Jordan pulled the knife out of its sheath, held it up to the light, admiring the carved handle, the classic lines, the simple beauty of it. “I never got much satisfaction from women . . .” With a sharp movement he thrust the lethal phallic symbol back into its sheath. “Men didn’t do anything for me either. I decided sex just wasn’t for me.”
Claire breathed easier as the knife disappeared into the leather. But the poker, black and ugly, was lying on the bed, out of reach; her cell phone was in her purse on the kitchen counter. But if she could keep Jordan talking, surely someone would come. Brad, Pat Farrell, Slade. Someone was bound to come.
“Then I met Phil,” Jordan continued in a perfectly normal conversational style. “She was always so well dressed, fresh, sweet-smelling.” His lips thinned. “Too much in control, too tight-assed to encourage a pass. Damned princess wanted a eunuch to wear on her arm, fetch and carry, sit up and beg. And then Diane came along. Drove me crazy, that girl. She was so full of sex, she scared me shitless.”
“You killed her, didn’t you?” Claire said softly. “Brad was right, you did it.”
“I did, I surely did.” Jordan sucked in his breath. His head was better now. He was getting his second wind. “I loved her, you know. Don’t know why. I never loved anything before. Except maybe Mom. I didn’t want to kill her. Mom. I buried her under the pines, made her a cross . . .” His voice died away as he thought about the cross lying on an evidence shelf in some cold, dark, aseptic place. Claire shouldn’t have found it. Shouldn’t . . . fucking bitch.
Keep him talking. She had to say something. Anything. Mustn’t let him slip back into madness. “Jordan, was it you that day at the mall? And at the model?”
“Of course,” he retorted, as if insulted she could have thought otherwise. “How many murderers do you think we’ve got around here?” His lips quirked in appreciation of his wit. Once again, his fingers found, and fondled, the hilt of the knife that rose above his belt. “I suppose we should get on with it,” he sighed. Somehow he had to finish it, but the fever was gone, his resolve fading as fast as his lust. Nothing was left but a whimper.
But Claire had to die; it was part of the plan. Rook takes Queen. The next to the last move in the ritual of death.
Claire saw his eyes change, the melancholy switch, not to madness but to . . . determination. The hand around her left ankle was like a leg iron. But . . . was it only reflex? Perhaps he’d forgotten it was there. While Jordan talked, Claire eased her right foot out from under her left leg. With her hands braced behind her, she tried to hitch herself backwards. Jordan’s eyes flamed, his jaw clenched. Claire’s abortive movements went nowhere. All she’d done was make him angry.
And then he smiled. A beautiful, absolutely charming smile. And Claire knew what the others had seen just before death. If the smiling man in front of her looked less like the friend who helped with her wedding, who raised funds for all the most socially correct charities . . . If he looked less like a pillar of the community and more like the monster he was, it would be easier to convince herself she had to fight, to kick and gouge and scratch and bite. She had to live for Jamie and Brad. For herself. For the new life to which a crack had miraculously opened. And was about to be slammed shut.
The hand fingering the knife hilt tightened as, once again, Jordan Lovell began to slide the long shining blade from its sheath. Claire twisted violently, kicked the two-inch heel of her right shoe straight into Jordan’s knife hand. As he howled with pain and rage, she scrambled to her feet and dashed toward the door. The hall to the back stairs and the kitchen was too far, but the tower room had a door that locked . . . she thought. And a phone.
She almost made it. She was on the second step when Jordan tackled her. They crashed down in a tangled heap. No hope of besting him in a contest of strength. Jordan Lovell might be brass to Brad Blue’s steel, but, though Claire’s will was strong, she rated her physical strength somewhere between marshmallow and cream puff. She had to fight smart. Fight dirty.
Claire’s head banged hard into one of the wooden stair risers. Infuriated by the sharp crack of pain, she swung at Jordan’s head, straight at the rising bruise where she had slugged him with the poker.
With a sharp grunt of pain, he loosed his grip. Claire made a dive for the knife, but he’d rolled on top of it where neither of them could reach it. Claire gritted her teeth and did what had to be done. Not as ruthlessly as she should have, but the result was spectacular. Infinitely satisfying.
While Jordan clutched his crotch and rolled in agony, Claire raced up the stairs to the tower, slammed the door and . . . and was hit by another kind of panic. The hole in the door, where the long metal key should have been, was empty. She dragged a small chest in front of the door, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. It might, however, hold long enough for her to make a phone call.
The phone was an ancient rotary dial, so surprisingly heavy she almost dropped it. She had completed the long circular motion of the nine and was on the first short one when she realized there was no dial tone. Oh, God, not again.
Claire took a good look at the phone, at its dangling cord ending in a square of beige plastic with teeth. The phone wasn’t plugged in. What did she expect? The room probably hadn’t been used in years.
There was a banging on the door, the dresser heaved. Frantically, Claire looked around for the phone outlet. There had to be one. Somewhere. Brad! Where did you hide the damn plug?
With the grinding sound of wood on wood, the door flew open and Jordan came in with a rush, pausing with his back to the stairs, the knife gleaming in the sunlight of the tower room’s many windows. He was no longer having difficulty holding it, Claire noted with the clarity that comes when you know death is certain. That there is nowhere else to run.
But there was. The spiral staircase, the sundeck on the roof. From there, if she screamed loud enough, perhaps one of the neighbors would hear her. If she could slow Jordan down, keep him stalking, toying with her instead of attacking Jamie and Jody. He was intelligent, sophisticated. He liked to move slowly, elegantly. He liked to talk.
To smile and smile. And kill.
“Look, Jordan, you don’t really want to do this,” Claire breathed as she backed slowly toward the narrow winding staircase. “You know Brad is going to be here any minute. Slade Whitlaw and the county cops as well.” If only! “Give it up and they’ll go easy on you. Kill me and Brad’ll make you into hash. And you know it.” That much at least was true.
“I’m counting on it,” Jordan replied. And started across the floor. Smiling.
“Claire!” Brad’s voice boomed up from the kitchen. Hard. Anxious. “Claire, where are you? Answer me, dammit!”
Thank you, Lord! By some miracle her bravado had come true. Taking advantage of Jordan’s momentary distraction, Claire kept backing toward the spiral staircase.
Jordan’s pulse rate soared. This was it. Wonder Boy Blue to the rescue. Ready . . . and more than willing to do his part in the scheme of things. He supposed he should make one last attempt to kill Claire. There was just time. But somehow the excitement had gone out of him. Time to move on to the final act. He wanted something spectacular. Even a madman could enjoy the grand gesture, the beau geste.
Claire came to an abrupt halt as the black metal stair rail dug into her back. Very slowly, she reached behind her, clutched the railing to keep her legs from buckling, groped with her heel to find the first step.
Brad’s voice was joined by Slade’s: “Claire!” “Jamie!” “Jody!” “Claire!” Behind their shouts came the distant sound of wailing sirens. “Brad, I’m starting up.” Slade’s shout came from the foot of the formal staircase in the living room.
Brad’s reply was strong and steady, the voice of a man who had been in tight spots many times before. “I’m on two. Come ahead easy.”
Jordan turned sideways, peered down the third floor stairs toward the landing where Slade would soon appear. Claire inched up to the second step of the spir
al staircase, never taking her eyes off Lovell.
They heard a shout, the sound of running feet, an anguished exclamation, quickly bitten off, from Slade.
They’d found Jody.
Claire turned and sprang up the steps, promptly banged her head against the ceiling. Frantically, she struggled with the bolt that held the trap door in place. Her fingers were all thumbs. No time to look, but she sensed that Jordan had abandoned his interest in the action below and was close behind her. Blindly, she lashed out with her foot, felt her heel strike flesh, heard an angry grunt of pain. The bolt gave way and, breathless and exhausted, she hauled herself out onto the roof, hand over hand on the black iron extension set into the sun deck’s tile floor.
She was finished, she realized, as her legs noodled out from under her. Her spirit was willing, but her body had simply stopped. So there she was, sprawled on her hands and knees, head hanging, ready for the slaughter.
Jordan—the knife glinting in his hand—clambered over her and just kept going. When he reached the western wall of the tower, the one with the four-story drop to the cement patio surrounding the pool, he turned around and stared past her.
Claire whimpered as a hand gripped her shoulder. “You okay?” Brad’s voice said just above her ear.
Out of a wild haze of relief, Claire summoned the strength to nod her head. For some strange reason it wasn’t her day to die. She’d been relegated to the role of observer. Brad stood above her, gun in hand, while an odd look of satisfaction spread over Jordan Lovell’s handsome face. Claire saw no sign of panic, no fear. As if he’d wanted Brad to arrive carrying a gun.
“I regret I didn’t have time to finish it,” Lovell said. Clearly, distinctively, tauntingly, he added: “I planned to kill them both, you know. Jody’s such a sweet little thing, I couldn’t resist. And Claire? Claire was to be your punishment, Blue. For having Diane. For knowing too much. Understanding too much. And also”—Jordan drove the knife down hard into its leather sheath—“and also for killing me.”
“You’re too sick to kill,” Brad said evenly. “I won’t give you the satisfaction. We’ll just let the doctors pick apart that weirdo head of yours. Give it up, Lovell, let’s go.”
“Go on!” Jordan urged. “Do it. I want you too.” For the first time since Claire had found Jordan with his hands around Jody’s neck, she saw the hysteria, the madness, come sweeping back. His words were like bullets. Nasty, taunting, designed to give pain. “That’s the way I planned it, Blue. I killed that little girl downstairs, and all the others. I stalked your wife, planned to rape her . . . kill her.” Jordan’s eyes left Brad to rake over Claire. “Believe me, I would have had her before—and after—I killed her. So use the gun, Blue. You’re supposed to be good at it. You’ve got the stomach for it. Do it!”
“No way.” Brad shook his head. “I’m really going to enjoy watching them put the straight jacket on you. And I’m going to come to the funny farm just to make sure they don’t make your life too cushy.” He motioned with the gun. “Let’s go, Lovell, it’s over.”
Jordan, backed hard against the low stucco wall, glanced at the blue of the pool far below. His voice rose. “For God’s sake, Blue, shoot me! Remember Diane,” he taunted. “Remember what I did to her. Shoot, damn you. Or I’m going to jump.”
“Oh, I am remembering Diane,” Brad said, his voice so cold and deadly, Claire shivered. “I remember Jody and all the others. Go ahead and jump, Lovell. I want to hear you scream all the way down.”
Below them, the sirens had wound to a halt. There wasn’t a sound, only the whisper of the breeze through the trees. One moment Jordan Lovell was there; the next, he was gone. The silence was broken only by the sickening thud of a body hitting the cement four stories below. The rattle of flying lawn chairs. And then, once again, all was quiet.
Chapter Twenty-six
It was nearly nine o’clock before the milling crowd at Palm Court finally diminished to the point where the last official question had been asked, the last white and green patrol car had exited the driveway, and even Sheriff Jeffries was saying goodbye. Ginny Bentley had been notified; also, Wade Whitlaw, Garrett, and Claire’s parents in Connecticut. Throughout the long ordeal Jamie had scarcely left his mother’s side.
Brad and Doug Chalmers, who had arrived only minutes after the police, walked Bill Jeffries to his car, spreading soft soap and mending fences with each step. The sheriff’s satisfaction in ending the problem of a serial killer in his territory only partially offset his chagrin at Brad Blue’s nearly unerring profile of the case.
After heaving a soft sigh of relief, Claire took Jamie by the hand and headed for the inviting comfort of the kingsize sofa in the courtyard room. She hugged Jamie to her side . . . drank in the peace and quiet. It was over. Really over. With only one, very important, hanging thread. Jody. Jody who had clung stubbornly to a spark of life.
So now they waited.
Once again, Garrett and Phil had provided food, prompting Phil to mutter something about a new career—Tierney Catering, ready and available for all emergencies. As Brad and Doug came back into the room, Jamie was finishing off his second six-inch sub, as if he were nineteen instead of almost nine. “Wash that down with some soda, Jamie,” Brad advised, “and tell everybody how you saved your mother’s life today. She’s been so busy with the police, I don’t think she’s heard your story yet.”
Jamie almost choked on his last bite. “I didn’t,” he mumbled, his mouth still full. “You did.”
“I admit I cut the architect short when Claire lost Pat to the accident, but what if Slade and I had taken our time driving home? What if we’d walked in without knowing the score? Even if we’d sensed something was wrong, we’d have had to search the whole first floor first.” Brad gave his newly acquired son an encouraging smile. “Go on, Jamie. Tell her.”
Jamie wiped the oil and vinegar on his hands onto his T-shirt, then pulled away from his mother to sit up tall and straight, his feet not quite touching the marble floor. “Well,” he began, “when I was in the closet the first time, it was awful dark, but I noticed there was a little bit of light at the back. So the second time I was in the closet, when I knew mom and Jody were in real trouble, I found there was a window and this tree outside, a skinny green tree . . .”
“A cedar,” Brad explained. “Grandma Tyree liked cedars.”
“Anyway, it came all the way up to the window, so I just grabbed the tree and slid down. It was easy, but kinda prickly.”
Claire opened her mouth, felt Brad’s hand clamp on her arm. Stifling her horror over what might have happened, she returned her attention to her son.
“I sneaked around to the kitchen, but I was kinda scared to go in,” Jamie admitted, obviously chagrined by his cowardice. “But I could see Mom’s purse lying on the counter. She carries this big old open purse, and half the things in it keep falling out,” he confided to his avid listeners. “Anyway, I could see her cell phone right there, lying out in plain sight. So I grabbed it. I went back out and hid in the bushes and called Brad. That’s when he told me him and Slade . . .”
“He and Slade,” Claire corrected automatically.
“Whatever,” said Jamie grandly. “Brad and Slade were only five minutes away, Brad said. He told me to take the phone and hide in the apartment over the garage and not come out until he called me. So I did,” Jamie added with jaunty satisfaction of a man with a job well done.
“Good God,” Claire breathed.
“Attaboy, Jamie!” Garrett approved.
“I always knew you were trouper, Jamie,” said Doug Chalmers. “You toughed it out when you were only six. I’m not at all surprised you did so well this time around.”
“You did good, son, I’m proud of you.” Brad reached across Claire and offered Jamie his hand. Solemnly, the two men in Claire’s life shook hands.
From the kitchen came the sound of a banging screen door. A stream of words preceded the new arrival. “Do I smell food? Tell me I
smell food.” Slade burst through the archway from the kitchen at a near run. “Thank you, lord, it is food. Dad, I’m going to have a beer. Don’t even think of telling me I can’t.”
“We’re not interested in the state of your stomach, Slade,” his father retorted. “We’re waiting to hear about Jody.”
Slade sprawled on the floor next to the coffee table and reached for a sub. “She can’t talk yet,” he mumbled around his first bite, “and her neck’s a mess, but she’s going to be fine.” He gulped down two more giant bites, swallowed while popping the top of a Bud. “You wouldn’t believe the scene at the hospital. I never knew anybody could have that many relatives. The place was a zoo. I hardly had a chance to see her. The hospital’s keeping her overnight, but she can go home tomorrow. No problem.”
Tears started down Claire’s cheeks as the horror of seeing Jody’s seemingly lifeless body came back in a rush. “I thought she was dead,” she whispered.
“We all did,” Brad said.
“Me too,” Jamie echoed, adding, “How’d you know she was alive, Slade?”
“I didn’t,” Slade admitted. “Brad and I were searching the house, and when we saw Jody lying there, we both figured she was gone, but Brad sent me to find out for sure.”
Slade’s eyes never left the aluminum can in his hand, but Claire watched in fascination as his ears turned bright red. “I did CPR,” he muttered. “I was pretty shook up. It took a couple of rounds before I realized she was already breathing. I was taking off my shirt—to cover her up, you know—when her eyes came open. It was so weird, like I could see everything coming back to her, reflecting in her eyes. They got so wide when she finally really focused on me that I thought they’d pop.”
Slade took another long pull on the beer, met his father’s disapproving glance, and chug-a-lugged three swallows in a row. “Have you ever seen anybody blush all over? I mean, turn red from the toes right on up? I got the shirt on her all right, but when I walked into her room at the hospital she did it again—at least all the parts of her I could see. Hell, I was going to ask her to Homecoming, but I don’t think she’ll ever be able to look at me again without turning tomato.”
Shadowed Paradise Page 32