Jericho's Fall (34 page)

She needed a moment.

“Then he said, ‘He wasn’t good enough for you.’ Well, that’s what he always said. He said, ‘He wasn’t good enough for you, but he’ll be good enough for me. He doesn’t have to last that long.’ He said, ‘We’ll show the bastards.’ He kept raving on and on, but Audrey noticed I was listening and told him if he didn’t stop he’d blow the whole thing.”

Beck asked only one question. “Did he know he was sick?”

“Dad?”

“On his birthday. Did he already know he was dying?”

A tight nod. “That’s when he told us. They gave him six months to a year.”

Pamela closed down again, the animation visibly leaving her body. She had reminisced, she had told a story of the old days. She had eulogized her father, and now her mind was done trying.

Beck hardly noticed. She was close now, she knew she was. But first things first.

“Come with me,” she said.

“Where?”

“Just come.” She took Pamela by an unresisting arm and led her, gently, back into the kitchen. She pointed outside, behind the house. The land sloped downhill, toward a culvert. “That’s where we’re going. Whoever’s out there will expect us to stay inside. We’re going to head for the creek and follow it downstream.”

“We should stay here and wait for help,” said Pamela, listlessly.

“We’re going. Either through the basement or through the kitchen, but we’re definitely going. I don’t know how we’ll move Jericho, but we’ll figure it out.” Rebecca planned as she spoke. “We’ll have to carry him.” True, a part of her thought he deserved to be left behind, but the rest of her, despite the events of the past couple of days, remained infused with gratitude and guilt. Besides, the mother in her would
never allow her to abandon one so helpless to his fate. “We have to get him ready.”

“We can’t go out there.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

Pamela stood her ground. “We should stay here,” she repeated, retreating to the single unchangeable tenet of her newfound faith. “We shouldn’t go out there.”

“We’re going,” said Beck. She pushed Pamela toward the stairs. “Now, come on. Help me here. I need you to go upstairs and get your father ready. He’s mostly dressed, but make sure he has everything he needs. If there’s any medication, bring that.” Not explaining why: that once they headed downhill they would be heading away from town, away from civilization, and into the wilderness. “And blankets. Plenty of blankets.”

“Rebecca, I—”

“Just do it, Pamela. We have the gun. I’m going to see what else we can use for a weapon, and figure out the best way out of here.”

The taller woman shook her head. “That’s not what I was going to say.” She swallowed, and began trembling again, and Beck was afraid she would begin reciting her mantra once more. “I—I’m sorry for what I said. And if—if we get out of this—
when
, I mean”—a wry smile—“I want you and Nina to come stay with me. Please, Rebecca. We have a guesthouse, and you can have it for as long as you want. You can teach me how to raise a daughter, and I—I can get to know my little sister.”

“She’s not your—”

“Just come. Please.”

She was gone up the stairs.

(ii)

Beck went back to the security room and studied the monitors. Still no sign of movement. It occurred to her that whoever had blown up the van had not come close to check. Either they were sure they had hit the
right target, or they didn’t care which target they hit. She bit her lip. The face she had shown Pamela to keep her spirts up bloomed with a good deal more confidence than Beck actually felt. She had the Glock on her hip, but she was no commando. She had no idea how many men were out there, whether it was the mysterious Max or an entire team, but she did not honestly believe that two untrained women and a sick old man could escape. She had liked it better when she thought Jericho might be lying about his illness.

She checked her cell phone: no bars.

In the kitchen, she put together a package for each of them, food in a carrier bag, and a selection of knives in a wrapper. She included matches, because she had always heard they were essential survival gear.

She found clean plastic bottles, which she filled with water from the sink. She stared out into the night, still scarcely able to believe that it was Audrey who had betrayed, and Pamela who had ended up, out of necessity, an ally. Audrey, with her desperate faith, her fervent need not only to believe, but to draw others into the charmed circle. Her sweetness and generosity were no doubt real, but they were not her whole. There had remained a part of her that did not belong to the world of her previous work, or to her vows, either.

A part of Audrey had belonged to her father. It was precisely to escape that part that she had fled to the convent. To no avail. Jericho had done what he always did. He had taken her loyalty and her love and twisted it to his own ends.

For a moment, Beck stopped, hunched over the sink, a pain of near-physical intensity threatening to upend what equilibrium she had found. But whatever else she was, she was Jacqueline’s daughter and Nina’s mother. If she lost, it would not be because she refused to fight. She splashed cold water on her face and capped the bottles, relieved that, although the power was out, the storage tank remained full enough to maintain minimal pressure, at least for a while—

She stopped.

The water continued to run, but Rebecca DeForde was elsewhere, her mind galloping on ahead of itself, as Jacqueline used to say, rushing
around to make logical connections and intuitive leaps, remembering the home-improvement books she had studied, and Audrey’s tale, and Lewiston Clark’s ravings, and what she had seen in the basement—

And then she had it.

She had no idea how much time was left before whoever was out there came inside, but it could not have been much. She needed one more fact, and then she would be done. She needed to look at the architectural drawings for Stone Heights. She turned off the water, grabbed her flashlight and her gun, and hurried upstairs to her room.

On the way, she peeked into the master suite. Jericho was dressed, swaddled in blankets, fast asleep on the bed. No sign of Pamela. Maybe she was taking a bathroom break.

Never mind. Get the plans. They were on her desk, along with the other papers she had collected during her frantic night of research. She sat on the bed, and had begun paging through the drawings when she heard Pamela’s voice, ragged and whispery, coming from the study, through the connecting bath. Beck lifted her head. Was Pamela so far gone that she was now talking to herself?

“Like
you
can criticize anybody for that,” Beck muttered.

She stood up, stepped into the bathroom, peeked around the door, and froze.

The safe was open. Pamela was on the satellite phone. And the last words she spoke chilled Rebecca to the bone. “Hurry, Dak. Please hurry.”

CHAPTER 33
The Window

(i)

As Pamela put down the telephone, Beck stepped into view, the Glock in her hand.

Pamela looked up in alarm. “Rebecca!”

“I see you remembered the combination to the safe.”

“What?” She looked down at the phone. “Oh. No, no, I didn’t remember. I figured it out—”

“And you called Dak. How cozy.”

“I only got his voice mail. I asked him to send help—” She looked at Beck’s hand. “Why are you pointing that thing at me?”

Beck’s voice was ice. “You know why, Pamela.”

“No, I don’t. What’s the matter with you? Put it away. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. Of course you knew the combination. Of course you called Dak. The two of you have been working together all along, haven’t you? I can’t imagine what he promised you, but I have a hunch that it was supposed to be me in that car. Not Audrey. I was supposed to be blown to bits, and Audrey was supposed to help you wheedle your father into giving up whatever is keeping us alive. Only, Audrey got in the car and died. So much for your plan.”

Pamela was trembling. “Rebecca, no. How can you believe that? I wouldn’t—I would never—”

“Spare me. Just tell me how much time we have.”

“Time?”

“Before they get here. Dak and his friends. How long, Pamela?” She gestured toward the window, and whoever was outside. “Is the alarm even still on? Or did you shut that off, too?”

Pamela shook her head. She was trembling. “No. No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I shut off the alarm?”

Beck, on the other hand, was rock steady. The gun never wavered. Jericho had taught her to put her shots center-mass, and center-mass was where she was aiming. Just below the pearls.

“How much time do we have, Pamela? When are they getting here?”

“There isn’t any
they!
Please, Rebecca, stop it. Please.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I just want a cigarette—”

“No.” Beck stepped farther into the room, took in the open safe, and the paper, half covered with Scotch tape, with the numbers on it. “Is that the combination?”

Pamela nodded, wide eyes on the barrel. “Yes. Yes. I found it taped under the chair. A stupid hiding place. Then you add Mom’s birthday to each number, dividing the year into two parts—nineteen and forty-five—and, well, you see how it works.”

“Step away from the desk,” said Beck, quite unimpressed. It had occurred to her that Pamela had made a mistake. She should not have used the satellite phone in the study, where Beck might overhear. She should have shut the safe and made her call later. Now Beck could use the phone to summon help. The real kind. The kind that actually helped. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Yes, okay, fine. Please, don’t point the gun at me.”

“Relax. I’m just going to make a couple of calls.”

Alarm in those clever eyes. “Who are you calling, Rebecca?”

“Just stand still. No, that’s far enough. Good.” Picking up the receiver. “How does this thing work?”

Pamela pointed. “Just press there and wait for the beep that tells you you’re uplinked. But the battery was almost dead. I don’t know if there’s enough for another call.”

Beck looked. A red light was flashing, and then, as she held the phone in her hand, the entire screen went blank. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened.

“How convenient,” she muttered, mostly in frustration.

“It’s not my fault.”

Rebecca considered. “We’re going to walk into the hall. You walk in front of me. Understand? And keep your hands up.”

“I will. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what, Pamela?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you’re doing.”

“When is Dak coming?”

“I didn’t talk to him, I just got his voice mail!”

“What was your deal?” Out at the balustrade now, inching along in the darkness. “With Dak, Pamela. Come on. What was your deal? How long after your call was he supposed to arrive?”

Again that frantic shake of the head, eyes so confused and frightened that part of Rebecca wanted to believe her. “There isn’t any deal. It’s just, those were always Dad’s standing instructions. In an emergency, call Dak.”

Then Beck had another idea.

“You stand right here,” she said. “I’m going back in the study, but I’ll have the gun on you the whole time. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you. Understand?”

“Rebecca, please—”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand, but you have it all wrong.”

“Shut up,” said Beck, having wanted to say those words to Pamela for years. She inched back into the study. Her theory was simple. If there is a phone, there is a charger. She went through the desk drawers, then glanced at Pamela, who stood wide-eyed in the doorway. Beck frowned. She peered into the safe, then shone her flashlight through the gloom and saw what looked like an attachment in the back. She leaned in, got up on her toes to lean farther, and then hit the floor as Pamela kicked her legs out from under her.

(ii)

The flashlight went flying.

Beck was on her stomach, and Pamela was sitting atop her, pummeling her with the flashlight, aimlessly, even hopelessly, but now and then a blow would find a sensitive spot, and it hurt like the dickens. Pamela was screaming and Beck was screaming back, and the strange part was that Rebecca still held the gun, and the stranger part was that Pamela was making no effort to grab it. If Beck bent her hand at the proper angle, she could easily have shot Pamela in the chest.

Only, she found she didn’t want to.

Instead, she managed to roll halfway over. Not till then did Pamela see the gun, and reach for it. They wrestled, they kicked, they knocked over the lamp, they fought for the gun and only managed to spin it across the floor and out of reach. Pamela snarled that Beck was out of her mind, and Beck snarled back that Pamela had betrayed her own father, and from out in the hall came the
beep-beep-buzz
of an external sensor, still working from its battery.

Somebody was approaching the house.

A frozen moment.

Then Pamela slapped Beck’s head against the desk, Beck went briefly boneless, and her adversary scooped up the gun as if she knew how to use it and scurried off into the hallway.

Rebecca, gripping the desk, began the endless climb to her shaky feet in the whirling room, cursing herself for turning her back for even a second, but, then, Jericho had taught her only how to fire a gun, not how to guard a prisoner. She stood there, leaning against the wall, gulping air. She did not understand why Pamela had not shot her. Maybe she was waiting for Dak to arrive and finish her off.

And Dak himself! How could he turn his back on his best friend? But friendship was one thing, she supposed, and the nation’s security was another.

Holding on to the furniture, guiding herself slowly toward the hall,
she wondered whether any part of the story Phil Agadakos had told her was true, or whether Jericho was really hiding something else altogether. She supposed she would get the chance to ask when Dak showed up—

Wait.