Redemption (37 page)

An idea came to Claire. “You told me my mother killed herself. My real mother.”

Suspicion clouded his eyes. “She died covered in shame. You don’t want to be like her. You can have your sins forgiven, right here and now. You know that.”

Claire swallowed and strived to look contrite. “Actually, I’d prefer…to just end it. It’s a coward’s way out, I know.” She gave a little shrug. “If you would let me have the gun, you could leave and no one would ever know…”

His laughter cracked the quiet. “That’s what you think? Even now, when you should know you can’t outrun your sins?”

He looked at her as if what he said made perfect sense, and Claire knew he was a madman. He had hid his lunacy from the town, practicing his vengeance on select members of his congregation—sinners whose shame was so great they were willing to face Reverend Porter’s particular brand of punishment in exchange for salvation.

He went on talking, while Claire desperately inventoried her dwindling options. “You never would go willingly, would you? You had to fight it. I should have known even then you were headed straight for hell.” He aimed the gun at her, as if it were an accusing finger. “You’re nothing but a slut, a whore just like the woman who bore you.”

The words slapped at her:
Slut. Whore.
Only it was Hayley’s voice, accusing Claire, as the memories flooded back with the force of a raging river. Hayley’s trembling hands holding a gun, pointing first at Matt, then Claire, while she recited a heartfelt soliloquy. At first they’d thought she was improvising, the lines were so perfect, coming from the heart of a spurned wife—or lover. But she’d deviated from the script, the script Claire had so painstakingly memorized with Matt’s help.

And then she’d turned the gun on herself. The sound of the shot rang out like a clap of thunder, and then there was blood, so much blood…

Claire flinched. No, that was a memory—she was in her office, and it was Roy Porter who held the gun.

“What do you want from me?” she asked quietly.

“It’s not what I want from you, you know that. If it were up to me, I would have let you go on your merry little way, cavorting with the Devil all you want. But it’s the Lord. He’s told me I must save your soul from your sins.” He looked down at her, his eyes glowing with the excitement of saving another lost soul. “You must repent and be washed in the blood of the lamb.”

It all came back to her, had never really left. The horror, the shame, the cold, sinking feeling—that she couldn’t breathe, that she would smother under the water—her worst nightmare come true, again and again.

She closed her eyes. “You’re insane,” she whispered. But he didn’t hear her. He was too far gone, too consumed with the passion that had overcome him as he began to impersonate his own version of God.

He stepped closer. His voice an octave deeper, eyes closed, he intoned: “I am the way, the truth, and the light, and he who cometh before me shall be saved—”

Claire lunged. She flew across the desk, the gun never leaving her vision. But he was still quicker, stronger, and halted her attack before she could knock the gun from his grasp. With one hand gripping her hair, he held the gun high above his head, out of her reach.

Forcing her head backward, he bared his teeth and muttered, “The Devil’s not going to win, not this time. ‘You’re mine now, sayeth the Lord.’ And there’s no one to save you now but God.”

All the fight drained out of Claire, and she sank to the desk, knowing she had lost, had never even stood a chance.

At last her destiny had caught up with her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

M
ATT’S
L
IMO
P
ULLED
I
N
F
RONT
of Kaslow’s in the wake of screaming police cars, yanking to a stop behind a line of dazed onlookers. After talking to Tripper, he knew Claire was still at the Philadelphia store—and still not answering her phone.

His heart pounded as his worst fears were realized. He was too late! Somehow Roy Porter must have slipped past the security he had arranged and gotten to Claire.

He put the gut-wrenching fear on hold and leaped from the car. Fighting his way against the crowd that streamed from the entrance, he finally reached an officer in a dark jacket. “What’s going on?”

“Stay back, sir. We have a possible hostage situation.” Another officer spoke into his walkie talkie, but Matt couldn’t hear him over the sirens, as more squad cars blocked the street at either end of the store.

“Who is it?” he shouted. “Who’s in there?”

“I can’t give you that information—” Then the officer recognized the face behind the two-day beard. “Mr. Grayson, you’ll have to remain back.” A voice crackled on the radio, and Matt heard the news at the same time the officer did. “Positive ID on hostage. It’s Claire Porter, Kaslow’s president. No ID on the gunman. Repeat, no ID—”

“Jesus,” Matt breathed. Then he turned to the officer and grabbed his arm. “You’ve got to let me in there!”

“Sir, you can’t—”

“I’m her family, damn it! And I know who’s holding her! Let me talk to your supervisor…anyone…” He broke off as someone in the crowd yelled behind him. Already Matt was drawing attention, away from the situation and on to him. A living, breathing celebrity was just as good as real-life drama.

After a brief consultation with his superior, the officer, who had identified himself as Dan Griggs, agreed to escort Matt through the east entrance. By now, most of the crowd had been cleared from the premises and were gathered behind the hastily erected barricades. Inside the store, the perimeter had been cordoned off, restricting access to the area outside the rotunda where the gunman was located, out of firing range. Officer Griggs briefed him as they walked, though there was little information he could give.

“Customers reported seeing the two get off the elevator at around seven twenty-five p.m. An older man, approximately sixty years of age, and a younger woman. No positive ID on the type of weapon, but it’s assumed to be a small-caliber handgun.”

“Where are they?”

“He’s taken her to the fountain, at the center of the first floor. We’ve got sharpshooters on the way, but it’ll be hard to get a clear shot with all the greenery.”

Matt tried to forget it was Claire they were discussing, Claire who would be directly in the line of fire. Instead, he gathered his wits and told the officer what he knew.

“I know who the guy is. I called earlier, tried to warn you guys…” He swept a hand through his hair. It was futile to point out now that they should have taken him seriously. “It’s her father—her adoptive father, Roy Porter. The guy’s a religious fanatic, thinks he’s on a mission from God. I just talked to his wife earlier today. They’re both a couple of goddamned lunatics.” His mouth tightened. He should have known, should have prevented this somehow. But now wasn’t the time for recriminations; it was time for action.

Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be a damned thing he could do.

While the officer relayed the information on the radio, Matt looked around. He couldn’t see the fountain, but he noticed a monitor set up a few yards away. It received a live feed from the video camera the team had positioned so that they could have “eyes” on the situation. Matt once played a member of a SWAT team, and his research had given him a good idea of what was going on around him.

They would be searching blueprints of the store, trying to find a way to surprise the gunman. But Matt already knew: Except for the foliage, there would be no solid cover to hide behind. The closest display counters were on the other side of the walls that divided the rotunda from the first floor selling space. The ceiling of the rotunda was four floors high—there was little chance of approaching from that direction.

He edged closer to the monitor, and in the confusion, no one noticed him.

He could hear the comments of the officers as they viewed the situation. “He’s got his eyes closed—he’s mumbling something. Think we could get off a shot?”

Matt’s heart leaped to his throat. Then he caught a glimpse of the screen. It was Claire, on her knees in front of the madman. A gun was pointed right at her bowed head.

Matt’s head swelled with white-hot rage. He wanted to rip the gun from Porter’s hands, then tear him to ribbons with his fists. His blood pumped faster, loaded with the adrenaline that had been fueling him ever since he had seen the photos of her.

He slammed his fist into the wall that separated him from the open area where Claire was being held. The pain didn’t register. Sweat poured from him as he realized the truth: It was Claire out there, in harm’s way, and he was powerless to help her. This wasn’t a movie, where the superhero comes charging in at the last minute to save the innocent hostage tied to the tracks. There was no director calling instructions from the sidelines, no makeup tech to wipe the sweat from his brow. This was real life, with real bullets in the gun Roy Porter held.

He paced the small area in which he was confined. There had to be something he could do, before the situation escalated, before the finger on the trigger grew antsy, before Roy Porter’s mind slipped totally.

After his conversation with Deborah, Matt was convinced Roy Porter thought he was a one-man judgment team. God’s enforcer. He was crazier than a loon. There was no reason to which he could appeal.

But maybe someone could appeal to his delusions, convince the guy they had bought into his game. No sane person would fall for it of course, but if the guy was out of touch with reality already, why not convince him he wasn’t the only one playing make-believe?

Matt approached Officer Griggs. “Listen up. You’ve got to let me go out there. I think I can convince this guy to let her go.”

But the officer only shook his head. “Not a chance. Civilians have to stay behind the line. You don’t know when this guy’s going to crack.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about! By the time you guys get your act together, it might be too late. Look, I’m no hostage negotiator, but I can convince this guy I’m whoever he wants me to be. With his mindset, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if God himself dropped in for a chat.”

“Sir, I understand how you feel. If it was my girlfriend out there, I’d want to go busting in there myself.” The officer looked at him pityingly. “We’ve got a family counselor on the way over. She’s used to working with victim’s families.”

Matt’s thin hold on control vanished. “Claire isn’t a goddamned victim! That man’s a lunatic, and unless someone can get to her in a hurry, he’s going to snap! And then I’ll have to explain to my son why I sat here and did nothing while his mother was…was—” Matt’s throat constricted.

“We can’t let you approach the area, sir. We just can’t. The best thing you can do is stay out of our way and let us do our jobs.”

Matt turned away, disgusted. If there was nothing he could do, he’d be damned if he’d do it in the designated waiting area.

He pushed his way through the gathering swarm of black-jacketed officers. He had one advantage: After spending seven nights filming in this place, he knew his way around better than any of the SWAT team.

He slipped past a pyramid display of
Scandal
bottles. When the officer nearby looked away, Matt broke into the aisle, beyond the point the police had cordoned off.

Ignoring the shouts behind him, he loped past a display of handbags, toward the center of the rotunda. He slowed as he reached the planters bulging with spring bulbs and huge tropical plants. He edged around them until he could see the side of the fountain where Roy Porter stood, his eyes closed, intoning scripture. He seemed to be in his own world, totally unaware of the crisis he had instigated, unaware even that he was no longer alone with his “penitent.” The gun in his hand wavered with the rise and fall of his voice.

Matt didn’t dare glance at Claire. One look at the fear in her eyes, and he would lose his cool and charge the bastard. Instead, he focused his attention on Roy Porter.

The man needed a reality check, but Matt wasn’t going to give it to him.

“I see you’re holding a baptism here. Without me.” He forced himself to chuckle devilishly. “What a shame. I always like to be around when these things happen. After all, you never know when one might slip.” He pasted an evil grin on his face.

He heard Claire’s gasp, but he ignored it, totally focused on his character now.

Roy opened his eyes. He stared at Matt over the top of Claire’s head. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m trying to bring about God’s justice?”

Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Well, it looks like you’ve got the wrong sinner this time. I’m the one you want. I was the one who taught her everything she knows.” He gave Roy a sincere grin. “Why don’t you perform your little ceremony on me, instead? I could use some salvation.”

Roy looked at him, mistrust blazing from his blue eyes. “You’re that actor, aren’t you? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be out in Hollywood—that sinner’s paradise.”

“Hey, I get around,” Matt said, his expression open, trusting. “Right now I’m interested in hearing what you’ve got to say.”

“My business is not with you.”