Storm Season (17 page)

Cherry came back to life, finally. “Without lights for those dark hallways, or the ability to open multiple doors without tearing this place apart, how do we search?”

Taylor shrugged. “We need to find a way to get the lights turned on.”

A FUEL TRUCK, RIDING slowly behind a snowplow, arrived at seven in the morning to the cheers of everyone. The fuel was pumped into the basement generators, the lights flickered to life, and a semblance of normality restored, people scattered back to their rooms to get some sleep and check in with loved ones.

Taylor was glad of it; now they could do a proper search, run a crime scene unit through Stamper and Florian’s rooms.

Cherry and Pierre had been huddled together in a corner of the bar for the past fifteen minutes, backs to the wall, eyes darting to the entrance every few moments, and Taylor wondered just what story they were concocting. Self-preservation, preparation, cover-up, she didn’t know, only that they were both acting like Angelie Delacroix was going to burst through the wall yelling
yippie ki-yay
and shoot up the place.

Taylor left them alone, paced the bar. Florian’s disappearance was gnawing at her. She wanted to strike off and look for him, but knew how foolish that was, especially if the uber-assassin was still on site. They needed manpower, backup, K9 units, the works. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the Calvert County Sheriff, a decent-looking man named Evans, arrived, summoned by the report of a murder.

Taylor and Cherry explained the situation. To his credit, he took down their stories with a raised eyebrow and only a few head shakes. He went upstairs, came down with a grim expression, asked Taylor several probing questions, then said, “Lieutenant, glad you were here. Situation might have gotten further out of control. There are more people coming, State Police, FBI, K-9. Storm's holding everyone up. We’re going to need you to give your official statement, so get comfy.”

“Can’t I help? I don’t want to sit around doing nothing.”

“It’s going to take more than two of us to search this place.” He smiled, kindly enough. “You’ve done your part. Why don’t you head to your room and get some rest? I’d lock my door, though my guess is Florian and this Delacroix woman are long gone. Timing wise, the streets were still passable until after midnight. The hotel videotape wasn’t recording, so that’s useless. Just need to bring in the troops and get this place searched and processed. You know how it goes.”

Taylor did, and knew her role in the situation was finished. With the jurisdictional cops on scene, she was relegated back to conference attendee, and witness. Which was weird.

But Evans had a point. A little sleep wouldn’t go amiss.

She interrupted another confab between Pierre and Cherry.

“Cherry, I’m going to go up to my room. Call me if they find Florian, okay?”

TAYLOR HAD TO DETOUR TO her room – though the power was back on, the elevators were still off-limits. She pulled a site map off the concierge desk and glanced at it. The back staircase would be closer to her room. She took the hallway toward the gym, the scent leading her toward the pool and the hot tub. Ah, a hot bath in that giant tub upstairs would be lovely, though she doubted the water heaters were going to get suitable power from the generators to pump water hot enough for her taste.

She pushed through the pool doors and immediately knew something was wrong. Instinct, coupled with the chair at the edge of the pool, ropes coiled neatly by its legs. She drew her weapon and went into a defensive stance. The glass windows in the place were wavy, which gave weak light that shimmered against the pool water. She went slowly, searching, until she saw the open door to the lifeguard office. And inside was Thierry Florian, eyes closed, leaning back on a longue chair. Blood soaked his shirt and he was pale as a ghost. Asleep, or dead?

She rushed to him, put her fingers against his carotid. A steady beat, and her breath whooshed out. He started, eyes opening. “Angelie, I told you—”

He cut himself off when he saw Taylor.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Florian, please. Ellis Stamper is dead. You’ve obviously been tortured. I know all about Angelie Delacroix. Cherry and Pierre Matthews filled me in. Where is she?”

He licked his lips, which were cracked and bloody. “Gone,” he whispered.

She helped him sit up.

“Why aren’t you dead? It looks like she gave you quite a working over.”

He smiled, though the action obviously caused him pain. “You are blunt, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Angelie didn’t want me dead. She just wanted information.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that is the whole story. The Sheriff is here, and there’s about to be a whole wad of law enforcement on his tail. Is she still here, Thierry? Tell me the truth.”

“She left ten minutes ago. You won’t catch her.”

Taylor met his eyes. “Watch me.”

TAYLOR CALLED CHERRY, told her to share what was happening with the Sheriff, and to send backup immediately. She shoved her cell phone in her pocket and press checked her Glock. It was habit, a cop’s unconscious movement.

Florian tried to stop her. “You’re wasting your time.”

He tried to rise, but the blood loss had taken its toll.

“You stay here and guard the pool. When the Sheriff’s people come, show them the way.”

“On your head be it,” Florian said.

She gave him a smile and started off.

One thing Taylor had gathered about Angelie Delacroix, there would be signs of her passage. Morbid signs. Since Taylor hadn’t seen any on her way in, she exited opposite the door she'd originally come through, toward the north end of the pool, right out into the hallway that led to the back entrance of the hotel. The light was startling here, she had to blink to adjust.

She took in the whiteness outside, knew there was no way anyone could get out of there without leaving a mess.

It didn’t take long to find the trail. Footprints led toward a small outbuilding about 100 yards away. Backup was moments behind, so Taylor stepped out into the freezing cold.

Her hands went numb almost immediately, but she kept the weapon up and ready. The going was slow, the snow drifting to her waist in places. The chill wind was rising again, Taylor recognized the feeling. This was a temporary reprieve, there was more snow on the way.

Her feet were snug in her boots but snow was sliding down the calf and into the leather. A fine shiver started, and with it, her common sense.

You’re an idiot, Taylor. Go back inside and let the locals freeze their asses off.

She could hear them now, they were close. She started edging backwards. As she turned, there was a woman, standing in her path.

Taylor froze. The woman was small, Taylor had a good six inches on her, but her weapon was pointed right at Taylor’s head.

“What are you doing out here?” the woman asked, her accent clearly French.

“Police. Put the gun down, Angelie. You can’t rack up any more bodies today, you’re already going away for a very long time. Put the gun down,” she shouted.

The woman cocked her head to the side. The gun didn’t waver.

“I think you are the one who needs to disarm yourself, Lieutenant Jackson. Yes, I know your name. It’s next to that smiling photograph on the program in Thierry’s room. A profiler, are you?”

“Homicide. You’re under arrest. Put that damn gun down, now.”

“I think not,” Angelie said, then before Taylor could blink, she took off, through the snow, toward a stone wall that barely peeked out under its white blanket.

“Shit!”

Taylor took off after her, amazed at Angelie’s prowess in the snow. Taylor was too tall, too ungainly, to make quick progress. There was only one thing to do.

Taylor stopped and fired, and the bullet found its target. Angelie spun to the side, and Taylor heard her cry out.

“Drop the weapon, Angelie, and I won’t do that again.”

Shouts rang out from the building to her left, the Sheriff’s deputies were coming. Angelie heard them as well, didn’t hesitate. She fired off several rounds, spraying them wildly behind her, forcing Taylor face down in the snow. She rolled to her right, flipped over and up onto her knees and aimed again.

Angelie's left arm was dragging by her side, but she kept running, a dead sprint through the snow. She reached the stone wall before Taylor could get off a second round, and disappeared behind it.

It took Taylor a full minute to scramble to her feet and reach the spot.

“She’s here,” she called to the deputies, who were wading through the snow one hundred yards behind her.

Carefully, slowly, weapon first, Taylor looked over the edge of the wall. Beyond it was a steep slope. It was terraced, a vineyard in the summertime, staggered levels that ran down the hill, demarcated by stone barriers. One section dropped off into the beach below, Taylor figured it must be a forty-foot drop.

Angelie Delacroix was crouched against the stone barrier above the beach, back to the ocean, watching Taylor. She was trapped, and bleeding. Their eyes met.

Taylor edged closer. Take the shot, Taylor, take the shot. You can end this, right here.

She took a breath to steady her hands, shaking in the cold. Her finger rested on the trigger. Just a fraction of movement, and the bullet would take Angelie Delacroix in the forehead.

And in that moment, Angelie raised her weapon toward Taylor in a sort of salute and smiled, crooked, knowing, then jumped off the ledge. Into the sea.

Taylor gritted her teeth and scrambled over the wall. Damn it. Damn it all. She’d had a clear shot. She shouldn’t have hesitated. But she recognized something in the woman’s eyes. Something dark, and unimaginable to those who hadn’t been faced with taking a life. And Taylor had chosen that route, too many times.

The first bullet had hit Angelie in the shoulder. Taylor had shot to maim, not kill. She made a choice, right or wrong, and now her prey was gone.

She pointed the weapon at the barrier, just where the woman had disappeared. Listened, but heard nothing.

“Police!” she shouted. “Show me your hands.”

Silence. The waves crashed below, a seagull cried. Silence amplified by the dizzying expanse of white before her, her voice echoed slightly. To her right, disturbed by the deputies making their way closer, a bird took wing, startled by the noise, sent her heart right to her throat.

Taylor ducked her head, took a deep breath in through her nose, and leading with her Glock, looked over the edge. She was prepared for what she found.

Nothing.

There was no sign of Angelie Delacroix.

All that was left of her was a spattering of blood drops on the snow, like a shower of rubies dashed onto white velvet.