A Stranger in Wynnedower (37 page)

The gun. She’d left it
on Jack’s desk.

She kept low in
Jeremy’s room because she could see the bedroom door was open. She listened. No
sight, no sound. No one.

Her first goal was to
reach the east end stairs. As she moved through the hallway, it was unnerving
to see many of the doors open. Jack’s key ring had been missing, too. Brendan
or someone must’ve been searching for the paintings. Had he tried the dining
room? Even without a key, the doors wouldn’t be that hard to kick open. The
paintings, probably copies, were far down on her list of what to protect, but
if Jack was already in the hands of these dangerous fools, then she might need
them for bargaining.

She paused for a peek
into Helene’s room. Still no one, but now, on the table by the flowered chair,
were her car keys. She picked them up and stared at them. No time to think, she
put them into her pocket.

Now she could drive
down that road instead of running, but so much time had already passed. She
headed down the stairs.

Jack’s door was open.

The gun was no longer
on the desk. Maybe Jack had taken it with him or put it away? She searched in
the desk drawers, on the top of the bookcase and in the night stand, and didn’t
find it.

That left finding Jack.
She saw Jack’s rental car through the window, still parked.

Jack didn’t want to
believe bad things about Brendan, but reality could be cruel, and wanting to
believe the best made Jack vulnerable.

She checked the dining
room doors on the way and found them still locked. Urged on by a sense of time
running out, she went back down the hall to the east end stairs instead of
choosing the front door. Where was the value in driving away to summon help, if
her help was needed now? Right now. Right below her feet.

Moving down the stairs
in the dark, her fingers trailed along the rough, wooden boards, nearly blind,
afraid that the least bit of stray light would filter into the long hallway and
give her away.

In the basement
hallway, she kept the blueprint image of the hall in her head. She paused every
few feet to touch the walls with her hands and to feel the floor with her feet.
Servants’ quarters and storage rooms lined both sides of the hall. The doors
were closed and helped mark her passage. The pace was slow. When the sound of
hushed voices reached her, she stopped.

The voices sounded
disembodied, curling out from the far end of the basement.

“…everywhere. I can’t
find….”

Brendan’s voice.

By now, her eyes were
well-adjusted to the dark. Beyond the end of the hallway, in the area of the
central stairs, the dark was less intense because the door to the carriage area
was open a fraction.

She crept to the door
and tried to see through the gap. At least two people were in there and moving
toward her out of the deeper shadows.

The silhouetted figures
walked into the open area which was dimly lit by the wedge of light that
filtered in through the carriage doors. That light brushed the outlines of a truck.
The side nearest to where Rachel crouched was a dark, amorphous area of shadow.

The smell of exhaust
stole the oxygen even though the truck’s motor was off. She couldn’t see what
lay in the shadows alongside the truck, but she sensed his presence so
strongly, it was as if she could see every detail in his face.

 “Too bad.”

“The deal was that we
weren’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Where’s the woman and
the sister?”

Brendan’s words were
murmured, too low to be understood.

“He’s a freak. Is he in
the house, too?” The man sounded angry and bad-tempered.

“No,” Brendan said.
“The women are gone, too. Ran off into the woods. They don’t know anything
anyway—”

A loud thwack stopped
Brendan’s words.

“You brought me into
this. Don’t go weak on me now.”

A pause, then Brendan
answered, “It’s over, Doug. It’s fallen apart, and you knocked out, maybe
killed, the only guy who has the answers. It’s not too late to back out. No one
can identify you.”

“Except you.” He made a
noise that sounded like a twisted laugh. “You deliver, or I’m gonna be
embarrassed in front of some people in a real unhealthy way, and that’s not
going to happen.”

A long taut silence
stretched out between them.

“I’ve been straight
with you. If I knew where those paintings were, I’d be right in it with you,
but the longer this drags on....”

“Then fix it.”

In that deep shadow
beside the truck, there was a thud, followed by a groan.

“Well, we’re in luck.
He’s not dead. Grab that end. We’ll wake him up.”

“Wait, Doug. He’s a big
guy and a dead weight right now. I’ll get a chair. There’s one over by the
wall.”

She squeezed her eyes
shut and tears dampened her lashes. The words wanted to burst past her lips,
‘take the paintings and go,’ but she wasn’t that big a fool. Offering the
paintings right now wouldn’t save Jack, or anyone. But she had hope. Brendan
had told the man that she was gone—not locked in the bathroom and conveniently
waiting to be questioned.

Brendan disappeared.
The man kept saying, ‘Wake up. Wake up,’ to the tune of a flesh hitting flesh.
Each blow wrenched her own stomach.

The man stood as
Brendan returned. She heard Brendan say, “Here it is,” and he swung the chair,
hitting Doug with a loud, crunching thud. The chair then flew from his hands
and banged into the side of the truck. Brendan launched himself onto the
staggering man.

Acting purely on
emotion, Rachel opened the door wide and threw herself into the shadows beside
the truck. She landed on top of Jack who lay sprawled on the floor. He groaned
and moved in reflex. She pulled at him, insanely thinking she could pull him
away from danger. His name slipped out. “Jack!”

Cruel hands grabbed
her, pulling her to her feet, and a hard voice said, “Who’s this?” He dragged
her nearer the light. “Jack, did you say? Well, you’re my jackpot, aren’t you?”

 “Brendan?” She
resisted the hands holding her and tried to see into the area into which he’d
disappeared. Maybe a figure lying on the floor? Hard to tell.

“He’s out.” He crooked
an arm around her neck. “Where are the paintings?”

Rachel pushed against his
arm. “Why should I tell you? You’re going to kill us. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re down here,
aren’t you? So you can’t be too bright.” He dragged her back to where Jack lay.
“Tell me, or I’ll cut his throat. You’re not dead yet, and neither is he. But
he will be if you don’t tell. He’ll die right in front of you.”

“Where’s Brendan?” She
kept her voice loud in case Jack could hear her, in case Brendan wasn’t totally
disabled.

“He’s bleeding out
right about now. He shouldn’t have double-crossed me. Learn from his mistake.”

It was only him—just
the one. Brendan wasn’t helping him now. Brendan’s helper, who’d turned away
from her that day when she saw them working on the front door. The man Helene
saw. Oh, Brendan. Jack was right about bringing strangers into Wynnedower.

Her heart was trying to
bang right out of her chest. She felt faint. No good. She couldn’t think
through the fear.

Remove the
extraneous; identify the true need.

Calm began to slow her
panic. She said, “You win. Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

He heard the jingle of
keys in her pockets and searched them. “Car keys? Nice. You won’t need these.”
He dropped them into his own pocket.

“Go now. Take my car.
Get away while you can.”
Please go. Please.

“Oh, I’ll get away and
leave with what I came for, too, but I’ll want the truck for that.”

He pushed her toward
the stairs. She put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, they moved forward.

He followed so closely
his breath stirred her hair. The sharp point of a blade dug into her back.
Thinking of Brendan’s silence, the knife, and now Jack, again, over and over.
Jack lying in the basement—was he also in an ever-widening spread of blood? Her
feet felt like twenty-pound weights were attached.

Stumbling on the steps
only succeeded in getting the point of his knife pushed more firmly into her
side and probably a tear in her jacket. Thinking furiously, but with no really
helpful ideas and no time for her to think it out in her head, they entered the
pantry and heard voices.

Helene said, “I told
you to leave me alone.”

From a distance, Kilmer
answered, “You know I love you. I adored you when we were children and that
feeling has grown each year, each day. It consumes me, Helene.”

Rachel realized she’d
stopped moving when the man pushed up close behind her. The blade poked in her
side again and his hand covered her mouth.

“I don’t love you.”

“Helene, please, you
did once and you will again if they’ll leave us alone and let us be together.”

“You don’t love me.”
Her voice was strong with certainty.

“Come with me. We’re
going to split the proceeds from selling the paintings.”

“They aren’t yours.”

He sounded put out.
“We’ll have to go away for a while, but then we’ll come back and fix up
Wynnedower. It’ll be everything we ever wanted it to be, like we dreamed years
ago.”

“We were six. I don’t
love you. Stay away from me.”

Torn between the
terrible events downstairs, the prick of the knife in her side, and the wounded
voices floating out from the dining room, Rachel was mesmerized. The tragedy
that had started below, continued to unfold around her with an increasing sense
of inevitability. She was almost numb now and vaguely grateful for it.

The man spoke in her
ear, excitement slurring his words, “They’re in there, aren’t they?”

She knew he didn’t mean
the people.

“Helene, I’ll do
anything for you. Let me. No one knows Wynnedower like I do. No one cares about
it like me. Like I care for you. We’ll take these. Just the two of us. But we
don’t have much time. They’ll be up here any minute.”

She and her captor had
moved from the kitchen to the doorway of the dining room.

At about the same time
that the man whispered in her ear, “Call them out,” May spoke from behind them.
“Miss Sevier, where is Miss Helene and who is this man?”  Ahead of her, from
the dining room, Rachel heard the click of a hammer being pulled back. That
round was being chambered.

“I never blamed you,
Helene. Never. In no time you’ll be glad we did this.”

The reverberation of
the gun shot caused Rachel to step back. She nearly fell because the man was no
longer behind her. He was choking, his throat wedged in the crook of Jack’s
arm.

Jack’s face was dusty
on one side and pale on the other and a trickle of blood had run from his black
hair and into the corner of one eye. He sounded breathless. “Go see about
Helene. Has anyone called the police?”

May was immobile,
stunned into shock. Rachel pushed past her and rushed into the dining room.
Helene was seated on the modeling chair, the gun in her hand, relaxed on her
thigh. The bullet had gone somewhere, but not into David Kilmer. He huddled on
the floor next to the box that had held Jack’s painting junk. The stuff was now
scattered on the floor. A couple of ornate frames rose above the open top of
the box.

“Hello, Rachel. Are you
okay?”

She gaped at Helene.
“Did you shoot?”

“It was loud. It hurt
my ears.” A phone rang. Rachel’s cell phone. The gun wavered as Helene dug into
her skirt pocket. She pulled it out. “For you?”

“The gun, Helene.
Please point it away. Down at the floor.” Rachel took the phone. “Daisy? Sorry,
can’t talk.” She disconnected and handed the phone to May.

“Please call 9-1-1.”

Sounds of a scuffle
outside the dining room overrode May’s voice speaking in the background. Rachel
ran out again feeling battered by too many choices, too many decisions of the
life and death kind.

The man, Doug, stumbled
into the hallway, knocked her splat against the wall. He ran toward the central
hall, his feet slipping as he turned the corner, but he kept moving. Jack half
fell out of the kitchen and into the hallway. His eyes hit on Rachel sitting on
the floor with her back against the wall. He held one hand in front of his ribs
as if to protect them and put his other hand on the wall. He slid down to his
knees.

“He’s running away,”
she said.

He said, “Let him go.
The police can catch him later. My head is splitting. Are you okay? Who was
shot?”

“No one. Helene shot,
but didn’t hit him. Didn’t hit David, I mean. May called 9-1-1.” It was so odd,
yet felt so right, that the two of them were sitting and chatting on the
hallway floor. They were bruised, but upright and breathing, and more
interested in each other than in running down that horrible man.