Damn. But at this point, what choice did I have? They’d reached the room. It was too late now to pretend I hadn’t heard them.
“Darling,” Morgan said, his voice throbbing. “Here it is.”
They strolled in, along with a drift of Ilona’s Opium perfume, their footsteps loud on the room’s concrete sub-flooring. The plush, wall-to-wall carpeting wasn’t due for installation until next week.
“Now imagine our bed on that wall, between the sconces,” he said.
“An ultra king?” she asked.
“Of course, what else? It will be our private playpen. Luscious and soft. As you are, darling.”
Resisting the urge to gag, I peeked through the door slats. Morgan had taken Ilona in his arms and stood nuzzling her neck. Finally, with what looked like reluctance from behind the slats, her hands reached up and, encircling his back, she clung to him as he embraced her.
After a month or so, he lifted his head from her throat.
“If only we had a bed,” he murmured. “If only…” His voice broke, whether from passion or a head cold, I couldn’t tell.
“But we do not,” Ilona replied.
Damn, Hungarian women were so practical.
“We can improvise. There must be something.”
“Nem.”
Ha! Morgan had just heard the first of many nems.
“I want our joining to be perfect for you,” Ilona added, softening the blow, so to speak.
A sigh. The sound of a kiss. Then, “Very well, darling. I’ve waited this long. I’ll wait a little longer. Counting each day, each hour.”
“And I count minutes, Morgan.”
“Darling!”
“No more kisses now. We must talk. Like I tell you yesterday, I am worried. I think Deva suspect something.”
“Let her. She’s under suspicion herself. You were wise to give her the new code to your house…it draws her in. I’m just glad she didn’t decide to use it the day I-”
Ilona covered his mouth with a diamond-studded hand. “No, no say out loud. You did what you had to do. But I must tell you, Morgan, Maria was big shock, but not like Jesus. When I return from Hungary and find him dead, I almost faint. That was not part of plan.”
“No darling, it wasn’t. But he caught me tacking the oil in place. I had to kill him.”
Hardly daring to breathe, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I kept peering through the shuttered closet door.
“I have question,” she said.
Holding her at arm’s length, he looked down into her eyes. “Yes?” Was I imagining it, or did he sound wary?
“Last night, the news say George Farragut is dead. Shot. Do you know of this, Morgan?”
“Of course I know of this. The airwaves have been filled with it. Poor devil.”
“That is not what I ask. Do you know of this?” She stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.
His hands fell by his sides. “Are you asking if I killed him?”
She stayed out of reach of his hands and nodded, just once, briefly.
“George knew. Or maybe I should say, he suspected.”
“How is that possible?” For the first time since I’d met her, Ilona’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper.
“We were drinking together one night. I alluded to a theft. He was a smart man, he surmised.”
“What this mean, surmise?”
“Guessed.”
It wasn’t easy, peeking through the slats, but still I’d take a vow that Ilona’s face went ashen white. “You killed him for a guess?”
“I had to. He could have gone to the police. I had no choice. For you, I have broken all my oaths. The ones I vowed to keep. But nothing matters except possessing you. I’ll be faithful to you forever.”
Under different circumstances I might have snorted in disbelief, but not this time. That was a serial killer out there, and I had no desire to be his next victim.
“If only I had a pillow or something to lay you on,” he murmured. “I’d prove how much I worship you. I know I promised to wait, but I haven’t the strength. I need you now.”
“Nem, not like this. So sordid.”
Poor Morgan. He had trashed his life and killed three people all for a “No.”
But he didn’t give up easily. I should have known. “Wait a moment, darling,” he said, his voice rising with anticipation, “I’ll check in the closet. There might be a blanket in there or something, anything, to put down on that hard floor.”
Uh-oh. A cold sweat broke out all over my skin.
He yanked open the double closet doors. At the sight of me, he went rigid as stone and stood staring into my eyes, a brushed pewter knob in each hand.
“You heard,” he said, drawing in a ragged breath then blowing it out fast, right into my face.
“Jaj Istenem!” Ilona gasped, peering over his shoulder at me.
Without looking back, as cool as if being overheard confessing to murder were an everyday occurrence, he said, “Don’t worry about a thing, darling. I’ll take care of this.”
He let go of the knob and those strong surgeon’s hands came up, fingers flexed, ready to press into my carotids. Or crush my larynx.
I backed up a step. “Stay away from me, Morgan.”
“I can’t let you leave.”
“I can’t let you stop me.”
He smiled in derision. The derision reached his eyes. The smile did not. “How are you going to prevent that?”
There had to be a way. I took another step back. And another. I hit the closet wall.
He reached for my neck. I swiveled my head, bobbing from side to side so he couldn’t get a grip. What else could I do? What else? His hands shot out and grasped me. At his touch on my flesh, my adrenaline shot to the sky. With an impulse of its own, my knee came up. Smack. Right into his groin.
Morgan let out a shrill scream and dropped his hands to his crotch.
As he bent over, clutching himself, I darted past him. Ilona stood wringing her hands in the center of the empty bedroom.
“No sex today, Ilona,” I told her as I rushed out of the closet. “You’re off the hook.”
“Deva, where you go? We must talk.”
“Nem,” I said, sprinting along the upper hallway. “Nem!”
I dashed down the broad staircase and raced through the empty rooms to the foyer.
Behind me, Ilona’s heels kept up a mad pace. “Deva, wait. Wait.”
As I fumbled at the entrance lock, she caught up with me, bosom heaving, perfect hair flying out of control.
I glanced at her hands. She had no weapon in them and none hidden in those tights and brights she wore, either. Unarmed, she was no threat. But I had to get out of there before Morgan caught up with me.
“I did nothing, Deva. Nothing. You must believe. The painting, it is mine. I have papers to prove.”
“Excellent.” How did this damn door lock work? “Save them for the jury.”
She grasped my arm with a slender hand, her cerise-tipped nails digging into my flesh. “Morgan, he kill. I never harm nobody. I can prove.”
The deadbolt shot back. I twisted the knob and flung the door so hard it sent a giant crack spider-webbing across the foyer’s lacquered wall. So much for a great paint job. Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble stairs. I sent a harried glance over my shoulder. Limping along the stairway, Morgan was moving as fast as he could.
“Hold her, Ilona,” he yelled. “Don’t let her go.”
“I no can,” Ilona cried, as I pried off her hand and raced away.
Once outside, I gulped a lungful of air before stooping to yank off my shoes. I’d run faster in bare feet. The spike heels I’d use as weapons if need be.
Above all, I couldn’t let Morgan reach me. Pulse pounding, heart going like a mariachi band, I raced down the stone steps and along the drive. No way would Ilona catch up to me in backless slides and skintight capris. All my years of jogging were about to pay off. Shoulders back, fists at chest level, the
stilettos facing out like daggers, I soon broke into a sweat in the hot, hazy atmosphere. Too bad the houses were so spread out, each one nestled like a huge jewel in its own acre or so of lush gardens. My best bet would be to pound on the first door I came to. Or flag down a passing motorist.
A car. I glanced back. A blue Maserati was careening along the quiet road, aiming its long, sleek nose directly at me. Morgan. And gaining fast.
Chapter Twenty-Six
To my right, a For Sale sign sprouted on a parcel of land filled with subtropical growth. No Maserati could traverse that. Without hesitation, I plunged into the tangle of untamed jungle, shuddering as my bare feet sank into wet leaves, fallen palm fronds and God knows what else. Scorpions. Snakes. Iguanas.
A branch snagged my shirt. I ripped it loose and ducked behind a sabal palm to catch my breath and listen. The Maserati’s elegant purr had been replaced by a noisy slapping of tropical foliage. Morgan.
So he had recovered from my assault then. Too bad. In pants and sturdy shoes, he had an advantage over my miniskirt and bare feet.
Something crawled over my toes. Stifling a scream, I glanced down. Fire ants! They’d be all over me in no time. I leaped to the other side of the palm, my fast move rustling the fronds. Morgan must have heard. Only the chirping of the birds broke the silence now. He had to be listening for the slightest move. As was I.
I stood frozen, an ice sculpture in nearly ninety-degree heat. And then I saw it. Only a foot or so away, a black snake coiled in a patch of sunlight. I’d heard pythons were breeding in the Everglades. But that wasn’t a python. Nor was this the Everglades. Black snakes were harmless, weren’t they? Even to bare feet?
Blood pressure in the stratosphere, I stepped gingerly away from the tree and inched past the snake, my footsteps silent on the mucky bottom. Overhead, a blue jay flitted from branch to branch, cawing at my every move as though I were a vaudeville act cavorting across a stage. All Morgan had to do was follow the bird’s lead, and he’d have me. A persistent little devil, the jay perched on a nearby scrub pine and screeched his head off. I had to get out of his line of vision.
Up ahead, I spotted a dense clump of low-lying shrubbery. No telling what might be lurking in there. Well, only one way to find out. I crept over to the shrubs, parted the branches and stooped underneath them. A mosquito dive-bombed my head. I swatted it away, relieved no bigger critters were in there with me. Praying the bird would lose interest, I crouched motionless, listening to the heartbeat of the land, the tiny skitterings of unseen creatures, the hum of insects, the brushing of leaf upon leaf. And the loud crackle of branches thrust aside with an impatient hand.
Should I leap up and make a dash for it? No, too late. Morgan’s labored breathing sounded frighteningly near. I let go of the stilettos and hugged my knees, making myself as invisible as possible.
From under lowered lids, I saw the tips of two brown brogans. If Morgan reached out a hand he’d have me. But he didn’t. He stumbled on, noisily whacking branches as he went. The jay must have spotted him. Its raucous cawing started up again.
My throat dry, I swallowed and tried not to breathe deeply of the rotting vegetation. Unless Morgan had kept the gun he used on his victims, I doubted he had a weapon. I inhaled a breath of the heavy air and let it out slowly. He didn’t need a weapon. His hands alone were enough.
If I hadn’t been so scared, I would have pitied the guy. A gifted surgeon, stalking a woman through jungle growth to keep her from telling the truth-he had murdered three people, including his best friend. For a Hungarian blonde whose favorite word was nem.
The poor guy. Yeah, right. A poor sociopath with a tendency to sadism was more like it. A surgeon who earned his bread cutting into human flesh, separating tissue with his fingertips, removing pulsing organs… I shook my head, disgusted at where my thoughts were taking me. Those same hands could heal. Had healed. So what had gone horribly wrong in Morgan’s life? When had his obsessive need to possess works of art morphed into the need to possess Ilona? The perfect woman, a work of art in her own right. At least on the surface.
From what sounded like a few hundred yards in the distance, I could hear him swashbuckle his way through the undergrowth. No finesse there. No careful stitching around a damaged heart. He was out for blood. Mine. And didn’t care if I heard him coming. What was he doing? Trying to flush out his game?
I wrapped my arms around my body to still the trembling. If only I had my phone, I could call for help. If only I had sensible shoes, I could run. If only pigs could fly, they’d be airplanes.
I needed a plan…okay…five minutes without Morgan thrashing about and I’d make a dash for it. But in which direction? Of the four points on the compass, three would lead me out of here, one would not. If I walked in as straight a line as possible, I had a seventy-five percent chance of hitting a house sooner or later, or getting back to the road. But in darting from tree to tree, I’d lost my bearings. Behind the acre-wide strip of developed lawns and gardens edging the road, the land gave way to subtropical jungle…like this untamed parcel. If I set off in the wrong direction, I could wander deep into the wild and be lost with no one the wiser. The thought made me shudder.
I squelched the rising fear and told myself to think. The Gulf lay to the west. The direction that led out of the woods. West, then. But where the hell was west? I should have listened to my father years ago and joined the Girl Scouts. Too late for that, but like every school kid, I knew the sun set in the west. So…I’d step out from this undergrowth, look at the sky and follow the direction of the sun.
Right.
I peered at my watch. Three more minutes.
The rain began as quiet as a whisper. If every pore in my body hadn’t been on sonar alert, I wouldn’t have heard a thing. Then the whispering picked up. Plink. Plink.
Boom! A streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that practically split my eardrums. A second later, the sky pulled out all its stops, unleashing everything it had.
I crouched in a tight ball, sheltered from the worst of the deluge but still, in no time, rain soaked my hair to the scalp and my wet clothes clung like a Hooters outfit.
I didn’t even care. Where the hell was west, anyway?
My five-minute plan turned into a half hour. Decision time. Stay here and be mosquito food or make a break for it. Even in bare feet, I could move fast. I was younger than Morgan. Fleeter. And judging from his harsh breathing of a while ago, I had more stamina than he. So if I could keep him at arm’s length, I had a chance-if I turned in any direction but east. A big if.
Problem was, I had no idea where Morgan might be. Lost, too? Or close by, waiting to pounce the moment he spotted me? Could be, but I’d have to risk it. If I stayed huddled here much longer, I wouldn’t be able to move.
I picked up the stilettos, and brushing the scruffy fronds aside, I stood, exposing myself to view. Nearby, a squirrel, as agile as Tarzan, leaped from branch to branch, soaring from one tree to another. Way to go! If only I could do the same, instead of standing on bug-bitten legs clutching a shoe in each fist.
An eerie quiet had replaced the angry slapping of palm fronds. Even the jay had shut up. Maybe Morgan had fled. No, I immediately dismissed that idea. Not a chance he’d leave before he caught me or until I escaped, whichever came first. He was hiding like I was, waiting for me to make the first move.
That he would kill me if he could I had not the slightest doubt. But if given the chance, would I kill him?
Not if I could. If I had to.
Yeah, if I had to.
Arms raised overhead, I arched my back then stretched my hamstrings. No more hiding. No more crouching. But which way to run? I picked a card. That way. Whether it was the fatal east or not, I couldn’t tell with the sky so overcast. I’d just have to chance it.
From behind me, a hiss as subtle as a snake’s glide.
I gasped and whirled about, stiletto heels forward in each fist.
�
��Hello, Deva.”
A shiver of panic swept through me. Did he have a gun? No, his hands were empty, but they were weapons enough.
Before he could lunge for me, I spun away from him and ran, snapping branches in my haste, shoving palm fronds out of the way, feet stinging, heart pumping.
Over my noisy retreat, I could hear him staying the course. Fear shot hot blood through me as I raced, not sparing so much as a second to look back. Soon, though, the sounds of pursuit became fainter and farther away. I must be outdistancing him.
Something sharp pierced my foot. I yelped in pain and kept on. The pain meant I was alive. I’d outrun him yet. He had twenty years on me, a man who spent most of his days in a fluorescent-lit operating room. When had he jogged the beach last? Probably never.
I leaped over a fallen log, then another. I hit the third log with the ball of my foot. The pain shot up to my teeth, the shoes flew out of my hands, and I fell, face-first, into a shallow ditch.
Stunned by the impact, I lay there for precious seconds. Morgan came pounding through the undergrowth and careened to a stop at the edge of the ditch.
I leaped up and grabbed the log I had tripped over. Like a mad Musketeer, I brandished it in front of me.
Morgan stood facing me, gasping for air, clenching and unclenching his hands, keeping his weapons warm and agile.
“Why, Morgan?”
He didn’t bother to ask what I meant. He knew. For a moment, poised for a leap at my throat, he looked like he wouldn’t respond, but he surprised me. “You’re too young to understand.”
“Try me,” I said, waving the log like a sword.
Sucking in some deep breaths, he waited, as if mulling over whether or not to reply, but finally he said, “Life was passing me by in slow, agonizing increments.”
“Very poetic. But I nearly flunked English 101.” Actually, I aced the course, but he didn’t have to know that. “So make it easy for me. The bugs are murder. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“I’ve spent years saving lives. Every life but my own.”
The Monet Murders Page 21