After She's Gone (44 page)

Rotating, she fumbled with the gun in her hands. Freaked out of her mind, she raised the pistol, ready to take aim on her attacker. Her headache thudded, her body ached.

Could she use it against another human?

 

T
hrough the umbra, she walked slowly, patiently, knowing her prey had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. Finally, after all the years of pretending, of sucking up, of acting as if she weren’t as important as the Sisters Kramer and their has-been of a mother, it was time to set things right.

The wind whistled around the old barn, a tree branch banged against the wall, and the tingle of excitement was in the air. Like one of the suspense movies in which Jenna Hughes had played the heroine, a woman in jeopardy, or, more recently, Allie Kramer’s role in
Dead Heat.

At the thought of the star, her lips curled. Allie should have been dead by now, lying in a coffin, her legion of fans distraught, her mother destroyed and feeling alone. That part of the plan had backfired, but she’d set it right. Allie had been in on the original plot, the one in which Cassie was to die on the set of
Dead Heat,
but then Cassie had come up with a new twist to the end of the movie and changed things up, so Allie, as Shondie Kent, would have been the one to take the real bullet from Sig Masters’s gun. She’d freaked and pulled an effective disappearing act, and poor Lucinda Rinaldi was nearly killed.

Boy, that pissed her off. She’d made so many plans, and then with a stroke of Cassie’s pen, everything went sideways and Allie, the sister who had figured out their connection, had realized she might be shot and quickly double-crossed her, never reappeared.
Pfft!
Just vanished.

She wasn’t about to be played for a fool. It had been easy enough to come up with a way to terrorize Allie. The DIY masks had been the perfect touch. Since she had connections to
Dead Heat,
knew the cast and crew, she could pluck her victims at random. Truth to tell, she loved the thrill of the killings, the supreme sense of power she felt when she’d pulled the trigger on that twit of a set designer, Holly Dennison. Even now she experienced a little thrum in her blood when she thought of it, an adrenaline rush. With Brandi, not as big of a thrill, of course, as she’d only met the extra once. But she’d been easy to track, her stupid midnight runs had made her an easy target, one more dead body to decorate with a mask she’d created especially for the event.

And how convenient that Cassie had all those mental problems, the hallucinations and blackouts. They’d come in handy, hadn’t they? So nice of Allie to spill her guts. And so interesting how deep Allie’s hatred of Cassie had been. All things considered, Allie was the successful one, the rising star who appeared on top of the world, but inside she was little more than a gelatinous glob of insecurities.

All because of men.

Go figure.

She heard Cassie breathing hard, from somewhere near the end of the building. Trapped and fearful.

Good.

Dealing with that nut-job had been a pain; pretending to befriend her made her gag and now it was over. “Little Sister,” she called out, thinking she was funny, her voice high-pitched and sing-song. But it was true. She herself was the “Big Sister,” Cassie the “Little Sister,” and that stupid, missing, double-crossing celluloid princess, Allie, the youngest, thereby “Baby Sister.”

“Baby” had yet to be found. She’d gone dark.

What the fuck was that all about?

The bitch had double-crossed her.

Ah, well, that’s what happens when you mix business and pleasure and family. Someone always gets burned.

“Little Sister,” she called again, more loudly to be heard over the wind and the animals. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

It was a game. Like one she’d never gotten to play with her half-sisters, never had been given the chance. Instead she’d been tossed away, handed over to the stuffy Beauchamp family where she’d never fit in. Oh, she’d had another sister, one that had been hand-picked for her, barely six months younger, but now, of course, she was dead, like these others would soon be.

She felt her eyes shimmer at the thought of the sister she’d grown up with. So beautiful and self-assured, so happy and bright, as if Gene and Beverly had picked the perfect child.

Her stomach turned.

They’d never really done anything wrong to her; the Beauchamps were decent enough people, but they’d been boring and common and she . . . she was born to Jenna Hughes. Her child. She should have been rich and famous and grown up in Southern California and been offered movie roles instead of being forced to go to a trade school and encouraged to marry young.

She’d been born to be a star.

And she’d been robbed.

Not only by the mother who had tossed her aside but by the biological half-sisters who’d grown up as Hollywood princesses. Just thinking about it caused the back of her neck to burn and the demons in her head to start to scratch and claw. Cassie needed to die tonight.

It was time to be done with this.

She had a history of destroying anyone or anything that got in her way; that’s why she’d made a success of herself despite being left with the moronic Beauchamps. It had been fine until she’d learned the truth, though. When her “mother” had slipped up, leaving the adoption papers on the desk before quickly locking them away again. That’s when it had all clicked.

She’d been sixteen at the time, the same age Bitch-Mama Jenna had been when she’d decided she didn’t want to be burdened with a baby girl, when her dreams of becoming a movie star and celebrity overshadowed any thoughts of motherhood.

Well, until Cassie had come along.

Her blood boiled at the unfairness of it all, and the anger that she’d had to tamp down for all of these years burned hot. Now, finally, vengeance was hers. Her pulse began to pound in her ears and she remembered every poster she’d ever collected, every time she’d tried to apply her makeup, the instances when she’d stared into the mirror and searched for the telltale resemblance. Hers, she admitted to herself, was slight, not as strong as her half-sisters.

She obviously took after the loser who had impregnated Jenna, though, so far, she hadn’t come up with his name. It hadn’t been on the birth certificate. But she’d find him, and when she did? Bye-bye, Daddy.

The cockles of her heart warmed at the thought. She’d let Jenna know about that, too. She wanted the woman who had given her away so blithely to crumple to her oft-photographed knees.

And it all started in a few seconds.

The demons were anxious now, bloodthirsty. Their talons scraped against the inside of her braincase and she actually winced. But it was nearly over.

Just a couple more steps and then she’d look her sister in the eye before blowing her to Kingdom Come!

 

T
he roar of a gun blast still ringing in his ears, Trent took off, trying to run. Pain shot up his leg, but he kept moving, limping as he strode, all the while trying to stay clear-headed, though the loss of blood had definitely dulled him as well as slowing him down.

Damn.

He wasn’t about to stop now. Not when Cassie’s life was threatened.

This was his fault.

He should have taken her advice and called the police, shouldn’t have come out here like some damned cowboy thinking he could solve the problem. Who was the nutcase chasing his wife? What the hell was she doing here?

He passed the frantic horses and wondered where the hell were the damned cops? His boots crunched on something on the floor.

Broken glass!

But he heard the women at the far end of the barn, near the silo.

“Little Sister,” a voice called out, and he felt a new, debilitating terror.
Little Sister?
What the hell did that mean? Cassie was the oldest . . . except for the daughter Jenna gave up.

Was it possible?

Had her firstborn turned out to be a monster? A homicidal maniac?

While the horses paced and snorted in their stalls and a high-pitched scream of a siren reached his ears, he shouldered his rifle and shoved the Winchester 30-30’s bolt into place. It snapped with a loud, distinctive
click
and he was ready.

Again a wave of blackness threatened to pull him under and he set his jaw. A light was pouring into the barn from the open doorway. He moved toward it.

 

Little Sister?
Cassie’s heart was beating frantically, her breath ragged, adrenaline pumping through her system as the truth became crystal clear: The woman chasing her was her older half sister. The sibling she found out about earlier tonight. The baby Jenna had given up for adoption years ago. Just as she’d feared.

What were the chances?

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The familiar voice sang through the barn where the air was cold, but Cassie’s hands sweated over the grip of the pistol. Teeth chattering, she clenched her jaw and, using both hands, leveled the gun as she prayed she could blow the bitch away.

“Come on, Cassie,” the voice called out from the darkness, and there was something familiar about it, a quality she recognized.

“Don’t you want to meet me?”

Cassie stared at the hallway, into the darkness. Did she see a bit of movement? Was it the woman stalking her? Or something else? Trent? The dog? A horse?
Damn it.
Throat dry, she squinted and moved the muzzle of the pistol toward the shifting light. That voice, disembodied and muffled, kept getting nearer.

“Come on, Little Sister,” she coaxed. “We could have some fun.”

Cassie drew in a shaking breath and thought she heard sirens. Oh, God, were they wailing ever closer?

The gun wobbled in her hands.

At that second her attacker stepped from around the corner.

Cassie screamed, her finger frozen on the trigger.

In the half light she saw a woman’s slim figure and above it a gruesome face.
What?
In the shadowy light she realized it was her own face, like the reflection in a mirror from a house of horrors, the image distorted and melting off its skull. A mask. “Oh, God,” she whispered, then noticed the long-barreled gun pointed directly at her chest.

Cassie squeezed the trigger, but the shot went wild, ricocheting through the rafters, blasting loudly as Cassie tried to scramble away. With the killer blocking her escape, Cassie tried to get off another shot.

Too late.

The killer fired.

The noise was deafening.

Pain erupted in Cassie’s shoulder and the blast propelled her hard against the back wall. Hot, searing agony shot through her as her body slammed into the wood and the killer took aim again.

She’s going to kill me,
Cassie thought wildly as the wall behind her suddenly gave way and she was falling backward, tumbling into a Stygian vortex.

I’m dying,
she thought frantically, as she sommersaulted through the darkness.

Bam!
She landed.

Her skeleton jarred, but whatever she’d fallen on gave way. Sank a bit. Was even squishy in some places. Dust filled the air and there was a noise like tiny pebbles shifting in a jar.

Where the devil was she, and in God’s name, what was she lying on?

“Did Little Sister fall down and go boom?” her half-sister taunted and Cassie, her mind unclear from the fall, looked upward to see a bit of light falling through the opening from which she’d fallen. The woman in the awful mask was leaning through the small door, her arm extended, the pistol aimed into the darkness.

Cassie was a sitting duck.

All the killer had to do was start firing and the ricocheting bullets would probably riddle Cassie’s body.

Bracing herself, dread filling her heart, she stared upward and thought of Trent. Was he already dead? Had this maniac killed him? Why? Oh, God, why?

“Say your prayers, Little Sister,” the woman said, aiming, then suddenly the arm moved sharply, as if wrenched, fingers opening. The gun fell, tumbling down the well and glancing off Cassie’s shoulder.

“What the fuck?” the killer cried in her so-familiar voice, but she wasn’t leaning into the opening any longer, not speaking to Cassie, but someone else. Someone who had startled her. “Where the hell did you come from? Ouch! Jesus!” The words were muted, but there were other noises as well. Scuffling footsteps. A struggle? Could the police have arrived, or was it her savior Trent?

He had to be alive. Relief washed over her, but she couldn’t just lie here. She had to help.

Groaning, her shoulder on fire, she twisted, rolling to the side, off whatever had broken her fall and suddenly felt the entire floor shift and rattle. More dust. The silage or feed or fodder was giving way. She hadn’t fallen from the very top of the structure, but closer to the bottom, the main floor of the barn to the lower level where the cattle were fed, less than a story. Rattled, still trying to get her bearings in the darkness, she reached out a hand. Touched the object that had broken her fall and felt the cool clamminess of bare skin beneath her fingers.

Human skin?

An arm?

Her stomach turned in on itself.

Screaming, her voice reverberating up the shaft of the silo, she flung herself away, tried to swim in the shifting sea of grain. But the
thing
moved, too, and the arm stretched out, a clawlike hand scraping against her, fingernails scraping her face.

Frantic, she pressed against the wall, circling away, the kernels swirling and swishing, almost laughing at her impotent attempts to get free.

She was in a full-blown panic now, her headache thundering, her fear so real she could taste it. She moved along the edge of the cylindrical structure. The body swayed closer.

There had to be a way out. A chute to pour the grain from the silo, but where the hell was it.
Where?

The ocean of grain rolled again and this time, not just the arm, but the entire torso of the unknown person fell against her. Cold. Clammy.
Dead!
The body hadn’t moved on its own. No. It had only shifted on the waves of grain that moved because of Cassie’s attempts to get away, and had fallen against her, nearly pinning her, the head rolling to one side.

Springy hair brushed against Cassie’s neck.

Oh. Dear. God.

She pushed it away, felt her thumb touch an eyeball that gave way under the pressure.

Cassie shriveled at the thought as she tried to put some distance between her and God, who? Who was this dead person trapped here with her? Again the body rolled closer and this time she felt a leg slide across her. She touched it long enough to fling it away and realized her fingers had brushed nylon.

In her mind’s eye she thought of the nurse who had visited her late at night. The curled hair under the cap, the white stockings.

Oh. Ick! This was Belva Nelson and she was dead?

Stomach roiling, her brain pulsing with the need to get free, she pressed harder to the sides of the silo, and her shoulder, already screaming in pain, hit something hard and metal.

A door latch?

With an effort, she turned and fumbled at the metal.

Not a door, but the bottom rung of a ladder that stretched ever upward and back to the floor above.

Using all her strength she started climbing.

 

Trent’s bad leg gave way and he grabbed the edge of a post for balance near the yawning open doorway.

Silhouetted by the headlights shining through the doorway, Shane Carter, weapon drawn, made his way into the barn.

Relief swept over Trent. “Don’t shoot! It’s Kittle,” he said.

Carter looked in his direction but didn’t drop his weapon.

“They’re down there, toward the silo,” Trent said, pointing, trying to stay clear-headed as he swayed and clung to the post for support. “Someone tried to kill me and I think Cassie’s here.” But his mind was swimming; he wasn’t certain of anything.

A gun went off and the horses went nuts, shrieking and kicking in terror. Hud, who’d been cowering somewhere in the shadows, let out a mournful howl and belly-crawled to Trent.

“Stay!” Trent said to the dog as Carter took off running in the direction of the gunshot and Trent, moving slowly, followed.

A woman’s scream tore through the barn.

His heart turned black with a dread as dark as all of hell, but he kept moving and ignored the pain ripping through his body. Holding onto poles, bracing himself on sawhorses, propelling himself forward and dragging his useless leg, he wasn’t about to wait and cower in the shadows.

If something had happened to his wife, damn it, if the assassin had wounded her or killed her, he’d take the son of a bitch out himself.

 

Adrenaline firing her blood, Cassie started climbing the ladder, the sounds of a struggle above.

“You murdering bitch!” a woman yelled, a new voice, one that rang deep in Cassie’s soul.

Gritting her teeth, her hands sweating from the exertion, her fingers slipping on the rungs, Cassie hauled herself up by one hand.

“Like you weren’t in on it.” The other woman. “Come on, Baby Sister, admit it, you liked to see your mother squirm and your sister”—she hissed the word—“freak out and end up in a mental hospital.”

“But no one was supposed to die!” Allie yelled.

“Oh, get real. You set it up. You were the one who planned the shooting on the set. You just needed me to do the dirty work.”

“I
talked
about it,” Allie said. “I didn’t mean for it to actually happen.”

“Then why did you disappear?”

Good question,
Cassie thought
,
pulling herself up, wanting to strangle both of her siblings, the murderer and Allie, freaking Allie who had let everyone believe she was dead.

Upward she climbed through the darkness, dragging herself, the dust from the silo suffocating, her own breathing and pounding heart making listening to the conversation impossible. Only a few more rungs.

“Fuck!” one of the women said, the other one, not Allie, the familiar but unnamed voice. “Do you hear that? Sirens! What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Cassie was close to the top now, the half-light spilling into the silo’s shaft just over her head.

“But the cops! Oh, shit!”

A gunshot fired, rocking the building. Cassie nearly lost her grip, but she clung on, her lower body swinging off the ladder for a heart-stopping instant. She had to clench her jaw to keep from crying out. Agony ripped through her shoulder and she squeezed her eyes shut, willed her body back and forced her toes to find a rung.