The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  Hannah felt the restraints tighten and pinch at her wrists until it was almost intolerable. But he finally sliced through the rope, and her hands were suddenly free. He set the knife down beside her.

  Bewildered, Hannah started to push herself up from the bed.

  He backed away from her. He accidentally knocked over a vase full of chrysanthemums, and it crashed to the floor. But Alden just kept backing away until he was in the other corner of the bedroom. “I’m sorry for everything, Hannah,” he said, taking out the gun. He put it to his head.

  “No!” Hannah screamed. She closed her eyes and heard the deafening shot.

  When she opened her eyes again, Hannah gazed down at the knife on the bed. He’d left it there so she could cut away the ropes around her ankles—and so she could free Maddie as well. She listened to the other girl crying. “It’s okay, Maddie,” she said. “I’m coming . . .”

  As she cut at the rope around her ankles, Hannah realized there were two survivors tonight.

  With tears in her eyes, she stopped to gaze at the blood-splattered wall across the room. From where she sat and caught her breath, Hannah couldn’t see Alden’s body lying on the floor.

  But she knew he was there—on the other side of all the pretty flowers.

  * * *

  Nate felt intimidated as he climbed out of his old Ford Fiesta and headed toward the entrance of the swanky-looking Geneva ChopHouse. It was part of a big, sprawling, luxurious hotel near the lake, the Grand Geneva Resort. Nate was glad he had on his tie and blazer; otherwise he’d probably get thrown out of the posh restaurant before making it halfway to the Bonners’ table.

  Earlier, with over an hour to kill before the Bonners had their eight-thirty reservations, he’d thought about driving to Three Old Timber Lane and confronting the Bonners at their vacation house. But he’d realized Ellie was right. If he was going to accuse the Bonners of murder, he needed to do it in public—in front of witnesses so that his accusations might stick. If he faced them in private, they’d simply have him thrown out, or more likely, make him “disappear.”

  He’d been tempted to call Ellie, just to make sure she was okay. But he knew she’d try to talk him into waiting for her so they could take on the Bonners together. Nate welcomed her help behind the scenes, but for her to put herself directly in the line of fire, that was another story. He’d decided to call her when this was all over.

  His stomach had been growling—a bad combination of nervousness and not having eaten in twelve hours. So he’d gone to an Arby’s, used their bathroom, and ate a plain Arby’s sandwich. He’d been too anxious to consume any more than that.

  Now, his stomach was even more on edge, and he kept burping.

  He headed through the doors into the restaurant’s annex, where he was greeted with the savory smell of broiling steaks and chops. The chatter from diners and clanking of silverware were accompanied by someone playing “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” on the piano—probably a Steinway from the looks of the place. He noticed two men hanging out by the entrance. They were in their early thirties and neatly dressed—but a bit casual for such an elegant spot. They were both looking at their phones. But the shorter of the two, a handsome man with prematurely gray hair, glanced up at Nate and seemed to smirk a bit.

  Nate couldn’t help thinking that the Bonners’ people—or, more specifically, Sloane’s people—might be expecting him. Maybe he was being paranoid—as he’d been earlier with that black SUV. But he’d probably put the Bonners’ security team on alert this afternoon.

  Brushing past the two strangers, Nate headed toward the hostess station, where a small group waited to get in.

  The restaurant was huge with white tablecloths and candle lamps on the tables, plush booths, and a sweeping view of the lake. The place was crowded, and the waitstaff looked busy, but dignified in their white jackets and ties.

  Nate figured it might take a while to find the Bonners at their table. He took his phone out of his blazer pocket and glanced at the time: 8:45.

  “May I help you?”

  The hostess had stepped out from behind her little podium and approached him. She was a pretty, twenty-something brunette in a black cocktail dress.

  “Yes,” Nate said, showing her his phone. “Could you point me to where Mr. and Mrs. Bonner are seated tonight? I have a call for Mrs. Bonner. I think she’ll want to take it.”

  The hostess looked momentarily confused. “The Bonners? Yes, well . . .” She turned and looked off toward some booths against one wall—all facing out at the restaurant and the lake. It seemed like the VIP area.

  In one of the booths, Nate recognized Candace and Richard Bonner from the scores of photos and at least a dozen videos he’d studied. This was the first time he’d ever seen them in person. Dressed in a blue blazer and a wide red tie, Richard Bonner looked like an ex-jock gone to seed thanks to too much of the good life. He was balding and jowly, but still remotely handsome. Mrs. Bonner was elegant in a coral suit—almost regal—though her blond hair appeared a bit stiff. They were with an odd-looking couple. The man was about sixty-five, with receding slicked-back white hair and a bronze complexion that made him appear corpse-like. He was dressed like a rich gangster with no taste: a wide, white tie, navy blue shirt, and a powder blue jacket. His bejeweled thirty-something trophy wife or girlfriend looked like she’d come from a reliable escort service. The four of them were having cocktails.

  “Actually, I think I’ve spotted them, thanks,” Nate said, starting to move away from the hostess. But he hesitated as he noticed a lean, fortyish man emerge from behind the group waiting to be seated. He had a shaved head and wore a black suit with no tie. With an intense gaze, the man started to approach Nate.

  Nate quickly dialed 911, and with the phone to his ear, he headed toward the Bonners’ booth. He heard the operator answer: “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “Yes, a man’s causing a disturbance in the Geneva ChopHouse,” Nate said. “He’s about forty, six feet tall, completely bald—and he just attacked this guy in the middle of the restaurant. I think the bald guy is deranged or something. The other guy wasn’t doing anything . . .”

  Nate hung up and put the phone away.

  “Excuse me,” the bald man quietly said as he closed in on him. “Hold it right there . . .”

  But Nate kept walking at a faster and more determined clip—right up to the Bonners’ booth. “Richard Bonner!” he said in a loud voice. His heart pounded furiously. “Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am? Or is that Donald Sloane’s department?”

  The man grabbed his arm, but Nate jerked away from him.

  People in the restaurant started to notice. Nate heard the murmurs. A woman gasped. Nearby, a couple of waitpersons stopped in their tracks.

  The Bonners and their two dinner companions looked puzzled and slightly perturbed.

  “Maybe you don’t even bother to learn the names and faces of the people you have killed . . .”

  “What the hell is this?” Bonner asked.

  Bonner’s friend, the older one who looked like a bronzed corpse, glared at the bald guy. “Get him out of here,” he growled.

  The man grabbed Nate’s left arm once more. Another man came out of nowhere and closed in on Nate’s right side. Nate didn’t see what he looked like because he was staring at Bonner.

  “I’m Nate Bergquist!” he announced for the whole restaurant to hear. “Richard Bonner—or maybe his security specialist, Donald Sloane—had my brother killed! My brother, Gil, was no saint . . .”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the bald man whispered. He and his cohort started to lead Nate toward the exit.

  But he resisted and just talked louder: “Gil might’ve even had it coming. I think he was trying to blackmail you, Bonner—or maybe your wife. I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t have anything to do with it—and neither did my girlfriend, neither did Gil’s girlfriend. But they were all killed, and I was left for dead. We were just so much collat
eral damage in Donald Sloane’s ‘cleanup’ detail . . .”

  Nate suddenly broke away from the bald guy, and shoved the other man aside. The second man almost stumbled into a table. The couple at the table quickly got up and stepped back. The loud happy chatter from all the restaurant patrons just a minute ago had become a hushed buzz. The woman at the piano had stopped playing. Everyone was watching him. A few people had taken out their phones to record the disturbance.

  Nate saw it all in a rush before he focused on Richard Bonner and hurried toward his table again. “And what about Kayla Kennedy?” he yelled. “And your assistant, Marcia Lindahl, Mrs. Bonner? How many people were killed so your dirty little family secrets stayed secret? You murdered Molly Driscoll—the birth mother of your adopted child! What kind of dirt did she have on you?”

  Glaring at him, Mrs. Bonner started to squirm in their VIP booth.

  His face crimson, Bonner looked furious. He turned to his friend. “Goddamn it, Sloane, who the hell is this?” he muttered. “What am I paying you for?”

  Nate realized he’d hit the jackpot. He was face-to-face with Bonner’s chief henchman.

  But the bald man suddenly grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. “Okay, that’s enough—”

  “Has anyone called the police?” Candace Bonner asked loudly.

  “They’re on their way, Mrs. Bonner!” someone answered.

  As he was being dragged toward the exit, Nate noticed the man talking was the handsome, gray-haired guy he’d seen at the front door. He and his friend approached the Bonners’ table. His friend had a camcorder. “Garth Trotter with the Chicago Tribune, Mrs. Bonner!” he announced. “Would you care to comment on these accusations from Mr. Bergquist? Did you have anything to do with the death of your adopted daughter’s birth mother, Molly Driscoll, twenty years ago? Weren’t you there in Portland at the time? Have people been killed as part of a cover-up? Mr. Bonner, would you care to comment? Mr. or Mrs. Sloane?”

  He had to talk louder and louder over the increasing din and chaos around them. The police had arrived along with one of the resort’s security guards. They immediately grabbed the bald man.

  Sloane stood up, accidentally spilling his drink on himself. “Not him, goddamn it!” He pointed to Nate. The drink had stained the front of his pale checked slacks. “It’s the other one who’s causing all the trouble!”

  “Are these charges against you true, Mr. Sloane?” the reporter yelled. “Have you had people murdered at the behest of Mr. or Mrs. Bonner?”

  It took a moment for the police to realize their mistake, and they grabbed Nate. He noticed at least four cops—and two of them were busy restraining Sloane’s pissed-off henchmen.

  “I’ll go along quietly,” Nate whispered to the policemen.

  As they led him toward the exit, he glanced over his shoulder. Sloane and Bonner were yelling at the man with the camcorder. Sloane’s wife covered her face. And Candace Bonner stared at Nate with hatred in her eyes.

  From across the restaurant, he could clearly read her lips. “You son of a bitch,” she said.

  Near the doorway, the reporter caught up with Nate and the cops. “Hey, Nate!” he called. “I’m Ellie’s friend, Garth. She figured you wouldn’t wait for her, so she sent us here. She hoped you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  With a dazed smile, Nate shook his head at the man. He couldn’t believe Ellie had his back like that. “Mind?” he murmured. “Are you kidding? Not at all . . .”

  “Did you visit my aunt and uncle?”

  The policemen escorted Nate through the doorway. Baffled, he stared at the reporter, who followed them outside. “Aunt and uncle?” Nate repeated.

  “They live at Three Old Timber Lane,” Garth explained. “Ellie didn’t want to send you to the Bonners’ house. She was afraid she’d never see you again. And she likes you—a hell of a lot! Hang in there, buddy. Someone will be at the police station to bail you out in a little bit. You got the ball rolling, Nate. You’ve accused them of murder. It’s out there. Now, people know . . .”

  One of the cops cuffed Nate by a squad car. Nate called back to Ellie’s friend. “Thanks! Thank Ellie for me, too!”

  “You can thank her yourself soon,” Garth called.

  The cop guided Nate into the backseat of the squad car. Nate sat back and caught his breath. He thought about everything that had just happened—all the yelling, confusion, and chaos. He was sore and sweaty, and one of Sloane’s men had torn the sleeve of his blazer.

  But he had a triumphant smile on his face.

  * * *

  Ellie hurried through the kitchen—as fast as she dared to move with a gun in one hand and a crowbar in the other. She’d left Perry unconscious and facedown on the floor of the deserted bedroom upstairs. Ellie figured he might bleed to death if he didn’t get some medical attention soon. When she’d left him, a small puddle of blood had already formed under his head.

  At the kitchen door, she quickly set Perry’s revolver on the counter and tucked the crowbar under her arm. Frazzled, she took out her phone and called 911 again. She gave the man the address of the farmhouse and explained that she’d called before. She told him they needed to send an ambulance, too. “The man who attacked me, I hit him on the head with a crowbar, and he’s bleeding pretty badly . . .”

  “An EMS team is on the way—along with the responders, Ellie,” the 911 operator assured her. “They should be there soon. Hang on the line . . .”

  It was a different 911 operator from the last call, but this guy liked to use her first name in every sentence, too.

  “Thank you,” Ellie said. While holding on to the phone, she unlocked the door and struggled to open it. The crowbar slipped out from under her arm and hit the kitchen floor with a clang. She realized the door’s deadbolt was still set, and unlocked it.

  “Ellie, have you made contact with Eden O’Rourke yet?” the operator asked.

  As she opened the door, Ellie heard an intense thumping from inside the backyard tool shed. “I—I think Eden’s trying to make contact with me right now,” she said.

  Swiping the crowbar off the floor, she pushed open the rickety screen door and hurried outside.

  “Eden!” she called out. “Eden, hang in there! I’m coming!”

  The screen door slammed shut behind her.

  “It’s Ellie Goodwin!” she yelled, hurrying toward the tool shed at the edge of the bleak yard. “I have the police on the phone right now! They’re on their way!”

  Past all the pounding, she heard Eden’s muffled screams: “God, get me out of here! Please . . .”

  The back of the shed faced the house. Ellie ran around to the door side. Under Eden’s relentless hammering, the door shook on its hinges, straining against the deadbolt and a latch with a padlock.

  “Hold on,” Ellie said into the phone. She shoved it in the pocket of her sweater. “Eden, stop banging on the door so I can unlock it!” she called. “Can you hear me?”

  The pounding on the door ceased. “I hear you!” Eden’s voice sounded muffled and distant. “Please, hurry . . .”

  Ellie pushed out the deadbolt. She tried to keep from shaking as she wedged the end of the crowbar into the padlock’s U-shaped shackle. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the lock out toward her. It always looked so easy in the movies. But the lock wouldn’t break. “Damn it!” she hissed. Putting all her weight into it, she pushed the crowbar until the shackle finally snapped. The broken padlock fell to the ground.

  Stumbling, Ellie dropped the crowbar to brace herself against the shed. She regained her footing and then unfastened the latch. “Eden?” she said, pulling open the door.

  The little shed smelled putrid. Ellie covered her nose and mouth.

  Dressed in a soiled-looking sweatshirt, jeans, and filthy white socks, Eden stood in the center of the confined, cluttered space. The light above her was dim. But it was easy to see that she was emaciated and exhausted. Her blond hair was in greasy tangles and dark near the roots. Tear
s welled in her eyes as she numbly gazed at Ellie. She seemed to be in shock.

  Then she took a deep breath and quietly began to cry.

  Ellie heard a siren wailing in the distance. She stepped back to clear the doorway for Eden.

  That was when she saw Perry standing in the kitchen doorway. He held the screen door open. He’d found where she’d left his gun. It was now in his hand. He lurched forward, and the screen door slammed behind him.

  Backing away, Ellie looked at Eden and furtively shook her head.

  Eden seemed to get the message. She stood perfectly still.

  Ellie watched Perry stagger toward her. She could see the streaks of blood on his face—shining in the moonlight.

  “What’s so interesting in that shed?” he called, slurring his words. He almost sounded drunk. He raised the gun and fired.

  The shot rang out, and Ellie flinched. The bullet didn’t seem to pass anywhere near her. But she realized she might not be so lucky if he fired again.

  The police sirens got louder, but Perry didn’t seem to notice. He kept weaving toward her. The front of his shirt was covered with blood.

  Still inside the shed, Eden crouched down to the ground.

  “You really are a stupid bitch!” Perry yelled at Ellie. “Leaving my gun behind like that, what were you thinking? Did you think I was dead?” He passed by the side of the tool shed. “Well, I’m not dead, bitch. You are . . .”

  He stepped between her and the doorway to the shed. Blinking, he wiped the blood away from his eyes. Then he raised his gun and took careful aim this time.

  He didn’t see Eden behind him. The crowbar was in her hands.

  She slammed it against the back of his head.

  Ellie could hear the crack. It seemed even louder than the sound of the squad cars coming up the driveway, their sirens wailing.

  She watched Perry crumple to the ground in front of her.

  She kicked the gun away and then reached out to Eden.

  Dropping the crowbar, she staggered out of her little prison and took Ellie’s hand. She started to cry again.