by Anne Stuart
But he didn’t really believe that. He knew his brother, knew the calm glint of madness in his pale blue eyes. There was no pulling back. Safety was only an illusion.
At least Sophie was safe. Rachel was another matter. He was going up to his house, taking the fastest shower on record, and grabbing the gun he’d stashed behind the mouse-eaten towels.
He knew how to use it. He had a license, which Maggie hadn’t bothered to check, and he wouldn’t hesitate. It would be like shooting a mad dog.
It wasn’t his brother. It was the damaged creature who lived to hurt and kill. And he had to be stopped.
He drove so fast up the winding road that the tires spun, the car drifted sideways, and he ended up stuck in the mud halfway up the narrow drive that led to his house. He got out and ran, not sure why.
The house looked the same when he came around the corner. Bright blue tarp, gaping windows, rickety and ruined. There was no sign of anyone, and he started up the steps, taking them two at a time, all his senses sure of certain disaster.
The huge empty room looked the same in the shadows, the dark stain of blood a reminder. He started down the stairs that led into the room and then stopped as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. There was something over by the woodstove, something small and fragile. He took another step, and saw the long blond hair, and he let out a cry, stumbling forward.
He didn’t see it or hear it, but he knew it was coming. And when the blackness closed in he fought, but it was too strong, even against his rage, and he was gone.
David had won.
Rachel ran blindly, not daring to look behind her, terrified that a hand would reach out and grab her shoulder. She needed to get help, and fast, and she yanked her cell phone from her pocket as she raced down the uneven sidewalks in the heavy boots. She fumbled with the keypad, trying to dial Maggie’s number, but she kept hitting the wrong buttons. She forced herself to stop, long enough to catch her breath, long enough to dial 911. Before she could hit Send the phone rang.
She stared down at the image of David’s smiling face for a moment, on the phone he’d given her when she moved in, preprogrammed so that his little photo appeared anytime he called her. Tempted to smash the thing on the sidewalk, she took a deep breath and flipped it open. “Yes, David?” She spoke in a neutral voice, but her hands shook.
“Darling, where are you? I got home and the place was trashed. There were papers all over the place, and someone smashed in the window in my office. I was terrified that he’d come after you.”
He sounded like David, anxious, sweet, concerned, and she wanted to believe him so badly. Not for his sake. But for hers. “Who would come after me?”
“Caleb. They didn’t have enough to hold him, and he’s out. They don’t know where he is—I’m afraid he’s gone after Sophie.”
“Sophie’s with the Bannisters,” she said, her voice numb.
“No, she isn’t. Kristen said she took off before school was over, and Sophie told her to cover for her. She stopped by my father’s, but no one’s seen her since. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.”
It was so easy to believe him. “Why would she stop by Stephen Henry’s? She hates him.”
“I think she was trying to find Caleb. Someone must have told her he’d been arrested, and she’s so blindly infatuated with him she probably thought it was all a lie. He has that effect on people.”
Rachel took a deep breath. She was standing motionless in the rain, holding on to the telephone. She couldn’t let him know her panic. “Have you told the police she’s missing?”
“Of course I have,” he said, and his voice sounded indignant, almost normal. “They’ll find her before Caleb does, I’m sure of it. I don’t want you to worry about it. I just want you to come back home.”
That cold, empty place had never really felt like home, she could finally admit it to herself. “I don’t think so, David.”
“Sweetheart, I know what you’re thinking. I saw the packed suitcases, the barrettes on Sophie’s dresser. What I never told you is that Caleb gave me those barrettes. I was dating someone with long hair, someone Caleb used to care about, and he gave me those barrettes to give to her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“She disappeared,” he said, his voice, that pale version of Stephen Henry’s, sounded bleak. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know how to convince you that I haven’t had anything to do with these murders. I tried to warn you that there was something wrong with Caleb, but you wouldn’t listen. You almost paid for that mistake with your life. You’re just lucky we got to the motel before it was too late.”
He sounded so reasonable, so concerned. She wanted so much to believe him.
“Come home, Rachel,” he pleaded. “We’ll go see Maggie Bannister together. If I know her she’ll have the entire police force out looking for Sophie, and she won’t stop till she finds her. Come home, sweetheart. Don’t try to go through this alone. You just need to talk to me.”
“Where’s Sophie?” she said, her voice raw.
“Darling, I don’t know. Hiding out from me if she’s believed any of Caleb’s lies. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Maybe Caleb found her. Maybe she’s up at his house right now, tied up, helpless.” His voice had settled into a soft croon. “That’s what he wanted all the time, you know. He wanted her, not you. He thought you might make him whole, but you can’t do that, can you, Rachel? You’re too wild, too loud. You couldn’t be what he needed, and so he had to kill again.”
She stood there, shivering, numb, as his awful words sank into her brain. The cracks were showing, sooner than she’d expected. “I’m so sorry,” she said helplessly.
“You know that won’t do any good, Rachel. She’s up there, waiting for you. He wants you to come up there, Rachel. He needs you to complete the circle.” His voice was eerie, calm, and she could almost believe he was talking about Caleb, not about himself.
“I don’t have a car,” she said, trying to keep her panic under control.
“You can take the BMW.”
Her laugh bordered on hysteria. “You never let me drive the BMW.”
“I didn’t know Caleb was going to sabotage your car, now did I?” His voice was sweet. “The keys are on the counter. You’d better hurry. It’s going to get dark soon, and Sophie will be frightened.” There was a moment of silence. “I love you, Rachel.”
Without thinking she threw the phone away from her, and it smashed against the concrete sidewalk. She wanted to sink to her knees and sob in terror. She’d put her daughter in mortal danger because she hadn’t had the brains to leave this awful place. She’d fucked up, and she wasn’t the one who was going to pay. Sophie was.
Not if she could help it.
She had no idea if David was home or not. All she knew was that she had to get to Sophie.
And he’d told her where she was. Up at Caleb’s house.
Could she believe a word he said? If Caleb had been released then he’d be after David as well. He’d never let Sophie be taken. Unless he’d been released too late. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe Sophie was.
She had to get up there before it was too late. She looked around her, trying to control her breathing.
There were three houses on the cul-de-sac, nearly half a mile from the house she’d shared with David. She ran up to the first one, ringing the bell, banging on the door, the only answer being a very angry dog. The second one was the same. The third was double locked, but no dogs. She went around the back, picked up an ornamental planter and smashed it through the sliding-glass door.
No sound of burglar alarms, dammit. Alarms would bring the police, the only people she needed right then. People were just too damned trusting in this town. She reached past the broken glass and opened it, flipped on the nearest light switch. She could see the phone on the wall, and she grabbed it, almost sobbing at the blessed dial tone.
They put her on
hold. The fucking police department put her on hold, with a Muzak version of “I Am, I Said” in the background. Neil Diamond again. She slammed it down into the cradle, wanting to scream.
She headed for the attached garage, and finally her luck had changed. Whoever lived in this spotless house had a classic 1967 Mustang, in pristine condition, parked in one of the three bays. No key, of course, but with a car like that she didn’t need a key. She’d learned to hot-wire engines years ago, and it was like riding a bike. You never forgot.
She gunned the engine, searching for an automatic garage-door opener. It must have been in one of the other cars, and she got out again, frantic, looking for a button of some sort.
She was too panicky to find it. The Mustang was a muscle car, the house was a new McMansion with shoddy construction. She got back in, put the car in Reverse and floored it.
The garage door splintered as she sailed through, and a moment later she was tearing down the road, heading toward the only place she needed to be. He had her daughter up at Caleb’s place. She didn’t know how or why, but after his veiled conversation she was absolutely certain of it.
It couldn’t be too late—she was somehow part of the equation. She was going to get there in time, and then she was going to kill David Middleton. Not for making a fool out of her. Not for making her sleep with a psychopath. But for even threatening to hurt her child. She was going to slice him to ribbons.
David surveyed his handiwork, pleased with himself. He’d been forced into this, and there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t succeed, but he had faith that everything would come out the way it ought to. He’d worked too hard for it to all fall apart, and besides, with his intellect it should be simple enough for him to outsmart the police. As he had for all these years.
His father suspected, but Stephen Henry would never betray him, for the simple reason that it would take attention away from the old man himself, and he wouldn’t be able to bear that. If the world discovered how very clever David had been, for all these long years, no one would care about the old man and his pretentious poetry and his overweening vanity. As long as he was the center of attention he’d turn a blind eye to his real son’s real accomplishments.
He whistled beneath his breath as he finished with the ropes. He’d expected better of Caleb. His brother had walked right into his trap, taken one look at little Sophie and forgotten who he was dealing with. His skull may have been smashed in—there was blood seeping into his shirt, and David shuddered. He hated blood—it made him physically ill. Any blood but his own, that was. His body was a crisscross of scars, some old, some new, the elegant razor tracings a road map of pain. He’d made a mistake a few weeks ago, and cut too close to his testicle. He’d been unable to perform under any but the most extreme circumstances for the last few weeks, and he’d been afraid Rachel would say something.
She’d never been particularly satisfying in bed—much too active, when he wanted her to lie still. And she wanted to touch him, when he couldn’t bear being touched. She’d been docile enough the first few times, and he’d really begun to believe it would work out. He could keep her until Sophie was old enough, and then a believable accident would take care of things. He hadn’t wanted her to suffer—she was Sophie’s mother, after all.
But right now he wanted her to suffer. He wanted to flay her flesh from her bones, he wanted to burn her alive. She’d done nothing but get in his way, and he’d seen her face when they found her in the motel with Caleb. She’d had sex with him. He could smell it on her, see it in her eyes, in Caleb’s eyes. Noisy, dirty, foul sex, and she loved it.
He ought to bless her for it. Any hesitation he’d had vanished in the morning light. Any pain he could inflict, any fear he could drive into her, would only be righteous and well-deserved. He no longer had to hold back—he could do anything he wanted and it would be justified.
Not that he should need to justify his actions. He had complete faith in his preordained path.
He yanked the ropes tighter, cutting into Caleb’s flesh, but his brother didn’t move. Maybe he’d never regain consciousness, never feel the fire eating through his clothes, making his skin crackle and pop like pork fat in the flame. It was only a small disappointment. Rachel would be awake. Rachel would know.
He rose. The meager afternoon light was fading, and he glance at his watch, pouting. What was taking her so long? He’d told her where they were—she should have been here by now. Didn’t she care about her daughter?
There was always the possibility that she’d gone to the police after all, but he didn’t think she was that stupid. If he saw flashing lights or heard anything unexpected he’d kill Sophie before anyone could get close enough to stop him. He had Caleb’s gun—how typical of his macho older brother, to think something as pathetic as a gun could stop him. He probably thought David didn’t know how to use it. He’d always underestimated him.
No, Caleb had always thought David didn’t have the stones to do what needed to be done.
David couldn’t help it—he giggled. If he wasn’t more careful with his beloved antique straight-edge razor he’d definitely be missing one himself. He had to watch it, but it was getting harder and harder to find areas of his skin that weren’t already marked with scars. He had to be careful—Rachel had never felt the elegant tracings when she’d disobeyed him and tried to put her arms around him when they had sex. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see them—it would raise too many questions with his next girlfriend.
He was going to have to get rid of Sophie, which saddened him. Because of that bitch he’d married, everything was too rushed, and Sophie knew he’d taken her. She’d fought him before he managed to knock her out with the chloroform, and he’d almost strangled her right there and then.
But he had self-control, when so many people didn’t. And for Rachel, knowing that Sophie would die wouldn’t be nearly as painful as seeing the girl in his control. Caleb and Rachel would suffer as they’d made him suffer.
He’d be gentle with Sophie, because he knew that she loved him. Oh, she pretended she didn’t, because she knew her mother would be jealous, but he could see beneath her standoffishness. She was younger than the other ones, and he liked that. He liked the innocence. That silly teenager in San Francisco, the one who’d led him to Sophie, had been exciting. But nothing compared to sweet, sweet Sophie. He looked over at her. She was still unconscious. He’d forced the stuff down her throat, to keep her quiet, and he may have given her too much. Which would be a shame—he wanted her awake. But if she didn’t wake up, there’d be others.
He wondered how young he could safely go. He didn’t want to hurt himself if they were too small. That wouldn’t be very pleasant.
He heard the crash of metal on metal from a distance, and a smile wreathed his face. Caleb had left the car, his car, the one he’d bought for Rachel, halfway down the driveway. Rachel must have slammed into it.
It couldn’t be the police—he would have heard the sirens. She was coming. He was really quite cross with her, the most uncooperative of women. She’d tried hard in the beginning—he could give her credit for that. But it hadn’t taken her long to start rebelling, trying to change his ordered life and his ordered house.
Though she had given him Sophie, and for that he would always be grateful. She was still going to suffer—she’d know that the fire would take her and she would die screaming.
Part of him would regret that, quite sincerely.
He heard her running up the front stairs, loud and graceless, and he made a face. Sophie would never be so clumsy. Sophie would never be so rude.
He knelt down beside the young girl, pulling her limp body into his arms, stroking her long, golden hair.
And when the front door slammed open, and Rachel stood there, muddy, furious, he smiled up at her, as he stroked and he stroked her daughter.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t get here in time,” he said. “Close the door behind you. It’s chilly. You wouldn’t wan
t our Sophie to catch a cold.”
And to his utter amazement, his wife came at him, a kitchen knife in her hand.
20
Rachel froze where she was. David was sitting on the floor, her baby daughter cradled in his arms, and he was holding a gun to her head. Her silky blond hair flowed over his arm. His expression was almost genial.
“Do drop the knife, Rachel,” he said. “I don’t want to shoot her. I despise blood, but you’ll find that I can’t be pushed. Drop the knife, kick it out of the way, and then sit, right where you are.”
She had no choice. She could see Caleb on the floor behind him, unconscious, bleeding, tied up, and she could only hope he was still alive. She kicked the knife out of the way and sat, cross-legged, prepared to leap if given half a chance.
But David wasn’t going to do that. He lay Sophie down on the plywood floor very carefully, and she could see that her daughter was alive, seemingly undamaged, and unconscious. It was a small blessing. He rose and turned to her, the gun looking quite natural in his small, well-manicured hand. “It took you a great deal longer than I would have expected, Rachel,” he said in a mild tone. “I thought you would have been up here at least an hour ago. Here I was, rushing to get Caleb properly trussed, afraid that the drugs would wear off and Sophie would start being difficult. I was really getting quite cross with you. Don’t you care about your daughter?”
“I didn’t have a car,” she said in a dull voice. “I had to break into someone’s house and steal one.”
David laughed. “How enterprising of you. But I told you that I didn’t mind if you drove the BMW.
I trust you.”
“I didn’t trust you.”
He laughed. “But the BMW is perfectly safe. It does still retain a hint of Melinda—I never would have guessed it would be so difficult to get the smell of putrefaction from a car trunk.”