Picture Me Dead

by Heather Graham

  The cop had been discovered in an old procedure room. He still hadn’t shaken off the anesthesia that had been shot into him. So far, they hadn’t found Ashley or Stuart. The hospital was, of course, crawling with police, who were conducting a nook-and-cranny search, but so far, they’d come up empty.

  “If she’s here…if they’re here…we’ll find them,” Carnegie assured him.

  “They aren’t there,” Jake said flatly. “Keep looking. Keep me informed.”

  “Jake, the kidnappers were an older man and a woman of about thirty-five or forty. Mrs. Fresia described them for me. The nurses agree with the description. So it wasn’t John Mast.”

  Jake doubted that, but he held his peace on the matter. There was still too much he had to sort out in his own mind.

  “Are you still heading over here?” Carnegie asked.

  “No.”

  “Then—”

  “I’m going to find them.”

  “Jake, you keep me informed, you hear?”

  She jerked back, suspicious as hell, and banged her head. She was lying next to Stuart. He was white as a ghost and looked like a refugee from a POW camp. But he offered her a wry smile and asked, “You all right?”

  Staring at him, she shook her head. She tried to rise. Dizzy, she fell back. She realized that David Wharton—or John Mast—was standing at the foot of the gurney, along with a woman she’d never seen before. The woman had been the female tech, of course. She was slim, with huge, soulful eyes and brown hair.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded sharply.

  “She makes a good cop, huh?” Stuart said weakly. “We could be hardened criminals, but she’s still going to try to tonguelash us into quivering jelly.”

  “Ashley, I’m sorry,” John Mast said. Both the white eyebrows and contacts were gone.

  “Hi, I’m Mary,” the young woman said.

  “You do realize you’re guilty of kidnapping and God knows what else?” she said. “And you—you son of a bitch!” she said, staring at the man. “And you’re John Mast. I doubt there even is a David Wharton.”

  “Ashley, I don’t have much strength, but I’ll try to explain,” Stuart began.

  “Save what strength you have,” John Mast advised him quickly. “She’s still too groggy to beat me to pieces. I have a few minutes to explain.”

  “You lied to me,” she told him.

  “Yes, but for a good reason,” he protested quickly. “I had to. I had to get to know you. Yes, I’m John Mast. And yes, I went to prison, along with Bordon, for bad bookkeeping. But I wasn’t part of what was really going on. Back then, there were things I kept my mouth shut about because Peter Bordon warned me we’d be killed if we didn’t just go to jail, do our time and keep silent about whatever we knew until we were in our graves. You may not believe this, but I really don’t know who killed those women. All I know is that at least one of them is a cop. I was in the house the night Nancy Lassiter was there, I saw her briefly, with Peter. Peter…liked women. I thought she was just someone he had charmed off the street. I pretty much ignored what was going on, stayed in my own room. Then, late that night, I heard the door…heard someone coming in, berating Peter. Peter was an idiot. Peter had picked up a cop. And he was damned well going to help make sure that she wouldn’t leave. Not only that, she could finger the guy yelling at Peter, because they worked together. That’s how I know there’s at least one cop involved.”

  She shook her head. “You’re telling me that a cop murdered Nancy Lassiter?”

  “I’m afraid so,” John said. “But there was another man there that night, too. I didn’t see him or the cop, though. I—I never opened my door. I have to admit I was terrified. But I heard a third voice. And I figured that had to be the man Peter always called the cult’s ‘godfather.’ I knew that something went on at times, but I never knew ahead of time when that would be. I was always locked in on those nights. And the girls and the others…they were locked into their quarters, as well. And the godfather had something to do with it, whatever it was. Anyway, the police had already been hounding us, because of the murdered girls. But Peter and I, we weren’t the ones killing the girls.” He hesitated and took a deep breath.

  “Peter knew they were being killed, though. And he knew why. But he kept silent. He knew that the murders were being made to look as if they were for some kind of religious transgression, but they weren’t. That was just a cover-up. They must have seen something they weren’t supposed to, so they had to die.” He was silent for a moment. “Everyone thought I died in a plane crash when I got out of prison, and I figured it was safer to let them. I washed up on shore with another man’s identification. He was a few years older than me, but…it was easy enough to find forgers to get me some decent documents to go with what I already had.”

  The anesthesia was beginning to wear off. Ashley inched up, rubbing the back of her head. “Sorry—we kind of dropped you getting you into the ambulance,” Mary explained.

  “Great,” she muttered, then looked at Stuart to see how he was doing. What was his involvement in all this, anyway? He was lying down, his eyes closed. He looked unconscious. “Stuart,” she said anxiously.

  His eyes flew open. “Sorry, I’m just trying to rest. I’ve—I’ve been conscious for almost twenty-four hours, actually. I just didn’t dare let anyone know. Not even my parents,” he said sadly.

  “They might have given him away,” John Mast explained.

  “Did you know?” she asked sharply.

  “I only knew I had to get him out of the hospital before someone succeeded in killing him.”

  “Okay. And, Mary, who are you?”

  “I was a member of the cult,” she said, and added, “The women who were killed were my friends.”

  Ashley digested that. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, then she shook her head. “Where are we? And why did you knock me out and kidnap me?”

  “We need you. And also because you insisted on coming to the procedure with me,” Stuart said. “So we had to do something with you. Plus you’re a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop,” she said wearily. “I just work for them.”

  “Whatever. You have connections.”

  “All right—where are we?”

  “At the house, of course,” John said.

  “What house?”

  “Next to the commune.”

  “You do realize that eventually you’ll be tracked down here?”

  “Eventually,” John agreed. “But hopefully not until we’ve got proof.”

  “Proof of what? And how are you getting it?”

  “There’s something going down tonight.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Our neighbors are having a sing-along. They’ll all be up at the front of the property while something goes down in back. Ashley, don’t you see? They’re being used in the same way. The same ‘godfather’ has financed Caleb, and all he has to do is not pay attention to what goes on behind his property now and then. And if we can get proof of what’s going on, then we can tie that to the murders.”

  “Okay, fine. But let’s back step a minute. Da—John, how did you meet Stuart?”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “I really did write an article about two-headed aliens.”

  “We met at the paper,” Stuart explained.

  Ashley rubbed her neck again and sat up. “Okay, listen, I believe you. But we need real help here. We know there are two utterly ruthless men out there who will kill without batting an eye. We have to call in the police.”

  “Ashley, how many times do I have to tell you?” John asked. “At least one cop is involved. And we don’t know who the dirty cop is.”

  “One bad cop doesn’t mean the whole force is evil. There’s got to be someone we can trust.”

  “Who?”

  “Dilessio,” she said quietly. “Jake Dilessio. You know he’s legitimate.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s legitimate. He was down my throat like a cougar
. Especially after his partner died. He’s the reason I went to jail.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him his partner had been at the house with Bordon?”

  “I was afraid,” John Mast said simply. “I was just twenty-one. And Bordon assured me that I’d be killed.”

  “So why are you trying to solve things now?” Ashley asked.

  “I died once already, in that plane crash,” he said. “When I washed up on the beach, I knew I had to find out who had destroyed so many lives.”

  “Then let’s call Dilessio.”

  “It’s pointless. I tried. I left him an anonymous message with enough hints that he should have gotten the point, but nothing happened.”

  “The answering machine,” Ashley murmured, remembering that Jake’s mysterious intruder had apparently checked out his messages.

  “What?”

  “He never got your messages. Look, I know Jake isn’t a dirty cop. And we’ve got to get help from somewhere.”

  “Yeah, great—we call him, he calls headquarters, and the murderer will know exactly where we are. He’ll come all right—and he’ll bring backup, and we’ll all wind up shot,” John said bitterly. “Besides, he lives at the marina.”

  “So do I,” Ashley reminded him, puzzled.

  John shook his head. “Don’t you see yet? It’s obvious. Something’s going on at Nick’s place, Ashley. I wasn’t lying last night. Someone was sneaking around.”

  She hesitated. Jake had been sure that someone had been on board his boat. Nothing had been taken, but the intruder had been accessing his computer files, listening to his messages, learning from them, erasing them. She herself had been pushed overboard. And someone had been in her room….

  Sharon.

  Sharon, who had promised to talk to her that afternoon. But she hadn’t been back by the time Ashley left for the hospital, and then…Then everything had gone crazy.

  “We’ve got to call Jake,” she repeated. “I’m certain that we can explain the situation.”

  “Before he tells half the city?”

  She didn’t have a chance to answer. John suddenly stiffened. “Shh,” he cautioned.

  They could all hear it then. A slight rustle along the outside wall.

  “Might be the cops already,” she whispered to him.

  “We have to protect Stuart,” he whispered back. “Mary, you stay with him. Ashley…I’m going out there. I have a gun. Stolen, I’m afraid. But I know how to use it.”

  Ashley started to follow him out of the room, then hesitated. “Mary, push that dresser in front of the door after I leave. In fact, throw anything you can in front of the door, and block that window with the highboy, do you understand?”

  “Of course,” Mary said, her eyes widening as she realized the danger she was in, looking after a man with the strength of a starved kitten.

  Ashley nodded, hoping Mary was stronger than she looked. As she stepped out the door, she heard the scrape of furniture across the floor. Mary could handle herself.

  She hurried after John Mast then, realizing she didn’t even know the layout of the house. It was small, probably old, more like a one-story hunting shack than a true home. There was the bedroom they had been in, another beside it, a living room/dining combination, and a kitchen. There was a door out the front, and another that opened off the kitchen.

  She was dismayed to see that night had fallen. If someone was outside, they were at the disadvantage. “The lights,” she murmured. “We need to turn off the lights.”

  He nodded and moved back, hitting a switch. The lights were extinguished.

  They stood in darkness for what seemed like a very long time. Listening. It was almost pitch-black at first. Then Ashley discovered that she could dimly make out John Mast’s silhouette. He was holding what looked like a .45. She held her breath, then made a dash across the room to the kitchen, sliding along the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

  Again she listened….

  Then, with a tremendous crash, the door flew open. Flashes of powder sparked in the darkness as John Mast’s weapon went off.

  And fire was returned from the door.

  Jake jerked his car to a halt as close to his boat as he could get. He jumped out, loped down the docks, and burst into the Gwendolyn. His first strides took him straight to the shower; he discovered that he’d been left two real estate folders. He noted the addresses and was ready to head straight out at a gallop, but forced himself to pause. He pulled up the old files on his computer. He scanned the reports and the newspaper articles.

  He hit the button on the answering machine that supplied a readout of his calls over the last week. He knew his visitor had been erasing his messages.

  It didn’t matter; he had what he needed. He had the answer—on at least a major piece of the puzzle. But he still had to be extremely careful.

  He left the houseboat and put through a call to the one person he knew he could trust beyond a doubt. The one person who could supply him with what he needed most.

  As he headed toward his car, he was startled to see Nick Montague come running out of the bar, racing to stop him. He paused, frowning, hoping Nick wasn’t in the mood to engage him in battle for some reason.

  Nick wasn’t.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said, heading for the passenger door.

  “Nick, this isn’t—”

  “I’m a Vietnam vet, I’ve got my service revolver, and I’m good with it,” Nick said simply. “Look, I don’t know everything that’s going on, but I know they’ve got my niece. And I know where they’ve gone.”

  “So do I,” Jake said.

  Nick glared at him. “Sharon gave me the addresses Ashley had asked her about. Where did you get them?”

  “Ashley left them for me,” he said. He looked at Nick. “We’re not going straight there.”

  “She’s in danger!”

  “A head-on assault will put her in greater danger,” Jake said. Nick stared at him, and, after a moment, slowly nodded.

  “You haven’t called in what you know, have you?” Nick asked.

  “Not to Miami-Dade.”

  “So who’s dirty?” Nick asked after a moment.

  “I think I know, but I’m not certain. And I think we have more than just a rogue cop to deal with. I think someone else, someone we see around here all the time, is involved.”

  Nick digested that as well.

  “Want to tell me the battle plan?”

  There was a scream; Ashley heard a thud as someone fell. John rushed forward. “Wait!” she warned.

  Too late. She heard shots, then a grunt escaped John Mast. She saw his body fall limply, as if he were a rag doll. She winced. She had cried out and given away her location. There was only one escape. The kitchen door.

  She ran out of the house, trying to gain her bearings in the darkness. There were trees everywhere. Rows between the trees, the fence to her right…to the rear, the swamp and the water.

  She couldn’t head to the front. She would run right into an ambush. She tore along the rows of trees. She wasn’t certain, but she thought that whoever had shot John Mast was alone. She was certain that he would come after her. At least that would leave Mary and Stuart safe. For a while. As long as she could lead the killer on a merry chase through the groves and into the Everglades.

  She could hear the footsteps thrashing after her in pursuit. She kept moving. She reached the end of the groves, and the grass almost immediately grew higher. She gritted her teeth, praying it wasn’t sawgrass or she would be cut to ribbons before she could move another few feet.

  Not sawgrass, not yet. She was still on solid ground, trees ranging ahead of her. She kept moving. A massive spiderweb suddenly tangled around her. She nearly screamed. She held back, berating herself. Terrific. Would-be cop done in by a spiderweb. Clawing at the shreds that were still clinging to her, she kept going.

  Suddenly she could hear voices. They were coming from ahead of her. Past a copse of tre
es, the terrain suddenly changed. The earth sloped down to the canal.

  There were men there, men talking quietly, unloading plastic cartons from two small canoes pulled up on the muddy embankment.

  They were clad in black, entirely in black. They blended with the night.

  She slowed her gait but was still running. The men were ahead of her, a man with a gun was behind her.

  Suddenly she heard one of the men carrying the cartons give a little shriek. She strained to see what was happening.

  It was then that she hit the trip wire.

  It had been strung low between the trees that marked the property line. She hadn’t seen it, hadn’t had a clue of its existence, until she went sailing through the air and landed hard in the muck.

  She kept herself from crying out, but her foot was still tangled in the wire. Silently, she struggled up and started to free herself.

  She was suddenly aware of a shadow looming over her. The man who pursued her was also clad in black. She looked up slowly, aware that she couldn’t be more vulnerable.

  “Hello, Ashley,” the man said softly.

  CHAPTER 23

  Life was ebbing away. John felt it seeping from him. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. But if he didn’t get help soon, he would be.

  He’d forced himself not to scream with the pain of the bullet that had torn through his flesh. He prayed that no vital organs had been hit. He prayed for the strength to find the gun that had slipped from his fingers as the bullet hit.

  Reaching…inching, his blood leaving a slimy trail behind him as if he were a worm. He needed the gun. The man would be back.

  After he found Ashley.

  He paused, gasping in pain, his agony as much for what he thought he had done to her as it was for the pain that raged through him like a brush fire. She would die, and it would be his fault. And if he didn’t get the gun…