Her hand was on his forearm and the bracelet winked and glittered. “Oh, Dix, I’m so sorry. I had no idea at all. Well, that’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Maybe Christie and I are more alike than just our looks. What do you think?”
He said honestly, looking at her again, “I don’t know you, Charlotte. I have no idea how alike you and Christie are.”
“Dix? Are you okay now? Look, do you want to examine the bracelet?”
It was exactly what he wanted. He had to be careful not to grab it from her. “Yes, please, that would be very kind of you.”
He watched her gracefully unfasten the bracelet, watched the glittering pile of diamonds slide through her fingers as she dropped it into his hand.
He knew exactly where to look. He was so afraid of what he’d find his hands were shaking.
He slowly turned the bracelet until he was looking at the underside of the clasp. He knew what should be there: At Least Forever. And right below that Pietro Magni’s individualized mark, a “p” intertwined with an “m.”
He held the bracelet up, examined it closely.
The underside of the clasp was blank. He could see no sign that anything had been scored off. So close, it was so close, so much like Christie’s bracelet it made him want to scream because what he’d believed a precious instant ago simply wasn’t true. Another chimera, a gossamer veil that hid nothing at all.
In the end this woman wasn’t Christie and this diamond bracelet wasn’t Christie’s either. He hated coincidence, really didn’t much believe in it, and now he’d slammed into two that had nearly torn his heart out.
He handed her the bracelet, and she fastened it on her wrist with the ease of long practice.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte, it is very similar, but I see now that it’s different. Please forgive me for alarming you.”
He gave her his most natural smile, a smile that often made Ruth pause a moment, grab him, and pull him down to her. Ruth had told him to patent that smile.
Not good. He took a step back.
Charlotte reached out and touched his forearm. “I’m so sorry I even wore it, Dix. The last thing I want to do is to cause you pain. This must be very hard for you.” She paused a moment, cocked her head to the side, just like Christie did, and said slowly, her eyes on his face, “This is why you’re here in San Francisco, isn’t it? Someone who knew your wife told you about me and you came to see if I was Christie. We look that much alike?”
He looked down into that beautiful face and had to force himself to think clearly: This woman isn’t Christie. The bracelet she’s wearing isn’t Christie’s bracelet. Let it go. Go home. Forget all of it.
But she was very smart. She’d figured her way through everything quickly.
“Partly, yes. Someone saw you, believed you were Christie.”
“I see. My husband wondered why Corman Sherlock had called him at the last minute when he knew there was little chance the judge would ever have a change of heart about politics. ” She paused. “Do you know Thomas was pleased as punch that you kept staring at me all evening? He really liked it that a sexy young gun seemed envious of him. So, you are the reason for the dinner last night, Dix? So you could see me?”
“As I said, that was part of the reason. Fact is, I’m a very close friend of Judge Sherlock’s daughter and her husband. I’m here to speak at a law enforcement conference. I’ll admit it—seeing you nearly drove me to my knees. Talk about an unlikely coincidence, but there you have it. Now it’s over.
“You’ve been very patient with me, Charlotte. Thank you. I have to leave now. I have to go home. Come, I’ll walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”
Before he left her beside her silver Lexus on Level One of the same parking garage, she said, “You asked me why I invited you to lunch.”
He waited.
“I’m not a young girl, Dix, and the truth is I’m drawn to you. Even though I’m married”—she shrugged—“I’m drawn to you. Thomas is very kind, but—” Always a but, Dix thought, as if that were somehow a valid excuse.
When he didn’t say anything, she said, “Will I ever see you again, Dix?”
He thought of all the coincidences, of the two bracelets, and wondered: Why hadn’t her husband had something engraved on the back of the clasp if it was a wedding present? And then he wondered, Was it a new clasp? That wouldn’t be difficult, simply change out a clasp on a bracelet.
Something settled in him, it was a decision made, and he felt calm, in control again. He smiled down at her. “Never say never.”
CHAPTER 16
SAN FRANCISCO
Early Sunday morning
Julia looked down at her boy, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He’d gone easily, simply faded away as she’d held his small hand, and that was a blessing. But he didn’t look peaceful, he looked empty and gray.
She watched Dr. Bryer’s hand disengage the monitor, the soft flatline hum now silent. Time passed, a lifetime, a moment. He squeezed her arm, trying to comfort her, but didn’t. He wanted her to say good-bye and walk out of this sterile cold room and leave Linc.
“He’s not here, Julia,” Dr. Bryer said. “He’s at peace. Come with me now.”
Come where?
She saw herself shooting baskets with him down at Skyler Park, saw him doing his favorite hair-raising maneuver in the half-pipe—his back foot smacking the tail of his skateboard against the ground while his front foot pulled the board up high in the air, oh God, too high, then he would pivot, nearly stopping her heart even as his friends shouted “Real tight, Linc, sweet.” How very odd, she thought, staring down at him, Linc had never hurt himself riding his skateboard. Yet a skateboard had killed him.
She saw his small intense face as he sketched her and their rental house, waiting until high tide so he could draw the ocean waves nearly kissing the house pilings. She felt his arms around her neck, squeezing until she squeaked, a longtime game between them, not so comfortable anymore because he was stronger every month.
Julia stared at his slack mouth—no more wet kisses on her cheek, welcoming her home. He had his father’s smart mouth, always with an answer, but even his father was dead, gone three months now.
Linc was gone too. She had to accept it. But not yet, not yet. She picked up his limp hand as she stood beside the obscenely efficient hospital bed. At least there were no more tubes attached to him. They dangled from quiet machines.
She was more alone than she’d ever been in her life. Please wake up, Linc, please, but he didn’t.
He would have turned seven in two weeks.
“Mrs. Taylor, come with me now. It’s time.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bryer, but I would like to stay here with Linc a while longer.” She nodded to the older doctor, Scott Lyland, who’d known her all her life. There were tears in his pale eyes. It nearly broke her.
Time passed, a sluggish cold parade of minutes, before she heard his deep hypnotic voice, August Ransom’s voice, say next to her ear:
“I can tell you what Lincoln is thinking and feeling, Julia. He misses you, but he’s happy, never doubt that. He’s with his grandfather. You know how much he loved PawPaw. And yes, there’s his father. Ben loved Linc, Julia, don’t doubt that. I can help you talk with Lincoln, Julia, let me do that.”
Then suddenly that compelling smooth voice wasn’t talking anymore, but she heard something, not his voice, but— she heard something move, whispery, vague with distance, as elusive as those long-ago feelings that still wouldn’t settle. It wasn’t close yet, but it was coming.
She heard soft creaks in the oak floor in the corridor, coming closer.
What corridor?
Julia jerked awake, her breath hitching, disoriented. She realized she’d been dreaming, felt the old pull of the deadening helplessness, the emptiness she’d felt when she’d stood beside Linc, breathing in the nauseating scent of alcohol and disinfectant that seamed the air itself.
No, I’m not in Hartford, I’m here i
n San Francisco, at home, in bed. It was the dream, the dream again.
It was a dream she’d had many times over the years, so maybe what she’d heard was simply some new threads woven into the fabric of the dream. Maybe she hadn’t really heard anything—
But she heard them again, slow, soft footfalls—Dear God, someone was here in her house, someone was coming toward her bedroom, coming to kill her. Like he killed Linc. No, he didn’t kill Linc, that was a stupid accident that shouldn’t have happened. But someone killed August and he wanted to kill her too. This time he came to do it right, he’d—
Her terror froze her brain, paralyzed her for a moment. She’d been helpless Thursday night—dear God, only two nights ago— she’d been so surprised by the sudden attack that she’d have died before she understood what was happening. But she wasn’t so surprised this time. And she was ready. She’d rehearsed her movements a dozen times in her mind until her body obeyed without her mind coaching her. She scooted to the side of the bed, quietly slid the side table drawer out, and picked up her pistol, its nitron finish glacier cold, and a second magazine. She’d practiced with it yesterday until it felt perfect in her hand, worked with it until her finger knew exactly how much pressure to put on the trigger. Her heart pounded, but the terror transformed itself into a huge hit of adrenaline that made her shake and feel incredibly powerful.
Her SIG P239 couldn’t stop a dream that kept running at night in her brain, it couldn’t stop a charging rhino, but all she needed from it now was to protect her from a single man. She pulled the covers over a king-sized pillow as she heard another footfall, closer, nearly to her door.
It was very dark in her bedroom; she’d closed the draperies against the bright moonlight. Julia’s bare feet made no sound on her run to the opposite side of the bedroom door. Good, she didn’t want him to hear her. To make it harder for him, she kneeled down, her back pressed against the wall. And waited. She could hear her own heart, pumping fast, but she held steady, slowed her breathing. Another soft footfall, then nothing. He was here, right outside the door, his ear probably against it, listening for any sound. She pictured what would happen, what she would do.
Was it the same man who’d tried to kill her at Pier 39? The man with his glasses, his Burberry coat, and his lovely smile?
The doorknob turned very slowly. He was coming in to kill her, shoot her in her bed, shoot her dead in her sleep, the bastard. Fierce anger punched up her adrenaline again, enough to make her shake, but it didn’t matter. She was ready.
Come on, you creep. I’m not helpless this time. I know my way around in the darkness, and you don’t. Come on in, come on in.
The door opened. She saw a gloved hand first, holding a gun.
She eased down to her stomach and held perfectly still as he walked slowly into her bedroom. He moved gracefully, all his attention focused on her bed. She could make out the faint glint of his glasses, the outline of his dark jacket and dark pants.
When he was not more than four feet in front of her, slightly off to her right, he raised his gun. He shot once, twice, two more times into the pillow, the low thumping sounds of a silencer, she realized. He paused, then shot again where her head would have been. He lowered the gun, took a step toward the bed.
“Drop that gun right now or I’ll blow your head off.”
The man jerked around, fast, and fired at the same moment Julia did. Her bullet smashed into his arm, and he jerked back.
His shot was too high, slamming the wall right where her heart would have been if she’d been standing. He yelled and cursed as he fired again, six more times, the bullets striking the wall above her head. Had she been on her knees, he would have killed her.
But she wasn’t, she was flat on her belly.
She fired again, but the shot went wide, into her bedside lamp, smashing it to the floor. He tried to pull the trigger again but his clip was empty. She fired again, heard the bullet strike the wall behind him, and fired two more times as he bolted in a zigzag out of her bedroom. She heard his boots on the long corridor. She hadn’t hit him again, dammit.
Julia leaped to her feet and ran after him, fired several more times as he bounded down the stairs. He was moving too fast, dodging from left to right. He suddenly whirled to face her, went into a crouch, paused a moment to aim. No, he wasn’t aiming, he was trying to shove in another clip.
She went down on her knees, pulled back behind the railing, shoved a new clip in the SIG and fired again, missed him by inches, but knocked off a chunk of a newel post, sending wood shards flying. Small pieces flew like darts into his face and neck. He grunted in pain, his hand jerking up to cover his face. She continued to fire as she ran down the stairs right at him and he turned and ran. She realized her second clip was nearly empty. She didn’t want to run out of bullets. But she couldn’t prevent herself from firing one more time. The bullet struck a tile next to his right foot, and she heard him curse. He jerked the front door open as she fired once more, and he was gone. There was no screaming wail. There was no sound at all. He’d disarmed her security system.
She raced across the entry hall, stuck out her hand to grasp the handle. No, don’t open the front door, don’t give him another chance. He’s probably got that new clip in. He could be standing right outside, waiting for her to show herself, grinning as he waited to shoot her. She sucked in deep breaths, felt her heart pumping so loud it hurt. She calmed herself. She was okay.
Her hand closed on the doorknob. She trembled from the rush of adrenaline still shooting through her. No, she had to be smart, she couldn’t go after him.
She’d put a bullet in his arm and wood splinters had dug into his face and neck. She’d done good. She hoped he would drop over in her front yard. She wanted desperately to open the front door and look out after him. Wait, how many bullets did she have left in her own clip? Not many, she couldn’t have many left.
She cracked the front door open, heard a car start from perhaps half a block away, heard it moving, the sound of the engine dying away.
She ran over to the phone, but she didn’t dial 911. She dialed Special Agent Cheney Stone’s cell.
CHAPTER 17
Cheney drove from Belvedere Street in Upper Haight-Ashbury to the Ransom mansion on Broadway in just under eight minutes. He cell-phoned Captain Frank Paulette, told him what happened, that he was on his way to Julia Ransom’s house.
She was standing just inside the cracked-open front door when he swung into the driveway. He jumped out of his Audi, fanned his SIG around him, examined the shadows. He saw no one, no movement of any kind. He holstered his SIG, held up his hand to keep her back.
When he was nearly to the front door, he said, “You okay?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember? I already told you three times I was okay. Come in, come in. I was a fool, an idiot. I could have killed him, but no, I had to tell him not to move and then he turned around—Oh God, Cheney, he moved so fast, but I was down on my stomach on the floor and I did shoot him in the arm. Then he shot at me, fired lots of times but he missed me, he was shooting where he expected me to be and he was too high.
“I shouldn’t have told him not to move, all I had to do was shoot him and keep firing like you told me, but I didn’t. Then I shot my lamp. I’m a moron. But I did shoot him in the arm, so that’s something. Maybe he’ll get blood poisoning, you think?”
Her voice was manic high. When she crashed, he knew it would take her to the mat for hours. She went on talking, repeating herself another two times, while he took in every inch of her. She sounded and looked like a teenager on drugs, nearly incoherent words flying out her mouth. She was wearing a long dark blue sleep shirt with Wonder Woman on the front, gym socks on her feet. Her hair straggled around her face, the bruise just beginning to fade from her jaw.
He placed his fingers lightly over her mouth to shut her up. She talked through his fingers for a moment before she fell silent. When he moved his fingers, she opened her mouth, gave him an insane gr
in, then managed to close it again, but not before more than a dozen words spilled out.
He said, “The excitement’s something, isn’t it? You did good, you won. It’s okay that you didn’t kill the guy. Really, it’s okay, you disabled him, maybe.”
She took a breath and said, “I guess I didn’t shoot him flat out at first because I wanted to know who wanted me dead. Well, maybe I’m rationalizing what I did. I don’t remember what I was thinking. But maybe I thought I’m so bright I could take him prisoner and question him. Pound my head against the wall, Cheney, smack me.”
“Not yet,” Cheney said, smiling. “Keep talking, Julia, only slow down. Okay, so he ran out the front door—”
“I didn’t go after him, but I did crack open the front door, and then I heard his car turn over, maybe half a block away. I was hoping he’d be lying dead by the rhododendron bushes, but hey, he’s hurt, right? That bullet could have hit an artery in his arm—no, I couldn’t be that lucky and besides, where’s the blood? When you hit an artery, there’s a fountain of blood, right?”
She was speeding up again to manic tempo so Cheney broke in, speaking slowly, his voice loud. “Look over there on the sidewalk. You can see the splatters of blood from here. You didn’t get an artery, but you did put a bullet in him. That’s enough.” He eased the gun from her hand.
“But I should have shot his head off. He got away. He’s still out there. Oh, come inside, Agent Stone, come in.”
“It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. Make it Cheney.”
She started, then laughed. “You’re right, this is the second time you’ve seen me creeped out, only this time you didn’t have to get wet.” She looked down at the white gym socks on her feet, saw a small hole in the big toe, and grinned. “Can I have my gun back? I’ll be careful, I promise. It makes me feel safe, more in control. He would have shot me dead if I hadn’t had it.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 8