So Close the Hand of Death (28 page)

T
aylor ignored her phone.

A quick glance at the screen told her it was Baldwin again, trying to reach her. She just needed a little bit more time. She wasn’t crazy, wasn’t a total idiot. When she got to the house in Belle Meade, Fortnight’s house, she would call Baldwin and tell him where she was. He’d come lights and sirens, with backup, but it would be too late. She had her words planned out—
she’d heard a scream, knew Sam was inside. She had no choice but to eliminate
—no, wrong word—
shoot the suspect before he hurt Dr. Loughley or her unborn child further
. She ran it through her head like she did her usual court testimony. Dry. Just the facts. Only a few words at a time. Don’t answer questions that haven’t been asked. That way you won’t have to lie.

She would be in court over this, she knew that, though her union lawyer would fight to the finish for her. Baldwin would figure it out soon. It didn’t take a genius to see that Copeland wanted to end things where they’d begun, in the home of the Snow White. Symmetry, above all, was paramount to him.

Taking Sam was simply an insurance policy. A
perfectly calculated move designed to bring Taylor directly to him so they could finally go at it one-on-one.

Thank God she’d lost her tail. At this point, ordering them to stand down would have looked much too suspicious. She had planned this moment out, but wouldn’t have to execute it. She was going to ask them to stop for some coffee while she took a potty break, and when their backs were turned, take off in her truck out of sight. Hope that they were unskilled enough to allow for an amateur mistake. But now she could relax, and focus on the task at hand.

The light was red, traffic in the turn lane backed up. There was a Shell station on her left. She swung the truck into the gas station, crossed the lot and wheeled out onto Woodmont. She turned left and powered up the hill. Illegal as hell, but it would be the least of her transgressions today.

Her phone rang again and she glanced at it. Baldwin wasn’t going to let up.

She felt a spark of anger, pushed it away.

She made her way through the labyrinth of Belle Meade’s backstreets to Iroquois, then hurried across Belle Meade Boulevard. Almost there.

She needed to keep the end in sight. Instead, every time her phone rang and the caller ID said Baldwin, all she could see was the small round face of a redheaded child.

Damn it, Taylor, focus. You’re going to get yourself killed if you don’t focus
.

She breathed in carefully through her nose. Blew it out slowly. Imagined Ewan Copeland begging on the ground.

Better.

Fortnight’s house was on Leake Avenue, a massive three-story gray stucco mansion with curling ivy and dark windows. She didn’t want to run the risk of being seen, so she turned on Westover and came in the back way, stopping the truck at the neighbor’s house.

Joshua had told her if she parked there and walked into the woods one hundred yards, she’d find an overgrown path to her left that led directly to the tunnel off the side of the house. Overgrown would be her friend—she could slink in unseen and surprise the bastard. Though how surprised could Copeland really be, knowing she was coming? The only thing she had on her side was the fact that she was alone. He’d expect her to come calling with a bevy of cops with her, expecting a hostage negotiation, that she’d give herself for Sam’s release. He’d think she was going to make a production of it, try to arrest him, to do the right thing and see justice done. She was a by-the-book kind of detective.

And that was where he didn’t know her at all. That was the exact opposite of what she had planned. He didn’t know her true strength. That love would make her blind to the dangers, that she would throw the rules out the fucking window in a heartbeat if it meant ending this quietly. Without witnesses. Like a reset button.

That she’d been planning to kill him from the moment he’d set foot in her world, taunting her, playing cat and mouse.

She had to force her heart rate down, she was getting angry again. Anger meant she’d make a mistake. She couldn’t afford that. Not now.

It was time.

She was in position at the base of the neighbor’s drive.

She climbed out of the car, felt the unfamiliar weight of the Ruger under her left arm. She didn’t usually wear a shoulder holster. She tucked the Beretta into the second leather holster she’d snapped on to her belt, with it in the back instead of on her hip, where the Glock sat. She untucked her shirt so it would hang loose over the third gun, then shrugged into her leather jacket, the roomy one she reserved for wearing over heavy sweaters. Everything felt good, solid. In place. Right.

Ewan would be watching from the front, and she was planning to sneak in the back. Right up to the attic on the servants’ stairs, winding onto the small fourth story, the one that wasn’t visible from the drive. Joshua had told her this was where Copeland had hidden Jane Macias, the reporter he’d kidnapped for the Snow White’s pleasure. Joshua had snuck her from the house using exactly this same path.

Her cell rang again. Baldwin. This time she answered, surprised at how normal her voice sounded.

“Where the hell are you?” he yelled at her. “I’ve been calling for an hour.”

“Hello, Baldwin.” Neutral.
Don’t get upset. Don’t get excited.
“You know where I am. I’m going after Sam.”

“Not fucking alone you’re not. Stop wherever you are and let us catch up to you.”

“No.”

She got back in the truck, she didn’t want any of the neighbors to hear an argument and get suspicious.

“Taylor.” His voice dropped an octave. She heard voices in the background, assumed he had someone with him. Hell, he’d probably be bringing a SWAT team’s worth of people. If this were a normal situation, that was exactly what she’d do.

“Taylor, please. Don’t do this. Just tell me where you are. Let me help you.”

“Help me? Sure. There are a few things you can do to help me. How about starting with the truth, for once. If you’re capable of it.”

“What are you talking about? Does he have you, Taylor? Are you talking under duress? Just say yes if you are.”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking about your son. The child you so conveniently forgot to mention to me. You and Charlotte’s child?” Dead silence.

“Jesus. How did you find out?”

She put the phone on speaker and set it on the console, started to wind her hair up in a bun. She didn’t want it getting in her face while she was trying to shoot.

“That doesn’t matter, Baldwin. Not anymore. You know where I am. I have to do this. I have to end it. I can’t let anyone else get hurt.”

“Taylor, please. Don’t go in there alone. I don’t want you to get hurt, or do something you might regret.”

“Don’t you
dare
tell me that. Regret my ass. My judgment isn’t in question here. This man has my best friend. For all I know, he’s already killed her. He’s mine, and I intend to take care of him.”

She was being careless now, but it felt too good to stop. “You had your chance, Baldwin. You could have trusted me. Now I know I can’t trust you. The only person I’ve ever been able to trust was Sam. I can’t believe I counted on you. My mistake. So I’m going to do this my way. I’m tired of taking direction from you. You know where I am. Come on down, but believe me, it will be over by the time you get here.”

Taylor clicked off the phone, ignoring his protestations. The last thing she heard before the line cut out was him yelling at whoever was in the car with him.

She muted her phone and pocketed it, then stepped back outside. It would take them just long enough to get here, hopefully enough time for her to lay the whole trap. Someone would burst in and see Copeland making a move for her, see the shooting. It was as close as she could come, she needed someone to at least think they saw her defending herself.

A risky plan, but it was the best she had. She just needed to control herself long enough to let it play out.

She walked up the neighbor’s driveway, off to the side by the evergreen hedge. Joshua had told her they weren’t in the city during the winter. He was right, the windows were blank and cold, the drive quiet.

Birds were singing in the distance. Joshua’s birds. Her hands were cold, she tucked them into a fist and blew into them. The leaves had all dropped from the trees, which were spindly and naked. They were woven close together so they formed a privacy screen between the houses. In the summer, in full leaf, they would be so thick you’d never be able to see through to the house next door. Now the view was still hindered, but she could see the corner of the great monolith, just to the south.

There was the path.

She crept along it, trying hard not to make too much noise. She didn’t need a nosy neighbor seeing her, misinterpreting the situation.

Going in alone went against everything she’d been taught. But this was the best way, the only way.

Joshua told her to look for a rotted log. It was a fake,
a cover for the controls to the lawn sprinkler system, designed to look like it belonged there. There.

She flipped the log up to see a trapdoor, like a miniature storm shelter. Joshua had told her where the key was hidden, in the interior knot of the fake log. She found it, unlocked the wooden door, lifted it up. Damp must drifted out, the scent of the earth mingled with too much time. She played her flashlight into the hole, saw the small set of stairs.

She glanced back over her shoulder at the ice-blue sky, then took the first step.

The birds stopped singing.

B
aldwin pulled the car over and put his head in his hands.

“Think,” he said aloud to himself.

Where are you, Taylor
?

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked. “What did she say?”

“She said we’d know where she was. She’s not thinking clearly.”

“I’d say she was pretty clearheaded.”

“So you heard?” There would be no secrets after this, among any of them.

“The only obvious thing was the words
child
and
Charlotte.
Add to that the tone of fury, and you do the math. I’m a detective, remember? You had a kid with Charlotte?”

Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long story, but yes. One small detail, I just found out about him last year. I’ve been looking for him ever since.”

“Last
year?
And you didn’t tell her? No wonder she’s pissed.”

“Yes, thanks. I should have told her right away, I
know. I was afraid I would lose her, that she wouldn’t be able to forgive me. Looks like I was right.”

“She’s not prone to histrionics. If you’d been up front with her, I’m sure she could have forgiven you.”

“I fucked up. Trust me, I know. And now she’s off on a suicide mission. Where did she go? Where did Copeland take Sam? It’s someplace meaningful, someplace that Taylor would easily guess. From their past, maybe. Goddamn it, she said I know where she is. Where is she?”

Marcus thought for a minute.

“Where it all began. They’re at the Snow White’s house.”

T
aylor took four quick steps down into the tunnel, then squatted and pulled the door shut behind her.

Dark. Quiet. The Maglite beam bit into the gloom and showed her the path. She moved quickly now, ignoring the scent of rot. If it had been summer, it would have been worse. Instead, it was simply cold, hard, like frozen flesh.

She counted off thirty paces before she saw the door to the house fifteen yards in front of her. She stopped and turned to her right. The key was on the ledge, a foot from the door, right where Joshua had said it would be. She held it in her palm and took a few deep breaths.

No turning back now.

A bit of light bled from the crack under the door. Taylor eased the key into the lock and turned. The door opened silently, no old squeaking hinges, like it had been oiled down for just that purpose. A trap? Maybe, but a chance she was willing to take. A dark hallway led away and up from the entry. She clicked on the Maglite for just a moment and flashed it up the stairs, just so she could see what was ahead of her, then turned it off, shut the door behind her and stepped into the gloom.

She shut her eyes and let the darkness surround her. Acclimated. It smelled musty and damp, the house had been closed up for almost a year. Old air, recently disturbed.

She opened her eyes and saw the silhouette of the stairs. Back stairs. Servants’ stairs. Narrow and steep and dark, not at all like the open staircase rising out in the front of the house.

Stairs for those less worthy. Perfect for her right now.

She climbed them slowly, silently, controlling her breathing. Waved a cobweb away from her face. Listened with each step. Joshua had said that Copeland would be in the attic. Four flights up. She was on the second when she heard crying.

Sam.

Taylor forced herself not to take off at speed, but stepped up the pace. Third floor now, and she heard him talking. She stopped to listen, gritting her teeth. She needed to ascertain where he was in the room so she didn’t hurt Sam when she came in shooting.

She crept up four more stairs. She’d go with the self-defense plan. She drew her Glock from its holster. She could see the light under the partially open door.

Sam was crying, soft, kittenish mews. She was in pain. Copeland, she assumed it must be Copeland, was talking. About his sister. A running dialog. It sounded like he was pacing, too. Taylor could smell blood, was just happy that Sam was still alive, alive enough to cry. It meant she still cared, that whatever horror Copeland had visited upon her, she still had the presence of mind to find it terrible. Taylor had seen too many women brutalized who were silent, blankly staring out of dull irises.

She crept two more stairs, only two to the door now. She could hear him clearly, talking, incessantly talking.

“You know, Sam, my sister, Ruth, she was a good girl. Personality of a paper cut, but once you got to know her, she was a really sweet, loving, kind girl. She missed her call in, I would assume she’s dead. I kind of thought I’d have a moment to say goodbye, that her ghost would come and talk to me. Do you think the ghost of your baby will talk to you?”

Taylor forced herself to bite her lip. One more stair now. The shadow was crossing the doorframe, back and forth. She just needed to listen to his voice carefully, ascertain when he was facing away from the door. That was when she’d make her move.

The last stair, and he was still talking. “My mother was a sick bitch, too, you know that? She used to cut me. Just to see the blood pool. And then she’d beat me when I bled on the sheets. My hands were always red and chapped from all of the bleach I had to use to get the blood out. Look at the time. Where is Miss Taylor? I thought she would be here by now, her cavalry with her. That sweet, nice Dr. Baldwin, riding at her side. Were you jealous when they met? I imagine it must have been hard to give up your slavishly devoted best friend.”

“Fuck. You,” Sam said.

Atta girl,
Taylor thought. She heard the steps move away from the door, the voice grew fainter. Now. Now was her chance.

She kicked the door open and entered the room, gun raised. The room was small and she was quick. He didn’t see her coming, turned with a look of pure shock. She grinned wildly—she’d caught him by surprise. She
had him. He moved toward her and she lashed out with the weapon, caught him on the temple. She followed with a roundhouse left, caught him square on the cheek. His head snapped back, she heard a crack. She’d broken something, blood bloomed bright on his cheek. His fragile cheek. She got her first unencumbered glimpse of him as he was going down. It was Iles all right. He didn’t look anything like the man she’d seen in Control. It was hard to believe that was the same man, it was astounding how much work he’d had done. He had smooth, unnaturally tanned skin, the nose straight and narrow, the chin full and square. She threw another punch toward his chin as he went down.

He grabbed at her legs and she kicked him hard, twice, right in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. She glanced at Sam. Her face was screwed up in pain, the cream cashmere sweater she was wearing bloodied around her waist. She was handcuffed to the chair, her arms behind her. Taylor saw the ammonia—he must have been using it to keep Sam alert while he cut her. She saw the extra blood on her, in between her legs, on the floor beneath her.

Oh, God.

The baby.

She hadn’t been in time to save them both.

Taylor turned back to Copeland in a rage. He was starting to get up, she stomped on his thigh as hard as she could, gloried when he screamed. A broken femur would slow him down. He reached for his leg, crying out like a wounded animal, fighting not to pass out from the pain. She stepped back, took a deep breath, steadied herself. Pointed the Glock at the son of a bitch’s head. Smiled at him when his eyes got wide.

“Let’s play,” she said.