Perfect Victim, The (54 page)

Cursing, he waited for his vision to clear and struggled
to his feet
.
He looked at the house. No lights. The street beyond was quiet and dark
.
Satisfied, he
l
umbered toward the back door.

Relief flitted through him when he found the screen door
unlocked. He let himself into the back porch and looked around for something with which to break the glass. Spotting a broom, he gripped it, drew back, and shattered the pane with a single stroke.

The sound of breaking glass seemed deafening in the quiet. Two houses down, a dog began to bark. Aware that he was about to cross the point of no return, Randall reached inside and unlocked the door.

The house was eerily still. The linoleum creaked under his feet as he made his way through the kitchen. The air smelled of dust and lemon oil, tinged with the faint redolence of the cheap cigars Clint had been so fond of.

"Damn you, Clint," he murmured, disbelieving his friend had betrayed him, hating it that Addison's fate dangled by little more than a thread because of it.

The image of her came at him out of nowhere. Her fragile eyes filled with horror as the guns were raised and leveled. Once again, the helplessness and outrage rose up inside him. He heard the blasts. He felt the tremendous force of the impact. He remembered the sight of her covered with Clint's blood. For a terrifying moment, he'd thought she'd been hit.

A drop of sweat slipped between his shoulder blades. He left the kitchen. His heart thrashed against his injured ribs like a wild animal trapped inside his chest. Control, he thought in a last-ditch effort to calm himself.
Lose it now and it's over, Talbot. For you. For Addison.

Clenching his teeth against panic, Randall moved down the hall. He walked past the bathroom and strode directly to Clint's study. The smell of cigars was stronger here, mingling with the faint odors of whiskey and old paper. He risked turning on the banker's lamp.

Clint's desk was well used, but neat. A decanter of whiskey rested on the credenza behind it. Randall opened the top drawer, not surprised to find a nine-millimeter Beretta. He pulled it out, checked the clip, and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Opening the next drawer, he rifled through a stack of past due bills, a few newspaper clippings, a
Play
boy
magazine, and an old wallet stuffed with pictures.

Acutely aware of the passage of time, he yanked out the last drawer
.
He knew the police would show up eventually. Urgency pulled him in one direction while the need to be thorough pulled him in another
.
He tried not to think about Addison
or the terror she must be feeling. He tried not to think about what Tate might want from her. He couldn't bear to think that she could
.
be hurting—or that she could already be dead
.

He rifled through a drawer full of statements and bills. Beneath them was a legal pad
.
Randall pulled it out and spotted the address book. He dropped into the chair and paged through the book.

Most of the entries listed first names only, some with initials, some with no name at all
.
Under G, no Gavin. He cursed in frustration, slammed the book closed
,
and dropped his head into his hands
.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Time seemed to mock him.

He opened the address book again. Starting at the beginning, he went through it, page by page
.
Dr
.
Arnoff in Chicago
.
Brownie
,
obviously an alias or nickname
.
Dave at Foley's Bar. Martino
.
Desperation clawed at him
.
Closing the book, he glanced out
t
he window. Beyond, the street was dark and quiet
.
Mist formed a yellow halo around the single street lamp.

"Come on, goddammit
.
" Turning back to the desk
,
he scanned the writing pad
.
On the upper right comer
,
a scribbled name caught his attention.

Paul Gavin.

He opened the book. To his surprise
,
the name
Paul
appeared under
P.
Snatching up the receiver, he dialed the number
.

"Yeah
,
it's Gav
.
" Deep voice
.
Boston accent.

"I'm a friend of Clint's." Randall trusted his instincts and went in blind.

"Don't know any Clint, man."

"He said you'd meet with me."

A long silence ensued. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man."

''This is about what happened at Franco's."

A quick intake of breath. Barely audible. And then silence.

''Name the place and I'll meet you," Randall said, starkly aware of the desperation in his voice. "I've got money for you."

He heard the disconnect like a death knell. He felt defeated. Beaten. Lost. Slowly, he lowered the phone to its cradle and sagged into the chair.

"Jesus Christ, what now?" The pain in his ribs was wearing him down. Emotion cluttered his brain. Every time he thought of Addison, he felt his sanity slip a little more.

"Where are you?" he whispered into the cold silence. "Where in the hell are you?"

Suddenly furious, with fate, with himself, Randall shoved the decanter of whiskey off the credenza. The glass shattered, the smell of whiskey rising to taunt him. Shaken, not knowing what to do next, he snatched up the receiver and dialed the hospital from memory. His voice was hoarse when he asked for his brother's condition.

"Mr. Talbot," the nurse began. "I've got good news. Jack's been taken off the respirator. The tube was removed this afternoon. Blood gases look good and he's doing fine. He's been asking for you."

Randall closed his eyes. "I need to speak with him."

"We're not supposed to—"

"It's an emergency, goddammit."

A moment later, Jack's weak voice filled the line. "Hey, little brother. What's going on? Where the hell are you?"

Randall swallowed the emotion welling inside him at the sound of his brother's voice. Four days ago, he hadn't thought he'd ever hear that voice again. "I'm in D.C., Jack. I'm in trouble. I need your help."

"You sound bad, Randy." Concern laced his brother's voice. "What the hell's going on?"

"Tate's got Addison."

"Jesus
.
How?"

"Clint
.
They bought and paid for him, Jack. Then they fucking killed him."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know where they're holding her
.
I know Tate's behind this, but I can't get to him." Randall's voice cracked on the last word. He took a moment, struggled for calm
.

Dammit, he needed to get inside Tate's head. He needed an angle. "When you were hacking, did you see anything about Tate owning any property? Someplace private where he may have taken her?"

"Not that I can remember. Damn drugs turned my brain to cornmeal
.
" Jack coughed. "Christ, I wish I could get my hands on a computer
.
"

"What about friends or bodyguards? Anyone he stays with regularly?"

"Wait a minute. I remember seeing something about a boat
.
His wife owns a boat
.
A big mother
.
Expensive as hell."

"Where does he keep it?" The telephone line hissed, reminding Randall of the miles between them.”

"I think it was registered to the state of Maryland. He kept it in Boston ..
.
no, Baltimore."

"Get your laptop. I need help. Jack, I'm desperate. Call Van-Dyne. Ask him to contact the locals in D
.
C
.
and Baltimore. Tell him everything you know about the case. I'm going after Addison."

"How do you know she's there, Randy?"

"I don't
.
"

Chapter 25

The door was locked. For ten minutes Addison shoved, pulled, and beat, with her fists, her feet, her shoulders, all to no avail. Perspiring, she swung around and noticed the glimmer of light beyond the satin drapes above the bed.

Stepping up on the bed, she tore the satin aside. Disappointment plowed through her when she realized the windows were too small to accommodate her body. Furious, she snatched one of the brass candlestick lamps from the nightstand and yanked the cord from the wall. Aiming for the window, she swung the lamp like a baseball bat. Plexiglas exploded outward, sending shards clattering onto the deck beyond. Frigid air blasted through the opening.

Addison dropped the lamp, put her face to the window, and screamed as loud as she could. "Help me! Somebody help me! Please!"

The door behind her burst open.

She spun, dizzy with adrenaline, sick with fear. A man dressed in a black turtleneck and dark slacks came through
the door like an enraged bull
.
"Bitch, you just bought yourself a whole lotta trouble."

She turned to the window. "Help me, please!" Terror resonated in her voice. "Help me!"

Strong hands bit into her shoulders and yanked her back. "Shut the hell up!"

A scream erupted in her throat as he pulled her away from the window. A viselike arm went around her waist
.
Fisting a section of her hair, he jerked her backward with brutal force. When she tried to scream again, he
l
et go of her hair and slapped his hand over her nose and mouth
,
cutting off her oxygen.

Addison struggled as she had never struggled in her life. Forgetting about the window and her cries for help, she clawed at the hand until panic had her writhing and twisting, striking out with her legs, wanting only to take a breath
.

Suddenly, they were falling. She felt his body tighten. He released her to break his fall
.
They tumbled off the
bed in
a tangle of arms and legs.

She landed on top of him, her face so close to his she felt the
warm rush of his breath against her ear. Instinctively, she rolled away
.
Lurching to her feet, she scrambled toward the door
.