Low Pressure

by Sandra Brown

  Past listening, she threaded the fingers of both hands through her hair and held it off her face. He could practically see her mind wildly spinning. “When we were with Moody and I described the crime scene, you got nervous. You were biting the inside of your cheek. You looked tense, tightly wound, like you were about to spring off the bed.” He tried to keep his expression neutral, but she was too perceptive.

  “You thought that if I told too much I would incriminate myself. That’s why you got anxious, isn’t it?”

  “Bellamy, listen—”

  “You think I killed her and couldn’t live with what I’d done, so I blocked my memory of it. That’s what you think.”

  “It makes no difference what I think.”

  “Of course it does!”

  “To who?”

  “To me!” she shouted. “It matters to me that you think I’m a murderer.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  “I said that it had crossed my mind.”

  “Which is as good as.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Thinking that, why would you want to go to bed with me?”

  “What does one have to do with the other?”

  She looked at him, aghast, speechless, and horrified.

  He took a breath, blew it out, then said, “Look, after what Susan said about you, I wouldn’t have blamed you for driving a stake through her heart. I don’t believe you choked her, but if you did, so what? I don’t care.”

  She hugged herself even more tightly. “You’ve said that repeatedly. You didn’t care about your dad’s indifference. You don’t care what my parents think about you. You left the airline uncaring of people’s opinion. You don’t care if Moody blows his brains out. You don’t care if I took my sister’s life. You. Don’t. Care. About anything. Do you?”

  He remained stonily, angrily silent.

  “Well, your not caring is a big problem for me.” She held his gaze for several beats, then went to the staircase and started up. “I want you to go now, and I don’t want you ever to come back.”

  Inside the master bedroom closet, Ray Strickland was beside himself. He’d overheard everything.

  That bitch Bellamy had killed Susan and had got off scot-free! Allen had paid with his life for her crime, while she’d gone merrily on her way, living the good life.

  “Not for much longer,” he whispered.

  He heard a door slam and figured it was Dent Carter storming out. Which was okay. Ray could catch up with him later. Right now, he wanted to feel the book writer’s blood on his hands. He wanted to wash his face in it, bathe in it.

  He slid his knife from the scabbard, thrilling to that hissing sound.

  He could hear her tread as she made her way upstairs. Only a few moments now, and the injustice done to Allen would be avenged.

  He heard her on the landing. Coming down the hall. She was steps away, seconds shy of entering the bedroom. She was mere heartbeats away from death.

  The bedroom light flicked on.

  He took a tighter grip on the bone handle of his knife and held his breath.

  Chapter 24

  Dent wasn’t enjoying the kissing. Hers were sloppy.

  He decided to skip the preliminaries and move things along. Reaching under the back of her top, he unhooked her bra strap.

  “My, my. You’re eager,” she whispered and dug her tongue into his ear.

  “I am.”

  “Okay by me. I’ll just be a minute.” She went into the bathroom and, after pausing to blow him a kiss, shut the door.

  He went over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it to test its firmness. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be there long. Just long enough.

  He had tried to coax Bellamy out of her retreat upstairs, but it was as though the plug had been pulled on her emotions. She’d paused on the stairs to deliver a parting shot, spoken in a monotone, her expression closed, cold, removed.

  “Look at it this way, Dent, if it turns out that I’m the culprit, your name will be cleared. You do care about that.”

  He’d left, telling himself that his leave-taking was long overdue. He never should have become involved with her in the first place. Gall had tried to tell him, but had he listened? No. He’d plunged in and, now he was sick of everything associated with the Lystons.

  He’d had it up to here with right versus wrong. He was no longer interested in who had said what, who had done what, and he was tired of trying to fit all the pieces together. To what end? Okay, exoneration for himself. But in the grand scheme of things, that wasn’t much. He could live without ever being rubber-stamped innocent of killing Susan.

  So if Bellamy wanted to end their affiliation here, this way, then it was fine and dandy with him.

  While with her, he’d forgotten every life-lesson he’d ever learned. Like, don’t become involved in someone else’s mess. Don’t offer advice to someone who obviously doesn’t want it. Don’t be a sap and admit to feeling anything, because what does it get you? Nothing, that’s what. You wind up being not only rejected, but made to look like a damn fool as well.

  He should have remembered that from all the times he’d cried himself to sleep for want of the mother who had cared so little as to have abandoned him. Or from the times he’d tried to get his father’s notice, only to be ignored.

  His father, the wizard of indifference, had taught him one thing: People could affect you only if you allowed them to.

  So he’d told himself that Bellamy’s problems were no longer his, that he was done, finished, and had sped away from her house in desperate need of diversion. He’d stopped at the first bar that looked promising. By the time he’d finished his second drink, she—he hadn’t caught her name and didn’t intend to—had taken up residence on the barstool next to his.

  She was cute and cuddly. She hadn’t talked about anything even remotely serious. Instead she’d been flirtatious, funny, and flattering, all excellent antidotes for what he’d been dwelling on over the past few days.

  He hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes, only that they weren’t haunted. Or angry and accusatory. Or blue, and soulful, and deep enough for a man to drown in.

  She didn’t have a pale sprinkling of freckles on her cheekbones.

  Her lower lip didn’t make him think of sin and salvation at the same time.

  Her hair wasn’t dark and sleek.

  Her main asset was that she was friendly and agreeable. No analyses, no whys and wherefores, none of that. In no time at all, her hand was making forays up his thigh, and he couldn’t remember exactly who’d suggested the motel, him or her, but here they were, and he was waiting for her to come out of the bathroom so they could screw and get it over with.

  Get it over with?

  It suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not in the slightest. So what the hell was he doing here?

  And just where was he, anyway?

  His searching gaze connected with his reflection in the mirror above the dresser opposite the bed. Mentally erasing the cuts and bruises from his face, he assessed the man looking back at him. With as much objectivity as possible, he decided that for a man nearing forty, he was holding up fairly well.

  But ten years from now, would he still be looking at himself in the mirror of a random motel room, waiting for a woman he wasn’t even attracted to, whose name he hadn’t bothered to get? At sixty would he still be doing this?

  It was a depressing prospect.

  Not even realizing his intention, he left the bed, went to the door, and pulled it open. On his way out, he paused to glance back in the direction of the bathroom, thinking that maybe he should say something, provide some excuse for cutting out. But whatever he told her would be a lie, and she would know it, and that would insult her worse than if he just split.

  Which was justification for letting himself off the hook easily. But at least he had the decency to acknowledge it this time.

  He drove hi
s Vette hard, but when he entered his apartment, he looked around and wondered why he’d been in such a hurry to get here. It was a shabby rathole, just as Bellamy had said. Sad and lonely, she’d called his life. She was right about that, too.

  He stared into the emptiness of the room, but what he actually looked into was the vast, empty landscape of his life. The thing was—and it was the thing that bothered him most—he saw nothing in his future that was going to fill that wasteland.

  Moving suddenly, he’d fished his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and turned it on, then scrolled through the list of recent calls until he found the number he sought. He called it, and a woman answered by asking, “Is this Dent?”

  “Yeah. Is Gall there?”

  “Hold on. He’s been trying to reach you.”

  Dent heard a muffled exchange, then Gall came on. “Where have you been?”

  “Was that your lady?”

  “Who else would it be?” he replied querulously. “I’ve called you a dozen times. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I’d turned off my phone.”

  “How come?”

  “I didn’t want to talk to anybody.”

  Gall grunted. “How’s Bellamy doing?”

  “She’s okay. Uh, listen, Gall, I want you to fix my airplane.”

  “Ain’t that what I’ve been doing?”

  “Yeah, but it’s taking too long. What about those parts you’ve been waiting on?”

  “I’m hounding them to rush the order.”

  “Good. I need to be flying again. Soon as possible.”

  “Don’t I know that already?”

  “Right. But I’ve also been thinking about—”

  “Dent—”

  “No, let me get this out before I change my mind. I’ve given more thought to the senator’s offer.”

  “That’s what you’re calling about?”

  “I know it’s late, but you’re the one who’s been on my ass about it, so I’m calling now to tell you that I’ve decided to talk to him. Maybe… I don’t know—it might not be that bad to have steadier employment. At least I can hear the guy out, see what he has to say.”

  “I’ll set it up.”

  “An informal meeting. I’m not dressing up for him.”

  “I’ll set it up.”

  Suddenly Dent felt good. Maybe a little proud of himself for the first time in a long time. He realized that he was smiling hugely. But Gall’s restraint puzzled him. “I thought you’d be a lot happier.”

  “I’m real happy. You’re finally acting like a grown-up, making a good decision.”

  “So, what’s the matter?”

  “I’m just surprised by your timing.”

  “Again, I apologize for the hour. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. But I reached the decision a few minutes ago and wanted to act on it immediately. Call the guy first thing in the morning, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” A pause, then, “You talk this over with Bellamy?”

  “I would have, except…” Dent took a deep breath, expelled it. “She’s not speaking to me.”

  “Oh. I get it now. You don’t know.”

  Gall’s tone sent a chill through Dent. His happy bubble burst. “What don’t I know?”

  “Her daddy died. It was reported on the ten o’clock news.”

  Steven folded his dark pinstripe suit into his suitcase, which lay open on the bed, and looked over his shoulder at William as he came into the room. Steven asked, “Any problems?”

  “None. All the shifts are covered. The chef will manage the kitchen. Bartender will oversee the dining room. No one will know we’re gone.”

  “You hope.”

  “We’ve hired good people. Things will run smoothly, and if there is a hitch, it won’t be the end of the world. Or even the end of Maxey’s Atlanta.”

  Steven hesitated and, not for the first time, said, “You don’t have to come with me.”

  William shot him a look as he pulled his own luggage from the storage closet. “I don’t have to, but I am.”

  “For a decade I’ve protected you from my family and its woes. Why involve yourself now?”

  “I’m not involving myself with your family. I’m involved with you. Period. End of discussion. What time is our flight tomorrow?”

  Steven had made their reservation for the first flight out of Atlanta to Houston. “We’ll be there by ten. The funeral home in Austin is sending a hearse to Houston to transport the body. We’ll ride back to Austin with Mother in the accompanying limo, and then fly home from there after the funeral.”

  “Which is?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Soon, then.”

  “Mother saw no reason to delay it. Howard’s death has been expected for months. Actually, without her knowledge, he had already made most of the arrangements, even for the viewing, which will be tomorrow night.” He laid several folded shirts in the suitcase. “Out of respect, Lyston Electronics will shut down for three days, although the employees will receive full pay.”

  “Who mandated that? Bellamy?”

  “Mother. She thought it was a gesture that Howard would have approved. As for Bellamy, when I spoke to Mother, she hadn’t yet notified her.”

  “Why, for godsake?”

  “She dreaded having to tell her. Despite the time Bellamy has had to prepare herself, she’ll be grief-stricken.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping. Since receiving the news, he’d been busily attending to business matters, making travel arrangements, readjusting his schedule, packing mourning clothes.

  Now the gravity of the situation seeped into him, and, along with it, profound weariness.

  William came over to him. “What about you? What are you feeling?”

  “I’m worried about Mother. She sounded as good as could be expected, but I’m sure she’s keeping up appearances and holding herself together, being the strong, stalwart widow of an important man.” He exhaled heavily. “But Howard was the center of her universe. Her life revolved around him. She’s lost the love of her life as well as the purpose for it.”

  William acknowledged that the transition for her would be difficult. “Selfishly, however, I’m more concerned about your state of mind.”

  “I’m not leveled by grief, if that’s what you mean. Whatever my relationship with Howard was or wasn’t, it’s too late now to change it, and in any case I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.”

  He took a moment to sort through his shifting emotions. “I think he would have been more of a father to me if I had let him. When they married he embraced me as his son, adopted me, made it legal. And it wasn’t just for show or to please Mother. I believe he actually wanted to become my dad. But I couldn’t have that kind of relationship with him. I kept him at arm’s length.”

  “Because you blamed him for Susan’s abuse.”

  “By extension, I suppose,” Steven admitted. “Unfairly.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Steven looked at him sharply.

  “Howard may have known what she was doing,” he said softly.

  Steven adamantly shook his head. “He would have stopped it.”

  “He would have had to acknowledge it first. For a man as principled, as devoted to family values as Howard was, accepting that his teenaged daughter was a conniving, malicious, unconscionable whore would have been out of the question. Rather than confront it, it’s possible that he denied it, even to himself, and looked the other way while she continued her reign of terror over you.”

  It was only a theory, but upsetting nevertheless. Steven placed his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Jesus. I fool myself into believing I’m over it, but I’m not.”

  “You should have had counseling.”

  “I would have had to tell first. And I couldn’t tell.”

  William sat down beside him and placed his hand on Steven’s bowed head. “Susan is dead.”

  “I wish,” he said in a voice made raspy
by anguish. “But I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling her breath on my face.”

  “I know. And the haunting has gotten worse since Low Pressure was published.” William clicked his tongue with irritation. “For the love of God, why did Bellamy ever start this insanity? Why won’t she stop?”

  “Because she’s haunted, too. She wants an end to it just as I do, and her approach is to dig for answers to questions that were buried with Susan.” He raised his head and saw in William’s eyes a foreboding that matched his own. “Until she has them, I’m afraid she won’t stop digging.” He added in a whisper, “But I’m equally afraid she will.”

  Ray figured he must be cursed or something.

  Maybe some unknown enemy had a voodoo doll that looked like him, a thousand pins stuck in it. Maybe the stars that charted his fate were out of whack or had collapsed upon themselves.

  It was certain that something was fucked up. Or else why couldn’t he catch a break?

  Bellamy Price had been seconds away from walking straight into his well-laid ambush.

  When a cell phone rang.

  Ray had heard it from inside the closet. Even as his jaw dropped with disbelief over his rotten luck, he’d heard her running footsteps going back the way she’d come. He’d heard her say, “Don’t hang up!” as she raced down the stairs.

  The phone stopped ringing. Breathlessly, she said, “I’m here, Olivia.”

  Then for a time, nothing, and Ray had thought to himself that if she was that absorbed by what her stepmother was saying, she probably wouldn’t hear him. All was not lost.

  He’d eased open the closet door, slipped out, and tiptoed to the double doors of the bedroom, where he’d paused to listen. She was speaking in a murmur. She’d made a sound like a sob then began crying in earnest.

  He’d left the bedroom and crept down the hall, knowing that her weeping would keep her from hearing him. It had sounded to him as though she was at the foot of the staircase. That close. If he could reach the landing without alerting her, the noise he made going down wouldn’t matter. By the time she’d registered his presence and reacted, she’d be dead.