Deadly Pursuit

28

Silence around the dinner table.

Kirstie ate slowly, watching Jack Dance and her husband, who watched each other.

Strong violet light, the last glory of the sunset, flooded through the French doors, dimming the bulbs in the wrought-iron chandelier to a mere afterthought. The faces of the two men were murky and strange in the purple glow.

Jack, chewing industriously with his elbow on the table, delivering forkfuls of food to his mouth with conveyor-belt efficiency, was an engine single-mindedly stoking itself. Steve, barely nibbling at his portion, seemed lost in dark thoughts.

On the floor by Jack’s feet, Anastasia whined. Absently, Jack offered her a bite of chicken.

“I wish you wouldn’t feed her,” Kirstie said. Her voice seemed loud and startling in the stillness. “I don’t want her begging for table scraps.”

Jack shrugged. “She’s a good dog.” His smile, meant to be ingratiating, was merely insolent. “Deserves a little attention now and then. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

He ruffled Ana’s fur. The wolfhound made a contented purring sound.

“She gets plenty of attention, but not at the table.”

Kirstie looked at Steve, hoping for support. “Anyway, she’s already eaten.”

“Still seems to have an appetite,” Jack said.

“Dogs always have an appetite.”

“Well, that’s why they should be fed.” He gave Anastasia another scrap, then let her lick his fingers. “See how she loves her Uncle Jack?”

Kirstie studied his face, his hazel eyes, and saw no benevolence there, no fondness for the dog, no enjoyment other than malicious satisfaction.

He’s doing this only to get me upset, she realized. He doesn’t even like Ana. He just… hates me.

Hate. A strong word. Yet it seemed to fit.

And why not? She hated him, didn’t she? She wasn’t even sure why. The feeling was almost instinctual-the automatic response of two natural enemies-the lion and the hyena, the mongoose and the…

Snake.

They continued their meal without further conversation. The sun was gone, darkness total, by the time dinner was finished. From the garden droned the shrill buzz of cicadas. Somewhere a vireo sang.

“Delicious, Mrs. G.” Jack wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Delicious,” Steve echoed emptily.

She acknowledged their compliments with a muted thank-you, then added perfunctorily, “Anyone for dessert?”

“Just coffee, please,” Jack said, and Steve nodded.

She rose. “I’ll put these dishes in the sink, then put on a pot of decaf. That okay, Jack?”

“Perfect.” He stood also. “Let me help you clear the table.”

“How thoughtful.”

“The least I can do.”

His politeness was grating in its artificiality, her own responses equally false.

Isn’t it funny how we’re all pretending everything is normal when we know it’s not?

She gathered up the plates and carried them into the kitchen. Anastasia trailed her, hunting for more food.

“Quit it, Ana. You’ve had enough.”

She filled the sink with soapy water and let the plates soak. Turning, she nearly stumbled over Ana, begging theatrically, her paws lifted, head cocked.

“Damn.” She caught her breath. “All right, out of the kitchen. Go on. Out.”

She shooed Ana into the dining room, then followed, passing Jack as he carried in the glasses.

“You’ve spoiled my dog,” she said with a frozen smile.

“Hey, let her live a little. These go in the sink?”

She nodded. “Please.”

Ana circled the table, sniffing the floor. She found Steve and nuzzled his leg.

“Get away, girl,” Steve muttered as he collected napkins and place mats.

“He’s leaving soon,” Kirstie whispered close to his ear. “Or I am.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine… You, uh, you put on the coffee?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re having some, too, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Why?”

He turned away. “Just wondered.”

Jack returned and began to stack the salad bowls. Anastasia licked his pants leg industriously. Jack laughed.

“Hey, sweetheart, I love you, too.”

“Ana,” Kirstie snapped. “Stop that.”

The dog obeyed with a hurt expression.

At least she still listens to me, Kirstie thought bitterly. She hasn’t completely forgotten where her loyalties lie.

Steve came back from the kitchen, his hands empty, and looked for something to do.

“Looks like we’re just about done here,” Kirstie said. “If you’d like, you can start the coffee.”

“I’ll do that.” He glanced at Jack. “In fact, why don’t you two go sit on the patio, and I’ll bring out the coffee when it’s ready?”

The words were addressed to her, but at the margin of her vision she caught Jack’s nearly imperceptible nod.

“Uh… fine,” she answered.

“Okay.” Steve half turned toward the kitchen doorway. “It’ll take maybe five minutes-”

Ana, still seeking attention, reared up and planted both forepaws on Steve’s side, sweeping her tongue across his face.

“Hey, hey, get down.”

He took a clumsy backward step. Ana scrabbled at his waist to hang on. Something shifted under Steve’s jacket-Kirstie saw a flash of panic on his face, a jerk of his hand toward his side-too late-the jacket flapped open, and a metallic object, bulky and blue-black, tumbled out.

It hit the floor with a crack and skidded across the inlaid tiles, coming to rest against one leg of the table.

The Beretta.

Kirstie looked blankly, uncomprehendingly, at her husband.

Steve returned her stare, then shifted his focus to Jack.

Their gazes locked.

For a moment-it might have been a second or an hour-no one moved.

A splintering crash.

Shatter of porcelain.

The salad bowls Jack had been holding, now in pieces on the floor.

Jack on his knees, plunging under the table, groping for the gun.

Steve threw Anastasia aside, flung himself prostrate, right arm outstretched.

Jack’s hand closed over the blued barrel. Steve seized the handle and wrenched the pistol free.

He scrambled backward and lurched upright, aiming the Beretta at Jack with shaking hands.

Slowly, Jack got to his feet, panting raggedly, his hair in sweaty disarray.

From the doorway. Ana whined.

Kirstie stood motionless, her glance ticking from one man to the other.

This couldn’t be happening. It was some kind of joke. She waited for Steve and Jack to burst out laughing.

But there was no laughter. Steve steadied his gun hand and wiped a strand of hair from his forehead. Jack watched the Beretta warily, a vein beating in his temple.

The slow, visible pulsation of that vein finally convinced Kirstie that all this was real.

“What the hell is going on?”

The voice startled her. She needed a heartbeat of time to recognize it as her own.

Jack smiled. A smile cleansed of any phony friendliness now. Pure malice, open and concentrated, frightening to see.

“Tell her, Stevie. Explain to your lovely wife exactly what’s transpired here.”

“I–I don’t know where to start.”

“Then I’ll start for you,” Jack said breezily. “Your husband and I share a secret, Mrs. G. See, I have a nasty habit. And he knows about it. He’s known for seventeen years.”

Steve interrupted. “I wasn’t sure.”

“You were sure enough. Especially when you began to hear about Mister Twister.”

Mister Twister. Kirstie frowned. The name was vaguely familiar. Something she’d read in a news magazine months ago.

“Who…?” She coughed, swallowed, found her voice. “Who’s Mister Twister?”

Jack grinned at her. “I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seven women in the last fourteen months. That’s what it means.”

“Seven women…”

The TV news reader’s voice came back to her, the words sharp in her memory like shards of glass: Nationally the manhunt continues for a serial killer now officially linked to the deaths of seven women in six western and southwestern states…

Her throat closed up. Breathing was suddenly difficult. She struggled for air.

“It was you,” she whispered, staring mesmerized at Jack. “You’re the one they’re looking for.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You know that much?”

“I heard… on the TV… this afternoon.” She shut her eyes. “I turned it off before they gave the details.”

“Well, that was a mistake, Mrs. G. A bad mistake.”

She turned to Steve. “Why haven’t you told me? And why haven’t you turned him in by now?”

Steve dropped his gaze. “Kirstie…” The word was a croak, followed by silence.

“I’ll explain why,” Jack said. “He hasn’t turned me in because we’re working together. We’re partners, your hubby and I.”

She would not hear it, would not believe. “That’s impossible.”

“I already told you, we share a secret. All along Stevie’s known exactly who and what I am. But he could never tell anyone because, you see, he helped me kill my first girl. He was my accomplice.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve cut in.

“My accessory, then. After the fact. He covered for me.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew you were lying. You knew you were obstructing justice. You knew, Stevie. You knew.”

Steve said nothing. Small muscles in his cheek and jaw twitched under the skin.

“Is that true?” Kirstie whispered, already knowing the answer.

Steve looked at her. Slowly he nodded.

Kirstie moaned. Her stomach dropped away. The floor listed dangerously under her feet. She grasped the edge of the dining table to keep her balance.

Suddenly the rest of her life was losing its reality, melting into a dream, a meticulously detailed delusion. The house in Danbury, her job, her marriage-all of it was dissolving like smoke before her eyes, leaving only this room and these two men and the gun in her husband’s hand.

Her husband. But he wasn’t, couldn’t be. The man she had loved, had wed, was not the stranger facing her, this man who’d admitted to being an accessory to homicide.

The room began to spin. She thought she might pass out.

No.

She couldn’t afford the luxury of helplessness, not now. Now was when she had to be strong, stronger than she’d ever been in her life.

With trembling effort she forced down panic and light-headedness, mastered her emotions.

Later she would feel things about this. Later she would rage and grieve. Later, when it was over and she was safe.

Jack clapped his hands, the sound shocking in the stillness. “Okay,” he said briskly, “let’s not waste any more time. You have the pills?”

Steve wouldn’t look at his wife. “I have them.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“What’s the usual dose?”

“Two.”

“Okay. Six ought to do it.”

Kirstie listened, her heart pounding, not rapidly but in a hard, steady beat. The screeching hum of the cicadas outside seemed louder than before, deafening, an external projection of the scream building in her own throat.

She tightened her grip on the table, needing the feel of something firm and solid, something that made sense.

“What pills?” she asked, holding her voice steady, betraying no lapse of control.

Jack answered. “Your husband’s had some trouble sleeping lately. Guilty conscience. Too many secrets. Too many lies. So he brought along some sleeping pills. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You ever take a sleeping pill, Mrs. Gardner?”

“Once or twice.”

“Well, you’re taking some tonight. Six. More, if necessary.”

“The pills won’t hurt you,” Steve said hastily. “They’ll just… knock you out.”

Anger rose in her like a rush of heat. “Oh, good. I’m so glad you don’t want to hurt me. I can’t imagine that you would ever do anything to hurt me.”

He flushed. “You’ll be fine. Really.”

“Fine. Sure. Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I be just fine?” A new question struck her. She watched Steve’s face. “Where will you be when I wake up?”

“You don’t need to know that,” Jack said.

She understood. The realization winded her. She had to catch her breath before she could speak.

“You’re running away?” she whispered incredulously, her gaze still fixed on Steve. “With him?”

He averted his face, reluctant to look into her eyes. “I’ve got no choice.”

“Of course you have a choice.”

“They’ll put me in jail.”

“That would be better than this.”

“No.” She heard terror in his voice, a child’s panicky tears. “I’m sorry, Kirstie. I’m sorry.”

With his left hand he dug in his pocket and removed a crumpled plastic bag. Inside were six white capsules.

Kirstie studied the bag, then mentally stepped back, putting all her fears and hatreds on hold while calmly, logically, she assessed the situation from a distance.

Steve had a gun. But he wouldn’t use it. Not on her.

Jack must be unarmed. That was why he’d lunged for the Beretta. He wasn’t certain of his hold on Steve.

She wished Ana had been trained as an attack dog. One word of command, and the borzoi would be at Jack’s throat.

Pointless to think about that. Ana would never hurt anyone, least of all her sugar daddy. Uncle Jack.

Was that why Jack had played fetch with her on the beach, fed her at the table? Had he wanted to be certain the dog would see him as a friend?

Forget all that. The pills. Think about the pills.

If she offered no resistance, if she let the two men drug her… she would die. She was certain of it. Steve didn’t want to kill her, but Jack did, and Jack was the stronger personality of the two, the more resourceful, the more ingenious. He would find a way to take her life.

Couldn’t take the pills, then. Couldn’t allow herself to be sedated.

What was her alternative?

To bluff. To gamble her life on Steve’s basic decency.

She needed to get to the radio. To reach it she would have to pass through the kitchen. Steve blocked the doorway.

Boldly she took a step toward him.

“This is ridiculous,” she heard herself say.

“Keep back.” Steve waved the gun at her.

Ordinarily the Beretta would have scared her-she’d always been nervous in its presence-but here, now, it seemed to hold no menace. It was a toy, a prop, not even aimed at her but at some other woman she was observing from a secure vantage point.

She took another step. “Get out of my way.”

A string of words ran through her mind, spoken in a stranger’s voice, remote and wise: She’s being very brave.

Steve licked his lips. “I said, get back.”

She didn’t listen. Another step, and now she was facing him from an arm’s length away. Beads of golden fire, the reflected glow of the chandelier bulbs, glittered on the lenses of his glasses, masking his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself involved in,” she said, “but you’re not a murderer.”

He raised the gun, the muzzle pointed at her chest.

“And even if you are,” she added, “you won’t kill me.”

She brushed past him, into the kitchen, and then she was walking swiftly toward the door to the radio room, refusing to look back.

Steve’s shout rose after her. “Where are you going?”

“To contact the police.”

There. It was said. Let him shoot her now, if he wanted to.

Nothing happened.

She stepped into the radio room, out of the gun’s range, and then abruptly she lost the comforting perspective of distance and snapped back inside herself.

Her composure shattered. Violent tremors radiated through her body. Her shoulders popped and jerked.

It took all her remaining strength to turn on the overhead light, to slide the chair away from the table, to sit, to find the radio’s power switch and flip it up.

Then the microphone was in her hand, and she was spinning the channel-selector dial, searching for a distress frequency, wishing she could stop her teeth from chattering so badly.