Web of Smoke (29 page)

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A couple weeks.”

“You’re sure taking a lot of clothes.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Hmmm,” she said, examining her nails. “You didn’t tell me you had a visitor when I called.”

“What visitor?” he said.

“Am I mistaken?”

“You’re talking in circles, Beth. I don’t understand.”

She stood and approached him. She could sense his retreat from her, though he didn’t move. A sheen of fear glistened in his eyes. Fear? Of her?

A twitch jerked the corner of her eye in rhythm to the pounding in her head. She stared at his suitcase. Was he planning to leave her holding the bag? The last threads of her unraveled cloak of control separated and fell in tatters at her feet.

“Who have you been talking to?” she whispered, touching his face with her fingertips.

He stood transfixed in her stare for a heartbeat of time before dumping the clothes in his hands onto the pile on the floor. He backed away from her, sidestepping around to the door.

She followed down the hall, watching as he fixed a drink, which he swallowed in a gulp. It was her turn to fear.

“Who, Leonard? Who?”

“Sam McCoy.”

“No….”

“Your renegade son has abducted Sam’s wife now. I had no choice.”

She stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “So you betrayed me?”

“Beth, we’re at the end of the line. It’s time to get out. Get away. You should be home packing, too.”

“Do you think I can just leave? Do you think I can just run away?”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

She felt a cold fury wash over her at his words. No, she didn’t have a choice. She never had. But neither did Leonard. If he thought he could simply cut and run, he was crazy.

“And what of my son, Leonard? What of him?”

“Leave him behind. This is all his fault anyway.”

“I’m not talking about DC, you fool. What about James?”

Leonard crossed to the bar and poured another drink. She noted the unsteadiness of his hands, her ears tuning to the slur in his words.

“He’s not your son, Beth. That’s the trouble.”

His words stung her voice away. Painfully, she cleared her throat.

“What about your records, Leonard? At the office?”

“I’ve destroyed everything.”

“When?”

“After McCoy left my office today. I knew it would be only a matter of time before….”

“Before what?”

“Before they tracked DC to you and me. We’ve done enough damage to people. I didn’t want it compounded with the chaos that those records would bring to our clients.”

“How noble of you. Yet you didn’t think twice about selling me out. What about the chaos that James will go through?”

Leonard lowered his drink and gave Beth a look of disgust. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you started your business.”

“I beg your pardon? Don’t you mean
our
business?”

“You tricked me into working for you. I had a future. I had a career. You stole that from me.”

She laughed, shaking her head in amazement. “I
made
you, Leonard Pfeiffer. You had nothing before me.”

“But I was someone.”

“Oh, please. You were someone who wasted his time with dime-a-dozen petty criminals. You’d still be in that hellish office in El Cajon if it wasn’t for me.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I wouldn’t have spent my life looking over my shoulder wondering when I’d get busted.”

“If that’s the way you feel, I suppose it’s pointless for me to be here. You had no intention of helping me clean up, did you?”

“If it was just DC, maybe I would help. But I know you, Beth. It wouldn’t stop there.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s still Christie McCoy and Jessica Jordan to deal with. There’s no way you can
clean up
them. Not now.”

Shaking with anger, Beth retrieved her purse, comforted by its weight. With her back turned to Leonard, she opened the clasp and reached in. The gun felt cold and solid, its presence an anchor, keeping her steady in the fast-moving waters of indecision.

“I intend to take care of them the same way I’ll take care of you,” she said, turning with the pistol aimed high and sure.

Leonard looked at her, surprise contorting his face. “Beth? What are you doing? Beth? Beth? Don’t do—”

She pulled the trigger.

Chapter Thirty-One

DC slumped against the kitchen counter, a bottle of bourbon in his hand. Slowly, methodically, he took long drinks from it, but the liquor did no good. The sizzling charges of panic and fear inside doused the fiery alcohol, canceling even the most generic buzz. Unwanted thoughts cluttered his aching mind. Like a movie playing backward, the events of his life slipped before his unseeing eyes. Outside, the neighborhood dogs began to bark again.

The sound slowed the flashing pictures. Suddenly, he was back at his grandpa’s. It was the week before his thirteenth birthday and the dogs were barking. They woke him a second before he heard the floorboards squeak outside his door.

Grandpa? Of course. Come for another of his nightly visits.

The old man slithered into the room, his stink wafting like a siren before him. DC’s nostrils flared with repugnance. Not again.

He stayed very still, holding his breath, praying Grandpa would move on. But in all his years there, that had never happened. DC was a fool to think it would this time.

He felt the hand, rough and smelling of beer and smoke, press against his throat. Then his Grandpa moved closer, levering his body into bed beside DC.

DC felt rage begin to simmer at his toes, rising up like a belching black cloud of smoke until it erupted in flames of fury. Roughly, he pushed Grandpa away, twisting his body so the older man could not pin him. Still holding DC’s neck, Grandpa squeezed. He would not be overpowered.

Neither made a sound. Neither wanted to wake Grandma and bare this awful truth to her.

The silence made DC strong. He had endured this for eight years. He could take it no more. He fought, twisting and turning. His resistance took Grandpa by surprise. Usually DC lay still, letting Grandpa do what he would, crying in silence as the old man shot him full of filth and disgust. Afterward, Grandpa would call him dirt. Call him trash for tempting him this way. It was, after all, DC’s fault that Grandpa did this to him.

DC wrestled Grandpa to the floor, grabbed him by his ears and pounded. Only when blood poured from his grandpa’s ears did DC realize he’d pounded the old man senseless.

He froze, thinking of his grandma. Panic chilled the sweat on his skin.

Grabbing Grandpa by the arms, he dragged him out of his bedroom, out of the shack. As if sensing the violence they’d been unable to witness, the dogs began to bark louder.

“Get back,” DC yelled at them. Surprisingly, they did.

DC opened the cage and shoved his grandpa in.

Back inside, DC quickly dressed, then snatched Grandpa’s keys from the rusted hook in the kitchen. He didn’t know how to drive, but this was a good time to learn. As he steered away from the house, he heard the dogs begin to snarl and fight.

As if over a bone.

DC blinked the memory away, but nothing could banish the dirty smudge it left on him, like a decaying souvenir. He took another drink of bourbon, then hurled the bottle at the wall. It exploded on impact, permeating the air with the pungent aroma of booze as the amber liquid splashed against the white paint. It was time to move.

* * *

DC locked the bathroom door again and left. With stunned relief, Christie heard the garage door bang open and closed, then the roar of his engine fading down the street. He was gone.

She spun, facing the bathroom as a warrior faces battle.

“Jessica? We have to get out of here.”

The young girl nodded.

“Did you check this place out? Is there anything we can use?”

“It’s empty.”

Christie scanned the room, frantically looking in the cabinets anyway. Her gaze ended on the small window. She climbed into the tub and tested it. The thick cover of paint sealed the seams around it. Bracing herself, she tried to force the window up. Sweat beaded her upper lip as she strained, but it wouldn’t budge.

Back on the floor, she turned in a circle, feeling like a caged animal. There had to be a way out. She studied the small room again, her search bouncing from the mirror to the tub to the window again.

There had to be a way. Her gaze shot to the sink, then to the toilet where it stayed for a stunned second.

So simple. So obvious.

The lid to the tank.

Moving quickly, she yanked the oblong piece of porcelain from the top of the toilet. It felt cold and heavy in her hands.

“Jessica? I’m going to throw this at the window and break it. There’s going to be glass everywhere, so you’ll need to protect yourself. Do you think you’ll fit in the cabinet under the sink?”

Jessica nodded and scampered to obey. Tucking herself easily into the small area, she peered out and asked, “Do I have to close the door? I don’t like the dark.”

“The dark is not what we have to fear, honey. I’ll need your blanket.”

The girl considered this for a second, then handed it over with a solemn look. As soon as Christie took it, Jessica started to squirm. As if the blanket had been her only security and now she’d given it up.

“Okay?” Christie asked.

“Okay,” Jessica answered, closing the cabinet door.

Making a hood from the blanket with the ends trailing over her shoulders, Christie shifted the position of her arms. She hoped she was strong enough to heave the tank top through the window. Staring up at the frosted glass, she hoisted the piece of porcelain to her shoulder. A frantic prayer moved her lips in a silent plea as she chucked it at the window. Instinctively she stepped back, curling into a protective ball under the shield of the blanket. The tank lid hit the wall two inches low with an explosive crash.

“Damn!”

Cursing under her breath, she stomped to the tub and looked in. A triumphant smile curled her lips as she saw that the tank top had smashed into three parts. She picked up the medium-sized piece, hefting it in her hands. Not what she’d planned, but no complaints.

“Christie?”

“It’s okay. Didn’t work, but hang in there one more minute.”

Biting her lip, Christie climbed onto the side of the tub. Blanket in place, she balanced herself against the wall as she took aim, this time able to control her missile. The chunk sailed from her hand like a bullet from a pistol, whistling through the air.

It shattered the window, showering Christie in a lethal storm of a thousand sharp little pieces. Gasping, she took an instinctive step for cover. Too late, she remembered she stood on the tub. Caught in the folds of the blanket, she teetered on the edge before crashing to the tile floor. Her skull cracked the enameled edge of the toilet and black-and-red stars danced behind her lids as the hot rush of unconsciousness clutched at her brain.

Outside, a dog barked, startled by the sound of the exploding glass. Christie grappled through the darkness, latching onto that sound.

Bark! Bark!

If she let go, they’d be dead for sure. If she allowed herself to slip into the comfort of never-never land, DC would come back and discover her. Discover her attempted escape and punish her and Jessica both for it. Kill them both.

Woof, woof!

Another dog joined in. She concentrated on them. The darkness turned gray, receding as rapidly as the tide. Behind it, Christie became aware of the pain. Excruciating agony throbbed through her head and arm. She moved her legs. They, at least, seemed okay.

She opened her eyes. The bathroom glowed dimly in the moonlight, but the room seemed incredibly bright without the frosted glass to filter the light. Fresh air streamed through the shattered window. Christie filled her lungs, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how convinced she’d become that she would never smell the softness of a night breeze again. She sat up, wincing as she jarred her arm.

Jessica cracked the cabinet door and peered out. “Christie? Are you okay?”

Biting her lip, Christie fought down the pain. She thought she might have broken her left arm but she couldn’t be sure. She’d never broken a bone in her life and had nothing with which to compare this hurt. Gently, she turned her wrist. Nothing seemed to be grinding. Honestly, she didn’t know if that was good or not. She did know that if the arm was broken, the fingers didn’t move. Or was that the spine? She shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“There’s blood on your head,” Jessica said, pointing.

The floor glittered with brilliant pieces of glass. Trying to touch as little as possible, Christie struggled to her feet and shook out the blanket. She swayed with a sickening lurch of nausea, fighting the black waves. She saw a bloodstain on the blanket and some more splashed on the base of the toilet. Afraid to know, afraid not to know, she turned to the mirror and inspected her head.

A gash on her forehead. Nothing too bad. If they stuck around here much longer she’d get a lot worse.

She faced the window, pushing her misery to the depths of her mind. Long, jagged edges poked up through the wooden frame like wicked blades. Using the blanket to protect her skin, Christie stood on the side of the tub again and punched at the shards of glass, knocking them out. She draped the blanket over the window ledge, put one foot on the soap dish and the other on the faucet sticking out of the wall. Gripping the shower head, she balanced herself between the two. She could only hope the fabric would protect them from any glass still poking through the frame.

Sending up a silent prayer, she pulled on the shower head and pushed with her feet until she could get her armpits hooked on the sill. A second cry caught in her throat as her throbbing arm protested the strain. Sweat beaded her forehead and tears careened down her cheeks. Biting her lip, she forced herself on. Her feet bounced against the wall as she hung like a fly. Grunting, she walked her rubber soles up the tile, pushing off the wall and inching her body up until she was half-in, half-out of the window.