A Dark Love (24 page)

K
en kept a close watch on Bell, every muscle in his body primed and ready to pounce. Ken could take him out in three seconds. But he’d bust the coffee table in the process.

Bell was weeping softly.

Ken wished he could help. He’d taken in strays as a kid, once even getting Gus to drive clear across the county for an eyedropper from the twenty-four-hour pharmacy so they could nurse a baby blue jay. But Bell’s strange fits of emotion were alarming. His moods shifted too fast, for one thing. Ken had seen his share of rage on the field, some of it fueled by steroids, but there had been less of it as he rose through the ranks. Men who made pro had mastered their emotions, even in a sport known for its punishing physical contact.

Which meant that Jim Bell’s top-of-the-line SUV and state-of-the-art gear didn’t match up to the seesaw of emotion he displayed.

A lot of things about him weren’t right.

Porter ripped off his steel-rimmed glasses and dug at his eyes with his knuckles. He snuck a glance at Kincaid, and didn’t like what he saw. Kincaid was watchful.
Wary. Time was running out, Porter knew. Things were no longer going as well as he had hoped. He needed to choose his moment soon, or his opportunity would pass.

Watching Bell, Ken recalled how frightened Alice had been last night. She was convinced there had been something in the woods. Not something. Someone. A man she might be fleeing from. It was hard to believe Alice’s ex could be the man sniffling on Ken’s couch right now. The idea was repugnant to Ken. And yet, once it presented itself, it quickly took root in his mind.

Watching Kincaid, Porter saw Ken’s eyes harden in a look that had made many an opposing halfback brace himself for the worst. Porter flinched. He stopped crying and blew his nose. “Okay,” he said, shifting gears. “Okay.”

Ken stood, drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable. Squaring his shoulders, he centered his weight on the balls of his feet in the classic fight stance. “I’m going to go outside for a minute, and you’re going to wait right here, Jim.”

Porter took another sip of water with hands that shook. “Shall I, shall I, ah…?”

“Wait here. I’m going to turn off the propane tanks, then we’ll head down.”

Porter gave a vigorous nod, not meeting Ken’s gaze.

Satisfied that Bell was settled for the moment, Ken stepped out the back door into the swirling storm.

Snow came at him from all directions. Several inches lay on the ground and more was coming. He could feel it.

He drew the cold air deep into his lungs and held it before expelling it fully through his lips in an attempt to
rid himself of anxiety. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Ken could just make out the surface of the lake, dark as slate. He was glad for a few minutes alone. His high spirits of the morning were all but forgotten.

He headed for the twin tanks along the rear wall of the cabin and reached for the first valve. It screwed shut easily. Not so the second valve, located back at the base. Ken knelt on the cold ground, his fingers pushing at the safety clamp. It refused to budge. Ken pushed harder.

The clamp still refused to yield.

“Damn,” he muttered. He had tools in the Jeep, but retrieving them now would add precious minutes to the task. And he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Bracing himself, he closed his hand around the clamp once more and pushed with all his strength.

The clamp had begun to give way when he felt a prick on his leg like a bee sting.

He gasped in surprise and rocked back onto his heels. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and swung around, to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

The key worked and the lock sprang open. The police officers announced their presence, kicked the door open, and burst into the storage room, taking up positions the way they had drilled.

There was no one inside.

What they saw, however, was enough to stop all four cops dead in their tracks.

Inside was an altar of sorts.

Hartung was the first to break the silence. “Bullshit.”

“Amen,” someone said.

He fumbled behind him for the wall switch. The dim light of the overhead bulb only served to heighten the sense Hartung had that he had stumbled onto the set of a Hitchcock movie.

Officer Mike Hartung hated scary movies.

The room was spotless. In its center was a gleaming steel barrel, the kind used for hazardous waste, draped in ivory lace. On top was a single snowy white candle in a holder. Next to it was a pack of matches and a framed photograph of a young woman, and in her lap sat a little boy.

The woman could have been any young mother wearing a silk blouse with shoulder pads and Boy George spiky bangs, which made Hartung guess the photo had been taken sometime in the late 1980s.

But there was no mistaking the identity of the little boy with thick brown hair and pale blue eyes, peering anxiously into the camera.

Next to the barrel was a daybed with pillows.

It was a match for the one in Moross’s office. A therapy couch.

If the whole setup wasn’t spooky enough to begin with, this realization alone would have been enough to kick up Hartung’s Spidey sense. But Spidey was already in high gear.

Next to the therapy couch was a straight-backed chair, extra matches, and a big box of candles.

Spares.

Hartung was the first to move. Donning latex gloves, he swiped a finger across the base of the candle. “No dust.”

The rim of the daybed was just as clean.

Which meant it got frequent use.

They collected the items atop the barrel and sealed them inside evidence bags, after photographing the scene.

“Well, here goes.” Hartung’s partner began working the rim of the barrel with a crowbar, with an assist from a couple of officers who held the container steady. The room was quiet as a tomb while he worked.

When the lid finally popped, Hartung was very glad he hadn’t stopped for bagels.

The musky odor of decay worked its way out through countless layers of industrial-gauge plastic sheeting.

There were audible groans as the officers donned masks and kept cutting away layers.

Hartung fished in his pocket for the Kleenex he always carried to homicide scenes, and pressed it against his mask.

It did nothing to blot out the stench, but it gave him something to do besides ponder the grisly contents of the container.

When the last of the plastic sheeting had been worked open, the officers stepped back.

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered.

The room fell silent out of respect for what they had found.

G
us hit the play button on Ken’s answering machine, offering no apology for listening to his son’s private messages. He didn’t have to. The worry lines on his face said it all.

Maebeth’s voice, sounding worn and frayed. “Ken, it’s Maebeth. Call us before you head up to camp today. We need to speak with you before you leave.”

Not her usual, cheery self.

The dread inside Caroline morphed into a suspicion that was too ugly to think about. But Maebeth’s next words confirmed Caroline’s worst fear.

“I doubt you’ll take your client up there in this weather, but call us.” The call ended abruptly.

The machine whirred and reset itself.

But Ken had taken his new client up to the cabin, against his better judgment and his common sense. Caroline was certain of it.

His client would have persuaded him.

Because this client knew all there was to know about manipulation.

Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. The room tilted around her. She swallowed and looked at Gus.

Gus was staring at the machine. He met Caroline’s gaze and winked, trying to reassure her that everything was okay.

Except they both knew it wasn’t.

“Just a second here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Maybe Ken’s left a message for me.” He dialed his own number and entered a code.

There was one new message, from Ted Burkle at the county hospital. Something about Maebeth burning her hand.

But Ted’s final words added weight to the heavy feeling that was pressing down on Gus’s chest. Something about Jim Bell, the guest who had arrived yesterday. He drove a white Yukon.

Gus hung up and chose his next words carefully. Alice was fragile on her best days and her face had turned white as snow, her eyes wild and unfocused, the pupils already constricted to the size of tiny dots.

She was staring out the window up to where the pass would be visible on a clear day. When she spoke her voice was dull and faint. “He’s up there.”

There was no use pretending. Gus nodded.

Alice swallowed hard with trembling lips.

Gus Kincaid wasn’t the type to get worked up over things. Nor was he one to mince words. He recalled the conversation he’d had a short while ago with the real Jim Bell, the car dealer who had answered the phone in Denver. Gus looked at Alice now, his gaze steady and direct. “Does the name Porter Moross mean anything to you?”

She recoiled as though she’d been punched. “No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, grabbing for the counter to steady herself.

Gus reached out to calm her. “Take it easy, Alice. Ken can take care of himself.”

Her eyes sprang open in alarm. She sprinted to the door and grabbed Ken’s spare keys.

Gus moved to stop her. “Alice, now…” he began.

But she was halfway out, with Pippin racing past her. “Call the police and tell them to come right away. He’s got a gun.”

“Alice, hold on. If you know this man…” Gus kept his voice steady in spite of the alarm he felt.

The terror in her voice made itself heard as she ran into the storm. “Porter Moross is my husband.”

The Porsche rumbled to life as Gus dialed the sheriff. There were just two in all three hundred square miles of Sky County. With any luck, one of them would be close by.

K
en stared at the handgun. His mind struggled to make sense of it while his body coiled instinctively into a protective crouch. Even more puzzling than the gun in Bell’s right hand was the syringe he clutched in his left.

Ken felt pins and needles in his leg.

Bell sneered, his voice calm and steady, his accent sharply East Coast now. “Get up. Or I’ll kill you right here.”

One look at Bell’s eyes, glittering and hard like broken glass, was enough to convince Ken. Bell was Alice’s ex, Ken was certain of it.

Ken stood, or rather, attempted to. His legs were heavy, wobbling under him like rubber. Walking required all his concentration. He shook his head in disbelief. “Jim, you don’t need to do this…”

Bell let the syringe drop to the ground and backed up, never loosening his grip or his aim. “But I do, Ken. It’s time for the truth, time for everybody to get honest. With themselves. And with me. I’ll even go first.” His lips curled into a mirthless smile. “My real name is Porter Moross. I am a doctor in Washington, D.C.”

Ken felt a wild thumping in his heart. His face flushed with heat despite the cold wind whipping around them.

Moross surveyed him coolly. “The dose is kicking in, I see. Move inside while you can.”

Ken fought for every breath, feeling his heart pound slow and heavy inside his ribs. Walking had become a task that required all his concentration.

“They use this for lethal injections. To kill people who’ve done bad things,” Moross said with a short laugh. “And you’ve done some bad things, Kincaid, haven’t you?” Moross looked at Ken through eyes narrowed to tiny slits, his lips pulled back into a smile as false as that of a wax figure.

Ken saw the madness in Moross’s face. He judged his odds of tackling Moross head-on, despite the heavy-gauge pistol in Moross’s hand. But Ken knew his timing wasn’t what it had been, his bad knee was no longer trustworthy. And his legs were turning to lead. Inside the cabin was a loaded shotgun at the back of the wardrobe near Ken’s bed. A box of shells was stowed on the shelf above it. That was his best option at the moment. Ken took in a deep, ragged breath.

Moross watched him with interest. “Another man would have collapsed by now. You’ll have use of your legs for another minute or so. Walk while you still can.” He motioned with the gun and stepped back, careful to stay out of Ken’s reach.

There was no choice but to do as Moross ordered. Ken shuffled ahead of him with uncertain steps, bracing himself at every moment for an explosion in his spine. He made it to the cabin and almost as far as the couch before his legs gave way. He managed to get his arms under him to break his fall, using the last of his strength
to prop himself against the side of the couch. He had lost all feeling in his hips. He lay back, his breathing labored and heavy.

Moross watched, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. “It’s awful to be helpless, isn’t it? I could cut you with a knife right now and guess what? You’d still feel pain.” He laughed, revealing tiny rows of teeth.

Ken thought of Alice with this man, and his mind recoiled in horror. He focused on the gun inside the wardrobe. Twenty paces away. He could drag himself to it while he still had the use of his arms. He flexed his fingers. They still worked.

“But why am I wasting words on you?” Moross said, smiling. “You’re just a dumb jock.”

Moross appeared more relaxed, in control now. But his hands remained wrapped around the pistol, his finger on the trigger. “And I am a doctor. Not just any doctor, Ken. A special kind of doctor. Not that you give a shit.”

Anger flashed like lightning across Moross’s face again.

Ken wondered if Moross would shoot. He looked down, closed his eyes.

But Moross kept talking. “Actually, this is your one and only, last chance to have the best therapy session of your life.” He chuckled. “People come from far and wide to consult with me, Kincaid, just like they used to come to see you play. I was a star,” he said, his voice dropping. “We have a lot in common, if you think about it.” His eyes narrowed. “Even more so if you count my wife.”

Moross’s knuckles were white where he gripped the pistol. His voice shook with rage. He licked his lips.
“We’re going to do a quick review of your life, Ken, and bring you to a deeper understanding of how it all fits together.” Here he paused. “And how your actions have impacted my life. How about that?” Moross’s voice dropped another notch, unsteady with emotion.

Ken stood still. A heavy weight was working its way up through his abdomen and chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and causing his heart to thump like a jackrabbit. Breathing now required all his strength. His arms felt numb and he had probably lost the use of his hands, but he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t want to risk flexing his fingers while Moross watched, even though the man was now gazing up at the ceiling with a lunatic stare.

Ken swallowed. He could feel movement only at the back of his throat, nothing below that. Claustrophobia gripped him. He’d felt this way once before, after he took a bad hit in the chest on the field. He’d lain there while the medics worked on him, unable to feel his legs. The stadium fell silent as Ken was carried off. Luckily, he’d recovered. That time. Ken fought the unease that rose inside him now. Panic was the enemy. To clear his mind, he summoned his strength to speak. “Why?” His voice sounded thin and weak to his own ears.

“Good question.” Moross smiled. “You show promise as a psychotherapy patient. I mean that as a compliment, you know.”

Moross was enjoying this. But the smile faded from his face. “You already know the answer to that, if you think about it. The answers are always there. Beginning with this one.” He leaned forward to be sure Ken was paying attention. “You stole my wife.” Moross licked his lips, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’ve prob
ably done it before, lots of times. But this time you picked the wrong woman. You chose my wife.”

Ken saw the jealous rage in Moross’s eyes. It was a flash of humanity that gave him hope he might reason with the man, make him see the truth. Mainly, that his wife was afraid of him and couldn’t live with him right now. But the moment passed.

Moross’s voice dropped to a whisper that was barely audible. “She left me. And you took her. My wife. Caroline.”