Desperate for some kind of solution to this escalating crisis, Olivia glanced out the kitchen window into her serene, superlative back yard. She had worked so hard, over so many seasons, to turn unfinished acreage into an inviting space filled with flagstone walkways and flower gardens, blooming shrubs and fine full-leaved trees, a fountain to entice birds and blossoms to entice butterflies. During down times, it provided sanctuary and solace for her soul; during up times, it provided rest and consolation.
Right now, only Bruno occupied her beautiful, charming life’s work. He lay snoozing in the shade of a honeysuckle, without a care in the world, unaware that everything was about to come crashing down around him. Dear old Bruno.
Spiritual rather than religious, Olivia did not consider herself bound to any particular doctrine or creed. Nor did she offer prayers above. What was the point? Humans held destiny in their own hands, and no nebulous being could make a difference in the outcome.
Now, however, every other thought in her head contained entreaty. Please, please, get us out of this. Please, please, help save us. Please, please, let that maniac be seized by a heart attack. Please, please, please…
“You still don’t understand my position, dear Olivia,” sneered Annajane. “I want that miserable scheming husband of yours—of ours!—to come home and find your cold bodies sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. I want to see his face when he realizes he’s lost everything he once had, and it’s all due to my work. Me, the one who got him started, who set him up, who was left behind when he walked out! Jeff Quinley is nothing but a damned welsher.”
“And you are nothing but a damned coward,” Olivia dared to shoot back. She may as well go for broke in this terrible confrontation; nothing reasonable would reach the woman. “Otherwise you’d put that gun aside and talk out your problems.”
Her thin lips curled up in a snarl. “Talk. I did enough talking in that hellhole of an asylum to last me for a lifetime. And enough now. Get on the phone, sweet Olivia, and call the school.”
“There are other ways to deal with reality, Annajane. We can—”
“Shut up. Make that call. Now.”
“But, don’t you see, it won’t work,” Olivia, still crowded into the corner like a broken-down prizefighter in the ring, tried wheedling. “The school won’t just release Nicky for some made-up—”
“You still think I’m such an idiot?” Annajane sent her the sort of pitying look reserved for anyone much her social inferior. A poor thing attitude. “You’re causing me far too much delay, Mrs. Quinley, and I won’t have it any more.”
With fierce determination, she stalked toward the land line, still situated on the kitchen counter as during a generation ago, and grabbed the receiver. Over Olivia’s protest, she glanced at the refrigerator, where important numbers had been prominently displayed for the owners’ use, chose the one she needed, and dialed Franklin Elementary.
“Is this the secretary?” she purred, when the call was answered after several rings. “Oh, good. This is Olivia Quinley, Nicholas Quinley’s mother, and we’ve had a family emergency arise. I’d like to pick him up in about half an hour.”
“No, no, no!” cried Olivia in the background. “No, don’t do it!”
Instantly Annajane whipped around and smashed the barrel of the Smith and Wesson backward across Olivia’s right cheek. Stunned by the sudden burst of agony, as if the bone itself had shattered, and by a sense that the skin had split and blood was oozing out, she collapsed in a heap on the floor with only a little moan. Pain rocketed from her teeth to her tearing eyes to the very top of her head, preventing any sort of concentration on what was going on.
“What’s that? Oh, I’m sorry for the interruption—my dog was causing some problems,” Annajane smoothly picked up her end of the conversation once again. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. ?—oh, Mrs. Leonard. Very well, my friend and I will swing by shortly. Thank you so much for your help.”
Half-kneeling, half-sitting, Olivia could only stare at the shreds of her life, torn apart and about to be destroyed by this vicious monster. The wound on her face was hurting like hell, already inflamed and throbbing; far worse were the unusual ripples and rumbles cutting through her middle.
“And that’s how it’s done,” chortled the vicious monster in triumph. “Get up, you overburdened sow, and let’s get this show on the road. I’m ready to spend some quality time with that dashing son of yours.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
Franklin Elementary, an old-fashioned four story brick building retrofitted with solar panels, thermal-paned windows, and a state-of-the-art security system, stood near the corner of a small block a mile or so distant from the Quinley house. It was surrounded by towering maples, a substantial playground complete with equipment and basketball courts, and a fenced-in parking lot.
A traditional neighborhood school, it was filled with (for the most part) caring and dedicated teachers. Nicholas Bower, now Quinley, had begun his kindergarten years here, and continued on with every grade since. A rather serious boy, as often happened with only children, and both mature and intelligent beyond his age, he could count several good close friends and a number of acquaintances on the positive side of his ledger, and only a few altercations (mainly vocal, with the class bully) on the negative.
The fact that Olivia had volunteered so often during Nicky’s career—helping sell refreshments at basketball games, providing treats for various holidays and functions, serving as room mother once or twice—also earned credits in that ledger.
Thus, when the doorbell rang at the school’s main entrance, it was Mrs. Lawson, the principal, who escorted him to the door with backpack in hand.
“Livvie,” she said with concern. “I’m so sorry there’s been a family emergency. That’s why I thought I’d walk Nicky out myself.”
With that damned handgun poking her in the side at every step, Olivia had been forced into action, no matter how much she might dissent. She had managed to delay their departure a few minutes by pleading for use of the adjacent powder room—behind an open door—where she frantically considered any accessory that might possibly be wielded as a weapon.
Her own bathroom held razors, scissors, sprays of all kinds. Nothing similar here, in this small alcove. Only a mirror. Even if she could somehow manage to break the glass, Annajane would be upon her before she could grab a jagged piece with which to threaten. It was hopeless.
Per Smith and Wesson’s silent order, she had squeezed her bulk behind the steering wheel of her Prius and, after some struggle, snapped the seat belt into place. Annajane, wearing a brilliant smile at the progress of her plan, slid into the passenger side and settled down.
“There we go. Now, drive.”
The garage door rolled smoothly up on its well-oiled tracks, the car rolled out, the door rolled smoothly back into place.
A five minute drive away only. Ten, perhaps, if she had to wait at the corner traffic light.
Could she crash her vehicle into a tree? Run off the road? Take a detour and hit a bridge piling? What? With that terrible blow to her cheekbone a little while ago, her vision had gone cockeyed, and her very brain seemed to have stopped functioning. Every movement now was made via autopilot. How could she possibly clear such fuzzy thoughts to figure out what should be done?
“How much farther?” demanded Annajane, definitely impatient.
“Not—not much…”
Pain. Oh, sweet heaven, the pain. A pounding, pulsating headache. A whole right side of the face exquisitely tender to the touch. And the vague, disturbing flutters of impending agony low in her overburdened belly.
Mrs. Lawson peered at the two of them as she ushered Nicky outside into mellow fall sunshine, first curiously, then with alarm. “But, Livvie, my dear, you’ve been hurt! What on earth has happened?”
“A bad fall,” Annajane slipped in smoothly. She stood as close as a Siamese twin, posing as friend merely being supportive, all the while wi
th her handgun pressed against Olivia’s back. “That’s why I called. We’re going to the hospital, and she wanted her son to be with her.”
“Nick at the hospital with her?” repeated Mrs. Lawson in doubtful tones. “Well, I suppose I can understand, but it’s just that—”
“Look, we really need to be on our way. Come on, child, let’s not keep your mother waiting any longer.”
Deeply worried, Nick, who had eyes only for his mother, had already moved forward. “Mom? You didn’t give the safe word when you called, so Mrs. Lawson came out to make sure everything was okay. But you’re not!”
She was fighting desperately to keep her eyes open, to keep her feet planted firmly apart, to keep her whole wracked body from toppling over. “Nicky, sweetheart,” she mumbled through stiffened lips.
“Mom, you’ve been hurt!” His dear face, so like his father’s was twisted with fright, and he reached out to touch her arm. “Can I help you? What can I do?”
“You can get into the car,” spoke up Annajane, around her victim’s wavering shoulder.
Almost imperceptibly, Olivia shook her head, just a fraction of an inch.
“Now, Nick. We have to leave and get your mother taken care of.”
Again the tiny movement. Puzzled, frowning, Nick’s blue eyes scanned his mother’s bruised and bleeding countenance. She was never sick; she was never hurt. And his small world had just been rocked by her obviously injured appearance. “What’s goin’ on, Mom? You look awful, you should see a doctor right away. Doncha wanna go to the hospital?”
“Perhaps we could call an ambulance,” suggested Mrs. Lawson, watching the unsteady form with growing apprehension. “Obviously Olivia needs immediate care.”
“No ambulance,” countered Annajance, her own apprehension, and need to get away, growing as well. “I can drive to the emergency room, just as quickly. If you’d just get into the car!”
Nicky’s dismayed, uneasy gaze shifted suddenly to take in the woman standing furtively in his mother’s shadow. Startled, his expression tightened and hardened, and he took a step backward. “I know you!” he gasped. “You’re the one who tried to hurt my dad!”
The game was up.
“You slimy little weasel,” spat out Annajane, infuriated. Pulling free, she grabbed Olivia’s elbow to jerk her away from the school’s front steps, all the while waving her handgun around with maniacal glee. “All right, then, plan’s changed. You stay. She goes with me.”
“No!” shouted Nick, darting forward only so far as his principal would allow him. Because she caught quick hold of his shirt and held him fast. “No, let me go!” He fought furiously to break loose, but the grip was too firm. “She’s takin’ my mom, Mrs. Lawson! She’s a rotten ole monster, and she’s takin’ my mom with her!”
By now, Annajane, still using her revolver to make good an escape, had dragged her prey to the car, parked only a few yards distant with the engine still running. Snarling obscenities, she shoved Olivia headfirst into the passenger seat with a strength that belied the thinness of her frame, slammed the door shut, and ran to the driver’s side. Before anyone could even blink, the Prius was racing out of the lot and into the street, its tires shrieking in protest.
Mrs. Lawson let out a breath. So much drama had just taken place, in such a few brief minutes, that she felt as if she had been engulfed by a tornado, whipped up and around into a boiling sky, and then thrown back out.
“She took my mom!” Nick was shouting, near tears. He was almost eleven, almost a young man, grappling for control. “Mrs. Lawson, she took my mom! And she’ll hurt her more, I know she will!”
The principal, her expression grim, turned the boy away from the empty parking lot toward the door. “Come along, Nick, and hurry. We have to call the police.”
The Prius had lost a few inches of rubber off its tires, during the mad scramble away from Franklin and out into traffic; and its motor, as driven by Annajane, was sounding ragged and raspy. To all Olivia was blind and deaf. Uppermost in her jumbled thoughts lay the realization that at least one of her children remained out of this madwoman’s clutches: Nicky stood tall and strong under his principal’s care.
Beneath that sole speck of gratitude ranged a monster of pain.
Slouched in the narrow seat while her kidnapper zipped from a residential to business area, with various bumps and sharp turns in between, she was aware only that events had spiraled past her, way out of control, and she was helpless.
“Damned filthy little brat,” Annajane was mumbling furiously. “Screwed up my plans. Damn the whole damned sniveling Quinley crew.” Reluctantly slamming on the brakes at a traffic light, she used the handgun’s barrel to give a vicious prod to the semi-conscious body beside her. “You. Everything started with you. Well, you’ll pay, and soon enough. By God, will you ever pay.”
Olivia’s only response was a tiny moan.
The light changed from red to green. Annajane, first in line, pressed down hard on the accelerator and the car zoomed ahead. Across a shallow, picturesque river that separated one part of Westhalen from the other, through the equally picturesque downtown pinpointed by antique wrought iron street lamps and quaint shops of a spirit entirely removed from the convenient mall, only a few miles away. On this golden September weekday, during the lunch hour, the place was buzzing, with customers visible at banks and restaurants, having a quick drink at one of several local pubs, picking up office supplies or ordering flowers.
Annajane paid no attention to those around her. Her focus aimed straight ahead, like a rifle sight zoomed in on its target. Until she reached across to jab Olivia once again, hard and sharp, even in the confines of the front seat, as if she took great pleasure in doing so. “Move over,” she snapped. “You great wallowing cow, give me space.”
With a low sound of distress, more this time of a groan, Olivia slid away, slightly sideways toward her own window. Territory that would have been familiar in her pre-concussed state slid past her view in a blur. Where were they now? How far had they driven? Had they passed the First Congregational Church yet? The intersection at which a gas station stood on every corner? The stately old Georgian mansion recently converted into a multinational bank?
Her crazy driver had reached the outskirts of town, Olivia realized with a vagueness bordering on near oblivion. Depending on which main highway she chose, which direction she took, in only a few minutes the interstate itself would be accessible. An interstate with far too many exits to far too many possible hidey-holes, where Annajane could finally finish out her self-described task of killing at least two members of the Quinley family.
At least Nicky was safe. Olivia could take deep satisfaction in accomplishing that much, no matter what happened to her. As for the precious life inside her, so soon due to enter the world, she could only mourn. My darling child, came the incoherent thought. I’ve loved you for so long, so looked forward to holding you in my arms instead of under my heart. And I’ve brought you to—this—!
No.
The end must be of her choosing alone. As desperate as she was for salvation, as wracked by agony and torn apart by grief, only she could control her fate from this moment on. And she would. With the power of all the saints above, she would.
Still speeding, slightly over the limit, along this country road, they were fast approaching the Old Stone Bridge. It was a hallmark of the region, a sightseer’s dream of past glories, something to cross over a double-back of the downtown stream. Four giant pillars, built a century ago of concrete and great solid river rock, held the two-lane thoroughfare in place like bookmarks.
The timing must be perfect. Olivia didn’t dare miss by a second.
At the very last instant, just when the accelerating Prius was close enough, Olivia flung her protestant body sideways and gave a hard right jerk to the steering wheel. Annajane, with an outraged scream, tried to push her away, without success. They grappled over control for what seemed an eternity of ti
me, and then the car crashed straight into a pillar with an almost human shriek of anguish.
There were pings and pops of an engine failing, the tortured shriek of metal ripped and scraped, the subdued clump of things falling onto shredded sod. Somewhere on that twisting road, passing traffic screeched to s stop; two drivers pulled out cell phones, two others rushed to do whatever could be done.
Then came the blackness.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter Seven
The afterlife was supposed to be full of light and song, wasn’t it? Radiant angels offering hymns of praise so wondrous that it might hurt one’s ears to listen? Glorious golden rooms providing heart’s ease for every weary traveler?
Why, then, such dimness of sight, such paucity of sound? Why the lingering aftereffect of great travail, of remnants of pain and suffering like a bad memory?
Or was this, perish the thought, some soul-less alternative, instead?
A slight moan of fear and distress slipped out, inadvertent.
“Livvie!” came a voice she had expected never to hear again. Low-toned and choked with an unreadable emotion.
Then, touch. Oh, dear God, blessed blessed warmth and touch. A hand that clasped hers, bringing her slowly back to sanity from some distant, frightening place.
“Oh, sweetheart. Oh, my dearest.” Now the words sounded clotted by tears.
Tears?
Olivia managed to pry her eyelids farther open from the slit that had allowed so little to be seen. Enough to take in her surroundings: one spacious window on the far wall admitting the softened blue and purple of a Connecticut twilight; a shortened modern couch in soothing hues; an HD TV situated on another wall; a narrow railed bed, to which she was confined by various tubes and needles and other medical paraphernalia, attached to equipment that beeped or flashed or dripped.
A hospital. She was in a hospital. She had survived.
Beside her sat her beloved husband, looking weary and disheveled, with bloodshot eyes and a scruffy beard. “Hi,” he said softly, giving her the most wonderful smile ever.
Romance: He Done Her Wrong (Cuddlesack Queens #2) Page 13