Dead Shot (25 page)

At least they’d been discreet. Hadn’t burst into the room and embarrassed Gillian. Then again, why would they? Discretion was part of the job. At any rate when it came to the clients.

Coleman picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it. “So, Ray, was it worth it?” He nodded in the general direction of the bedrooms. “Little thing like that.” He smacked his lips. “Bet she was nice and tight.”

Ray had Coleman by the throat before he knew he was doing it.

“What the f—” The rest was garbled in a choking cough.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Let go, you fucking asshole!”

“Ray! Ray! Jesus.”

Landowe hauled him away, and, breathing heavily, Ray stared at Coleman, who was red-faced and ugly.

“Get out of here,” Landowe said, throwing Ray his ear mike, which he must have found on the floor in the hallway with the rest of his gear. “Go on. Carlson will want you front and center first thing in the morning.”

“I’m not leaving like this.”

Landowe looked flummoxed. “Like what?”

“He wants to say good-bye.” Coleman snorted. “Jesus, Pearce, I’ve heard about you and your women. That cunt in there’s got you panty-whipped, too.”

Ray rushed Coleman again, and Landowe got in his way. “Enough! Back off. Back off, Ray! Stand the fuck down!”

Landowe’s fist was in his chest. Ray nodded, and Land-owe let him go. “We’ll explain it to her,” he said. “Get out of here.”

Ray looked around. He was all twisted up, and he had to get clear. Think about what had happened. What it meant. Couldn’t do that with Gillian around. Hell, he could hardly breathe when she was around. Bottom line, the two men were right. He couldn’t protect her if he was emotionally involved.

“You keep your eye on her,” he said at last. “And I mean close.”

“We’ll see if we can get as close as you,” Coleman said.

“Shut up, Coleman,” Landowe said, and everyone stayed in place until Ray edged to the door.

He stumbled out of the house into the night. It was cool, but he needed the chill. Needed a swift, hard slap in the face. Sleeping with your client was bad enough. Falling in love with her was even worse.

Hearing the tumult, Gillian dashed out of the bedroom. Had he come? Had he finally come for her? The thought that he had and that she’d left Ray to face him alone sent her streaking out of the room.

But before she got to the living room, she realized who Ray was fighting with. Landowe and some other guy. And they weren’t fighting over the killer.

Asshole, she thought. Who’s he calling a cunt? She could damn well sleep with whoever she pleased, and they could go fuck themselves if they didn’t like it. She started forward to say so, but the front door opened and slammed shut, and Ray was gone.

Well, that was a sucker punch. She thought he’d have more fight in him. More stick-around. Flattening against the wall, she suddenly felt adrift and cold. She rubbed up and down her arms, remembering the feel of Ray warming her. His mouth on hers, his body inside. The slick, naked feel of him. Suddenly she didn’t need to warm up. She was already hot.

She growled. Well, hell, she couldn’t have that. Couldn’t pine away. Not for Ray, not for anyone. He was gone. Good, fine. She had a mission to accomplish. A stalker to stalk.

Silently, she retreated to the bedroom, pulled on her clothes, but left the boots off. Stiletto heels weren’t exactly made for escape.

The bedroom came with its own bath, and she poked her head in. Toilet, tub, and shower combo with a striped curtain enclosure. She peeked behind the curtain. Cut into the wall was a small window, with a rotating handle for opening and closing.

She grabbed the little armchair from the corner of the bedroom, piled her boots on the seat, and tiptoed into the bathroom with it. Flinging open the curtain, she set the chair in the tub, hopped up for a better view. She examined the window’s width. Looked like it would be a tight fit, but she might make it.

She opened the window as far as it would go, letting in the night air. She was prying off the screen when a knock sounded on her door. Her heart thudded.

Damn.

She jumped down, wrenched the curtain closed. Another knock. “Miss Gray?”

“Just a minute!”

In a rapid flutter, she unbuttoned her shirt.

“Everything all right, Miss Gray?” She recognized Landowe’s voice through the door.

“Ray?” She took an extra second to muss her hair, then cracked open the door. “Oh, Landowe,” she said sleepily. She made sure he saw her open shirt, then leisurely pulled the sides together to semicover her breasts. Landowe averted his eyes, looking predictably uncomfortable and distracted.

“Everything okay? I thought I heard—”

“Everything’s perfect, except for the sleep I’m not getting.” She faked a yawn. “Can we do the bed check in the morning?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Landowe turned to go, and she couldn’t resist calling after him.

“Tell Ray to get his butt in here.”

Landowe turned, opened his mouth to reply.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said sweetly, before he could, “but he has a nice butt.” She closed the door on his embarrassed “Yes, ma’am,” and quickly returned to the bathroom.

It took her half an hour to get the screen off, but when she finally did, she tossed her boots out the window, hoping she hadn’t lost her favorite pair in vain. She took a breath, vaulted up. It was touch-and-go at first, but she was tiny enough to finally squiggle through.

38

From his position in the Land Rover across the street, Ray tensed as he watched the form creep out from behind the shrubs surrounding the safe house. He hooked up his wireless mike and switched it on, was going to blare an alert into it when the guy ran in and out of the light from a streetlamp, and he saw it wasn’t a guy.

He smiled grimly. When you’re right, you’re right. No way should he have trusted those bozos to keep tabs on Gillian.

He watched her hop on one foot as she struggled to zip up first one boot, then the other. Jesus, she didn’t even have her shoes on. Where the hell was she going? She had no car, and unless those idiots had let her get hold of a phone, she had no way to call for transportation.

She crossed the street, scurrying down toward the subdivision exit. He let her get far enough ahead so she wouldn’t spot him, then took off after her, cruising without his headlights. From two blocks away he saw her edge toward the subdivision entrance, which was brightly lit, and try to flag down a passing car.

Was she out of her mind?

Stupid question. Of course she was. But luckily that was not true of the drivers in the meager traffic stream. After twenty minutes, not one had stopped.

When the only car for the last five minutes also zoomed by, her shoulders slumped, and he thought she’d given up. But she raised her head, straightened her back, and he lost her as she set off on foot toward Nashville. Quickly, he put his car in gear and eased down the street, out of the subdivision, and onto the highway. Was she going to walk back to town?

He followed at a sedate distance, pulling off the road when he had to in order to let her get far enough ahead. He was tempted to stop and pick her up, but hell, a long walk in those heels? Served her right. And as long as he kept her in sight she’d be safe.

Her little Boston Marathon ended at the first gas station she came to. He pulled past, watched her go inside. The store’s interior lights blazed in the night, and through the plate-glass window he saw her speak to the clerk, who nodded to a phone on the counter. She picked up the handset, punched in a number, spoke briefly, and hung up.

Well, no one said she wasn’t smart. Why walk the miles when she could ride? He turned the car off to wait for the cab to show up. Once it did he was prepared to follow her to Des Moines if that was where she was headed.

But almost immediately, she left the gas station and started walking.

Back the way she came.

What the—

Quickly, he started the car, followed.

It took her fifteen minutes longer to make the trip back, and she was limping as she turned into River Bend Estates. He parked a block away and watched as she sneaked into the house the same way she’d sneaked out.

That made no sense. No sense at all. Which made him very, very nervous.

It had taken her nearly half an hour to trudge back to the house. Ten minutes after she’d disappeared through the window, cars started arriving. Men with pads, cameras, and microphones tumbled out. Then the TV vans showed up. Reporters and photographers came together in an ominous crowd at the edge of the safe house. Finally someone—he thought he recognized Benton James, the reporter for the
Tennessean
who’d been at the museum— walked up to the front door and knocked.

Ray stared in disbelief.

The phone call. She hadn’t called a cab. She hadn’t called Maddie or her grandparents. She’d called a god-damn press conference.

When the knock sounded, Gillian marched purposefully into the living room. “I’ll get that.”

Landowe and the other guy had already drawn their weapons. They leaped to block her way.

“Take her to the back of the house,” Landowe said to a beefy guy with a Kojak head.

“Who’s he?” Gillian asked Landowe. “And where’s Ray?”

“Move! Now!”

Kojak grabbed her arm and began to haul her away.

The knock came again. “Miss Gray! Miss Gray, are you in there?”

She jerked away from her captor. Turned to Landowe. “Open the door,” she said.

“Are you kidding? We don’t know who’s out there.”

“Last time I looked, killers don’t knock first.”

Landowe exchanged a look with the bald guy.

“Open the goddamn door, or I’ll do it myself.”

Kojak shrugged, pulled her away from the door’s sight lines, and stepped in front of her. Landowe crossed to the door, stood with his back to one side, reached for the knob, and yanked it open.

A strobe flashed. Dozens of voices went off with it. Landowe slammed the door shut again.

“The press,” Kojak said.

“How the hell did the press find her?”

Gillian stepped out from behind the shaved head. “I told them.” And before they could say anything else, she ran to reopen the door.

Closing it behind her, she stood on the stoop in the glow of hot camera lights, raised her hands for quiet. “Gentlemen, I’ll take your questions, but you have to let me hear them.”

The cacophony subsided to a low din, everyone shouting at once. She pointed to someone in the middle of the pack.

“You’re participating in an art auction at a charity ball for a local hospital. Given the controversy over your work, will you withdraw?”

“No.” She pointed to a woman in front.

“Which Dead Shot are you donating?”

“None.” She grinned. “Wouldn’t want to scare anyone. It’s a floral landscape. A favorite of my grandmother.”

She began to worry. If the rest of the questions were as innocuous as this, she’d never make the morning news.

A man in front looked familiar. She called on him. “Benton James,” he said, “The
Tennessean.
What do you think about the third murder?”

“Excuse me?”

“The third murder. How do you feel about it?”

“The third—” She looked out at the crowd, dread shuddering through her. “I think you made a mistake. There hasn’t been—”

“No mistake,” he insisted, and glanced down at a small notebook. “Linda Hayes.”

The words “third” and “murder” were rippling through the assembly, slowly wiping out the noise.

“Got the photo an hour ago,” the little newspaperman announced with a smug smile. “
Kiddie Pool,
” he added, referring to one of her photographs.

The silence exploded into thunder.

“Do you hold yourself responsible?”

“What do you want to say to the victims’ families?”

“What do you say to Matthew Dobie?”

“Are you going to stop now?”

The crowd was pushing forward, nearly overwhelming her with the surge and the noise. She was being suffocated, overrun. The picture of the hanging child burst in her head, and she wanted to scream, to run, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“That’s enough. Step back. Step back!” Ray pushed through the swarm, took her elbow. “Press conference is over,” he said, and pushed her toward the door.

“Miss Gray! Miss Gray!”

“What are you going to do now?”

He got the door open, would have shoved her inside despite the clamor. But she wasn’t going to let that slime-ball son of a bitch win.

She pivoted, wrenched away from Ray’s protective shelter, and turned to the horde. As if on cue, they hushed, salivating like vicious Dobermans waiting to attack. She didn’t care. She stared them down, looked for the TV cameras, let the strobes explode in her face.

“You tell that bastard where I am,” she said, the words slow and deliberate. “You print it in big fat letters. Show it bold on everyone’s TV screen. I want him to know
exactly
where I am. You tell him I’m waiting for him.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Do you hear me? Tell him I’m waiting.” Ray wrapped an arm around her waist. “I’m waiting for him!” And dragged her through the door. “I’m waiting!”