by Jeff Abbott
“You said we’re in a house? On the street?”
“Yes. I think it belongs to the man who called nine-one-one after the crash.”
“James Marcolin? I talked to him. Why is he in this?”
Perri bit at her lip. “I think…I think if Cal was in the car with you when you crashed, he was forcing you to drive here. After what you and David found. It’s the simplest explanation.”
“I wasn’t just trying to get away from Trevor…I was being brought here.” She sharpened her focus, pushed the haze away. “James Marcolin’s involved in this mess with Cal. So…it must be… If Cal was in the car and Marcolin heard the crash, he must have come down, gotten Cal out, then called the police.”
Perri shuddered. “If he left our son to die…” Her hands closed into fists.
Jane took a deep breath, rallying her thoughts. “If he was bringing me here, it was to get rid of me. Or threaten me. If my mother is in on this, she’s receiving and sending money for him through her charity, then…my mother… They won’t hurt me if my mother’s involved…” Her voice drifted off, unsure.
Perri studied the room. A small utility room, washer and dryer and cabinets, a dog’s food and water bowls in the corner of the tiled floor. Cal had opened the door and gestured them in, saying to her, “Just stay with her, please, for a minute,” as if he didn’t have a gun in his hand.
“Cal,” she had said. “Let’s talk this through. Calmly. Please.” She had told Jane she was still in love with him. She felt sick at the thought.
“Keep her quiet and calm. We’ll talk when I’m back. And don’t try anything.” Then he bolted them in. What kind of place had a utility room you could lock from outside? Someone had imagined needing to keep a prisoner in this house.
If he was going to kill us, Perri thought, he could have done it at the lake house. But of course he wouldn’t want DNA or blood left at the house. He wouldn’t ever want the police coming to that house.
Perri stood up. She looked in the cabinets. Powder detergent, softener sheets, a stick of stain remover. A spray bottle of cleaner to treat stains: a weapon. She started to read just how bad it would be to get it in your eyes.
“Jane, we may have to fight. Do you understand?”
Jane nodded. She took the spray bottle from Perri. “We’re not negotiating with them,” she said. “If they come back here, it’s to kill us or to take us somewhere to kill us.”
“Jane, this is Cal.”
“He’s not who you think he is. He killed my father, or he knew about it. He left David to die.”
“He must have thought David was already dead.”
Jane pushed her in the chest. “Stop with the excuses! He walked away from him to protect himself. No matter what you think.”
“Maybe he was unconscious and Marcolin took him up to the house.”
“And he never told you?” Jane said. “He was here when you arrived at the crash site, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see his car?”
She blinked. “No. No. We took my car back that night. I was in no shape to drive, he drove us.”
“He isn’t the man you loved. That man doesn’t exist anymore.”
Perri’s breath came in hard, sharp spurts. Jane turned to the door, the spray bottle in hand, waiting. She would go for the eyes.
60
THEY MET AT the site of the crash. Cal Hall arrived first, Laurel Norton second. She parked along the street and hurried down the hillside, found him standing where the decline became much steeper, watching, staring at where her daughter’s car had crashed two years ago. The gun was in her purse, but the purse was open and the strap on her shoulder. She couldn’t go up to him with a gun in her hand. But she could reach it fast, even fire through the leather if she had to. She steadied her breathing as she reached him. She didn’t like standing so near the cliff’s edge.
“Is there ever a day you don’t think about it?” he asked her. His voice shook slightly, but he took a deep breath, like he was in a yoga class.
“No,” she answered. “Where is Jane?”
“She’s safe. But she knows about the money you’ve moved for me.”
“No one will believe her about anything once she’s in the hospital, Cal. Please. We just have to drive her there, check her in. It’s a way I can keep her safe and keep her out of…trouble. Until I make her understand.”
“You haven’t been able to manage the problem, Laurel.”
“We agreed.” The fear was plain on her face. “You would build up this Liv Danger threat, you would frame Perri and make her disappear and Jane would go into the hospital and then we could be together.”
“We could stage it so that Jane gets blamed for Perri,” he said.
“I am not doing that to my daughter. No. She has suffered enough. I have suffered—” But then he grabbed her blouse, dragged her farther down the hill, and then his shove sent her over the cliff’s edge. She managed to get her hand on the gun, but he moved too fast and fear froze her. One moment she was on solid ground, the next there was only air and gravity. She smashed along the oak branches, tried to grab at one of them with her free hand, felt her fingers break with the force; then she fell from branch to branch and hit the unforgiving earth. She looked up at where she had stood a few seconds ago, whole and unbroken, and she saw his distant face peering down at her.
But he loved her. He loved her. They were in this together. She still watched, unable to scream now, just a harsh-breathing wheeze. His face vanished from the edge.
She tried to call for help. Move her hands. She flailed; nothing seemed to work. Something was very wrong. She wasn’t even sure her mouth opened. But her eyes could close, she felt them, the darkness coming over her. Were her eyes closed? She thought of Brent, sweet, foolish Brent, and Jane, who was neither sweet nor foolish and now…the fear. Not for herself and the beckoning dark. But for Jane.
61
TREVOR DROVE THE truck along the same route he’d followed that fateful night two years ago. He zoomed past one of the grand houses. He saw Laurel’s red Volvo parked along the road and he slowed, then turned onto the hillside itself, looking for Jane, aiming the truck toward the cliff’s edge. He set the parking brake. No sign of Laurel. No sign of Jane. No sign of the men Laurel had looking for Jane, to cart her off to the mental hospital. This was a waste of time.
But then, where was Jane’s mother? Her car was here.
He got out of the truck and walked the rest of the way down the hillside. “Jane?” he called. “Mrs. Norton?” He hoped Laurel’s hired muscle wasn’t around; his shoulder ached, it wasn’t right from that crowbar blow, and he couldn’t fight anymore. His good arm and hand ached from the punches he’d landed on the crazy man at the lake house.
He heard a noise. A soft call.
He went to the edge of the cliff. Looked down into a maze of branches and jutting stone. Saw nothing. Heard the noise again, moved farther to his right.
Then he saw Laurel Norton. She’d fallen forty feet, apparently hitting branches along the way, which had slowed her descent but beaten up her body. Her arm moved and she made a noise when she saw Trevor.
“Mrs. Norton!” he yelled. She reached toward him. She was hurt.
And by her lay a gun, next to her purse.
He dug into his front jeans pocket for his phone and pulled it out. It was smashed beyond repair from one of the blows of the crazy man’s crowbar.
“I’ll go to the house and get help,” he called. She could be dying right now. Panic filled his chest.
Laurel shook her hand, shook her head.
“No?” he called. “Why? Where is Jane?” He couldn’t leave her to go look for Jane. Horror struck him. “Is Jane down there with you?” He couldn’t see what was around Laurel.
He had to find a phone. “Your purse?” he called. “Is your phone in your purse? Can you dial?”
She tried to speak again but couldn’t. One-handed, she pulled it from her j
acket pocket. In her hand it looked unbroken, but she didn’t seem to be able to press the buttons.
He heard voices coming. A man’s voice. And at its sound, Laurel Norton moaned and gave a weak, gasping scream, terror contorting her face. He decided it was best that whoever was coming didn’t see him. With his shoulder aching and still one-handed, Trevor started to make his way farther down the cliffside, feet carefully finding purchase.
He needed that phone. He needed that gun.
62
THE DOOR OPENED and Jane sprayed the cleanser.
But the man through the door wasn’t Cal—it was the man she’d talked to through the gate. The witness who had called the police after the crash. James Marcolin. He staggered back as the cleanser hit his eyes and he roared. She tried to shove past him, but Cal Hall was there and he punched her in the face. She fell back, Marcolin’s cussing booming in her ears. Then Perri beside her, trying to wrest the Glock from Cal’s hand, Cal overpowering his wife and shoving her hard to the floor.
“Get up,” Cal said, grabbing Jane by the hair. Her whole face hurt. He shoved the gun under her jaw.
“Cal, don’t do this. Don’t.” Marcolin had moved past Perri, clawing at his eyes, gasping, turning on the tap water to rinse his face.
“I’m just taking her to her mother,” Cal said. “It’s going to be OK, Perri. Just shut up and let me handle everything. Stay here. Help him.” Marcolin was still rinsing his eyes, hissing in pain and annoyance.
Cal shoved a cloth from a shelf into Jane’s mouth, wrapped duct tape around her head. “I’ll take her to Laurel and then I’ll be back. And I’ll explain everything to you.”
Jane shot a beseeching look at Perri as Cal hustled her away.
“The spray,” Marcolin gasped, squinting, “how long does it say to wash the eyes?”
She picked up the spray container and read it so he would believe her. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. They saw her as nothing. To Cal she was no risk, no threat, someone who would do whatever he said; to Marcolin what was she—the dense wife or just the dumb mother of the dead boy? She stepped back from him. “I told her not to do it. It would just make Cal mad.” She listened; the house was big and she needed to hear a particular sound.
She heard it. The shutting of the front door. She stepped out of the utility room and slammed the door shut, fumbling for the bolt. She slid it home as Marcolin yelled and threw himself against the door.
Police. Now. Cal had taken her phone, but there had to be one here in the house, a landline. She checked the next room. A spare bedroom, no phone. Next door down was a library. No phone.
She heard the blasts of gunshots from the laundry room. Marcolin must have had a gun under his jacket; he was shooting away the door lock.
Perri ran.
63
JANE COULDN’T SPEAK with her mouth bound with the tape. Cal hurried her down the street. Toward the crash site. She could see her mother’s Volvo parked along the side. Is he just going to hand me over to her and hope no one believes me at the asylum? But as they got closer, she saw her mother wasn’t in the driver’s seat.
Jane screamed under the gag and tried to spin out of his grip. Cal locked the gun on her head. “The memories are gone, right? It’s all going to be gone soon. You killed my boy. He…he wanted to get you away from this. From me. He begged. You were both crying as you drove.”
Cruel blows of memory, pressing upon her. His gun to her head, like then, like now. She fought back tears. Don’t let him hurt me, David, please don’t let him hurt me. Let me go, Mr. Hall, please, I won’t tell.
David’s voice, an echo in her brain: Dad, let her go, let her go, she won’t talk. Please, Dad. You can’t be serious; you can’t hurt Jane. Are you going to send her to those people? You can’t. Please, Dad, please.
“He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed the wheel from you. You screamed ‘I hate you’ at me, he screamed he loved you. And the car crashed. Him trying to help you escape. My son, my wonderful son. You took him from me. I blame you.” His hand in her hair yanking her along. She tore at the tape, scoring her cheek.
“Taking you to your mama,” he said, and they rounded the line of cedars and oaks onto the stony decline. She saw Trevor’s truck, parked, twenty feet from the edge. Her eyes went wide.
Oh, no, Trevor couldn’t be here, he couldn’t, Cal would kill him. Where was her mother?
Cal skirted the truck, saw it was empty, gun pointed into the cab. He cussed under his breath and started dragging her toward the edge, in a hurry now. “Down there with her,” he said. “You and her dead, then Perri. Rid of you all that ruined my life and I go on, the crazy wife who’s been targeting people connected to the crash gets blamed, boom. All will pay. Finally.”
The blame for David’s death had twisted something in him: the affair with Laurel, leading to her father’s death, leading to the crash, leading to Perri leaving him. A seed of blame that had turned into a strangling vine. A man who could not see the blame was all on him.
She fought him. She tore at the tape and tried to scream.
“Go ahead, get the tape off,” he said, and she realized he didn’t want it to be on her once he threw her from the cliff. Mom. Down there with her. Oh, no, no, no. What had he done? He ripped the tape from her face and from her hair. He pulled her to the edge and looked down, as if aiming his throwing of her and said, “What the hell?” She saw what he saw as she fought to pull away.
Trevor. Trevor was halfway down the cliff, descending, half-hidden by an outcrop of rock and a thick oak branch. She couldn’t see her mother. Cal tried to aim his gun down at Trevor and fire. Jane knocked him back from the edge, her arm still clasped in his iron grip. If she shoved him over the edge, she would go over with him.
Fine. She couldn’t let him hurt anyone else. She was never going to be whole again anyway. She realized he couldn’t shoot her and still make it look like she’d killed herself and Perri and her mom. That gave her a momentary advantage. She was small and he was big—not as big as Trevor but solid—but he wasn’t expecting her to move toward the drop.
She started shoving him toward the edge. He realized her intent and his face contorted in shock. He fired the gun down toward Trevor, and Jane heard a cry of pain.
Then he swung the gun around toward her, his eyes bright with hate.
No.
64
PERRI RAN. SHE was beyond looking for a phone or a gun, she just wanted out of the house. She burst from the mansion. No sign of Cal or Jane. Cal’s car was there, but she didn’t have the electronic key. She ran past the open gate and onto the empty road.
If she turned left, she could run downhill to Old Travis, wave down a car. She felt sure Cal had not turned in that direction.
He was taking Jane to the crash site. She knew it with certainty. This scheme of his was falling apart and Cal was cleaning house. He was going to kill Jane Norton, the girl she’d hated with a fiery heart for the past two years.
For one moment she wavered. Then she turned and ran right.
She could hear the injured Marcolin howling, chasing her. He had a gun and she had nothing. She ran down the street, the curve bringing Laurel’s red Volvo, parked, into view.
She heard a muffled scream, the crack of a shot.
David. David, I’m coming.
She turned and saw her husband and Jane fighting near the edge of the cliff. In front of a large black truck that was parked there.
The truck. She opened the unlocked door; the keys were in the cup holder. She started the engine and laid on the horn. Jane stared at her for one second, then tried to shove Cal over the side. Instead he picked her up, pinning her arms, and moved toward the edge, yelling over his shoulder at Perri to get out of the truck, he’d explain everything.
He was going to throw Jane off the cliff. Laurel’s car—he must have already killed her. He’d killed Brent Norton. He’d framed Perri as Liv Danger, using her computer. And she’d played right into his hands, let him us
e her hate against her.
Not anymore. She started the truck, put it into gear, and powered it toward him, starting to slide down the steepness of the rocky decline.
* * *
Cal hauled Jane to the edge. He could simply drop her; she fought. Not like this, not like this, not where I was supposed to die before, she thought. At the edge he looked down and saw Trevor kneeling on the ground and holding aloft a gun—Laurel’s—to fire it. Cal retreated, stumbling back, and Jane broke free, running to the right, toward the clutch of gnarled, thirsty cedars closest to the edge.
He looked up at the roar of the truck. Perri hit Cal straight on as she slammed on the brakes.
Cal flew well over the cliff’s edge, a look of soft surprise on his face, and fell into the maze of tree branches with a choked scream.
Trevor’s truck slid on the slope, tires fighting for purchase as Perri stood on the brakes, and Jane, stumbling, clutching at a tree, saw Perri’s face through the windshield. Calm, resigned, staring back at her as the truck spun and then dropped over the edge with a thundering crash.
Jane froze behind the stunted cedar she’d grabbed in her mad scramble, the tree closest to the edge.
No. Perri and Trevor and her mom. No.
She heard footsteps sliding down the stone. Marcolin, his eyes red, holding a gun, stumbling down to survey the carnage. She crouched behind the tree and picked up a rock. He was fixed on the truck he’d just seen plummet into the canopy of oaks and cedars below.
Jane hit him, hard from behind, and he dropped to his knees. She hit him again, and then again, the rock messy with blood. He groaned and she hit him in the face. Twice. Three times. He made a choking noise.
She took his gun from him and then peered over the side.
The truck, in its spin as Perri tried to stop, had gone over backside first, smashing through the branches, landing rear-first and then falling onto its side. In the cab she could see Perri, lying still, not moving. Beyond the wreck she saw, through a gap in the branches, Trevor and her mother. He must have pulled her mother clear as the truck roared over the precipice.