Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (24 page)

When she became a police officer, Kirby had wondered if she’d suffer a violent death. Cops got shot, they got ambushed, they got run over. There were a million ways to die in law enforcement. So she’d thought about how she’d feel if she faced death at the hands of a criminal. Would she be frightened or resigned, angry, outraged? She could never decide. Now all of those feelings and more crashed down on her. There was nothing to decide. It was all of the above.

Kirby’s hands began to shake. So did her knees. And her jaw. Bile, bitter and useless, filled her mouth. She choked it back.
You can’t break. You must stay calm.

“Don’t do this, Frankie. You’d be committing first-degree murder and killing a cop.”

“And solving my biggest problem. You.”

“I’m not your problem. I’m your friend. I want to help you. I will help you. I promise.”

“Help me? You? How do you plan to do that?”

“You’re sick. I’m going to find someone who can make you better.”

“You’re a cop. You’ll send me to jail.”

“You need a doctor, Frankie. A psychiatrist to make you better.”

“And lock me up.” Frankie leveled the gun at Kirby. “Go on now. Get those cuffs on good and tight. Don’t make me shoot your lover or Cousin Eenie and Bea. Isn’t there something about protecting the innocent in your oath?”

There was. An ache started in the pit of Kirby’s stomach, so deep it seemed to hollow her out. Seth’s shouts had died away. And the mockingbird’s laugh. Not even a gnat disturbed the quarry. She slipped the cuffs under the handle of the suitcase, clicked the left one over her wrist. A tiny burst of optimism ran through her as she did. Along with an idea. If she cuffed her wrists to the case, she could grab the handle and swing it around, using the weight to stun Frankie.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, Frankie. You think this is a good plan, but you’ll get caught. They’ll find my body, and they’ll know what happened.”

A sly gleam deepened the color of Frankie’s eyes. “Do you think I’m stupid? That’s why we’re up here. So they never find you.”

“I won’t tell anyone about this. I swear on Grandy’s grave. And Daddy’s. So instead of a fifty-fifty chance of getting away, you’d have a one hundred percent chance. I’d help you.” It didn’t count as a lie. Not if you were doing your job…or trying to save your life.

“You’re wasting time. Go on now, cuff your other wrist.”

She didn’t want to be too eager to cuff her other wrist. Frankie might get suspicious and step out of range. “Frankie, please—”

The cunning warp on Frankie’s face faded. She took a step closer. Her mouth twisted. “Do it. You think I care about you? I hate you. You’re the stupidest person in the world. They’re going to give you the ranch because they think you’re noble. I’ll be left out, just like with Grandy.”

Kirby slid the other cuff around her wrist and pressed the metal together, struggling to keep her intention off her face. She shifted the case slightly, testing its weight. One chance was all she had.

“In you go,” Frankie said.

She lunged forward, and Kirby’s heart stopped. Everything stopped except the eruption of power in her shoulders. She heaved the suitcase off the ground. The rocks inside shifted, and she staggered back, losing precious seconds and the advantage of surprise.

Come on, girl, swing. Swing hard.
Kirby twisted her body and hurled the case at Frankie.

Frankie ducked.

The suitcase flew past her. So did Kirby. When she landed, the limestone bit into her knees, and the handcuffs wrenched her wrists. It hadn’t worked. Her last chance.

What came next happened in slow motion and fast. Frankie bending. Frankie snatching up Miss Bea’s rifle. Frankie swinging the butt at Kirby. The barrel crashing into Kirby’s head, knocking the breath out of her. Her skull exploding.

Blinded by pain and the blood trickling down her forehead, Kirby lost precious milliseconds. But an inner instinct stronger than the pain pushed her to her feet.

Bad idea.

The second blow hammered her shoulder. She staggered sideways, fighting for balance.

Frankie swung the rifle again.

The clearing spun until the trees, the water, the stone, even Frankie, was a smudge.

Kirby’s foot hit the edge of the pool, toppling her into brackish water. The suitcase fell on her chest, crushing her lungs. It slid off her bruised rib cage and plunged to the bottom, taking Kirby with it.

Chapter Thirty

Seth heard Kirby before he saw her. She was pleading. Just as she’d pleaded with him yesterday. And if he had been a bigger man, he would have let her love him, and then none of this would be happening because she’d be with him instead of up here alone trying to save Frankie.

Keeping low, he slipped from tree to tree until he had a visual of Frankie, looking catlike and feral, and holding a Glock and Miss Bea’s rifle. He wasn’t surprised. He’d known he’d find Kirby with Frankie the moment Mr. Cargill told them about the second daughter. He thanked Kirby’s God that Manny had known exactly where to find them and that he’d risked the extra minutes to grab his Colt.

His heart seized, and he forgot about everything but the here and now. Kirby was standing at the edge of the quarry, swaying heavily. Blood ran down the side of her face, and her hands were cuffed to a suitcase. But she was alive. That was the main thing. She’d hung on.

He raised his Colt, depressed the safety. On the count of three he’d rush Frankie.

One, two—

In one graceful, purposeful, effective motion, Frankie swung Miss Bea’s rifle. It pounded Kirby’s shoulder. Kirby staggered, teetered on the edge of the water, tried to right herself. But stunned and wounded, manacled, defenseless, she toppled into the pond. The suitcase tipped over the edge and smashed into her. She gasped. Then the opaque waters of the quarry heaved open and swallowed her.

For a stunned moment, he gazed at the spot where Kirby had disappeared. An emotion, fierce, deep and new, washed through him.
I love you.

If he lived or if he didn’t, if he never touched her again or if he did, what did it matter? As long as he knew Kirby Swallow was alive, he could live his lonely life knowing he’d done one good thing.

He sprang from his hiding place, leaped over brush, racing for the water. His eyes held the spot where she disappeared.

Frankie stepped in front of him and raised the Glock.

“Look who finally arrived. It’s sweet Kirby’s lover.” Madness burned in her eyes. She’d always been crazy. Always been cruel and covetous. But she’d crossed a new divide. Frankie Swallow was insane.

He raised the Colt. “Back away, Frankie.”

A bubble rose in the water. “She’s already dead. Or almost. Why bother with her?”

“Back away, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Not if I shoot you first.”

He jumped aside when she pulled the trigger. But it didn’t matter. The hammer clicked softly. Frankie’s gun was empty.

Her mouth formed a lipsticked rictus. “She screwed me. That bitch!” Frankie swooped down on the rifle.

Another air bubble bobbed to the surface. Kirby needed him. Now. He raised his gun, aimed and shot to wound.
Bam!
Blood oozed from Frankie’s upper thigh, soaking her pants and running down her ankle. Miss Bea’s rifle clattered to the ground.

“Ooh. Look what you did to me.” Her hand pressed against the gaping wound. “It hurts.” She reeled. The heel of her boot caught the edge of the pool. With a squeal of surprise, she catapulted into the pond.

“Help me, Seth.” Her arms thrashed.

Frankie was going to have to wait. Kicking off his boots, Seth took a running leap and dived, breaking the water where Kirby’s last breath appeared.

Please be okay. Please be okay. You have to be okay.

He descended, praying and bargaining with God, flailing his arms in desperate hope of touching her. Solid and still alive. The flicker of light from the surface faded, and the icy water turned to ink. He hated that Kirby was down here alone in the cold and the dark. She wasn’t going to die this way. He wouldn’t let her.

His muscles ached from the cold. And his bones. His head, too. He fought to maintain his downward trajectory. Pumping his legs, pushing at the water with his arms. His hand brushed something soft and feathery. He yanked, pulled away a slimy frond of vegetation. He’d hit the bottom of the pool. Kicking his legs, he felt his way along the bottom, pushing aside plants and loose rocks.

His lungs burned. Where the hell was she?

Calm down, close your eyes, concentrate.
He stopped struggling. She was near. He knew it.
Reach out.
He did. Something feathery tickled his palm.

More plants? Hair?

He captured the strands, and he pulled himself along, hand over hand, until he hit a body. Kirby’s body. A burst of exhilaration powered through him. He had her.

He was losing air fast. Sliding his hands under her armpits, he held her tight against him, then pushed off from the bottom. She didn’t move. It must be the suitcase. It had weighed a ton when Kirby hauled it out of the Benz.

He had to get Kirby and the suitcase up. Dropping Kirby back into the weeds, he groped for the suitcase, hugged it tight in his arms to absorb the weight, and prayed that the handle and the handcuffs would hold.

One, two, three. He pushed off the bottom with every ounce of strength he had left. The suitcase slipped, and he nearly fell back. He kicked, bashing Kirby in the process, but they rose a few inches. He kicked again, and they rose again. Another kick and another until his strength reached its breaking point. Then the water brightened. Daylight was close.

A surge of adrenaline got him the last few feet. He broke the surface, his first breath a roar. On the ledge were two pairs of boots. He craned his head back. Swope and Jones.

“I have Kirby. Grab the case.”

Swope hunkered down. “That a body under the water?”

“Yes! We need to get her breathing.”

Swope wrestled the suitcase onto the ledge, and Jones lifted Kirby’s limp body out of the water and laid her on the grass. He lifted her wrists. “These look like standard-issue cuffs. You got a key with you, Swope?”

Swope dug into his pocket and pulled out a small key, releasing Kirby from the suitcase so Jones could stretch her out flat.

“Over here,” he yelled behind his shoulder.

Two paramedics scrambled over the ledge.

“How did you guys get here so fast?”

“Mr. Shaw called about twenty-five, thirty minutes ago. We were almost at the ranch when your boy called and told us to head up to the ridge.”

“Okay, then.” Kirby was in good hands. “I’m taking another dive,” Seth said. “Frankie’s still down there.”

Swope frowned. “Frankie’s right here.”

“That’s Frankie’s sister, Kirby.”

Swope’s jaw dropped. “There’s two of them?”

Seth didn’t answer. He dived for Frankie. He didn’t want her to die at the bottom of the quarry, because Kirby would hate it and hate him for putting her there.

Chapter Thirty-One

Air bubbles popped from Kirby’s nose. Her last breath floated away.

Kirby.

She opened her eyes. A tunnel of light glowed in the dark water. Grandy emerged, walking inside the glow as if it was solid ground and air. He held out his arm.

The passage to night is short, Kirby-nee. Take my hand. I will show you.

But when she reached for him, her wrists passing through the cuffs like phantoms, his light began to fade.

“Where are you going? Come back, Grandy.”

He’s coming for you, Kirby-nee.

“Don’t go—”

A crushing weight bore down on her.

Her body jerked and spasmed. Bitterness gushed from her stomach, her lungs, her nose, ran down her cheeks and over her chin.

Her eyes opened to a canopy of trees and bright blue sky and two EMTs hunkered over her. Where was she?

Then she remembered. Frankie had tried to kill her. She jerked up.

“Stay still, ma’am. Don’t try to talk.”

She tried anyway. “Where’s Frankie?” Her mouth formed the words, but no sound came out.

“Take deep breaths.”

She did, coughing up rancid droplets with each gasp, pushing blood back into her fingers and toes.

“Good job, ma’am. Looks like you’re going to be okay.”

The placid surface of the quarry erupted. Seth emerged with Frankie’s limp body cradled in his arms.

“I need help here,” he shouted.

The paramedics abandoned Kirby and lifted Frankie from Seth’s arms. They laid her on the limestone, crouched beside her, counting softly between chest presses and pinching her nose to blow air into her lungs. Frankie’s pale, fisted hand hung over the edge of the pool. The slender wrist rocked against the sharp edge as the men tried to push and puff life into Frankie. But the fist stayed tight, the wrist limp and blue.

Please, Frankie, wake up.

The men leaned back and shook their heads.

“You can’t let her die.” Kirby scrambled to her feet. The ground and trees, the EMTs and Frankie’s limp body swam before her eyes.

“Careful.” Swope grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“I have to save my sister.” But a well of grief was already opening inside her.

Frankie’s skin was as pale as the limestone. Weeds knotted her hair. Green eyes, dulled by death, stared up at the endless sky. Bloodless lips gaped at nothing, or maybe the shock of losing her life so unexpectedly. Kirby would never know. A hole in Frankie’s leggings framed torn skin and an ugly wound.

“Her leg. What happened?”

Swope cleared his throat. “The bullet hit an artery. Probably bled out in the water.”

“Bullet? But how? Who?”

“Maguire saved your life.”

“Seth shot her?” She looked at him.

He was soaked to the skin, bootless and hatless, a solitary figure in the buffalo grass. His back was braced against the limestone cliff, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dripping jeans. His shirt hung open. His feet were bare. His head and shoulders sagged wearily.

He raised his head, and his eyes met hers. Bloodshot and bleak, they pierced her heart, filling her with a pain so sharp she wanted to die.

He’d killed someone today. He’d carry that memory for the rest of his life. Because of her. Because she was so stupid. Because she’d walked straight into Frankie’s trap like she was Florence freaking Nightingale.

They’d all tried to tell her about Frankie—Mr. Shaw, Miss Bea, Seth, even Brittany and Manny—but she’d been so sure she knew Frankie, so sure she could help her. Instead she’d killed her sister and left Seth with a wound that would never heal.

From a pit of deep regret, a wail rose inside her, tearing at her chest, her lungs, and her throat. “Frankie! I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The clearing spun. She fell to her knees. Her heart shifted, and she was calling out to Seth. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, I’m sorry.”

When the paramedics lifted her, she didn’t resist. Inside the ambulance, the EMT dabbed her arm with alcohol. There was a pinch, then everything went beautifully black.