Trust No One

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Barefooted, he went down the hall to the kitchen, turned on some lights and opened the refrigerator. He had alerted his housekeeper that he would be spending the night in town. The Remarkable Renee, who came in once a week to clean, had gone grocery shopping for him. In addition to the wedge of cheddar cheese, dill pickles, bread and mayonnaise there was also a carton of eggs and a few other items.

  Making the cheddar-and-dill-pickle sandwiches gave him time to think about something other than the fact that Grace was with him and that they had just had the best sex he’d had in a very long time, possibly in forever. Definitely in forever, he concluded.

  By the time Grace came down the hall enveloped in his robe, her feet bare, he had the sandwiches and the whiskey waiting on the long, gleaming sweep of black granite countertop that served as his kitchen table. It also did duty as a lunch and dinner table when he was in the city. He never used the polished teak dining table and chairs in the dining room.

  “Check your email,” he said.

  She stopped, bewildered, for a beat. And then her eyes narrowed a little as understanding hit her.

  “Crap,” she said. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “Check it.”

  “I had my phone off for your speech and forgot to turn it back on afterward, what with all the excitement.”

  She went to the table where she had left her evening bag and took out her phone. She powered up the device and studied her messages. When she raised her eyes she looked bemused.

  “No email from the stalker,” she said. “But what does that tell us?”

  “It tells us that the stalker tried to send another kind of message tonight. He or she might not know yet that it didn’t get delivered as planned. I doubt if the guy with the pipe called his client to report that there had been a few problems and that his pal is sitting in jail.”

  Grace took a deep breath and climbed up onto one of the high stools. She watched him pour the whiskey as if she was mesmerized by the action.

  “You think that there’s a connection between what happened tonight and whoever has been sending me those emails, don’t you?” she asked.

  He swallowed some whiskey and lowered the glass. “I’m going on that assumption until proven otherwise.”

  She propped an elbow on the counter and rested her chin in her hand.

  “You’re in this mess because of me.”

  “Stop,” he ordered. “We’ve already had this conversation. I’m with you because I want to be with you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Shut up and drink your whiskey.”

  She reached for the glass.

  He walked around the edge of the counter, sat down beside her and picked up a sandwich. “There is a slight possibility that tonight was all about me. You met my ex this evening.”

  Grace paused, her whiskey halfway to her mouth. She stared at him, clearly shocked.

  “Surely she wouldn’t hire two thugs to beat you up.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “Diana has led a rather sheltered life. She wouldn’t know how to find that kind of muscle on the street.”

  Grace gave him an odd look. “Who would know how to hire the sort of creeps who attacked us tonight?”

  “Good question.” He took a bite out of his sandwich. “I’m thinking it’s probably the same bastard who isn’t afraid to handle a dead rat.”

  “My stalker.”

  “Yeah.” He took another bite and reflected on the evening’s events while he munched.

  “Mind if I ask a personal question?” Grace said after a moment.

  He shrugged. “Go for it.”

  “You said earlier that the Hastings family company was digging its own grave. Do you really believe that?”

  “Hastings is in bad shape and I’m sure the problems are inside.”

  “Would Edward Hastings be capable of sending a couple of jerks to punish you with a beating?”

  “If Ed blames me for his problems, it’s quite possible that he’d take drastic measures. But he and I go back a ways. I’m the one who hired him after he had a falling-out with his father and his uncles. Ed wanted to reboot Hastings and take it into the twenty-first century. But the old guard wouldn’t let go. So he walked.”

  “He left Hastings and went to work for you.”

  “Yeah, for about two years. Then his father had a heart attack and was forced to retire. The uncles realized they couldn’t handle Hastings on their own. They asked Ed to come back and take control of the company. He accepted the offer. Hastings started sailing into troubled waters a few months later. My gut tells me that if Ed was convinced that I was behind his troubles, it’s a lot more likely that he would walk into my office and take a swing at me, himself.”

  “He wouldn’t hire someone to do that?”

  “If he did hire someone to do the job he would have employed higher quality talent. I taught him that if you do use a fixer, you buy the best.”

  Grace looked at him, eyes widening. “Wow. That’s cold.”

  He shrugged and finished the sandwich. He refused to pretend to be something other than what he was—not with Grace. He’d tried to be someone else once before with Diana. Things had not gone well.

  Grace drank some more whiskey with a meditative air and lowered the glass. “Maybe the police will be able to get some useful information out of the guy with the knife.”

  Julius ran the scenarios in his head the way he did when he was considering an investment, looking for the stuff that was hiding just out of sight in the shadows.

  “My guess is that the guy with the knife won’t be able to tell the cops much about who hired him,” he said. “The deal would have been a cash transaction. No names. No identities. No good descriptions. What with one thing and another, I think we need to try another angle.”

  “Such as?”

  “We need to find a way to draw the stalker out of hiding.”

  “How do we do that?” Grace asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. But one thing is obvious—the bastard has a reason for stalking you. We have to find out what that reason is.”

  “Well, if it’s Nyla, we know she wants the money she thinks I stole from her father’s business. I suppose I could offer to talk to her about it but there’s not much room for negotiation because I don’t have anything to offer.”

  “What if the stalker’s goal isn’t the money?”

  Grace drank some of her whiskey a little too quickly. She sputtered, coughed and lowered the glass. “What else could it be?”

  “You’re sure there’s no ex in the picture who might have become obsessed with you?”

  “Stalkers are by definition delusional and crazy,” Grace said. “I suppose it’s possible that someone from my past has gone off the rails and decided to fixate on me but I have to tell you, it’s highly unlikely.”

  “I need a list.”

  She blinked. “Of all the men I’ve dated in the past?”

  He smiled. “That many?”

  She grimaced. “I wish.”

  “Relax, I don’t think we need to go back to your high school prom date.”

  “That’s good because I’m pretty sure Andrew isn’t my stalker.”

  “Andrew?”

  “My date for the prom. I told you, he spent the evening whining to me because he had wanted to take Jennifer to the prom but she declined. He was deeply depressed about the situation. He asked my advice on how to attract her attention.”

  “Did you tell him to think positive?”

  “Pretty much,” Grace said. “First, I told him that Jennifer was all wrong for him. He didn’t want to hear that so I reminded him that he had a genius for computers. I told him to invent an addictive online game, get very rich and then go look up Jennifer.”

  “Did that advice work?”

 
“Partially. Andrew did invent a successful social media program. He did an IPO that was valued at a few billion dollars and he did get very rich. But he didn’t marry Jennifer, which is a good thing because they would have been very unhappy together. He married someone else, instead—another very nice, very smart geek. It was a much better match.”

  “What happened to Jennifer?”

  “She married well and often. She is now on husband number three, I believe, and living in a mansion on Mercer Island. There is, according to Irene, a very big boat parked in the water in front of the house.” Grace frowned at the half-empty glass of whiskey. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? Way too chatty. I may crash soon.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Julius said.

  He drank some more of his own whiskey, letting the heat of the liquor relax him.

  Grace made a visible effort to concentrate. “About this list you want me to make.”

  He put down his glass. “I’m not asking for the names of your old boyfriends. What I want is a list of everyone who was closely connected to Sprague Witherspoon—his business and his family.”

  “You’re convinced that whatever is going on in my world is connected to his murder, aren’t you?”

  “I think it starts there. The vodka bottle thing can no longer be classified as a coincidence.”

  “No,” she said. “Probably not. Okay, I’ll make up a list. But I can’t do it tonight. I can’t seem to focus.”

  “Think you can sleep?”

  She paused in mid-yawn and looked at him with a considering expression.

  “What are my options?” she asked.

  “Left side of the bed or the right side of the bed.”

  “Choices, choices.”

  • • •

  Julius was watching from the shadows of the big bed as she emerged from the bathroom in a pretty yellow nightgown. She moved, wraithlike, across the room and climbed under the covers on the left side.

  He turned out the lights and moved closer to her. She tensed a little when his arm went around her waist. He kissed her shoulder.

  “Sleep,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said.

  And she did.

  Thirty-Two

  The old dream rose out of the depths on a dark tide of panic.

  . . . She tried to control her breathing. She did not want the boy to realize that she was terrified. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid he might hear it.

  The boy seemed frozen with horror. She gripped his thin shoulder with one hand. In her other hand she clutched the neck of the vodka bottle. Together she and the boy listened to the monster come down the stairs. Each thud of the boots sent a tremor through both of them.

  The narrow beam of the killer’s flashlight lanced through the well of night and splashed across the plastic-shrouded body. Then it probed into a far corner of the basement. He was searching for the boy. As soon as he turned around he would see them hiding in the shadows.

  “Run,” she said to the boy.

  She used her grip on his shoulder to haul him out from under the staircase and propel him toward the stairs. Her stern voice and the physical shove she gave him combined to break through his paralysis.

  He charged up the stairs toward the open door.

  She followed, taking the steps two at a time. Trager yelled at her. She did not stop.

  And then he was on the stairs behind her, moving so fast she knew she could not outrun him. He was so much bigger and stronger.

  The boy reached the top of the steps. He paused and looked back.

  “Go,” she said again. “Don’t stop.”

  The boy disappeared into the gloom that infused the atmosphere beyond the doorway.

  Trager caught her jean jacket. She was trapped. She smashed the vodka bottle against the railing, creating a jagged blade. She slashed wildly, felt the resistance when the sharp glass struck skin and bone. Trager screamed. There was blood everywhere.

  The crimson rain splashed her clothes, her hands . . .

  “Grace. Grace, it’s all right. You’re safe, I’ve got you. Just a dream.”

  It was Julius’s voice, pulling her out of the dark fog. She came awake, shivering as she always did after the nightmare. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped for breath. Someone was holding her down—pinning her to the bed.

  “No.” She struggled, frantic to get free.

  Julius released her instantly. She bolted upright, pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tried to go into her breathing routine.

  Should have slept in the guest bedroom. Shouldn’t have taken the risk. What had she been thinking?

  “Sorry,” she said. Her voice was tight and thin. “Old dream. Haven’t had it in a long time but ever since I found Sprague’s body—”

  “I understand,” Julius said. “Been there.”

  His voice was calm and steady, as if he was accustomed to being awakened by a woman who was emerging from a nightmare. No, she thought. He was talking about himself.

  “You know something about nightmares,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The breathing exercises weren’t working. She lunged to her feet and grabbed the robe that she had left on the wall hook. She looked out the window. It was still dark, still raining, but the cityscape glittered and sparkled in the night.

  Breathe.

  She turned and watched Julius climb out of bed. He was wearing the T-shirt and briefs he’d put on after the shower. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was enveloped in his robe.

  “I know this sounds weird,” she said, “but I need to get some air. I need to move. I need to get outside.”

  “Not a problem.” He pulled on the jeans he’d left on a nearby chair. “Got meds?”

  He sounded so matter-of-fact she knew that he’d meant it when he said that he’d been there.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “My purse.” Desperate to appear normal, she tried to inject some brittle humor into her voice. “I never leave—”

  “You never leave home without them. Neither do I. Haven’t had to use them in years but I keep them handy.”

  That reassured her as nothing else could have done in that moment. He really did understand. But the terrible jittery sensation and the tightness in her chest were not improving.

  “I’ll use them if I need them,” she said, “but I think I’ll be okay if I can just get through the door—outside.”

  She rushed into the vast living room. The light coming through the wall of windows was sufficient to guide her to the balcony slider. Julius got there first. He reached out to open the door. His fingers brushed against hers. She jerked back.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  He unlocked the slider and pulled it aside.

  The door at the top of the stairs was open. She had to get through it. There was no other way to escape.

  She stepped out onto the balcony. Julius followed her out into the chilled night.

  She gripped the railing and went into the breathing exercises.

  Julius stood beside her and waited calmly, as if there was nothing unusual about a date who had panic attacks and needed to go outdoors in the middle of the night.

  Slowly she got herself under control.

  “Sorry,” she whispered again. “Among other things, this is really embarrassing.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not. Are the dreams getting worse?”

  “Sprague’s body. The stalker. The damn vodka bottle. The rat. The trapped feeling. It’s been a very heavy couple of weeks. I should have known better than to think I could get away with sleeping in your bed. I never spend the night with . . . with a date.”

  Gradually her pulse slowed. Her breathing calmed.

  When she was
sure she was back under control she released her death grip on the railing and straightened.

  “Damn,” she said softly. “I hate these crappy panic attacks.”

  “I know how you feel. I told you, I’ve been there.”

  “For me it all goes back to that day in the basement at the asylum,” she said.

  “Reason enough for an anxiety attack.”

  “Trager tried to stop me.” She sucked in a deep breath. “When I ran up the stairs, he grabbed my jacket. I was trapped. I knew that he was going to kill me.”

  “But you slashed his face with a broken bottle. You escaped.”

  “Yes. If I hadn’t grabbed that bottle—”

  “But you did grab the bottle. You saved yourself and the boy.”

  She took in another deep, square breath and let it out slowly.

  “I’ve been mildly claustrophobic ever since that day. But that’s not the worst part. I can handle elevators and airplanes so long as they are in motion. The worst part is the dream. The real bad attacks are always linked to it.”

  “But you never know when it will strike. That’s why you never let a date spend the night.”

  She nodded, mute.

  “Nights were always the worst for me, too.” Julius gripped the railing beside her. “It’s been better in the past few years. I did my time with the shrinks and with meds. But once in a while it all comes roaring back.”

  She looked at him. “No decent person could go to war and not be changed.”

  He leaned on the railing and gazed out over the glowing city. “Things looked different to me afterward.”

  “Because you were different.”

  He nodded. “But for a while I made the mistake of trying to pretend that nothing had changed. It was time to move forward with my life and all my big plans. And that’s just what I did. Got the job, with Harley. Learned from him. Started my own business. Got rich. Got married.”

  “You were determined to be normal,” she said.

  “Absolutely determined.”

  “You set an objective and you pursued it,” she said. “Is that why your marriage fell apart? Because you were focused on trying to get back to normal?”