by Harper Allen
“Why don’t they tell—”
…into thin air.
Chapter Seven
“Connn!”
The terrified scream tore from Marilyn’s throat even as her right foot stepped into space and she pitched into nothingness. Her arms windmilling wildly in an already-too-late attempt to reverse her forward momentum, she felt her left heel lift from the hallway floor, felt her weight shift to the ball of her foot, then to her toes, felt herself completely lose contact with solid ground.
Ever after she found it almost impossible to believe what she did next. Ever after she knew she owed her life to a woman she barely remembered, and certainly with no fond memories.
You—the blond one! One of Madame Olga’s quirks had been to refuse to learn the names of any but her star ballet pupils. You move like elephant! Up lightly and turn in air—like so!
For one whole Boston winter’s worth of Saturday mornings the elderly former prima ballerina had forced fourteen-year-old Marilyn to work on the intricacies of the tour en l’air, her sarcasm an integral part of the lesson. When the day had finally come that Marilyn’s performance earned a grudging, Satisfactory, girl. Not good, but not absolute horror. Marilyn had gone home, informed her mother and grandmother that she was giving up ballet, and had burned her satin shoes in the back garden of the Beacon Hill estate.
Seventeen years later, in the black hole of an empty elevator shaft, Madame Olga’s tortuous drilling paid off and somehow Marilyn, calling on physical resources she would have said she no longer had, executed a lightning-fast tour en l’air—literally a turn in midair that brought her facing the elevator opening instead of the blank wall of the shaft—as she fell. Her outstretched fingers scrabbled at the ledge of floor she’d just been standing on as it blurred past, found purchase, frantically grabbed.
Another involuntary scream left her lips as her wrists and shoulder joints seemed to pop completely out of place. Her body’s free fall jolted to a halt. Her grip slipped and terror sliced through her as she tightened her precarious grasp.
Sweat, cold and clammy, poured over her.
She could keep it up for a minute, maybe two, she thought, her brain already fogged from the excruciating pain searing like white-hot knives through her arms and hands. Then one hand would fail her—probably her left, since she was right-handed. A split second after that she would complete her fatal plunge.
She’d come out of her apartment wearing the flat velvet slippers she’d put on when she’d changed earlier. One of them had been lost right away. Now she felt the other slide slowly from her dangling foot and fall off.
A soft thump from far below signalled its final resting place on what she assumed was the elevator car’s roof. She squeezed her eyes shut to dispel the sickening image of her own body hitting that same far-below roof.
Even if she’d been months further on in her pregnancy, no unborn baby could survive such a fall by its mother, she thought desperately. Her child would die with her. Her child would never come into the world, never howl in outrage at the unsettling transition from comfortable womb to brightly lit delivery room, never feel the loving touch of the one pair of arms that had been aching to hold his or her tiny body since the day the pregnancy test had come back positive.
There was nothing complicated about this, Marilyn told herself grimly. It was simple. She had to live. She had to live to save the life of the baby growing inside her.
And her only chance of survival lay in Con hearing her in time. She opened her mouth to call out his name again, but even as she did she heard his hoarse shout.
“Marilyn! Marilyn—hang on, cher’!”
He had to have seen the yawning opening of the empty shaft as soon as he’d burst through the fire exit door that led to the stairs, because even as the fingers of her left hand began to slide inexorably from the ledge of floor she could hear him pounding down the hall toward her. Her grip gave way. Her body, no longer balanced, swung sickeningly sideways like a half-unpegged piece of clothing on a line and began twisting around in a semicircle, the movement prying loose the fingers of her right hand.
I’ve become one of my own mobiles, she thought. The fog of agony rolled in thicker. I thought if I turned myself into something he could value, Daddy would realize he’d been wrong to throw me away all those years ago. But tonight he threw me away all over again. And this time it hurt a thousand times more.
Truth…
Con’s racing footsteps were only yards away, but he wasn’t going to make it in time, she knew.
Beauty…
Her left hand cupped protectively around the swell of her stomach, in a final caress of the baby inside.
Love…
Con had never been a stranger—not really. Her fingers began to slide free. Even in the shadows of her office that first night, on some level hadn’t she felt she’d always known him? Hadn’t that lazy drawl, those emerald eyes, seemed achingly familiar, reassuringly comforting? Hadn’t she known then that he was the man she was destined to love, the man she’d been waiting for all her life?
Lies had been told, on her part, as well as his. But there had been one unspoken truth between them that cancelled out everything else.
She was in love with him. She would die knowing she’d had that.
The fingers of her right hand, frozen now in a sweat-slick claw, slid from the ledge. Her eyes flew open in terror. Con appeared in the opening. She plunged downward.
“No!”
Even as his shout resounded through the shaft his arm shot out and his hand clamped around her wrist like a band of steel.
“Con!” Five minutes ago—no, a lifetime ago—she hadn’t allowed herself to cry in front of him. Now she could taste the tears, feel them wet on her cheeks. “Con, get me out of here!”
But already he was one-handedly pulling her up, his features etched with strain, his body dangerously and unevenly braced against the steel frame of the elevator opening. The sound of running feet came down the hall, and from behind him she saw Jim and Dan appear, their faces white with shock.
Shock was replaced immediately with determination.
“Use both hands to grab her, buddy,” Jim said tightly, his arms locking around Con’s waist. “Dan, latch on to my belt and see if you can reach the door-knob of Marilyn’s apartment behind you to anchor us.”
Swiftly Con sought her other wrist, and her outstretched fingers found his. As soon as his hold was secure, he began hoisting her up and toward him.
“Almost there, cher’,” he rasped. “Stay still and let me get you past the edge here. We don’t want that little one inside you to get hurt.”
One final heave and then her knees were barking against wood and steel. Frantically she drew them up, and as her bare toes felt the blessed solidity of floor beneath them Con pulled her safely into the hall and away from the gaping emptiness behind her.
The next moment his arms were around her in a crushing embrace. He eased it immediately and drew slightly back to look into her face, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. Deeply carved lines bracketed his mouth. At the edge of her vision Marilyn was dimly aware of Jim and Dan’s shaky grins of relief, but all she could do was meet Con’s gaze.
“I nearly lost you, cher’.” His voice was raw. “When I saw that open shaft I—”
His eyes closed tightly and his hand came around to the back of her head to press her face into his chest. Her own eyes squeezed shut, Marilyn felt the beat of his heart beneath her cheek.
“The cables must have snapped.” A few feet away, Dan’s terse comment held a touch of anger. “This thing was inspected and certified only a month ago. Building management assured us it was safe.”
“If the cables had snapped sometime this evening, we would have known.” There was an odd note in Jim’s voice. “Forty feet of steel falling onto an elevator car right beside our apartment would have made quite a racket, Dan. And what’s that?”
Around her she felt Con’s grip tighten. J
im went on, and now she could identify the odd note in his voice as apprehension.
“It looks like something’s jammed against a gear a few feet up. It’s hard to see without a flashlight…but isn’t that a length of lead pipe, for God’s sake?”
Dan’s disbelieving reply became appalled confirmation, but Marilyn barely heard their conversation. She lifted her head to meet Con’s shattered gaze.
“It wasn’t an accident,” she whispered.
“It wasn’t an accident, cher’,” he agreed, his jaw rigid. “This was deliberate sabotage, and DeMarco had to be behind it. He tried to have you killed.”
“It wasn’t DeMarco who arranged this.” Her voice shook. “He’s not the only powerful man who sees me as an obstacle he needs to eliminate.”
Her nails were broken and cracked. They dug into his shirtsleeves.
“I think my father tried to have me killed, Con.”
SHE WAS SAFE, Con told himself almost twenty-four hours later as he readied a tray of tea and toast to take up to Marilyn. He’d left the apartment only once, to have a quick shower and change of clothes in his own. Even then he’d arranged for Jim and Dan to stand watch over her while she obeyed doctor’s orders and exhaustedly slept the day through.
Last night after the elevator incident Marilyn’s own OB-GYN had come from the hospital where she’d just finished delivering a baby—apparently the Langworthy name had enough pull to rate a house call—and had checked Marilyn over thoroughly, pronouncing her none the worse for her ordeal except for her broken nails and abraded fingertips, and suggesting an ultrasound be scheduled for the coming week to be absolutely sure the pregnancy was proceeding as it should.
So the woman he loved and the baby she was carrying was safe, and that was the main thing. If she hadn’t been…
If she hadn’t been, your own life wouldn’t have meant jack, he told himself harshly. The only reason you would have had to go on living would have been to hunt DeMarco to the ends of the earth and watch him die—slowly and in as much pain as you could arrange. Hell, that’s still an attractive option.
But although Marilyn was safe, she was far from secure. How could she be, when she was convinced her own father had been behind what had happened to her? How could she be when there was a possibility she was right?
“You didn’t see how he looked at me when he saw me at the club,” she’d said after Jim and Dan had left and she and Con were in her apartment awaiting the arrival of Dr. Roblyn. “Like I was the last person in the world he wanted to see. Like I was his…his enemy,” she’d added in agonized confusion. “I know how outrageous it sounds, Con, but look at the facts. That elevator was disabled after you and I came back here tonight, and before you went upstairs. That’s a pretty precise window of opportunity. Someone followed us home from the club, and the only person I know who saw me there was Father.”
“Let’s start with motive before we move on to means and opportunity,” he’d argued. “You said Samuel sees you as an obstacle he needs to eliminate. How do you figure that?”
“I could derail Josh’s chances. Having an unmarried and pregnant sister reflects badly on him in the eyes of a certain portion of the electorate, which is why I haven’t been asked to campaign for him. But having an unmarried and pregnant sister who’s been cooperative enough to die in a tragic accident gets my brother the sympathy vote.” She’d shrugged tightly. “Just like having an unmarried and pregnant half sister whose baby was abducted seems to have garnered Josh some support in—”
She’d stopped. He’d been close enough to her to see the dawning horror in her eyes and he’d known he needed to extinguish it immediately.
“By all accounts your father doted on Sky,” he’d said roughly, taking her hands in his. “For God’s sake, cher’, you can’t seriously be suggesting he had anything to do with the kidnapping. Do you really think Samuel Langworthy is cold-blooded enough to sacrifice his grandson for his ambition?”
“Why not?” Her voice had been a thread. “He gave up his daughter rather than be dragged through the messy and public custody battle Mother threatened him with—a custody battle that would have distanced him from the politically powerful friends he was already cultivating back then for the son he had such lofty hopes for. And in this case, once Josh gets into office, what’s to prevent Sky from miraculously being returned to Holly? I can even see how it could play out as a further gilding of the golden boy’s image, if Father’s tame kidnappers are told to arrange the handover so newly elected Governor Joshua Langworthy brings back his nephew himself.”
She’d looked away. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it. We’ve had our differences in the past, but Josh wouldn’t knowingly be a party to anything like that.”
“And yet you believe Samuel could.” He’d fought against the doubt her words had aroused in him. “Come on, sugar, think logistics for a minute. We’re dealing with someone who not only knows elevators but who’s agile enough to have shinned up a cable to disable it. Then he overrode the safety feature on the doors on your floor so they opened when they shouldn’t have. Like you said, the window of opportunity for all this was damned brief, which wouldn’t be a problem for a man like DeMarco who can pick up the phone and arrange the most specialized hit in moments. Your father might have political connections, but he’s no mobster.”
“No, he’s not a mobster,” she’d agreed, her gaze haunted. “But he owns several prime office complexes in the heart of the city, and properties like that have maintenance supervisors on the payroll. My father knows the kind of people who would have a working knowledge of elevators, Con.”
She’d drawn her hands from his and pressed them to her belly. “Motive, method and opportunity. He had all three. Maybe you’re letting your hatred for Helio DeMarco blind you to the possibility that the theft of the virus and Sky’s kidnapping could be completely unrelated.”
The doctor had arrived then, and their conversation had ended there—mainly, Con admitted now to himself, because he hadn’t been able to muster a convincing enough rebuttal to Marilyn’s suspicions. In fact, her last comment had prompted him to rethink his own position.
Was she right? Had he allowed his personal feelings for DeMarco to color his attitude to this case?
The question had been an unsettling one, and it had occupied his mind throughout the remaining hours before dawn this morning. Not that he hadn’t welcomed having something to keep his thoughts on track, he acknowledged as he set a bowl of soup on the tray and headed for the upper level of the loft. As it was, all night long he’d still been all too aware that she was curled up in bed only a few yards away. At least once an hour he’d found himself in the doorway of her room on the pretext of checking on her, fighting the urge to stroke back the pale hair from her brow and press a kiss to those softly exhaling lips.
He’d resisted that urge. He’d wrestled with his conscience. And finally he’d called the number Colleen Wellesley had given him on his first visit to the Royal Flush headquarters of Colorado Confidential.
He’d expected two reactions from the ex-cop—annoyance at being roused at three in the morning and irritated dismissal of the questions he’d posed to her. Colleen had answered the phone on the second ring, sounding wide-awake, and instead of brushing aside his queries she’d fallen momentarily silent. When she’d eventually spoken her normally brisk tone had sounded shaken.
“I can answer that first one right now, Burke. When we took on this case we canvassed the backgrounds of anyone who had a connection to the Langworthys, and a certain Hoyt Jackson came up on the radar as being an ex-con who’d done time for armed robbery. He’s a janitor at Mills & Grommett now and by all accounts he put his criminal past behind him years ago, but I seem to remember…”
Her voice had trailed off. He’d heard the sound of papers being rapidly paged on her end of the line.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Her voice had hardened. “At one time Jackson was an elevator repairman. Those people have to b
e bonded, which is why he couldn’t get back in the field after he’d done his time.”
“So Samuel had the means of arranging what happened to his daughter tonight. Opportunity, ditto,” Con had said tersely, “since if Jackson’s his hired thug as well as a janitor in his company, all it would have taken was a phone call when Langworthy left the club. What about motive? And what about Marilyn’s theory that her father could be involved in the kidnapping?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on those questions,” Colleen had said slowly. “But I can tell you that right from the start this smelled like an inside job to me. I’ve always suspected either someone in or close to the family had a part in Sky’s abduction but as you know, my money was on the Ice Queen.”
“Except the Ice Queen, as you call her, came damned close to being killed herself a few hours ago,” he’d countered sharply.
“Still championing her cause?” Colleen had sighed. “Dammit, Burke, I can’t cross her off the list just yet. Have you considered she and her father might have been in this together and had a falling-out? I know the accepted version is that the two of them aren’t close, but that might just be a facade.”
He and Colleen Wellesley were fated never to have a completely civil conversation, Con told himself as he knocked on Marilyn’s bedroom door. And if it weren’t for his promise to Wiley yesterday, as far as he was concerned Colorado Confidential could go—
“Come in.” From the bedroom came her muffled invitation, and he pushed open the door.
“Your doctor said you should keep your strength up…” he began. He stopped in midsentence, halting on the threshold.
“She’s probably right. I’ve got the feeling I’m going to need all the strength I can muster.” Far from being tucked under the covers as he’d expected, Marilyn was fully dressed and standing by the dresser, a hairbrush in one hand and a determinedly set look on her pale features. “I can’t just lie here any longer. I’m going out of my mind with boredom.”