by Sandra Brown
How much time did she have? How long would it take for Shaw to find her? Would she ever see his face again? His scarred, severe, beautiful face.
Josh was telling her that he hadn’t had time to dispose of Panella’s body before he was due to tender himself to Uncle Sam. “I had no choice except to bag him up and leave him here, and actually, since I got back, he and I have had some interesting conversations.” He giggled. “Of course I did most of the talking. He just laid there, staring up at me. For a change he was forced to listen while I ranted. I loved it. He really stunk up the place, though.”
She scanned the surroundings for something she could use to defend herself. Even if the ground were strewn with potential weapons, her hands were bound and Josh was giving her no time to stop. Each time she stumbled or slowed down, he nearly pulled her shoulders from their sockets, jerking her along.
He was still talking. “After I killed him, I went to his house and made it look like he’d left in a hurry. Everyone jumped to the conclusion that I knew they would, that he’d successfully skipped the country. All I had to do was cool my heels for a while, let things settle down, gradually alter my appearance for the day I would escape.
“I took a risk by coming back here, but I didn’t want to miss all the fun. The fallout from your getting whacked, that is. I planned on hiding out here to enjoy the hubbub, the media coverage. But, thanks to Bolden’s humongous screwup, things took a turn and put me behind schedule on disappearing for good.
“I’ve perfected becoming invisible, you know,” he said, continuing in that frightfully normal, conversational tone. “Nobody sees me because I don’t want them to. Which is how I was able to go to the redneck bar unnoticed. I nearly came unglued last Friday when Bolden called and told me you’d walked into the very bar where he and Kinnard were having a drink. That is not your kind of place, Jordie. How’d you happen to be there?”
He looked back as though expecting her to reply. She made pleading sounds against the gag.
He resumed walking and talking. “Never mind. It doesn’t make any difference now. I went there Sunday night to check the place out. The loudmouth put me in such a foul mood. That was also the night when Wiley informed me of your rescue. Your second rescue. Foiled again. I decided Panella needed to surface, scare the shit out of everybody. ‘He’s out there. I know it! He’s gonna kill me!’” he screeched, mimicking his own hysteria.
“The black guy? Hickam? He was dropped in my lap, so to speak. I acted on impulse, but it was brilliant. How about this?” He began limping. “I knew that would jog your memory, and you’d tell them that it had to be Panella.”
Then he tsked with regret. “But Hickam didn’t die. I should have gone for mass then, too, but I’d done so well with that redneck, I thought a head shot would work. Oh, well, one can’t have everything one wants.”
He was insane. How could she defend herself against someone who’d lost all touch with reality? And she was running out of time to think of a way. Just ahead of them was the bayou. On the bank was a small fishing boat, apparently his destination.
He pulled her over to it and yanked the handkerchief from her mouth. “Josh,” she gasped. “Please? Let me help you.”
“Help me? That’s a laugh.”
“What is it you want?”
Cautiously he took a step back, but was still within a foot of her as he raised the pistol. “To disappear and never have to worry again about people gaping at me.”
“Nobody gapes at you.”
“Yes they do. You made sure they do. You pushed me into the fireplace and made me a freak show.”
Stall, stall, stall. She tipped her head toward the boat. “You intend to escape in that?”
“No, silly. My car is parked just around the next bend. I can make it that far in this boat. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be long gone before they can catch me. But in order to disappear, I need my money.”
He waggled the pistol as though to remind her of it and that it was still aimed at her. “You’re the only thing standing between my fortune and me. What’s the password?”
“Password?”
He rolled his eyes. “We don’t have time for you to play dumb. Give me the password. The second password. The one required to access the main account. ‘Jordan Bennett’s password,’” he said in a ridiculously tony British accent.
“Josh, I swear to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She raised her bound hands in appeal. “How could I have a password into an account I know nothing about?”
“You cracked my security codes.”
“That’s absurd. I wouldn’t know how, or even where to start.”
He screwed up his face mistrustfully, then seemed to come to a conclusion. “You wouldn’t, would you? Even if you’d had access to my computers, which you didn’t, you’re not smart enough to know how to do something that complicated.”
“That’s right,” she said, grasping at that and hoping to appeal to his pride. “You’re the genius, not me. I’ve never been as smart as you.”
“Not even close.”
“Because you’re so intelligent, you must realize that you can’t escape.”
He resumed his chatter as though she hadn’t said anything. “What I’m thinking now is that if Panella was on to my betrayal, and he knew about this house, he must’ve gone in behind me and added that second password. He put it in your name, knowing how badly that would irritate me. Yes, that must be what happened.”
“No doubt you’re right. But that’s history, Josh. They’ll find his body. The police will come and—”
“Not your worry. You’ll be dead.”
“You don’t want to kill me, Josh.”
“But I do, Jordie,” he said with exaggerated sincerity. “You made me a monster. You destroyed my entire life.”
She knew that to continue arguing with him would be pointless and probably would only provoke him into killing her immediately. “I know I made mistakes,” she said with contrition.
“Yes, you did. The biggest one being when you said, ‘I’m done.’ Remember? There I am, manacled, being hauled away like a common criminal, and there you are, hugging me good-bye, tears in your eyes. Oh such a sweet, supportive, loyal sister. Aren’t you wonderful?”
He sneered. “But wait. What’s that you’re whispering in my ear? ‘I’m done, Josh.’” He jabbed the pistol toward her. “You don’t get to say ‘I’m done.’ Not when it was you who ruined me. You’ll never be done. Never!”
His voice had gone maniacally shrill. Realizing it, he composed himself and said with chilling nonchalance, “In a way, I’m actually glad Bolden botched it. I have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
“You’re not killing anybody.”
Chapter 41
Shaw had followed the scrambled footprints into the thicket.
He was no longer under the delusion that Panella was responsible for the murder and mayhem of the past week. Once he had connected all the disjointed pieces, the picture had become startlingly clear. Elements to the case that had seemed not quite to fit before had suddenly fallen into place.
Josh had impersonated Panella, deliberately turning everyone’s focus on the meanie, while the stool pigeon duped them all. Shaw would kick himself later over not seeing it before, but when he’d started into that thicket, his focus had been on protecting Jordie from her deranged brother.
Josh was brilliant enough to have pulled off this elaborate charade, but he was also as crazy as a shit house rat. Like all rats, he got even crazier when trapped. Shaw hoped to God Wiley would have the presence of mind to caution every law officer on their way not to blare their arrival. He’d thought about stopping his pursuit long enough to text Wiley a message to that effect, but that would have cost precious time. He’d kept moving.
It was insufferably hot and sultry. Sweat had begun to sting his eyes. It had plastered his shirt to his torso. But he’d kept up a steady pace until he’d caught snatches of conversation up
ahead, which meant that he was gaining on them. Ordinarily he would have been worried that his crashing progress through the brush would alert Josh that he was closing in.
But he’d doubted Josh was aware of his encroachment. Josh had been making more noise than he, snapping twigs, rustling foliage, and he’d kept up a running dialogue at full volume. The guy was completely psychotic.
Which had driven Shaw near crazy himself. He hadn’t heard anything from Jordie. Was she seriously wounded or unconscious? Josh might have already killed her and was only carrying her body somewhere for disposal.
That thought had chilled Shaw even as it had caused him to sweat more profusely. He muttered a blasphemous stream, followed by a prayerful chant, rage and worry twisting his gut where he’d felt stitches giving way to tension and exertion.
When he realized Josh had stopped somewhere ahead of him, he’d slowed down and had gone the remaining distance as noiselessly as possible. He’d taken a position behind a tree trunk and peered around it.
Jordie was alive! Thank God. She was standing on her own two feet. But her hands were bound in front of her. She had dozens of bleeding scratches on her arms. Blood had run down the side of her face from her scalp and now dripped off her chin.
Her expression was a tortured mix of compassion, revulsion, and terror, perhaps fully realizing for the first time that not even her selfless, sacrificial love was sufficient to penetrate her brother’s madness.
As Josh aimed the pistol at her, her face had remained stark with fear, but she looked him straight in the eye and didn’t cower.
Shaw had battled a primitive impulse to drop Josh immediately, but that would have traumatized Jordie. He wouldn’t do that to her. Besides, the government didn’t want Josh dead. It needed him in order to recover the stolen millions.
So he’d blinked sweat from his eyes and, as an officer of the law, assessed the situation with as much professional detachment as he could muster.
Nevertheless, he vowed that if that crazy son of a bitch killed Jordie he was going to cut his fucking heart out.
Now, not too loudly, but with authority, he said, “You’re not killing anybody.”
Jordie’s head snapped around toward the sound of his voice. She gave a sob of relief.
Josh didn’t even flinch. “Who’s that skulking behind the tree?”
“FBI Special Agent Shaw Kinnard. Drop. The. Gun.”
“No.”
“If you don’t, you’re a dead man.”
Jordie said, “He means it, Josh.”
He yelled at her to shut up.
In his peripheral vision, Shaw noticed motion among the trees and undergrowth on the far side of the bayou. Other officers had arrived and were taking positions. He hoped to hell that if this came down to a shoot-out, they were all good marksmen. Jordie was standing too damn close to Josh.
Josh said, “You really spoiled my plan last Friday, Kinnard. But you can’t save my dear sister this time.”
“I can kill you. And I will unless you drop the gun.”
“Josh, please.”
“Better listen to her, Josh. She watched me pop Mickey Bolden without a blink. Last chance. Drop the pistol and back away from her.”
“Do as he says. Please.” She raised her hands and placed them beneath her chin in a begging motion, then dropped them back to waist level. “Put the pistol down, Josh. Surrender. I’ll help you.”
“Like you’ve helped me before?” he screamed. “I don’t need your help anymore.”
“Please, Josh.” Her wrists were straining against the flexcuffs. “Please. I implore you.”
“Shut up, Jordie! Just shut up.”
“Josh, please don’t make—”
“You ruin everything! I hate you!”
Shaw saw Josh’s trigger finger tense, then several weapons fired almost simultaneously.
Chapter 42
Joe Wiley was curious. “When did you put the vest back on?”
“When you left the car to take your call from Hickam’s mother,” Jordie said.
“One of Kinnard’s rules of engagement?”
“He insisted.” While they were alone in the car, Shaw had made her take off her shirt and put the vest on underneath it. “I thought it was an unnecessary precaution, but if I hadn’t been wearing it, I would be dead.” She brushed away a tear.
Wiley, standing at the foot of her hospital bed, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “Josh…uh…none of you had a choice.”
“I know.”
She had slipped Shaw’s palm pistol into her pants pocket when she’d gone inside the house to see for herself what was in there. During her face-off with Josh, realizing that his psychotic determination was to end her life, she’d distracted him with a begging gesture. When she lowered her hands from her chin, she’d managed to ease the pistol out of her pocket.
The shot she’d fired had been one of the barrage that had cut him down.
“The ME says any one of the shots could’ve been fatal, so unless you really want to know—”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. If it’s any comfort to you, he died instantly.”
She’d missed seeing the worst of it. She’d been flat on her back, thrust backward onto the ground by the impact of the bullet her brother had fired at her.
“I hear you have a heck of a bruise,” Wiley said.
“Larger than my fist. The X-ray revealed a hairline fracture.” She touched her breastbone. “Which is why they’ve kept me here for another night. They’re giving me pain meds, and I’m still under observation.”
She’d been transported to the ER by ambulance, although she barely remembered that. It was probably for the best that her recollection of those hours immediately following the crisis were fuzzy.
In addition to the fracture and bruise on her chest, the scratches on her arms had been treated with topical antibiotics. Two stitches had been required to close the cut on her scalp due to the blow. She also had a slight concussion from it.
Added to these physical injuries were the emotional ones. She suffered bouts of uncontrollable weeping followed by periods of depression that left her nearly catatonic. The medical staff concluded that she needed a few days to recover from the ordeal.
“What’s one more night? Better to err on the side of caution,” Wiley said for something to say.
She didn’t bother to add anything.
It was an obligatory conversation between two people who had survived a catastrophe. They had matters to discuss, but the issues were delicate, and each was as reluctant as the other to broach them right now.
After a lengthy, awkward silence, she said, “Gwen Saunders called. That was thoughtful of her, wasn’t it? And Deputy Morrow came by this morning.”
“In an official capacity?”
“Royce Sherman’s murder was his case. Josh’s confession closed it. But he didn’t make the visit seem official. He expressed his condolences.”
“My wife sends hers, too.”
“Please thank her for the calla lilies.” She motioned toward the windowsill where now several flower arrangements were lined up.
“They’re from both of us,” he said, “but Marsha picked them out.”
“She must be terribly relieved that you weren’t injured yesterday.”
“Pissed off, if you want the truth. She said a glorified accountant had no business chasing around the countryside with a loaded weapon.”
Jordie gave him a weak smile. “She sounds like a sensible woman.” A beat, then, “You told Agent Hickam how it ended?”
“He’s on the floor just above you here. Still in ICU, but, yes, I filled him in. He couldn’t believe…well, none of it.”
“My brother tried to kill him.”
“He doesn’t hold that against you, Ms. Bennett. Josh is the only one accountable for the crimes he committed.”
She picked at the edge of the cotton blanket covering her.
“He played all the roles well. The spoiled man-child with acute anxiety. The downtrodden employee corrupted by his overbearing boss. But a cold-blooded murderer? I never would have guessed Josh capable of that.”
“Or of hating you bad enough to want you dead.”
“No,” she murmured. “I never would have guessed that, either.”
Wiley sensed her rising emotion and didn’t say anything until she’d used a tissue to blot her eyes. He then told her about a banker in Malaysia who’d called to inquire if Mr. Panella had remembered that second password that had caused him so much consternation.
“The call came in on one of the many cell phones we found in Josh’s house. I asked the banker if he’d ever spoken to Jordan Bennett personally. No, he said. He’d never had the pleasure of dealing directly with that gentleman. He’d assumed Jordan Bennett was male.”
“Does that let me off the hook, then? You no longer suspect me of collaborating with Josh and Panella?”
“Your participation in the Costa Rican scam will be reviewed, but I don’t believe you’ll face charges, especially if you agree to assist us.”
“Assist you?”
“This case has been a multilayered tangle and will continue to be. We still don’t know everything Josh and Panella did jointly and separately to try and screw not only their clients but each other. Things like those Malaysian accounts could come to light off and on for years.”
“Years?”
That was a dismal thought. Had she been so naïve as to think that with the discovery of Panella’s body and Josh’s death, the case would be over, sealed, and forgotten? When she was released from the hospital, the media would be all over her. She intended to ask Adrian Dover to be her spokesperson and release a public statement that hopefully would satisfy them, but she doubted it would.
She also faced the grim duty of seeing that Josh’s ashes were interred. He should be placed with their parents, she supposed, although she had no idea whether or not that would have been his wish.