Key West (52 page)

When she looked at him, her features were sharp, her expression searching. “What does that mean?”

What does it mean?
“I want you and me to be together. For as long as our forever turns out to be. Does that explain enough?”

She pulled him into the shade. “Look at me, Chris. You’re sorry for me. You’d like to fix me. But maybe I’m not fixable.”

“We both know better than that. You became the center of some kind of plot. I admit it’s more complicated than I thought, but it’s starting to show all of its faces. I want you because I want you. The whole package. How about you?”

She closed her eyes and rested her brow on his chest. “After you left this morning, I went to take a nap. I woke up because Frank’s old rocking chair was banging against the windows. It wasn’t even there before. More voices. More noises. A baby sobbing as if her heart was broken. I went into Jacqueline’s room and saw what I thought was a baby moving in the bassinet. It was a battery-operated doll I bought for when Jacqueline got older. Then I fell apart. But it’s all explainable. I could have put that doll in the bed. I could have moved the rocking chair.

“Chris, I may be mentally ill. You can’t tie yourself to an insane woman.”

He held one of her elbows and jerked her toward him. “Don’t you ever say that again. Will you marry me, Sonnie?” She began to cry. She couldn’t help it.

Chris bent to kiss away the tears. “Answer me. Will you throw your lot in with a wreck like me?”

“Now whose putting himself down?”

He kissed the side of her neck. “I’d like to try to have children of our own. I’d take very good care of you. We’d make sure everything went fine.”

“Christian Talon, you’re deliberately making me cry. I’d love to marry you. And I’d love us to try to have children. But I’m up to my teeth in uncertainties. We’ve got to get past those first.’’

“All right. Good enough. We have a tentative agreement. Now we’re going to move so fast there’ll be some people who don’t know what slugged ‘em.”

He hurried, but sensed when he was going too fast. Without ceremony, he hauled Sonnie onto a wall, turned, and wrapped his arms under her legs. “Piggyback time. Hold on tight.”

Alternately jogging and executing unlikely dance steps, he got them to Sonnie’s place in record time. The pink Mustang had gone, the front door was closed, and there was still no sign of activity next door.

“Just let me do my thing, okay?” he said. “I want you to wait in your bedroom and don’t ask any questions until I come to you.”

“Okay.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic.

Chris urged her into her room and shut the door. Immediately he retrieved the drill and bits from the parlor where Flynn had left them and returned upstairs as quietly as he could.

He found a trapdoor into the attic in a spare bedroom closet. The trap had a recessed ring, and by standing on a stool he was able to slide the trap open. An obviously new length of rope with a knot in the end dropped down. A tug on this produced steps that glided noiselessly downward. All very well designed and oiled—and new. The police had been here before him. They’d searched the attic after Edward’s murder. But what Chris was hoping to find might not be evident to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

The flashlight he’d brought was powerful. If there were visitors before he’d finished, and his theory was correct, he might have to turn off the heavy-duty flashlight. Then he’d have to rely on a small pocket light.

Once at the top of the steps, he hauled them up, closed the trap, and put on the flashlight. Wide wooden slats had been laid between beams. A man might praise his luck for having his job made so much easier and safer, only in this case, Chris knew the extra care had been taken for others.

The idea of coming up here had started to form when he’d been in the attic next door. That and the way Romano had looked upward when he spoke of what Sonnie insisted she’d heard. This attic wouldn’t allow anyone but a child to stand upright. He crawled forward on hands and knees, examining everything around him as he went.

Α sharp turn took him into a wider space. Chris got close to the ductwork that ran the length of the area and curved around and out of sight toward whatever was beyond this place. He took the small flashlight from his pocket and moved slowly along, examining the air-conditioning ducts. When he reached the farthest end of the space he’d drawn a blank, but then he saw a large, dark kit bag that closed with a drawstring.

The police wouldn’t have missed it.

He pulled it open and lifted some of the contents into the beam of his light. Top hats, wigs, cloaks, glittery things…silk scarves. Edward’s theatrical gear.

The police hadn’t missed it because it hadn’t been there immediately after the fire. Someone had brought it later, used it later.

He took out the Glock and checked it, then replaced it in the holster. He preferred to stick his weapon in the waist of his pants, but he was running into too many situations when he needed to be sure the piece couldn’t fall.

The sharp turn took him along another narrow corridor, then into one more spacious area. There was another bag there, a grip. This contained cans of food and blankets, and tools—including a drill. So much for hunting down the one next door.

Some hours ago Chris had begun to see that there could be two parallel operations under way against Sonnie. Cory Bledsoe was the player who didn’t fit. Calls to several of the women on the list hadn’t provided much, except for the fact that they’d all worked at the club and they’d left because of harassment. They didn’t want to explain, but he got a marked reaction to the mention of Cory’s name. One woman still worked at the club, and she was frightened for her job. She had a small child and no husband and didn’t want Mr. Bledsoe to think she’d talked about him. Chris told her she wouldn’t have to worry about Mr. Bledsoe anymore because the man was opting to leave the club himself. Then the dam broke and he learned more about the sexual excesses of Cory than he wanted to know.

Why didn’t the woman report her boss? No one would believe what she said. It was too weird. He used to make her strip and lie on his bed, and if she moved, he hit her. He would roll up her paycheck and insert it into her vagina, then use it to make her climax. More recently he’d wanted her to masturbate in front of him. Sometimes he’d want sex with her, but he never climaxed. And she had to be careful not to let him get her alone when she was working because if she had a full tray in her hands, he’d pull her skirt up to her waist and she’d have to all but drop the tray to cover herself. She didn’t want to say any more, but the golf pro who supposedly left with a married woman had decided he couldn’t work for Bledsoe. This happened after the pro was invited for drinks with Cory, only to find himself expected to take part in having sex with a number of women while Cory watched.

Why didn’t anyone squeal?

Because Cory said he had something on each of them, and his own record was squeaky clean. Chris had heard all he needed to hear.

What did Cory have to do with Sonnie?

Chris continued to scrutinize the ducts, and then he found what he was looking for. At one point a separate branch left the main line. He figured this must be connected to a vent into a bedroom. He wasn’t sure which one. Where the joints had originally come together, there were scratches, and the seams had been forced apart. Inefficient for the cooling system, but possibly useful for other things. He shone the flashlight into the opening and instantly saw that he hadn’t been far off in his theory about drills. Pinpoints of light showed against the sloping walls, and when he bent to look at the other side of the ductwork, he saw where a number of holes had been drilled.

Chris made his way back to the second floor and went to Sonnie’s room. Wearing a fresh white cotton jumpsuit, and with her hair brushed back and coiled at her nape, she sat on the side of her bed. Beside her was a scattering of powdery valentine heart candies—each one faceup, where she could read what it said.

She looked abashed. “I’m too nervous to just sit here. Frank loved these. He always kept them in his drawer.”

“No accounting for taste.” He wrinkled his nose at the sweet, perfumed scent of them. “Sonnie, l’ve found what I expected to find. In the attic. There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. I want you to stay where you are. Expect to hear your name.” He wafted a hand airily. “Somewhere up there. If you do, shout back to me.”

Sonnie crossed her ankles and sat rigidly upright.

Chris made another expedition to the attic. When he reached the first duct that had been tampered with, he put his mouth close to the metal and said, “Sonnie?” He raised his voice and repeated, “Sonnie?”

“Yes,” came her answer.

“Does that sound as if it’s floating by the ceiling?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is. It’s coming through holes in the air-conditioning ductwork. Now walk around upstairs and see if you hear me again.”

He crawled all over the attic and found join after join pried open, and more holes drilled in between. He continued to shout, and Sonnie continued to respond. “Okay, let me take a few photos. There’s a cape and some wigs I want you to look at. Try to relax till I’m done.”

Sonnie smiled so hard her face hurt. She shouldn’t be so happy to learn she’d been set up, but she was. They’d done a great job of convincing her she was losing her mind. But, thanks to Chris, they’d failed. She walked downstairs, aware of the toes on her right foot being swollen. Once all this was behind her, she’d concentrate on getting the best of treatment to help her manage her injuries better. And, when it was time, she’d go ahead with the facial plastic surgery.

And maybe she and Chris would have a life together. But she needed to make sure she could also be independent. She ought to have something she could do. Maybe she’d like to study interior design. She’d often been told she had a flair for creating appealing home spaces. Why not make something of that?

Wimpy showed up with leaves sticking out of his fur. She set him on a chair in the parlor and picked them out. Then she spread a throw and settled him on top. He rested back, and she would almost swear he made a swooning noise.

She heard the front door open and started for the foyer. They hadn’t locked it? If she yelled, would Chris hear her? She should stay where she was. The wind was picking up yet again and could have blown the door open.

Wimpy whined.

Sonnie retreated to sit beside him and stroke him. She bent over him and whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Someone wearing sneakers was taking his or her time to walk across the tiled floor in the foyer. Every few steps, the noise stopped. The person mounted the stairs.

Chris. What if they surprised Chris?

If she did anything impetuous, she could cause him to be harmed. This could be someone who’d wandered off the street looking for shelter—or to steal.

Minutes had never passed so slowly for Sonnie. And as they passed, her terror mounted. She heard footfalls overhead, but they were still soft, light.

Please don’t let Chris call out again.

Wimpy made pathetic snuffling noises and croaking half growls that seemed to surprise him more than Sonnie.

If Chris climbed out of the attic he could walk directly into harm’s way without expecting anything to happen. Sure, he had a gun, but would there be time to use it if he was totally surprised?

She didn’t want to think about him shooting someone.

The intruder was going through every bedroom. So slowly. So slowly before he descended the stairs making a sound as if he took a step, then brought the second foot to meet it. As if he was injured.

Could Cory Bledsoe have escaped and come back? Who knew what his part was in all this? He’d been injured—tortured, really. Perhaps that happened because someone else wasn’t happy with whatever he was supposed to have done about her. Now he might be here to try to prove he could do the job better.

He came toward the parlor.

Α sound came from overhead, a ringing. She turned cold, then hot. Chris’s cell phone. Α faint ringing, but surely the intruder would hear and wonder where it came from.

Sonnie stood up with Wimpy in her arms. Her heart beat hard. “Hush,” she told the dog, “don’t be frightened.” But she knew the message was for herself.

The door swung open, catching on carpet as it always did so that it had to be repeatedly pushed.

“Oh, Sonnie, there you are. I didn’t know where I’d look for you next. No one knows I’m here—yet. But they’ll catch up “

Wimpy struggled and Sonnie couldn’t hold him anymore. He dropped to the floor and stood there, panting.

“Come here and let me look at you, Sonnie.” Frank Giacano, so like his brother facially, had always been much thinner, but never as thin as he was now. Now he was little more than skin stretched over bone. His eyes still had the liquid quality Sonnie had fallen in love with, and with his facial bones accentuated he was almost unbearably handsome. “I came to you first, to let you know how important you are to me.”

She blinked to clear her vision, and felt light-headed. Everything in the room seemed to tilt away at an angle. She took a step to steady herself, but her legs wouldn’t stay braced.

“Cara mia,”
Frank said. “Υou have been through so much, and now I have shocked you. Come, let me help you to bed. But first you must introduce me to my child.”

She felt him hold her wrists, but could do nothing to resist, or to help herself. “I don’t want to go to bed, thank you,” she said, aware of the enormity of this exchange.

Frank released her. He laced his emaciated fingers together, and she saw how he trembled. Α purplish hue shaded his deepened eye sockets. “Tell me what I should do,” he said. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

“Perhaps you should sit down.” What should she tell him to do? She didn’t want him here—he frightened her, yet she was sorry for him.

Frank sat on the couch, just as she’d suggested. His clothes hung from his shoulders. On his feet he wore canvas sneakers with holes across the toes. His hair, black when she’d last seen him, hung to his shoulders and was liberally streaked with gray.