Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  Her head spun with mingled relief and disappointment. “He’s not here.”

  “No, he’s not.” Patrick shoved his gun back into his holster and swung around. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the office.”

  “You still have keys?”

  Behind them, an all-too-familiar voice spoke. “No, but I do. Although I don’t think you’re going to need them now.”

  Helen whirled around.

  Franklin stood in the doorway, a gun in his manicured hand. He wore an immaculately tailored suit with a crisp white shirt and a subdued tie in his usual Windsor knot. He looked freshly groomed, as though he’d just shaved and brushed his hair, and his politician’s smile stretched wider than ever. Just looking at that smile made Helen feel sick with fear.

  “Helen,” he said. “And Monaghan. At last. I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time.”

  Patrick reached under his jacket for his gun, his hand moving so fast it was little more than a blur.

  “No, Monaghan, no,” Franklin said in his cultured, precise voice. He pointed his pistol at Helen, and she stifled a cry. “You don’t want Helen to die, do you?”

  Patrick froze, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “If you shoot her, I’ll kill you before you can escape.”

  Franklin gave a little chuckle, a sound that sent chills down Helen’s spine. “But that won’t change the fact that she’ll be dead. Tell me. Are you willing to let her die?”

  Patrick’s fists clenched, and the muscled cords of his neck stood out with rage. “Let her go, Chambers,” he said, his voice so tight with fury that Helen barely recognized it. “This has nothing to do with her. It’s between you and me.”

  “Oh, no. That wouldn’t do at all. I’m afraid I can’t let either of you go.”

  A tiny sound of anguish escaped Helen’s lips. Franklin was insane—insane enough to kill them both. She could face the thought of her own death, but not Patrick’s. Never Patrick’s.

  She looked across the room and into Patrick’s eyes. “Shoot him,” she said, her voice shaking. “Shoot him, and you can get away.”

  Patrick’s face was rigid. “I can’t. He’ll kill you, Helen.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said frantically. “He’s going to do it anyw—”

  “This is all very touching,” Franklin interrupted. “But we don’t have time for this now. Helen, I want you to walk over to Monaghan, very slowly, very carefully.”

  “What for?” she asked, fighting to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice.

  “Do you want your lover to die?”

  She flinched. “How did you—”

  “How did I know you were lovers?” Franklin smiled again, and this time she saw the light of madness in his eyes. “I saw you. Through the window at Monaghan’s apartment. Just like last year, when I saw you leave together from the ball. Not that I needed to. I always knew you were a whore.”

  Patrick jerked forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “Shut up, Chambers. Don’t you talk to her like that.”

  Franklin raised the gun. “Stop right there, Monaghan. I’ll kill you. You know I will. And then I’ll kill her. Slowly. Very slowly. After I have her.” He licked his lips. “I’ve wanted her for a very long time.”

  Patrick stopped moving, but his face was a mask of pure, cold rage.

  Franklin jerked his head at Helen. “Walk.”

  She walked. Her legs felt like rubber, and with every step she took, she felt Franklin’s eyes boring into her back, felt the heat of his gun as he pointed it at Patrick’s head.

  She halted in front of Patrick. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body. Close enough to touch. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to keep them at her sides. She didn’t want to do anything that might provoke Franklin into shooting Patrick.

  “Good girl,” Franklin said. “Now, reach under his jacket and take out his gun. Very slowly, unless you want me to kill him. When you’ve got it, put it down on the floor and kick it to me.”

  Helen gulped and slid her hand under Patrick’s leather jacket. Beneath her palm, she felt muscle and the rasp of hair, felt the rapid pounding of his heartbeat. Fighting back tears, she lifted her eyes to his. He looked back down at her, his mouth twisted in an attempt at a reassuring smile. Her eyes blurred as she closed her fingers around his pistol and pulled it out of the holster.

  “That’s it,” Franklin said. “Now put it down and kick it over here.”

  She obeyed. The gun clattered across the wooden floor. Franklin pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He shook it out and leaned down to wrap it around the grip. Picking up the pistol, he stuck it into the pocket of his suit.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Now we can get down to business.”

  “You won’t get away with this.” Patrick’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Too many people know the truth.”

  “Do they? I don’t think so. I’ve killed three people, and nobody suspects a thing. Except you two, of course.”

  Helen’s mind spun wildly. “How did you know we’d found out?”

  “I didn’t know for sure. If you hadn’t shown up tonight, I would have gone to you.”

  “You were just going to kill us regardless?”

  Franklin’s eyebrows arched. “But of course! Monaghan should have died with Marty Fletcher on Monday night. Once I realized he was alive, it was only a matter of time. If he’d been arrested, he would have died in jail before he ever came to trial. A suicide.” A smile curled his lips. “Can’t you see the headlines? ‘Former Cop Kills Self In Remorse.’”

  Helen shuddered. Franklin was evil. Pure evil. He’d kill anyone who got in his way.

  She tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She had to keep Franklin talking. At least if he was talking, he wasn’t shooting. And as long as they were alive, there was still some chance of escape. Still some chance that she might save Patrick’s life—and her own.

  “And me?” She plastered a smile on her face. “But of course, you tried to kill me, too.”

  “You’re referring to the incident outside Tammy Weston’s condominium?” Franklin shook his head. “I admit, I acted on the spur of the moment. I had a date with Tammy, and when I arrived to pick her up, I saw you coming out of her building. It would have been an excellent opportunity if it wasn’t for Monaghan’s interference.”

  Helen felt Patrick tense beside her, but when he spoke, his voice was cool and even. “Why did you kill Tammy?”

  Her heart leaped. Obviously he’d caught on to her plan to keep Franklin talking.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Franklin said. “I saw Helen coming out of her building. When I asked Tammy if she’d talked, she denied it, but I knew she was lying. She had to die. And when Helen told me the next morning that she’d shaken Tammy’s statement, I knew my decision had been the right one.”

  “What about Marty?” Helen asked. Knowing Patrick was working with her made her voice stronger, more confident. “You’d paid him off already, so why kill him?”

  Franklin chuckled. “Do you really think I’d let Marty just walk away with my money? No, I wanted it back. The merry widow wasn’t very forthcoming when I went and saw her with Carmel—and she had her hulk of a brother hanging around—but it was only a matter of time before he left and I could...retrieve my property.” He smiled. “Of course, you solved that little problem for me, Helen.”

  “Okay, that explains Marty. But why did you want to kill me?” Patrick asked coolly, as though there was nothing strange about discussing his own death.

  “I had to eliminate you to be sure I was safe. Marty was too stupid to keep his secret for long. Would you believe he actually made several notations of my initials in Jamie Lee’s case files?”

  “So that’s why you stole the files,” Helen said. “You broke into my office and trashed it, hoping I wouldn’t notice the missing files. And you just walked into the police station and took Carmel’s copies off his desk. Nobod
y would have questioned your being there.”

  “That’s right. It was so easy.” Franklin’s gaze swung to Patrick. “But you had to die. Sooner or later, you would have guessed the truth.”

  “How did you convince Marty to do it?” Patrick asked.

  Franklin laughed. “That was the easy part. I told him you’d found out about the payoff and threatened to turn us both in. Marty bought it. He agreed you had to die.”

  “But you double-crossed him,” Helen said.

  “It would have been perfect. Marty shot Monaghan. I used Monaghan’s gun to shoot Marty. Nobody would have found out, if Marty hadn’t been so stupid.” Franklin’s voice thickened with disgust. “He missed his shot, and Monaghan didn’t die the way he was supposed to.”

  Patrick snorted. “Marty was stupid? When you didn’t even notice that my corpse was actually alive?”

  Franklin jerked up his gun, and Helen gasped. Her eyes flew to Patrick’s face. What was he doing? Was he trying to get himself shot?

  Patrick looked straight into her eyes. Infinitesimally, he tilted his head to the right, to the other side of the bed. His message was clear. He was going to make a move. And when he did, she was supposed to dive behind the bed.

  He was crazy. Crazy...and a hero. Helen’s throat tightened with fear. She didn’t want him to be a hero. No matter what happened to her, she wanted Patrick to make it out of here alive.

  Desperately, she glanced at Franklin. His face was red with rage, his knuckles white as he gripped the gun.

  “Shut up, Monaghan,” he snarled. “Remember, I’m the one with the gun. Just who looks stupid now?”

  “Helen!” Patrick shouted. “Now!”

  “No! Don‘t—”

  It was too late.

  Patrick launched himself at Franklin. Helen screamed a warning as Franklin leveled the gun. Patrick surged forward, slamming into Franklin just as he pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed through the room. Both men fell to the ground, rolling over and over, grappling for the gun. Bright streaks of blood stained the polished floor.

  “Patrick! Noo-oo!” Helen screamed.

  Frantically, she spun around, searching for a weapon. Something... anything. There was a heavy brass lamp on the table on the other side of the bed, and she lunged across the bed to grab it. She yanked it out of the wall just as a second shot rang out.

  Her heart in her throat, she whirled around, just in time to see Franklin jerk violently backward. A terrible sound escaped his throat—a gurgling, desperate scream—and then he slumped to the floor.

  Patrick lay on his back a few feet away, the gun in his hand. His head was tilted at a funny angle, his eyes shut, his face ashen. Red smears spread out from beneath his body, and blood bubbled out of his chest.

  Oh, God, he couldn’t be....

  Fierce wild anguish splintered through her body. The lamp fell from her hands, crashing to the floor. She charged across the room, tears streaming down her face.

  “Patrick.” she gasped as she knelt beside him. “Oh, Patrick, no, please....”

  He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and grief exploded through her. She put her arms around him, cradled his head against her chest. A keening sound filled the room. Through her haze of anguish, she realized it was the sound of her own moans.

  Rocking back and forth, she smoothed Patrick’s hair off his forehead, her tears dripping onto his face.

  He was dead. Dead. The man she loved was dead.

  Loved.

  The truth exploded through her like a bomb, leaving shards of shrapnel in her heart. She loved him. Had fallen in love with him last year when he’d spun and laughed on the beach in the storm, so full of life and love and vitality. She’d loved him all along, all that year when she’d tried so hard to forget him.

  And now he was dead. He had given up his life to save her...and she’d never even told him she loved him.

  Guilt and grief burst through her. “I’m so sorry I never told you.” She managed to choke out the words through her tears. “I love you, Patrick Monaghan. I love you.”

  She slid her hand over his face, tracing his sculpted lips, the hard line of his jaw. Her fingers slipped under his jaw to smooth down his neck, when she felt a flutter beneath her fingertips.

  A flutter—like a pulse.

  She dug her fingers under his jaw, seeking, finding the faint rapid beat of his pulse.

  Tears of joy spilled down her cheeks. He was alive. Thank God, he was alive.

  At least for now.

  Chapter 16

  Dark.

  Darkness pressing in on him like a living thing. A roar in his ears, a crash like the impact of a tidal wave. Pain—hot, excruciating pain.

  Blackness fading to light. Drifting weightless on a cloud. Faces hovering over him, familiar faces.

  “Mom?” Patrick croaked.

  Why was she crying? Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. His father was behind her—no, it was Adam. And his mother had turned into Deirdre, her face shiny with tears.

  Behind them, her hair golden in the light, stood Helen. She looked like an angel. He couldn’t see her wings, but he felt the soft touch of her fingertips against his face. He wanted to reach for her, but it was too hard, it hurt too much.

  Faces blurred, blended. Who was there? The bright lights overhead confused him.

  He tried to move, but pain stabbed at his chest. A thin woman dressed all in white charged at him, a needle in her hand.

  The pain receded.

  He closed his eyes and drifted into the darkness once again.

  “He should be waking up anytime now.”

  The nasal voice jolted him. It was unfamiliar—it didn’t belong to the darkness. Neither did the acrid smell of bleach or the feel of rough cotton beneath his hands.

  Patrick slowly opened his eyes.

  Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Their brightness made him wince. He looked down and saw that he was lying in a high bed surrounded by a metal rail. A green sheet was folded neatly across his chest, and a huge plastic IV needle jutted out of the back of his hand.

  Hospital. He was in the hospital.

  Patrick turned his head as the door clicked shut behind a departing figure. His mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her face buried in her hands.

  “Mom?” he whispered hoarsely.

  She lifted her head, and her face twisted with emotion. She leaped out of the chair and lunged over to the bed. Chipping the metal rail with her lined hands, she looked down at him with hope and desperation in her eyes. “Patrick? Can you hear me?”

  “What—” He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and tasted like metal. His heart thudded as he struggled to remember. “What happened?”

  She reached out and smoothed back his hair, her eyes filled with tears. “Hush now, son. You’ve been shot, but you’re going to be all right.”

  Shot. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered the roar of Chambers’s gun, remembered fighting desperately for the weapon. Remembered wrenching it away and firing, the thunder echoing in his ears as he fell into the darkness....

  His heart almost stopped, and he forced himself to open his eyes, to look into his mother’s face. “Helen? Is she all right?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth softened. “Yes. She’s perfectly safe.”

  “Thank God,” he whispered.

  “And thanks to you, Patrick. You saved her life. Both your lives.”

  Pain washed through him—a pain that had nothing to do with the dull thudding ache in his chest, with the prick of the needle in his hand. Maybe in the end he had saved their lives. But he didn’t deserve any praise for it. Not after the way he’d screwed up everything else.

  Not after the way he’d failed Helen—again.

  He had sworn he would protect her. She’d trusted him with her life, but he’d failed her. Failed her in so many ways. Failed her by not being more careful. By letting Chambers sneak up on them. By losing control
of his gun.

  And Helen had almost died for his sins.

  Patrick’s throat tightened. At least she was alive. But he had to know more, had to know what had happened after the darkness had taken him. “Chambers—is he in jail?”

  His mother shook her head. “No. Patrick...he’s dead.” Sudden tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she smiled through them. “Oh, son, you were so brave. Helen told us how you tackled him, how you fought him for the gun even though you’d been shot.”

  He barely registered her words. “Helen—she’s not in trouble?”

  “Oh, no. She had a tape recorder running the whole time Franklin Chambers was threatening you, and she handed the tape over to the police. They heard his confession loud and clear, and both your names have been cleared. You’ve been reinstated at the police department—your job will be waiting as soon as you’ve healed up. And the attorney general has offered Helen an important job down in Olympia.”

  Patrick’s head swam with relief. So Helen’s career wasn’t ruined after all—if anything, it was better than ever.

  But she’d be leaving town to take the new job. A thread of pain twisted through the relief, but he pushed it away. It was better if she left. Better if he didn’t have to see her, wasn’t constantly reminded of the way he’d almost destroyed her life.

  His mother was still talking. “But you know, Helen told the attorney general she couldn’t make any decisions until you were better. She said—”

  Behind her, the door opened, and Adam slid inside, carrying two steaming foam cups. “Mom,” he said in a hushed voice, “I brought you some coffee.”

  “Adam,” Patrick said.

  Adam’s head jerked up and he dropped both cups. They crashed to the ground, splashing coffee over the wall and floor, but he didn’t even seem to notice. A huge smile spread over his face.

  “Patrick!” He crossed the room in one long stride and leaned over to give Patrick a fierce hug. “You’re finally awake.”