Found Wanting (48 page)

"By shooting an unarmed man and pistol-whipping a young boy."

"It's my understanding that Mr. Maxwell and his son were well aware that my people were armed."

She fought down her rising rage. The man had no remorse whatsoever for involving innocent people. "And how were you going to explain Jonah being with you after all that?"

"That's an easy one," he said with a grin. "I was going to tell the authorities that I hired a detective to find you and my son, but that detective wasn't the most upstanding citizen, because instead of informing me when he found you, he and a cohort kidnapped Jonah and demanded a ransom from me. Naturally, I paid it. The plan, however, was for them to kill you when they grabbed Jonah at the home of the Maxwells."

"You thought of everything, Layton," she said in mock admiration. "Every last detail."

His grin blossomed anew. "That's why I always liked you, Ali. You have fire. Your sister doesn't have fire. Never has. And, lately, she's too busy feeling sorry for herself. It really is a drain. But you, you've been fiery all along. You kicked your dad's ass every time he tried to tear you down." Stepping to her, he rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, his eyes meeting hers in approval when she didn't flinch away. "I enjoyed watching your spirit grow ever more unbreakable. But mostly I enjoyed being the one to tame the wild child inside you."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said, holding his gaze defiantly. "You hardly tamed me."

"Sure, I did. I changed your life. You were headed down the wrong road. Ditching school. Flunking out. Staying out all night with those shady friends of yours." He sifted his fingers through hair that fell to her shoulder, and she had to brace to keep from grabbing his hand and wrenching it up between his shoulder blades.

"I made you a mother," he said, his gaze fond. "When I did that, I forced you to choose another path. You had to grow up to survive, to help your kid survive. Frankly, on top of being relieved, I was impressed when you took off with him. That surprised me. It surprised me even more when I saw you in Colorado, how you had your act together, especially after that gruesome scene in Madison with my detective and the kitchen knife. You bounced back from that admirably, Ali. I can't help but feel a certain pride that something I did turned you into such a strong, resilient woman."

If he hadn't been standing so close, taunting her with constant physical contact, she might have laughed in his face. The man was clearly off his rocker. "You know, you're right," she said. "I really should thank you for raping me."

His chuckle vibrated the air between them. "See? Unbreakable. It's a shame that I have to kill you." Then he turned conspiratorial. "Want to know how I'm going to do it, how I'm going to get it all and live happily ever after, high on the hog, without having to explain three dead bodies?"

This time, surprise did make her jolt. "Three?"

Pocketing his hands, he rocked back on his heels, his eyes dancing with glee. "I'm afraid your sister has finally caught on to what a rat I am. That didn't take long, did it?" His grin broadened at his joke. "Plus, she's become far too high maintenance. I just don't have the energy to deal with her anymore. So I've arranged a trip for three to Belize. The clever thing is the airline uses PCware software, which means I can go into its system and do all sorts of neat little tricks. Such as change the names on the tickets and alter the record to indicate that all three tickets were used. Can you guess which three names will be on those tickets?"

He didn't give her a chance to respond, too caught up in his ingenuity. "Yours, Addison's and Jonah's. You see, I'm treating the three of you to a vacation to celebrate your reunion. Unfortunately, you're all going to vanish on your way from the airport to the hotel in Belize. It will be very puzzling and sad. A tragedy. No one will blame me when I sell PCware because I can't bear to be the sole survivor of a once-great family. Then I'll be free."

He caressed her cheek, the gesture tender, wistful. "Don't worry, Ali. I'm not going to make you watch me kill the kid. It's never been my intention to make you suffer."

She'd heard enough, and with his hand so close to her face, she saw a chance and snatched it. Seizing his thumb, she yanked it back hard. He yelped, jerking back from her, and as he bent forward, cradling his injured thumb against his belly, she scooped the crystal vase off the coffee table and smashed it against the back of his skull.

He dropped like a stone at her feet.

She didn't waste time checking on him. Scrambling over the back of the sofa, she raced for the wide, arched doorway, the soles of her sneakers squeaking as she tore across the marble floor. In the entryway, she had a choice: right, to the front door, or left, to a marble staircase that curved up to the next level. She remembered the thump she'd heard earlier, how Layton had immediately tried to distract her from it. Someone was upstairs.

"Jonah!" She screamed her son's name as she swerved for the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Jonah!"

She'd nearly made it to the top when something big and heavy crashed into her legs from behind. She went down hard on the marble steps, gasping as the unyielding edge of one cracked against her still-tender ribs. Then Layton flipped her over, straddled her. She fought blindly, twisting, kicking, punching, shoving. She smelled blood, didn't know if it was his or hers, thought maybe she was starting to gain some ground before he managed to grab a handful of her hair and slam her head back against marble.

Her world spun, and she arched under him at the exploding pain, locking her hands around his wrist to keep him from doing it again. She felt his muscles flex, felt him lift her head again. This is it, she thought wildly. He's killing me.

Then, miraculously, he was dragging her up to her feet. The instant her soles made contact with a marble step, she grabbed hold of the handrail for an anchor and heaved herself against his chest.

Layton's arms pin-wheeled, and then he fell.

Chapter 37

Mitch groaned as he came to. His head was on fire.

He put a hand to his temple, felt the blood there. It was sticky, coagulating.

What the hell had happened?

Then he remembered. Half of the duo Itchy and Scratchy had pulled a gun on him. Luckily, he had lousy aim.

Grimacing, he sat up in the dirt. Probing the wound at his temple, he was relieved to feel no splinters or shards of bone that would indicate something more serious than a concussion and a deep groove where the bullet had grazed his head. Aside from the loss of blood and a monster headache, he appeared to be okay.

Looking around, he took stock of his surroundings. Itchy, or possibly Scratchy, was on his back several feet away, writhing and swearing.

Mitch forced himself to his feet, hanging onto the car until the worst of the dizziness passed. Then he walked in a drunken line to where the rookie agent squirmed, blood oozing through the fingers of the hand clamped to his shoulder. His face was pale and sweaty. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

The guy lifted his head, the cords in his neck standing out. "Help me. I'm dying," he groaned through clenched teeth.

He couldn't have been dying, Mitch surmised, not from a shoulder wound. The worst damage would involve muscle and bone. If the bullet had nicked any important arteries, he would have bled out by now. But Mitch wasn't about to tell him that when he needed information. After kicking the renegade agent's gun away, Mitch dropped clumsily to his knees beside him. "Where is she?"

"Jesus, man, I'm fucking dying. Call 911."

Mitch braced a hand on the ground as his head whirled. Chances were, someone already had. Gunshots in a neighborhood like this were sure to bring the cops running. "Not until you tell me where she is."

"Oh, God," the guy said, letting his head fall back.

Curling his fingers into the man's lapels, Mitch tugged him back up. "Tell me where she is, and I'll make the call. You don't have much time."

"She's in the house."

* * *

At the top of Layton's marble staircase, Alaina sank to her knees, bracing both hands on the cool surface of the floor as she fought down the violent need to be sick. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and her lip stung where she'd either bitten it or Layton had split it.

At the bottom of the stairs, Layton lay on his back, unmoving, eyes closed. The repeated thuds his body had made as it crashed down the steps echoed in her pounding head.

Get up get up get up.

She chanted it in her head, forcing her wobbly legs under her and pulling herself up by the railing. The hallway went in both directions, flanked on both sides by several closed doors. Which way?

"Jonah!" Her voice echoed back at her. He didn't answer. She looked down the steps at Layton, couldn't tell if he was breathing. Was he dead or just unconscious? If he was unconscious, how much time did she have?

She ran to the right first, shoving open door after door, finding bedrooms and bathrooms, a library, an office, none of them locked, all of them empty of human life.

"Jonah!"

She sprinted back past the stairs, glancing to make sure Layton was where she had left him. He was, eyes still closed.

Again, she flung open doors, growing more desperate. What if Jonah wasn't up here? Where could he be? Where would Layton keep him? Maybe he wasn't even in the house. She shoved that thought away.

"Jonah!" Her lungs and leg muscles burned for air, but she didn't dare slow down. "Answer me. Please, answer me."

She was babbling out loud, her breath hitching with fear. Then she opened the last door and stopped. Pieces of something that had been ceramic and black were scattered across the white carpet, as if someone had thrown a lamp at the door. Remembering the thump, she stumbled into the room, hope rocketing. "Jonah?"

The bedroom -- it looked like a master suite -- contained a four-poster bed, armoire and dresser. A door stood open along one wall, a light shining from inside revealing a bathroom.

A sound, like clothing rustling as someone shifted, drew her further into the room, and she froze. At the foot of the bed on the floor, Addison, still wearing the teal wrap dress, was sprawled on her back.

As if sensing her there, she turned her head toward Alaina and opened her eyes. "Ali?"

Alaina hesitated, frantic to find Jonah before Layton regained consciousness. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to keep searching, to get her son and get out. There was no time to spare.

But then she saw that Addison had something clenched in her fist. An empty pill bottle.

"Oh God," Alaina moaned, dropping to her knees beside her sister. "Addy, what did you do?"

She pried the bottle from Addison's fingers and scanned the label. Valium. The prescription had been filled only a few days before. Alaina checked her sister's pupils, found them fixed and dilated. A nasty bruise darkened her cheekbone.

Addison smiled. "I feel better already."

Alaina glanced toward the door as indecision slashed at her. Time was running out. She had to find Jonah and escape before Layton came around. But she couldn't just leave her sister to die.

Could she?

Scrambling over the bed to the phone on the bedside table, Alaina snatched it up. No dial tone. Layton must have cut service.

Spotting Addison's purse on the dresser, Alaina grabbed it, dumped it upside down on the floor and pawed through the contents. No cellphone. "Dammit!"