Dead Giveaway (27 page)

“Jack's a friend. He called me in when he tumbled onto Johnny's cocaine pipeline. That's all I can tell you, Ellen, except that I'm retiring right after this one. Is the job as your business manager still open?”

“Oh, yes.” Ellen smiled up at him. “I wouldn't want anyone but you.”

Just then, before either of them could say another word, Moira called out. Marc was heading for the door.

 

 

“Jayne, honey. We're here!”

Jayne opened her eyes and nodded. Her teeth were chattering so loudly, she hadn't even realized the sound of the motor had stopped. She half-fell from the seat and steadied herself on legs that felt like frozen poles of ice.

“Hurry, get inside. I will start the heater.”

Paul helped her up into Grace's truck and started the motor. Its shelter seemed warm, and soon heat would be coming from the vents.

It took her at least five minutes before she could stop trembling enough to speak. “How long did it take us?”

“Less than an hour. We made good speed.”

Jayne nodded. They'd made excellent time, despite switching the gas tank and killing the black bear. It would take another fifteen minutes to reach the police station. Then, if everything went like clockwork, it might be no more than forty-five minutes before the police chopper reached Deer Creek Condos. Jayne shut her eyes in a fervent prayer.

 

 

“What's he doing?” Moira whispered as she watched Marc walk down the hall toward the elevator. They hadn't answered when he'd pounded on the door.

“Keep him on camera. He's bound to make a mistake.” Walker's optimism wasn't totally wishful. Marc wasn't a trained killer. Walker could tell because he'd made too many stupid errors, and he was making another big one right now. Walker would have blown the lock off the door. Four women with dummy bullets was no threat to a man with an assault weapon. And then he would have used the closed-circuit system to track anyone left in the building.

“He's ringing for the elevator!” Ellen watched him with disbelief. “Why?”

Grace sighed. “I forgot to tell you, it works now. Count the times the arrow flickers and we'll know where he went.”

“I've got him.” Moira switched cameras. “He's down in the garage.”

Sitting up in bed, fully dressed except for her shoes, Betty looked much more alert. She'd played the part of the cornered rabbit again, hardly daring to breathe while her secret friend was here, but now he was gone and she knew she had to help the nice man with the dark skin. “Eyes and ears.”

“Right.” Walker turned to Betty in surprise. “He'll cut off the monitor. Better find a flashlight.”

Betty reached into the drawer by the bed and handed Walker a flashlight. Then she swung her feet out of the bed and pushed them into her fur-lined slippers. “Ready.”

“Good.” Walker nodded. “Grab hands and stand at the door. Grace first with this flashlight. Unlock it and get ready to go. Moira? Right behind her. Then Ellen. Think you can take this rifle?

Walker smiled at her as Ellen grabbed the rifle and took her place in line. Then he lifted Betty in his arms. “We're going straight up to the spa, and we're going now, while we've still got light. If the power goes out, don't turn on the flashlight. Just slide your hands along the railing and keep on going.”

“Movies!” Betty reached out and pulled five tapes from the shelf. “For evidence.”

“You recorded the killings?” Betty nodded and Walker began to grin. “Okay, Grace, let's move it!”

They were all the way up to the ninth-floor landing before the lights went out.

“Quietly now,” Walker whispered. “Hold onto the railing and keep climbing.”

They climbed in silence until they reached the door to the spa. Grace pushed it open and blinked in the bright glow of the moonlight shining down through the dome.

“What now?” Ellen helped Betty to a chair while Walker secured the door to the stairwell.

“Now we wait.” Walker sighed. “He doesn't expect us to come up here, so we've bought ourselves some time. Spread out at the windows and watch for anything moving outside. I think he'll try to get us out of the building somehow. It's the only way he can pick us off.”

They waited at the windows for what seemed like an eternity. Then Ellen gave a low cry. “There he is!”

Walker rushed to her side and looked over to see Marc moving toward the big pine tree on the south side of the building.

“I see him.” Grace peered out into the darkness. “He's still got that gun.”

“It's an assault rifle, Grace, probably with a night scope.”

“But aren't they illegal?”

“I don't think he cares about that. The balconies are all on that side of the building, aren't they?”

“That's right,” Moira confirmed. “Paul wanted a southern exposure.”

“Smoke!” Betty exulted as the word came easily to her lips. She pointed toward the air-conditioner vent and said it again. “Smell the smoke. Building on fire?”

“Nope.” Walker shook his head. “I kept an eye on the monitor while you were lining up at the door and I saw Marc doing something to the furnace. He must have backed it up to smoke us out. Probably plans on picking us off when we stick our heads out for air.”

Grace began to smile. “At least he can't come into the building again, not until the smoke clears.”

“That's true,” Ellen agreed. “But there's no way for us to get any fresh air, either. The whole dome's sealed off.”

“Washer.” They turned to look at Betty. “We can open the window-washer.”

“You're right!” Moira exclaimed, leaning over to give her a big hug. “There's a panel that lifts out for the window-washing equipment. Over on the other side of the swimming pool.”

“Okay, everyone over here.” Walker motioned for them to join him. “Now, don't make a sound. We'll lift out the panel and then I'll go down the side of the building on the scaffolding.”

Moira frowned. “But how? The equipment's electrical.”

“See that handle?” Walker pointed to a hand crank mounted on the wall beneath the panel. “It's a safety device and there's another crank mounted on the side of the scaffolding. I'll crank myself down as fast as I can and the moment I'm on the ground, crank the scaffolding back up again. Got it?”

Ellen grabbed his arm. “Don't do it, Walker. He'll shoot you before you get close enough to use that bayonet.”

“You're forgetting that he's positioned himself to concentrate on the balconies and the front door. He'll never expect anyone to come down this side and circle around.”

“But we've got fresh air now. Why can't we just wait until Jayne and Paul bring the police?”

Walker pulled her over to the side where no one else could hear them. “Look, Ellen, we can't count on them to bail us out in time. I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but after Marc finished with the furnace, he went over to inspect the gas lines. If smoking us out doesn't work, I figure he'll blow up the building with us in it.”

Ellen shuddered and Walker pulled her into his arms. He kissed her and reached out to cradle her cheek. “I know what I'm doing, Ellen. It's our best shot. Watch from the windows and if I can't take him out, get everyone down on the scaffolding and head for the woods.”

“But if we go down on the scaffolding, we can't crank it back up.”

“It won't matter then. He'll already know that I used it to get down and he'll figure the rest of you are still up there. We have to do it this way, Ellen. We don't have any other options.”

Tears came to Ellen's eyes. Walker was right. But as she watched Walker crank himself down and she brought the empty scaffolding back up, she was working on her own backup plan.

 

 

Sergeant Dennis Rawley sighed. She'd been crying for the past ten minutes and nothing made him feel more helpless than a woman's tears. A veteran officer only a year from retirement, he'd been shot five times, once nearly fatally, and had lost three partners. Two of them had been killed in the line of duty and one had eaten the barrel of his own gun. He'd seen every kind of abuse that humans could dish out and had been on the receiving end more than once, but the sight of a woman with silent tears rolling down her cheeks still turned his insides into jelly.

“It's all right, Ma'am. They're loading up right now and they'll be there in less than twenty minutes. That's guaranteed.” Tears were still streaming down her cheeks and he reached out to pat her hand. “How about coming up to the roof and watching them take off? It's against regulations, but I can swing it.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you!” She gave him a blinding smile and Dennis felt ten feet tall as he led her up the stairs and showed her where it was safe to stand. Her husband was going in with the SWAT team, to give them the layout. Dennis watched the men pile in, carrying rifles and equipment. They looked like an invasion team and that's really what they were. He didn't envy them the dangerous assignment.

In the harsh glare from the lights he could see she was still half-frozen from the exposure. Dennis had called in the Doc. A patch of white skin on her left cheek looked like frostbite, a rare sight under the blazing Vegas sun.

“Hurry! Please hurry!”

“They will, Ma'am.”

Jayne didn't realize that she'd spoken aloud until he answered. She could see a blinking neon sign in the distance, four-thirty
AM
, eighty-five degrees. Another warm Vegas night, but she was still shivering in Betty's fur coat.

The rotor started and the deafening noise filled Jayne with hope as she watched the huge helicopter lift off. She watched until it was nothing but a speck in the night sky and then turned to the officer beside her. “Twenty minutes?”

Dennis nodded. “That's right, Ma'am. How about a cup of coffee?”

Jayne let him lead her back into the building. Her knees shaking as they walked back down the stairs. As she watched the steaming liquid pour into the cardboard cup, Jayne couldn't help but think of the four friends they'd left behind, Moira, Grace, and Ellen, barricaded in poor Betty's room. How long could they hold out against a trained killer?

The west side of the building was landscaped with a hedge of juniper and Walker crouched behind it for cover. He worked his way around the building, wincing at the open field of snow ahead, still showing the blurry indentation of their snow angels. That happy time seemed far in the past, though it had actually been less than thirty hours ago.

Feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he forced himself to slow down. Time was not of the essence, but caution was, and his breathing was already ragged. The Springfield weighed approximately eleven pounds, the bayonet probably bringing the total up to twelve. He'd trekked through the muck of Vietnam carrying at least fifty pounds, but he'd been much younger then.

As soon as his breathing had slowed, Walker assessed his chances. The wind had died down and now it was as quiet as a tomb. To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped, causing the snow to crunch underfoot.

Just then a crash sounded back in the trees on the far side of the building, as a fairly large animal moved through the brush. A coyote, perhaps, or a deer. It was an unexpected break. The moment he heard it, Walker was up and moving, streaking across the bare field of snow, using the sound for cover.

A shot shattered the stillness of the night. Marc had spotted him, but only after he'd reached the safety of the pine grove. Here only light snow dusted the ground, and less than five minutes later he was in the center of the grove, about a hundred yards directly behind Marc's position. There was still an exposed patch of snow to cross, but he had to wait for his chance.

Walker settled down and forced his tense body to relax. The bright pink jacket had only a thin lining of flannel inside. It had been designed for warmer temperatures, but it was better than nothing. Luckily, he'd been wearing his boots. Ellen had found a perfectly adequate pair of leather gloves, but Walker knew he couldn't last indefinitely out here in the cold. He had to hope his chance would come soon, while he could still move rapidly and efficiently.

His opportunity could come in several ways. If the wind picked up from the north behind him, it would be difficult for Marc to use his rifle sight in the blowing snow. There was also the possibility of diversion from another animal. All he had to do was be patient, and waiting was the most difficult task of all.

The Caretaker checked his ammunition and smiled. He'd brought enough to take care of everyone and then some. Although it seemed impossible, Betty was still alive. The nurse must have sabotaged that injection somehow. He should have thought to check it. Another mistake that he shouldn't have made.

He figured Walker was the one who had run for cover. The rest of them would still be huddled in Betty's room, trying to decide what to do. They might have hooked up with Paul and Jayne by now, but that wouldn't help them much. Not a man of action, it took Paul days to make a decision, and he'd never dash across the snow in a foolish attempt to outrun a man with a rifle. It had to be Walker. Of course the shot had given away his position. It was a bad break for him, but nothing he couldn't handle. Walker still had a clear patch of snow to cross, and that would be suicide, especially since the absence of return fire meant that he was unarmed. Either Walker was stupid or he had real balls; it didn't really matter which.

 

 

They'd plugged the air-conditioner vent with wet towels and were gathered at the windows. The open panel provided adequate ventilation. Grace peered out the window and frowned. “Marc's got Walker pinned down in the grove. Think he's hit?”

“Marc's shot went wild.” Ellen let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. She'd seen the snow kick up at least ten feet in back of Walker.

“But now Marc knows that Walker's out there.” Grace's voice was shaking. “We've got to help. If we had a gun, we could draw Marc's fire.”

Betty spoke up. “Race gun! Ready, set, go?”

Moira stared down at Betty in shock. “The starter pistol. Je . . . Jeepers, Betty! Alzheimer's or not, you're smarter than all of us put together.”

 

 

Paul's knuckles were white by the time they passed the outskirts of town. He didn't like planes, and helicopters were even worse. He stared down at the darkness below and hoped that the pilot had plenty of experience.

“Ten floors and there's only one entrance to the building, is that right?” An officer wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying a clipboard sat down next to him.

“Unless you count the balconies, nine on the south side of the building. Someone could reach the first-floor balcony, but the sliding glass door to the unit will be locked from the inside with a metal post which slides into a hole on the frame. It is the type of burglar-proof lock the police recommend.”

“No problem.” The officer made a note. “And there's no way for us to land on the roof?”

“No, the roof is a dome made of Plexiglas. However, there is a field one hundred and eighteen yards from the building on the east side. That is where the other helicopter made its landing.”

“Garage?”

“It covers three-quarters of the ground floor. The main entrance is there, served by an elevator which is not functioning. My wife and I used the stairs. The remainder of the space is subdivided into a one-bedroom apartment and security office.”

“And how many civilians are inside?”

It took Paul a moment to realize that anyone who wasn't a police officer must be a civilian. “Four, perhaps five. I do not know if Marc Davies is still alive.”

“Four confirmed with a possible five,” the officer noted, handing Paul the clipboard.

“Make a rough layout of the building, including the elevator shaft and the stairwells. Use red marks to indicate where you last saw the civilians. Our ETA is ten minutes.”

Paul bent over the clipboard and began to sketch. The bright splashes of color against the white paper, one each for Moira, Grace, Betty, and Ellen, with a question mark on the seventh floor for Marc, made him shiver. Perhaps it was because red was the color of blood.

 

 

“This is a real treat.” The doctor closed his bag and smiled at her. “No bullets, no knife wounds, not even a broken bone. You ought to see the ones they usually call me in for.”

Jayne laughed. He was a wonderful doctor, old enough to be trusted and young enough to be up-to-date.

“Are you currently taking any medication, Mrs. Lindstrom?”

“No. Oh, I almost forgot!” Jayne reached into her pocket and took out the vial of Betty's medication that Paul had grabbed from the nurse's bag. “My neighbor has to have a shot of this every six hours. We were afraid they'd forget to bring it along when they rescued her, especially now that her nurse is . . . is dead.” Jayne's voice broke and she began to sob. She wasn't sure why, since she hadn't cared for Margaret Woodard much when she'd been alive, but her death put a different perspective on things.

“That's all right, Mrs. Lindstrom. You've been through a real strain.” The doctor patted her shoulder as he reached out to take the vial. Puzzled, he read the label. “What's wrong with your neighbor?”

“She has Alzheimer's.”

“Does she have a history of violent behavior?”

Her tears were gone now, as quickly as they'd come, and Jayne wondered if she was turning into a basket case. “I don't think so. At least Dr. Glaser never mentioned it. He drives up to examine her every month and he brings a supply of her drugs for the . . . the nurse.”

“Dr. Glaser?”

“Dr. Harvey Glaser. I ran into him in the elevator a couple of months ago, and I'd rather take my chances with a ten-foot rattler than let him . . .” Jayne stopped and winced, realizing that she was bad-mouthing the doctor in front of a colleague. “Well, let's just say I didn't much care for his manner. But I'm sure he's very competent.”

“He was, before his death four years ago.”

“But I don't understand! He told me he was Dr. Harvey Glaser.”

“He lied. Do you know what this is, Mrs. Lindstrom?” The doctor pointed to the vial and Jayne shook her head. “It's Melahydroflorizine, a sledgehammer of a drug used to calm violent psychotics. The side effects are short-term memory loss, slurred speech, and the inability to form sentences. If I wanted to give someone the symptoms of Alzheimer's, I'd use this drug on a regular basis.”

Jayne's mind was spinning. It was beginning to add up. “Then Betty doesn't have Alzheimer's?”

“I'd be willing to bet she doesn't. But someone sure as hell wanted you to think she did!”

 

 

Ellen stepped onto the scaffolding and held the rope with both hands. She'd found a utility belt in the office and cinched it around her waist. The starting pistol was in a pouch on the right, along with a coil of rope. She'd slipped her tennis racket into a loop on the left, not much of a weapon, but at least she knew how to swing it. On the ground, she'd take up a position on the south side of the building where the juniper was thick, then fire the pistol. And while she was drawing Marc's fire, Moira, Betty, and Grace would come down on the scaffolding and head for the woods.

She shut her eyes as Moira began to lower her with the crank. She'd always been afraid of heights and what awaited her on the ground wasn't exactly reassuring. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of Walker out there alone, pinned down by Marc's assault rifle.

The scaffolding swayed and Ellen bit back a moan of fear. She couldn't make a sound. It was vital that Marc not see the scaffolding. It was their only means of escape.

 

 

Walker rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was bitter cold despise the windbreak under the pines. He knew he had to move soon, before the sky began to lighten. The darkness was his only advantage.

Gunfire sounded on the south side of the building. Walker didn't take time to analyze who was firing what and why. He was up and running on legs painfully stiff from the cold. In the darkness, Walker saw Marc's rifle blast at the bushes beneath the first-floor balcony. Another shot and a return shot and then Walker hurled himself forward with the bayonet.

Marc heard the steps behind him and whirled, deflecting Walker's blow. The point of the bayonet buried itself in the sleeve of his jacket and the Springfield went flying to the snow. And then they were struggling, Walker clawing for the rifle barrel. An earsplitting shot missed Walker's head by inches and he managed to knock Marc's hand off the trigger, but his chilled arms had lost their strength. The two men grappled for long moments in the darkness of the night, but Marc was bigger and dressed for the weather. Walker felt his stamina ebbing in the biting wind.

Then something whizzed toward Marc's head, connecting solidly enough to throw him off balance. He dropped to one knee and another blow sent the assault rifle flying. Marc was down, and Walker was on him before he could move, pulling his hands roughly behind his back. When he looked up, he saw Ellen standing over him with her tennis racket tucked under her arm, handing him a piece of rope. He secured Marc's arms with hands that felt like blocks of ice. And then there was the welcome sound of a chopper in the distance, coming closer. Paul and Jayne had made it.

The next few moments were a blur of motion. Two officers rushed to take charge, handcuffing Marc and leading him away into the belly of the helicopter. Moira and Grace came around the side of the building supporting Betty between them, and two burly members of the SWAT team raced over the snow to help. Paul led four men into the building to inspect and secure it and Ellen and Walker found themselves momentarily alone, staring down at the trampled area in the snow where it had all happened.

Walker reached out to take Ellen's arm. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful, courageous woman in the world. At the same time, he wanted to yell at her for being so incredibly foolish and crazy. It took a real idiot to come out here armed with nothing but a starting pistol and a tennis racket. And then he wanted to pull her close and kiss her. And tell her he'd do anything for her, that he was ready to settle down with her for the rest of his life if she'd have him. But there wasn't time for all that. Instead, he turned to her and said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Nice backhand, Ellen.”