Go-Between (31 page)

She'd do what she could do to warn Caitlin. She'd try to get her someplace safe. That was all she could do, and she knew it might not be enough.

Chapter Thirty

They got on the
road at 6:30
p.m.
Still plenty of light. Michelle drove. She waited until they were passing through Irvine before she said anything.

She'd thought a lot about what to say. If she just dumped the whole insane story on Caitlin, if Caitlin decided she was crazy, then what? She'd lose any credibility she had, and there wouldn't be a thing she could do to help.

As they passed through the tan and cream stucco landscape studded with trees, Michelle finally said: “So, you asked me about what happened a few years ago, around when my husband died.”

“If you don't want to talk about it
. . .
really, hon, only if it's going to make you feel better.”

Michelle let out a laugh. Nothing about this was going to make her feel better. “It's a hard thing to talk about,” she said. “I thought maybe the best way to start was to show you something.”

“All right.” Caitlin sounded hesitant. God knows what she was thinking Michelle was about to show her.

“My purse is on the back seat. There's a book in it.”

“A book?” A pause. “Sorry, but
. . .
there's no way I can look at a book right now. I get so carsick.”

Michelle took a moment to glance at Caitlin. Not long, you had to be careful on these freeways. Caitlin was looking at her with what she thought was sympathy.

“I do want to know,” Caitlin said. “I hope you don't think I'm putting you off.”

“Oh. Well. We'll wait till we get to the condo, then.”

“Let's stop at the Trader Joe's and get some snacks and wine,” Caitlin said, resting her hand lightly on Michelle's shoulder for a moment. “We'll relax, and you can tell me all about it.”

Great, Michelle thought. Just great. She didn't like the idea of delaying getting to the condo, someplace where people were likely to know Caitlin went, giving anyone tracking them more time to catch up. And that was assuming they'd bought any time by changing their travel plans.

“Would you rather just go out to dinner?” Having the conversation in a restaurant wasn't ideal, but maybe a public place was safer. “I mean, I don't want to invade your privacy at the condo.”

“Oh, hon, it's not an invasion at all. I don't have a lot of memories there. It's just a vacation place I've hardly used. But it's quiet and private and I think that's about all I can handle right now. We can always order a pizza or something if you get hungry.”

There's no reason to think something's going to happen tonight, Michelle told herself.

The condo was not
far from the University of Californa, San Diego campus, which was actually in La Jolla, north of the city proper. “Yeah,” Caitlin said with a grin, “we couldn't really afford a second home in La Jolla, so I went for La Jolla adjacent. Close enough. It'd be nice to have a view of the ocean and a short walk to the beach, but at least I can get there pretty quick from here.”

Michelle would have called it a townhouse, to be strictly accurate—a skinny, detached two-story building in a small complex overlooking a dark canyon. Eucalyptus trees clustered around the buildings and walkways. They were sometimes called “widow makers,” Michelle recalled, due to their tendency to suddenly drop heavy branches.

Apt, she thought.

Caitlin fumbled around for the proper key and unlocked the front door, then deactivated the alarm system with a keychain fob. The security lights had come on when they stepped onto the walkway leading to the door—by now it was after 8:30
p.m.
, in spite of Michelle's best efforts to hurry them through Trader Joe's. The temperature was pleasant enough, in the high sixties, the air heavy and wet for San Diego, scented with eucalyptus. A quiet spot. Michelle couldn't hear much traffic. Mostly what she heard was the soft clatter of eucalyptus leaves and seed capsules stirred by the soft breeze.

Caitlin stepped inside and flicked on a light in the entry. “Lord, it's stuffy in here,” she said.

“I'll open some windows,” Michelle said. A good way for her to get an idea of the townhouse's layout.

Caitlin switched on a few lights. Michelle's first impression of the living room was sturdy, clean furniture, a rustic wood table with a light finish, off-white walls with some curves and arches, as if they'd gone for a slightly Spanish style for the interior. There were bright colors as well, pillows that looked like they were made from Mexican blankets on the couch
,
a few paintings, one done with swaths of purple hanging above a faux fireplace.

“You're welcome to stay the night in the spare room if you'd like,” Caitlin said. “But you'd probably be more comfortable over at the Hyatt.”

“This is charming,” Michelle said.

Caitlin made her little wave. “It's nothing fancy. We bought it, oh, less than a year before
. . .
before Paul passed away. I've mostly had it rented out since then. The last tenants were some UCSD visiting professors. They moved out a few months ago. I've been thinking about selling it.”

“I like it,” Michelle said truthfully. The townhouse wasn't fancy, but it still felt more like a home than the River Oaks house did.

Caitlin shrugged as she wheeled her suitcase down a small hall that Michelle presumed led to a bedroom. “Maybe I'll keep this and sell the place in Houston instead. If I'm gonna blow everything else up, I might as well.”

The townhouse had an open layout, with a dining area and kitchen just beyond the living room. Michelle carried the shopping bags with wine and snacks to the kitchen. There was a deck there, with sliding glass doors, overlooking the canyon. How accessible was it from outside? Michelle wondered. Under any other circumstances, she'd prefer the separate townhouse with a canyon view to, say, a condo with shared walls and a couple of small windows facing the common grounds, but she didn't like the security implications of this setup. Sure, there was an alarm, but look how easily Gary had disabled hers.

The sliding doors had locks, at least, so that you could open them partway, but not so wide that anyone larger than a six-year old could squeeze through.

Here's hoping Gary doesn't employ any homicidal midgets, Michelle thought.

“Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a glass of wine.”

Caitlin emerged from the bedroom, wearing some light sweats and a baggy T-shirt.

“Sure,” Michelle said. “Where's the opener?”

“Oh, let me. Why don't you go sit down and relax? You want the red?”

“Whatever you'd like.” Michelle wasn't planning on drinking.

She couldn't sit still, so she paced around the living room. How was she going to explain this to Caitlin? All the versions she tried in her head sounded equally absurd.

Just show her the logbook, she thought. Start with that. Take it from there.

The doorbell rang.

Michelle's heart started pounding hard.

“Would you mind seeing who that is?” Caitlin called from the kitchen.

“Sure.”

Michelle padded as quietly as she could to the door. Peered through the peephole.

Troy Stone.

Why was he here? What had Gary planned?

What should she do?

“Who is it, hon?” Caitlin had come up behind her, holding two glasses of wine. She put them down on the coffee table.

“It's Troy,” Michelle said in a low voice.

“Troy?” Caitlin frowned.

“Were you expecting him?”

“No. I mean, we talked about meeting, but we didn't make any definite plans. I don't even remember giving him this address.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Well, only one way to figure this out,” Caitlin said.

“Don't—” Michelle began, as Caitlin stepped in front of her and unlocked the door.

“Hi, Troy! Come on in.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“Hey, Caitlin. Michelle.”

Troy Stone stood in the center of the living room. He seemed uncertain. Michelle was aware, suddenly, of how large a man he was, how much space he took up, how solid he appeared.

If he tried something
. . .
could she do anything to stop him?

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Caitlin asked him. “We were just sitting down for a drink.”

“That'd be great,” He sat down on the couch with that hint of stiffness Michelle had seen before, as though his back hurt. “Traffic wasn't bad, but I'm glad to be out of the car.”

“Let me go pour another glass,” Caitlin said.

“That's all right,” Michelle said quickly. “I'll get it. Troy, the one on the coffee table's fresh. Why don't you take it?” She didn't want to turn her back on Caitlin, didn't want to leave her too close to Troy, but maybe she could find something in the kitchen she could use for a weapon, a knife.

“Yeah, I was already in the car so I just took the chance you'd be here,” she heard Troy say. “Figured I'd hang out at the Hyatt bar if you weren't.”

There was a paring knife in a butcher block on the counter, a good one, a Victorinox. Small enough to fit in her jacket pocket. She snatched it up and put it in her pocket, quickly poured a small glass of wine, to pretend that things were normal.

Maybe they were.

“Well, cheers,” Caitlin said, lifting her glass.

“Cheers,” Troy replied. Caitlin sat down on the chair across from him.

Michelle remained standing by the kitchen counter, so she could move quickly, if she had to.

“So, what's up?” Troy said at length.

Caitlin looked confused. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“You texted
me
.”

“I didn't.”

Now it was Troy's turn to frown. “I have it right here. You said it was important, that we needed to talk tonight. I wouldn't have driven all the way down here from Venice otherwise.”

Oh, shit, Michelle thought. She put down the wine. In a couple of strides she was across the room. “Let me see.”

“What the hell, Michelle? You think I'm lying to you or something?”

“
No
.” Or, probably not. “But it's important. Caitlin didn't send you a text.”

He shrugged. Reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a smartphone. Unlocked the screen and pulled up a text screen.

There it was.

urgent that we talk. something big's come up. can you come to san diego tonight? i know it's a lot to ask but it's extremely important. i should be there by 9. can put you up at the hyatt after.

Under that, Troy's reply:

 

we can't handle on the phone?

And “Caitlin's”:

 

afraid not. too complicated. could have a huge impact on our campaign. but i think we can make it work for us. very exciting possibilities!

 

Lucky for you, Troy Stone is going to save you a considerable amount of grief.

“We need to get out of here,” Michelle said.

Caitlin laughed nervously. “You're scaring me a little, Michelle. What's going on?”

Troy stood up. “Yeah, Michelle. First you give me some cryptic warning, now this? I want an explanation.”

“We don't have time—” Michelle began, and then the doorbell rang.

“Don't answer it!”

Troy beat her to the door. Looked through the keyhole. “What are you talking about? It's just a girl. There's nobody else.”

He opened the door a crack, blocking it with his foot so no one could get past him. “Yeah?”

“I've lost my dog,” Michelle heard. “Have you seen him?”

“What kind of dog?”

“A pug—”

“Close the door, Troy!” Michelle said, trying to keep her voice low.

Troy turned to her, with a look of pure exasperation. He suddenly swatted at his hip, exasperation turning to puzzlement. He took a few stumbling steps forward; then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed.

“Troy?” Caitlin started to move toward him as the door opened a crack, stopping for a moment as it hit Troy's foot. Whoever was behind the door pushed it again. The door opened wider.

Christ. She had no time. Michelle crouched behind the sofa, paring knife in hand, her back to the sliding glass doors.

“Who are you?” she heard Caitlin say. “What do you want? What did you—?”

Michelle heard the slightest puff of compressed air. A cry from Caitlin. The sound of stumbling footsteps, a body falling.

Then silence.

The front door closed.

Michelle risked a peek over the top of the couch. A short, slightly heavy woman was putting the chain on the front door. Michelle ducked down as she started to turn.

It had to be Carlene.

Was it possible she didn't know Michelle was here?

If she comes over here, grab a pillow, throw it at her, tackle her. She could take an unarmed Carlene, she was pretty sure. Just not whatever weapon Carlene had.

Michelle heard soft footsteps moving past her, toward the hall that led to the bedrooms. Saw a glow of light from the hall. She must be checking out the bedrooms, Michelle thought.

Now was her chance to get out. She rose up.

Troy and Caitlin lay on the floor, Troy by the door, Caitlin by the coffee table. Were they breathing?

Some kind of tranquilizer, maybe. But Carlene would have a gun, too.

Shit, she thought. I can't just leave them. If they're alive
. . .

Besides, the woman was coming back.

From behind the couch, Michelle could hear her start to hum. Off-key, but it sounded like a Katy Perry song.

The humming continued as Michelle heard the sound of running water. She must have gone into the kitchen. Michelle risked another look.

She could see the woman's back. She was standing at the kitchen sink with the open bottle of wine, pouring the contents down the sink.

“Oh, oh, oh, California gurls
. . .
”

Michelle ducked back down.

She heard the sound of breaking glass. What was it? A wine glass?

“Oh, oh, oh
. . .
”

She heard a thud. A soft moan. Peeked over the couch. Saw Carlene standing over Caitlin, holding the wine bottle.

Fuck!

She crept around to the side of the couch. Got a glimpse of Carlene squatting by Caitlin, tugging down Caitlin's sweatpants, the empty wine bottle by her side.

Rage rose up from her gut, into her throat, and she made a sound halfway between a shriek and a bellow as she sprung to her feet.

Carlene's eyes went wide. “Stay out of this!” she cried, but as she saw Michelle close the gap between them, she reached for something beneath her shirt, tucked in her cleavage. Michelle glimpsed a pistol butt. She shoved Carlene to the ground, straddling her, grabbed her wrist with her free hand, slamming it against the carpet. Carlene didn't let go of the gun. She reached up and clutched a handful of Michelle's hair and yanked hard. Michelle fell to the side, landing on her own arm, still holding onto Carlene's other wrist, the hand that held the gun. Something, Carlene's knee maybe, struck her in the gut, and she nearly lost her grip, and then Carlene was punching the side of her head, grabbing her ear, twisting it.

With her free hand, Michelle reached out and stabbed the paring knife into Carlene's side, just under her arm. She caught a rib the first time. She reached out and stabbed again. Carlene screamed and kicked her in the shin. Michelle stabbed her again, this time in the fleshy part of her shoulder.

“Stop it!” Carlene shrieked. “Stop it!”

“You want me to stop it?
You want me to stop it?
” Michelle stabbed her again. “Let go of the fucking gun!”

Carlene let go. Michelle snatched it up and smacked her across the face with the butt end. Just because she felt like it.

“I'm bleeding!” Carlene sobbed.

“Well, that's what happens when you get stabbed, you stupid little bitch.”

“I'll bleed out! I'll die!”

And the world will be a better place, Michelle thought. “Shut up,” she said. “You're not bleeding that much.” She stuck the pistol in the waistband of her pants, in the back. Even if it was a bad way to carry, Carlene couldn't reach it.

She wasn't sure what to do with the paring knife.

How the fuck was she going to clean up this mess? What should she do?

Caitlin was definitely breathing, at least, and over by the door, she saw Troy's arm move, his fingers clench.

“What did you give them?”

“It'll wear off in a few minutes,” Carlene said, sniffling. She lay on the floor, clutching at her side. Blood oozed out between her fingers.

“Where is it? Where are the drugs?”

“In my purse.” Her eyes flicked toward the door. A battered black cross-body bag leaned against the wall there. “Gary's gonna kill you.”

“Gary can go fuck himself.”

She stared at the scene for a moment, at Caitlin's unconscious form, her sweatpants pulled low on her hips, the wine bottle, the smashed wine glass. She shuddered. She had a pretty good idea what Carlene had planned to do.

Don't think about it now, she told herself.

“All right,” she said to Carlene. “I'm going to give you a choice. I'll call an ambulance, and the police, and you can get a ride to the hospital in cuffs. Or you can get the fuck out of here and take your chances on making it to a hospital on your own and tell them whatever bullshit story you want. You decide. Now.”

“I'll go,” Carlene said. She slowly sat up. “Can I have a towel?”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Michelle muttered. She went into the kitchen and found a dishtowel. She left the paring knife on the counter by the sink. “Here.” She threw it in Carlene's face.

“I can't stand up. You have to help me.”

“God.” Michelle grabbed Carlene's hand. It was slippery with blood. She pulled hard, until at last Carlene was on her feet.

Carlene took the dishtowel and held it against her side. With slow, shuffling steps, she headed toward the door.

“One more thing, Carlene,” Michelle said. “You tell Gary I'm doing this as a favor to him. I figure it's one less mess he'll need to clean up later. You tell him that.”

Carlene nodded. She opened the door. Michelle watched as the door closed behind her.

Shuddering, she quickly moved to the door and locked it. Peered out the peephole. Watched as Carlene shuffled down the path, into the night.

Maybe letting Carlene go was another rookie mistake.

How long would it take for Gary to arrange something worse?

But getting involved with the police
. . .
she didn't need that right now.

Not when she was trying to disappear.

Behind her, she heard a groan. Troy. His head turned to one side, then the other. His eyes opened. He rested his hand on his forehead. “Man
. . .
what? I don't know what
. . .
”

“Are you okay?” Michelle asked.

His eyes seemed to focus. “What happened?”

“You don't remember?”

His eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “That girl
. . .
lady
. . .
she'd lost her dog. She
. . .
”

He stared at Michelle's hand. Michelle followed his gaze. Her hand was covered in Carlene's blood. She'd forgotten for a moment.

“Things got a little ugly,” she said.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Troy murmured. He tried to sit up, sunk back down, apparently still dizzy. “What the hell?”

Caitlin made a noise, a small grunt. Michelle crouched by her side. “It's okay,” she said. Caitlin didn't respond.
She was still out. Not surprising, given how much smaller she
was than Troy. Michelle felt for a pulse at Caitlin's wrist. Slow and steady.

Troy rolled onto his side, then onto all fours, crawling the few feet from where he'd been lying to Michelle and Caitlin.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“What did she do to us?”

“Some kind of tranquilizer gun, I guess. I didn't really see. I ran out in to the kitchen and got a knife.” She held up her hand. “Her blood, not mine.”