Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

  She’d insisted on hot-wiring a ratty Dodge Magnum out of the parking lot of a shoe repair shop across the street from the drive-through, switching out the license plate for a rusty old Virginia plate she’d stashed in the Crown Victoria trunk, and left the Ford around the corner on the street.

  Even though she could shoot him in a moment of time, Coop was still filled with hope—Kirsten had forgotten to take his cell phone, and as long as it was on and in his pocket, Savich could track them. All he had to do was keep himself alive until the cavalry showed up.

  Kirsten had to be tired, too, and he figured that made them about even. He looked over at her and gave a start.

  She was staring at him—her eyes fixed, her black mascara smudged a bit—didn’t she blink? She kept his own SIG pressed against his side; though it was a heavy gun, her hand stayed steady. The white makeup she liked to wear was nearly gone now, along with the bloodred lipstick. She looked older than her years in the harsh morning light.

  “Hi, there, handsome. You haven’t said a word in a long time. You’re staring at me. Like what you see? Bruce loved to look at me, and he’d touch me, you know, like he was stroking a cat, and I’d arch my back and purr for him. It’s kind of nice having a man look at me like that again, having someone easy to look at to talk to instead of driving around all on my own.

  “Hey, why don’t I call you Coop? That’s what I heard that littlegirl FBI agent call you. You two sleeping together? You are, right? I got that vibe loud and clear. What, you playing at being a gentleman, not saying a word?”

  “You’re welcome to call me Coop, Kirsten. I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You need a shave, but that black stubble is pretty sexy. You thinking about your girlfriend?”

  “I’m wondering where you’re taking us, Kirsten. It seems to me we’re getting pretty far away from Savich, if there’s where you want to be.”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world for him. Too many people up there looking for me right now, partner.” She laughed. “I guess you can think of this as a little pilgrimage, back to my daddy’s roots down south. I was slowly heading down the coast, anyway. Daddy always tells me I’ve got to be fast on my feet, be willing to change my plans on a dime.”

  “He’d be proud of you, then.”

  “I like to think so.” She frowned. “He was smart that way. Remember, he escaped that time in Aspen, jumped from a window two stories up.”

  “Yeah, but he got himself caught again because he was driving crazy, weaving all over the road. Why do you figure he was doing that if he was so smart?”

  “He was exhausted and probably so hungry he couldn’t think straight, that’s why.” Kirsten pressed the gun harder against his side. “It wasn’t his fault. They had the whole hick town out looking for him. He didn’t have a chance.”

  “Why are we traveling south, Kirsten? You said something about a pilgrimage to Daddy’s roots—are we going to visit Starke Prison in Raiford? You want to see your daddy’s cell on death row? But why would you want to see where your daddy got strapped into Old Sparky and had two thousand volts shot through his body?”

  She breathed in hard and knuckled away the tears in her eyes, smearing her mascara even more. “It was cruel what those animals did to him, and you know they acted all solemn and moral when they did it.

  “Old Sparky! Can you believe that name? I’d like to strap all those animals down and fry them but good.”

  “Well, a lot of people agree with you. Old Sparky got retired a long time ago.

  “They’re more humane now; with the lethal injection, you’re out and gone in an instant. Still, some people complain the needle hurts going in, and that’s still cruel and inhuman. Go figure.”

  She poked him hard with the SIG in his ribs. “Do you honestly believe for a single minute your fed buddies are going to catch me? Do you honestly believe you’ll see me on death row?” She was shaking her head back and forth as she spoke. Then she laughed. “Not in your lifetime, boy.”

  “I guess you’re in control of my lifetime right now, Kirsten. I wasn’t the one who flipped the switch on your daddy. Take it easy, okay?”

  She laughed again, then turned reflective. “You know, Coop, I always believed it would be nice to visit Daddy’s grave site, say some prayers, since I’ll bet no one else ever has. But he wasn’t buried, they cremated him. They fried him, then they burned him!”

  Coop slowed a bit to let a sports car rocket past him. Too bad it wasn’t Savich’s Porsche. He shot a quick look in the rearview mirror. Traffic was getting thicker now, but there wasn’t any sign of a Porsche. Or a police car, for that matter. He had to be patient. He just had to stay alive.

  He asked her, “What did they do with his ashes?”

  “I couldn’t find out for sure. Some say his ashes were scattered in the Cascades, but I don’t believe that for a minute. They probably made it up, one of those media myths. Yeah, if anything, they threw away his ashes.”

  She was angry now, breathing hard, and he didn’t want to get shot. He kept his voice low and calm. “You read all about your daddy on the Internet, right? That’s how you know all about him?”

  She turned empty eyes to him. “Yeah, I’m an expert on my daddy, but it wasn’t the same thing as really knowing him, having him hug me, tell me how much he loved me, admired me. I thought about what he and I could have done together, and I got to where I’d ask him his advice, you know, should I put out the lights of that little bitch who disrespected me? Sometimes it was like he answered me; I’d see exactly what to do. But he wasn’t ever really there for me, thanks to my mother.” She paused for a moment, never looking away from him. “I’m thinking maybe we’ll go to Starke Prison, maybe hang out in Raiford; then again, maybe we won’t. I’ll figure it all out; I always do. I’m real lucky that way, lots of brain power. From my daddy, not my bitch of a mother.”

  He gave her a smile. “I’ve never been to Starke Prison before. Maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

  “You think some of those bozo guards are going to rescue you? Fat chance.” She grunted, shoved the SIG against his side again. “I’ll bet you the cell where they locked Daddy was cold and damp, and you couldn’t breathe right, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know, and neither do you. Kirsten, you’re going to have to sleep soon, and so am I, or I might wreck us.”

  “We’ll take our chances on that, Coop,” she said, looking at all the traffic around them. “We’re going to put some distance between us and that parking lot in Fort Grant. I wouldn’t want any of you feds getting lucky.”

  “How could anyone know about this car?”

  “It seems to me this Savich guy knows stuff he shouldn’t.”

  That was true enough.

  She was silent, never looking away from his face. “It was so weird, when I had Savich lined up in my sights, and then your girlfriend slammed into him. It doesn’t make any sense. He was standing there alone, none of you near him, asking for me to shoot him, and I did, but down he went, and my shot was high.”

  “Kirsten, you simply missed him, okay? We all thought you’d want to get in his face when you killed him.”

  She shrugged. “Shooting him seemed like a decent idea at the time. Hey, I know where I want to go. Did you know I’ve got a little sister? I figure she’s nearly thirty now.”

  “Yes, I read about your half sister.”

  “I don’t know where she is. When her mama took her away from Raiford way back in the mid-eighties, I’ll bet she changed her name. I always wondered what my sister is like, whether she knows who her daddy was, or whether her mama erased him like mine did?”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “For your sister’s sake, I hope she did.”

  His SIG slammed hard into his ribs, and he felt pain steal his breath. His hand jerked the steering wheel to the left. Kirsten jerked the steering wheel back, to the sounds of a dozen sharp car horns. “Watch your mo
uth, boy, if you don’t want me to put three bullets in your side.”

  “If you do, I’ll kill both of us. I promise you that, Kirsten.”

  “Yeah, you would try that, wouldn’t you? You’d kill both you and me for—what is it?—oh, yeah, the greater good.” Then in the next breath, she said, “I wish I could find out my half sister’s name. Her mama named her Mary Lou—boy, is that ever a stupid name. But like I said, I’ll bet she changed both their names when she left Raiford.

  “I’d like to see how Mary Lou turned out, you know? Does she have four little kiddies, live in a dopey house in some stupid suburb, and have a boring accountant for a husband, like that Arnette Carpenter did? What a loss that guy was. I know that for a fact; I had drinks with him after I took care of his wife.”

  Coop pictured Roy Carpenter as he’d seen him—was it only a week ago?—how devastated he looked three years after his wife’s murder at this psychopath’s hands, the deep abiding pain in his eyes. “Tell me about Arnette Carpenter.”

  “Yeah? She was a talented little cow, conceited, full of herself, always lording it over me, adored that loser husband of hers.”

  “Where did you bury her, Kirsten?”

  Kirsten laughed. “A freebie for you, Coop. I planted her on the VA hospital grounds, under a huge old oak tree facing the ocean. A great view. Too bad she doesn’t care anymore.” She tapped her fingers against her leg, frowned. “You know, it kind of pisses me off that Daddy married that stupid woman but not my own mother.”

  “I understand she worked with your father.”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe he worked with my mother, too; she wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t even say how she met him. He must have known Mary Lou’s mother even before he knew my mom. Can you believe that weird Florida law, though—they allowed Daddy to declare in court they were married, and whoop-de-do, the deed was done. They even let him sleep with her in prison lots of times. So my little sister came along in 1982, four years after I did. I really want to find them both. Do you think I’ll like them?”

  He kept quiet.

  “Well, do you?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  She chewed her bottom lip, the last of the dark red lipstick long gone. “I’ll bet you she’d tell me more than my mother ever told me, which is a big fat zero.”

  “What would you like her to tell you? That he used a hacksaw to cut off people’s heads?”

  She only shrugged. “Who cares? They were dead; they didn’t know.”

  “Do you know he confessed to cremating one of his victims’ heads in his current girlfriend’s fireplace?”

  His SIG jammed against his ribs again. He managed not to grunt in pain, but it hurt, really hurt.

  “He was having some fun, that’s all, just a little fun, and like I said, what did those girls care? They were dead and gone.”

  “How many women have you killed, Kirsten? I believe your daddy confessed to thirty-five.”

  “After I drop-kick your butt out of here, Agent McKnight, that’ll be one less I’ll have to go.”

  “Nah, I won’t count. I’m a guy.”

  “You keep driving, you punk. I’ve got me a call to make.”

  Coop watched her hit speed dial. Bruce Comafield was dead, so who was she calling?

  She never took her eyes off him. “Yeah, it’s me. I wanted you to know I’m heading to Florida. Can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you from there. I’m having fun, got me a big FBI agent driving me. He’s my own personal chauffeur.”

  She listened, then said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll be careful. Bye.”

  “Who was that?”

  “What do you care? I’ve got lots of friends.”

  “At least there’ll be someone to scatter your ashes after you’re dead. Who was that?”

  “Bruce could have scattered my ashes, if you hadn’t murdered him. He loved me, do you hear?”

  “Maybe, but he’s gone now.”

  “Shut up! All right, my mother would scatter my ashes, and so would—never mind. Take this exit, and get us out of sight—no cars, no houses.”

  Was she going to kill him?

  He took the next exit off I-95, drove past a couple of gas stations and fast-food places on the access road. Soon they were in the boonies. There were flat tobacco fields on both sides of the country road, harvested stalks were a golden carpet to the horizon, the few houses and barns set far back from the road.

  “Pull over. You and I are going to pee.”

  Coop’s heart slowed down a bit.

  He knew she was watching him from behind, but he didn’t care. When he was turning, she struck him hard on the back of his head.

  When he came to his senses, she was standing over him, whistling “Country Road.”

  “Unlike a guy, a girl’s gotta have both hands. Come on, it’s getting late. Let’s get going.”

  She had his SIG in her hand, but she knew he was hurt, and she was looking around, checking things out. It was his chance. He started to kick up at her, and she shot him.

  CHAPTER 68

  Allenby Motel

  Lucy froze. “Give me back the ring, Miranda. Grandfather left it for me.”

  Miranda laughed, slipped the ring off the chain and into her pocket. “It wasn’t his to give to you. He stole it from Aunt Helen.”

  When Lucy unlocked the motel room door, Miranda shoved her inside with such force she fetched up to the bed and sprawled over it. Miranda stood far away from her, the gun pointed at her chest. “I’ve never disliked you, Lucy, at least not until recently, even though you were always everyone’s little princess. You were too young to be jealous of, and then after Uncle Milton and the ring disappeared, it didn’t really matter, anyway. You stayed my little cousin, and I watched you grow up.

  “Even now I don’t really dislike you; this is simply necessary. And necessary means I will kill you if I have to. Stay put.”

  She pulled two loops of skinny rope out of a big black tote with a bookstore logo on the side. “I want you to sit on that chair.”

  Lucy knew in her gut she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to be here to welcome Coop when he got back. She sat down in the single chair.

  “Put your hands on the arms of the chair, I’m going to tie your wrists to the arms.” She carefully pulled the ropes taut and knotted them, always watchful. “I’ve heard Court talk about all that martial arts stuff you do in the gym, so I’m not taking any chances with you. Hold still.”

  When she moved to Lucy’s right wrist, Lucy made a fist, which lifted it a bit from the chair arm when Miranda tied the rope around it. It worked, the rope ending up not all that tight, not like her left wrist. Lucy immediately began working it, slowly, easily, so as not to draw Miranda’s attention.

  Miranda placed her black tote onto the bed, shrugged out of her black coat, and sat down facing Lucy.

  “Miranda, tell me what this is all about. What do you mean the ring is yours?”

  Miranda didn’t answer. Lucy watched her pull the ring out of her pocket and caress it like a lover. She pressed it lightly against her chest, then brought it down again to study it. She whispered, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen this ring, since I’ve touched it, more than twenty-two years now since my Uncle Milton stole it and went walkabout—that’s what my father called it. I wonder if he ever really accepted that Uncle Milton simply walked out, left his son, his wife, his precious little granddaughter. I was a teenager at the time, all into myself, the way teenagers are, but I remember Dad saying over and over, ‘But why? It doesn’t make sense. Why?’ My mom and Court believed he’d just left, and so did I, simply because it was easier to believe he’d run away instead—instead of what? You were too young to know anything. Turns out Dad was right, it didn’t make sense, and Uncle Milton never left.

  “When I found out you turned up his skeleton in Aunt Helen’s attic, we all realized the supposed walkabout was a big whomping lie. Aunt Helen hadn’t driven him away, she’d murder
ed him, and your father must have helped her hide his body. They lied about all of it. I wonder what else was a lie? Aunt Helen told me your grandfather had stolen the ring and taken it with him when he left. All those years I thought I had lost the ring forever, and then suddenly anything was possible.

  “I started searching your grandmother’s house for the ring as soon as the police left, and whenever I saw you leave for work. Father told me you’d been looking around in her study, and that’s where I found Uncle Milton’s letter to you, his precious granddaughter, in one of Aunt Helen’s books.”

  “Miranda, you took the letter?”

  “Of course. Who did you think did? My father? Court? They never had a clue about the ring—Mom, either. When I read the letter, I knew for sure you had the ring and that you’d never give it up, not after you discovered what it could do, and that’s when I hired those idiot felons to take it from you. Congratulations, Lucy, either you’re very lucky or you’re very good. You got away, and you even killed one of them. I knew then the FBI would identify him and it was only a matter of time before you traced him back to me. I got everything ready to run, but I wasn’t going anywhere without this ring.”

  “Miranda, how much do you know about the ring?”

  “I know everything.”

  Lucy said slowly, “But how?”

  Miranda laughed. “Your mother’s death broke Aunt Helen’s heart. She was always secretive, at least that’s what I heard my father say, but after Claudine’s death she got really depressed; she’d stare off into space, saying nothing, looking at nothing in particular. You were too young to notice, only two. I’ll never forget the day she took me into her study and we huddled together. I had just turned twelve. She took out the ring and told me it was a special ring meant for only one girl in each generation of our family—one girl, not a boy—and I was her niece, and it would be mine someday, when she thought the time was right. At first she didn’t tell me any more than that, but every time I visited, she would show me the ring and tell me stories about it, stories passed down that her own mother had told her, stories about how she’d used the ring, and all the while she was speaking, she was darting glances around the room to be sure no one was near.