Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 60

Sunday, March 20, 2005

6:20 p.m.

The White Rabbit called just as evening began to fall. And just as she had begun to believe she’d been duped.

“Comfy?” he asked, obviously amused.

“Very,” she replied. “I’ve been sitting here so long my ass’s numb.”

“It could have been worse,” he murmured. “I could have had you wait in a place with no bathroom. With no food or drink.”

Chill bumps moved up her spine. Had he been watching her this whole time? Did he know she had used the bathroom and had eaten? That she’d spoken to Spencer? She moved her gaze over the restaurant, the other patrons. Looking for one talking on a cell phone.

Or was he assuming? Anticipating how his words would affect her?

One thing was certain, he was playing her like a drum.

“Can the dramatics. What do you want me to do next?”

“Head up the road six miles. Turn toward the river. From there, turn left onto the first unmarked drive you come to. Leave the car. Follow the oak alley. You’ll know what to do. You have twenty minutes.”

He hung up, and Stacy reholstered her phone, grabbed her check and got to her feet. After leaving the waitress a generous tip for tying up her table for so long, she hurried to the door.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” the woman at the register asked as she totaled the bill.

“Great, thank you.” She glanced at the woman’s name tag. Miz Lainie. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, sweetie. Shoot.”

“Up the road, toward the river, what’s up there?”

The woman frowned. “Nothing. Just what’s left of Belle Chere.”

Stacy handed the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “Belle Chere, what’s that?”

“You’re not from down here, are you?” The bell above the door jangled. Miz Lainie looked up and scowled at a tall young man coming through the door. “Steve Johnson, you’re late! Fifteen minutes. Do it again and I’m callin’ your mama.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He winked at Stacy and she bit back a smile. Obviously, he wasn’t buying Miz Lainie’s tough act.

“And hike up those pants.”

He sauntered past, hitching up his trousers.

“I’m sorry,” Stacy said, “but I have to go.”

The woman returned her attention to Stacy. “Belle Chere’s an antebellum plantation. In its heyday, it’s said to have been one of the finest in Louisiana.”

That was it. That was where the White Rabbit was holding Alice.

The woman made a sound of disgust. “They’ve just let it go to ruin. Me and the mister, we always thought the state or somebody’d step in and-”

“I apologize,” Stacy said, cutting her off, “but I really do have to go.”

She exited the café, jogged to her car. No doubt the woman thought her rude to cut and run, especially after loitering for the past several hours, but there was nothing she could do about that.

Fifteen minutes and counting.

She started the car, backed out of her parking space, then roared out of the lot, kicking up gravel as she did. She flipped open her phone and dialed Malone. An automated message announced the subscriber was unavailable, then dumped her into his voice mail.

“The White Rabbit has Alice. He said he’d kill her if I didn’t come alone. Don’t worry, I’m not alone. Mr. Glock’s with me. Belle Chere Plantation. Six miles up from Walton’s River Road Café in Vacherie.”

She snapped the phone shut, knowing he’d be furious with her.

She didn’t blame him. If it’d been her case, she’d be furious, too.

Stacy followed the Rabbit’s directions and soon came upon the plantation. A chain barred access to the drive-a sweeping pathway lined by a double row of towering oaks, their branches creating a magnificent, arched canopy. A No Trespassing-Private Property sign was posted on either end of the chain barricade.

Stacy parked her car as best she could, then climbed out. She started up the oak alley.

Her first look at Belle Chere took her breath. It stood in ruins, a ghostly, crumbling hulk. It looked as if much of the roof had caved in. Two of the columns had toppled, their ornate Corinthian capitals lay abandoned, fallen soldiers in the army of time.

Yet it was still beautiful. A magnificent specter, glowing in the twilight.

Beyond what was left of the big house stood a small, ramshackle structure. It didn’t look like one of the original buildings. A caretaker’s cottage? she wondered. By the looks of it, also abandoned.

Stacy started toward the main house, then picked her way up the rotting stairs to the front gallery. The doors had long since disappeared, either to decay or scavengers, and she made her way into the structure, Glock gripped firmly in both hands. As it was considerably darker inside than out, she wished she’d brought a flashlight.

The interior smelled of moisture and mold. Of decay. “Alice!” she called. “It’s Stacy.”

Silence answered. One that shouted the absence of human life. All life here buzzed, hummed or silently crept, devouring walls, floors and anything else in its path.

She wasn’t here.

The caretaker’s cottage.

Stacy carefully backed out. When she’d cleared the stairs, she made her way to the back of the property. Toward the cottage.

No light shone from the interior of the building. She touched the door; it creaked open. She slipped inside, weapon out. Stacy saw a small living area, empty save for beer cans, a couple milk crates and a smattering of cigarette butts. She wrinkled her nose. It stank of urine. Ahead lay two doorways, one to the right, the other to the left.

She moved toward the left first. The door had no handle. She saw that it stood slightly ajar. Gun gripped in both hands, she eased the door open with her foot.

In the dim light spilling through the adjacent window, she saw Kay and Alice huddled together in the corner. Their hands and feet were tied, their mouths secured with duct tape. The side of Kay’s head was caked with what looked to be dried blood. From what she could see, Alice was unhurt.

Kay looked her way, eyes wide with alarm. Not for her own fate, for Stacy’s.

A trap. RPGs were known for them.

He was either behind her. Or in the closet directly across from the women.

Stacy didn’t enter the room. She mouthed the question to Kay. The woman’s eyes flickered toward the closet.

Made sense. He expected her to race across to the pair to free them. Which would put her directly in his line of fire.

Alice straightened suddenly, as if becoming aware of something going on. She looked Stacy’s way.

Which tipped the White Rabbit.

The closet door burst open; Stacy swung, aimed and fired. Once, then again and again, emptying her magazine into him.

He went down without getting off one shot.

Troy, Stacy saw. She gazed at him with a sense of relief. That it was over. The White Rabbit was dead, Alice and Kay had been saved.

And of disbelief that Troy, the handsome bimbo, “Mr. The-Living-is-Easy,” was the White Rabbit? He was the last person she would have attributed enough smarts-or ambition-to have orchestrated this thing.

She’d been fooled before. By a man who’d been just as handsome. And just as heartless.

Stacy turned away from the fallen man and hurried across to the two women. She untied Kay first, then Alice, freezing at the distinctive click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked.

“Turn around slowly.”

Troy. Still alive.

He’d come prepared.

Stacy did as he ordered, cursing that she’d emptied her magazine. She met his eyes. “Back from the dead so soon?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t expect you to be armed? Or that I didn’t know you were an expert shot?” He thumped his chest. “A Kevlar vest, available from any number of gun dealers.”

She forced a cocky smile. “Stings like hell, though, doesn’t it?”

“Worth the sting, because now you’re empty, another predictable move, by the way.” He lifted his weapon, aiming directly at her head. “So, what are you going to do, hero?”

She stared at the gun’s barrel, realizing she had come to the end of the road. She was flat out of both ideas and options.

“Game over, Killian.”

He laughed. She heard Alice’s scream, the roar of blood in her head. The shot’s blast drowned out both. But the moment of shattering pain didn’t come. Instead, Troy’s head seemed to explode. He stumbled backward, then fell.

Stacy turned. Malone stood in the doorway, gun trained on Troy’s still form.