A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  He told her.

  “Is Pamela Decker really driving this?” Jennifer asked. “Because if she is, I don’t get it. With the exception of how she handles her money, Baker repeatedly said she was bright. He said she once was a practicing lawyer. She would know all fingers would be pointed at her if she planned to take out every Miller. It’s ludicrous. What am I missing here?”

  “Baker’s other argument.”

  “That she might walk because if the case went to trial, jurors would see how absurd it is?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Eliot said that when they first got to him, Carr had an emergency and had to be taken home. When they arrived and he got out of the car, Baker heard the woman on the street saying that she was on Ninety-Third. Are Decker and Carr in this together? Are they involved with each other? Do they live with each other?”

  “If they do, it would answer a few questions, wouldn’t it?” He looked ahead of him. Now, they were traveling up Park. Within twenty minutes, they’d be at what presumably was Pamela Decker’s house.

  “What’s your plan, Marty? What are we doing when we get there?”

  He thought about that for a moment. Saw the risks. Considered them. Thought it over again. Then he told her.

  “Of course, all that could change,” he said. “Depends on the situation.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Above her, the basement door swung open, but not before Beth Spellman ran past it, her arms stretched out in front of her as she rushed toward the dim light coming from the basement window at the far right of the room. The basement floor was so bumpy, she felt for sure she might fall.

  Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

  She didn’t.

  As quietly as she could, she ducked beneath the light bulb she had shattered earlier, moved past the dead man she killed earlier and squatted low beneath the window she thought hard about earlier.

  Right now, the focus was on the left side of the basement, where they shot Brian Moore, who either was dead or alive. She didn’t know. But she loved him as if he was family and she felt sick that by breaking that bulb, she might have cost him his life. If he died, she didn’t know what she would do or how she would handle it. She didn’t know what she would say to his wife, who she had called Aunt Barbara since she was a child, because there were no words.

  She was responsible. She’s the one who decided to act. She thought she could help when in fact, she made everything worse. Who did she think she was taking on these men? Why hadn’t she just waited for her father to intervene? For the police? For someone other than herself? She let everyone down, including herself, and she wasn’t sure how she’d ever repair the damage she’d done.

  She sat still and tried to keep her breathing low and in control. She was in this so deep right now, the end was unraveling right in front of her. There was no turning back. She had a plan and she felt fairly confident she could pull it off if she was lucky. But what if she wasn’t? What if her plan was just another set-up for disaster? In her heart, she felt it wasn’t.

  You’re a fool.

  What she needed was right outside the window.

  You’ve screwed everything up.

  She ignored the voices in her head. She couldn’t let them in. She decided to go forward with it.

  Because the window wasn’t the right height—it was too high—getting to what she needed would be difficult, but with a bit of luck, she felt she could.

  She looked up and saw no one peering inside. She looked over at the staircase and could sense someone standing there. Listening. Judging. Deciding. Should they come down? Should they take out another one of them, storm the basement, rid them of their guns?

  Too risky, she thought. But why is he just standing there? She knew the answer. Because he knows we have guns. He doesn’t dare to come down.

  Outside, there was movement. A car stopped, a door opened and heels sounded on the sidewalk. Then came a woman’s voice: “Where is he?”

  “Inside.”

  “What are all of you doing out here? People will notice. Get inside.”

  Whoever answered her spoke so lowly, she couldn’t hear them. Instead, whoever was on the basement staircase sighed, moved up the stairs and then the slammed the door shut behind him.

  She listened.

  Another door opening. The front door.

  “What’s going on?” she heard the woman say.

  “Not here. Inside.” It was the voice of the older man, the one who sounded different than the others. More sophisticated. Cultured.

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “We have a situation,” he said. “Now, please, Pamela, don’t get upset. Inside. We’ll discuss it there. The rest of you come inside with us. There are too many of you out here. We’ll deal with them inside.”

  Beth Spellman looked up at the ceiling as footsteps crossed the floor. They didn’t come near the basement door. Instead, they seemed to stop in the center of the room. She could hear voices, but she couldn’t discern what they were saying. And then she heard something else—the distinct whistling of Brian Moore trying to breathe. She felt a rush at the sound of it. He was alive. She thought for sure he would be dead by now. She might be able to save him.

  Now, she thought. Act now. Just do it and don’t think about it.

  She had two choices. First, there was the dead man behind her. Earlier, when they dragged him to the chair, Brian Moore found a gun in a calf strap attached to the man’s leg. Otherwise, they never patted him down. Did he carry a cell phone? She was betting on it. He was in his thirties. Who among them didn’t carry a cell?

  She went over and stood beside him. The window didn’t offer much light from the lampposts outside, but it was something. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could see that his smashed head was yawning back and that the only eye left intact was his right eye. It was open and staring at the last thing he saw—darkness. His left eye rested on his cheek.

  Already, there were flies buzzing around him. In this basement, he was a feast for the trapped and the hungry. Given the sheer amount of spiders tucked in the nooks and crannies surrounding her, she knew that if he was left down here long enough, eventually he’d be cocooned and sucked dry.

  Now, she waved away the flies and felt them swarm up against her chest and strike her face. The man was wearing a T-shirt. If he had a cell, it would be in one of his pants pockets. Steeling herself, she started to pat him down, which was like touching cool, sticky honey given the sheer amount of blood congealing on his clothing.

  Nothing in his left pocket. Something in his right.

  She reached in, felt it, knew and pulled it out. An iPhone. Instinctively, she put her hand to her mouth and recoiled when she did. Now his blood was on her lips. She wiped it off with her sleeve and listened to the people above her. No longer were they just talking. Now, their voices were raised. They were arguing. She could hear the woman’s voice rising high above the others. She sounded pissed off. She could hear the older man trying to settle her down: “Pamela,” he said. “Pamela, listen. We had no other choice. Now, stop.”

  But she didn’t.

  Keep arguing, Beth thought.

  She turned on the phone, saw that she had four bars and quickly dialed her father’s number at home. No answer. She tried his cell. Nothing. Was he carrying his satellite? It made sense, but she couldn’t remember the number.

  “Mom,” she whispered.

  Silence.

  “Mom.”

  Footsteps started across the floor. They moved toward her with hesitation. Then, in the dark, her mother’s concerned face bloomed in the gloaming.

  “What are you doing over here?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you listen to me.”

  Beth held up the man’s cell and turned it on, which illuminated a portion of the room and shined against her mother’s face. “He had a cell. We never patted him down. I’ve called Dad at home and on his cell, but he’s not answering.”

>   A fly buzzed between them, soaring toward its meal.

  “Satellite,” Gloria said. She gave her the number as the voices above them escalated. Now, they could hear pieces of the conversation. The woman was angry. “Why did you choose here?” she said. “You know there were other options. A dozen of them. Why bring them here? Why my home? You’ve set me up and you know it.”

  “Call,” Gloria said.

  Beth called. Her father answered on the second ring. Just hearing his voice was enough to make her well up. His voice offered everything she felt they no longer had—hope.

  “Spellman,” he said.

  “Dad, it’s Beth.”

  “Beth?” The surprise in his voice was as clear as his concern. “Where are you?”

  Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I don’t know. We’re in trouble. Uncle Brian’s been shot. We’ve killed two of their men. They’re arguing upstairs. We’re in a basement. I don’t—”

  “Do you think you’re anywhere near Ninety-Third Street?”

  “I don’t know. None of us knows where we are.”

  “Who has you?”

  “An older man is leading it, but there are other men. Younger men. Five or six of them. Maybe more. And a woman arrived a few minutes ago. They’re upstairs arguing right now. She just said they set her up. She’s really angry.”

  “Have you heard names?”

  “Just hers,” Beth said. “He called her ‘Pamela’.”

  “Beth, I need you to listen to me.”

  But before he could say anything more, the basement door swung open and the woman’s voice called down the stairs. “We’re moving you,” she said. “We know you have guns, but we have a hell of a lot more and I guarantee you that we’re more skilled than you are. You might get lucky and shoot one or two of us, but if you do, we will kill all of you, starting with the children. I promise you that. I suggest you throw your guns at the bottom of the staircase now, surrender yourselves and come with us.”

  Silence.

  “I’m not hearing anything,” the woman said. “Do you want tear gas? Because we’ll use it. Toss your guns into a pile now. You’ve got five minutes to figure out your fate or we use the gas.”

  She heard the woman step away from the door and shout for someone to bring her her phone.

  “Dad,” Beth said.

  “I heard her. She said you have guns. How many?”

  “Three guns, a knife and a rifle. But they have tear gas and they’re threatening to use it. If they do, we’ll have no chance. We both know that.”

  “You have to hold them off. I think we know where you are. We’re on our way, but it’s going to take more than five minutes to get there.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Think of something.”

  “I’ve already made a mess of things, Dad. I went too far.”

  “Then fix it,” he said.

  Her voice became thick. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “Right now, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done.”

  “You’re wrong. It does matter. I’ve killed someone. I might have killed Uncle Brian. I’ve put everyone at risk.”

  He didn’t skip a beat and she loved him for it. “You’ve always been smart,” he said. “Find some way to distract them. Stall them. If anyone can do this, it’s you. I believe in you, Beth. Just find some way to put them off. We’re almost there. I need ten minutes.”

  And with that said, Beth Spellman took a breath, severed the connection and knew exactly what she had to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  With her gun aimed at her four aunts and uncles, who were standing across from her in a tight line that bristled with anger and hate, Emma Miller settled her gaze on Grace, who was standing at her left.

  “Grace, when did Michael say he was coming?”

  “He didn’t. But you heard me when I spoke to him. I told him it was urgent. I told him to come now.”

  “Urgent just ended. Use the phone beside you, call his cell and ask him where he is.”

  “It’s not going to get him here any faster, Emma. You know Michael as well as you know the rest of us, which means you don’t know him at all. He does things on his own time. He hurries for no one.”

  Over the years, she’d heard that more than once from her mother and grandfather. Michael Miller was the playboy of the set. He could be anywhere at this time of night. If he was drinking or with a woman, he wouldn’t beat tracks to get here because he knew the rest of them would do what he didn’t want to do—deal with his brother’s death. Worse, Emma knew Michael had never been close to Scott. His death wouldn’t carry the same weight as it did with the others. He was just arrogant enough to let them deal with it themselves and make excuses for his absence in the morning.

  Still, she needed to at least try to get him here.

  “I need you to make that call, Grace.”

  “Fine.” She made it, but there was no answer. Grace held out the receiver as the phone rang and then cocked her head at Emma as it clicked into voice-mail. “This is Michael. Leave a message.”

  She put down the receiver.

  “He might not come,” Grace said. “Have you considered that? Because that’s who Michael is.”

  “I’ve considered killing you for killing Papa, Grace.”

  Exasperated, Grace held out her hands. “What evidence do you have?”

  “Logic.”

  “What do you know about logic?” Sophia said. “What are you? Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sixteen, and I know when I’m being lied to. So, let me ask you directly, Sophia. Did you kill Papa? Did you do it to get your share of his money? You didn’t know how his will was structured. I think you probably thought by killing me and my mother, you had a shot at sharing it with everyone, which is a hell of a lot better than what you got, which is nothing.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “And you’re not answering the question, Sophia. Did you kill Papa?”

  “We’re not the murderers, Emma. Your mother was. She murdered people for years. She took money for it.”

  “I know all about it. She told me so herself.”

  “I doubt she told you everything. Do you know what she did to those children in Rotterdam? How she burned them alive?”

  “She doesn’t have a clue,” Laura said.

  “Actually, she does,” Grace said. “I told her about it earlier, when she was making me mop up Scott’s blood. I watched her look it up on the Internet. She knows about it, but she doesn’t believe it because she didn’t know her mother when she was a monster.”

  “Then she’s deluded,” Laura said. She turned to Emma. “If anyone in this family is a murderer, it’s you and your mother, not us, girl.”

  “My mother did nothing in Rotterdam,” Emma said.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Tyler said. “She killed those orphans. The family knew about it. For whatever reason, our father accepted it, which still mystifies me. But that’s our father for you—right behind his beloved Camille to the horrifying end. As for our mother, she was repelled by it. Sickened by it, as were the rest of us. Regardless of how much that man deserved to die—and we all believe he deserved to die given what he did to those children—tell me why they had to suffer the same fate? Tell me why they were burned alive and not given a chance?” He pointed a finger at her. “Come on. Tell me.”

  She wouldn’t let them in. For them, this was a game. Her mother left her old life behind the moment she knew she had new life growing within her. Willem Lassooy fit the profile of someone her mother would have targeted, but she never would have put those children’s lives at risk. To her bone, Emma knew that was true. To her bone, she knew that’s what her grandfather knew.

  Let them believe what they want to believe.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Sophia. Did you kill Papa?”

  “Of course not, you stupid fool.” Bu
t her eyes flicked up and to the right when she said the word “not.”

  “And you, Tyler? Did you have a hand in Papa’s death?”

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  It was a simple statement. He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced down and back up at her again. She felt he was telling her the truth. She turned to Laura and was about to ask her about her involvement when someone’s cell phone started to ring. Startled, Sophia looked down at her purse. It was hers.

  “Take it out,” Emma said, turning the gun on her. “Slowly. It could be Michael. Or somebody else. I want to see who’s calling you.”

  Sophia snapped open her small purse. She dipped her hand inside and removed the ringing phone. She glanced down at the screen and saw who was calling. Her mouth became a tight line.

  “Who is it?” Emma said.

  “A friend of mine.”

  The laser’s red beam slashed the distance between them and stopped in the middle of Sophia’s forehead. “Turn the phone around. Hurry before it stops ringing.”

  Sophia turned it around.

  Emma moved forward and read the name. It was familiar to her. Why did she know that name?

  “Who is Pamela Decker?” she said. “I know that name. Why?”

  The phone stopped ringing. Sophia said nothing. But Tyler turned to her in surprise. “Why would she be calling you?”

  The phone bleeped, which signaled that a message was left.

  “Pamela and I have been friends for a while.”

  “You’re friends with our father’s mistress? Since when?”

  Emma watched the group, felt the chemistry shift. Grace and Laura turned to Sophia, but Emma couldn’t tell by their expressions if they were unnerved by the phone call or simply surprised by who had called. Either way, they were on edge.

  “She reached out to me once. We met. I liked her. It’s not an issue.”

  And then Emma remembered. “Pamela Decker was listed as one of the beneficiaries in Papa’s will. She’s the one who was there that day for the reading. The one in the red dress who my mother said looked like a whore. She was the last person Papa listed in his will. I remember wondering who she was, but my mother said she didn’t know.”