Truth Be Told

30

Jake reached up, punched the orange call button. The woman in 6B was on her second Sudoku. The ones in Jake’s in-flight magazine had already been done, half-done, badly done, by the previous passenger. Rain pelted the Plexiglas porthole windows, and the 737 had moved away from the gate, then stopped. Hadn’t budged an inch on the tarmac since then.

“Yes?” The attendant appeared, all smiles.

“Can we at least use our phones? While we wait?” Jake asked.

Six-B looked up. “How long is it going to be, do you know?”

The flight attendant peered from under her eyelashes, squinting at the new torrent against the window, the multicolored lights of passing equipment glaring red and yellow on the drops, then fading to black. A crack of thunder rumbled, then a flash of lightning. Jake could see the Reagan terminal building, the multi-story panes of glass, the passengers inside peering out at the planes. They were grounded. He was grounded. Everyone was grounded.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, waving in the general direction of outside. “We thought the rain was ending. Still, they’re requesting us to stay on standby, not pulling us back to the gate. That means they’re optimistic.”

“The phones?” Jake repeated, holding his up.

“Yes, you may,” the attendant said. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re back in the rotation.”

Jake wasn’t listening. He’d clicked the cell on before she’d finished, punched in Jane’s number, watched out the window as her phone rang, five hundred miles away. She was probably-well, who knew where she was, but he pictured her on that leather couch of hers, stretched out, her long legs across his lap maybe, in one of those little tank tops she wore, her hair down. That damn cat was probably draped over the back of the couch cushion, as always.

Ring two.

Jake focused his reverie on Jane, her hair splayed across that striped pillow, her toes kneading into his thighs. It was raining there, too, he bet. At least there it was-cozy. One of Jane’s words.

Ring three.

Maybe she wasn’t home, if she wasn’t answering. Maybe she was in a meeting, or on a story. But this time of night?

What if Sandoval had been arrested? By another detective? If someone had found him, say, and gotten orders to grab him. Maybe Jane was covering that. That’d be tease fodder for God knows how long-the irony of him being trapped on a plane while she was getting photos of what should have been his big arrest.

Ring four. Weird.

On the other hand, equally annoying, Sandoval might have headed for whatever hills he could. With the cop shop short staffed, and DeLuca out of pocket, maybe they’d pulled back on the Sandoval arrest, and as a result of budget cuts and Mother Nature, the bad guy was getting away.

A click on the line, a change in the sound. Finally.

“Hey, Jane, it’s-”

“This is Jane Ryland. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right…”

Voice mail.

“Shit.”

Six-B raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he said. Well, that was too bad. He’d call her when he got back. Or maybe stop by and surprise her. If he ever got back.

“See? They’re looking for me.” Jane pointed to her tote bag, her phone chiming from deep inside. “If I don’t answer that, all hell is gonna break loose. They know I’m here,” she lied. Whoever “they” was supposed to be. “You’d better let me answer it.”

She took a step toward the phone. It brought her closer to whoever this was, but it might be her only option.

The man put up a palm, narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ll have to risk that.” Reached into his back pocket. “I don’t believe you anyway, Jane.”

And then she saw the glint of a knife.

This was ridiculous. The intruder was so puny, so scrawny, she could probably belt him with a-she scouted the living room for a weapon. Nothing.

Enough.

Jane put her hands on her hips, hoping she appeared tougher than she felt. “Look. I don’t know who you are, but you are clearly breaking and entering. Trespassing. You’ve now pulled a knife, that’s assault, and you’ve admitted to petty theft, threatened credit card fraud, and there’s a lawyer about to come downstairs. So why don’t you-” She waved at the front door. “Go. Now. I won’t call the cops, I won’t tell anyone. You just-”

“Stop right there.”

The voice came from behind her. Peter.

He’d heard voices downstairs-had Jane turned on the television? But there was not a TV quality to the voice. Maybe the phone. But then-was that her phone ringing? She was still talking while it was ringing? Someone else was there. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist as securely as he could, and peered over the banister. Saw Jane’s back.

And the face of Gordon Thorley.

What was he doing here?

Then he saw the knife.

On tiptoe back to his bedroom. The.38 in the drawer. Ammo in, safety off. Nine-one-one. Shit. Phone cradle empty. He’d left the handset somewhere, again. A land line was in the kitchen, and his cell still on the damn console of the Jeep.

How’d Thorley get inside? Peter’d left his own front door open. And the frigging garage. He’d only planned to be inside a minute or two. Shit.

Peter was barefoot. Wrapped in a towel. But there was no time to do anything about that. He took one quick but careful step, then another, then another, heading toward the top of the stairs. Plastered his back against the wall, took a quieting breath. Listened.

There was conversation from below him, Jane talking, quietly; he couldn’t make out the words. No screaming. Okay, she was handling it.

But Thorley had a knife. Thorley was a convicted felon, an accomplice in an armed robbery. He’d confessed to murder. And now-if what Detective Brogan said was true-another woman was dead.

If Thorley was already a murderer, he already faced a life sentence. Killing Jane might not make a difference. To him.

Peter whirled to face downstairs, gripping the gun in both hands, with a fleeting thought for the towel. If it fell off…

“Stop right there, Thorley,” he said.

His weapon was pointed square at the man. He was a good shot, a confident shot. But Jane was in the way.

Jane took a step back.

“My best idea, Mr. Thorley, is for you to sit on that couch,” Peter said. He cocked his head, unwilling to take his aim off the target. “Jane, you get behind me. Upstairs.”

Jane darted, got there in three quick steps. Eyes on Thorley, he felt Jane go past him, but she didn’t run away, stayed close by. “Where’s your phone?” she whispered.

“I give,” Thorley said. “Don’t call the cops.”

“Why the hell not, Thorley?” He’d only used his gun in practice, not like this, but Dianna’d always insisted they might need it. They hadn’t, not while she was alive. Maybe she was still watching over him. “I’m the good guy, remember? Put the knife down. Slide it toward me. Now.”

“Peter, your phone,” Jane whispered again. “Bedroom?”

“Kitchen,” Peter said.

“Kitchen?” Jane was so close she could smell Peter’s soap and shampoo, see the outline of the muscles in his back, still glistening with the damp of his shower. He wore only a white towel, tucked around his waist. “Peter, we’ve got to call the cops.”

But that man-whoever he was-stood between her and the kitchen.

“Sit down, Thorley,” Peter said. “I mean-now.”

Jane saw the gun move, barely a fraction.

The man coughed, one disgusting hack, looked like he was about to pass out. He lowered himself to the couch, inch by inch, clamping one hand onto the curve of the arm, the creases in his face deepening, his skin almost yellow. He sank into the cushions, then sidearmed the knife across the carpet. It stuck in the loops of the pile, a foot from the bottom of the stairs.

“Got it,” Jane said.

She took the steps two at a time. Grabbed the knife, held it in one fist, then looked at it, as if it were going to attack her on its own. It was heavier than she’d predicted, the blade straight and shiny and hideous. She wouldn’t throw up. She wouldn’t. This was over.

Peter was down the stairs, closer to Thorley, as Jane headed to the kitchen.

“Hang on, Jane,” Peter said. “Don’t call yet.”

“You kidding me?” she asked.

“Trust me,” Peter said. “We’ll call. When we need to. If we need to. Mr. Thorley?”

Jane edged farther away. She didn’t care what Peter said-there was a guy with a knife. Well, he didn’t have the knife anymore, actually, she did. She held it at her side, the handle still warm, the curve of the plastic fitting her fingers. She put her other hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall, trying to be as calm as Peter seemed to be. How could he be this cool? She was on the verge of losing it.

Peter still pointed the gun at the man-Thorley? Something like that? They knew each other, for some reason. Obviously they weren’t pals.

“Peter, what the hell-” She didn’t want to hold the disgusting knife anymore, but she was afraid what might happen if she put it down. Peter and the guy couldn’t be in this together, could they? Whatever this was. Peter hadn’t been planning to come home, they were only in Milton because of the crash. This Thorley could not have known Peter’d be here.

“Thorley?” Peter said again.

“What?” the man said. “I’m done, you win, whatever.”

Jane took another step closer to the kitchen. If Peter wasn’t on Thorley’s side, then the tide seemed to have turned, and whatever danger she’d been in was somehow over. Still, she’d be much happier if the police arrived to make the odds even better.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Peter was saying. “I’m on your side, you know that.”

Jane’s brain was going to explode. They were on the same side?