Darkness before the Dawn (20 page)

“You heartless bastard,” Maggie said calmly. “Who the hell gave you the right to interfere in our lives? If I had a gun, I would shoot you.”

“Then let’s be thankful you left yours in New York,” he said. “Are you going to stand around in that transparent nightgown, or are we going to see how my plan worked?”

“The very first thing I’m going to do is tell my sister what you’ve done.” She headed for the door, but his tall, lean body was ahead of her, blocking her.

“No, you’re not. Chrissie’s absolutely fine, and Kate will survive the next few hours. I’m sure you’ve already told her that Alicia took her, and she thinks Alicia isn’t really dangerous. We can’t afford to have anyone guess what’s going on.”

“Are you going to move, Randall?” Maggie asked sweetly.

“Not until I have your word that you won’t tell your sister,” he said.

Randall was good, and he was fast, but Maggie had the element of surprise on her side. Without a moment’s hesitation, she kneed him in the groin.

He moved fast, but not quite fast enough for her to miss entirely. He doubled over with a muffled grunt of pain, and forced herself to move past him into the hallway and raced toward Kate’s bedroom. Randall had recovered enough to come after her, but she had a head start. She yanked the door open and burst into the room.

“Kate, Chrissie’s safe …” The words trailed off as she surveyed the empty bedroom, the still-made bed.

“Flown the coop, has she?” Randall inquired from the doorway.

Slowly Maggie turned to look at him. His face was still slightly pale around the edges, with just a hint of pain lingering around his grim mouth. “She’s probably gone after Alicia,” Maggie said in despair. “You see what you’ve done with
your damned game-playing? Even if Chrissie’s safe, Kate’s in danger. If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, showing no remorse. “Are you just going to stand there threatening me, or are we going after her?”

Maggie stared at him for a long moment. “It’ll take me five minutes.”

“Make it three.” And he turned from the doorway and headed back into the living room.

She made it in two and a half, still pulling on a battered Nike as she stumbled out of her bedroom. Randall was standing by the window, his body stiff and unyielding. He turned, and his face was impassive. “Are you ready? Or do you want to call your mother first?”

“Why?”

“To tell her Chrissie’s all right.”

“Learned your lesson, did you? That’ll teach you to mess with … superwoman.” She said the word deliberately, waiting to see his reaction. “Sybil can wait.”

“Superwoman, eh?” he echoed. “You’ll have to convince me.”

“Didn’t I just do that?”

He shook his head. “Not by a long shot. Come on, Maggie, let’s go catch us some spies.”

Caleb McAllister was waiting for them as they left the building. The August heat was already baking the air; the smell of exhaust and gas and summer sidewalks rose up and surrounded them in a cocoon of city life. Maggie saw him first, his tall, angular body tense and angry, and she nudged Randall ungently in the ribs.

“Here’s your chance to find out if he’s involved,” she said quietly.

Frustration and something else shadowed Randall’s eyes. “One of us needs to go after your sister and make sure she doesn’t get herself killed. We don’t know for sure that Alicia didn’t kill Francis. And even if she didn’t, there’s another murderer loose if Caleb is innocent. Someone who wouldn’t think twice about killing to protect himself.”

“You take Caleb,” Maggie muttered. “I’m going after Kate.”

“Maggie—” But she moved quickly out of reach, directly into Caleb’s path. Randall’s mouth shut with an angry snap.

“Hi, Caleb. Why aren’t you at the studio?” she demanded abruptly.

“The studio’s closed on Wednesdays. What the hell does that matter? Listen, Sybil called me—”

“Where does Alicia live?” she broke in.

“42557 Springhill Estates,” he said automatically. “I have to talk to you, Maggie.”

“Talk to Randall,” she said, rushing past him and grabbing the first taxi that was lined up outside the hotel next to Kate’s
building. She didn’t even look back as they zoomed out into the midmorning traffic.

It was a long drive. The taxi driver had an all-news radio station on, and the crackle and buzz rattled Maggie’s nerve endings as she prayed she’d be in time.

The built-up newness of the city deteriorated into the shabbiness of the older neighborhoods, then began to brighten up as middle-class suburbs approached. Those thinned out, and random, sprawling estates took their place. Maggie’s palms were cold and damp with sweat.

The radio was blaring on about hurricanes in the Gulf, and Maggie shut her eyes for a moment, trying to block out the intrusion. And then her eyes shot open again at the newscaster’s laconic tone.

“Admiral Jefferson Wentworth was found dead in his Arlington, Virginia, apartment today, an apparent suicide. Admiral Wentworth served on the Naval Intelligence Committee before his retirement in 1984. The police have not ruled out the possibility of foul play.”

Maggie’s stomach lurched, and her nails bit into her palms. Why the hell had she left her gun in New York when her sister’s very life might depend on it? But she knew why—she’d been too befuddled with Randall Carter. That was another she owed him.

“Gates are closed, lady.”

The driver’s voice pulled her attention back to the present, and she looked up, startled. Wide iron gates spanned the curving drive that led up to an imposing, utterly tasteless white stone mansion. Kate’s slightly battered Datsun was parked at a haphazard angle in front of them, blocking entry. There was no sign of her sister.

“This is good enough,” Maggie said, shoving money at the driver and almost falling out of the cab. Her sense of disaster was getting stronger all the time, and it took every ounce of will to calm herself. Panic wouldn’t help Kate; calm, rational planning would. First of all, she had to figure how to get past the high stone walls that guarded Alicia Stoneham.

In the end it was easier than she’d imagined. Although the front gates were securely locked, the narrow door in the thick stone wall was unlatched. Maggie simply walked through, breaking into a stealthy run as she reached the other side of the curving drive.

Her Nikes were silent as she raced up the driveway. The cold sweat that covered her body evaporated in the blazing heat, and the last of her panic left her. She was calm and very determined and ready to take on anything.

The voices were loud enough to alert her. Kate’s usually soft voice was angry, carrying on the stifling summer air, and Maggie moved around the house to the wide back terrace, following the sound unerringly.

“I want you to tell me where my baby is, Alicia!” The two of them were turned away from Maggie as she lurked by the corner of the big white building. She could see Kate’s profile, the tangle of brown hair, the furious eyes, the determination in her mouth.

Alicia waved a cigarette-laden hand at her. Her fuchsia-painted mouth looked garish on her unusually pale face. “How many times must I tell you, honey, that I have no idea where she is? I don’t know why you think I’d touch little Chrissie, but if you don’t calm down and leave, I’ll call the police.”

“Do you want to tell them about Francis?” Kate demanded. “About Red Glove Films and your brother and how you’re managing to keep Stoneham Studios afloat? I’m sure they’d be very interested in hearing about it.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Kate,” Alicia snapped, her horse-face devoid of color. “You must have slipped a cog somewhere. Hell, I can understand it—you’ve been under a lot of pressure with that stinker of a husband. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, and I’ll call that sister of yours to come get you? You need a vacation.”

“I need my baby!” Kate cried. “Just tell me where she is,
and I won’t say a word about the spying. I can keep Maggie quiet, too—she’ll do as I tell her.”

Alicia leaned forward and stubbed out the turquoise Sobranie on the glass-topped patio table. “I’m afraid we can’t count on that,” she said suddenly, her voice flat and dead. “You know I hate violence, honey, but you leave us no choice. We’re going to have to shut you up.” And her hand came up with a small, efficient gun in it, trained directly on Kate’s chest.

Maggie froze. If she made any sudden moves, Alicia might shoot her sister, whether she really wanted to or not. Slowly, carefully she edged closer to the corner of the building. The two women were within several feet of her; if she found the right sort of projectile, she could knock the gun out of Alicia’s hand. Maybe.

“I don’t give a damn what you do to me, Alicia. I just want to know where my baby is.”

“I really don’t know. We didn’t take her. You might ask your sister.”

Kate’s mouth curved in grim smile. “That’ll be a little difficult, won’t it, if you’re planning to kill me?”

Maggie had already slipped off one of her Nikes, preparing to aim it at Alicia’s gun hand. She weighed it in one hand, then lifted her arm overhead to throw it.

“You’ll have plenty of chances to talk to her,” Alicia said. “Won’t she, partner?”

Maggie felt body heat close behind her and saw the shadow on the terrace in front of her. She quickly started to wing the sneaker at Alicia, but an iron hand clamped around her wrist, grinding the bones together. Another hand grabbed her rear. She didn’t need to hear the mocking voice to tell her who it was or to assure her that neither Caleb nor Randall had anything to do with this treasonous tangle.

“Not so fast, sweetbuns,” Bud Willis murmured in her ear. “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?” And he shoved her out onto the terrace.

“Thank God, Maggie,” Kate breathed.

“Don’t thank God yet, Kate,” Maggie said, her voice thick with self-disgust as she stumbled toward the two women, aided by Willis’s rough hands. “I’m not helping matters.”

“You surely aren’t, and that’s the truth,” Alicia said, putting the gun back into her pocket. Maggie considered diving for it, but then she felt the unmistakable chill of a larger-barrelled gun in the small of her back, and she forced her muscles to relax. “We’re going to have to take care of them both, aren’t we?” Alicia asked. “No way around it?”

“No way around it, old lady. We have to cover our tracks as best we can. These two can go with the house; Carter and McAllister at the studio. You’ve already got your plane tickets.”

Alicia nodded, looking very old. “It was worth a try,” she said, lighting another cigarette, this time a pink one, and shoving it into the long black holder. “I thought I could save the studio. I should have known it was impossible.”

“At least you’ll have enough money to keep you and your brother living in style,” Bud said, moving around to smile his skeletal smile at Maggie. “And I won’t come off too badly, either.”

“You’re absolutely crazy, aren’t you?” Maggie snapped. “Have you been behind this all along?”

“Hell, no. I just cut myself in on the action two weeks ago when I found out what was going on. It seemed like too good a scam to pass up.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“That stupid little faggot got cold feet and turned state’s evidence. It was pure luck that he got passed over to me. I persuaded him to keep quiet, then came out here last week and cut myself in.”

“What happened to Francis?” Maggie prompted.

Willis shrugged. “Well, he seemed so eager to talk, I had to shut him up, didn’t I? I thought it was a nice touch, bringing him over to your sister’s place. I heard you were due for a visit, and I figured she’d have Superwoman bail her out. I was hoping you’d be the one to find him and not your sister—maybe
it would remind you of the Polack. At least you ended up dragging him around the city. Damned funny.”

A light shiver of horror iced her skin at Bud’s cheerful malice. “But why did you send Randall here?” she demanded.

“To keep you busy. I knew he’d be so involved trying to get between your legs that the two of you wouldn’t notice if hell froze over. And Randall’s got the advantage of having no paper work, no records at Langley at all. When he buys it today, no one down there will even notice.”

“And you’ll get away with a nice sum of money.”

“I will indeed. Come along, sweetcakes.”

“Where?”

Willis jabbed the barrel of his sawed-off machine gun into her ribs. “Anywhere I tell you. Right, sweetie?” He moved the gun to aim it at Kate.

“Right,” said Maggie.

He looked over his shoulder at Alicia, who was calmly smoking her brightly colored cigarettes, her fuchsia mouth vivid against her sickly pallor. “Meet me in the car. We don’t have any time to waste—the sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

“I wanted to call Jefferson—”

“You can call him from the studio,” Bud said sharply, and the gun jabbed nervously into Maggie’s back again. “Do as I tell you, or you can join these two bitches in the house.”

“I’ll be in the car,” Alicia said, turning her back on them.

“Alicia, you can’t let him do this,” Kate said suddenly, her voice pleading. “You’ve been like a mother to me.”

Alicia halted for a brief moment, looking at her over her shoulder, and her face was old and drawn. “You should know better than anyone how useless mothers are, honey.” And she turned away from them once more, heading down the steps to the front of the house.

“No help from that quarter,” Bud said cheerfully. “Get a move on, you two.”

They had no choice but to precede him into the deserted,
air-conditioned mansion. “You want to tell us what you have planned for us, Bud?” Maggie asked politely.

“Sure thing, Maggie. Anticipation is half the pleasure,” he said affably. “I’m going to lock the two of you in Alicia’s bathroom.”

“Oooh, sounds dangerous,” Maggie snapped.

“There are no windows. No way for you to get out. Everything’s nicely soundproofed, so no one can overhear anyone taking a crap. Alicia’s sold the house to some developers. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, bulldozers and wrecking equipment are coming by to level this place to make room for nice little condominiums. No one’s gonna hear your screams, sweetcakes.”

“You don’t want them to find our bodies.”

Bud shrugged. “I could give a rat’s ass. If they find you, fine. If not, it won’t matter, either, ’cause we’ll be long gone.”

“Chrissie—” Kate said, her voice desperate.

“Chrissie’s okay.” Maggie placed a reassuring hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Randall took her to stay with his sister.”

Kate stopped still on the wide, curving staircase that Bud had herded them to, ignoring the gun. “Did you know about it?” she demanded.

“He didn’t see fit to tell me.”

“I’ll kill him,” Kate breathed, rage and relief filling her eyes.

“You won’t need to,” Bud said. “I’m planning on doing that myself. But I’ll send him your regards. Keep moving.”

Alicia’s bathroom was the size of a small bedroom, with a sunken tub, three sinks, a toilet that resembled the British throne, and an equally ornate bidet. As Bud had said, there were no windows, and the door had solid, unpickable locks, worthy of someone with an absolute fixation for privacy. Maggie paused in the doorway, looking at Bud out of the corner of her eye, wondering if she had any chance at all. She was more than a match for most men, but Bud Willis was a fighting machine, an inhuman automaton with the jungle instincts of a mamba snake. He was western democracy’s version
of a terrorist, and she knew she’d stand no chance at all of even coming close to him.

Kate had walked into the room and slumped down on the floor, burying her face in her arms. Still Maggie lingered by the door. Willis was smiling his skeletal smile, his transparent eyes gleeful, and he smelled of sweat and death. “Sorry it has to end this way, Maggie,” he said. “I had better things planned for you.”

“Such as?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to disappoint you by telling you all about the pleasure you’ll be missing. I just want to tell you a little something to make your last few hours a little brighter.”

“I don’t think I want to hear it.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” he said. “You remember that day two years ago? It was a hot day in April, and the tourists were swarming all over Boothbay Harbor. The lilacs were out, and your whole street smelled of them.”

She waited, saying nothing.

“It was low tide that morning,” he continued, pleasure dancing in his eyes. “And it smelled of seaweed and dead fish, along with the lilacs. Pulaski came out of the house wearing a white shirt. By the time I finished with him, his shirt was red.”

“Why?” The word was barely audible; her throat had closed up, allowing no breath through its strictures.

“For fun, Maggie,” he said. “For kicks. Because you looked at him like he was Jesus Christ walking on water, and you looked at me like I was pigshit. Because I wanted to.” Then he grabbed her, caught her numb, lifeless body in his hands, and pulled her against his sweating body, pressing his greedy mouth down onto hers, shoving his tongue into her mouth.