Carnal Vengeance (36 page)

Her screams were undeniably authentic, though, as he proceeded to whip her back from shoulders to knees with the belt, raising welts the camera zoomed in on whenever possible. Nor did she have to fake her cries when he dropped his pants and held her hips in place for him to shove his unbelievably huge prick into her ass. When he was finished, her blood smeared them both, but he wasn't finished with her yet.

David clenched his fists beneath his armpits, gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep his gaze on the screen as if he was unaffected by the violence.

The husband untied his wife but when she tried to get out the door, he proceeded to use his fists and feet to subdue her, systematically battering every inch of the woman's head and body. She was no longer able to defend herself, let alone escape, but he didn't stop the beating.

Suddenly David could hear another man's voice coming from off-camera. He had been so traumatized by what he was watching, he hadn't consciously picked up the intrusion at first. Someone was ordering the actor to leave her alone and arguing with the cameraman to stop filming.

But neither man heeded the commands. It was not until a blond-haired man tackled the actor from the sidelines that the enraged giant regained a semblance of his sanity. He spun around, smashed the blond's jaw with a bloodied fist, then jumped over him as he fell.

The camera panned from the back of the man fleeing out the door, past the blond struggling to get to his feet, to the body of the girl on the floor. The picture zoomed in to scan the damage close up. One arm and a leg were bent in such a way that bones had obviously been broken. A piece of broken bone had broken through the skin of one forearm. Rivulets of blood flowed from her nose and gaping mouth. But the most damning evidence was the unnatural angle of her head and the open, sightless eyes.

Cinnamon had been absolutely right about how her friend had been killed.

The blond man staggered a little as he rose, rubbing his face. "For chrissakes..." His hand fell as he stared down at the dead girl and turned toward the cameraman. "Shut that fucking thing off. And destroy that video!"

David had thought that nothing could shock him more than what he had just seen, until he saw the face of the blond man as clearly as if he was standing in front of him.

It was
Jock
publisher, Jerry Frampton.

David stretched his arms above and behind his head, located the bug, and tapped his fingernail against it three times. He had been told to try to keep D'Angelo and the film in the same location as long as possible to give the Feds a chance to close in and catch him red-handed.

D'Angelo turned on the light and removed the DVD. "Well?"

"How do you want your money?" David asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice.

D'Angelo's smile was almost as grotesque as his films. "I'll give you an account number at a bank in the Cayman Islands. When I'm sure the money's been deposited, we'll meet again, and you'll get the DVDs."

David paused to give that some thought, and to give the police another few seconds. "I suppose that would be okay, as long as I can check the videos again. I wouldn't want to
accidentally
take the buyer a copy of
Sleeping Beauty."

"Sleeping Beauty,"
D'Angelo repeated with a chuckle. "Yeah, that's a good one. Don't worry. We'll work something out." He pulled a briefcase out from under the bed and put all the plastic cases in it.

David remained seated despite the hint that it was time to leave. "I can't say your movies are my usual fare, but I do recognize good camerawork when I see it. You do it yourself?"

D'Angelo clicked the case shut and picked it up. "Always. For the kind of product I handle, it's better to involve as few people as possible."

"Does Jerry Frampton get a piece of the million or does he really think the film was destroyed?"

D'Angelo narrowed his eyes threateningly but when David showed no fear, he gave a nasty laugh. "I should have known you'd recognize him. But what the hell do I care? That son-of-a-bitch likes to forget who got him started, so I've been holding on to this tape just in case he ever needed his memory refreshed. I was getting ready to offer to sell it to him right before you came into the picture."

David snickered along with him. "What about—"
Pop!
A sound that could have been a car backfiring outside was loud enough to penetrate the cushioned walls. In the next seconds, a hailstorm seemed to hit the metal garage door. Not hail, David realized instantly,
bullets!

In a lightning quick move, D'Angelo reopened his case, extracted a gun, and pointed it at David. "You fucking bastard!"

Raising his hands defensively, David stood up carefully and did his best to look bewildered... which was not entirely an act. There wasn't supposed to be any shooting. "What's the matter? What's going on?" In his own mind, he concluded that Butch, of the big body and small mind, had decided to shoot it out rather than surrender peacefully.

D'Angelo's wild-eyed gaze darted around the room as if he only now realized there was no back door. The sound of the garage door opening jarred him into action. With the briefcase in his left hand and the gun in his right, he moved in on David, then shoved him around so that he was facing the door and shielding most of D'Angelo's shorter, heavier body.

David felt the gun barrel jab the nape of his neck and tried again. "Look, I don't know—"

"Shut the fuck up! You think I'm too stupid to recognize a fucking trap when I'm standing in it?"

David figured panic would be appropriate about now, but he didn't have time to let it show before the door to the room was kicked open.

"Come out with your hands up," a man's voice demanded from outside. David was fairly sure it was Agent Quick.

"I'm coming out all right," D'Angelo said in a mocking tone. "Right behind your stooge. Either you back off and let me leave here safely or I blow him away."

David couldn't hear anything for several seconds. While the Feds were deciding how to play it, his sweat glands lurched into overdrive.

"We don't know who you have in there D'Angelo, but he's not one of ours. We're here because of an anonymous tip."

"Yeah, right," D'Angelo countered. "And I'm the tooth fairy. Now either you can all back clear across the parking lot so I can get to my car—it's the black Lincoln—or I can take you guys out one at a time as you come through this door. But Wells here is gonna get the first bullet."

Another pause had David frantically trying to recall an appropriate prayer, but his childhood hadn't included much religious education.
Now I lay me down to sleep...

"We're moving away." Moments later the same voice called out from a distance. "Come on out. You've got an open path to your car. Just let your hostage go free."

D'Angelo grabbed a fistful of David's hair as he poked the gun into his neck again and cocked it. "Okay, asshole, the rules here are real simple. You behave, you live. You fuck up, you die. Now walk nice and steady out that door and turn when I tell you to so I can keep you in front of me while I back up to my car."

David saw Butch's bullet-ridden body as he stepped over the threshold. But he also glimpsed two agents pressed flat against the walls on each side of him.

"Shit!"
was the last thought he had before all hell broke loose.

Chapter 18

Holly awoke Saturday morning filled with a whole spectrum of emotions. She was satisfied with the way last night had gone. She and Philip had had a pleasant time chatting over a good dinner, laughing over a political satirist's jokes at The Improv, having a nightcap in her apartment, then saying good night without any excessive intimacy—all the way
friends
should. She had intentionally made an extra effort to put everything out of her mind except treating Philip nicely and he had clearly done the same. The evening had almost gone the way their dates used to go—before the Ziegler hearing triggered the events that had turned her life inside out.

Initially, Philip had not wanted her to contact any of the Little Sisters, but he admitted he could see for himself how much Holly's last weekend with Dr. MacLeash had helped her. He actually encouraged her to return and spend more time with the woman. The guilt Holly had felt over telling that lie had practically vanished.

On the other end of the spectrum, she was tense over not hearing from David again and anxious to find out what April thought about the murders. Holly was over halfway to Newark, Delaware, when she heard the brief report on the radio. The names she heard caused her to come to a skidding, fishtailing halt at the side of the highway.

Mick D'Angelo and Butch Olkowski, killed in a shoot-out with the FBI in Miami late Thursday night. Two FBI agents and a police officer injured but in stable condition.

Publisher Jerry Frampton arrested hours ago.

Reporter David Wells critically wounded.

Wounded? Critically'?
What did that mean? Holly's mind whirled with questions.

Should she go back home, stay where David would know where to reach her, and hope to receive word, or go on to April's and make inquiries from there?

How had it happened? From the extremely brief overview it sounded like it had happened yesterday morning but she hadn't heard about it. Had the news been withheld for some reason or had she just missed it?
Who
wounded David? The FBI? D'Angelo? Or the person who had killed Ziegler and O'Day? Was it her fault for sending him on the chase, or for not warning him about the Little Sister Society?
Dear Lord, don't let him die.

Frustrated with the sketchiness of the radio news report, she pulled the car back onto the road and continued on to April's considerably faster than she normally drove. April might have heard details from Rachel, which would surely get her more information than she could get on her own at home.

The sedate beauty of the University of Delaware campus failed to quiet Holly's nerves as she followed the directions April had given her. The MacLeash home was a two-story white clapboard with bright-blue trim. A big picture window had blue shutters on the sides and a blue window box with red begonias beneath it. The front yard showed evidence of meticulous care and the wooden swing hanging on the front porch was a perfect finishing touch. It fit Holly's impression of April exactly—pretty and neat, while offering a warm welcome to passing strangers.

The only thing that seemed out of place was the number of automobiles parked in the double-wide driveway. Since she doubted that a childless couple would have use for four cars, she guessed that they already had visitors this morning, perhaps some of Professor MacLeash's students.

Holly was right about visitors, though not about their identity. Sitting in the living room, as April brought her into the house, were Rachel and Bobbi, looking hostile and timid respectively.

"I hope you don't mind the impromptu get-together, Holly," April said with an apologetic smile. "But after I spoke to you, they both called with concerns and I thought it would be best to air our feelings all together."

"That's fine," Holly said, thinking quite the opposite, but worry over David's welfare was uppermost in her mind. "On the way here I heard a news report on the radio about Jerry Frampton being arrested and David Wells being wounded, but there were no details. Do you know what happened?"

"Rachel will fill you in on what she was able to learn." April glanced at Holly's overnight bag. "Good. You decided to stay. Let me give you the fifty cent tour before we get started. Excuse us for a few minutes, ladies." Bobbi nodded and Rachel waved them away.

Holly would have preferred to forget the tour, but she didn't have it in her to be rude to April. From the living room they passed through the dining room into the kitchen. The decor was predominantly Early American, complementing the house and April perfectly.

In the kitchen, April knocked on a closed door. "Theodore, may I interrupt for a moment? There's someone here I'd like you to meet." She turned toward Holly and whispered conspiratorially, "He was probably taking a nap, but it makes him feel better if I pretend he's working. Ever since we converted the garage into a library, I think he does more sleeping in here than in our bed."

The door was opened by an elderly man who did indeed look like he'd been caught napping. April placed her hand on his elbow to urge him forward. Speaking a bit louder and slower than her normal tone, she said, "Theodore, this is a friend of mine, Holly Kaufman. Holly, this is my husband, Professor Theodore MacLeash."