After She's Gone (42 page)

“What have I done?” she thought, her grip on reality slipping.

She was turning to leave, to get out of this horrible place when she spied the mask lying on a counter. Obviously one of the sick pictures had been cut, carved around Allie’s hairline, her eyes hacked out, the paper laminated and a thin strip of elastic glued to the back. “What the fuck?” Allie whispered and turned the mask over. A single word had been scribbled across the back in uneven red letters.

“Sister,” Allie read aloud.

For the first time she understood the depths of her half-sibling’s depravity, the lengths she would go to, how far she’d step over the line of sanity to get what she wanted, to prove that she was as good as the others, as talented, and even though she had been discarded and forgotten.

Allie had been fooling herself if she believed she was safe.

Her throat closed with an ice-cold, newfound fear.

No one was safe while the monster was on the prowl. Not Cassie. Not Jenna. Not even Allie, who had been her “partner in crime,” who had actually, at one time, thought the world would be a better place if Cassie dropped off its face, if Cassie actually died.

How sick was that?

Maybe, Allie thought, mental weakness ran in the family.

The oldest was a homicidal maniac, the middle child had already spent time in a psych ward for hallucinations and blackouts and the youngest, the Hollywood star, was jealous and depraved enough to have agreed to be a partner in her sister’s murder, and then let horrendous things happen.

Again, she flashed on the set of the mental hospital at the party, a mannequin in her own likeness confined to a solitary room, strapped to the bed and obviously deranged. The woman who used this apartment, who slashed movie posters and made horrible, distorted masks of Allie’s family, who had already killed two people that Allie knew of, wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d murdered them all. Cassie. Jenna. Even Allie herself.

Allie’s insides turned to mush. She thought she might throw up. She’d been a part of this madness, had aided it, had fed her own insecurities and rage by wishing members of her family dead, and this woman, this maniac who was her half sister, had not only fed her fury, but implemented a plan to satisfy it. Now, unleashed, the monster would never stop! She couldn’t be called off.

She glanced once more at the posters of Jenna, the mother who had given up her career to move her daughters to safety, to a more “normal” life, which of course, it had never been. But Jenna had tried. Even if she’d lied about her firstborn, even if she’d lavished attention on Cassie after the madman had nearly killed her ten years earlier, even if she’d ignored her introverted, bookish child while tending to the one who had nearly been killed. And Cassie—God, she was a mess—the hatred and jealously she’d harbored for her sister still burned in Allie’s gut, but, really, did Cassie deserve this terror? To lose her life?

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

Allie had seen enough. She left the apartment in a hurry and didn’t care who’d seen her. Somehow, some way, she had to end what she’d so blindly started.

Before she, too, was a victim.

She knew what she had to do; she only hoped she wasn’t too late.

 

Nash wanted to throttle Cassie Kramer. In an administrative office of the Hotel Danvers, Cassie was huddled in a chair, her husband standing at a window and Nash sitting on the opposite side of a wide desk that was so clean Nash couldn’t believe someone actually worked at it. Kittle had called 9-1-1 and Nash, already having arrived at the hotel, took over. She’d listened to Cassie Kramer’s fantastic tale and visited the room on the seventh floor where Cassie swore her sister had been.

The party, of course, had been interrupted, the buzz of another Allie Kramer sighting having created a life of its own and now was trending on the Internet. All good news for Dean Arnette and the premier of
Dead Heat.

Once again, Nash wondered if this recent sighting, by Allie Kramer’s sister no less, was just another publicity stunt. Why not? For the love of God, the whole party had been a publicity stunt, and those elaborate sets constructed for the event, how bizarre had they been, almost macabre since the star was missing and many presumed her to be dead.

How far would these people go to promote the film, she wondered.

Certainly not far enough to place their star in hiding or murder innocent people. Right? Nash wasn’t certain she had been born suspicious and her job had only enhanced that trait.

“I saw Allie,” Cassie stated for the third or fourth time. “And that coat was hers. I’ve seen her in it before.”

“I don’t know about that. I talked to one of the producers, Sybil Jones, who said it was a costume from the film.”

“Maybe she wore it off the set.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Yet. What I do know is that no one’s registered in that room, or any room on the seventh floor as it’s being renovated. So we’ll check into it.” The coat was clean. Everything else in 706 was covered in a thick layer of dust. “But it’s unlikely that—”

“So why was the coat there?” Cassie blurted, her eyes snapping.

“Why did I see her on the balcony, huh? If Allie . . . or someone wasn’t on that balcony, how did I know where to go and find the damned coat?”

“Anyone could have put it there.”

“But I knew which room . . . oh . . . no, wait.” Her skin stretched tighter over her cheekbones. “You don’t think I left it up there and went up to check just to cause a big stir, do you? Because I didn’t.”

“I’m not making any assumptions.”

“I was with Trent all night!” She glanced at her husband, but he didn’t move. “I didn’t leave that room except to step on the balcony!”

Nash wondered. In a crowd of that size it would be easy to slip away for ten minutes and no one would notice.

“There’s something else I need to discuss with you.”

“Great.” And before she could say the words, Cassie said, “You don’t have to mince words with me, Detective. I assume you found out that my mother had another child, born before me at St. Mary’s Hospital. You know, the one that’s now called Mercy, where I was just a patient? Ironic, huh? Anyway, I know all about it. Just not the name of my sister, or if she’s involved in any of this.” Some of the starch seemed to drain from her. “God, I hope not. I mean, that’s unlikely, right?”

“We don’t know anything more.” That was a lie. Nash had spoken to her associate. Jenkins thought she might have identified the family who had adopted Jenna Hughes’s firstborn, a family by the name of Beauchamp. Gene and Beverly Beauchamp of Seattle, who had adopted two girls, one soon after the birth of Jenna Hughes’s baby. Jenkins had contacted the couple and was gathering information. As soon as the morning, they would have answers. Then, Nash would share them. And hopefully either arrest someone or at least bring them in for questioning. The name Beauchamp rang bells with her and she thought she’d seen it somewhere. When she got home, she’d double-check her notes.

“What about the nurse?” Cassie asked. “Belva Nelson?”

Nash hedged. “We’re still looking for her.” So far they’d found nothing.

“Have you come up with the name of the family who adopted the baby . . . my sister?”

“No.” Another dead end. So far.

Cassie let out a long breath. “I’d like to meet her,” she said, “but it might not be so good.”

“How so?”

“How would you like to wake up one morning and find out that you were the daughter of Jenna Hughes, the woman who was nearly killed after giving up on Hollywood? And then you find out your siblings are Allie and Cassie Kramer.” She snorted a little laugh. “We’re not exactly the poster children for stability, now, are we?” Suddenly serious, she asked, “Do you think she’s involved?”

Good question. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“So, do you think I could have my phone back?”

Nash had anticipated that question. She fished in her purse, retrieved Cassie’s cell and handed it to her.

“Did you find out who sent me the text?”

“Not yet, but—”

“I know. You’re working on it.”

The husband moved from the window. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “It’s been a long night. We’ve told you everything we know.”

And it’s not enough, Nash thought, but kept her observations to herself.

For now.

 

S
leep had proved impossible.

After making love to Trent, Cassie had stared at the ceiling while the wind and rain lashed at the house, rattling the windows and rushing through the trees. The smell of smoke from a recent fire in the wood stove drifted through the air and Trent, lying next to her, was dead to the world.

While he snored she thought about the party with its weird stage sets and mannequins of Allie. Had her sister, the one she’d never met, been in the crowd? Had Allie? Where the hell was her sister?

Tossing and turning, throwing off the covers only to shiver and pull them to her chin, she wondered about Belva Nelson and Whitney Stone and all the peripheral players. And the masks? Who had sent the horrid masks? Who?

She forced her eyes closed and tried to clear her mind. No more thoughts of the evil that she sensed surrounding the movie, no more worries about siblings, real or imagined, no more—

From the foot of the bed, the dog growled. Low. A warning.

“Shh,” Trent mumbled, rolling over and wrapping an arm around her waist. Snuggling up against him, her naked body cupped by his, she felt the warmth of his breath tickle her nape. She relaxed and hoped to keep the demons at bay.

Another growl.

This time the dog was on his feet; she heard his claws clicking against the floor. Cassie opened a bleary eye, and swearing under his breath, Trent released her and rolled to the side of the bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know.” He walked to the window to stare into the night, his silhouette visible against the watery light from an outside security lamp. Long legs, slim hips, broad shoulders, all sinew and muscle. He waited a few seconds, staring outside.

The dog was at the door, whining.

“He usually doesn’t spook easy,” Trent said and reached for the pair of jeans he’d tossed over a side chair.

“You’re going outside.”

“Got to check the stock.” He glanced at the bed where she had scooted to the headboard, the blankets pulled to her chin. “Maybe just a coyote.”

“Maybe.”

He pulled on the jeans, zipping them quickly and hooking the button. “Shorty said he saw one the other morning. Got to make sure the calves are all right.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Looks like. Damned varmints. They just don’t seem to care that I need my shut-eye.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t go.”

“Got to.”

“No. No, you don’t.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The dog was whining and growling, claws clicking against the hardwood as he paced in front of the door.

Cassie threw off the covers. “I’m coming with you.”

“Nope. You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Trent. Hold on. People have been murdered.”

“Lucky for me I didn’t have a bit part in
Dead Heat,
” he teased, then more seriously, “This is my place, Cass, I know it like the back of my hand. No worries.”

“Many worries.”

“I’ll be right back. It’s probably nothing.”

The rumble in Hud’s throat was growing louder, the hairs on the back of his neck raised.

“I don’t like this.”

“I’ll be fine.” His grin flashed white. “I’ll take my old Winchester. Should do the trick.”

“And the dog?”

“Right.” He pulled on his boots and threw a shirt over his shoulders. “Don’t think he’d have it any other way.”

She started to climb from the bed and he said, “Look, Cass. I’m serious. Stay in. With your phone.”

“I’m getting dressed. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“I don’t know. In case you need help.”

“If I need help, call nine-one-one.” He paused, walked to a desk pushed against the window, withdrew a ring of keys, then dropped the entire set into her hand. “The small ones open two boxes in my closet. One holds a pistol. The second ammo.”

“What? For the love of God, Trent, that’s not going to help. I don’t even know how to load a gun.”

He stopped and in the darkness stared at her.

“Never even held one,” she said.

“I guess you’d better learn. Fast.” Another quick smile, an irreverent slash of white in the semidark room. Then he whistled to the dog. Hud bolted out of the door with Trent right behind, his footsteps fading down the hallway and stairs. “Lock the door behind me.”

“So the coyote doesn’t get in?” she yelled.

“You got it.”

“Yeah, right,” she said under her breath. Sometimes he could be so bullheaded, so damned frustrating.

She heard the front door open and close.

Great.

His keys still clutched in the fingers of one hand, she held the blankets to her chest with the other, then walked, dragging the coverlet on the floor as she made her way to the window. The night was cast in a thin blue light from the fixture mounted near the silo that was attached to the barn. She watched him cross the gravel lot, passing in front of the shed, the dog galloping ahead, beelining to the door of the barn.

A frisson of fear spiderwebbed at the back of her neck and she nervously licked her lips as he stepped inside.

For God’s sake, the outbuildings were only twenty yards or so from the house, not attached, but not far.

So why did she feel so alone? So fearful? Why did she think that whatever was in the barn was far more deadly than a coyote?

The old house creaked, settling, and her case of nerves increased. Staring at the barn door, she said, “Come on. Come on.” While the wind whistled and the rain drizzled down the panes, she waited, glanced at the clock. He’d been inside two minutes.

Then five.

She fidgeted and told herself she was being foolish, jumping at shadows, but was she? Was this all in her mind? After all they’d been through? No, damn it, there was a maniac out there somewhere, a killer who possibly had Cassie and those around her in his sights. The fact that she’d received one of the frightening masks was warning enough. So why would she think Trent, the man she loved, would be safe?

There it was; the God’s honest truth.

She loved him and she wasn’t going to lose him.

Not again.

Eight minutes. Damn it.

She tried to stay rational, reminding herself that just because the dog had heard something didn’t necessarily mean anything serious was happening. Maybe Trent was right. A coyote or cougar or even a racoon would get the shepherd going. Maybe he and Hud would scare whatever it was that was slinking around in the shadows.

Or maybe not.

Whatever the case, no way was she going back to bed alone. For what? To toss and turn, worry and stare at the ceiling? No thanks. Since she was now fully awake, she decided to stay up.

Without turning on a light, she started getting dressed in jeans and a sweater from earlier in the day, before the gawd-awful fiasco of a party.

As she hooked her bra, then pulled a sweater over her head, she thought about the long day, the revelations from her mother, the way her entire world had been turned upside down. She had an older sister? She had enough of a hard time wrapping her brain around that, let alone that the sister was somehow behind Allie’s disappearance and the murders. No—she couldn’t buy into that at all.

She picked up the keys.

What the hell would she do with a gun if she had one?

“Fine.” She snapped on a bedside lamp, then walked to the closet. Checked the clock.

Ten minutes.

Too long.

Standing on her tiptoes, she retrieved both boxes, then with a little effort opened each to withdraw the gun and bullets. “It’s not rocket science,” she told herself and managed to load the gun, even figuring out the safety. “Piece of cake.”

Carrying the pistol, she took another look from the bedroom window and saw no lights go on in the barn. Why? If there were an animal prowling around, wouldn’t a bright light scare it off?

Something wasn’t right. She snapped off the light near the bed, letting the room fall into shadow, so that she could stand at the window and view the parking area and barn lot without the reflection of the room distracting her. She saw the trees swaying in the breeze, but no other shadows moved, observed no dark figure crouching in the deeper umbra, no four-legged beast slinking away from the outbuildings, all of which loomed darker.

“Come on,” she said, wishing Trent to return, her gaze pinned on the barn door. She considered texting him, but if he were in some kind of trouble, if some unseen enemy were out there with him, she didn’t want any noise or light from the phone to give him away.

She hesitated. Fifteen minutes. She couldn’t stand it a second longer. She typed a quick text to him.

She waited. Stared at the phone. Counted the seconds. Expected a quick response.

Nothing.

“Come on.”

Again she texted.

Again, no response.

Biting her lip, she let her hand hover over the keypad of her phone, then, deciding not to freak out, to give it a few more minutes, she made her way downstairs. She’d make some coffee or hot chocolate or—

Outside, a bone-chilling scream splintered the night.

Startled, she flinched on the final three stairs and missed a step, her ankle twisting as she spun, pain so sharp she stumbled, throwing out her hands to catch herself. The gun and phone flew from her fingers. She scrabbled for the railing but everything happened so fast and she fell, her shoulder glancing off the newel post before she landed hard on the floor, cheek slamming against the hardwood.

Stunned, pain throbbing from several points on her body, she silently cursed her clumsiness. But the scream? Had it been Trent? Something else? An animal, possibly wounded?

Heart thundering, she gingerly pulled herself to her feet. She winced as she tried the ankle, but despite a jab of pain, it supported her. Her shoulder ached and her face smarted. She’d have a few bruises come morning, but she’d live. “Klutz,” she muttered, grateful she hadn’t shot herself. She listened and heard nothing over the rush of the wind, but that was it. She wasn’t going to sit in the house while God knew what was going on.

Snapping on a light, she found her phone near the den and snapped it up. The screen was shattered but it still seemed to work. The pistol had slid across the hardwood to the front door and she gathered it as well, then she turned off the light and headed to the back door. She’d text Trent and—

The crack of a rifle.

Instinctively, she hit the floor, every muscle tense, fear shooting through her blood.

Was it Trent’s weapon?

Or someone else’s?

Didn’t matter.

This was no good.
No
good. Whether he was shooting or being shot at, he was in trouble. Big trouble.

Over the rush of the wind she heard the frightened neighing of the horses.

Fingers trembling, heart drumming, a thousand questions darting through her mind, she dialed 9-1-1 and slid to the back door where she sat with her back against the wall.

Horrid thoughts gripped her.

Was Trent shot?

Even now bleeding out in the barn somewhere?

Oh, God, please, let him be all right! Please, please, please—

“9-1-1,” a female operator said over the wireless connection. “What is the nature of your emergency—”

“Help! Send help!” Cassie nearly screamed. “I heard gunshots and screams and . . . and my husband is in the barn, I think.” She was starting to panic and had to force herself to be coherent. “We were in bed, the dog got all weird and started barking and Trent went out to investigate and then I heard the scream and oh, God, just send someone. My husband’s outside!”

“Ma’am, if you’ll slow down,” the operator said calmly. “Is anyone injured?”

“I—I don’t know. But I heard a scream. First some kind of animal, horrible scream and then . . . a little bit later, a minute maybe, a gunshot.” She was frantic, her pulse ticking wildly. “I texted him, but he’s not responding! For the love of Christ, just send help!”

“What is your name and your address?”

“It’s Cassie, Cassie Kramer, and the address? Oh . . . crap, I don’t know . . . it’s on Benning Road . . . about, about a mile from . . . the Cougar Mountain turnoff. Trent Kittle’s farm. Please just send someone.” She was shaking all over, her fears congealed.

“Are you injured?”

“No! No! I’m fine, but my husband. He could be hurt! I don’t know!” She was panicking, but thought of Trent and how much she loved him and how, oh, God, he couldn’t be injured or worse. No, no, no! She wouldn’t go there. “The address . . . Oh, Jesus. Wait. Hold on.” She scrambled to her feet and ran through the dark hallway, phone to her ear, ankle twinging. Hadn’t she seen a stack of mail on the table, a bill with an address on the kitchen counter? She flipped a switch. Light flooded the kitchen and she picked up the top envelope. “Okay, okay. . . . Here it is.” She read the damn address to the operator and repeated it, all the while hearing the
click
of computer keys as the woman typed. “Please send someone now.”

“I’ve already dispatched officers,” the officer said calmly, as if the situation weren’t life and death. “They’re on their way. If you’ll just stay on the line.”