The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  He didn’t say anything, just jerked her against him. He kissed her hard, hurting her arm. She pushed at his chest but couldn’t move him. “Douglas,” she said against his mouth and felt his tongue push against her front teeth.

  The doorbell rang. He still didn’t release her, just kept grinding his mouth into hers. Her knee was almost in motion when she managed to jerk her head back far enough to call out, “Who’s there?”

  “Let me in, Miss Sherlock.”

  A woman. Who could she be?

  Suddenly Douglas was two feet away from her, standing there looking bewildered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s Candice,” he said blankly, then walked to the door and opened it.

  The woman standing there was no older than Lacey, with long honey-blond hair, nearly as tall as Douglas, and endowed with very high cheekbones that had to be a cameraman’s dream. But it was her eyes that riveted Lacey. Dark, dark eyes that held fury, malice, and even more fury this instant than just the moment before. She looked ready to kill.

  “Candice! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I followed you, Douglas. And you came here just like a little trained pigeon. I knew you’d come to her, even though I prayed you wouldn’t. Damn you, I’d hoped our marriage meant something to you. Just look, you let her kiss you. You’ve got her lipstick on your mouth. Damn you, you smell like her.”

  “Why should our marriage mean anything to me? You lied to me. You weren’t pregnant.”

  “We’ll have children, Douglas. I’m just not ready yet. I’m just hitting my stride with my career. I could make it to one of the nationals, but not if I take off now. In another year, we can have a dozen kids if that’s what you want.”

  “That doesn’t jibe with what you told me before we got married. Then you said you’d had a miscarriage and you were so upset. Now you don’t want to get pregnant. You know what? I don’t think you were ever pregnant at all.” Douglas turned to Lacey, waving a languid hand toward his wife. “This is Candice Addams.”

  “I’m your wife, Douglas. I’m Candice Madigan. She is your dead wife’s sister. No, half sister. Nothing more. What are you doing here with her?”

  He changed from one moment to the next. His bewilderment, his frustration, all were gone. He was standing tall and arrogant, a stance Lacey recognized, a stance that was second nature to him. It held power and control, and the control was of himself and of the situation. He was in a courtroom, in front of a jury, knowing he could manipulate, knowing he could convince, knowing he would win.

  “Candice,” he said very patiently, as if speaking to an idiot witness, “Lacey is part of my family. Just because Belinda died, I didn’t cut her out of my life.”

  “I saw you kissing her through the window, Douglas.”

  “Yes,” he said quite calmly, “I did. She’s very innocent. She doesn’t kiss well and I like that.”

  It was another damned rabbit hole. Only this time, she wasn’t going to slide in. “I didn’t want you to kiss me, Douglas. I wasn’t kissing you at all.” Lacey turned to Candice. “Mrs. Madigan, I think that you and Douglas should go discuss your problems. I have no part in any of it. Honestly, I don’t.”

  Candice smiled at her, stepped quickly around Douglas, and slapped her hard, whipping her head back.

  A deep voice came from behind them. “This appears to be very interesting, but I really can’t allow anyone to smack my agents, ma’am. Don’t do it again or I’ll have to arrest you for hitting an officer.”

  Lacey looked up to see Savich standing in the open doorway. This was all she needed. Did he have to show up whenever her life seemed to be flying out of control? It wasn’t fair. She rubbed her hand over her face, then took a step back to stop herself from hurling herself on Candice. She was sorely tempted even though she doubted she could take her down, not with her arm in a sling. But she wanted to try.

  “Sir,” she said, although she wanted to say “Dillon.” No way was she going to use his first name in front of Douglas. It would be waving a red flag. “What are you doing here? No, don’t tell me. I’ve been elected the recreation meeting center for the evening. Do come in and close the door, sir, before a neighbor calls the cops.”

  “I am the cops, ma’am.”

  “Very well. Would anyone care for a cup of tea? A game of bingo?”

  Douglas plowed his fingers through his hair. “No, nothing, Lacey.” He turned to his wife. “We have to talk, Candice. I am upset with you. I don’t care at all for your behavior. Come along, now.”

  Lacey and Savich watched them leave, their voices raised before they even reached the end of the driveway.

  “I’ll take some tea now,” Savich said.

  Ten minutes later, she and Savich were drinking tea in the now blessedly empty living room.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was out running when I came by here. You had a hard day. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. The front door was open and I heard this woman yelling. How’s your cheek?”

  Lacey massaged her jaw. “She’s a strong woman. Actually it’s a good thing you came in or else I might have jumped her. Then she might really have beaten me up, what with my broken wing. I’ll call Chico tomorrow.”

  “You called me ‘sir’ again.”

  “Yes, I did. On purpose. Douglas is jealous of you. If I’d called you ‘Dillon,’ it might have pushed him over the edge. Then you might have had to fight him. You could have messed up all my beautiful new furniture.”

  That gave him pause. He grinned, toasted her with his teacup, then said finally, “This was the man who was married to Belinda?” At her nod, he said, “And this is his new wife. Tell me about this, Sherlock. I love family messes.”

  “I’ll say only that Douglas thinks he might like me a bit too much. As for Candice, his wife, she told him she was pregnant with his child, he married her, and then it turns out she wasn’t pregnant. He’s angry and wants a divorce. She blames me. That’s all there is to it, not a mess really, at least it doesn’t involve me.” She sighed. “All right, when I was talking to Douglas on the phone, he said some things he shouldn’t have said and she overheard them. She was upset. She probably wants to kill me more than Marlin Jones does.”

  “Do you realize you’re speaking to me in nice full sentences? That I no longer have to pry basic stuff out of you?”

  “I guess maybe I was a bit on guard when I first came to you. On the other hand, you were a criminal in Hogan’s Alley and kicked two guns out of my hand before I overcame overwhelming and vicious odds and killed you.”

  “Yes, you were wary as hell. But it didn’t take too long to break you in. You’ve been spilling your guts for a good long time now. As for my day as the bank robber, you didn’t do too badly, Sherlock. No, not badly at all.” He raised his hand and lightly stroked his fingers over her cheek. “She walloped you pretty good, but I don’t think you’re going to bruise too much. Makeup should take care of it.”

  Suddenly his cheekbones flushed. He dropped his hand and stood up. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt that read ACHY BREAKY COP. He looked big, strong, and harassed. His fingers had been very warm. They’d felt good against her cheek.

  “Go to bed, Sherlock. Try to avoid any more trouble. I can’t always guarantee to drop by when you’re butt-deep in trouble.”

  “I’ve really never had so many difficulties in such a short time before in my life. I’m sorry. But you know, I could have dealt with this all by myself.”

  He grunted in her general direction, and was gone. Just plain out of there, fast.

  She touched her own fingers to her face, saw his dark eyes staring at her with antagonism and something else, and walked slowly to the front door. She fastened the chain, clicked the dead bolt in place, and turned the key in the lock. What would have happened if Savich hadn’t shown up? She shuddered.

  She’d caught Belinda’s killer and her life seemed messier than ever. What had her m
other meant, “. . . since your father tried to run me down?”

  She walked out of the doctor’s building the following afternoon, trying to put up her umbrella in the face of a sharp whipping wind and swirling rain—hard, heavy rain that got you wet no matter what you did. It was cold and getting colder by the minute. She got the umbrella up finally, but it was difficult because her arm was still very sore. She stepped off the curb, trying to keep herself covered, and started toward her car, parked just down the block on the opposite side of Union Street.

  Suddenly she heard a shout, then a scream. She whipped about, the wind nearly knocking her over, her umbrella sucked out of her hand. The car was right on her, a big black car with dark tinted windows, a congressman’s car, no, probably a lobbyist’s car, so many of them in Washington. What was the fool doing?

  She froze in that blank instant, then hurled herself back onto the sidewalk, her sore arm slamming into a parking meter.

  She felt the whoosh of hot air even as she went down half into the street, half on the sidewalk. She twisted around to see the black car accelerate and take the next corner in a screech of tires. She just lay there staring blankly after the car. Why hadn’t he stopped to see if she was all right? No, naturally, the driver wouldn’t have stopped—he’d probably be arrested for drunk driving. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet. Her panty hose were ruined, as were her shoes and clothes. Her hair was plastered to her head and over her face. As for her healing arm, it was throbbing big-time now. Her shoulder began to hurt, as did her left leg. At least she was alive. At least she hadn’t been farther out into the street. If she had been, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  She’d gotten three letters of the license plate—PRD. Now that she thought of it, it hadn’t been a government license.

  People were all around her now, helping her to straighten up, holding umbrellas over her. One gray-haired woman was fussing, patting her here and there, as if she were her baby. She managed to smile at the woman. “Thank you. I’m all right.”

  “That driver was an idiot, a maniac. The man over there called the cops on his cell phone.”

  A businessman said, “Miss, do you want an ambulance? Jesus, that guy could have killed you!”

  She held up her hands. The rain pounded down on her. “No, no ambulance, please. I’m all right.”

  The cops were coming soon; she didn’t have much time. She was on the phone dialing Savich’s number in under two minutes. He wasn’t there. Hannah answered. Where was Marcy, Savich’s secretary? She didn’t need Hannah, not now, but there was no choice.

  “Hannah, I need to know where Savich is. Do you know? Do you have a number for him?”

  “No. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Hannah, listen to me. Someone just tried to run me down. Please tell me how I can get hold of Savich.”

  Suddenly Ollie was on the line. “What the hell happened, Sherlock? Marcy’s down in the lunchroom. Hannah and I are covering Savich’s phone. Someone tried to run you down? It doesn’t ring all that often because everyone knows he prefers e-mail. What the hell happened?”

  “I’m all right, just really dirty and wet. I’m right in front of Dr. Pratt’s building. Savich knows the location, since that’s his doctor, too. Please tell Savich where I am. Oh dear, the police are here.”

  It was nearly an hour before Savich strode up and knocked on the window of her car. He was very wet. He looked very angry, which wasn’t right. He didn’t have any right to be angry just yet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said immediately, as she opened the passenger door, “I didn’t know who else to call. The cops just left about twenty minutes ago. My car wouldn’t start.”

  He slid into the passenger side. “Good thing this is leather or the cloth would stay wet for weeks. Now tell me what happened.”

  She did, saying finally, “It sounds pitiful. I think whoever was driving just lost it. Maybe he was drunk. When he realized he could have killed me, he didn’t want to hang around.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Well, no, I don’t either. The police are certain it was a hit-and-run. I did see the first three letters of the license plate—PRD. They said they’d check it out. They laughed when I showed them my FBI badge, just laughed and laughed.”

  “Who knew you were going to see Dr. Pratt?”

  “Everyone in the office. It wasn’t a secret. I even met Assistant Director Maitland in the hall, three clerks, and two secretaries. All of them asked about it. Oh no, sir, you don’t think it was on purpose, do you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anything. I really like this car. I’m glad you didn’t let your little designer buy it for you. Jesus, he’d have gotten you one of those dainty little Miatas. When did you buy this car?”

  “I knew what I wanted. I called a car club and they got one and had it sent over.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine. I just banged it against a parking meter. I went back up to see Dr. Pratt and he checked it out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much, just shook his head and suggested that I might consider another line of work. He said being president was a lot safer than what I did. He put the sling back on for another couple of days. Why won’t my car start? It’s brand-new.”

  “If it stops raining, I’ll take a look.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “As I said, I don’t know anything or think anything particular at the moment. If someone tried to kill you, then you’ve brought me into another mess. And don’t call me ‘sir’ again or I’ll pull off that sling and strangle you with it.”

  She was much calmer now, her breath steady, the deadening shock nearly gone. “All right, Dillon. No one would have any reason to hurt me. It was an accident, a drunk driving a big black car.”

  “What about Douglas’s wife?”

  “All right, so I did think about her, but that’s just plain silly. She was angry, but surely not angry enough to kill me. If she wanted to kill somebody, she would pick Douglas, not me. The cops pushed me on it and I did give them her name, but no specific circumstances. I noticed those faint white lines on your finger pads. What are they from?”

  “I whittle. Sometimes the knife slips and you cut yourself. No big deal. Now, that’s really good. A jealous wife would really make them laugh. It’s not raining as much. Let me see what’s wrong with this very nice car that’s new and shouldn’t have stalled.”

  Nothing was wrong. She’d flooded it.

  “I should have thought of that,” she said, annoyed and embarrassed.

  “You’re excused this time.”

  “So it was an accident. I was scared that you’d find the distributor cap missing or the oil line cut.”

  “It doesn’t have to have been an accident. It’s possible it was on purpose and if it was, you know what the guy intended, don’t you?”

  “Yes, to obliterate me.”

  Savich tapped his fingers on the dashboard. “I’ve always thought that trying to hit someone with a car wasn’t the smartest or most efficient way of whacking your enemy. On the other hand, it’s a dandy way to scare the hell out of someone. Yeah, that sounds about right. If, on the other hand, someone did want to kill you, then I wonder why the car came at you when you’d just stepped off the curb and into the street. Why didn’t the guy wait until you were nearly to your own car? You’d have been a perfect target then. That doesn’t sound too professional. All the planning was in place, but the execution was way off.” He shrugged. “As of this point in time, we haven’t the foggiest notion. I’ll run those three letters of the license plate through MAXINE and see what she can dredge up.”

  “MAXINE? You got another computer?”

  “No. MAXINE used to be MAX. Every six months or so there’s a sex change. I’ve had to accept the fact that my machine is a transsexual. Pretty soon, she’ll start insisting that I stop swearing when I’m working with her.”

  “That’s crazy. I like it.
”

  “Now, back to the accident—”

  “It was an accident, Dillon. That’s what the police think.”

  “On the other hand, they don’t know you. Now, see if this wonderful ski-hauling four-by-four will start.”

  She turned the key and the Navajo fired right up. “Go back to the Bureau, Sherlock, and drink some of Marcy’s coffee. That’ll fix you up. Oh yeah—stay away from Douglas Madigan and his wife. Don’t you call him, I will. Where is he staying?”

  She sat propped up against pillows in bed, the TV on low, just for background noise, reading the police and autopsy reports on Belinda. She didn’t realize she was crying until the tears hit the back of her hand. She laid down all the pages and let herself cry. It had been so long; the tears had been clogged deep inside her, dammed up, until now.

  Finally, the tears slowed. She sniffed, then returned to the reports. Tomorrow she would consult with MAXINE to see if there were any differences, no matter how slight, between Belinda’s killing and all the others. She prayed with all her might that there wouldn’t be a smidgen of difference. Now that she’d studied the reports, she hoped to be able to see things more clearly.

  On the edge of sleep, she wondered if indeed Candice had tried to run her down. Just as her father had tried to run down her mother? No, that was ridiculous. Her mother was ill, had been for a very long time. Or just maybe her mother had said that because of what her husband had said so casually about Belinda and her father. It had come out of left field. Who knew?

  Of course Douglas had called her, furious that she’d allowed Savich to call him. It took her ten minutes to talk him out of coming over to her town house. He said he’d spoken to Candice, who’d been visited by the police. He was outraged that anyone would believe she had tried to run down Lacey. It had been an accident.

  “I wouldn’t be leaving unless I was certain it was an accident, Lacey. I want you to be certain, though, that it wasn’t Candice.”

  “I’m certain, Douglas.” She’d have said her tongue was purple to get him off the phone. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Go home.”