Finally, the intense days came to an end. And a Friday came when Langley seemed finished with her for a time. It was late, and she was looking forward to a long, uninterrupted weekend with Janie and Claire.
And there was comfort in coming home, in stepping into the dim kitchen with the faint scent of a dinner cooked hours earlier. Everything was clean now, put away, but the warmth lingered, like the echoes of a child’s laughter. Marta and Janie, and now Claire, had brought this into Erin’s life, this warmth, this sense of belonging and comfort she’d never known before. Not even in her mother’s house.
Erin closed and locked the door.
The house was quiet, though she could hear the faint sounds of the television in the living room. Marta had waited up, or had more likely fallen asleep in front of the television. Claire and Janie would be sound asleep upstairs, lost in their dreams.
As she’d guessed, Erin found Marta asleep in her favorite chair—an overstuffed recliner—while some late-night host chattered to some overendowed celebrity. Erin switched it off, then made her way to the other woman’s side.
“Marta?”
She stirred, sleepily opening her eyes and smiling at Erin. “You’re home.”
“And you were sleeping in your chair again.”
“I was just resting my eyes.”
“Uh-huh. Well, how about if I help you upstairs so you can rest them in bed. Otherwise you’ll be stiff in the morning.”
“That’s a good idea, but I can make it.” Marta pulled the lever that dropped the footrest, but let Erin help her to her feet. “This getting old thing is no fun.”
Erin smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night, dear.”
Erin watched her slow walk toward the steps, then Marta stopped and said, “I made lasagna tonight and left you a plate in the oven.”
“Thank you.”
Marta never forgot to take care of her chicks. “Oh, and Janie left you a picture. It’s on the table. It’s very good.”
“Really?”
“Yes, they had a special treat in school today. A magician.”
Erin froze. “A magician?”
“Yes, and Janie drew his picture. Good night.”
For several long minutes, as Marta made her way up the stairs, Erin couldn’t make her feet move. Her heart pounded, the only sound in the silent house. Then it was if a dam burst. She couldn’t get to the kitchen fast enough.
As Marta said, Janie’s pad lay open on the kitchen table. And the top picture, the one she’d prayed Marta had been wrong about, was of a middle-aged man, holding a rabbit he’d pulled from a hat.
Erin’s hands shook. The face was unfamiliar, but even in the child’s drawing she knew the man. Those hands.
They needed to get out of the house. Fast.
Dropping the drawing, she started for the stairs. And stopped short, just inside the dining room. He stood not ten feet away, on the other side of their living room couch.
“Hello, Erin.” She’d have recognized that voice anywhere. “Are you surprised to see me?” He held a knife, a long knife, its tip stained with still-wet blood.
She fought down the fear racing through her.
He lifted the knife, just a fraction, and smiled. “Oh, my, whose blood is it? The old woman’s? Maybe your sister’s? Or that sweet, sweet child?”
Again, Erin fought for control, when what she wanted was to throw herself at him. “If you hurt them . . .”
“What will you do?”
Fear. It would kill her. And those she loved. “You won’t get away with this.”
“Why not? I always have. Even that little ruse with Jacob Holmes. I wasn’t sure it would even work, but you fell for it so easily.” He tossed the knife from one hand to the other. Graceful. His hands so quick. So nimble. “You see, I’ve known about Jacob for years and suspected there would come a time when I could use his past indiscretions.”
“So you posed as him at Gentle Oaks.”
“I’m always someone else, someone the police know about and can go after while I get away. This time, things were just a tad different. I had Jacob safely tucked away, and his death was a perfect cover.”
“So why are you here? What do you want from me?”
“You are a loose end. As long as you’re alive, I can never be certain we won’t run into each other again. And you would recognize me. Wouldn’t you, Erin.”
She wouldn’t panic, couldn’t let him rattle her. He’d caught her off guard once before and nearly killed her. Not this time. This time she’d see him coming. This time Janie and Claire were upstairs . . .
The blood on the knife caught her eye, jarred her, and suddenly she had control. Her years of training came back to her, and she shut down. A cold determination settled over her, blocking out all other feelings.
He grinned. “You want this?” He waggled the knife, then tossed it on the couch between them. “I’ll even make it a fair fight. We’re both about the same distance from it. Let’s see who gets there first.”
He wanted her to go for it, was daring her. And she was tempted. But she couldn’t survive playing by his rules. She had to make her own.
Inching toward the couch, she put a tremble in her voice she no longer felt. “This is between you and me. You don’t have to involve the others.” She saw her target without ever taking her eyes from him.
“That’s where you’re wrong. They’ve all seen me, now, even your Marta. I can’t risk it. You understand, don’t you?”
With that, she dove for the fireplace. He went for the knife. Grabbing the poker, she came up swinging. He ducked. But not fast enough. She caught his arm and he let out a grunt of surprise.
“That’s for my shoulder, you son of a bitch.”
He spun around with the knife, taking a fighter’s stance. “Why, you—”
She didn’t give him time to finish or regroup, charging forward, swinging the poker. He backed. Once. Twice. Got his feet under him and sprang forward with the knife.
He was a tall man, not bulky, but with a long reach.
Still, she sidestepped him easily, pivoting. And brought the poker down across his back.
He went down on his knees. The knife skating across the hard wood floor to catch on the rug. She swung again, but he caught her leg. Too close. And she toppled on her back, the poker flying from her grasp. Slamming against the wall. As he scrambled for the knife.
She sprang back to her feet. And he, too, found his footing. Back around. Charging her.
She blocked him, her body falling into the fluid rhythm it had followed since childhood. It was no different because of the knife. Her foot outside his. Ankle to ankle. The heel of her right hand slamming against the underside of his chin. Her left struck his biceps, delivering a stunning blow to the side of his neck, and forcing his head sideways into his shoulder.
The look in his eyes was pure shock.
She seized his elbow, twisted, and the knife rattled to the floor. He landed on his back, grabbed the knife, slashed upward, missed. And she kept him rolling onto his stomach, the knife caught beneath him as she wrenched his arm behind him, wrist bent, her knee jammed against his kidney.
His body stiffened. Then went limp.
Erin held on, afraid to let go, until the blood seeped out to soak the aged wood floors. Then she leapt back, long suppressed tears streaming down her face. She looked up. Two horrified women watched from the steps, Claire and Marta, with Janie’s face tucked unseeing against Claire’s side.
Erin shook her head, unable to speak.
In the distance, a siren shattered the stillness, and she noticed the portable phone in Marta’s hand. Help. She’d called for help.
Claire passed her daughter to Marta and came down to her sister. Folding Erin into her thin arms.
“That’s okay, sweetie,” Claire said, as sounds of help drew closer. “It’s over now. Really over.”
Erin let Claire hold her, giving in to the need for someone
else to take control, to comfort. If just for a minute. While the adrenaline drained from her body with the tears that streaked her face. Until the sirens shrieked to a halt outside. Then Erin straightened, pulled back, and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Yes, it’s over.” She tested a tentative smile on her sister and felt a swell of warmth for this woman who’d been through so much. “And we,” she touched Claire’s cheek, “we can move on.”
Claire nodded, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yes.”
Suddenly everything seemed lighter, as if the dark shroud that had encased their lives had been lifted. Maybe now they could begin to heal. Claire’s trauma. Erin’s guilt. They could put it behind them, and if not forget, they could forgive each other and begin anew.
Erin thought fleetingly of Alec Donovan and it, too, warmed her. Now she could even risk letting him into their lives. Into hers.
Someone pounded on the door, and a male voice called, “Open up, police.”
Claire smiled and motioned toward the sound. “I think you better open the door before they break it down.”
Erin answered her sister’s smile with one of her own. Yes, things would be better now. She and Claire would face the future together. And they would make it better.
Then Erin moved off to open the door for the police.
ALSO BY PATRICIA LEWIN
BLIND RUN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2004 by Patricia Van Wie
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States
by the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
is available upon request from the publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-345-47192-5
v3.0
Out of Reach: A Novel Page 26