Eleventh Hour

by Catherine Coulter

  “I didn’t write you anything, Nicola.”

  Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”

  “Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”

  Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”

  Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”

  Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”

  A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”

  “You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”

  “It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”

  Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”

  Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”

  “Albia, who killed Cleo?”

  “Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”

  “I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”

  “No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”

  Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola. You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”

  “Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”

  “Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”

  “I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”

  “What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.

  Nick looked at that blank wall. What was Albia going to do? Figure out how to kill her again? Obviously she couldn’t do it here, not with so many people just a short distance away. She wasn’t stupid. Where was the man she must have hired? Nick’s heart was still pounding. She felt a headache building over her left eye. It was time to fetch Sherlock, time to see Dane, to tell him everything Albia had said, which wasn’t much of anything except for all this stuff about Elliott Benson.

  First, though, she wanted to see what was behind that hidden panel. She walked to the wall, found the nearly flat button, and pressed it. The panel slid silently open. There was a dim passage that ran about six feet directly away from her then turned sharply to the right. She wanted to know what that turn led to, but there was no way she was going into that passage. She and Sherlock would check it out together. She turned to press the panel button when a large hand clapped down hard over her mouth. She fought but it was no good. She had no leverage and the man was much larger than she was, and very strong. He dragged her out of the office and into the passage. Her heart nearly dropped to her stomach when she heard the planel slide shut, and there was nothing but a tomb of darkness and a man dragging her away from safety.

  The man stopped abruptly at the end of the passage and turned sharply right. Suddenly there were soft glowing lights set above an elevator door.

  “She had to take a look just like you thought she would,” the man said, and pushed her away to hit the wall, hard.

  Albia was holding an elegant silver derringer, and it was aimed right at her chest.

  “Hello, Nicola. How nice of you to open the panel.”

  Her throat was clogged with fear. The man—she recognized him. He was wearing the same black leather jacket. Dark opaque sunglasses hung out of the breast pocket. His hands were large, fingers blunt—strong hands. It was the same man who’d been riding the Harley in L.A.

  She turned and ran.

  He was on her in an instant, grabbed her arms and twisted them up and back, hard, and she groaned with the pain.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s too late now, love.”

  “Darling, bring her here.”

  He dragged her back to where Albia stood, looking unruffled and elegant, still holding that derringer. “My goodness, Nicola, you are a bad girl, now aren’t you? You’ve been trying very hard to muck things up and I really can’t allow any more, now can I?”

  The man eased his hold on her arms. He turned her slowly to face him. He was older, his face seamed from years in the sun. He pushed her face up, his fist beneath her chin. “You’re very pretty. I always thought so, but not so smart, even with all those diplomas you have. But you know what, love? You were lucky, very lucky. I’ve always believed that luck ranked right up there with brains.”

  Nick stared up at him. “You’re the man who tried to kill me.”

  “Well, yes, I did, and it was quite a blow when I didn’t get you. Albia was very upset with me.”

  “Of course I was upset. You know, Nicola, you had more than your share of luck,” Albia said. “Poor little Cleo, she didn’t have even a lick of luck. Just as well that Dwight here sent her to her great reward. She was looking quite old there at the end. John told me that he used to love to touch her, her skin was so soft, but there, toward the end, he thought she was getting old, her skin becoming coarse.”

  “I thought she felt pretty nice,” Dwight said.

  Albia laughed. “John is very choosy. He told me he loved touching Nicola, that her skin was so very soft. He prayed that she wouldn’t become coarse for a long time.”

  Nick jerked, felt Dwight’s hand tighten around her arm. “Don’t think about yelling, love, this area is soundproof, the senator’s office as well. No one can hear a thing.”

  Ni
ck whispered, “It was you, Albia, all along it was you.”

  “Yes, dear. You want to know something? You’re nothing, Nicola, nothing at all. Dwight will make sure that no hunter’s dog finds you. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, but this will be the end of it. Yes indeed, it’s so fortunate that Dwight was waiting for you to open the panel. I thought you’d come right on in, but you didn’t. Still, it didn’t matter. Now, that’s what I call luck—for me.”

  Nick knew what fear tasted like, but this was more. This numbed her brain, made her shake. She didn’t want to die.

  There was nothing close to her, no weapon, nothing. If only she had Dane’s SIG Sauer again. But Dwight was here, ready to grab her again if she even twitched.

  She didn’t think, she just screamed and screamed again as she shoved her fist into Dwight’s belly and tried to pull free.

  “That’s quite enough,” Albia said, and brought the butt of the derringer hard on the back of her head. Nick didn’t see points of light, just instant, nauseating black. She sank to the floor.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “When did you say the senator would be back, Mrs. Mazer?”

  “He should have been here by now, Agent Sherlock. I wonder if he came in through his private entrance?”

  Sherlock went en pointe. “What private entrance?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She was around Mrs. Mazer’s desk in an instant, her hand on the doorknob, turning it, but nothing happened. It was locked.

  “It locks automatically when it’s closed from the inside,” Mrs. Mazer said, rising, alarmed now. “Some years ago a reporter forced his way in, so the senator decided to make the lock automatic. What’s wrong, Agent Sherlock? Oh dear, is it about Dr. Campion?”

  Sherlock knocked on the door, yelling Nick’s name.

  “Here, Agent.”

  Sherlock ground the key into the lock, twisted it, and the door opened silently.

  The office was empty. “Where’s the private entrance? Quickly, Mrs. Mazer.”

  “In the back wall.”

  Sherlock pulled her SIG Sauer out in a flash, even as she yelled over her shoulder to Mrs. Mazer, “Call the police. Tell them your Senator Rothman has taken Dr. Campion. Hurry!”

  It took Sherlock a moment to find the small button, built in nearly flat against the wall. She pressed, and the door silently eased back. She stepped into a dimly lit passage that was oak paneled, the floor carpeted with two small Turkish rugs. She paused, listening. She thought she heard something, movement, a man’s breathing.

  She went forward slowly in the darkness. The corridor turned once, then ended. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet long. She was facing a narrow elevator, its silver door barely visible in the dim light.

  She heard the low hum of the elevator motor. He was taking Nick down. But Sherlock didn’t know where the elevator let out. She punched the button again, then a third time.

  And while she punched, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed Dillon’s number. He answered immediately. “Hello?”

  “Dillon, hurry. Rothman’s building. He’s got Nick. It isn’t Albia. Oh God, hurry—”

  The elevator door opened silently and smoothly, and she jumped inside, punched the only button. Dillon was no longer connected on the cell phone. It didn’t work inside the elevator. No, it was all right, she’d said enough. Every available cop in Chicago would converge on the building within minutes.

  The door opened and she stepped out slowly, fanning her SIG. She was in a dark area of the basement. There was the low hum of equipment all around her. She paused for a moment, listening. Where could he have gone? How big was this damned basement? How could he begin to hope he’d take Nick out of here without being seen? There were media nosing around.

  Sherlock stood quietly for a few more seconds, but she simply couldn’t hear anything except the sounds of the equipment motors all around her.

  When the gun barrel slammed down, she collapsed to the floor, her SIG hitting the concrete and skidding away from her.

  Her first thought, when she opened her eyes, was that she had a bitch of a headache. She felt the pain slash through her head. Not a moment later, Nick remembered—Albia had struck her with the butt of her gun. She tried to raise her hand but couldn’t.

  She heard the sound of an engine, loud, but that didn’t make any sense. She realized she was tied to a chair, arms and ankles, really tight. The pain in her head made her nauseous, and she swallowed repeatedly until she knew she wouldn’t vomit. Then she heard a moan, but it wasn’t from her.

  She looked up. She was in a small room, lots of wood, cramped. She looked to her left. There was Sherlock, tied to another chair, her head slumped forward.

  The room lurched. Moved. She realized they were on a boat and the boat was moving fast, the engine pushing hard. She smelled the water and the diesel, heard the powerful engine, felt the boat bounce and rock as it sliced through the waves.

  Boat?

  “Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock? Please, come out of it. You can do it.”

  Silence, then, “Nick?”

  “Yes, I’m all right, just a horrible headache. He got you, too. I’m so sorry.”

  Sherlock got herself together, closed her eyes, tried to get her brain back in gear. “Nick, I’ll be okay, just give me a minute.”

  The boat slammed down and Nick’s chair nearly toppled.

  “We’re in a boat, going really fast,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Sherlock. “I can feel it. I’m very sorry I let him get me, Nick. At least I’d already called Dillon. Every cop in Chicago will be looking for us, count on it.”

  “We’re on John’s boat. I’ve been out on it a couple of times. It’s good-sized, a sixty-three-foot Hatteras Fly-bridge yacht. It’s really fast, Sherlock. He used to brag that it could do twenty-one knots.”

  “It feels like he’s nearly at maximum. The man’s nuts, Nick. I can’t understand how a United States senator could do something like this. I can’t imagine how he got both of us out of the building and here on his boat, all without being seen. He’s a very well-known man.”

  “It isn’t John, Sherlock. You guys were right, it was Albia. The guy who’s driving the boat is Dwight, the man who tried to kill me three times.”

  Sherlock digested that. “You know something? I don’t feel all that smart that we figured out Albia was behind it.”

  “I wonder where Dwight is taking us?”

  Sherlock didn’t say anything. She was afraid she knew. Dwight was going to take them to the middle of Lake Michigan, weigh them down, and toss them overboard.

  It’s what she would have done if she were nuts and in a hurry.

  “Crane Island,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe he’s taking us to Crane Island. Albia said that John owns a house there, really private.”

  Fat chance, Sherlock thought, unless he wanted to kill them and bury them there. She wasn’t about to say that to Nick. She got her breathing and her brain together, shook her head just very slightly so she wouldn’t be sick, and raised her head. “You’re right, there’s the boat logo over there. My cell phone, Nick, it’s in my pocket. We’ve got to get loose and use it. Nick, how tight are your wrists tied?”

  Several moments passed before Nick said, “Real tight, but my ankles aren’t too bad.”

  “Mine are tight, too. Okay, do you think you can move yourself closer to me?”

  “Yes, Sherlock.”

  Nick was nearly there when the boat hit a big wave and she toppled to the side. She hit her face against the thin carpet on the wood floor. She was winded, lay there a moment trying to get herself together.

  “Nick, you all right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if I can still get over to you, Sherlock.”

  “I’ve been working on my ankles, they’re a bit looser, maybe. Let me see if I can’t get over to you.”

  It took time, so much precious time, but finally Sherlock was right next to Nick. “Okay, no hope for it. I’m going to have to
topple myself and hope that I’m close enough to reach your wrists.”

  Sherlock’s chair went over. She looked over her shoulder. She was too far from Nick’s wrists. She wiggled, pushed, as did Nick. Finally, she could touch her hands. She was panting hard, pain shooting up her arms. “At last. Just a bit closer, Nick. Hurry. That’s good.”

  Sherlock went to work. They were both aware of time, and too much of it was passing too fast. Dwight could stop the boat any minute, come down the wooden stairs, and shoot them. Oh God, it was all her fault. She’d been arrogant, so sure of herself—oh God, she felt low as a slug. She thought of Sean, of Dillon, and knew, knew to her soul that she simply couldn’t die. She wouldn’t.

  She concentrated, focused. The knot was loosening, finally. “Nick, get the rope off your hands, quick. We don’t have much time.”

  Nick pulled her hands free, got her ankles untied, then went to work on Sherlock’s wrists. She was panting, but not with fear now, with hope, urging herself to move quicker, quicker.

  The boat was slowing down.

  “Hurry, Nick!”

  Done, her wrists were free. Both of them untied Sherlock’s ankles. They both pulled themselves to their feet. But they were uncoordinated, numb from being tied so long. “He took my cell phone,” Sherlock said, panting. “Blast it.”

  The boat was coming to a stop.

  Sherlock managed to get to the galley area, pulled out drawers until she found the knives. “Here, Nick,” and handed her a knife. “Can you move now? Damn, I’d rather have my SIG, well, no matter, at least it’s a steak knife, with a nice sharp serrated edge. The boat’s stopped. We’re not in the middle of the lake. We’re at a pier. I was sure he’d just shoot us and throw us overboard. Do you think we’re at this Crane Island?”

  “Yes, we’re at Crane Island,” Dwight said, walking down the stairs. “Come to think of it, I wish I’d buried Cleo here. No hunters allowed, you know? Well, well, would you just look, both of you free. How very efficient of you, Agent Sherlock. Ladies, put those knives down. I want you to come up the stairs, slowly, your hands on your heads. Do it or I’ll shoot you right here. Oh yes, you’re going to die in a beautiful place. I’m going to bury you beneath some ancient pine trees at the back of Senator Rothman’s property.”