Raine sat up, trying to think of something to say. Seth ignored her, yanking on the shirt. The bandage had seeped blood in the night. He gave it a brief, barely interested glance and buttoned the shirt over it without comment.
Panic uncoiled inside her. “You're following that gun, aren't you? The Corazon?”
He didn't answer.
Images blazed through her mind. Crimson spattered on white, the blood on Seth's bandage. His red shirt. Tulips on the floor. The curse of the Corazon. The words flew out of her, with all the urgency of terror.
“OK, you win, Seth. I admit it. I told Victor everything. Don't go. It's a trap.”
He smiled as he dropped to his knees by the futon, but his eyes were somber. “You are a piece of work, sweetheart. I never know which way you'll jump.”
“Seth, I—”
He cut off her words with a swift, hard kiss. “Be good.”
He grabbed the padlock, and shot her a quick grin; crooked and oddly sweet. The door closed, the lock rattled and clicked.
She heard his light footsteps, going down the stairs, and a faint, faraway murmur of male voices. It was always the same; the panic, the frustration. The boat, floating away, and herself too small and helpless to intervene. The headlights danced across the trees as the car drove away. She buried her face in her hands and wept.
After a long time, she slid back into an uneasy doze. Images melted and reformed in her mind, finally coalescing into the rippling expanse of water that stretched out from Stone Island.
Thunder rumbled, far-off and ominous. Fitful gusts of wind made her fathers sails billow and flap. He wouldn't take her with him. He wanted to be alone; always that same apologetic half-smile; sorry, Katya, but I don't have the energy to be cheered up. I need to be quiet and think. Run back on up to the house to your mother, eh? She needs you.
What a joke. Alix needing her, hah. The boat drifted far-then He waved to her, and she remembered the dream she'd had that night. She called out to him, blubbering with panic, but he just hoisted sail and drifted farther. When she had dreams like that, something bad always happened. And if Alix saw her with red eyes, she would just say, oh, for God's sake, stop whining, Katie, I'm losing my patience.
She curled up beneath the roots of a dead tree that jutted out over the water. Waves had carved out a spot beneath just big enough for an eleven-year-old girl, small for her age, to curl up tight in a ball and watch that faraway sail bob on the water. As long as she could see it, nothing bad could happen. She didn't even dare blink. It would break the spell.
She heard heavy, clumping footsteps on the dock. Ed Riggs was the only one who walked like that. Katya had never liked Ed, even if he was her mother's good friend. He talked to Daddy like Daddy was stupid, when Daddy was the smartest man in the world except for maybe Victor. Ed pretended to be nice, but he wasn't. And lately, she'd had dreams about him. Like the one she 'd had last night.
He stood on the dock in front of her, watching the sail float and bob against the water, as frail and delicate as a white moth. He watched for a long time, like he was deciding something. She was outwardly quiet but her heart was thudding as he untied the boat, put the motor down and headed out. Diesel fumes floated over to her hidey-hole and almost made her sick. He headed right for that white sail, a black dot, receding until he was too small to see. The wind began to rise, and the water whipped and frothed, surging over the pebbles to slosh over her feet. The sky wasn't white anymore. It was brownish, yellowish gray, like a bruise. Thunder rolled, closer. It began to rain.
She kept her eyes fixed on that white moth, afraid even to blink; but the eye spell wouldn'twork anymore, Ed had bro- ken it. She pretended her eyes were a rope that could putt him back, but the white moth bobbed and tossed, resisting the pull of her eyes.
The dark speck grew slowly bigger again.
She scrambled out of the hidey-hole, wading over to the ladder of roots. She scampered up to the path. She didn't want to be stuck between Ed and the water, not after last night's dream. It was so dart Then she realized she was still wearing the frog sunglasses. Duh, of course it was dark, but she couldn't see well enough without them to take them off.
Ed was almost on top of her before he noticed she was there. His eyes went so wide that she could see the whites all the way around.
“What did you do to my daddy? “ she demanded.
Ed's mouth dropped open beneath his thick mustache. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, but it wasn't cold outside.
“What are you doing out here in the rain, honey? “
“Where's my daddy? “ she said again, louder.
Ed stared at her for a moment, and then squatted down in front of her. He held out his hand. “Come on, Katie. I'll take you to your daddy.”
He smiled his nice-guy smile, but a flash of lightning illuminated what the smile really was—something horrible, as if snakes were coming out of his eyes and mouth. Like that horror movie she'd watched on TV one night while the grownups were partying.
Thunder crashed. She screamed and sprang away from him like a racehorse out of the gate. She was fast, but his legs were long. His hands closed on her arm, but she was as slippery as a fish. She wrenched out of his grip. The frog glasses flew, but she kept running, screaming, into the featureless green blur....
A knock sounded, and she sat up, choking back a scream. It sounded again; the same polite little tap which must have yanked her out of the nightmare. She wrapped herself hastily in the blanket, her heart still racing. “Come in,” she called out cautiously.
The padlock rattled, and the door opened. It was the skinny man with the cane, holding a wad of limp looking clothing against his chest. Seth had called him Connor. He regarded her with cool, somber eyes. “Good morning,” he said.
“You didn't go with them?”
His face tightened. “The gimp gets baby-sitting duty.” He indicated his cane. “I'm not happy about it, either, so let's not discuss it, please.”
“Why didn't you just lock me up and go?” she asked. “I'd never get out of this room.”
“Exactly. Totally aside from the fact that two hit men attacked you last night. If, God forbid, all four of us should get wasted messing with those guys, you would die of dehydration in this room before anybody heard you yelling. We don't have any near neighbors.”
She swallowed hard, and looked away.
“Yeah, makes you think, doesn't it? Personally, I thought you'd already rolled your dice. You should take your chances with the rest of us. But Seth wouldn't hear of it.”
“He wouldn't?”
Connor's eyes flicked over her. “No” he repeated. “He wouldn't.”
He laid a pile of clothing on the dresser. “None of us live up here full time, so we don't have a lot of clothes here. I scrounged up some of Sean's stuff from when he was a kid. Don't know how they'll fit, but they ought to be better than your nightie.”
“Yes, I'm sure they will be,” she said gratefully.
“Come on downstairs once you're dressed, if you want. There's coffee ready, and food if you're hungry.”
“You're not going to lock me up?”
He leaned both hands on his cane and narrowed his sharp green eyes at her. “Are you going to do anything stupid?”
She shook her head. Despite the cane, she was no match for this man. With that hard, purposeful look on his face, he seemed almost as dangerous in his own way as Seth. AH of the McCloud brothers had given her that impression.
'Thank you for the clothes,” she said “I’LL be down shortly.”
The clothes on the dresser were a threadbare, motley assortment. The best of the lot was a pair of low-slung jeans that were tight in the hips, but had to be cuffed three times to find her feet. Rude antisocial slogans had been scribbled over them with blunt felt-tip markers. The only shirt without too many holes was a shrunken, threadbare black Megadeth T-shirt with the neck ripped out. It did not quite succeed in covering her navel, and stretched per
ilously tightly across her breasts.
There was a pair of high-top sneakers whose original color was impossible to determine, warped and yellowed with age. They were inches too long, as floppy as clown shoes, and rasped painfully against her sore feet, but she pulled the laces tight and was pathetically grateful for every stitch of the ragged getup.
There was a series of framed drawings and paintings on the wall of the stairway. She slowed down to look at them as she descended. Some were charcoal, some pen-and-ink, some watercolors. They were mostly landscapes, animals and trees. Their simplicity and power drew her in and made her think of the vast, silent mystery of Stone Island.
Connor did a double-take when she walked into the kitchen. “Jesus” he said, turning quickly. “Ah... oh, yeah. Coffee's in the machine, right there. Cups over the sink. Cream in the fridge. Bread on the counter, if you want toast. Butter, jam, peanut butter or cream cheese are your choices.”
She poured herself some coffee. “Those drawings on the stairs are beautiful,” she said. “Who's the artist?”
“Those were done by my younger brother, Kevin.”
She pulled a quart of half-and-half out of the refrigerator and dosed her coffee. “Is Kevin one of the brothers that I met last night?”
“No,” Connor said. “Kevin died ten years ago. Car accident.”
She stared at him, clutching the carton. The refrigerator swung open until it bounced against the wall, rattling the jars of condiments.
Connor gave it a gentle shove. It swung closed with a thud. “That's one of the many reasons we're helping Seth,” he said. “The McClouds know how it feels to lose a brother.”
She stared at the bread browning in the toaster oven. Her mouth was dry, and her appetite gone. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“Sit down,” Connor said. “Eat something. You're awfully pale.”
She forced down some toast with peanut butter at his urging, and he gave her a flannel-lined denim jacket, the sleeves of which came down five inches past her fingertips.
“I'm going to work here in the office. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay right where I can see you,” he said briskly. “There's a couch, and an afghan if you're cold. Books in the bookcase. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” She curled up on the couch and stared out the window. Connor was staring into the computer, absorbed, and she realized what he must be looking at.
“You've got X-Ray Specs software running on that computer, right? You're tracking the Corazon!” She leaped to her feet. “Can I—”
“Stay where you are and mind your business, please.” His eyes and voice were hard. “Try to relax.”
“Sure,” she whispered. Yeah, right. As if.
She dropped onto the couch, tucked her feet beneath her and stared out at the fog drifting through the pines. A rent in the clouds revealed a snowy mountain peak across the canyon, glowing a deep, sunrise pink. The shifting colors made her think of opals.
An ugly chill crawled up her spine. She thought of Seth's boat. Slipping the Dreamchaser into his inside jacket pocket. She had forgotten all about it. Seth had never known about it at all. He had no reason to think anyone had tampered with his jacket.
Oh, dear God. It was the necklace. It had to be. It was her fault that assassins had been chasing them, and finding them. She leaped up, her heart in her throat.
At that moment, gravel crunched under car tires in the driveway.
“Connor, I have to tell you something,” she began. “I—”
“Shhh.” He waved her down with a sharp motion of his hand and limped over to the window. 'This is weird,” he murmured. “I didn't know he knew about this place.”
“Who?”
“A guy I work with,” Connor peered out the window, perplexed. “Or work for, I should say, since he just got promoted. Go upstairs. Quick. He might come in for a cup of coffee. Stay up there until I tell you it's clear. And Raine?”
She turned back from the foot of the stairs. “Yes?”
“Do not make me regret letting you out of that room.”
She nodded and ran up the stairs for the attic. She edged towards the window that overlooked the porch roof. There was no curtain. Looking out meant risking being seen, and would infuriate Connor. The man was his colleague, for God's sake. His boss; surely not a threat to her.
But Ski Mask's bloodshot eyes and the blank, dead eyes of the motel assassin haunted her. She had learned to take nothing for granted in the past five days. Not looking out the window meant risking something decidedly worse than Connor McCloud's irritation.
She crept closer on tiptoe, keeping back in the shadows, but the men were too close to the porch. She had to get closer. The screen door slammed shut. Connor greeted the visitor. His voice was not particularly friendly, just neutral. Questioning. She could not hear what they said through the double-paned storm window.
The man responded, his voice deeper than Connor's baritone. Goose bumps rose up on her spine. She drew nearer. If he looked up, he would see her for sure. From this angle, she saw only that he was balding, somewhat heavy, bulked out in a black winter jacket. Glasses. Connor asked another inaudible question. He responded with a shrug.
Connor hesitated, then nodded. He said something else, probably inviting the man into the house, and turned around.
She choked off a useless scream of warning when the man's hand flashed out, snake-swift. The butt of his pistol connected with Connor's head, and he dropped to the ground without a sound. The man knelt beside him for a moment, touching his throat. He stood up, pressing against his belly with his hand. He looked around.
He looked up. Their eyes locked It was the man she had seen when she had gone to see Bill Haley. Her mother’s friend, Ed Riggs. Older and heavier, minus the mustache, but there was no mistaking him. He had tried to kill her seventeen years ago. He was back to finish the job.
He disappeared under the porch roof. She looked around the empty room with a sickening sense of deja vu. God, stuck again in a bedroom with no weapons. The lamp was useless, a fragile frame of dusty bamboo and muslin. There was the whiskey bottle on the dresser. She grabbed it, hefted it. Almost empty. Only slightly better than nothing.
He was not going to be taken in by her lurking behind a door with a bottle, and there was no point in cowering and waiting for him to come to her. She'd tried that approach, and could say with complete authority that the waiting-and-cowering option truly sucked the big one. Particularly since nobody was rushing to her rescue this time. Seth was off pursuing the Corazon. Connor was laid out cold on the gravel outside. She hoped to God he wasn't dead or seriously injured.
It was up to her. But then again, it always had been.
Raine gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle. Saw the heavy, palm-sized padlock lying next to it, and grabbed that, too. She hid the bottle behind her leg, dragged in a long, slow, hitching breath, and started for the head of the stairs. She was scared to death, but she would pretend not to be. Who knew better than she how to pretend? Her whole life was leading up to this moment. The grand, ultimate pretense. She did not bother to walk quietly. In fact, she stomped. As much as one could stomp, in a pair of floppy clown shoes.
“Hello, Ed.”
Riggs turned the corner at the landing. His jaw sagged.
It was a tableau from a cheap graphic novel. The girl poised at the top of the stairs, looking down her nose at him. Legs planted wide, chest stuck out. In that ragged, sexpot outfit with her hair frizzed out all over the place, he could see why Novak wanted her. Even the bruises under her eyes didn't detract from her allure. She looked like a whacked out fashion model on a cocaine binge, sexy and wild and completely unpredictable.
Eyes on the prize, he reminded himself. This was for Erin.
He lifted the gun and pointed it at her. “I don't want to hurt you.”
The contempt on her face did not change. “Then why are you pointing that gun at me, Ed?”
“You have to come with me now,” he told her. “I
f you don't do anything stupid, you won't get hurt.”
She took a step down. Before he realized what he was doing, he had retreated back a step, as if she were a threat to him.
“You killed my father.” Her voice vibrated with hatred.
He kept the gun trained on her, but she didn't seem to notice, or care. “Old news,” he said, sneering. “Besides, that was a mercy killing. Peter was a suicide waiting to happen. I just put him out of his misery. Come on down, nice and slow, Katie. Make this easy on yourself, OK?”
Her eyes were glowing oddly, like Victor's when the mood was on him. Her face was unearthly pale, like a vampire in a horror flick.
“Why should I?” she said. “You're just going to kill me anyway. Like you tried to do when I was a kid. Remember that, Ed? I sure do.”
“You were a snotty little bitch back then, too. I remember that,” he snarled. “Come on, Katie. Be a good girl. One foot after the other.”
“Fuck you. You killed my daddy, you pig.”
Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl, and her arm whipped out from behind her, where she'd been hiding the liquor bottle. She let out an ear-splitting shriek and hurled it at him.
He flung up his arm and took the goddamned thing on the same sore arm that had blocked the brass lamp last night. He roared with pain, yelped again at the shiny metal thing that spun out of nowhere right after it, clipping him on the jaw.
Then the crazy little bitch took a flying leap, right at him.
Chapter 25
The bottle shattered. The gun went off, and splinters exploded off of some wooden surface. Raine barreled into him, deafened. They hurtled together down to the bottom of the landing.
Ed hit the wall hard, and she was savagely pleased at the thud, his heavy grunt. There was no time to savor it, though— in a split second she bounced off him and half-tumbled, half-slid down the rest of the stairs, bumpity-bump, thud. She bounced up and sprinted through the kitchen, seizing objects at random and hurling them at him.
The toaster bounced off his shoulder, the blender missed him and smashed against the wall. She darted into the office, spun around and almost got him with a stereo speaker. He ducked and dodged her missiles, screaming something, but she couldn't understand what he said, because she was screaming too, as if pure sound could be a weapon. All the rage she'd ever tried to control came rushing out in a shrill, endless, crazy shriek. She felt capable of any violence, any madness or folly.
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