.
“Who’s here besides Ellington?”
She shook her head, her forehead furrowing slightly, but she answered him. “Marguery.”
Marguery. Raine had been right about the significance of that missing gravestone. Both Ellington and Sabina had lied.
The fact that Marguery had staged his own death a quarter of a century ago was a dead giveaway that he had recognized that his involvement in Cassandra not only spelled the end of his career, but, depending on what had been involved, maybe the end of his freedom. His supposed death had also provided him with the opportunity to pursue his personal agenda for the past twenty-five years without anyone being the wiser.
“And Sabina,” Raine added unnecessarily.
The old woman was still shouting invectives at him as she struggled to get out of her chair. Ethan ignored her, deciding that any threat she might present would be negligible.
Marguery was the real danger. Ethan’s gaze again swept the small parlor while he held Ellington pinned in place with the deadly barrels of the shotgun. Despite the shadowed corners where the light from the lamp didn’t quite reach, it was obvious that there was no one else in the room.
“Where is he?”
“Marguery? He was right here.”
Despite the blindfold, she turned her head as if trying to find him. Maybe her confusion was a result of concussion, Ethan thought. The bruise on her temple was livid.
“Think you can walk?” he asked.
He would carry her out of here if he had to, but it would be far easier if she could travel under her own steam.
“Of course.”
There had been no hesitation in her answer, which made him feel marginally better. The only thing he had to worry about now was locating Marguery, the mastermind behind whatever had been going on. And possibly the connection he’d been seeking between Cassandra
and The Covenant? Had the descendant of one of the founding families of this country decided he was better equipped to decide national policy than the elected officials?
That would make sense of Catherine Suttle’s claim that the present-day organization was a continuation of one that had been around since the nation began. One James Marguery’s ancestors had been a part of?
Some movement in his peripheral vision made him turn in time to see Sabina charging across the room. The cane that had rested by her chair this afternoon was now held in both hands and raised high in the air.
Ethan managed to get his arm up in time to protect his head. However, both that movement and the blow from the stick, although not particularly powerful, reverberated along the broken collarbone. A wordless expression of agony, like the noise a wounded animal might make, was torn from his throat.
Despite his effort to steady the shotgun, the heavy barrels drooped. Aware that he had given Ellington an opening, he struggled to lift the weapon and bring it back into alignment. His arm was numb, nerves and muscles uncooperative.
“Get down,” he shouted to Raine. Watching Ellington’s eyes, Ethan knew exactly when he reached his decision.
At the same time the old woman hit him again, striking him on the shoulder with the metal head of the cane. Even as he fought to control the unwieldy weight of the gun, he swept his right foot out, catching Sabina at the ankles. Off balance from her attack, she fell, grabbing his arm and hanging on for a few vital seconds before he was finally able to pull away, sending her sprawling to the floor.
The distraction had lasted long enough for Ellington to make his move. The drawer to the table at the end of the sofa gaped open. The revolver that had been hidden there was now in the psychologist’s hand. He was sprinting toward Raine, careful to keep her between him and the muzzle of the shotgun. Once he got to her, he would use her as a shield to make his escape.
“Get down,” Ethan shouted again.
Just as the psychologist reached her chair, Raine threw herself onto the floor. Since she couldn’t use her hands to cushion her fall, she hit hard. Without a second’s hesitation, she twisted her body, deliberately rolling it into the legs of the man approaching from the fireplace.