by Lisa Jackson
Hurry, hurry, hurry! Time’s running out. What if Trent is even now dying somewhere in the barn? God, where the hell are the police? Where’s Carter?
Her mouth arid, her muscles tense, her damned ankle throbbing, she crawled up onto the trough and then through the supports to a spot where she finally swung her body over the half wall separating the area for the animals from the interior of the structure. She landed lightly, felt another splintering shot of pain, then froze to get her bearings.
Move it! Keep going! Find Trent!
The horses were boxed in a line of stalls that ran down a long corridor. On the far end was the silo, on the opposite wall another wide door on rollers to allow equipment to be driven inside. In between, opposite from the stalls, were a series of small rooms that housed grain, tack, and barnyard equipment. She’d seen tools hung on the bare walls, and in the very center a ladder that led up to the hayloft and down lower, to the same level as the area where the cattle entered and fed, the space she’d just passed through.
So where was her husband?
She checked her phone.
Nothing.
Damn.
She couldn’t risk calling out, and didn’t want to take a chance at being shot, either by Trent or whoever else was within the building. Fortunately there was a bit of light filtering in through the windows. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out shapes and shadows caught in the feeble illumination. Because there were few interior walls, Cassie was able to see. A little.
And so can anyone else.
If she could just find Trent! Holding her breath, she listened hard and hoped she might hear the sound of a boot on the floorboards or a soft moan, but heard nothing but the sough of the wind and the shuffle of nervous hooves in straw.
She wished she had the nerve to turn on a light, the guts to whisper to Trent, but she knew instinctively to stay as quiet as she could and hope that the noise from the animals would cover her own footsteps and breathing.
Did she hear the distant wail of sirens?
Oh, please!
She prayed the police were on their way.
She moved a little closer to the equipment area.
In the edge of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw movement. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun, her gun leveled. Don’t shoot. It could be Trent. Or some other innocent.
But the area was empty.
Maybe it was the dog? Or a barn cat?
Or perhaps nothing. Your effin’ imagination.
Yet, her senses were on alert, her ears cocked and listening, her eyes scanning the shadowy interior, her nerves strung tight as bowstrings as she inched along the hallway. Horses snorted as she passed. One, startled, whinnied and the air snapped with an electricity.
Damn it, Trent, where are you? Give me a sign.
And Hud? Where’s the damned dog?
Wouldn’t Hud be with Trent?
Crouching low, she inched along the wall, nearly called out Trent’s name in a whisper when she saw another movement from the corner of her eye.
Whirling, she expected the image to have disappeared, the phantom to have vanished, a figment of her wild imagination.
But she was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Crouching in the corner, glaring at her with hateful eyes that caught the weakest light was a woman.
What?
Cassie nearly screamed.
Oh. Jesus.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her heart in her throat as the features, in the dark, came into view. Dark hair, wide eyes, arched cheeks, but all distorted in the gloom. Dear God, it was a shadowy image of herself, a twin.
She bit back a scream.
Realized the woman had a gun trained on her.
In a second she would pull the trigger and take off the mask and—no! Her eyes widened as she stared at the woman staring back at her. Her own gun was raised and shaking in her hands. And . . . and the assailant’s pistol was raised and shivering and . . . She blinked. And fired, just as she noticed the clothes and the expression on the terrified woman’s features were identical to her own before the woman shattered into a million pieces.
The roar of gunfire sent the horses screaming and kicking. Cassie’s own heart nearly stopped as she was sprayed with bits of glass, the mirror that had been propped into the corner decimated.
She hadn’t come upon a murderous assailant. No! She’d shot at her own damned, shuddering, gun-toting reflection. Oh, God, she was losing it! And not by inches, but miles. Her headache pounded, threatening to consume her, and her ankle wasn’t getting any better. She needed to find Trent, get the hell out of the barn and make tracks. Let the police sort out whatever it was that had gone on here. She let out a breath slowly. She had to find Trent and get the hell out of here. Now she was jumping at shadows and . . . and . . .
Scraaape.
Over the sound of the horses, wind, and her own frantically thumping heart, she thought she heard a footstep.
Crrrunnch.
Another one, this time on the shattered glass! And to her horror, in the jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the mirror’s frame, she saw that she, indeed, wasn’t alone. Behind her, caught in the reflection, was a partial image of a woman.
And she, too, was armed, a bit of a gun visible in one shard.
Their eyes met.
The gun was leveled.
From his position in the stall, Trent, woozy from the loss of blood, thought he heard footsteps . . . not one set, but two. Each pair coming from a different direction.
What did that mean?
Did the assassin have an accomplice?
Or did the second set of soft footprints belong to Cassie?
Oh, Jesus. Would she have come out here after she heard the report of the gun? Would she have been that stupid? Dear God, he hoped not. He silently prayed that she had the presence of mind to call the police and then get the hell out. Drive away.
But then he knew better.
Fuck!
Damn that woman! Why couldn’t she ever do what she was told?
Because she’s Cassie Kramer, that’s why.
With an effort he drew himself to his feet, steadied himself for a second, tried to get his bearings and nearly passed out. He waited until the wave of blackness receded and took several deep breaths. Dragging his bad leg, he made his way to the edge of his stall, the one farthest from the silo. He was dizzy as hell and used a post for support. He’d lost his phone when he’d been shot, it had skittered across the floor and was hidden somewhere, probably inoperable. Geez, he’d bungled this. All because he’d been ridiculously stupid thinking an animal and not a prowler had been on the farm. He’d thought the rifle and dog would be enough protection.
So where the hell was the dog?
Craaaack!
A gun blasted, the roar echoing to the damned rafters, and the sound of glass shattering and spraying reached his ears.
Cassie! Oh, Jesus!
Fear grabbed his throat and held on tight.
Horses neighed in terror, kicking at their stalls, and footsteps rang on the concrete floor, running footsteps, heading the opposite direction, toward the silo. And another sound, the loud rumble of a truck’s engine, came through the open door.
A second later light washed over the windows, headlights burning in the night. Thank God! He started for the door and heard the distant wail of sirens, never sounding sweeter as they shrieked through the night.
Help was on its way.
He only hoped it wasn’t too late.
Dragging his useless leg, propping his rifle on his shoulder, he pulled himself along the stalls with his free hand and nearly passed out. He leaned over the top rail and cleared his head, told himself to press on.
The police might be coming, but they were too far away.
He couldn’t wait.
Cassie didn’t look over her shoulder, just took off on her injured ankle, pain shooting up her calf.
Bam!
A gun fir
ed again, a bullet miraculously missing her as it zinged past her head.
Fueled by adrenaline, ignoring the throb in her leg, she took off. She ran headlong into a post, her injured shoulder ramming into the rough timber, her feet slipping, the gun nearly falling from her hand.
Don’t drop it. Hang onto the damned pistol.
Forcing her legs to work, she spun around the post, her arm throbbing, her heart in her throat.
“Cassie!” She thought she heard Trent call to her over the cacophony of sounds, the whistling neighs of horses, the rush of the wind battering the siding, the thudding of her heart, and the deadly tramp of footsteps following her, taking their time, knowing that she was running blind. She listened, didn’t hear his voice again, thought she probably imagined it. But the sound of approaching footsteps was unmistakable. And closer.
Onward she raced, her boots ringing as she stumbled through the maze that was this part of the barn. Where the open area for the animals had been easy to work through, the interior of this area was cut with rooms and bins.
Without hesitation, determined footsteps followed her. Getting closer. Echoing through her skull.
Desperate, she rounded a corner and came up short.
Ahead was a blank wall.
One side was a tack room, she thought, the other an empty area to store tools.
There was nowhere to run.
No exit.
No escape.
She had to face whoever it was, this woman who wanted to kill her.
Steadily the footsteps came.
Who was it?
Allie? Or Cherise? The sister she didn’t know? Ineesha? Laura? Little Bea . . . or someone she didn’t even know?
Rotating, she fumbled with the gun in her hands. Freaked out of her mind, she raised the pistol, ready to take aim on her attacker. Her headache thudded, her body ached.
Could she use it against another human?
A person who’s firing at you? Who wants to kill you? Who probably already killed Trent?
No problem!
ACT VII
Through the umbra, she walked slowly, patiently, knowing her prey had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. Finally, after all the years of pretending, of sucking up, of acting as if she weren’t as important as the Sisters Kramer and their has-been of a mother, it was time to set things right.
The wind whistled around the old barn, a tree branch banged against the wall, and the tingle of excitement was in the air. Like one of the suspense movies in which Jenna Hughes had played the heroine, a woman in jeopardy, or, more recently, Allie Kramer’s role in Dead Heat.
At the thought of the star, her lips curled. Allie should have been dead by now, lying in a coffin, her legion of fans distraught, her mother destroyed and feeling alone. That part of the plan had backfired, but she’d set it right. Allie had been in on the original plot, the one in which Cassie was to die on the set of Dead Heat, but then Cassie had come up with a new twist to the end of the movie and changed things up, so Allie, as Shondie Kent, would have been the one to take the real bullet from Sig Masters’s gun. She’d freaked and pulled an effective disappearing act, and poor Lucinda Rinaldi was nearly killed.
Boy, that pissed her off. She’d made so many plans, and then with a stroke of Cassie’s pen, everything went sideways and Allie, the sister who had figured out their connection, had realized she might be shot and quickly double-crossed her, never reappeared. Pfft! Just vanished.
She wasn’t about to be played for a fool. It had been easy enough to come up with a way to terrorize Allie. The DIY masks had been the perfect touch. Since she had connections to Dead Heat, knew the cast and crew, she could pluck her victims at random. Truth to tell, she loved the thrill of the killings, the supreme sense of power she felt when she’d pulled the trigger on that twit of a set designer, Holly Dennison. Even now she experienced a little thrum in her blood when she thought of it, an adrenaline rush. With Brandi, not as big of a thrill, of course, as she’d only met the extra once. But she’d been easy to track, her stupid midnight runs had made her an easy target, one more dead body to decorate with a mask she’d created especially for the event.
And how convenient that Cassie had all those mental problems, the hallucinations and blackouts. They’d come in handy, hadn’t they? So nice of Allie to spill her guts. And so interesting how deep Allie’s hatred of Cassie had been. All things considered, Allie was the successful one, the rising star who appeared on top of the world, but inside she was little more than a gelatinous glob of insecurities.
All because of men.
Go figure.
She heard Cassie breathing hard, from somewhere near the end of the building. Trapped and fearful.
Good.
Dealing with that nut-job had been a pain; pretending to befriend her made her gag and now it was over. “Little Sister,” she called out, thinking she was funny, her voice high-pitched and sing-song. But it was true. She herself was the “Big Sister,” Cassie the “Little Sister,” and that stupid, missing, double-crossing celluloid princess, Allie, the youngest, thereby “Baby Sister.”
“Baby” had yet to be found. She’d gone dark.
What the fuck was that all about?
The bitch had double-crossed her.
Oh, Baby Sister, that’s dangerous.
Ah, well, that’s what happens when you mix business and pleasure and family. Someone always gets burned.
“Little Sister,” she called again, more loudly to be heard over the wind and the animals. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
It was a game. Like one she’d never gotten to play with her half-sisters, never had been given the chance. Instead she’d been tossed away, handed over to the stuffy Beauchamp family where she’d never fit in. Oh, she’d had another sister, one that had been hand-picked for her, barely six months younger, but now, of course, she was dead, like these others would soon be.
She felt her eyes shimmer at the thought of the sister she’d grown up with. So beautiful and self-assured, so happy and bright, as if Gene and Beverly had picked the perfect child.
Her stomach turned.
They’d never really done anything wrong to her; the Beauchamps were decent enough people, but they’d been boring and common and she . . . she was born to Jenna Hughes. Her child. She should have been rich and famous and grown up in Southern California and been offered movie roles instead of being forced to go to a trade school and encouraged to marry young.
She’d been born to be a star.
And she’d been robbed.
Not only by the mother who had tossed her aside but by the biological half-sisters who’d grown up as Hollywood princesses. Just thinking about it caused the back of her neck to burn and the demons in her head to start to scratch and claw. Cassie needed to die tonight.
It was time to be done with this.
She had a history of destroying anyone or anything that got in her way; that’s why she’d made a success of herself despite being left with the moronic Beauchamps. It had been fine until she’d learned the truth, though. When her “mother” had slipped up, leaving the adoption papers on the desk before quickly locking them away again. That’s when it had all clicked.
She’d been sixteen at the time, the same age Bitch-Mama Jenna had been when she’d decided she didn’t want to be burdened with a baby girl, when her dreams of becoming a movie star and celebrity overshadowed any thoughts of motherhood.
Well, until Cassie had come along.
Her blood boiled at the unfairness of it all, and the anger that she’d had to tamp down for all of these years burned hot. Now, finally, vengeance was hers. Her pulse began to pound in her ears and she remembered every poster she’d ever collected, every time she’d tried to apply her makeup, the instances when she’d stared into the mirror and searched for the telltale resemblance. Hers, she admitted to herself, was slight, not as strong as her half-sisters.
She obviously took after the loser who had impregnated
Jenna, though, so far, she hadn’t come up with his name. It hadn’t been on the birth certificate. But she’d find him, and when she did? Bye-bye, Daddy.
The cockles of her heart warmed at the thought. She’d let Jenna know about that, too. She wanted the woman who had given her away so blithely to crumple to her oft-photographed knees.
And it all started in a few seconds.
The demons were anxious now, bloodthirsty. Their talons scraped against the inside of her braincase and she actually winced. But it was nearly over.
Just a couple more steps and then she’d look her sister in the eye before blowing her to Kingdom Come!
CHAPTER 38
The roar of a gun blast still ringing in his ears, Trent took off, trying to run. Pain shot up his leg, but he kept moving, limping as he strode, all the while trying to stay clear-headed, though the loss of blood had definitely dulled him as well as slowing him down.
Damn.
He wasn’t about to stop now. Not when Cassie’s life was threatened.
This was his fault.
He should have taken her advice and called the police, shouldn’t have come out here like some damned cowboy thinking he could solve the problem. Who was the nutcase chasing his wife? What the hell was she doing here?
He passed the frantic horses and wondered where the hell were the damned cops? His boots crunched on something on the floor.
Broken glass!
But he heard the women at the far end of the barn, near the silo.
“Little Sister,” a voice called out, and he felt a new, debilitating terror. Little Sister? What the hell did that mean? Cassie was the oldest . . . except for the daughter Jenna gave up.