“You’re awake, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
Oh, God, no. Help me. . . .
Twin beams of light speared out of the darkness, raking through the branches, throwing his shadow, hunched and black, against the trunk of the tree, illuminating the unmoving hand and the body to which it belonged in a freeze-frame of horror that could have lasted only a scant fraction of a second. But it was long enough for the image to stamp itself indelibly in Nicky’s brain.
The body was Karen’s. Her face was turned away, but her shiny, black hair was unmistakable. She lay on her back not two feet away in a dark-red pool of blood that rolled outward in a flood tide over the brown bed of pine needles. Nicky saw Karen’s slim, pale hand lying limply in the crimson lake, and realized in that instant that the liquid that had puddled beneath her own hand had been Karen’s blood, that the smell she had become aware of immediately on regaining consciousness had been the meat-locker aroma of blood, that Karen was in all probability dead, murdered, and that she was going to be murdered, too, probably in the next few seconds, right here under the pines beside Karen.
The sheer horror of it galvanized her. The shriek that tore out of her throat would have done Jamie Lee Cur-tis proud. With her heart pounding so hard she feared it might explode, and fueled by a huge surge of adrenaline, she reared up on her poor bruised knees and shoved him with every bit of strength she possessed, catching him off guard, thrusting him away hard enough so that he gave a surprised grunt and fell back, toppling over on his butt, she thought from the sound of it, although she didn’t wait around to make sure. In almost the same instant, she launched herself forward like a missile, scrambling on all fours through the maze of entwined branches, scuttling like a terrified crab toward the dim silver moonlight that shimmered just beyond the trees, toward the car that was purring its way up the drive, its headlights having slashed through the pines and moved on.
“Bitch.”
Lunging after her, he grabbed at her, caught her jacket, but, infused with a strength born of terror, she hit and kicked and fought and somehow managed to win free. Then, in a last desperate lunge, she leaped out through the branches, throwing herself toward the edge of the driveway, which was no more than six feet away. Something slammed hard into her side just above her hipbone as she dove out of the tree, but she made it anyway. Screaming like a banshee, she hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to rest on the asphalt right in the dazzling brightness of the headlight beams.
Brakes screeched. Tires squealed. The car slewed sideways as it tried to stop. . . .
JOE HAD JUST STARTED walking down the driveway when the scream ripped through the night. It was loud as a siren, unmistakably female, and so full of terror that it froze him in his tracks and made his heart skip a beat. He’d almost gone back inside, having done a pretty thorough job of convincing himself that his best course of action was to get things wrapped up here as fast as possible and then head on home to bed where temptation would be safely out of reach, but he hadn’t been able to get that aborted little squeal out of his mind.
It was almost certainly an animal. But Nicky had gone out into the dark, and unless she had walked around to the front—quite a trek in her three-inch heels, given that the ground was uneven and the grass high—she was still outside. The one thing he knew for sure was that she hadn’t gone back inside the house via the back door, because if she had, he would have seen her. Of course, it was very possible that she’d walked to where the cars were parked, hopped in hers, and taken off.
It was also possible that she’d fallen or . . .
He didn’t have a clue what the or could be. But with that choked-off little squeal in mind, and just in case, he’d decided to take a quick stroll down the driveway.
He’d only gone about four yards when he saw headlights cutting through the darkness toward him. The car wasn’t in sight yet, but the headlights were coming on steadily, illuminating the big pines at the curve of the driveway and turning them into giant black silhouettes of Christmas trees. On the other side of the pavement, the live oaks looked like huge, twisted hands. Someone was driving up from the street, possibly Nicky herself. He could just hear the soft whine of the engine over the muted murmurings of the night.
He stopped, watched the car coming, and figured that if there was anything to see on the driveway, the driver of the car would see it. No need to trek down to the street at all. He listened to the faint swoosh of tires on the pavement and breathed in the warm, briny air and thought about what to have for dinner.
The roast chicken at Dave’s place was probably out. Given that it was past ten-thirty now and any place with food worth eating on the island was closed, that meant his choices were pretty much limited to what he could cook himself or . . .
The scream came out of nowhere, ripping through the darkness, stopping his thought process in its tracks.
Joe was already racing down the driveway when more gut-wrenching screams and the squeal of brakes split the air. By the time he reached the scene seconds later, the night had already descended into chaos. The car had stopped so fast that it was slanted across the driveway. Its headlights lit up the night. He could smell exhaust and burnt rubber from the tires. His gaze followed the path of the lights, and he saw that someone lay on the smooth, black asphalt in front of the car. A woman, curled on her side, her body slender and clad in black, her legs pale and bent at the knee, her long hair gleaming a rich, deep red in the twin beams of white light: Nicky.
“Shit,” he said, moving fast. He crouched beside her. She gasped out something that he didn’t understand, and tried to roll onto her hands and knees, tried to get up. Her glorious hair spilled over her face, hiding it from him. She was breathing hard, obviously in distress, and her shoes were gone. The silky material of her suit was covered with dirt and some kind of debris, like grass or pine needles or something. There seemed to be smears of something, mud or blood—God, he hoped it was the former—on her hands and legs.
“Stay still,” he ordered, and caught her by the upper arms, easing her back down onto the pavement. His hands slid over her, quickly checking for injuries. He could feel her body—slender, shapely, warm—shuddering beneath his palms. There was a rip in her jacket just above her right hipbone. He investigated further. The cloth around it was wet and tacky: blood. Shit. “You just got hit by a car.”
“No . . .” Nicky’s head slewed round, and her hair fell back from her face. She tried to get up, but he once again caught her arms and this time didn’t let go, holding her down on the pavement as she strained to be free. She was on her back now, looking up at him, wild-eyed, shaking her head violently. “Karen . . .”
“She jumped right out in front of me,” a woman cried. Obviously the driver, she’d left the car door standing wide as she ran around to the accident scene. The quick slap-slap of her feet hitting the pavement was surprisingly jarring. “Is that Nicky? Oh my God, did I hit her? Is she dead?”
“Not dead,” Joe said, sparing the woman—it was the tiny blond makeup artist—only the briefest of glances.
“Karen.” Nicky’s hands, cold and slender but surprisingly strong, grabbed at his, closed around his wrists, held them tightly. Her expression was desperate, frantic. “She’s hurt! You’ve got to help her!”
“What?” He didn’t understand.
“He’s got her,” she cried, struggling to sit up again. Her eyes were wide and glassy with shock or fright, or some combination of the two. Her mouth shook. The words tumbled over each other, spilling out so fast that they were almost incoherent. Her hands had his wrists in a death grip now. He could feel them trembling.
“It’s all right,” he said, thinking to calm her. “Everything’s all right.”
“She’s under the trees. There’s a man . . .”
“Just stay still, okay?” He kept his voice gentle, sort of half-listening to what she was saying as he did his best to keep her in place without exacerbating any injuries that she
might have sustained. That he was able to control her with relative ease said a lot about her physical state, he thought. She was obviously weakened, and he feared she might be going into shock.
“He’s under there, too—he attacked me. . . .” She was still babbling, but the expression on her face as she pointed toward the pines said more than a thousand words could have. She looked absolutely terrified. Then her eyes locked with his and her expression grew fierce. “Are you listening? The car barely touched me. There’s a man under the trees—he’s got Karen. . . .”
Joe looked around at the trees with a frown.
“Karen?” the makeup artist repeated blankly, her expression doubtful as she, too, glanced at the pines. She was crouched down beside him now, her pixie face a study in concern as she touched a bruise or a smudge or something on Nicky’s cheek.
“She’s under there—hurry, she’s bleeding.” The note of hysteria in Nicky’s voice told its own tale. Her legs were moving restlessly, and she was trying to get up again, shoving at his hands and pushing up off the pavement with a pathetic lack of strength.
“Whoa, there.” He tightened his grip on her. Her shoulders were narrow, her bones delicate; her arms felt surprisingly fragile beneath his hands. “You don’t want to be moving just yet.”
We need an ambulance here, he thought, and he started to reach for his cell phone, which was in the front pocket of his jeans.
“He’ll get away—” Taking advantage of his movement, she tried to twist free. He forgot the cell phone for the moment in favor of keeping her still. With both his hands on her again, she seemed to realize it wasn’t happening and gave up. Defeated, she lay there on the pavement, breathing hard, her eyes dark with agitation as she looked up at him, her face white as paper, her hair a bright burst of color against the black asphalt.
“Karen’s under the trees?” The makeup artist’s voice betrayed stark skepticism, but Joe was suddenly starting to understand and believe.
Unless Nicky was hallucinating, which was always possible if the car had knocked her to the pavement and she’d taken a hard blow to the head, something bad was hidden under the dusty skirts of the pines.
“Stay with her,” he said abruptly to the makeup artist, and stood up.
“Do you have a gun?” The question was sharp, and there was a hysterical edge to Nicky’s voice. Without his restraining hands on her, she finally managed to struggle into a semi-sitting position. Her legs curled beside her, and she leaned on one elbow. Her hand was pressed to the spot above her hip where he’d detected the oozing blood. Her eyes stayed glued to the pines. “I think . . . I think he has a knife.”
“Yeah.”
Hell, he always had his gun. It was a SIG Sauer, smooth and black and shiny, lightweight and small enough to be tucked away in a pocket or the small of his back—or in the ankle holster he was wearing tonight to keep it well out of the way of Amy’s kiddies. He’d had it a long time, so long that by now it was almost as much a part of him as one of his hands. During his previous life, it had saved his ass more than once. It wasn’t his department-issued weapon. That one was tucked away in the glove compartment of the squad car out in front of the house. That one was a Glock, relatively big and clumsy, and he didn’t much like it. The SIG was his own. Even on this tiny bit of paradise, where nothing—before tonight—ever seemed to happen, he kept it with him. It was habit. Like the cigarettes. Two things he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give up.
He stepped away into the dark and started to hike up the leg of his jeans to free his SIG—just in case.
“Tina, hurry. We need to lock ourselves in the car,” he heard Nicky say urgently. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the makeup artist had hold of one of Nicky’s arms and was trying to help her get to her feet. Given that Tina, big shoes, long blond hair, and all, was about the size of a mosquito and Nicky, while reed-slim, was about five-seven or so, they were struggling. Despite her panicked efforts, Nicky couldn’t seem to get her legs beneath her.
Until the extent of her injuries was determined, letting Nicky move was probably a mistake. On the other hand, if there was a hurt woman under the trees, finding her and helping her was urgent. And if some kind of creep was indeed lurking beneath the pines, getting the women out of harm’s way before checking things out was obviously the prudent thing to do. It was always possible that the guy might manage to sneak around his flank, or, God forbid, take him out. Then the women would be at his mercy.
Joe left the SIG in its holster, retraced his steps, and scooped Nicky off the pavement in a single economical movement.
“What—?” She clutched at his shoulders in surprise, her eyes wide as she looked at him.
“Just a precaution,” he said as he lugged her around toward the passenger-side door. As he had expected, she didn’t weigh all that much, certainly not more than a hundred twenty pounds or so. Her hair smelled faintly of some floral shampoo, and her body felt firm and supple in his arms. This close, he could see that there was a huge knot on her forehead just above her left eye. Whatever had hit her, she had been dealt quite a blow.
“You’ve got to help Karen.” She sounded on the verge of losing it. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Even through his shirt, he could feel the sharp crescents pressing into his skin. He had a brief flash of insanity in which he imagined those manicured nails sinking into the muscles of his bare back, and he gritted his teeth at the effort it took to dismiss it.
You need a woman, Franconi, he told himself grimly as he bundled Nicky into the passenger seat.
“Get in the car,” he said to Tina, who had been bobbing along at his elbow, watching him and Nicky, wide-eyed, as if not quite sure whether or not he meant Nicky harm. At his words, Tina appeared to realize that he was on their side. At any rate, she nodded, ran around to the driver’s side, and got in.
“Lock the doors and drive on up to the house,” he said to Tina, who was now behind the wheel. He was leaning into the car, speaking across Nicky, who was looking up at him with eyes as big and round as Frisbees. “When you get there, start blowing the horn until somebody comes out. If nobody comes out, or if you don’t like the look of whoever it is who does come out, just sit tight until I get up there. Understand?”
Tina’s eyes were now as wide as Nicky’s, and she looked just about as scared. She nodded.
“Go,” he said.
His eyes met Nicky’s for the briefest of instants—her pupils were huge and made her eyes look shiny black—and then he shut the door and stepped back, listening for the click of the locks. He heard it, and then the car—it was a Dodge Neon, he saw—was on its way up the driveway.
Now for the SIG.
With the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand, he felt ready to take on all comers, but Nicky’s obvious terror stayed with him and made him cautious. Moving toward the pines, he reached the outermost tips of the shaggy branches and paused, his senses shifting to high alert. The scent of pine wafted around him, borne on the breeze. He heard the usual night sounds but nothing else, nothing out of the ordinary. Without the headlights for illumination, it was dark as pitch: He couldn’t see a thing. He didn’t have a flashlight on him, not a real one, but, he remembered with satisfaction, he did have one of those tiny penlight key rings. Under the circumstances, it would have to do. Fishing his keys from his pocket, Joe grabbed the thing, squeezed it, and eyed the narrow beam of white light that shot out with satisfaction. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough for what he had in mind.
He looked at the trees again.
“Police,” he barked in his best cop’s voice. “Come out with your hands where I can see them.”
Right. Like he really expected that to work. Only in the movies did bad guys come out with their hands up. In real life, at least, in his real life, they either started shooting or ran like hell.
Still, he waited. The breeze stirred the branches, and the slight rustling sound of it was the only reply. Joe waited a moment longer, then sighed. Of course. N
othing was ever that easy.
Gun in one hand, penlight in the other, he started shining the light through the branches, peering in at the rough, gray trunks, the branches like dark, extended arms, the carpet of fallen golden-brown needles.
Beneath the third tree, he struck gold: Just within the outer edge of the branches, the tiny beam illuminated a trickle of viscous red liquid rolling slowly along a downward slope that ended at the driveway.
Not good.
His heart started pumping faster; his stomach tightened; his jaw clenched. Using the light, Joe followed the ominous trail upward until he found himself looking at a lily-white hand lying lifelessly in a pool of dark-red blood.
7
NICKY WAS IN SHOCK. She knew it, could tell from the way everyone else in the kitchen seemed to be far away, even though her mother and Uncle John were sitting right there at the table with her, and Livvy was at the refrigerator, and Uncle Ham was at the stove, frying up bacon and eggs, and Harry, having ventured into the center of the action just moments before to fetch himself a beer, was directly in her line of sight as, bottle in hand, he hot-footed it back into the relative peace and quiet of the den. It was just after two a.m. Monday morning, the start of a whole new week. She was scheduled to be on a plane to Chicago at ten-fifteen, and back in her office by three.
Karen was dead.
“Drink your hot chocolate,” Uncle John said, sounding as if he were at the other end of a long tunnel rather than directly across the table from her. The steady fwump-fwump of the ceiling fan echoed the pounding in her head. Funny, nothing really hurt: not the long but shallow knife wound just above her hipbone, not her bruised thigh that had endured a close encounter with Tina’s car, not her poor thumped head, not her scraped-up hands and knees. Maybe shock had something to do with that, too. “You need the sugar.”
Nicky nodded and looked at the cup, which was sitting on the table directly in front of her. The hot chocolate was thick and milky brown with a little puff of steam rising from it. Uncle Ham, who was arguably the best cook in the world, had garnished it with a dollop of whipped cream and some chocolate chips. Ordinarily, Nicky loved Uncle Ham’s hot chocolate. Right now, she thought she might throw up if she drank it. Drinking was easier than arguing, however, so she picked up the cup and took a tiny sip.
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