A Moment in Time

by Judith Gould

  Bending down and scurrying across the terrace practically on all fours, the black-clad figure rushed through the open French doors and stood up.

  Then:

  Pop!

  Pop!

  Pop!

  Pop!

  All four dogs slumped, the powerful tranquilizer darts immediately knocking them out.

  Wyn, standing at the CD player, thought he heard a strange cracking sound above the music. He turned around and stared in horror at the black-clad figure.

  "Daphne—?" he began.

  Phump! The Heckler & Koch P9S made a muffled explosive sound, barely detectable above the music, thanks to the pistol's Qualatech silencer.

  He jerked back, his eyes enormous, then down he went, blood spraying from his head.

  Valerie came down the hallway and entered the room just as Wyn fell. From between the bookcases, she looked across the huge room, and her mouth opened in terror. But she clamped it shut before any sound could come out, then dropped down to a crouch and scuttled to the bookcase where the gun cases were. She pulled out the first one her shaking hand could find, then stood up, ready to fire.

  Running up to the terrace, he saw someone standing in front of the open French doors. He grinned. A piece of cake, he thought. First her, then him.

  As he fired he heard the gunshots. His Smith & Wesson Mark 22 had a silencer. What the hell? He didn't know, but he saw the body drop. Got the vet. Now I've got to get him. He stepped forward to look for Conrad, but didn't see him. Where is he? Then he saw Wyn's body sprawled on the floor. What's going on? But he didn't have time to figure it out. Those gunshots—got to get out of here.

  Valerie stood with the heavily ornamented pistol in her hand, quivering from head to toe. The shots she'd fired had made her ears ring. Even from this distance, she could see that Wyn was dead. His body lay inert, sprawled on the floor in front of the big walnut cabinet that housed the CD player. His eyes were wide open, and there was no sign of life in him.

  She walked over to the other body. The person she was certain she'd murdered. She looked down.

  My God. Daphne Collins.

  Why? she asked herself, staring at the body. We were friends, weren't we?

  She looked around then, almost in an otherworldly daze.

  Blood.

  It was everywhere.

  Valerie stood over the body—Daphne's body, she reminded herself—looking down at it with utter dispassion. Daphne's eyes, usually so bright with curiosity, were now stone-cold. Dead, they looked. Her lips, normally ready with a smile, were drawn into a thin, colorless, and unfamiliar line. Her blond hair hung about her face in Medusa-like snakes, the tendrils matted and dirty.

  After an eternal minute, Valerie stepped closer, then knelt beside the body, noticing the blood that stained the dark needlepoint rug. A Jell-O-like pool of it had fanned out in a small kidney shape on the oak floor where the head rested. Its taint suddenly assailed her nostrils with its unmistakable metallic odor. But she was accustomed to it and didn't recoil or tremble or feel the urge to faint or vomit. Her composure remained intact.

  Reaching out a hand, she took one of Daphne's blood-smeared hands in her own. She held it there for two full minutes, feeling for a pulse. She didn't detect one, but then she hadn't expected to. She'd seen death countless times in her thirty years and knew that what she was doing was unnecessary. But she kept feeling for a pulse, nonetheless, concentrating all of her efforts on the procedure, as if by feeling hard enough she could produce the heartbeat she was certain she wouldn't hear. After a few more moments she gently replaced the hand on the rug and got to her feet.

  There was no doubt that Daphne was dead.

  Dead, she thought without emotion. She had gone completely numb and felt like a zombie operating on remote control. The stone-cold expression on her face didn't change with this awful knowledge. There was no quiver of fear or horror or sadness about her lips. No tears of remorse or grief sprang to her eyes. Anybody happening upon the macabre tableau would think her an ice maiden, seeing her features thus composed.

  She walked over to the bureau plat and reached down and picked up the receiver, then dialed the number with a steady hand. When a voice answered at the other end, she replied in a cool, even voice.

  "This is Dr. Valerie Rochelle," she said. "I just murdered someone."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Santo ran quickly to his cottage and hurried in.

  Arielle jumped up from the couch where she was sitting, her eyes huge with fright.

  "What happened?"' she gasped. "I heard shots!"

  "I'm not really sure," Santo replied. "Something went wrong."

  "Oh, Jesus!" Arielle exclaimed. "Hadn't we better get out of here?"

  "We're going to haul ass," Santo said. "We've got to beat the cops." He withdrew the Hush Puppy from his waistband and studied it closely.

  "What about the Reinhardts?" she asked.

  "Their lights are still out," Santo said. "I don't think they heard anything." He looked back down at the gun, then shoved it back in his waistband. "There's nothing wrong with this silencer as far as I can tell," he said, still baffled by the turn of events.

  "If the silencer works," Arielle asked, "then who fired the shots?"

  "I don't know," Santo said. "I didn't see anything much except her taking a hit." He wasn't going to tell Arielle that he'd seen Wyn sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, but that he hadn't shot him. He'd explain that later.

  "It had to be the silencer—" Arielle began.

  "Come on," he said. "We're haven't got time to stand around here talking. We're getting out of here. You were supposed to have the car ready."

  Arielle grabbed her flask off the coffee table, then rushed into the kitchen and looked at the liquor bottles on the counter, finally selecting a bottle of Stoli.

  "Hurry," Santo growled. He was already past her, through the laundry room, and going into the garage.

  Arielle rushed after him, vodka bottle in hand.

  Santo fired up the big Range Rover, then opened the garage door using the remote. He backed out into the drive, turned onto the road that led to the stables and on out to the gates.

  We're out of here, he thought, on our way to freedom.

  Shit! The video cameras. Almost forgot them. I'll just dismount them when we get to the gate, and take them with us. Then show up tomorrow morning, like I planned.

  He gave the Range Rover gas, anxious to get to the gates and out of this place.

  Valerie stood looking over toward Wyn's body. Her icy facade, a defensive response to the horrible reality she'd witnessed and been a part of, began to crack. She'd been on automatic pilot, hardly aware of what she'd been doing. Fixated on Daphne, Wyn's death had barely registered.

  Now she began to shake uncontrollably, and bile rose up in her throat. She thought she was going to throw up and started for the bathroom. She stopped suddenly near the bookcases when she heard a loud moan. From over near the CD player, she thought, I'm sure of it. A chill went up her spine, but she turned around and looked back into the big room.

  Her heart began to race. She rushed to the spot where she had seen Wyn's body and stopped in her tracks. For a moment she thought she would faint. His body wasn't there. She saw the blood on the rug leading toward his desk, and then she saw him, crawling with all his might toward the telephone.

  "Wyn!" she cried, running to him. She reached him and got down onto her knees, tears already streaming from her eyes, flowing down her cheeks in rivulets. Her body shook with both relief and joy.

  He moaned again, louder this time, and moved his head, trying to look up at her. "Hey, Doc," he breathed. "Got shot."

  "I know you did," she cried, still shaking all over. "I know you did."

  "Doc," he said, "open . . . open that drawer." With a crooked finger, he indicated a small drawer in the bureau plat.

  Valerie opened it immediately. "What, Wyn?" she asked. "What is it?"

  "See . . . see
that row of buttons?"

  "Yes," she said, "I see it."

  "Push the one marked 'Front Gates,' " he said. "Push it hard."

  Valerie did as she was told, depressing the button with all her might, then she turned back to him.

  He started to say something else but only a groan escaped his lips.

  "Shhh," she said. "I've already called the police. They should be here any minute with an ambulance. I thought you were dead, Wyn. You looked dead, and there was so much blood."

  His eyes were still open, and there was a hint of a grin on his lips. "It's . . . it's nothing, Doc,"

  Valerie didn't know whether to believe him or not, but she could plainly see the track of the bullet along the side of his head. It looked like a scalp wound, only she didn't want to take any chances.

  "Wyn," she said, "lie perfectly still." Maybe she could do something for him. Maybe she could stop the flow of blood, for he was still bleeding. It was all over the rug. "Just stay where you are. I'll be right back."

  "Don't leave me, Doc," he said.

  "I'll be right back," she said. "I'm just getting some scissors off your desk."

  Her eyes scanned the top of the desk until she saw scissors in a malachite cup. Grabbing them, she ran back over to him and started cutting the gauzy hem of her djellaba away.

  "The dogs," he muttered.

  "They must've been shot with tranquilizer darts," she said. "I'll take the darts out, but they won't come around for a while yet. They should be just fine."

  "Good," he gasped.

  The Range Rover pulled to a stop at the front gates, and Santo pushed on the remote to open them. When they didn't at first open, he pushed on the remote again. Still they didn't move.

  What now? he wondered.

  He opened the car door and jumped out, holding the remote pointed directly at the gates. Still they didn't budge. What's going on?

  He ran toward the gates, constantly pressing the remote to no avail. When he reached them, he grabbed hold of them, one iron bar in each of his hands, pulling with all his might. Nothing. They didn't budge an inch. "Jesus!" he swore aloud.

  "What's the matter?" Arielle cried from the car.

  "The remote won't open the gates," Santo called back to her.

  "What do you mean it won't open them?" she cried.

  "Just what I said, you stupid bitch," Santo yelled.

  He ran back to the Range Rover and got in the driver's seat. "Listen," he said, "hold on tight. We're going to have to ram the car through the gates. I don't know any other way to open them."

  Santo backed up the Range Rover, aimed directly toward the point at which the two gates connected, then stomped on the gas. The car launched into the gates at breakneck speed, and there was an earsplitting grind of metal against metal that practically drowned out Arielle's scream.

  The gates didn't give.

  "Shut the fuck up, Arielle," Santo roared. He backed the car up again, farther back up the lane this time, then stomped on the gas again.

  The big car roared forward and hit the gates at about thirty miles an hour. The shattering sound of the impact was even louder than before.

  Santo, his seat belt firmly secured, was fine, but Arielle was thrown first backward, then forward, and almost went into the windshield. Santo started to back up a third time. At that moment, he heard the screeching sirens of police cars and ambulances, and saw their flashing red and blue lights as they raced down the road. From overhead, the sound of a helicopter's churning rotors was deafening, and its powerful search floodlights swept the entire scene, rendering the night surreal. The police cars and ambulances appeared on the opposite side of the gates, which suddenly began to part.

  Santo flung the car door open and started to run, but before he got twenty feet he was tackled by two policemen who manhandled his wrists behind his back and slapped cuffs on him.

  Two other policemen rushed to Arielle's side of the Range Rover and jerked open the door. She began screaming and crying all at once, blindly kicking and flinging her arms at them, but she was pulled out of the car and cuffed before she could inflict any bodily harm.

  "You're both coming into the station," a big officer grunted as he strolled up, taking in the scene. "Get 'em out of here."

  The library had become crowded with policemen and EMS personnel. Wyn was on a stretcher now, and they were about to carry him out to the ambulance.

  "Thank God," Valerie said. She turned to the policeman standing next to her. Cawley, his name tag said.

  "I've got to go with him, Officer Cawley," she said frantically. "I've got to."

  "You placed the call, right?" he said.

  "Yes," she replied.

  The officer retrieved the Purdy pistol that Valerie had used to shoot Daphne. "Is this it?" he asked, showing her the weapon.

  Wyn lifted his head from the stretcher.

  "You couldn't have killed her with that, Val," Wyn said. "It's loaded with blanks. Nearly all of them are." He looked toward Cawley and winced in pain. "Check it out, officer," he said. "You'll find blanks in that gun and nearly all the others."

  Cawley looked down at it, then back up at her. "Let her go to the hospital," he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wyn and Valerie dismounted and led their horses into the stable yard, where Helmut Reinhardt took the reins from them. He would put the horses in their stalls. Then, hand in hand, they started up the stone path that led to the house. Winter was around the corner, and it was already cold and gray. They could see smoke rising skyward from the library's great chimney.

  Their faces and ears were red from the cold wind, but they were oblivious to any discomfort. Under their riding jackets, they both wore heavy sweaters, and in any case, they were too happy to allow the weather to interfere with their time together.

  When they reached the library, they greeted the Irish wolfhounds and Elvis, who had become a steadfast friend and member of the pack within two days. They shrugged out of their jackets and took off their gloves, but left their boots on for the time being. They would wait until they had warmed up to change into something more comfortable.

  Wyn went to the drinks table and poured them both a snifter of brandy. He turned to her and handed her one, then lifted his. "Cheers, Mrs. Conrad," he said.

  "Cheers, Mr. Conrad," she replied. They had married two weeks before in the conservatory at Stonelair. Valerie and Wyn had invited Marguerite, who had been impressed by the splendors of Stonelair and had determined that Wyn might be worthy of a de la Rochelle, although she had disapproved of the presence of all the animals at the wedding.

  They clinked glasses, then sat down on one of the big Chesterfield couches. "That was a wonderful ride," Wyn said.

  "Yes, it was," she agreed. "How does your head feel? Any aches? Pains?"

  "It's okay," he said. "Funny, now that it's quit bothering me, I forget about it." He looked over at her. "It was a close call, wasn't it?"

  "Very close," Valerie said.

  "I knew there was a reason I stopped seeing Daphne Collins," he said seriously. "She was pretty and smart and desirable. I guess we went out together for a few months, around the time I met Arielle, but I began to think that Daphne was irrationally possessive. Maybe even a little obsessed with me."

  "She was obsessed all right," Valerie said.

  "Yes, but I had no idea she'd actually moved up here after I bought Stonelair," Wyn said. "And to think, once she found out about us, how she started killing your patients to get back at you. It's so crazy how our affair meant so little to me but everything to her."

  Valerie patted his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Wyn," she said. "You were simply the object of her obsession. You didn't have any control over that."

  "I know," he said "and that's what Colette keeps telling me."

  "Colette?" Valerie said. "Have you talked to her?"

  "I forgot to tell you that she called today," he said. "She's really excited."

  "What did she have to
say?"

  "Let me see," he said. "There was a lot."

  They both laughed. Colette had taken to Wyn like a fish to water, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Right now she was looking after Val's cottage, until she decided whether to sell it.

  "She's got a new African pygmy hedgehog," he said. "Named it Spike."

  "Oh, that's wonderful," Valerie said. "It means she's getting over Hayden's death, a little bit anyway."

  "Eddie and Jonathan gave it to her for a present," Wyn said. "Isn't that great?"

  "It is," Val agreed. "And just like them."

  "It gave me an idea, but I wanted to ask you about it first."

  "What?" she asked.

  "I thought it might be nice if we give Eddie and Jonathan a husky pup to replace Noah," he said. "What do you think?"

  "I think it's terrific, Wyn," she said, "but first let me feel them out about it, without letting on. You know, to see if they're ready."

  "That's a good idea," he said. "They may not be, and I'd hate to put them in the position of feeling like they had to take it."

  Valerie looked at him and felt her heart absolutely surge with love. How could I be so lucky? she asked herself for the thousandth time. To have such a wonderful, loving, and thoughtful man to love me?

  "Colette was excited about you setting up your own practice, too," Wyn said, "and told me to congratulate you. The bad news—or I guess sad news—from Colette," he went on, "is that they've indicted Tiffani Grant for poisoning the horses and for possession of an illegal drug. The amphetamine she used. Really nasty highly concentrated stuff. I've forgotten the specific charges, but I'm sure Colette will fill you in."

  He gave her a sidelong glance. He knew that she'd been devastated to learn that Teddy had been seeing Tiffani. She'd wanted to believe that Teddy loved her in some way or other, but she now believed that he'd always used her and never really loved her at all. She'd begun to question her own judgment, and Wyn had done everything in his power to help her overcome her feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt.