by Adrianne Lee
Lyssa trembled. Her face was slick with rain, her clothing damp, the wind biting, but her shaking was born of a marrow rattling chill as old as life and death. Inexplicably, she felt whatever had delayed Craig was dire.
Without an idea of how she'd gotten there, Lyssa found herself staring at the house she suspected was Stacey Rival’s. It loomed three stories tall, a narrow, imposing structure from another era that now stood shadowed and gloomy against the hillside. The drapes were not drawn. No lights, not even the flicker of a candle, was visible through any of the windows. But this was the house, and Lyssa knew, with some indefinable, flesh prickling certainty, that she would find Craig inside.
Wind shoved at her backside, seeming intent on hurrying her to the porch as if she were urgently needed. The sensation escalated her apprehension, stole her very breath. At the door, she started to knock. Some inner warning, stopped her. She tried the knob. Locked. Dear God, there had to be a way inside. She leaped off the porch and stood back surveying the house.
From inside, a beam of light fanned across the large second floor window above the portico. Someone was inside.
Unaccountably, her heart leapt with terror. It was all she could do to keep from crying out Craig’s name so sudden and great was her fear for his life. Please, don’t let me be too late. Don’t let me lose Craig when I’ve only just found him.
She ran toward the back yard, splaying the light beam ahead. Something grabbed her sore ankle. She tripped. The flashlight flew from her grasp, and blinked off. Lyssa hit the ground. The wind knocked from her. She lay still for a second, catching her breath. Then she patted the muddy ground nearby, seeking the flashlight. Her fingers touched a sleek surface, curved as a human cheek, cold as a corpse. Bile rose in her throat. Despite her panic, she located the flashlight and flicked the ON switch.
Nothing.
She smacked it against her palm. The feeble beam responded. Cringing, she shined it at the corpse. A pumpkin! She was sitting in a pumpkin patch, tripped by a lacy vine. The idiocy of it roused an hysterical laugh. She choked it down, disentangled her ankle, and struggled to her feet.
Praying the light wouldn’t fail her, she flicked it over the back of the house, seeking a cellar or basement entrance, a back door of any kind. There was only solid wall and windows. Lyssa swore under her breath, then swiped at her wet muddy face, with a wet muddy hand. Ignoring the fear swirling inside her, she played the weak beam over the windows one at a time.
Her heart jumped. Like a crooked finger beckoning to her, a snatch of sheer pink drape wagged from between an inch of open window and its frame. The sill was too high off the ground for her to pull herself up and through, but she could reach it if…She looked around for something to stand on and spied a metal garbage can.
Moments later, the upended can was wobbling beneath her feet. Mud on the soles of her Reeboks and her injured ankle made purchase impossible, and in spite of her every effort towards quiet, the tin popped each time she moved.
The noise couldn't be helped. She had to get inside. Now.
She stuffed the flashlight into one of the coat’s deep pockets, and shoved the window up--wincing at the accompanying scrape--until there was enough space to fit her body through. Wind howled over the house like a wounded coyote, and Lyssa felt fairly certain it covered the racket she was making. She levered herself up the wall, and plopped her stomach onto the sill with a grunt.
Her pulse roared in her ears. But no one came to stop her. She wriggled across the sill. Touched. Recognized a bed. It was shoved close to this wall. She thrust herself at it, misjudged the height and plowed into the edge of the mattress. The impact sent the bed scooting. Lyssa’s foot came down hard on the oak floor. Pain zinged her tender ankle, and she dropped to her bottom, wedged between wall and bed. Something dug into her thigh.
She’d made enough noise to raise the dead. Lyssa’s heart thundered. She held her breath. Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. No one came. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the house was empty. Maybe there was some other explanation for Craig’s car sitting out on the street.
But what about the light she’d seen in the second story window? If everything was all right, then why was there such an odd prickling at her nape? An uneasiness in her very bones? Wishing the police hadn’t confiscated Craig’s gun, Lyssa pushed herself to her knees, gathered the flashlight and spread the beam around the room.
It looked like a tornado had struck. Either Stacey was the world’s worst housekeeper or someone had done a frantic search of this room. Recognizing Stacey’s black raincoat crumpled on the bed, the pockets turned out, Lyssa knew it was the latter of the two scenarios. But what were they searching for?
She levered her hands against the mattress and stood. Her foot landed on something solid. Probably whatever had been jabbing her leg. She directed the flashlight beam at the floor, but couldn’t see anything with the blankets and sheets tossed about.
She hauled the covers back onto the bed, then tried again. Something winked at her. Dear God, could it be? She shoved the bed, widening the gap and leaned over, grabbing up the object. Her heart gave a joyous leap. The Purity. It was still intact.
Well, that answered the question of what was being sought.
A loud bump overhead shattered her jubilation. Whoever was up there, seemed still to be searching. Surely Stacey wouldn’t be searching her own house. Was Craig the one searching?
Lyssa stuffed the necklace into her coat pocket and hurried to the door. Instinct told her not to reveal herself. Not just yet. Stealthily, she moved out into the pitch dark hall, pressing the flashlight beam against her leg, her thumb on the OFF switch, in case she needed to douse the light.
She strained to distinguish the sounds coming from upstairs. Her heart tattooed against her ears. Voices? Or was it the wind whispering through the old house? Had she heard Craig? Or had she wanted to hear him so badly she’d imagined she had? She extinguished the flashlight, and shoved it into a coat pocket. Best to save what little energy remained in the batteries.
Using the spill of light issuing from the second floor as a guide, she stepped gingerly toward the staircase. Her right foot hit a slick spot. Her leg slid forward. She let out a yelp, threw out her hands and ended up half sprawled, half standing, with one palm flat on the floor…pressed against something liquid, and sticky.
Her dry hand found the flashlight. Its feeble beam revealed a dark spot on the floor. Lyssa recoiled. It looked like…blood. Fresh blood. Fear shot through her. She brought her trembling hand to her nose, and sniffed, instantly identifying the sickly sweet scent. It was blood. Her stomach lurched.
A resounding crash echoed across the ceiling.
Her gaze jerked up.
Someone swore.
Lyssa froze. That wasn’t Craig. She glanced down at her bloodied hand. Was she staring at Craig’s blood? Heartsick with fear, Lyssa got to her feet, and fought the urge to dash up the stairs headlong into whatever was going on. Safety in numbers. Maybe some of the neighbors were home now. But what if they weren’t? Dare she waste time running from house to house? No. A telephone would be quicker. A direct route to the police.
Haunted with images of Craig bleeding to death, she located the kitchen. Pent-up air rushed through her taut lips as she spotted the telephone on the counter. She snatched up the receiver and poked 91--
“Put it down. Now!”
Recognizing the voice behind her, Lyssa went as wooden as a totem pole. Had she managed to depress the other 1? She didn’t know. She set the phone away from her and spun around. “What are you doin--?”
The barrel of a gun was pointed at her heart.
Craig came to with a hell of a headache. He touched his hand gingerly to his temple, finding the tender spot, now sticky with his blood, where the bullet had grazed him. Then he remembered his cousin and called out, “Stacey?”
A hand reached through the darkness and touched him. “Here.”
She was alive. Craig gave a silent prayer
of thanks. They were in the attic, propped against the Naugahyde bean bag chair he’d carried Stacey to just before the woman had shot him, and left them both for dead.
The cramped space was as cold as a locker, wind stealing through the siding and whining across the roof. Craig reached for his cousin and put his arm around her shoulders. She groaned. Was the wound in her side still seeping blood?
Her head plopped against his shoulder, heavy for such a tiny woman. “I’m sorry, Craig.”
“About what?” He held his breath, not certain he wanted to hear all that she had to tell.
“I lied about Lyssa Carlyle.” Her speech was hesitant. “I knew about the faux.”
“Why?” But Craig suspected he knew.
“To protect Dad. When he told me about Lyssa’s proposal, I encouraged him to do it. I was sick of him getting the short end of the stick.” She paused and drew a raspy breath. “I really related to the DeHavilands wanting something from the Rivals. Something this family would never give them.”
Again, Craig knew that he could not go blameless in this mess. Like a masochist seeking further pain, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How did it get from that to this?”
“Kevin Carlyle. I’d seen him at office with Ginger. One day, he came on to me. Was flattered. He’d just done the cover of GQ. I was curious about Lyssa and his name being the same. Small world. I told him about the faux, and about Dad’s worry that the whole thing was unethical.” Craig felt her head turn and he could picture her sad eyes, so like her father’s, gazing up at him. She said, “Didn’t know Kevin had talked Dad into stealing the Purity. Can’t believe Dad would even consider that.”
“That’s why Carlyle killed him, Stacey. Wayne couldn’t go through with it.” She nodded. Craig asked, “How was David involved?”
“Wasn’t.”
“But someone from Lundeen’s office drew up an agreement between Wayne and Lyssa.”
She shook her head. “Ploy to placate Dad. Kevin convinced him he could protect himself with a contract. I-I confiscated blank contract from David’s office. Kevin forged signatures.” Her voice was alarmingly weak.
Craig regretted making her talk. “Shush, you can tell me later, Stacey. Save your energy. Okay?”
“No. Now.” She drew a halting breath. “Soon found out Kevin was a pig. Just using me. Must have copied my office keys. I swear I never knew about him and her.” She sobbed, “I never knew they’d kill Dad. He’d be alive if not for me.”
If not for me. Craig felt the blame as deeply as Stacey. He hugged her gently, fiercely. Would either of them ever come to terms with their parts in Wayne’s death? “Why did she shoot you?”
“The Purity. She put it into my coat pocket this morning. I found it when I got home. Hid…it…” Stacey’s voice trailed off.
The door suddenly swung inward. Craig blinked against the brilliant flash of light that danced across the narrow space and flicked off the exposed rafters, illuminating cobwebs, piled boxes, discarded furnishings, and a light bulb hung from one beam with a string pull.
The woman came into view, shoving someone else. Another woman. Craig stiffened. Lyssa? His heart dropped to his toes. What was she doing here? Disentangling himself from Stacey, he lurched to his feet and charged for the women.
“Don’t try it.” She was much shorter than he, and fearless with the revolver in her hand. She pushed it against Lyssa’s temple. “Sit back down.”
“Damn it, can’t you see Stacey needs a doctor,” he railed. “If you’ve an ounce of compassion--take the Purity and let me call an ambulance.”
“Has she regained consciousness, then?”
He thought better of telling her the truth, and hoped Stacey was coherent enough not to give herself away. “No.”
The woman gave a vile laugh, then thumbed the hammer of the revolver. “Sit down! Now!”
Even in this stingy light, he could see Lyssa’s face was white, her eyes like saucers. “Don’t shoot her. I’m sitting.” He sank back down beside Stacey, his eyes never leaving the gun, all the while aware that Stacey made no sound when he jostled her. He could no longer hear her ragged breathing.
She shoved Lyssa at him. Lyssa landed sprawled at his feet. He reached for her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She struggled to her knees, so relieved to see him that she nearly forgot about the woman behind them. About the gun. “Are you okay?”
“Shut up!”
Lyssa jerked. She wheeled around and sat next to Craig. She eyed the woman she’d thought was her friend. “Why, Teri?”
Teri, a gleam in her pale blue eyes that was nothing Lyssa had seen nor recognized, smiled indulgently. “I wouldn’t tell him, but I do believe I’d like you to know. Where should I start? Should I go all the way back to our junior high prom, where you danced all night with Lonny Sanderson, knowing that I was mad for him? Did you know that I cried my heart out for a week afterward? Did you care? No. Because, you kept on stealing my men all through high school and college. But when I met Kevin Carlyle, I swore he was one man you wouldn’t have.”
“Kevin?” Lyssa frowned, trying to take this in.
“Yes, I met him first. But I underestimated his greed. He saw a snapshot of us and asked about you. Like an idiot, I told him all about the DeHavilands. Next thing I knew, he was dating you behind my back.”
Lyssa hadn’t thought anything else could shock her. She’d been wrong. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have dated him, much less married him.”
“Kevin talked me into keeping quiet. That man could talk a bear out of honey. Before you start feeling too sorry for me though, I should tell you I had the satisfaction of sleeping with your husband nearly every day since your wedding.”
If Teri had meant to hurt her with this revelation, she'd failed. All Lyssa felt was disgust. “What about Mason? I thought--”
“I thought the old goat had money. I knew that was the only way of winning Kevin once and for all. But Mason had the last laugh. Unbeknownst to me, he had mortgaged everything he owned. The state and the bank took it all. I killed him for nothing. I was back at square one. You had Kevin, I had zip.”
A chill wrapped around Lyssa heart. If Teri had killed Mason, what would stop her from killing the three of them?
“C.J.’s right about sentiment,” Teri ranted on. “It won’t buy you diddly squat. When you finally dumped Kevin, I talked him into coming to Seattle. The jerk brought Ginger with him, so I was still sharing him. Ginger had enough money to keep him happy for a while. When that ran out, he dumped her for Stacey. But the last straw was when I caught him coming on to C.J..
“I was sick of sharing him. That’s when it came to me. Why not use his influence with Stacey to rip off ‘The Collection.’ Your desire to copy the Purity gave us an even better idea. With an available copy and Craig in Europe, it seemed fail-proof. We’d just exchange necklaces, sell the real Purity to C.J.--who wants it so badly she’ll take it anyway she can get it--then when the time was right, help ourselves to the rest, plant some lesser piece in Ginger's apartment, and good-bye good old U.S. of A..”
“What went wrong?” Craig asked.
Teri spat the words. “You screwed it up. Giving Wayne a full partnership for his birthday. He panicked. Figured you’d withdraw the partnership offer if you discovered the Purity had been copied on his authority. He was going to destroy the faux. Kevin employed a little damage control.”
Lyssa said, “So, Kevin killed Wayne…and then came after me because I’d spotted him in his car outside Windance.”
“I told him to forget it, but he was obsessed with silencing you. And now you’ve stolen him from me, again.” She closed the gap between them. “Turn about is fair play. Tell your lover boy goodbye, Lyssa.”
“You can’t hope to get away with this.” Craig tried tugging Lyssa back behind him, but she resisted, wresting his hands off her arms. What was the matter with her? “C.J. will know it was you, Teri.”
T
eri shrugged. “So what? Before any of you are even missed, I’ll have sold the Purity, and be enjoying the beaches of Rio, with a new name, a whole new identity.”
Lyssa plunged her hand into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the necklace, edging away from Craig. “How are you planning to do that? Stacey’s unconscious. Maybe dead. And you don’t know where she put the Purity.”
“I’ve got all night to hunt for it.” Teri aimed the revolver at Craig’s head and pulled back the hammer.
Craig stiffened. Ice flowed through Lyssa’s veins.
Teri smiled at her. “But first I’m going to enjoy watching you watch Mr. Stuff-shirt die.”
“If you want the Purity,” Lyssa shouted, yanking the necklace from her pocket and heaving it at Teri. “Here, catch!” Teri swung the gun at Lyssa. Craig kicked at her hand. The gun discharged. The Purity struck Teri across the bridge of her nose. The bullet went wild. Teri cried out in pain. The gun fired again.
This bullet zinged past Craig’s ear. Before she could get off another shot, he tackled her. Teri shrieked like a rabid ferret. The revolver flew from her grasp. It clattered into the corner. Lyssa dove for it.
Teri was quickly subdued. For the second time in two weeks, Lyssa used her rusty, but not forgotten, macramé skills, tying both Teri’s hands behind her back. Lyssa threw herself into Craig’s waiting arms. He reassured her, “I'm okay. I’m not hurt. The bullets missed me.”
“There’s blood on your cheek.” Lyssa touched it gingerly, wincing as if she could feel the pain as much as he. A banging noise from below startled her. She stepped away from Craig. “Someone’s at the door. Let’s hope it’s the police.” As she moved, she spotted Stacey slumped in the beanbag chair. Lyssa whipped off her coat and thrust it at him. “Better put this around her. I’ll have them call for an ambulance.”
She hurried out. He could hear the banging now. And light was spilling in as she hastened down the stairs. The electricity was back on. Craig grabbed the string attached to the overhead light and pulled. A bright glare momentarily blinded him, but it was a welcome relief from the darkness.