Mortal Pursuit

33

Gunshots.

Barbara stared at the closet doors, certain of what she’d heard.

Two loud cracks, distant but faintly audible, originating-she believed-somewhere outside the house.

“They’re shooting,” she breathed.

She turned. Her gaze swept the closet.

Philip using the flashlight to search the overhead shelves for some means of escape.

Judy still touching the space between her collar bones where the crucifix had hung.

Charles seated on the wicker hamper, blank-faced and hollow-eyed.

None of them had heard the shots or her own whispered words.

“They’re shooting,” she said again, more sharply, and as the others looked up, she thought of Ally, alone with the killers, at their mercy.

She had worried that her daughter might be molested, but the idea that she might be … that they could …

They had guns, they were ruthless, they’d killed once already, but even so, they wouldn’t …

Ally was fifteen. A child.

They couldn’t have.

God in heaven, no.

“No,” she said aloud. “No.” She spun toward the closet doors. “No, Ally, Ally!”

Her fists on the doors, drum roll of blows, the chain clanking, and Barbara raging for her daughter, refusing comfort, hysterical and knowing it and not giving a damn.

On his knees in a corner, gripping the pistol in two gloved hands, Cain tried to make sense of what had happened.

It hadn’t been Ally who fired the shots. It had been someone near her-dark-clad, unseen at first glance-a lithe female figure dressed in black or …

Dark blue.

Police uniform.

Robinson.

Alive.

He tried to blink the thought away. It was crazy. It was laughable.

But he knew it was true.

Somehow she had jilted death. Obtained a gun. Rescued the girl.

Now she must be trying to get out of the yard. If she did, she and Ally could lose themselves in the woods.

Cain scuttled to the doorway, out of range of the window, then sprang upright and pounded down the hall.

Behind him, muffled shouts from the master suite. Barbara Kent’s voice. The gunfire from the yard must have been audible even inside the locked closet, damn it.

All the prisoners would be panicking now. This was just getting better and better.

Gage’s voice sputtered over the ProCom’s speaker. “Heard shots, what’s going on”

Cain answered on the run. “Lilith, relieve Gage out front. Tyler, Gage-wait for me in the rear hall. Move!”

He cut through the kitchen, sprinted past the laundry nook, reached the side door. A control panel for the rear gate was mounted on the wall. He threw the switch.

As the gate slid shut, he returned to the kitchen, flipping switches, turning on every floodlight in the yard.

Lilith. Tyler. Gage.

All three names had sputtered over the radio clipped to Trish’s belt. Though the volume was low, she’d heard the transmission clearly.

It was obvious the front gate was guarded. And the backyard would be searched-soon.

Had to get out through the rear. Not much time left. She crawled faster.

She hadn’t thought she could stay afraid for so long. She’d assumed that a fear this intense would bum itself out. But apparently her body had endless reserves of adrenaline. It could feed the fire indefinitely.

The garden thinned near the gazebo, tall foliage giving way to a carpet of vetch and Irish moss. The creeping plants provided no cover.

With a nod at Ally, Trish gave up on crawling and broke into a run, darting across a stretch of open ground as deadly as a minefield.

A succession of fragmentary thoughts crowded her mind: Black Talon cartridges-gelatin targets-wide wound channels.

She and Ally thudded to their knees behind the gazebo, miraculously intact.

“Lost my shoe,” Ally gasped. “Does that matter”

Trish struggled for breath. “Not unless you had plans to go out dancing later.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Then take off the other one. You’ll run better barefoot.”

Ally removed her remaining white pump and tossed it away. There was something childlike and achingly vulnerable about her two bare feet, toes curling on the grass.

Trish looked toward the open gate. To get there, they would have to cross another, longer expanse of treeless lawn. It meant pressing their luck, but they had no choice.

“Ready for another wind sprint” she asked.

A curt nod answered her.

Shifting into a runner’s stance, Trish tensed herself for a burst of speed.

And the gate creaked, sliding shut on a railed track.

“Oh, God,” Ally breathed, sinking back on her haunches. “They found the switch. They found the switch …”

A control switch for the gate, somewhere inside the house. That was what she must mean.

Trish felt herself trembling with a new surge of fear, an electric jolt slamming through every nerve ending in her body.

She and Ally were penned in. They could be hunted down at leisure.

Banks of lights burst ablaze. A movie moment: a prison, a night escape, sentries in watch towers, floodlights sweeping the yard.

Huddled behind the gazebo, the two of them were safe temporarily. But if they left cover, they would be caught in the glare.

From Ally, a sound like a whimper. Trish reached out awkwardly with her chained hands and touched the girl’s arm.

Up close the down on her cheeks was visible, and the dusting of freckles around her eyes. Dried blood crusted a swollen lip. The scalloped neckline of her dress had been torn.

Trish wondered if Cain had raped her. The parallel to Marta was briefly too strong to be endured, and she had to look away.

“What are we going to do” the girl murmured, hopelessness in her voice.

For a bad moment Trish had no answer. Then she remembered the cordless phone. “Call for help.”

She yanked the handset free of her belt and hit the talk button. The keypad lit up, and from the receiver came the hum of a dial tone. Still within range of the base unit in the kitchen, thank God.

Ally stared in amazement. “You are Wonder Woman.”

Trish found the strength for a smile as she touched the keypad three times. “Wonder Woman never dialed nine-one-one.”