Killjoy (25 page)

Chapter 23

N
OW THAT THE THREE WOMEN WERE FINALLY READY TO
leave, they were immobilized with fear.

It was four o’clock in the morning, and they estimated that they had approximately two hours before dawn. They huddled together at the kitchen table, dressed for the forest in layers of clothes, sipping hot tea to fortify them against the night air. A frigid breeze poured into the kitchen from the hole in the pantry wall.

“What if Monk put down trip wires or something?” Carrie asked. “What do we do then? We won’t see them in the dark.”

They all worried about the possibility, and then Sara said, “I don’t think he’d take the time to climb up the side of the mountain. I’m sure he thinks he’s got us locked in tight.”

Carrie was so scared, she was trembling. “Listen,” she whispered. “If I don’t make it . . .”

“Don’t talk like that. We’re all going to make it,” Sara said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Let me say this,” Carrie insisted. “If I die, I want you two to promise me you’ll make the police find Avery and protect her. Call my husband,” she added. “Tony will want to help keep Avery . . .” Her voice caught on a sob, and she couldn’t go on.

“Focus on one worry at a time,” Sara suggested.

“That’s right,” Anne said. “Concentrate on climbing down the rope.”

Carrie nodded. “Yes, all right.” She pushed her teacup away and stood. “We should go now. No more stalling.”

Anne grabbed Carrie’s hand. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”

Smiling, Carrie squeezed her hand. Uh-oh. Anne’s eyes were getting that glassy look. She had probably taken one of her pain pills. When Carrie had searched the upstairs for a way out, she’d noticed the bottles of medications lined up on Anne’s vanity. There were enough to start a small pharmacy.

“Did you remember to put your medicines in your jacket?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, of course I remembered.”

“I could put some of the bottles in my jacket.”

“No need,” Anne assured her.

“What about the letters,” Sara asked Carrie. “Did you zip them in your pocket?”

“Yes, I’ve got them.”

“Okay, then,” Sara said. “Let’s do it.”

They had already decided that Sara should go first. One end of the sheeted rope was anchored to the kitchen table, which couldn’t be pulled through the doorway, but Carrie and Anne were still going to hold the rope while Sara lowered herself to the ground. Anne had tied big knots twelve inches apart so they would have something to grab.

Carrie was the second one to go because Anne had argued that since she weighed the least of the three, she stood the best chance of getting down on her own if the rope came loose from the table.

Carrie had wanted to go last, but Anne wouldn’t hear of it. “If the rope doesn’t hold or I fall, you and Sara could maybe catch me, but I couldn’t help catch you or Sara. I have to go last.”

“Oh, God, don’t think about falling. You made a good, strong rope, Anne. It’s going to hold.”

“Yes, we’ll all be just fine.”

Anne sounded obscenely cheerful. Was she getting nuts again, or was the pain pill responsible?

Sara led the way into the pantry. Carrie and Anne watched as she picked up the end of the rope and tied it around her waist. “I hope this is long enough.”

Sara got down on her knees, then scooted to the opening. “Get down on your stomach,” Carrie whispered. “And go out slowly, feetfirst.”

“Did you put the penlight in your pocket?” Anne asked.

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

Carrie sat on the floor and braced herself with her feet against the two-by-fours. Anne got behind her to help hold the rope. Just when Carrie thought Sara was never going to reach the ground, the sheet went limp. Carrie fell back against Anne. Recovering her balance, she took a deep breath and said, “Guess it’s my turn.”

She rolled onto her stomach and scooted to the edge.

“Wait,” Anne whispered. She grabbed Carrie’s jacket, shoved a thick envelope in the pocket, and zipped it closed.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re the strongest of the three of us, so if Sara and I don’t make it, you make sure . . .”

“Yes?” Carrie prodded. “Come on. What?”

“Just make sure. Now go.”

Carrie didn’t waste time arguing. She would find out what Anne meant after they’d gotten away from the house.

Her hands were bleeding and raw, and she was too frightened to cry. She slowly lowered herself down. Anne tried to help, but when she tried to pull up on the rope so she could get a better grip, she almost went out the opening headfirst.

Carrie made it to the ground.

The rope went slack and Anne fell back. Quickly straightening, she looked down, trying to see the two women. She stayed on her hands and knees for a moment and listened to the soft calls from below.

Then she pulled the rope up. She backed away from the opening.
“Three blind mice, three blind mice,”
she sang.
“See how they run, See how they run . . .”

She stood up, brushed the dirt off her borrowed sweatpants, and walked into the kitchen.
“See how they run,”
she sang. Odd, that that particular melody had popped into her head and wouldn’t let go. She and Eric had decided never to have children, yet now she was singing a silly nursery rhyme. Her father used to sing that song to her. How did the rest of it go? Was it, “They all ran after the farmer’s wife, she cut off their heads with a carving knife”? Or was it, “They all ran away from the farmer’s wife”? And why couldn’t she remember the rest of the song?

“Three blind mice,”
she sang softly as she knelt down and tried to get the knots out of the sheet. Realizing she could break a nail, she got up, went to the counter to get the scissors Carrie had brought down, and cut the rope from the table leg.

“Three blind mice.”
She stood again, paused to take a drink of her lukewarm tea, and then, because she knew that Carrie and Sara were anxiously waiting for her, she walked to the opening in the pantry and dropped the sheets down. They surely couldn’t misinterpret what that meant, for she’d tossed away her only lifeline. She heard one of them cry out, thought it must be Sara, for, of the two women, Sara seemed a tad more tenderhearted.

“
Three blind mice.
My goodness, I can’t get that silly tune out of my head,” she said as she shut the pantry door. Noticing the messy kitchen, she went to the sink, filled it with soapy, hot water, and did the dishes. When she was finished, she straightened the table and chairs, put fresh place mats in front of each chair, then blew out the candles and headed for the stairs.

She was feeling so tired and old and haggard. A good long nap would fix that, she thought. But first things first. She simply had to do something about her sorry appearance. She couldn’t understand how fashion-minded women with money, like Carrie and Sara, could ever wear sweatpants. Why, even the name was offensive. Ladies shouldn’t sweat. They shouldn’t even perspire. Only common, coarse women did such disgusting things as sweating and belching and body piercing . . . or letting others, like doctors, mutilate their bodies for them. Hadn’t her loving Eric told her that was how he felt? He adored her body and couldn’t stand what the surgeon wanted to do.

Feeling a bit light-headed, Anne gripped the banister as she slowly made her way upstairs. After she took a long, hot shower, she curled her hair with her curling iron, then brushed it and lacquered it in place with hairspray. It seemed to take an hour to decide which of her new St. John knit suits to wear. The mint green with the adorable silver clasps won because she thought it was both elegant and chic. Slipping into her silver pearlized high heels, she picked up her favorite platinum-rimmed diamond earrings and put them on. The diamonds were a gift from Eric on their last anniversary.

She’d walked all the way down the hallway before she remembered she hadn’t put on any perfume. Retracing her steps, she squirted a dab on each wrist. Sighing with contentment, she hurried downstairs but stopped on the bottom step. The rising sun had turned the living room into a golden temple. The color took her breath away. Eric should be here to see this, she thought. Yes, he should.

Anne didn’t know how long she stood there. Ten minutes might have passed, or twenty, maybe more. The effects of the second prescription pain pill had finally caught up with her, and she zigzagged across the living room, giggling because she found it so amusing that she couldn’t walk in a straight line. Was this what it felt like to be stoned? Was she stoned? Trying to focus, she reached the sofa and plopped down. She fell asleep seconds later.

Although she hadn’t realized such a thing was possible, she knew she had wept while she slept because, when she awakened, her face was wet with tears. She struggled to sit up and wiped the dampness away with her fingertips. Noticing the makeup on her hands, she’d decided to go back upstairs to powder her face again when she thought she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Still somewhat disoriented, she staggered to her feet, adjusted the lapels of her jacket, and walked into the dining room to look out the window at the circle drive. Her gate was stiff and unsteady.

A silver Cadillac DeVille came screeching around the curve. “Now, who could that be calling at such an early hour?” Anne asked. She checked the time on her Bulgari watch—another gift from her beloved Eric—and was astonished to see that it was after nine in the morning.

Anne stepped back into the shadows as the car came to a rocking stop. The door opened and a woman with the most frightful look on her face leapt out. She slammed the door shut, then opened the back door.

The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Anne couldn’t remember where she might have seen her before. Her face was contorted with rage, and though Anne couldn’t hear what she was saying, she knew she was talking because her lips were moving.

Was she Jilly? The stranger did have blond hair, and she was tall and shapely, as Carrie had described, but she certainly wasn’t what Anne would consider beautiful by any means. Perhaps, if her expression weren’t so hostile and if she were smiling instead, she might be pretty. But not beautiful.

Her complexion was lovely. She’d give her that. From a distance it looked almost flawless, and Anne decided she really must find out what kind of facial cleanser the woman used to get such perfect skin. Or was it heavy makeup? Anne made a mental note to find out.

Her haircut was a little too short and spiky, but the color was wonderful. Highlights, Anne thought, and she wondered if the unpleasant woman would give her the name of her stylist. Why, she’d kill to have highlights like that. Suddenly feeling self-conscious about her own appearance, she patted her hair down, certain she’d gotten it mussed during her little nap.

“My goodness,” Anne whispered when she saw what the woman was carrying. She had a red gasoline can in one hand and an ax in the other. “What does she think she’s doing?”

The woman’s head was down, and she hadn’t spotted Anne yet, but as she strode to the steps, Anne remembered where she’d seen her before. She was pictured in one of the clippings she’d found in the chest. Oh, yes, she remembered now. The woman and her ex were fighting over ownership of this house.

Anne rushed to the foyer and stood in front of the elongated beveled glass panes that framed the door. She could hear what the woman was saying now. She was spewing filth. Anne’s hand went to her throat. She was appalled by the vulgarity. The woman must have said the “F” word a good ten times, enraged at a judge for giving her house away.

Ah . . . now Anne understood. The house had been awarded to the husband. Anne didn’t have any sympathy for the crude woman. She obviously hadn’t been a good wife. Shouldn’t the husband make all the important decisions? He’d paid for the house. He should keep it.

The woman rushed up the porch steps, screaming now. “That son of a bitch thinks he’s going to take my house and leave me penniless? Screw the prenup. He thinks I’m bluffing. I told him he’d never live here. Surprise, surprise, bastard. When I’m finished redecorating . . .” She spotted Anne and came to a dead stop. Then she roared, “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

“Hello there,” Anne called out. “What are you doing with that ax and that can?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“I really would appreciate it if you wouldn’t use obscenities in my presence. It offends me.”

The woman put the can of gasoline down, dropped the ax, and reached into her pocket to get her key out.

“Did the bastard hire a housekeeper?” she yelled loudly enough so that Anne could hear through the door.

“I assure you I’m not a housekeeper.”

“Open the fucking door.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The woman shoved the key in the lock and tried to turn it. When she realized it wouldn’t work, she screamed, “Damn him to hell. How dare he change the lock. How dare he. He knew . . . He had that judge in his pocket. Well, fuck him.”

She pulled the key out of the lock, threw it down and glared at Anne. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to use this ax. You don’t want to mess with me, bitch. Not today.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Open the damned door.”

The sneer was the last straw. Tears flooded into Anne’s eyes as she swung the door open and forced a smile. “Won’t you come in?”

There was a second’s delay, long enough for the woman to shove Anne back and step over the threshold.

The explosion blew half the mountain away.

Chapter 24

K
EEPING UP WITH
J
ILLY WAS A FULL-TIME JOB, BUT
M
ONK
found it thoroughly exhilarating. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. He was the cautious one, of course, while she, with the enthusiasm of a novice, planned her grand schemes, never worrying about the little mundane things, like the FBI tracking one of the credit cards she’d used.

Monk couldn’t fault her for making that mistake. He blamed himself because he should have destroyed the cards after he’d used them. He kept all of his credit cards under various names and addresses in his attaché case, and Jilly had simply helped herself to the first ones her hand touched.

The result hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, though. John Paul Renard was now involved, and Monk was absolutely delighted about that turn of events. He’d known that Renard was trying to track his movements for over a year. He’d intercepted several inquiries Renard had made to various law enforcement agencies in Europe. Now Monk had the opportunity to get rid of the pest before he caused real trouble, and Monk could humor Jilly at the same time.

Before they’d settled on using Utopia to bring the women to Aspen, his beautiful fiancée had had the time of her life, sitting at the table hour upon hour, poring over her notes. Oh, how she loved the intrigue, the excitement, and most of all, the danger, and she was trying to teach Monk how to have fun too. Whenever he did anything to please her, such as agreeing to last-minute changes in her complicated plans, she aptly rewarded him in creative ways. All of them of a sexual nature. Just thinking about some of the things she’d done to him and allowed him to do to her made him blush like a teenager.

She was turning him into a true romantic, but he didn’t view that as a weakness, for his obsession was with Jilly and no other. He believed with all his heart that, if the erotic games they played in bed didn’t kill him, they would grow old together.

Oh, yes, she was an obsession. His every waking minute was spent thinking about her, protecting her from harm. As long as he maintained his vigilance and cleaned up her mistakes, they would be safe.

Monk had had to talk Jilly out of one scheme. She had briefly toyed with the idea of kidnapping Avery and sitting down with her to tell her the truth about Carrie. Jilly was such an innocent. She believed she could convert her daughter. Monk gently explained that, after all the years of brainwashing by Carrie, Jilly would never be able to convince her daughter that she was, in reality, a loving mother.

Jilly wasn’t perfect by any means. She had a twisted view of motherhood, for she believed that because she had brought Avery into this world, she owned her. She spoke of Avery as her possession, not a person, and Carrie had taken that precious treasure away from her. For years her anger at her sister had festered, but Jilly was patient when it came to vengeance. No matter how long it took, she would get even.

She insisted on being the one to push the button that would blow the house apart. She promised Monk she wouldn’t shed a tear over her sister’s death. Carrie had brought this on herself. She was the reason Jilly hadn’t succeeded in life; she was the reason Avery hated her. She was the reason for every one of Jilly’s failures. And so it was only fair that Jilly get to watch her sister die.

Monk wasn’t put off by Jilly’s brutal honesty. How could he cast the first stone? She had accepted him with all his sins, and he could do no less for her.

Now he was trying to clean up the mistakes at the abandoned mine. Jilly had been sure they would climb down into the shaft to find the next clue as to Carrie’s whereabouts, and then Monk could have dropped a couple of explosives into the hole, sealed it, and followed Jilly back to the retreat.

Monk hadn’t believed Renard would go into the shaft, and he had been proven right. He had thought, however, that he could get a clear shot at the two and toss the bodies down the hole, but he missed his chance when they scrambled up the rocks and leapt into the river.

He was methodically tracking them now. He’d lost precious time backtracking to his vehicle and crossing the river, but with his car he’d been able to make up some time by speeding down the mountain road and cutting back to where he anticipated they’d be heading.

Renard hadn’t left any tracks, but then Monk knew all about the ex-Marine and hadn’t expected less. When he’d done his research on his stalker, he’d read his history, and he’d been impressed. He believed that under different circumstances they could have become friends. They were, after all, very much alike. They were both professional killers. Monk had murdered for money, while Renard killed for honor. That didn’t make him superior, however. If anything, Monk believed it made him a fool.

Still, he would have liked to have had the opportunity to sit down with him, share some cold beers and talk about their past exploits. But Renard would never go for that. The man was too honorable for his own good. According to his sealed file, which Monk had gotten unsealed, Renard was suffering from burnout. Monk didn’t believe such nonsense. He thought Renard had left the job when he realized he was beginning to enjoy the power he felt every time he pulled the trigger. Honor be damned.

Was Renard as curious about him? Did he fantasize about sitting down to discuss the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of the kill? Monk wished he could find out. Maybe if he was able to wound him, paralyze him, then Monk could sit down beside him and chat it up like old friends until Renard bled out. Wouldn’t that be something, to talk to an equal, to commiserate, to boast?

Monk chuckled. Now who was fantasizing? He checked the time and then shook his head. If he didn’t spot the couple soon, he would have to get to his car and drive to where Jilly waited. She was anxious to get back to the little mountain retreat to see how her sister was holding up. By now, the three women had probably turned on one another like polecats, each one slowly going out of her mind with terror. That was what Jilly hoped anyway.

Stop daydreaming and get back to business, he told himself. He lifted his high-powered binoculars and scanned the terrain once again. He was turning toward the north when he saw the observation tower in the distance, maybe a mile away. Climbing down was a forest ranger. Monk watched until the man was standing on the ground.

“Well, well,” he whispered as he calculated. “Just my size.”

Exactly one hour later he was leaning over the rail at the top of the tower, scanning the hills. Looking down at the bushes below he saw the white T-shirt of the forest ranger he’d shot in the temple and then stripped.

He was just about ready to give up the chase when he suddenly spotted the couple. Avery’s blond hair, so like her mother’s, shimmered gold in the sunlight. Monk couldn’t believe his good fortune. There they were, all right, walking down the mountain as pretty as you please, looking as ragged and worn-out as any two people he’d ever seen. His burst of laughter echoed around him. Wait until he told Jilly. He knew what she would say. She’d tell him he was an exceedingly lucky man.

He’d agree, of course, even though he knew luck had very little to do with finding his prey. After poring over his map, he’d anticipated that if they survived the white water, they would get out before that tremendous drop below Coward’s Crossing.

Monk decided to meet them head-on. He climbed down the ladder and walked around to the path, his head down, the bill of his cap concealing his face.

When he reached the wide-open space between the trees, he ever so slowly turned and pretended to notice them near the peak. He raised his hand to wave.

Avery heard John Paul behind her. “Fall down, Avery. Do it now.”

She didn’t hesitate. Pretending to stumble, she went down on one knee. John Paul caught up with her and dropped to put his arm around her shoulders to steady her.

“Act like you hurt yourself.”

Rolling to her side, she clutched her ankle and gave an exaggerated grimace. She wanted to cry from disappointment. “He’s not a forest ranger, is he?”

“No.”

She kept rubbing her ankle. “How do you know?”

“I saw his rifle. Forest rangers don’t have scopes on their rifles.”

She looked up at him. “You saw the scope from this far away?”

“The sun caught it just right,” he explained. “I think it’s him. I’m not saying it’s Monk, but . . .”

“Thinking he might be is enough for me,” she said.

“Okay, I’m gonna help you stand. You lean against me, and we start down the hill again, but we’ll angle toward the west. When we reach the trees, we run like hell.”

“He’ll come after us.”

“Ready?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, but hauled her up, lightly bracing her against his side.

“Limp,” he ordered gruffly as they once again started down the hill. They were walking like two drunks, staggering toward the west as they moved along.

He was deliberately keeping them out of Monk’s range. He was sure now that the man dressed as a forest ranger was the killer because he hadn’t moved from his spot at the base of the trail. Rangers were helpful, weren’t they?

“He’s waiting for us to get within firing range.”

“Oh, God.”

“You scared?”

“Duh . . .”

Her response made him smile. “That’s good,” he said. “Okay, sugar. Start running.”

She immediately bolted toward the safety of the trees. John Paul was right behind her, but he dared a quick look down below and saw Monk running toward them. They had a good head start. Avery led the way steadily downhill, hoping to intercept the road below Monk, all the way praying there would be campers or real forest rangers around who could help them.

Her ears were ringing. What was that sound? The wind whistling through the trees? Or was it the sound of gunfire sizzling? No, that wasn’t it.

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun; then it started up again, but it was louder, shriller this time. It sounded like a whistle.

“Hear . . . that . . . ?” she panted.

“Yeah.”

Then she heard a trumpet. Was she losing it? She kept running, her feet pounding into the soft earth as she raced along, still panting from her exertion.

The muscles in her legs were burning. Suddenly she lost her footing. She would have hurled headfirst into a gulley if John Paul hadn’t reacted instinctively, lifting her off her feet as he kept stride.

He slowed as he let go of her, then kept pace just in case she went down again. All at once, they broke through the trees, crossed the road . . . and ran into the middle of Boy Scout Troop 183. Before he could stop, John Paul bowled over one pup tent and mowed down the troop master, who got the wind knocked out of him. The trumpet he was holding went flying into another tent.

“Cell phone,” Avery shouted at the man sprawled on his back. “We need your cell phone.”

“No signal up here,” he answered as he came up on his elbows. His face was red with anger. “Who in thunder do you people think . . .”

John Paul was frantically searching the road ahead of them. Monk wouldn’t have any qualms about taking a couple of kids out as long as he could get his primary targets. One of the boys shouted when he saw the gun tucked into the back of John Paul’s jeans. One blistering look from John Paul shut the boy up.

Avery dropped down on her knees next to the leader. “Listen to me. We need help. There’s a killer coming this way. Where’s your transportation? Answer me, please,” she begged.

Her terror got through to him. “We’ve got a camper here, but my Ford four-wheeler is parked about half a mile down the road. The keys are in my jacket in that tent over there, the one with the troop numbers painted on it.”

John Paul was lifting Avery to her feet. “Get in that camper and get your boys out of here,” he yelled back at the man as he pulled Avery toward the next slope, staying well hidden in the trees.

“Get to a phone and call for help,” she shouted.

Her legs were trembling, and she didn’t think she had it in her to run much longer. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, her heart feeling as though it were lodged in her throat, she suddenly remembered they hadn’t gotten the keys.

“We have to go back . . . the car keys.”

“We don’t need them,” he said. “Now move it, sugar. You’re starting to drag.”

She fantasized about hiding somewhere and waiting for John Paul to come back with the car. She could find a spot where Monk wouldn’t find her, couldn’t she?

Suck it up. Damn it, I don’t want to. I can do it. I can do it. She kept up the drill until the pain in her side became excruciating. She wondered if she could die upright. Sure she could.

Tears came into her eyes then, for she saw the old SUV parked in the gravel near the curve in the road. John Paul raced ahead of her. He broke the back window, reached in, and unlocked the front door.

Avery ran around to the other side as he unlocked the door for her. It took less than forty-five seconds for him to hot-wire the car, throw it into gear, and take off.

She was impressed. “Were you a juvenile delinquent growing up?”

The second they rounded the curve, she fell back against the seat and allowed herself to fall apart. A sob caught in her throat.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Sure sounded like you were.” He gave her a sharp look.

“I’m joyful.” She hastily wiped the tears of relief from her cheeks.

He grinned. He had the very same feeling, but it didn’t last long. “Hell,” he muttered.

“What hell?”

“The road’s winding back around . . . he might be coming down, getting into position . . . ah, hell, that’s what he’s gonna do, and there isn’t any way we can go off-road here.”

He leaned forward, pulled his gun out, and dropped it into his lap. He rolled down his window, then picked up the gun.

She frantically got her weapon out and then rolled down her window. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Getting ready just like you.”

“No. Get down and stay down. If he’s coming at us, you’ll be on his side.”