by Sandra Brown
“We’re getting out of here. Now.”
“Wait,” she said, resisting as he tried to open the door. “Where’s Howie? Is he here?”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
“Where? What’d he say?”
He didn’t answer. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed that he was standing rigidly, looking down at her with that unrelenting stare of his. She could feel his breath on her upturned face. “Where’s Howie?”
“Shh.”
Her voice rising along with her panic, she said, “What have you done to him?”
“Be quiet.”
Pushing him aside, she stumbled across the living room.
“Barrie, no!”
She felt air against her arm as he reached for her but missed in the darkness. In Howie’s kitchen, her thigh painfully caught the corner of the dining table. She located the light switch and flipped it several times, but nothing happened. Someone had tampered with the main breaker in the fuse box.
Gray seized her arm. “Come on, Barrie. Now.”
“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free.
Outwrestling him was hopeless, especially in the dark. She couldn’t get her bearings, but she was at least as well acquainted with Howie’s kitchen as Gray was. She remembered the general layout, and as they struggled, she worked her way toward the window. When she was within reaching distance, she grabbed the bottom of the shade and gave it a hard tug. The old-fashioned shade whooshed up and spun onto the roll with the flapping sound of a million bat wings. The streetlight illuminated the kitchen.
“Dammit!” Gray growled.
With a herculean shove, Barrie pushed him aside. “Howie?” she called out.
And then she saw him, lying in the doorway between his kitchen and his bedroom. He was staring up at her. His mouth was slack and gaping wide. So was the gash that extended from ear to ear across his throat. In the pale bluish light, the blood pooling beneath him looked black.
Before she could scream, Gray covered her mouth with his hand. His lips were directly against her ear. He whispered a single word.
“Spence.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Spencer Martin?” Daily’s confusion was plain. “You said you’d killed him.”
“No, she said I’d killed him.” He glanced at Barrie.
She was cradling a cup of scalding tea between her hands, mindlessly rocking back and forth as she sat on the edge of Daily’s sofa. His house was dark. They’d managed to sneak back in undetected. At least that’s what Gray hoped. With Spence a factor, the risks had suddenly become much greater.
“I only incapacitated him,” he explained. “But I should have killed him.”
He then described how he’d wounded Spence with a gunshot and placed him in the root cellar beneath his barn. “I wanted him to survive, but not to escape. I thought I’d come here and, with Clete’s help, get Vanessa safely away from David within a matter of days. A week at most.”
He glanced at Barrie, who was still staring vacantly into space. “It hasn’t worked out that way. I should have known Spence would get free, although damned if I know how he managed. He probably clawed his way out.”
“You’re that sure it was him who killed Fripp?” Daily asked.
“I’m that sure. I know his style.”
“If Howie had ever met Spencer Martin, he would have boasted about it,” Barrie said, speaking for the first time in five minutes.
“They could have met for the first time seconds before Spence sliced his throat.”
She shook her head. “The police said there was no sign of forced entry. Howie recognized his killer and invited him into the apartment.”
Daily leaned forward. “What are you saying, Barrie?”
Gray spoke for her. “She’s saying that Howie was expecting me and that I killed him.”
A split second after making eye contact with him, she averted her head. He didn’t let her off lightly. “Well, isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she cried, setting her cup of tea aside. “I can’t think.” She came to her feet and began rubbing her arms vigorously. “I can’t think of anything except how gruesomely Howie died. He wasn’t my favorite person,” she said in an uneven voice, “and I won’t pretend that he was. He was a loathsome individual, but he was a human being, harmless and innocent where this matter is concerned. I dragged him into it. I got him killed. His murder will be on my conscience for the rest of my life.”
She sat down and began to cry.
Neither of the men said anything until Daily asked, “What’d the police say?”
Gray had wanted only to get the hell away from the scene, fearing that Spence might return to finish them off. But Barrie had insisted on doing what was right and called 911. Short of knocking her unconscious and carrying her from the apartment, there was nothing Gray could have done but stay with her during the questioning by homicide detectives.
They admitted to the investigators that they’d had an appointment to visit Howie that evening. When they arrived, his apartment was dark, but the door was unlocked. They’d found him dead. They had touched nothing except the doorknob, a couple of light switches, and the hem of the window shade. Gray had remembered to wipe down the fuse box before the first squad car arrived. It would have been difficult to explain why he’d wanted to flee the apartment in darkness.
“The detectives theorized that Howie had been jumped outside his apartment door and forced inside. His pockets had been rifled, so robbery was the suspected motive. It could have been a mugger, they said, or a gang initiation.”
“Any suspicion cast in your direction?” Daily asked.
“There might have been, except for a footprint in the blood. It was a man’s sport shoe, the kind sold by the thousands every day all over the country. Apparently the killer realized his mistake, because there was only that one imprint. The detectives figure he took off the shoe to keep from leaving a bloody trail out of the apartment.
“My guess is that Spence left the imprint on purpose so the police would surmise exactly what they did—that somebody randomly spotted Howie as he entered the building, followed him up the stairs, and did him for a few lousy bucks. It happens several times a week in that neighborhood. The police will go through a few routine procedures, then write up all the paperwork, it’ll be filed, and the murder will remain unsolved.”
“How can you be so damn casual about this?”
Once again Barrie was on her feet, glaring at him, causing his temper to snap. “What do you want me to do, confess?” he asked angrily, bearing down on her.
“I want you to explain why you went into Howie’s apartment ahead of me.”
“I wanted to make an impact.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“Why’d you cut the lights when I came in?”
“To spare you from seeing him.”
“After I saw him anyway, why did you try to hustle me out?”
“If Spence was lurking around, it wasn’t safe.”
“Spence. Spence, who’s miraculously been resurrected.” She waved her arms in the air. “Praise the Lord.”
Gray felt his jaw tightening. “Would it make you feel better if I said, ‘Okay, I confess. I sliced open the toady’s throat’?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“What are you bellyaching about anyway? You should be hopping up and down with glee. I’m surprised you didn’t call for video as soon as you hung up from 911. You were the first reporter on the scene of a grisly murder. That’s right up your alley, isn’t it? Isn’t that what turns you on? That, and jumping into the sack with any man who might give you a juicy story in exchange.”
“That’s enough, Bondurant,” Daily interjected.
Gray paid no attention to the reprimand. He was focused exclusively on Barrie. “I don’t have to defend myself, to you or to anybody. Beli
eve what you want. I really don’t give a shit.”
He turned his back to her, but had taken only a few steps when she charged after him, much as she had that first morning in his house. “If Spence is alive, why would he seek out Howie and kill him?”
“Hell if I know,” he said, shaking off her hand. “Maybe he knew Howie was leaking us information he didn’t want leaked.”
“How would he know?”
He gave a cynical snort. “You’ve got to stop assuming these men play by any rules. They don’t. There are no restrictions placed on them. Not moral, political, or emotional. They see something that needs doing, they do it, and they don’t care how. They have no conscience. Until that sinks in, they’ve got you whipped, because you do play by the rules.”
Having said that, he looked at Daily. “You want me to leave now, I’ll leave.”
Sighing heavily, Daily came to his feet. “Every time the two of you get me out of bed in the middle of the night, it’s bad news.” That’s all he said before shuffling off to his bedroom.
Gray gave Barrie a hard, challenging look, but she said nothing, just turned away and followed Daily down the hall.
Cursing beneath his breath, Gray removed his boots and shirt and lay down on the sofa. It was too short for him; he had to prop his feet on the armrest. He could sleep just about anywhere, under any circumstances. He’d trained himself to fall asleep at will. He’d learned how to drop off instantly and sleep deeply, while leaving one portion of his subconscious awake and alert to danger.
But tonight his training failed him. He was too angry to sleep. Angry and… Hurt? Was that the word? “Christ.” He placed his forearm across his eyes. Hurt? Over what? Her inane accusation? Over her suspicion that he was a murderer? What an asinine, sophomoric emotion to be nursing.
Believe what you want. I really don’t give a shit. Hell of it was, he did. He didn’t know exactly how he wanted Barrie to think of him, but it sure as hell wasn’t as a cold-blooded killer. He couldn’t think of a single reason why her opinion should matter to him, but it did.
She was a smart-ass. Too impulsive for her own good. She had a stinging, sarcastic sense of humor that she used to cover fear and disappointment. But she wasn’t a coward, and courage was a trait that Gray admired. Her mind was razor sharp. Perhaps she was too inventive to be an objective journalist, but that creative bent only enhanced her intelligence. She’d suffered rejection, and he could sympathize, even empathize to some degree.
She also had a hell of a lot of integrity. It was a cheap shot to accuse her of using seduction to get a sound bite. He hadn’t meant it that morning in Jackson Hole, and he didn’t now. He didn’t even believe it.
She probably couldn’t explain that predawn orgy at his house any more than he could, and he couldn’t even come close to explaining it. He’d chalked it up to spontaneous, all-consuming, inexplicable lust, and let it go at that. It was safer not to overanalyze such intense sexual encounters. Best to blame it on the animalistic aspects of man, and forget it. Or try to.
Despite his snide comments to the contrary, he’d known the minute he touched her that morning that she was no femme fatale. Her reactions were too honest, her responses too undisciplined.
He didn’t want to think about her undisciplined responses. Not tonight, when he was furious with her. But recollections crept from their hiding places at the edges of his mind and taunted him. Thoughts crowded his otherwise compartmentalized mind, thoughts of breasts that were small but full, of nipples that seemed never to be completely relaxed, of her whispers in the darkness in that voice that alone could arouse him.
“Gray?”
He lowered his arm and sprang into a sitting position in one sudden motion. He hadn’t heard her approach, so he was surprised to see her standing only a few feet from the sofa. He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
“Were you asleep?”
“Getting there,” he lied.
“I’ve figured out what we should do next.”
“What?” he asked, thinking hopefully, Screw ourselves blind?
That wasn’t at all what she suggested.
* * *
Barrie knew of the area. It was a well-kept Washington secret because a number of prominent people lived on these twisting, heavily wooded streets near Embassy Row. They were in shouting distance of the well-traveled Massachusetts Avenue, but unless you were looking for them specifically, you would miss them. They weren’t on many maps.
The houses were set well away from the street, screened by tall hedges or brick walls. Many had electric gates for additional security. Barrie was jittery when Gray pulled the car to a stop in the driveway of an estate that was for sale.
“We could get shot,” she said.
“We could.”
“What do you think she’ll do when we come traipsing through her backyard?”
“We won’t know until we do it.”
This had been Barrie’s idea. Last night, it had seemed like a good one. Now, she was less sure. “You say you’ve met her before?”
“A couple of times, at official functions. But we’ve never engaged in any private conversation. She may not even remember me.”
“I doubt that.” They shared a taut look for several moments, then she added softly, “You do make an impression on people, Mr. Bondurant.”
“Yeah. Take for instance the impression I’ve made on you.”
Barrie looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry about that. Last night, I mean. I never really believed that you could…” She bit down on her lower lip. “I was upset. And frightened.”
“Forget it.” He opened the car door.
“No, please.” She laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I don’t want this to fester.”
“Okay. Say whatever is on your mind.”
“I thought about it all night and tried to look at it from every angle. If Spence did escape and return to Washington, if he somehow tracked down Howie and discerned that he was feeding us information, and if he did get to Howie’s apartment minutes before we did and killed him, why did he plant a clue that would divert the investigation away from us?
“Spence could have made it look like we killed Howie, say out of spite for getting me fired. Safely behind bars and trying to prove our innocence, we’d be out of his and Merritt’s hair. So why would he purposely get us off the hook with local police?”
Without having to think it over, Gray replied, “Because he has something larger in store for us.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s why we must tread very carefully.” He looked past the vacant colonial mansion to the woods behind it. “Let’s go.”
Although she was even more shaken now than before their conversation, Barrie got out of the car. She’d been careful to bring with them the newspaper ad for the sale of the estate. The ad might provide a plausible excuse if anyone stopped and asked them why they were snooping around.
She followed Gray’s lead as he moved along the high iron picket fence that demarcated the property. It took them five minutes to reach the rear boundary. “That’s theirs,” he said, pointing ahead.
On the far side of the greenbelt between the two properties, she saw the roof of the house. “Lead on.”
The leaves on the hardwoods were just beginning to turn, providing a colorful palette of contrast to the evergreens. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as they picked their way through the woods. At any other time, under any other circumstances, this would have been a pleasant outing.
They held back when they reached the wide, carefully tended lawn fanning out behind the red brick Georgian house. Bright chrysanthemums bloomed in the gardens. The hedges were as perfectly manicured as a debutante on the night of her coming-out ball.
“Since I met you, Bondurant, I’ve seen a lot of backyards. This is by far the prettiest.”
He came close to smiling, but it never fully developed because just then a woman came out the back door. She was carryi
ng an armful of what appeared to be rolled-up posters secured with rubber bands.
“That’s her,” Gray said. He stepped from the sheltering trees and started across the lawn. Barrie followed with trepidation.
The woman was slim and attractive. After placing the posters in the backseat of her Jeep Cherokee, she straightened up. That’s when she spotted them. To her credit, she didn’t turn and run or demonstrate apprehension of any kind. She stood her ground.
As they came closer, Barrie saw that her expressive dark eyes seemed troubled. They shifted from Barrie to Gray, then back to Barrie. Before either she or Gray could begin to explain why they were there, Amanda Allan said, “Thank God you’ve come.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
She led Barrie and Gray through the large, homey kitchen, past a gracious dining room, and into a cozy living room. A low fire was burning in the grate. The room smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon. Framed photographs of two young boys, Dr. George Allan, and Amanda were scattered around the room, documenting their family history and the children’s growth. The furnishings were tasteful and beautiful, but comfortable. The atmosphere was inviting.
Barrie envied the other woman the beautiful room, the children, and the home she’d made. Not so enviable was the tension in Amanda Allan’s face and carriage, which portended doom.
It had occurred to Barrie last night that Mrs. Allan might be agreeable to discussing her husband’s work, especially if there was disharmony between the couple, as Howie had said. She’d thought of it as a long shot but worth a try. Never would she have expected Amanda to appear so relieved to see her and Gray. Nor would she have expected this woman, who seemed to have everything one could desire, to look so miserably unhappy and stressed.
When they were seated, Amanda addressed Gray first. “How are you? A lot has happened since we last saw each other.” He nodded, then introduced her to Barrie. “I know who you are, Ms. Travis.”
“And I know who you are,” Barrie said. “At least I do now. You called me at WVUE and alerted me to what was going on at Highpoint.” The moment Amanda had spoken to her outside, Barrie had recognized the voice and identified her as the anonymous tipster.