Killer Takes All (29 page)

Sunday, March 20, 2005
7:30 a.m.

S
tacy awakened. She’d had strange dreams, ones populated with characters out of
Alice in Wonderland.
Ones that had disturbed her sleep and left her feeling fatigued and edgy.

Spencer hadn’t called. Which meant they hadn’t found Alice.

She’d given them their chance.

Today she joined the hunt.

Resolve set, Stacy climbed out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. After starting the coffee she showered and dressed.

The coffee had brewed. She filled a travel mug, added sweetener and cream, grabbed a granola bar and headed out.

Stacy intended to search the mansion and guest house. Check in at Café Noir. City Park. Gaming stores. Any place Alice might be hiding out.

As she neared her car, Stacy saw that someone had left a flyer under her windshield wiper.

No, she realized when she retrieved it, not an advertisement.

A zip-style storage bag. With a note card inside.

Carefully extracting the bag from under the wiper, she opened it and slid out the card.

Her knees went weak; her hands began to shake.

A drawing. Like the ones Leo had received. This one of Alice.

Hanging from the neck. Face engorged and bloated with death.

She swallowed hard, forced herself to open the card.

Game in play. Clock ticking.

She stared at the message, mouth dry. Danson had been telling the truth. He wasn’t the White Rabbit.

Think, Killian. Take a deep breath. Slow down. Put it together.

If the White Rabbit held to history, the card meant Alice was still alive. That the White Rabbit either had her in his sights—or worse, in his grasp.

Clock ticking.
He was giving her the chance to save Alice’s life. Game was in play and it was her move.

Her cell phone sounded and she jumped. She unclipped the device and answered the call. “Killian here.”

“Hello, Killian.”

A man. Voice deliberately masked.

The White Rabbit.

“Where is she?” Stacy demanded. “Where’s Alice?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Cute. Let me speak to her.”

He laughed and she tightened her grip on the phone. Whoever he was, he was enjoying this immensely. Sick bastard.

“If you want to see Alice alive, you’ll do what I say. No cops. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Take Carrollton Avenue uptown to River Road. There’s a bar at the corner of River Road and Carrollton Avenue. Cooter Brown’s. Go in. The bartender has an envelope for Florence Nightingale.”

“Let’s just cut to the chase here, shall we? What do you want?”

“To win the game, of course. Be the last man standing.”

“You think you’re good enough?”

“I know I am. You have thirty-five minutes. One minute late and it’s goodbye, baby.”

Esplanade to Carrollton Avenue at the river would take a good twenty-five minutes. Maybe more with traffic.

Which left her damn little leeway. She darted back into her apartment, retrieved her Glock and left the White Rabbit’s message on the kitchen counter for Spencer to find. Just in case.

Back outside, she grabbed her travel mug off the car’s hood, unlocked the door and slid inside. She started the vehicle, checked the side mirror and pulled into traffic.

The dash clock read 8:55.

Traffic heading uptown alternately sucked and sailed. She wheeled into Cooter Brown’s parking area in twenty-eight minutes. A mural on the side of the building boasted the bar was home to 450 different kinds of bottled beer. She slammed the SUV into Park and darted inside.

The interior was dark and smelled of cigarettes. A couple of biker types stood by the pool table, cues in hand. They stopped playing and watched her cross to the bar.

The bartender looked tough. Big, muscular, with a bald head and a full beard.

“You have something for Florence Nightingale?” she asked. “An envelope?”

He didn’t reply, simply crossed to the register, opened it and extracted an envelope. He handed it to her.

She glanced at it, then back up at him. “What can you tell me about the person who left this for me?”

“Nada.”

“What if I tell you I’m a cop?”

He laughed and walked away. She glanced at her watch.
Thirty-two minutes.
She tore open the envelope.

Inside was a phone number. Nothing else.

She unclipped her cell and punched in the number. He answered right away.

“You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Killian? You’re just under the wire.”

“I want to talk to Alice.”

“I’m sure you do.” She heard the amusement in his voice. “Patience is a virtue. But you never had any of that, did you? Your sister, Jane, on the other hand, she’s the patient one. And by the way, I love the name Jane and Ian picked for their baby. Annie. So sweet. Uncomplicated.”

Stacy went cold. “If you harm anyone I love, I swear I’ll—”

“What? I hold all the cards. You can do nothing but follow my directions.”

She bit back what she wanted to say and he laughed. “Take River Road toward Vacherie. Stop at Walton’s River Road Café. Cool your heels until I call you. One hour, Killian.”

“Wait! But I don’t know where I’m going! One hour might not be—”

He hung up before she finished. Swearing softly, she hurried outside and to her car, squinting as the sun stung her eyes. Moments later she was on her way.

Called River Road because it followed the contour of the Mississippi River, the winding road was alternately scenic and industrial. If what she remembered was correct, it wound its way to Baton Rouge, then up to St. Francisville, Natchez and beyond.

She wondered how far the White Rabbit intended for her to go.

She caught site of Walton’s River Road Café up ahead, a charming Creole cottage nestled in the curve of the road. A magnificent oak tree graced the front of the property, so large it shaded most of the structure and half the side parking area.

Her cell phone rang. Startled, she nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. She got to her phone, flipped it open. “Killian here.”

“Hello, there. You sound a little tense.”

“Can I call you back?”

Spencer’s pregnant pause said it all. “I’m in the bathroom,” she lied. “Talk to you in five.”

She ended the call and swung into the café’s shady parking lot. It’d been a small lie, she told herself, because in a minute she would be using the restaurant’s facilities. And from there, in case she was being watched, she would return Spencer’s call.

“Please say you called to tell me you have Alice,” she said when he answered.

“Sorry.”

“Any leads?”

“No. But every cop in the city has a picture of her. We’re canvassing the neighborhood around Tony’s. So far, no one’s seen anything.”

“You searched the mansion?”

“Last night and again today. No luck. We have someone stationed there, just in case.”

Damn it. She hadn’t expected better. But she had hoped, anyway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cooling my heels.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Behind the counter, a busboy dropped a pan of dirty dishes. She jumped.

“What the hell was that?”

“Dropped some dishes. Trying to keep busy, multitasking here.”

“Multitasking?”

She forced a laugh. “You didn’t know I could do that, did you? I have many talents.”

“Yeah, you do.” She heard Tony say something, though she couldn’t make out what. “Got to go. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Call my cell. I’ll have it on.”

He paused. “You’re going somewhere?”

“I might have to run out. You know how it is.”

“I know how you are. Stay put.”

He hung up, and she exited the ladies’ room. No one paid her any undue attention. She chose a table by a window that looked out at the parking lot. Being able to watch her vehicle made her feel less vulnerable.

The waitress, a girl not yet out of her teens, stopped at her table. Stacy realized that she was starving. “What’s wonderful on the menu?”

The girl shrugged. “Everything’s pretty good. People like our soup. It’s homemade.”

“What’s today’s?”

“Chicken noodle.”

Comfort food. A good thing, considering the circumstances.

Stacy ordered a cup and, continuing with the comfort theme, a grilled cheese sandwich.

That done, she sat back in her seat. She glanced at her watch, thinking of the White Rabbit and when he would call. Thinking of Alice. Worrying.

And acknowledging that he had her just where he wanted her.

Alone and unable to make a move until he was ready.

Sunday, March 20, 2005
6:20 p.m.

T
he White Rabbit called just as evening began to fall. And just as she had begun to believe she’d been duped.

“Comfy?” he asked, obviously amused.

“Very,” she replied. “I’ve been sitting here so long my ass’s numb.”

“It could have been worse,” he murmured. “I could have had you wait in a place with no bathroom. With no food or drink.”

Chill bumps moved up her spine. Had he been watching her this whole time? Did he know she had used the bathroom and had eaten? That she’d spoken to Spencer? She moved her gaze over the restaurant, the other patrons. Looking for one talking on a cell phone.

Or was he assuming? Anticipating how his words would affect her?

One thing was certain, he was playing her like a drum.

“Can the dramatics. What do you want me to do next?”

“Head up the road six miles. Turn toward the river. From there, turn left onto the first unmarked drive you come to. Leave the car. Follow the oak alley. You’ll know what to do. You have twenty minutes.”

He hung up, and Stacy reholstered her phone, grabbed her check and got to her feet. After leaving the waitress a generous tip for tying up her table for so long, she hurried to the door.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” the woman at the register asked as she totaled the bill.

“Great, thank you.” She glanced at the woman’s name tag. Miz Lainie. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, sweetie. Shoot.”

“Up the road, toward the river, what’s up there?”

The woman frowned. “Nothing. Just what’s left of Belle Chere.”

Stacy handed the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “Belle Chere, what’s that?”

“You’re not from down here, are you?” The bell above the door jangled. Miz Lainie looked up and scowled at a tall young man coming through the door. “Steve Johnson, you’re late! Fifteen minutes. Do it again and I’m callin’ your mama.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He winked at Stacy and she bit back a smile. Obviously, he wasn’t buying Miz Lainie’s tough act.

“And hike up those pants.”

He sauntered past, hitching up his trousers.

“I’m sorry,” Stacy said, “but I have to go.”

The woman returned her attention to Stacy. “Belle Chere’s an antebellum plantation. In its heyday, it’s said to have been one of the finest in Louisiana.”

That was it. That was where the White Rabbit was holding Alice.

The woman made a sound of disgust. “They’ve just let it go to ruin. Me and the mister, we always thought the state or somebody’d step in and—”

“I apologize,” Stacy said, cutting her off, “but I really do have to go.”

She exited the café, jogged to her car. No doubt the woman thought her rude to cut and run, especially after loitering for the past several hours, but there was nothing she could do about that.

Fifteen minutes and counting.

She started the car, backed out of her parking space, then roared out of the lot, kicking up gravel as she did. She flipped open her phone and dialed Malone. An automated message announced the subscriber was unavailable, then dumped her into his voice mail.

“The White Rabbit has Alice. He said he’d kill her if I didn’t come alone. Don’t worry, I’m not alone. Mr. Glock’s with me. Belle Chere Plantation. Six miles up from Walton’s River Road Café in Vacherie.”

She snapped the phone shut, knowing he’d be furious with her.

She didn’t blame him. If it’d been her case, she’d be furious, too.

Stacy followed the Rabbit’s directions and soon came upon the plantation. A chain barred access to the drive—a sweeping pathway lined by a double row of towering oaks, their branches creating a magnificent, arched canopy. A No Trespassing—Private Property sign was posted on either end of the chain barricade.

Stacy parked her car as best she could, then climbed out. She started up the oak alley.

Her first look at Belle Chere took her breath. It stood in ruins, a ghostly, crumbling hulk. It looked as if much of the roof had caved in. Two of the columns had toppled, their ornate Corinthian capitals lay abandoned, fallen soldiers in the army of time.

Yet it was still beautiful. A magnificent specter, glowing in the twilight.

Beyond what was left of the big house stood a small, ramshackle structure. It didn’t look like one of the original buildings. A caretaker’s cottage? she wondered. By the looks of it, also abandoned.

Stacy started toward the main house, then picked her way up the rotting stairs to the front gallery. The doors had long since disappeared, either to decay or scavengers, and she made her way into the structure, Glock gripped firmly in both hands. As it was considerably darker inside than out, she wished she’d brought a flashlight.

The interior smelled of moisture and mold. Of decay. “Alice!” she called. “It’s Stacy.”

Silence answered. One that shouted the absence of human life. All life here buzzed, hummed or silently crept, devouring walls, floors and anything else in its path.

She wasn’t here.

The caretaker’s cottage.

Stacy carefully backed out. When she’d cleared the stairs, she made her way to the back of the property. Toward the cottage.

No light shone from the interior of the building. She touched the door; it creaked open. She slipped inside, weapon out. Stacy saw a small living area, empty save for beer cans, a couple milk crates and a smattering of cigarette butts. She wrinkled her nose. It stank of urine. Ahead lay two doorways, one to the right, the other to the left.

She moved toward the left first. The door had no handle. She saw that it stood slightly ajar. Gun gripped in both hands, she eased the door open with her foot.

In the dim light spilling through the adjacent window, she saw Kay and Alice huddled together in the corner. Their hands and feet were tied, their mouths secured with duct tape. The side of Kay’s head was caked with what looked to be dried blood. From what she could see, Alice was unhurt.

Kay looked her way, eyes wide with alarm. Not for her own fate, for Stacy’s.

A trap. RPGs were known for them.

He was either behind her. Or in the closet directly across from the women.

Stacy didn’t enter the room. She mouthed the question to Kay. The woman’s eyes flickered toward the closet.

Made sense. He expected her to race across to the pair to free them. Which would put her directly in his line of fire.

Alice straightened suddenly, as if becoming aware of something going on. She looked Stacy’s way.

Which tipped the White Rabbit.

The closet door burst open; Stacy swung, aimed and fired. Once, then again and again, emptying her magazine into him.

He went down without getting off one shot.

Troy, Stacy saw. She gazed at him with a sense of relief. That it was over. The White Rabbit was dead, Alice and Kay had been saved.

And of disbelief that Troy, the handsome bimbo, “Mr. The-Living-is-Easy,” was the White Rabbit? He was the last person she would have attributed enough smarts—or ambition—to have orchestrated this thing.

She’d been fooled before. By a man who’d been just as handsome. And just as heartless.

Stacy turned away from the fallen man and hurried across to the two women. She untied Kay first, then Alice, freezing at the distinctive click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked.

“Turn around slowly.”

Troy. Still alive.

He’d come prepared.

Stacy did as he ordered, cursing that she’d emptied her magazine. She met his eyes. “Back from the dead so soon?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t expect you to be armed? Or that I didn’t know you were an expert shot?” He thumped his chest. “A Kevlar vest, available from any number of gun dealers.”

She forced a cocky smile. “Stings like hell, though, doesn’t it?”

“Worth the sting, because now you’re empty, another predictable move, by the way.” He lifted his weapon, aiming directly at her head. “So, what are you going to do, hero?”

She stared at the gun’s barrel, realizing she had come to the end of the road. She was flat out of both ideas and options.

“Game over, Killian.”

He laughed. She heard Alice’s scream, the roar of blood in her head. The shot’s blast drowned out both. But the moment of shattering pain didn’t come. Instead, Troy’s head seemed to explode. He stumbled backward, then fell.

Stacy turned. Malone stood in the doorway, gun trained on Troy’s still form.