Passion

by Marilyn Pappano

  This was scary as hell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They were back in familiar territory: a shabby motel in a shabby part of town. But the situation had changed this time, John thought, standing at the window, watching the parking lot through a narrow slit in the drapes. Instead of heading toward a confrontation with Simon Tremont, they were running away. The bastard had almost gotten them tonight, had come within minutes of succeeding. If Teryl hadn’t been on the phone, if she hadn’t heard the chimes, he would have succeeded.

  John owed his and Teryl’s lives to D.J. Howell, he acknowledged with a wry shake of his head. Sweet damnation.

  They had left the Grayson estate through a back gate Teryl had directed him to and had spent the next half hour driving around Richmond, making certain they weren’t being followed. Finally they had ditched the Blazer in the parking lot of a nightclub, caught a cab, and come here. He had half expected the clerk to balk at renting them a room—they had both been soaking wet and reeked of gasoline from the jar they’d knocked over, they’d had no luggage, Teryl had no shoes, and they must have looked pretty damned desperate—but the guy hadn’t given them a second look. A customer was a customer; as long as they had the means to pay—thank God he hadn’t yet taken his wallet or his car keys from his pockets when Teryl had come racing up the stairs—the clerk couldn’t have cared less how they looked.

  As soon as they had gotten to the room, Teryl had made two calls. She had awakened her parents, telling them about the explosions, downplaying them, making it sound as if it had been a freak accident and not an attempt to kill them. She had called D.J., too, leaving a message on her machine.

  Now she was lying in the double bed that stood in the center of the room, stripped naked and scrubbed clean. She hadn’t realized she was barefooted until the odor of gasoline had pervaded the Blazer. At first she had found it amusing that she had run through gasoline and rain puddles, across rough rock and paving stone, without noticing that she was shoeless, but then amusement had turned to laughter, which had come too uncomfortably close to tears before she had regained control. Once her phone calls were completed, she’d retreated to the bathroom, where she had showered away the odor of gasoline. Finally, after hanging her clothes to dry, she had crawled between the sheets. She was quiet, but he didn’t think she was asleep.

  As if prompted by his thought, she broke her silence. “You haven’t apologized.”

  He glanced at her. The lights were off, but enough illumination came through the curtains to allow him to identify the shadow on the bed that was her. “For what?”

  “Getting my house blown up. For almost getting us killed.”

  Turning so that his back was to the wall beside the window, he faced her even though he couldn’t really see her. “I am sorry. Don’t you know that? Or do you need to hear the words?”

  “I know it.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?”

  She sat up, drawing the covers with her. “It’s just a nice change. In the beginning, you apologized for everything. You were sorry you kidnapped me, sorry you bruised my wrists, sorry before you tied me to the bed, sorry after you did it. You’ve been that way all your life, haven’t you? You’ve always felt guilty, always accepted responsibility. Everything that ever went wrong was always your fault.” She broke off, and he saw a faint shrug of movement. “It’s nice to know that you don’t feel any guiltier or any more at fault for what happened tonight than I do.”

  She was right, he reflected. Of course, if he hadn’t dragged her into this mess, she wouldn’t have become one of Simon’s targets; her house would still be standing, and she would be safe. He regretted that he’d gotten her involved and that he hadn’t been prepared for Simon to strike again, but the actual attack wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t take all the blame for what Simon had done, the way he had always taken all the blame for his parents’ actions. This time he would have to be satisfied with just a little of it.

  “We need to go to the police,” she said quietly.

  “I called them while you were in the bathroom. I spoke to a detective named Marcus.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That we got out okay. That no one else was in the house.” He paused. “I told him I didn’t know what caused the blast. He said they’ll find out, but it’ll take some time. He wants us to come in tomorrow—” He thought about how late it was and amended that. “Later this morning and give a statement.”

  “Why did you lie to him? Why didn’t you tell him about the bombs?”

  “Remember when I told you that the fire at my house was caused by bombs?” His chuckle was dry and unamused. “You should have seen your face. You thought I was crazy. If I tell some cop over the phone that the world-famous author, Simon Tremont, blew up your house in an effort to kill us, he’s going to think I’m crazy. If I tell him that Tremont’s trying to kill us because he’s an impostor and I’m the real Tremont, he’s likely to get me locked up for observation instead of going after Tremont.” He sighed wearily. “I’ll tell him the truth when we go in, face-to-face. I’ll ask him to call Sheriff Cassidy, and I’ll show him the affidavit…” His voice trailed off. The papers from the Denver bank had been delivered early in the afternoon. He had shown them to Teryl the moment she’d walked in the door, had given them to her to read, and then had returned them to their envelope on the kitchen counter. If they hadn’t disintegrated in the blast, they had turned to ash. “I’ll ask him to call Zarelli at the bank.”

  Silence settled over the room, and John resumed his stance at the window, his gaze on the parking lot and the street beyond but his thoughts on a pile of smoldering rubble and ash a half dozen miles away. From the moment his house had been destroyed in Colorado, he had expected a second attempt on his life, but Simon had to find him first, and that, he had figured, wouldn’t be an easy task. But he’d been wrong. Simon had found him, all right, apparently with little difficulty. How? How had he tracked John to Teryl’s house? Only three people besides Teryl herself knew that he was staying with her. Her mother, of course, was above suspicion, which left D.J. and Rebecca.

  For his own satisfaction, he would like to lay the blame on D.J., but the agent seemed a likelier suspect. Rebecca was troubled by the discrepancies, especially by the fact that John knew her private joke, but she didn’t believe his story. She didn’t want to. It was entirely possible that she had called Simon and warned him, that in delivering her warning, she had mentioned that the man challenging him was temporarily living with Teryl. She wouldn’t have realized that she was putting their lives in danger, wouldn’t have considered for a moment that Simon might try to kill them. She would have simply believed that she was doing what every good agent was supposed to do: looking out for her client.

  Her voice soft in the darkness, Teryl spoke again. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Honey, I may never sleep again.” He was still wired, still running scared.

  “The police will pick him up for questioning, won’t they? They’ll find some proof against him. He must have made some mistakes, left some trail. After all, he’s a writer by profession, not a criminal. The pros can’t plan perfect crimes; surely Simon can’t, either.”

  “Maybe he can. Crooks don’t tend to be the brightest guys in the world, while writers have to be reasonably intelligent. More importantly, a good writer has to be able to weave together complex plots with no loose threads. He has to understand motivation. He has to know human nature. Plotting a good book bears a striking similarity to planning the perfect crime.”

  “But Simon’s ‘perfect crime’ failed in Colorado. It failed here. Maybe he’s not so good a writer.”

  He stared at her shadow. “You told me in New Orleans that his Resurrection was the most impressive work you’ve ever read.”

  “I’m not talking about the actual writing. I mean the plotting. You outlined Resurrection for him. The outline was so detailed that all he had to do was follow along. He didn’t hav
e to deal with the plot. He didn’t have to make things fit together. He didn’t have to make sense of anything but the writing. I don’t have any talent at either one, but I’ve read a ton of published books and two tons of unpublished ones, and I think the writing would be the easier of the two tasks. Maybe Simon’s a better writer than he is a plotter, and that’s why you and I are still alive. Maybe that will help the police to catch him.”

  With a yawn, she slid down into the bed again, snuggling under the covers, and, after a moment, he turned back to the window. He was watching traffic on the street out front when she spoke again, her voice soft and forlorn. “Everything I own is gone.”

  “I know. I lost everything, too.” He sighed wearily. “I don’t mind the clothes or the furniture or the videos. I don’t care much about the office stuff, either, but I’d give five years off Simon’s life to have the diskette and the hard copy of my own Resurrection, and I’d give ten years off my life to get back the pictures of Tom and Janie that were in the office. They were originals. Even Janie doesn’t have copies.”

  “She never did call me, you know,” Teryl said with another yawn. “I left a message on her machine Sunday asking her to please call me about you, and she never did.”

  This time he left the window and went to sit beside her on the bed. She automatically snuggled close to him. “You called my sister?”

  “Hmm.”

  “How did you get her number?”

  “Called information for Verona, Florida. Got all the J. Smiths.” Another wide yawn. “There were seven, and she was number six. ‘Hi, this is Janie. I can’t take your call…’ I knew it was her because at the end she said, ‘Adios, amigo,’ and you said she teaches Spanish. But she never called.”

  That was definitely Janie’s message; on the rare occasions he had traveled into Denver, he’d always called her, and he had talked to the machine more times than he’d cared to. Teryl had no talent for writing or plotting, she’d said, but she hadn’t done badly on this little bit of detective work. “That’s because she’s out of the country. Every summer she and some friends of hers who teach in other towns take some of their kids to Mexico for a month. The kids get school credit and some new experiences, and the teachers, according to Janie, get a great vacation. This summer they left the day my house burned down, and they won’t be back until sometime in July.”

  “So she’s safe.” Her voice was soft and fading quickly. In another minute or two, she would be sound asleep.

  “Safe from what?” John shook her a little. He was more than willing to let her have all the rest she needed, but first he needed an answer to his question.

  “Safe from Simon. He has to kill you because of who you are, and he has to kill me because I know who you are. If he knows about Janie, he’ll need to kill her, too, because she surely won’t sit quietly and let him claim her murdered brother’s life.”

  A chill crept over John. A fine writer—and brother—he was. He’d been too single-minded, concerned only with reclaiming his rights to Simon Tremont and the first twelve books. He hadn’t considered any of those loose threads—beyond himself—that he’d been talking about earlier. Teryl was right. She was one because she had spent so much time with him, because she had come to believe him, because she had spoken to Rebecca on his behalf. Janie was another, because she knew the truth; while she might not be able to prove it, she could stir up some suspicions. She could certainly cause Simon some problems.

  They were all three major liabilities to a man who undoubtedly was insane. They were all three in danger.

  Was Simon even aware that Janie existed? He would like to believe the answer was no. Following John’s wishes, she had never told anyone about her relationship to the author, and he had certainly never discussed his sister with anyone other than Teryl. There had never been any mention of her anywhere in connection with his career.

  But there had been evidence of her all over his house—photographs and letters, her name, address, and phone number in his Rolodex—and Tremont had been there. Some of the framed photos had been yellowed newspaper pictures from her track days; one had even included him, along with a caption to the effect of Janie Smith being congratulated by brother John upon winning some race or another. He’d been hugging her, his back to the camera, so proud of her that day. It was the same way she had felt, she’d told him, years later when she’d held her autographed copy of his very first book in her hands.

  He knew Tremont had been inside his house; the third bomb had been placed somewhere inside his bedroom. Had Tremont simply broken in, chosen the location for the bomb, set it, then left again, or had he taken the time to look around? Had he taken the time to notice the photographs on the walls? John had to assume he had. He couldn’t imagine going to the trouble Tremont had gone through to track him down, traveling to Colorado, renting a car, and driving the narrow mountain roads to his house; he couldn’t comprehend Tremont being that close to the man he was so obsessed with and not snooping through his belongings. Not sitting at his desk, going through his papers, fondling his awards—hell, maybe even taking his papers and his awards. Not finding out everything he possibly could about John before putting into effect his plan to destroy him.

  He had to assume that Simon knew about Janie, had to believe that, just as he’d tried to kill John and Teryl, he would soon try to kill Janie. Thank God she was safely out of the country. Tomorrow he would make arrangements for her protection when she returned… just in case he wasn’t around to take care of her then. Tomorrow he would make arrangements for Teryl, too, for her safety and for her future. Tomorrow he would face the fact that he just might not have a future.

  But not tonight. Tonight he was safe, he was lying in bed with a beautiful woman in his arms, and he had a few quiet hours available for sleep. Tonight that was enough of a future to satisfy him.

  Teryl felt achy, bruised, and pretty damned battered when she awakened. A glance at her watch showed that it was a few minutes after eight. Time to call Rebecca and tell her that she wouldn’t be in, and then time to wake John so they could keep their appointment with Detective Marcus.

  Rebecca sounded coolly friendly and professional when she answered the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Teryl.”

  Some of the friendliness disappeared from her boss’s voice. “I was just thinking about you. There was a message on the machine for you this morning when I got in, and it brought you and our little disagreement to mind. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Sure,” she replied, wondering if by “disagreement,” Rebecca was referring to the situation with John. If so, it was a hell of an understatement, but maybe that would change when she heard what Teryl had to say.

  In the background, she could hear Rebecca pushing buttons, then the answering machine rewinding, clicking, starting to play. The voice was only vaguely familiar—she had talked to a number of people Sunday—but the message was clear. “Hi, this is Janie Smith calling for Teryl Weaver. I’m sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but I’ve been on vacation the last few weeks. In answer to your question, yes, my brother John does live in Rapid River. Is something wrong? I spoke to him just a few weeks ago, and everything seemed fine then. I’d really like to talk to you. I’ll call back tomorrow, but if I miss you, you can give me a call any time here at home; I plan to be here all day. Thanks.”

  The machine shut off, and Rebecca returned to the phone. “This John Smith business has to stop, Teryl,” she said sternly. “I know you believe the man’s story, which is no surprise. You’re sleeping with him, and you’re half in love with him. But I won’t tolerate it anymore. Do you understand?”

  Teryl’s temper started a slow burn. “Understand this, Rebecca: somebody destroyed my house last night. He set eight bombs outside. What didn’t blow up burned down—and he almost got John and me, too. We barely escaped with our lives. If John’s the impostor, the liar, why would anyone do that? Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “How do yo
u know he didn’t do it?”

  “He didn’t,” Teryl said stonily.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he was upstairs getting ready for bed when I saw Simon out there.”

  There was a moment’s heavy silence, broken at last by Rebecca’s small, shocked voice. “You saw Simon? You actually saw him, could identify him?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I just saw a figure. But it was him, Rebecca. He’s the only one who can profit from killing John and me. It had to be him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Simon Tremont is a highly respected, world-renowned, and deeply admired author. You have no reason to believe he was behind this. You have no reason to believe that he’s not really Simon.”

  Teryl’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “John writes like Simon Tremont. He knows everything about Simon Tremont’s career. He knows everything about Resurrection. He even knew your inside joke about Morgan-Wilkes.”

  Rebecca didn’t respond right away. More than anything else, Teryl suspected, that one little joke bothered her. Then, her voice sharp, her manner abrupt, she dismissed all that. “Coincidence. Circumstantial evidence.”

  “And what reason do you have to believe Simon?” Teryl asked sarcastically.

  “I have about seven hundred pages of reason sitting on my desk at home. I have Resurrection.” She sounded triumphant and just a little bit challenging. “Let me tell you something, Teryl, based on more than twenty-five years of experience in this business. Resurrection is going to be one of the best-selling books of all time. Right now I don’t give a damn who the real Simon is. I’m choosing the book. As far as I’m concerned, the man who wrote it gets to be Simon Tremont, and since even John hasn’t been foolish enough to try to claim credit for that, Simon wins.”