He’d never imagined how much he would like it.
The planning. Seeing such a plan executed. It was exhilarating. It was beyond exhilarating.
He began to wonder how it would feel to wield the weapon of death himself. Would he love it? Seeing the light go out of someone’s eyes, watching the person cling to the hope of life...and know that no matter how one begged or prayed, it was too late.
Life was over.
And yet, being the orchestrator of it all—without a speck of blood on his hands—was an amazing feeling, as well. Such a high. And for now...
He’d been so close. She might have seen him. Marnie might have noticed him. But what if she had? There was nothing odd in the least about him meeting a friend for lunch on Sunset. She’d never suspect that the “friend” he was meeting for lunch was the very Blood-bone who had killed Cara Barton.
It was rich. So rich.
He wished that she had seen him. “You know,” the Blood-bone killer told him, “it was one thing pulling it all off at the comic con. Risky, yes, and daring. But the difference was no one was expecting something like that. It was easy for me just to disappear through the crowd. No one expected a Blood-bone to be escaping. No one thought it was real until I was pretty much gone. But now it’s all changed. Last night... Well, that was a little hairy for me. I could have been caught. Her macho friend was watching the house. That guy she’s with... I’ve heard about him. I mean, half of Hollywood knows who the guy is because he had famous actor parents. He’s been in the service—he was deployed three times. He’s a crack shot. He’s taken just about every kind of martial arts training there is. He was a SEAL, for God’s sake. The stakes have changed.”
“You’re telling me that you’re out? You...coward!”
“I’m not a coward. I’m smart. I can’t kill her. I tried. I was nearly caught. You need to get someone else on this.”
He felt fury boiling up inside him. Horrible fury, like the rush of volcanic lava racing through his veins, tearing him up.
He was the orchestrator.
The great orchestrator.
And now this pawn...this stinking wretched pawn...
“Be happy with what you’ve got,” the Blood-bone killer said.
He leaned against the table, pointing a finger at his “friend.”
“You fucked up,” he said flatly.
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever. I’m out. Find someone else. You’ll get your money back. I am a professional, and while I’m pretty sure I did damned amazingly well, if—in your mind—I fucked up, you get your money back.”
“Not in my mind. In fact.”
“Fine. But I’m out.”
The lava racing through him threatened to cause him to melt, to drip in a pile of molten fire to the floor, to explode, implode...
His orchestration was going to hell.
Then again, he had wondered...
Yes, he’d wondered what it would feel like. To wield a weapon himself. Not just to order the taking of life, but to take it himself.
He’d never imagined the rush of orchestration.
Maybe it was better—seeing the light go out of living eyes. Seeing the panic and the fear. The denial. And then, inevitably, the death.
He forced himself to lean back. To nod. He didn’t want to look at all happy with the situation; in fact, he had a right to be pissed.
“Yeah,” he said coldly. “I’ll need the money back. I’ll need it to get the job done. Right, this time.”
* * *
They’d left Bridget at a beautiful place in Toluca Lake. It was the home and training-and-care facility of Sophie’s friend, retired police lieutenant Jack Snell.
He had almost two acres of land; it was hard to imagine the value of his property. Snell was a tall, bald, sixtyish man composed of lean muscle. Bridget and he had obviously gotten on famously. They were chatting and laughing when Bryan and Marnie arrived, seated on a handsomely tiled front porch with a hundred-pound shepherd mix seated between them in front of a bag of dog paraphernalia.
“Come meet George! We’re going to adopt him, okay?” Bridget called out.
“George!” Marnie echoed.
Bryan thought he’d never quite figure out how amazing dogs were; as soon as Marnie said the name, “George” stood, barked once in greeting and ran to her, wagging his tail.
Marnie set her hand on the animal’s head as they walked on up the path to the porch, joining the two seated there.
“He’s a good boy, Miss Davante. He has a little limp—he took a bullet in a drug bust. But he’s as loyal and good as they come. And he’s already taken to your Miss Bridget here and, obviously, you.”
Jack Snell was on his feet, shaking hands with Bryan. “Heard all about you and everything that’s going on, of course,” he said. “From Sophie. Love her. Amazing little woman, super cop. Anyway, George is yours.”
“Oh, George can’t just be ours, sir,” Marnie said. “Let us contribute something to help look after the other dogs, this place...”
Her voice trailed. They all knew what property in Toluca Lake cost.
“Sophie told me the story. He’s a gift. And as for this place, well... Once upon a time, I arrested a girl. She was high, and I brought her in for possession of cocaine. She kind of haunted me, though. And I checked up on her and got her into a rehab and... Sorry, I was trying to make a long story short. Anyway, that girl is my wife of forty years now, and she just happened to be a peanut heiress. So go figure. Here I live, and here we work with our injured service dogs. So, there you go.”
“What a beautiful story,” Marnie told him.
“Yeah, go figure,” Snell said with a grin. “So, take George, love him, squeeze him—all that. He’ll watch out for you!”
They thanked him.
Bryan still kept Marnie by his side as they headed to the car. There didn’t seem to be anyone near them, but he wasn’t taking chances.
A big shepherd mix—a guard dog—was great.
But a dog couldn’t anticipate a sniper’s bullet.
Bridget slid into the back of the car and patted the seat. George looked from her to Marnie and whined.
Marnie laughed. “Aw, he is a good dog! He doesn’t know which of us to watch. We’ll make it easy—I’ll hop in the back. It will be a bit crowded, but that’s okay.” She looked over at Bryan as he placed the bag of pet supplies in the trunk. “If that’s all right?”
He nodded. “We’ll all just keep our eyes open,” he said.
“Keep our eyes open,” Bridget said. “That’s so cool. You know, I rode with a patrolman friend one day. He told me about keeping my eyes open. To look for what was strange. Like cars following other cars too closely—or relentlessly. If you’re driving, you have to watch out for someone trying to be neck and neck, as well. That’s how gangsters shoot other gangsters.”
“If you’re trying to take dead aim at someone, yes, you definitely have to watch out for someone trying to line up to take aim. And you’re watching for cars that stick to you like glue. I don’t, however, think that someone is going to take a potshot at us. Thing is, you just never know.”
“Right. This killer was hands-on. Blood everywhere,” Bridget said.
“Bridget,” Marnie moaned.
“But the guy in the yard had a gun. And he shot at you, Bryan,” Bridget said. “And he threw the lawn chair, breaking the window.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “So, you never know. This guy doesn’t want to get caught, though. Last night...it was dark. The streets were quiet. And he was taken by surprise. He had no idea someone was watching the house. He didn’t expect a chase. I don’t think—”
“He didn’t intend to shoot Marnie. He wanted to kill her much more brutally!”
“Bridget!” Marnie exploded.
“Sorry,” her cousin said. �
�Really, sorry. I’m trying very hard to face the facts here. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to die!”
Bryan pulled in front of Marnie and Bridget’s duplex.
“George, this is it. We’re home, your new home,” Bridget said.
The dog barked, as if he completely understood. He bounded out of the car. He waited while they opened the gate, then rushed in and began sniffing around the yard. Then George started to act funny. He began barking excitedly, running back and forth through the yard to the rear gate—as if he would jump it or ram it.
“Watch it,” Bryan said. “Get behind me!”
They fell in place, Marnie thrusting Bridget between herself and Bryan, but both of them staying close as they followed the baying George around back.
When they reached the backyard, George was standing by the swimming pool.
Barking.
There was someone in the water, floating facedown.
The body was surrounded by a fading cloud of red.
7
Marnie realized that, in her head, she was trying to live in a world where it would all just go away.
No more dead people talking to her. No friends murdered in front of her.
No dead man in her pool.
She sat on a chair in her living room, trying to stay with it, trying very hard to not just slip into a place of absolute oblivion.
George was at her feet, ever vigilant. Bridget was in a chair near her, but the dog had apparently decided that Marnie needed watching more than Bridget. He’d also taken easily to Bryan McFadden—almost as if he recognized the man as being a part of the household. The very thought made her shake, and she wasn’t sure if it was with anger—or with something else she didn’t even want to recognize.
The police had come; Sophie Manning was back and Detective Vining was there, as well. A half-dozen officers in uniform moved about, inside and out, and Marnie wasn’t even sure what they were all doing.
The house was swarming with crime scene people, and she’d met a woman she might have hoped never to meet—one of LA County’s finest medical examiners. Her name was Dr. Priscilla Escobar; Sophie called her Doc Priss, which allowed Marnie to realize she and Detective Vining had worked with her many times.
It was just the same way it had been at the convention center when Cara had been killed. Except, of course, the woman had died in her arms.
She’d been drenched in Cara’s blood.
And Cara had been her friend.
And, of course, it had been a convention center.
This was her home. The dead man was a total stranger. All this was going on in her home.
She’d had to look at the dead man; of course, she’d had to look at him. Bridget, naturally, had been asked to look at the dead man, too. Did either of them know him? No. Marnie was certain she’d never seen him before in her life.
And he was recognizable. Not too bloated, as one cop muttered to another. “Floaters” could be extremely bad. But this guy looked...not bad but still dead. That was because, according to Doc Priss—a slender, dark woman with deep flashing eyes and a rich and compelling voice—he hadn’t been in the water that long. He’d been in the pool no more than a few hours. He had not drowned. He had been shot and had died, she was pretty sure, before he’d hit the water.
She could verify those findings at autopsy.
For the time being, he appeared to be a healthy Caucasian male, thirty-five to forty years of age. Well, healthy, other than being dead. He had been healthy—before he’d been shot. He’d stood at six-one and weighed in at just under two hundred pounds.
There was no ID whatsoever to be found on him. No wallet.
Detective Vining had pressed: Were they sure they’d never seen him before? Had he ever come to clean the pool, do lawn work—maybe he’d come as a representative from the cable or electric company?
Marnie was absolutely certain that she’d never seen him before.
So was Bridget.
It appeared that no one had entered the house; there had been no break-in. The man had simply been in the backyard. He’d been shot, and then he’d fallen or been pushed into the pool. The body wasn’t brought through the house. Marnie was grateful for that small fact, at least. He was brought around the side and into a waiting conveyance.
Doc Priss was nice. She was pleased to meet Bryan and assured him that he was welcome to observe the autopsy; she was very kind to Marnie, sympathetic. She complimented her on the work she’d seen her do on Dark Harbor, and she spoke to Bridget very nicely, too—complimenting a number of the sci-fi shows that Bridget had written or for which she’d been part of a writing team.
A very nice woman, really. Marnie was somewhat surprised, although she didn’t know why she should think a medical examiner wouldn’t be the same as any other human being.
Maybe because she just didn’t normally have any interaction with people who dealt with dead bodies regularly. And as she was discovering, speaking with the dead wasn’t easy, so working on them had to be very difficult, as well.
“I don’t think we should stay here anymore, even with George,” Bridget murmured suddenly. She was looking at Bryan McFadden, Sophie Manning and Grant Vining. The three were standing together by the door; they had just seen the medical examiner out.
Marnie was suddenly angry. This was her home. It was simply a nice home. A despicable human being had sullied it with murder, yes. But it was still her home. She kept it painted, she designed her own little space—she loved her bed and her pillows and so many things. Of course, they could be moved, but that wasn’t the point.
“I’m staying here,” she said firmly.
As if in agreement, George woofed.
“But,” she added quickly, “Bridget, you have to do as you feel is right. I mean, I won’t be offended or mind at all if you choose to stay in a hotel until...until they catch this killer. Or rent a different place for a month or something—whatever will make you feel safe.”
“Oh, no—I won’t leave you, Marnie. I wouldn’t do that.”
“But you should,” Marnie said emphatically. “I would seriously want to die myself if anything happened to you.”
Bridget made a face and shook her head. “If something happened to me here, it would probably happen to you, too, so that point would be moot. But you’re right. This sicko isn’t going to put us out of our home. We do have George. And tomorrow we’ll have an alarm system. I swear it. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with the writing staff for Aliens vs Super Crocodilian, but when it’s over, I can just wait right here until the alarm company arrives.”
Marnie didn’t get to answer.
Bryan McFadden walked over to them.
“Do you want to stay somewhere else until...this is sorted out?”
“No,” Marnie said determinedly. Then she wondered if she was an idiot. She didn’t want to die. She should be throwing herself at the feet of the police, begging them for twenty-four-hour protection.
“I thought you might say that,” he told her. He hunkered down by her, petting George.
“I’m going to call an alarm company right away,” Bridget said. “Or,” she added, “first thing in the morning. As to tonight...”
McFadden smiled. He obviously liked Bridget. What wasn’t to like? Her cousin was bubbly and sweet at all times. It often seemed quite odd that she worked on scripts about weird creatures battling other weird creatures—and munching on human flesh. Bridget had a great smile; she was sincere. She wanted to like people and always looked for the best in them.
“All right, then, what about tonight?”
Marnie realized it had turned into night.
“I don’t want to be an idiot,” she murmured. “But...we have no idea who the dead man in our pool might be. Bizarre, maybe, but it’s possible someone just decided to murder someone in our backy
ard. We seriously don’t know the guy.”
“I believe you. We all believe you. That’s not the problem,” McFadden said. He gave Marnie something of an understanding smile. “These things really can’t be random. Cara butchered. A man breaking the window in your bedroom. Now a man being killed and left in your pool.”
“He’s right. It is getting late, and we can’t get the alarm system yet. We do have George now. And he’s already proved himself to be a great guard dog. George would die for us, I’m quite certain,” Bridget said valiantly.
He smiled. It was a damned good smile, Marnie had to admit.
“What’s sad is that George might die for you, and you might still die, too. Don’t get me wrong—George is great.”
As he spoke, Sophie Manning came over to join them. She hunkered down, too, her smile a little grim as she reached out a hand carefully for George to sniff and then patted him, as well.
“I’m so glad you have the pup,” she said, scratching his ears. She looked at Marnie. “I’d stay if I could, but...” She hesitated and then shrugged. “A friend of mine...is ill. I try to spend time with him, too, and...long story, but...”
“I can stay,” McFadden said. He looked at Marnie, waiting for her to protest.
She didn’t protest. She didn’t understand why—certainly not under her circumstances—she was watching both McFadden and Sophie Manning. The young detective was really attractive. The petite bundle of lean energy and determination would probably be perfect for such a man. McFadden was so...alpha. Ah, but maybe two alphas didn’t mix so well.
They were both so...desirable.
Such crazy thoughts.
Like speaking with the dead.
Where was Cara Barton? Had the ghost of her friend been hanging around her house? Had she possibly seen what had happened?
Why was she feeling jealous regarding Sophie Manning and Bryan McFadden?
“Marnie?” Bridget said.
She was about to answer.
“I don’t want to put anyone in an uncomfortable position,” McFadden said. “If you’re really disturbed by the idea of me in here, or...if there is someone in your life who could be upset, we’ll have to start looking at other options. But I really suggest you two not stay here alone tonight—even with George.”
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