Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (26 page)

I have generous ears. You can pick any Carr relative out of
a lineup—me, my sister, my cousins—solely by the size and shape of our ears.
This time, my submerged, plus-sized hearing appendages failed me.

My eyes popped open when the bathroom door swung wide and
ushered in a cool breeze. An apparition stared down at me. Paralyzed with fear,
my scream caught in my throat.

Had anyone—even Aunt May—entered, I’d have shrieked in
shock. But Eric, oh, God, what did he plan to do?

Jake’s orphaned grandson loomed in the doorway. He wheezed.
His face ruddy from rage, exertion or both. His light blue eyes looked wild.
Their crazed, shifting focus scared me shitless.

He was the spitting image of every murdering maniac conjured
up by film noir. My total vulnerability didn’t help. You can’t get much more
vulnerable than reclining naked in a tub.

His right hand grasped a large butcher knife. It swung to
and fro like a shiny pendulum on a grandfather clock. At least the sharp blade
wasn’t dripping blood.

Inexplicably, his weapon transformed my fear into
righteous—I’m sure some would say menopausal—wrath. I refused to cower in front
of this deranged, wet-behind-the-ears killer. The past twenty-four hours
overloaded my nervous system with one too many shocks. The gleaming blade cut
it.

“Okay, Eric,” I screamed. “Stab me. Just get it over with,
punk. Nothing I can do. But you’ll kill me without the satisfaction of hearing
me beg. What are you waiting for, you frigging idiot? Afraid you’ll miss a
vital organ because you can’t see through the suds? Well, how’s this—I’ll help
you decide where to aim?”

I violently pushed off the tub’s ledge and levered my nude
body fully erect to its five-foot-seven-inch height. A tidal wave of soapy
water splashed over the tub and rolled like an ocean breaker across the floor.
The bathroom tsunami inundated Eric’s running shoes, then retreated in a wash
of muddy detritus. Would this be the last sight I’d see?

The twenty-year-old spun, turning his back on my naked body.
He blubbered like a baby. Not exactly the expected reaction.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he whimpered. “I tried to shoot
him, but I couldn’t. My hands shook too much. Uncle Kyle’s blood made me dizzy.
I guess I dropped the gun.”

Full-body sobs jerked the kid’s shoulders up and down. “I
don’t even remember grabbing this knife. Musta seen it when I ran through the
kitchen.”

My adrenaline-soaked brain wobbled from thought to thought.
What in the hell was this boy saying? Could I snatch that knife from his hand?

“Who did you shoot? Your uncle?”

Eric slumped against the doorjamb. “A mistake. He’s coming for
me. I gotta kill him before he kills me. He doesn’t scare you. I heard him talk
about you. Help me. Please.”

Gingerly, I climbed out of the tub and slipped behind him.
My wet hand closed over his trembling fingers. Miniature soap bubbles burst on
my skin as I guided his arm toward May’s aqua commode and unwrapped his
fingers. No resistance. The blade splashed into the toilet bowl. Step one.

Step two. Calm him down. Had the boy truly blocked out the
fact that he’d killed Kyle Olsen? “Why did your uncle want to kill you?”

While waiting for an answer, I snagged a towel wrapper and
nudged Eric ahead of me out of the bathroom. The young man hadn’t quit crying
long enough to speak.

“Sit on the bed,” I ordered.

He sat, head in hands, and rocked. His sobs came in
anguished waves.

“Eric, your uncle can’t kill you. He’s dead. You have to
turn yourself in.”

The kid’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I just talked to Agent Weaver. She’s at Vivian’s house.
Kyle Olsen is dead. So are Vivian and Nancy. Do you remember shooting? Maybe it
was an accident.”

Eric leapt toward me. Not good. The chords in his neck stood
out. “He killed them all. I didn’t do it.”

“Sit. Back. Down.” I made it a command, no choice but to
submit.

His lanky frame folded in on itself. Maybe I’d get out of this
alive.

“Why would your uncle kill Vivian and Nancy and then kill
himself?”

“Not Uncle Kyle. That other man. He taunted him. Told him he
had to do it.” Eric’s blubbering made his next words unintelligible.

“Snap out of it!” The notion of slapping Eric to stop his
hysterics held a certain appeal. But that meant letting go of my towel cover. I
snagged May’s pink robe on a nearby hook and shimmied it over my head.

“In the living room.” I pointed the way.

Eric staggered to a couch. “I rang the bell. When no one
answered, I broke in to wait for you. Then I heard water running.”

The front door stood ajar, a sidelight window broken. Time
to get the kid back on track. “You mentioned another man. What man?” If Eric
meant Hamilton, I wanted him to say so without coaching.

My fingers itched to dial 911 while Eric appeared docile.
Yet this might be my one chance to get him to talk. Traumatized, the
not-quite-grownup seemed willing to spill his guts. Whatever Eric wanted to get
off his chest might lighten Darlene’s load. Not often does one land a
blubbering, voluble defector from the enemy camp.

“That Hamilton fellow. The security guy.”

Bingo. We were getting somewhere.

“Did I hear my name?”

The oily voice made my bowels shrivel. I turned toward May’s
front door as Hamilton nudged it closed with his backside. His right hand,
encased in thin surgeon’s gloves, held a Glock aimed squarely at my chest.

Eric leapt up from the couch.

“Sit down or you’ll have another death on your conscience,” Hamilton barked. “One more step and I shoot Marley. Behave and she might live.”

Yeah, right. I willed Eric to rush Hamilton. With the gun
pointed at me, he had a chance. I’d be dead either way.

My mental telepathy failed. The kid collapsed on the couch
in defeat.

“Good boy.” Hamilton glanced at Eric. “Those last three
murders are all your fault. If you’d kept swallowing your pills, you’d never
have overheard your uncle and me.”

Hamilton hadn’t ordered me to sit. I stood maybe eight feet
away. Too far to down him before a bullet ended a tackle. I held my breath and
inched one foot forward. Hamilton’s head snapped in my direction. His glare
pinned me. “Don’t get cute, Colonel. Sit. Now.”

I backed up. May’s recliner sat directly behind me. I veered
left and gingerly lowered myself onto a cane-bottomed chair, one of May’s
recent antique finds. The wooden chair was heavy yet light enough to lift.
Could I swing it like a club?

“I assume you plan to kill me and blame it on Eric.” My calm
tone seemed to surprise and irritate my captor. “Let the boy live. No one will
believe him if he accuses you.”

Hamilton’s smug smile chilled me. “You’re right about that.
My alibi’s airtight.”

“So why track Eric down?”

He shrugged. “I wiped the gun clean. No fingerprints. That
didn’t quite jibe with a drug-crazed killer. So much neater if the FBI found
Eric holding the proverbial smoking gun.

“I wondered where the sniveling brat might run. His shiny
red car advertised he’d come calling. Killing you, Colonel, wasn’t part of my
plan. Just a nice bonus.”

I maintained direct eye contact. I didn’t want him to notice
my fingers. My aunt had plans to repair the loose chair arm. As my fingers
pried at it, I thanked heaven she’d procrastinated. Free of its pegs, the dense
wood would make a solid club.

“So why kill your half-brother and the women? Wouldn’t it
have been easier to do away with Eric?”

Keep Hamilton talking.

He chuckled. While his right hand trained the Glock on me,
his left pulled a syringe from his pocket. “A heroin overdose for Eric would
have been a tidy solution, but Kyle had a sudden bout of conscience. While we
argued, dopehead here found a gun and fired at me.” Hamilton smiled. “Dopey
dropped the pistol after he winged Kyle. When I settled down, I realized Kyle
had become a liability. So I set up an alibi and doubled back to finish him
off. Nancy and Vivian blundered in. Bad timing.”

I nodded, willing Hamilton to keep his eyes locked on mine.
Eric stirred. Was he going to rush Hamilton?

“Handing over military secrets to homegrown terrorists
didn’t bother you? You knew they planned to kill thousands, maybe millions, of
innocents.”

The chair’s arm came free. I settled it lightly on its dowel
and scooted my hand further back until I reached a narrow section I could grip
like a bat handle.

Hamilton bared his white teeth in what passed for a smile.
“We both know no one’s really innocent, don’t we? I had sympathy with the
cause. I figured Bo’s clowns would get caught after they killed off a few
thousand wetbacks. My contribution to solving our immigration problems.”

“They’ll catch you,” I growled.

“No, they won’t. That two million Glaston transferred to a
Swiss bank is sitting in my account, got ten million more from Bo after his
successful field tests.”

Hamilton’s eyes traveled down my body. He snickered. “Your
death costume adds an extra touch of humiliation. You look like a bag lady who
stole a smaller kid’s clothes.”

Eric sprang. Hamilton’s taunt morphed into a grunt. He
crashed to the floor, Eric on top. The gun boomed, and plaster rained from the
ceiling. Hamilton dropped the syringe, but not the pistol. I jumped to my feet,
solid armrest in hand.

The twenty-year-old straddled his adversary, pinning one of
the older man’s wrists in each hand. Too bad a steady diet of drugs had sapped
the kid’s strength. His hold wasn’t enough to keep Hamilton from steadily
inching the Glock upward. In a minute, it would tuck under Eric’s chin.

The men rolled. Positions flipped. Hamilton claimed the top.
Time to act.

I sprinted and swung my makeshift club. Hamilton saw it
coming and ducked. The armrest connected with floor not flesh. A jarring wave
of pain shot from my wrist to my shoulder.

The gun coughed, and May’s Tiffany lamp exploded.

I refocused on the squirming men. When Hamilton coiled to
escape my club, the kid seized the distraction, pinning the corrupt exec’s gun
arm beneath his body. But the experienced older man had a new weapon. He’d
recovered the hypodermic syringe. A weapon just as lethal as the gun. Using his
teeth, he plucked the plastic cover off the syringe. Armed and ready.

Eric gripped the man’s forearm, wrestling to keep the
hypodermic needle away. He was losing the battle. Hamilton scissored his legs
in an attempt to heave Eric off. I threw myself across his whipsawing legs,
anchoring them in place. It was like riding side-by-side bucking broncos.

The deadly needle moved closer to the young man’s face. I
slid further up Hamilton’s legs. His knees battered my ribs, but I’d gained a
clear shot at his groin. Rising up, I dropped all my weight on my elbow between
Hamilton’s legs. His whole body arched, accompanied by a scream that climbed
two octaves.

Eric’s arm rose. He’d seized the syringe. Blood spurted as
the needle plunged into Hamilton’s eye. Eric’s fingers pressed the plunger. The
legs beneath me bucked in a wild frenzy. When they stilled, the only sounds
were my labored pants and Eric’s gasps for air.

The kid rolled off Hamilton and lay spread-eagled on the
rug. His chest heaved with every intake of air.

I attempted to stagger up. My body felt limp, boneless. Get
up, call the police.

A shriek coaxed me to hoist my body up on one elbow. Had
some new enemy come to murder us?

May’s elderly upstairs neighbors swayed in the doorway, a
twin portrait of fear. A blue-veined hand covered the woman’s open mouth. Her
stooped husband held her up by her elbow.

“We called 911,” he said. “A bullet came through our floor.
Scared us silly. Are you okay, Marley?” His gaze swept over the still body and
Eric gasping for oxygen.

“Yes,” I answered. “Thanks.”

Sirens blared nearby. Just the tonic I needed to prompt
action. I wobbled to my feet and pulled the hem of my borrowed pink robe to
cover my still-soapy thighs.

***

Sheriff’s deputies swarmed the condo and stood guard over
the scene until Agent Weaver arrived with her team. She ushered Eric and me
into the guest bedroom for a chat while the crime scene techs combed May’s
living room, and Gertie examined another dead body. I hoped all evidence of the
bloody melee could be erased before my aunt returned to the condo she viewed as
her quiet, safe haven.

I tuned in as Weaver questioned Eric. The boy reported that
his Uncle Kyle had been feeding him pharmaceuticals like popcorn to keep him
out of the way. Feeling ill, Eric began spitting out pills as soon as his
caretakers left the room. He’d wandered down to the kitchen for a snack and was
foraging in the walk-in pantry when he heard his Uncle Kyle and Hamilton having a heated argument.

“Hamilton insisted I had to die,” Eric said. “Kyle found the
stash of pills I’d been spitting up so they weren’t sure how much I knew. Hamilton suggested a drug overdose, but Uncle Kyle claimed it was too risky. He said even
if I talked, no one would believe a druggie.”

Eric stopped talking and stared at the hands folded in his
lap. Weaver patted his shoulder. “What happened then?”

“Hamilton called my uncle a coward. That made Uncle Kyle
mad. He said he wished he’d never asked Hamilton for help when Dr. Glaston put
the squeeze on him. Hamilton told Uncle Kyle to suck it up or he’d just be
another loser bastard.”

As Weaver peppered Eric with a new question, his eyes seemed
to focus.

“I knew Kyle kept a Glock by his bed. So I snuck into his
room and stole it. I crept downstairs, saw Hamilton standing in the doorway. A
stair squeaked just when I took aim. Hamilton dove behind Uncle Kyle and ran
out the front door.”

Eric stopped talking. Weaver asked an agent to go to May’s
kitchen and get him a glass of water. He gulped it down.