“What the fuck is going on?” Pauley tried to cling to Jeb, who shoved the man aside. Pauley tripped then quickstepped back in place, as if magnetized to the boy. He clung to Jeb’s arm, and the boy shrugged him off again.
Shifting her stance ever so slightly, Callie judged the distance, Mason’s bulk, the angles, and the odds of overcoming her former jogging partner. Her heart thumped triple time. Nobody knew anything was amiss in Chelsea Morning, and it was all on her to cope with the situation.
“Call Seabrook,” Mason said. “Phone’s in your pocket. Whether he answers or it goes to voice mail, this is what you’re going to say. You can no longer deal with the shit on this beach, so you and Jeb are going to your mother’s until all is clear on Edisto. You wish to be alone. No more, no less. Sound distraught, but not hysterical. Otherwise, I drop your kid where he stands.”
Pauley let loose of Jeb and whimpered. “I’m not involved, man.”
Mason ignored him. To Callie, he asked, “Do you understand?”
She quashed a serious urge to backtalk. “Yes.”
His stare still on Callie, Mason swung a stiff arm around. Three rounds pierced Pauley’s chest in smooth succession.
Callie jumped at the muffled thuds of the rounds cutting Pauley’s torso and into the wall, inches from her son. Jeb screamed and fell back into his room. Pauley slumped to the floor with an anguished gawk of disbelief. Instant death.
Callie rushed forward. “Jeb!” Had a bullet strayed? Hadn’t she seen all three hit center mass? Was she sure?
Mason’s arm slung her back. “Tell her you’re fine, Jeb.” A cynical expression on his face, he added, “I wouldn’t have missed, Callie. You know how easy it is to hit at this range.”
Jeb peered around the doorframe. “I’m . . . I’m okay, Mom.”
“See?” Mason said.
Robe crunched in her fingers, she sensed the presence of a hit man who’d fabricated a hell of a charade to get next to her. But why? Why the cam? Why all the pranks and scares with the music, lights, the stolen cup? As fervently as she’d pushed the Russians from her mind, even as long as they’d ignored her, nobody would hire a hit man for her but them. But this was not their way. She tried to sort the chaos in her head and snag some logic. Her on-duty skills to compartmentalize were rusty.
“Make the call,” Mason repeated.
He made her hold out the phone as she dialed. With the device on speaker, her heart fell when the call went to voice mail. She recited the message as directed. Then Mason lifted the phone to ensure the call had disconnected. He pocketed it and then asked for Jeb’s. He waved mother and son before him, toward the kitchen, and as they reached the bar he yanked the landline cord out of the wall.
The unspoken plan was elementary. Mason had already made it appear as though Callie’d shot Raysor, not knowing she’d been cleared by the cams. Or maybe he did, and now she would appear to have shot Pauley with the same gun. No gun residue, but—
Mason jerked her over, forcing her back tight against his chest, between his arms. Mashing her hand between the both of his, his finger on the trigger, he shot two rounds out the back window toward the marsh. Glass shattered across her desk and back stoop.
Jeb ducked, covering his head, but Callie remained rigid, grasping the intention. No mistaking gun residue now. And bullets into the marsh wouldn’t be noticed by tourists headed the opposite way to the surf.
Mason lowered the weapon, hugged her tighter, and whispered, “Details, sweetheart. I think you know what I mean.”
She did. And God help her, the cams she’d planted to prove the facts were gone. Nobody knew, or would know, a damn thing, unless she figured something out.
“Jeb?” Mason called.
“What?” Jeb spat back. The boy’s young lean body trembled, his fists opening, closing. A large quaking shiver racked him once, tearing into Callie’s soul.
“Put a shirt and shoes on, son,” Mason said, not in a mean way, but like a favorite uncle would coax a ten-year-old. “You’re coming with me.”
Callie gasped, then wish she hadn’t.
The boy’s desperate eyes searched for her guidance, but all she could do was say, “Don’t fight him, sweetie.”
Inserting the endearment was a miniscule effort to lessen the blow, but if she never saw Jeb again, at least that tiny token of love would be remembered between them. Her quiet restraint would hopefully help him perceive that temper only meant death.
But right now she couldn’t think about that. Apparently time was on her side, or they’d both be dead. Mason would take Jeb, goddamn him, but the playboy had to hold some purpose for Callie. For the life of her, she couldn’t see what, but she’d fight to take advantage of every second she had.
“Why not just take me?” she asked. “And what have I done to you? We never met before I moved to Edisto, and . . . I thought we were friends, Mason.”
“We are friends.” Mason pointed toward Pauley’s crumpled body. “He and I are not. Big difference.” He waved the weapon toward the entertainment center. “Uncover my cam, please.”
She removed the CD cover. As she returned it to its place in her library, she tried to ignore the mild shake in her movements. Peters may have entered all the other homes, but no doubting Mason had been her own personal intruder. The reason, however, escaped her, that unknown more unnerving than the actual break-in.
Jeb reappeared clothed.
Mason’s happy-go-lucky expression moved from Callie to Jeb. “We’re going out the back.”
“Mason.” Callie choked out the name, moving two steps toward them. “Don’t take him. I don’t know what you want. I’ll do whatever it is, just leave my son out of your plans.”
Slick and oh-so-smooth, Mason’s smile spread easy across his face, as if to ask her again for a date at Whaley’s. “Thanks for asking. I do need you to do something.”
Jeb flashed a blistering frown. “Don’t do it, Mom.”
Mason tousled the boy’s hair, and Jeb ducked out of reach. “But you don’t know what I’m asking, son.” He turned to Callie. “Put on your party clothes, my dear. It’s Friday, remember? I expect you early, say, around 5:30 so you can help set up. Have Sophie drive since you won’t need a ride home.”
Callie’s eyes widened, completely caught unawares. “This is about your party?”
A deeper, devious grin melted into place. “Oh, Callie. This is about so much more than a party.”
Chapter 31
AS HE ESCORTED Jeb firmly toward the back door, Mason spoke over his shoulder to Callie. “Don’t leave the house except to retrieve Sophie.” He glanced toward the cam. “Trust me, I’ll know. You found one of my babies. There are others.”
His words gut-kicked her. Had he seen Jeb’s comings and goings? Her session with Stan in the living room, in the bedroom? God, he could’ve snatched Jeb at any time. No wonder he knew when she ran.
Or was it a bluff?
“I already took care of your dad. Arrive with your happy face, or I’ll kill Jeb and the illustrious Beverly, too. Primp. Make me proud.” He winked. “Let me see a dress on you for a change.”
Callie swayed and clutched the porch railing at the mention of her father. Tears blurred her vision as she watched Jeb. His expression ripped at her sanity. This was too much. Too, too much. “I don’t understand, Mason,” she pleaded. “Please, explain it to me.” She couldn’t let them drive away.
“Just do as I say. Stay indoors and keep Pauley company. I’ll see you at 5:30. Any earlier or later, and . . . you know. I have friends all over Edisto. Even Sophie would tell me where you went.” He yanked Jeb’s arm. “Say goodbye to your mother.”
Jeb’s face reflected wet with angry tears, but Callie registered the tenderness in spite of the fright in his eyes. “I love you, Jeb.” She choked as the two
men descended the stairs, her stolen gun nudged against Jeb’s kidney.
“I know. I love you, too.” His forehead creased in agony as he defiantly glanced back. “This isn’t your fault, Mom. Remember that.”
She held the banister, knees almost buckling as they walked away. How could any of this not be her fault? She had ignored her instinct to keep Mason at bay. The reason for his behavior totally escaped her, which left her powerless. He hadn’t expected Peters to be locked up, that much was clear. Maybe he’d planned to kill Pauley all along and frame her with his murder. But why? Who the hell was Mason, and what was his motive?
What the fuck was she missing?
Her heart’s crazed beat blocked all else. Lips parched, her gulps of air grew more hitched and ragged as Jeb’s car crunched gravel and shells out of the drive. The Jeep cruised up Jungle Shores then turned left, Jeb at the wheel, Callie branding the vision on her brain.
Her nails dug splinters from the freshly painted wood. Bonnie’s death had torn her soul to shreds. John’s drove her borderline psychotic. Lawton’s crushed her sense of family. Losing Jeb would . . . She rushed back into the house and shut the door, tears dripping off her chin.
Callie drew up short. Pauley’s cold eyes stared from a body that had ceased oozing blood.
Suddenly the room was a vacuum.
Spinning around, she bolted for the outdoors, needing fresh air, only to halt. Mason warned her to stay inside. Controlled. Captive in her own home. Without her child.
She dropped to her knees. Her heart battered against her sternum. No . . . time for . . . anxiety attacks. This wasn’t . . . about her. But her airways clinched tighter, suffocating, ignoring her duty as a mother. She counted, like she had the seconds to spare, but her brain didn’t register. Black crept in around the edges of her vision.
No, no, no. Jeb needed her.
Blackness took over as she dropped to the floor.
BIRD TWITTER WOKE her, her cheek resting on her blue braided rug. Past the legs of the dining room table, she saw Pauley propped against the wall outside Jeb’s bedroom, and like the crack of a .38 shot, she remembered.
The dead man’s odor permeated her home, a reminder of her murdered Papa Beach. Fresh, acrid death. She sat up, the robe twisted around her legs. To her left, the cable box across the room read ten thirty.
Seven hours until the scheduled meet. Jeb. Her fear couldn’t compare to his, which she refused to imagine. He was naive enough to hope, and she prayed he would, but in her experience as a cop, ultimatums went sour more times than not. Bad guys lied, pure and simple. They made promises they never intended to keep. Her hands twisted material and became entangled in her gown as she saw no alternative but to do as she was told, knowing she walked into a noose. The only question was what would happen to her and Jeb before Mason pulled the lever . . . assuming Mason hadn’t dealt with Jeb already.
Deep in her belly, a ferocity built. Saliva spilled as she tasted the carnal urge to scream. But instead, she remembered the cam she’d been told to uncover, and those she probably hadn’t found yet. She had to believe Jeb was locked up somewhere, still alive, his captor watching for her to make wrong moves. She came to her feet.
Somehow she had to make this right.
Think this through.
Corral that useless emotion and channel it. Think, Callie, think. She hadn’t expected Mason to be involved. What spurred him? Why now?
She suspected that Peters’ low-key arrest last night, done without fanfare and without public awareness, had unexpectedly exacerbated today’s events and caught Mason unawares. Mason had frequently made his distaste for Peters evident. Just yesterday, the playboy had sat in his Jag, warning her about the man about to install her motion sensors.
She sniffed and wiped her face. Maybe she had forced Mason’s move by expediting the outdoor security installation on her home, unknowingly doing it on a Thursday, the eve of one of his parties. But what the hell did the party have to do with anything? He’d have so many witnesses.
Dragging herself to her bedroom, she shut the door and did a cursory search for another cam. Finding none, she climbed onto her bed and tucked into a fetal position, forcing her analytical mind to work. She had hours to ponder options . . . hours to go nuts. By holding Jeb, Mason knew she wouldn’t go to Seabrook or any other authority. He was right. She was in this by herself.
Her forced, scripted phone call to Seabrook would only stall the cop from coming by, maybe a day at best. By then, people would comment about seeing her at the party. He’d question Sophie first, then get worried at the contrast between Callie’s phone call and her actions, maybe get irate that she’d misled him, possibly for the opportunity of a date with Mason. By then, Mason would have performed whatever deed was in his plan. The call to Seabrook was a short term fix, because by dawn the next day, she predicted Mason, Jeb, and she would all be gone, in one fashion or another.
Mason had the financial means to hire anyone and bribe the rest. Even if his resume was a complete fabrication, no question he harbored deep pockets. Jeb could be whisked away by hired cohorts, no longer even on the island. Or in the trunk of a car, trussed in a closet, or taken out to sea.
Good God, this was agony!
Images of Jeb tried to block her ability to think clearly. She struggled past those visions, over the disabling fear that Jeb was already too gone to save.
Seabrook had never liked Mason. Mason’s direction for her to leave a message with Seabrook told her the cop wasn’t in on it. But she still couldn’t afford to call him for assistance. Until she figured out Jeb’s location, she would comply with her instructions. One slip, and Jeb would be gone. She was shrewd enough to know Mason planned to kill him anyway. Her, too. This was all about timing . . . and recognizing a split-second opportunity.
As a detective, she never related to those desperate people who took matters into their own hands, leaving cops out of the equation. Now she did. She needed complete control of the situation. The local PD had little experience with big crime, and the State Law Enforcement Division would take over the reins and cut her out. The more people involved, the more mistakes would be made. And they’d ban her from participation.
There was no stereotypical phone call or random note from a secluded kidnapper here. Mason would party out in the open at Water Spout with the beach crowd that loved his generous hospitality. And he had already delivered his ransom orally, in person. Mason could feign ignorance to everything.
Thinking of Pauley’s lifeless form, she swallowed hard. Rigor would set in soon and almost be complete by the time she went to the party. She had no proof Mason shot Pauley, especially using her gun. Everything she said against Mason could be easily explained away or covered up.
But none of that mattered if she lost Jeb.
Her stomach wrenched, and an imaginary fist squeezed her heart. If she couldn’t keep that thought suppressed, she’d never hold it together. She needed proof of life, which wouldn’t happen unless she went to that party and played this without the badges.
She slid from the bed, instinctively putting the coverlet and pillows neatly in place. One p.m. If she didn’t contact Sophie soon, she might come knocking in all her bangled glory, if for no other reason than to coax Callie again to go to this goddamn party.
As if preparing for company, Callie went to the linen closet and pulled out a quilt and a blanket, ever hunting for another cam. With a toss, she used the blanket to cover Pauley, the quilt to disguise the shape of the body, neither one tucked or smoothed. Just laundry piled on the floor.
Damn Mason for giving her so much time.
She should have listened to Seabrook from the start.
She’d go to Sophie’s and leave Chelsea Morning dark and unoccupied in keeping with her voice mail to Seabrook. Callie turned on the shower, her robe dropped to the floo
r, and as the water warmed, she wrote a note, carefully wording the day. A last declaration. Facts, no emotion. She signed it slowly, without flourish, an ominous veil of no return settling over her. Folding the paper, she laid it on her bed for Seabrook to find.
Then she stepped into the shower. As warm water flowed over her, she shifted positions and recalled with a wave of nausea that at one time she’d fondled erotic thoughts of Jeb’s kidnapper sharing her bath.
SHORTLY AFTER THREE, Callie paused on Sophie’s porch and adjusted her long earrings. With her hands stretched open then fisted, she inhaled for composure, pained that Mason’s instructions involved her carefree neighbor.
Sophie answered with a song on her lips that abruptly ceased. “Callie! I was getting ready to come over and—” She inhaled with drama. “Oh my, look at you. What’s up?”
Callie stared down at her cream-colored gauze dress, with gold and aqua embroidery crawling down the side and around the hem that brushed mid-calf. A belt cinched the dress taut to accent her figure, and the bodice dipped between her breasts with four gold chains drawing the eye to her cleavage. Beaded turquoise earrings hung low enough to tease her shoulders. A wide, wrapping multi-colored scarf traveled around her back and draped over each arm, her attempt to cover the burn scar.
“Is it too much?” she asked. “You are going to Mason’s event, aren’t you? Sorry I didn’t call first, but I was afraid I’d change my mind.”
Sophie beckoned Callie inside, the ex-cop’s gold strappy sandals taking a slight skid on the carpet. Callie had worn them once before, on holiday with John. Actually, the entire outfit had been mostly John’s choosing. Never had she hoped to wear it again, but this evening she chose to channel John’s presence to save their son.
“Honey.” Sophie glided in a circle around Callie. “You are so pretty!” Clasped hands to her chin, Sophie sang in singsong, “You’re going to the party.” Her sculpted brows waggled up and down. “And getting laid, I take it.”
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 33