Shameless (The Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  She was surprised that Reid didn't follow her. She realized why when she lifted the heavy black receiver of the old fashioned telephone.

  The line was dead. Phone service was out along with the electricity. Or, more likely, both had been cut off.

  Cammie dropped the receiver back into its cradle. As she stood there, she heard a quiet drumming overhead. The rain had begun. Heavy and insistent, it hit the house in windblown waves.

  Somewhere out there the sniper was waiting. Or he might be moving, maybe disabling the Jeep and the Lincoln in the garage so they couldn't leave, circling the house, looking for entrance. Or he could be setting a trap outside the exit he thought they might use for an escape.

  One thing he would not be doing was sitting still where it was safe and dry. He might think he had chosen his time and arranged matters so they had few chances to get away, but he had to take them soon, in at least the next few hours. The storm would end, people would start moving again, daylight would come. The Fort was isolated, but there would be traffic on the road by good daylight as people who lived farther back in the reserve went to work. He couldn't risk a commotion then.

  What was Reid going to do? There was no percentage for him, so far as she could see, in remaining inside the Fort. He had to be planning on slipping out of the house and going after the sniper. That meant that he had put the safeguards, the bolted door, the shuttered windows, in place for her sake. He was going to leave her shut up inside the house.

  It came to her abruptly, as she stood there, what he was doing in the study. That zipped case he had been handling; it was the kind that held a cellular phone. Among the equipment in the room was the computer on his desk. No doubt it had a battery power supply used to save work during the frequent power outages. The cellular phone could be hooked up by modem to Charles Meyer's computer in New York, completing the circuit for the distress signal Michelle Meyer had described with such fond humor.

  Reid was setting up a final safeguard before he left her. As soon as that was done, he would be gone out into the night. That was why he had let her leave him just now: he knew she couldn't use the phone, and he hadn't wanted her to see what he was doing.

  She whirled, running back toward the study. She heard the hum of the computer even before she came through the door. It sat on the desk with its message blinking in neon blue-and-white on the screen, while the indicator lights on the cellular phone indicated transmission. Reid was standing before the gun cabinet on the far wall, methodically loading a high-powered rifle with a light-gathering scope.

  “Why?” she demanded. “What's the difference between you sending your signal code and me calling Bud?”

  “Two things,” he answered tersely. “Number one, letting Charles make the calls gives me the extra ten minutes or so I need to get rid of our sniper. And two, he'll reach a wider circle of police protection, just in case.”

  “In case you don't make it? Or — just in case it could be Bud out there?”

  His face was grim as he gazed at her in the dim light of the computer screen. “In case of need, period. I prefer to cover all the bases.”

  He had finished loading. Zipping up the dark, close-fitting jacket he had put on, he began slipping extra cartridges into the pockets. His preparations were almost complete.

  There was about him a sense of distance. In some peculiar way, he was not just getting ready to leave her, but, rather, had already gone.

  As she watched, he reached inside the gun case and took a small, compact pistol from the top shelf. He walked to the desk and placed it on the polished surface.

  Without inflection he said, “This is for you. It's not very big, and you'll have to pull the hammer back to fire it, but it's loaded with .22 long hollow points that are guaranteed to stop a man in his tracks. If you decide to use it, don't do anything foolish like shooting over the target or into the ground. Aim for the body and shoot to kill.”

  “Surely, you don't think—”

  “I don't know,” he interrupted her in hard, overriding tones. “Don't ask questions, just listen carefully. This is what's called a safe room: inside lock, solid walls, one exit, no windows allowing entrance, and a phone for calling help, if necessary. I want you to stay here with the door bolted until I get back.”

  He was a stranger, a commander issuing orders, expecting obedience. It was as if he had put away all feeling, donning the impenetrable efficiency of a machine at the first sound of gunfire. If there was any trace of the man she had laughed with and loved, he was gone. It was almost as if Reid, with calm and deliberate intention, had killed him.

  Cammie felt bereft, and more alone than ever in her life. Still, she couldn't give up. If he was in the midst of a fight, then so was she.

  “It's because you hurt me, isn't it?” she said slowly. “That's why you're like this. It happened in spite of everything you did to prevent it, and you can't stand that. Somewhere in your mind you've put me together with the little girl who died in Israel. You have to save me because you couldn't save her. I know — at least, I think I know how much her death hurt you. But you didn't choose to see her die any more than you chose to injure me. These things happened because of other people, other agendas. You aren't to blame.”

  He made a small gesture of protest, but she went on without pause. “More than that, Reid, I'm not a child. I'm nobody's victim, and I'm not dead. You didn't kill me because you couldn't. You drew back; I felt it. You saved me, not only from Keith and from whoever is out there, but from yourself. You are not now and have never been an animal who kills with no mercy.”

  But he was gone, retreating from the words she spoke as he might before advancing danger. One moment he was framed in the doorway, his face pale and strained and his eyes dark hollows of pain. The next, there was only empty space, and silence.

  Cammie bit her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing. She had accomplished nothing.

  Except possibly the wrong thing. If ever Reid needed to be a killer, it was now. If he was not, or if she had disarmed him with what she had said, he might well die out there in the dark.

  The pistol really was very small. As she moved slowly to pick it up, it fit easily into her palm, with the barrel not quite as long as her middle finger.

  She stood with her fingers gripped around it, listening while her chest ached with the press of unrefined terror. One of the greatest moments of danger for Reid would be when he stepped outside. The sniper could be waiting, expecting him to leave the cover of the house.

  The minutes slid past. Everything remained quiet except for the steady pounding of the rain and an occasional rumble of thunder. Surely Reid was outside by now.

  Cammie slipped the little pistol into the top of her jeans pocket, though more because Reid had left it for her than because she felt the need of it near her. Moving to the door, she put her hand on the dead bolt.

  Lock it behind him, Reid had said.

  The urge to go after him was so strong. She didn't want to be locked away where she couldn't see or hear; every instinct rebelled against it. It was even possible that she could be of help to him.

  She might also get in his way, especially if he didn't know she was anywhere near him. Even if he did know it, keeping track of her could be a distraction he didn't need. He was capable of handling the situation alone, if anyone could.

  She was held back, she thought, by the same old considerations that always kept women out of a fight. That they had validity didn't make them any easier to bear.

  She flipped the lock, then turned back toward the center of the room. Her gaze fell on the cellular phone and computer. The message was completed, the line of type on the screen told her so. The telephone was free.

  Reid had trusted her not to use it. The exact words had not been spoken aloud, but had been implicit in the explanation he had given her. She moved forward and put her hand on the receiver anyway.

  She took it away again. She couldn't interfere with what he had done. If he was rig
ht, and something happened to him because of her, she couldn't stand it.

  There was a folder lying on the desk next to the computer. Slightly longer than legal size, it was yellowed by age to a dark golden color verging on brown. The edges were curled and worn, and there rose from it the mustiness of age and a faint hint of cigar smoke.

  Cammie had seen enough turn-of-the-century office files in the antique business to recognize one when she saw it. It was curiosity that made her reach out and lift the edge of the folder.

  There was a single handwritten document inside. The penmanship was looping and graceful, done in black ink with a sharp-nibbed pen. The language was formal, with a scattering of legal phrases, though the intent of the writer could not have been more plain. The subject was a transfer of property. There was not one tract of land involved, but two, and both were described in exacting detail. The signatures had been witnessed and notarized. The names inscribed at the bottom were perfectly clear.

  Lavinia A. Wiley Greenley.

  Justin M. Sayers.

  Cammie let the folder fall closed. How long had Reid had it? Where had it come from? Why in Heaven's name hadn't he produced it? Or at least mentioned it?

  What did it matter now? She knotted her hands into fists as she swung away.

  The room was too small and cluttered for pacing. It seemed to be closing in on her. What if the sniper decided to burn the house down? She might never know it until it was too late. If she came running out at the last minute, killing her would be too easy.

  Was Charles Meyer making the calls that would bring help, or was the message blinking in New York in an empty room? If he got it, who, exactly, would he contact if not Bud? Would the state police come charging in with sirens blaring or descend in a helicopter on the front lawn? Would CIA friends of his and Reid's, or maybe regional FBI operatives, arrive in a motorcade with horns blasting? And how long would any of it take? How long did Reid actually have to complete his self-imposed mission?

  Where was Reid now? She could see him in her mind's eye, gliding through the wet, dripping night, ducking under tree limbs, pausing to listen. Did he have some idea based on logic and past experience about where to find the man with the rifle? Was he closing in on him? Would he confront the sniper head-on, or would he try to circle and come in behind him? Would he fix the man in his sights with the light-gathering scope, or would he close in for a quiet coup de grace?

  When the knock came, she jumped and spun to face the door. It was not that close, however; it sounded lighter and farther away, as if it might be coming from the Fort's front entrance.

  Should she ignore it or check it out? Should she stay where she was, or venture far enough out of the room to discover what was going on?

  The knocking could be Reid, trying to get back inside. For her to be safe, he had to have locked whatever exit he had taken behind him. What if he was injured, in no shape to get back in the same way he went out?

  She flipped the dead bolt, opened the door a narrow crack.

  The sound was definitely at the front door. She moved along the hall and through the living room toward it with some trepidation. Then she heard a familiar voice speaking in low concern.

  “Camilla? You all right in there? I thought I heard shots.”

  “Uncle Jack,” she said, bending her head toward the door. “Is that you?”

  “Somebody told me they saw you heading this way in Sayers's Jeep. It was so late, I thought I'd see if everything's all right. Let me in, Camilla.”

  There were times when a meddling busybody could come in handy. He had been in Vietnam; he must know something about snipers. Besides, she couldn't leave him out there where he might be shot by mistake. She pushed up the metal bar, then turned the locks.

  He had been in Vietnam; he must know something about snipers —

  Recognition exploded inside her. The sniper was her uncle. She leaned against the door to hold it as she snatched at the lock to turn it again.

  The heavy door panel slammed into her. She careened backward, hitting the wall and bouncing off it. Agony ripped through her, radiating in burning waves from her abdomen. She cried out, a sound quickly strangled. Staggering, she tried to catch her balance, then her feet went out from under her and she crashed to the floor.

  In a stunned haze she saw the hefty figure of her uncle bearing down on her. It was so black inside the house with the windows closed off that he was silhouetted against the lesser darkness outside. He carried a long weapon in one hand, a rifle.

  Following the sound she had made, he lashed out with a kick. She rolled with desperate speed. He missed her, though there was a grinding pain at the point of her hipbone from her weight on the little pistol high in her pocket. She reached for it, dragging her loose shirt aside, feeling for the grip even as she scuttled away over the polished floor.

  The door into the living room was just behind her, she thought; she could feel the slight draft from the open space. She plunged through it on hands and knees, rolling behind the protection of the wall before she surged to her feet. Skimming through the room, she tried to remember exactly how the house was laid out. Her best advantage at this moment was that she had made her way through this area in the dark twice already tonight and her uncle did not know the house at all.

  She rounded the sofa, skirted a rocker. She was almost sure there was a door leading into the dining room somewhere just in front of her.

  “Come back here,” Jack Taggart grunted in frustrated rage.

  A shot blasted, whining. It struck the wall where Cammie had been seconds before. He was firing at shadows and sounds; he couldn't actually see her.

  The small pistol came free of her pocket. He made no better target than she did, however, and if she fired, he would be warned that she was armed. If she could make it back to the safe room before he closed in on her, she might be all right. She had only to pass through the dining room and back out into the hall, then down two doors to the study.

  She stood still, trying to control her breathing. She could feel the seep of wetness against her shirt and into the waistband of her jeans; she must have torn her stitches.

  There was no time to think about it. She had to recall where the table was sitting and how the chairs were arranged. Moving with great care, she picked up one foot, took a step, then another and another.

  She was almost to the hall door when she brushed a china closet. Dishes toppled with dull thuds, crystal ringing musically as glasses bumped together. Orange fire spat from across the room.

  Cammie whirled away from shattering glass and china and lunged for the door. Hurtling herself through it, she flew down the hall. She felt the stream of wind in her face, heard the splatter of rain. Then she saw a shade of movement, and blind terror gripped her.

  She was racing toward the rear of the house, away from the open front door. If she felt the wind, it was because the back door was open, allowing it to sweep down the hall. Ahead of her, she saw the gray rectangle of the opening, saw also the shifting shadow of a man carrying a gun.

  The man brought the rifle to his shoulder. His voice quiet, yet savage with authority, he said, “Hold it right there.”

  Cammie skidded to a halt. Behind her, she heard her uncle's heavy footsteps pound once, twice more, before they ceased. He cursed, a sound suddenly shocking in the same voice he had so often used to pray.

  The man with the rifle to his shoulder was Reid. His order had not been for her.

  “My bead's on Camilla,” Taggart snarled. “Fire, and I take her out with me.”

  There was a moment of electric silence. Lightning pulsed, sending its pale glow through the open door to illuminate the frozen tableau in the hall. Cammie saw both men standing poised and ready. Reid had moved nearer, almost directly opposite the study door. In the steady beam of the computer screen's light, his face gave no hint of yielding. Her uncle held his firearm close against his body, but it was pointing straight at her.

  The small pistol was heavy in
her hand.

  “Now then,” the Reverend Taggart said, gloating rising rich in his voice. “Put your weapon down, Sayers, or I'll kill her anyway.”

  The only sign that Reid had heard was the tightening of the skin around his eyes. He said evenly, “You'll kill her no matter what I do. You can't let her live because she's in your way.”

  “So are you,” Cammie's uncle said in implicit agreement, “but I thought, you being such a gentleman, that you would want to go first.”

  Silence returned, stretched. Reid did not look at Cammie directly, but she thought he missed no detail of her appearance, from the red sheen of wetness at her waist to the gun half hidden in her fingers where her hand hung at her side. He made an infinitesimal movement, as if he meant to take the rifle down from his shoulder.

  “No!” Cammie cried.

  Reid turned his gaze in her direction. His tone weary, he said, “There's nothing else I can do.”

  It wasn't like him to give up, that much she knew. An instant later she saw what he was doing.

  It was not a surrender, but a sacrifice.

  “No,” she said again, but it was too late.

  He lowered the weapon in his hands.

  “All the way to the floor,” Taggart said, his own rifle unwavering as it covered Cammie.

  Reid let the rifle fall. Before the thudding clatter died away, Cammie's uncle turned the muzzle of his rifle in the other man's direction.

  “Stop!” Cammie said, bringing up the pistol in her hand.

  The heavyset man's eyes widened and his mouth tightened, but he held still. A moment later his face cracked in a sardonic smile. “You won't fire. You're too soft.”

  Was he right? She didn't know. If the pistol had been in her hand when he first came at her in the dark, it might have been automatic. This was so calculated.

  She had pointed a gun at Keith and pulled the trigger. The difference was that she had shot at the headlights on his Rover, at the ground in front of his feet, anywhere except at him. His injuries, small as they were, had been an accident.