Low Pressure

Chapter 30

When Dent reached the parking space where he’d left his Corvette and found it empty, he made a three-sixty turn, thinking that the cloudburst had thrown him off and that he’d gone to the wrong space. And then for several seconds more he stood there, confounded, while rain beat down on him.

The possibility that his car had been stolen from the parking lot made him gnash his teeth. But then his heart stuttered when it occurred to him who the thief might be. Could it be a coincidence that his car had been stolen while Ray Strickland was at large? Strickland was a mechanic. He would know how to break in, hot-wire, and do anything else necessary to steal any vehicle.

All this ran through Dent’s mind in a millisecond, and he acted on his fear instantly. Ducking beneath the narrow overhang of the building, he pulled out his phone to call Bellamy and warn her. He punched in her number before remembering that Nagle and Abbott had confiscated her phone to hold as evidence in Moody’s murder. No one answered it.

Dent burst into the Starbucks looking like a man deranged, startling the customers and staff. Heedless of the fact that he was soaked to the skin, that his hair was plastered flat to his head, and that his eyes looked feral, he shouted, “Gall, your truck. Where’s it parked?”

Gall, who was still in conversation with the senator, gaped at Dent. “Where’s your car?”

“Not where I left it. Give me the keys to your truck. Call nine-one-one and tell them to send police to the Lystons’ house. The cops at the gate need to be alerted that Ray Strickland may try to get onto the property by driving my car. Bellamy hasn’t got her phone, so I can’t call her directly, and I don’t know the land line number. Now for godsake, pitch me your keys.”

Gall did as told, and Dent snatched them from the air. “West side of the building,” Gall yelled at Dent’s back as he plunged back into the thunderstorm.

He ran to the parking lot and spotted Gall’s relic of a pickup. He climbed into the cab and cranked it on, then, pushing it as fast as it would go, jumped a curb and bounced into the street.

As he drove with one hand, he dialed 911 with his other. By now Gall would have called the emergency number, but it wouldn’t hurt to put in a second call.

He gave the answering operator his name and the address of the Lystons’ house. “Bellamy Lyston Price is in danger of her life.”

“What’s the nature of the problem, sir?”

“Too long to tell. But there are a pair of cops stationed at her front gate. They should be notified to be on the lookout for a red Corvette. They shouldn’t open the gate because Ray Strickland might be driving it. And call Nagle and Abbott. They’re homicide detectives. They’ll know what this is about.” He was out of breath by the time he finished.

“Your name again, sir?”

“What?”

“Your name again?”

“Are you fucking kidding?”

With infuriating calm, she began again with the question about his name. Cursing, he tossed his phone onto the seat of the pickup so he could use both hands to steer around a slow-moving minivan. He blasted through a red light, blaring the pickup’s horn.

Ray’s luck had changed, and it was on account of him killing Moody.

There had to be a correlation, because that was when things had started going good for him.

First, he’d escaped the two cops who’d showed up at his place. One’s blood was still on his clothes, along with the splotches Moody had sprayed on him. He didn’t think he’d killed the cop, but he hadn’t hung around to find out.

Dodging the second cop’s bullet—another stroke of luck—he’d barreled his way through his duplex and out the back even as other squad cars were squealing to a halt in front.

He’d lived in the neighborhood for a long time, so he knew the twisty streets well, knew which ones were dead ends and which provided a quick way out of the maze, even for someone traveling on foot.

Yes sirree. Luck had definitely been on his side. Running between houses and going over fences, he’d made it to the back of a strip center where there was a doc-in-the-box.

Knowing that the staffs of these minor emergency clinics usually worked long shifts and figuring that this early in the morning one would be starting, he deduced that a stolen car wouldn’t be missed for hours. He’d waited behind a Dumpster until a young woman dressed in scrubs parked in the employee lot and entered through a back door. Breaking into her car had been a piece of cake.

Was he one lucky bastard, or what? Within minutes of leaving his duplex, he’d been miles away from it. Pumped. Exhilarated. Wanting to spill more blood. Bellamy Price’s blood.

Ever since her old man’s death, she’d been staying with her stepmother in the family mansion. Ray made that his destination, reasoning that she would eventually turn up there. Driving past it throughout the day also gave him an opportunity to plan how he might get through the gate and onto the property.

It was going to be doubly difficult now that a patrol car was posted outside the gate.

But, again, luck smiled on him.

He just happened to be on one of his reconnaissance drive-bys when he saw Dent’s red Corvette leaving through the gate. He was alone, meaning that Bellamy was inside and, for the time being, inaccessible.

Ray decided to follow Dent. And when he parked his car and went into a Starbucks, Ray realized that he wasn’t just lucky, he was brilliant, because he saw the answer to the problem of how to get past that damn gate.

He left the car he’d stolen earlier in an adjacent parking lot and helped himself to Dent Carter’s sweet ride. And, as if good fortune wasn’t already with him, it began to rain buckets, which would make it difficult for the policemen at the gate to see who was behind the wheel of the Vette. To make it even more difficult for them to see into the car, Ray turned the headlights on high beam.

It was so easy he’d wanted to laugh. The two cops who’d waved to Dent when he drove out waved to Ray when he pulled up to the gate, which opened even before he came to a full stop. Abraca-fucking-dabra. He figured the cops had been given a transmitter so they could control who went in and out.

Getting inside the house posed no problem. Bellamy herself ran out to greet him. He had her in an inescapable bear hug before she realized he wasn’t Dent.

She seemed too shocked even to scream, which was good. It saved him from having to hit her. He didn’t want her unconscious. He wanted her awake and terrified.

But as he lifted her off her feet and started up the front steps with her, she began to struggle. “No, please, my stepmother is upstairs.”

“I’ll get to her. Two for the price of one. But you first.”

She doubled her efforts to wiggle out of his grip and kicked him solidly in the shin. It hurt so bad that as soon as they were across the threshold and he’d pushed the front door closed, he thrust her from him so hard she went hurtling forward and landed on the stone-tile floor.

Splintering pain shot from Bellamy’s shoulder and hip, which had sustained most of the impact. But she had no time to dwell on the pain because Ray was whipping a knife from its scabbard.

He brandished it at her, and she saw that the blade was already streaked with dried blood. Moody’s? Bile filled the back of her throat as the image of his open neck flashed into her mind. That was what Ray would do to her if she didn’t prevent it.

He grinned down at her and took two lumbering steps forward.

She put a hand up. “Listen, Ray, you don’t want to do this.”

“Hell I don’t. You killed Susan and let…”

“No. No I didn’t.”

“I heard you. I was hiding in your closet when you admitted it. I should’ve killed you then.”

Hiding in her closet? She didn’t take time to sort that out. Stammering, she said, “I didn’t kill my sister, but I also know that your brother didn’t, either. He was innocent. I’m going to tell everyone that he was innocent.”

“Too late for that.”

“I know,” she said wetting her lips. “There’s nothing anyone can do about what happened to him. But I want people to know that he was unjustly sent to prison. You were wronged, too. I want to tell about it. But I won’t be able to do that if you kill me.”

“I’m gonna kill you.” He reached down, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and pulled her up by it. She cried out in pain, and did the only thing she knew to do. She kneed him hard in the groin. It wasn’t a direct hit, but his grip on her hair relaxed slightly, enough for her to jerk herself free.

She ran for the staircase. If she could lock herself inside Olivia’s room only long enough for the 911 responders to arrive, there was a chance that both of them could survive.

But she was still a long way from the second floor when Ray’s arm hooked her around the waist. He pushed her face first onto the stairs and landed hard on top of her, knocking the breath out of her. Slapping his hand over her forehead, he pulled her head back against his shoulder. She felt the blade of his knife against the soft area beneath her jawbone.

“I told you you’d be sorry.”

When Dent fishtailed Gall’s pickup onto the Lystons’ street, he saw two silhouettes inside the squad car. What were they doing just sitting there?

He braked hard, leaped out of the truck, ran up to the police car, and smacked the driver’s window with both hands, startling the officers inside. He yelled, “Have you seen my Vette?”

The officer lowered the window. “Sure. When you drove it in a few minutes ago. But how’d you get—”

“Wasn’t me. It was Strickland.”

“Strickland? In your car?”

“Where’s the transmitter Bellamy gave you?”

“Right here, but—”

“Open the gate.” He ran toward it, shouting over his shoulder. “And call for backup.”

The second officer alighted from the passenger side and shouted through the rain. “Dispatch just reported a nine-one-one from the house. Said a woman’s bleeding to death.”

Dent, fear clutching him, gripped one of the iron bars and shook it. “Open the fucking gate!”

The officer retrieved the transmitter from inside the car, but as he fumbled with it, he hollered to Dent, “Stay where you are. This is a police matter.”

Dent remembered the gate code from earlier in the day, but the patrol car was between him and the column where the keypad was mounted. He made an about-face and began scaling the estate wall, using the wet, clinging vine for footholds.

“Hey! Stop there!”

“You’ll have to shoot me.”

He got a knee onto the top of the wall and, without even looking to see what was on the other side, flung himself over. He landed in a hedge of evergreens, breaking branches as he worked his way free, then sprinted toward the house, which seemed to be miles away and in total darkness.

His chest was burning with exertion and fear for Bellamy as he hurdled the steps, skidded across the rain-slicked porch, and put his shoulder to the front door as he pushed his way through it.

He couldn’t see a thing until lightning flashed, then he took in the scene at once. Strickland had Bellamy facedown about midway up the staircase. Strickland’s knee was planted in the small of her back and he had her neck arched and exposed.

“No!” Dent bounded up the stairs.

Ray’s head came around and, seeing Dent, he released his hold on Bellamy, spread his arms away from his body like wings, and launched himself down the remaining stairs, catching Dent on the fourth one.

They tumbled together down onto the floor of the foyer in a jumble of arms and legs. Dent was the first to disentangle himself and sprang to his feet, but Ray surged out of a crouch with his knife aimed at Dent’s belly. Dent bowed his back, making his abdomen concave enough to escape a fatal uppercut.

By now his eyes had better adjusted to the darkness. When Strickland lunged at him again, Dent went after his knife hand, risking his own hands in order to gain control of the weapon. His fingers clamped around Strickland’s wrist and, using fury as his propellant, drove him backward against the wall. He slammed Strickland’s knife hand into the paneling.

But Strickland had enough leeway in his wrist to turn the knife toward Dent’s face. The tip of it was level with the corner of his left eye. One jab would blind him.

“I’m gonna mess you up, pretty boy. Then I’m going to cut her head off.”

Dent bared his teeth. “I’ll kill you first.”

“Drop it!”

The order must’ve come from one of the cops. Dent didn’t turn his head, but Strickland looked in that direction, and Dent used that momentary distraction to flip the knife away and, with his free hand, give the man’s Adam’s apple a hard chop. “That’s for my plane, you son of a bitch.”

Strickland, stunned and suddenly breathless, tried to suck in air. Dent squeezed his wrist so hard he released the knife and it clattered to the floor. Then four police officers swarmed them.

But, even gasping for breath, Strickland wasn’t going down easily or quietly. Dent fought his way past the policemen trying to subdue him and bolted up the staircase to where Bellamy was weakly crawling up the steps.

Panicked, he bent over her. “Are you hurt? Did he cut you?”

“No. Olivia.” Using handfuls of his wet clothing, she climbed up him until she was on her feet. “Up there. Help me.”

He put his arm around her waist and practically carried her up the remaining stairs and along the dark hallway to a bedroom.

The moment he saw Olivia Lyston on her bed, ghostly pale, lying in an ocean of blood, he knew she was dead.

A few minutes later, EMTs confirmed it.

Ray Strickland’s bellowed invectives against Bellamy and Dent echoed through the house. It took several officers to restrain him, and all the while he was hollering about injustice. But he bawled like a baby when his hands were secured behind him and he was led outside to the waiting squad car.

“I gotta kill them because it was on account of them that Allen died,” he blubbered. Bellamy heard him ask one of the arresting officers if he could have Susan’s panties back. “My brother told me to keep them.”

She and Dent were questioned separately, and the investigating officers, Nagle and Abbott among them, began linking together the bizarre chain of events. Dent’s Vette was towed away as evidence.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as they watched the tow truck’s taillights leave through the gate. “First your airplane, now your car.”

He shrugged. “They can’t bleed.”

She turned her face up to him.

“When I got here, the cops told me that a woman inside the house was bleeding out.”

“I’d called nine-one-one for Olivia.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.” He placed his hand on the back of her head, pressed her face against his chest, and kissed the crown of her head.

“I can’t believe she killed Susan,” she whispered. “All these years…”

“Yeah,” he said on a soft exhale. Then, in an even quieter voice, “Steven’s here.”

Austin police had found him and William at the airport, where they were waiting for a flight that had been delayed due to the weather. One of the officers had called Nagle, who’d handed over his cell phone to Bellamy, who’d had the unwelcome task of telling Steven about his mother’s suicide.

For a long time he’d said nothing, then, “We’ll be there soon.”

Now, as he and William entered through the front door, she went to embrace him. It was evident that he’d been crying. Given the way he and Olivia had parted, Bellamy knew he would bear responsibility for her taking her own life.

He allowed her to hold him close for several moments before easing away. “We heard about Strickland from the policemen who drove us here. Are you all right?”

“Bruised, but otherwise okay. Dent got here just in time.”

He looked at Dent. “Thank you. Truly.”

Dent acknowledged the thanks with a nod.

Coming back to Bellamy, Steven asked, “Where is she?”

“In her bedroom, but don’t go up. The coroner is in there now. In any case, she wouldn’t want you to see it.”

“You don’t understand. I must go to her. When I left—”

“She told me. But don’t blame yourself. I think she was looking ahead to life without Daddy, and simply couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

“Howard was her life.”

“Yes. She would have done anything for him.” She hesitated then said, “She did. She killed for him.”

Steven, who’d been staring at the top of the staircase, brought his gaze back down to her. He said quietly, “Susan.”

She glanced at William, who hadn’t even flinched at the revelation. Looking back at Steven, she stated what seemed to be obvious. “You knew?”

“No, I swear it. But I suspected.”

“Since when?”

“From the start, I think. When did you find out?”

“My memory of it came back tonight.” She related everything that had happened since Dent had dropped her there. “She was already dying. I think it must have been a huge relief to her to tell someone about it.”

She paused as a realization struck her. “I understand now why you were so opposed to my book. You didn’t want anyone—me—to find out.”

“As much for your and Howard’s sake as for Mother’s. At least she died without having to admit it to him. That would certainly have killed her. I, perhaps more than anyone, knew how much she loved him. More than anything. Or anyone.” His voice cracked. William placed a comforting arm across his shoulder, and Steven smiled at him gratefully.

“Steven?” Bellamy spoked his name softly, and when he was looking at her again, she said, “I told the police.” At his pained expression, she said, “They were reinvestigating the case. I had to tell them. It was only right. The record had to be set straight.”

He didn’t dispute that, but he looked extremely unhappy about it.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Once it becomes known, the backlash won’t be easy or pleasant for me, either, but we’ve been shackled to this lie for eighteen years. I refuse to be for the rest of my life.”

A short while later, Olivia’s body was carried out and placed in an ambulance bound for the morgue. As they watched it pull away, Steven said to Bellamy, “William and I will be at the Four Seasons. There’ll be no folderol like there was for Howard. We’ll bury her beside him. Privately.”

“I understand and agree.”

“As for the other…” He looked away briefly before coming back to her and saying, “You did what you felt you had to do. In a way, it’s a relief, isn’t it?”

She hugged him tightly and whispered, “For you, too, I hope.”

With tearful eyes she watched him walk down the steps and get into the waiting taxi with William. Her relationship with Steven would never be what it had been when they were young teens. She’d been naive to believe it could be. Their personalities, their destinies, had been reshaped by what had happened on that Memorial Day.

But she would continue to hope for a relationship with him.

Detective Abbott asked that she make herself available to answer questions that would invariably arise. “Ray Strickland will be charged with a laundry list of felonies. You’ll be called to testify.”

She had expected that, but she didn’t look forward to it.

Just as the detectives were leaving, Nagle passed her a business card and said, “Specialty cleaning service.”

Considering that and all the other unpleasant responsibilities facing her, she would have been disconsolate if Dent hadn’t been there with her to lock up the house and then walk with her toward the front gate. It had stopped raining, the storm having moved off to the east.

There were still several police cars on the street. Officers were having to move along gawkers who’d been drawn to the scene of the emergency. As soon as they got past the bottleneck, Dent said, “That son-of-a-bitchin’ vulture.”

Sitting on the hood of Gall’s pickup was Rocky Van Durbin.

“No, wait,” Bellamy said, putting out her arm to hold Dent back. She kept walking until she was no more than a foot away from Van Durbin, then she said in a tone that meant business, “Get off the truck.”

Shit-eating grin in place, Van Durbin slid off it. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Of course not,” Bellamy said, meaning the opposite.

“Seriously,” he said. “I was just waiting to ask you about Mrs. Lyston’s suicide. Was it grief over your father that drove her to it?”

She took a deep breath. “Van Durbin, you’re a sly, sneaky, bastard who thrives on the misfortunes of other people. You’re a bottom-feeder, the lowest life-form I can think of. But actually…” She paused for emphasis. “I’m glad to see you.”

She felt Dent’s startled reaction.

As for Van Durbin, his ferret grin wavered, as though unsure he’d heard her right. “Where’s your photographer?” she asked.

The columnist hesitated, then pointed toward a hedge that separated the Lyston property from their neighbor’s. “If he takes a single picture, this conversation is over,” Bellamy said. “Tell him.”

Van Durbin assessed her for a moment, then turned toward the hedge and drew a line across the base of his neck, a gesture that caused Bellamy to shiver. She hadn’t had time or opportunity to think about Strickland’s near fatal attack on her, knowing that when she did, she would likely have an emotional breakdown. She was postponing that until she could be alone.

She told Van Durbin to get out his notebook.

He took it from his pocket along with a pencil with a gnawed eraser.

She said, “I have a proposition for you, and these are the terms. You’re going to write them down, word for word, using no shorthand or symbols, and sign it. Agreed?”

“No, not agreed. What kind of terms, and in exchange for what?”

She simply stared back at him. After a moment, he grumbled, “What’re the terms?”

“You’ll never reveal me as your source for anything I’m about to tell you.”

“That’s a given.”

“Write it down.” She waited until he did so before continuing. “You’re to write nothing, and I mean not one allusion to, not one syllable, about my stepmother’s death.”

He gaped at her. “Is this a joke?”

“Shall I call the National Inquirer?”

He stuck the eraser in his mouth and chewed on it while he deliberated, then wrote down a line in his notebook.

Bellamy said, “You’re also never to reference my brother, Steven. His name is not to be mentioned in any article you write about this.”

“This, what? So far you’ve given me squat.”

Dent said, “If I were you, I’d shut up and do as the lady says.”

Van Durbin tilted his head toward him. “I guess he’s off limits, too?”

“Not at all,” Bellamy replied smoothly. “He’s to be hailed the hero he is for saving my life. He’s to be completely exonerated where my sister’s death is concerned. But you’ll write nothing about our personal lives. His or mine. Singly or together. Ever. And no more photographs of us.”

Van Durbin looked ready to balk. “This had better be good.”

“It is.” She took the notebook from him, read what he’d written, then passed it back to him. “Sign it.” Once she had the signed sheet in her possession, she motioned toward the stub in his hand. “You’re going to need a bigger pencil.”

“You can imagine my shock when I learned yesterday that a man in my employ, one to whom I had extended a helping hand, had taken another man’s life in such a gruesome manner.”

Rupe had decided to conduct his press conference in the showroom of his flagship dealership. His sales team provided a captive audience. Customers who’d come in to shop cars this morning were being treated to a show.

He had set up a small podium with a built-in microphone system. He didn’t want anyone to miss a single heartfelt word. All the local television stations were represented. Because of the popularity of Low Pressure, the story about Ray Strickland and Dale Moody—the electrifying final chapter of an eighteen-year saga—would no doubt make national news. The King of Cars could very well be appearing on network TV tonight.

He didn’t even lament his disfigured face. It added drama. He was feeling so good it was hard to maintain the solemn demeanor that the situation called for.

Things couldn’t have worked out better. Strickland had taken care of Moody, and the police had taken care of Strickland. He was under lock and key, ranting and raving like a lunatic. The things he’d been quoted in the newspaper as saying—such as asking for Susan Lyston’s panties back—made him sound like a total whack job.

He also continued to issue threats of vengeance against Bellamy Price, Denton Carter, and just about everybody else on the planet. Nobody would listen to a madman’s allegations against a former assistant district attorney, upholder of law and justice.

Thinking quickly, Rupe had preempted any questions that might arise about the telephone calls to and from him on Ray Strickland’s cell phone, which would have been noticed. He’d admitted to having helped support Ray, which now appeared to have been an act of Christian charity rather than a means of maintaining control over a potential threat.

And that crap about a copy of the case file? Moody hadn’t died with it on him, and it hadn’t been found in his car. Rupe figured Bellamy Price had been bluffing about its existence.

Rupe couldn’t ask for things to be any tidier. Moody, gone. Strickland, as good as. Bellamy Price and her book made to look incredible by Olivia Lyston’s staggering deathbed confession.

To capitalize on the hot news story, he’d called his own press conference to clear up any questions regarding his relationship with Ray Strickland, to express his regret over the grisly death of Dale Moody, a police officer for whom he had the fondest memories and utmost regard, and to convey his sympathies once again to the Lyston family, to whom the fates had been so grossly unkind.

He laid it on thick and the reporters were eating it up.

He was just about to close when Van Durbin and his photographer walked into the showroom.

National coverage! he thought.

The columnist gave him a jaunty little wave. While Rupe was answering the last question posed to him, the two elbowed their way forward until they were standing directly in front of Rupe. When Rupe stopped speaking, Van Durbin raised his hand.

“Ah, I see our friend from EyeSpy has joined us. Mr. Van Durbin, you have a question for me?” He flashed a smile toward the cameraman, who was rapidly taking shots of him.

“No question. I already have all the answers. In a signed confession Dale Moody left with Bellamy Price.”

Rupe’s bowels loosened. But he blustered and flashed another smile. “Moody was a delusional drunkard. So whatever he said—”

“What he said was that you and he sent Allen Strickland to prison for killing Susan Lyston, knowing full well that he hadn’t committed the crime. You’re accountable for his death, as well as for Moody’s. Your bad, Rupe.”

“You print that and I swear—”

But Van Durbin was looking at a point behind him.

He spun around and found himself face-to-face with two grim-faced men. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

“I’m Detective Abbott. I spoke to you yesterday on the phone when you reported that Dale Moody had been killed. This is my partner, Detective Nagle. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Collier.” Then, after a beat, “You have the right to remain silent.”

Nagle stepped behind Rupe and fastened a pair of plastic restraints on his wrists.

Van Durbin’s photographer got some great shots.