Murder In Her Dreams (27 page)

“To the basement.”

“Why?”

“So we won’t be disturbed.”

* * * *

A feeling of unease poked at Ian. He got up
and paced his office from the window to the door and back. Justin
an African-American?

If Cassie had found the right record — she
had his name and date of birth and would have no reason to make a
mistake. If she was right about Justin, then she was wrong about
Bert.

The young men who worked for him were both
white, but Cassie had said Justin wasn’t. That meant the man Ian
knew as Justin Lord could not be the real Justin. Unless Cassie had
located the wrong Justin, Bert Hansen wasn’t Bradford after all.
Bradford Harrison was masquerading as Justin Lord.

The only way to make sure would be to
confront him. Ian always carried the addresses and phone numbers of
his employees with him. He pulled out his diary and checked it for
Justin’s. The address was located in the Short North on Third. He
locked the office and hurried toward his gray Accord.

* * * *

Trust. Ian wanted to spit out the word. Look
where it had landed him. He didn’t like being made to look the
fool. Bradford Harrison had done a number on him all right, just
like his father James Harrison. That seemingly meek snake had
almost ruined him.

How could he have been so gullible? He
thought after James Harrison he had learned better. Instead, Ian
had unknowingly hired and trained the son who had then tried to
kill him. He gritted his teeth as he burned rubber leaving the
parking lot. He wanted this business settled once and for all.

Now that he knew the person Bradford Harrison
pretended to be, he would stop the son-of-a-bitch. No more threats,
no more accidents. The police could deal with Harrison later, but
first Ian intended to get some satisfaction from him.

As Ian drove south along High Street, he
wondered how Harrison had become so twisted and why he hated him so
much. James Harrison had been a thief. His own behavior had caused
the heart attack that killed him. Ian felt no guilt over it.

He did pity the family and especially Mrs.
Harrison. Her suicide had shocked him, but James Harrison’s
behavior should be blamed for that. Brad Harrison ought to blame
his father for the family’s misfortune, not an outsider. The guy
had to be some type of nut case. His attempt to run down Cassie
Blake proved it.

Ian gripped the steering wheel hard. Lucky
for Harrison nothing had happened to Cassie. If he had hurt her in
any way, Ian would have killed him.

Sudden intense cold gripped Ian. Cassie. How
had Harrison known about her? He must have learned about her visit
to the office. The note had given him a hint, and he had used it to
frame Bert. Her disruption of his attempts to kill Ian must have
rankled.

During the last attack, the gunman had
mentioned ‘getting the Blake bitch out of the way,’ so he knew
Cassie’s name. The thought of her and Brad refused to go away.

Cassie knew Bert. She thought he was
Harrison. She didn’t know Brad Harrison was masquerading as Justin
Lord. She had never met Justin.

She hadn’t answered when he phoned, so she
must be away. Maybe she was out shopping, had gone to a movie, or
had visited a friend. Or something.

Still, what if Harrison decided to get rid of
her? No, he had no reason to do that — unless, unless he had
somehow heard her phone message to Ian. That thought smacked of
paranoia.

The light ahead turned red, and Ian hit his
brake. Damn! Why didn’t they have these lights properly timed? Brad
had no reason to attack Cassie, no reason at all.

The light turned green, and Ian zoomed ahead.
Cassie didn’t know Brad and couldn’t link him to Justin. Unless ...
unless Brad went to see her. If he told Cassie his name was Justin
Lord she would put two and two together just as Ian had. But why
would he do that? The thought of little Cassie facing muscular
Brad/Justin made for horrible possibilities.

Cassie lived in Clintonville, not far from
where he was now. He could swing by her house and check on her. If
she wasn’t there, he’d go on to Justin’s. Five minutes couldn’t
make much of a difference.

* * * *

Being trapped in the basement with Brad
Harrison thoroughly frightened Cassie. He would kill her. Days
might pass before anyone found her. Then he would kill Ian, but Ian
would be on his guard. She didn’t have to worry about Ian. She only
had to save herself.

Cassie stumbled, and the hard barrel of the
gun jabbed against her spine.

“Watch it bitch, or I’ll shoot you right
here. Make an awful mess of your nice clean kitchen.”

“Why do you want to kill me?” Her stomach
clenched and her pulse raced. “You can get away, if you leave now.
I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’ve already messed things up for me. You
heard McLeod’s message. You’ve blown my cover. How did you find out
anyway? They don’t keep that kind of data.”

“They can’t now, but Justin was born in 1972.
They kept racial origin in the records then.”

“Damn it.” He snarled at her and waved the
gun. “Move it. I have to take of care of McLeod.”

He pushed her hard, and she almost fell.
Cassie grabbed the table for support. Her fingers grasped the
tablecloth. Maybe she could dislodge the glass vase and break it.
If she threw the vase at Brad, it would distract him. She tightened
her fingers on the cloth.

The gun came down hard.

“Ouch," Cassie yelped in surprise and pain.
She clutched her hand to her chest and sucked at her fingers. “That
hurt.”

"So?” He shoved her past the table. “No
tricks.”

She stopped in front of the door to the
basement. The gun poked her again. She turned the handle, but the
door didn’t open.

“It’s stuck. It always sticks.” With luck,
she wouldn’t be able to open it.

“Try it again.”

She struggled with the door again, but it
didn’t budge. “See? I told you.”

“Get over there by the stove and don’t move.”
Brad motioned with the gun as he shifted it to his left hand. “I
can shoot with either hand so don’t get any ideas.”

Cassie scrambled toward the stove and looked
for a weapon. Her carving knife set occupied the back of the
counter near the sink, but too far away to help.

Brad reached for the door with his right
hand.

* * * *

Ian made a left hand turn onto Sycamore,
Cassie’s street. She had said she lived halfway down the tree-lined
street in a Victorian, two-story frame house with the kitchen all
the way at the back to catch the morning sun. He parked in front
and climbed the steps to the porch. He knocked at the door, but no
one answered. She must be out. He turned to go, but as he did, a
glitter caught his eye. He leaned down and poked at the small
object.

A gold earring. He picked it up and studied
it. Where had he seen it before?

As he stared down at the earring in his hand,
his vision blurred. Justin’s desk drawer. He had seen one identical
to this one in Justin’s desk. Justin. His insides twisted as he
made the connection. Cassie’s house. Justin, no make that Brad, had
been here.

Ian tried the door, but the handle wouldn’t
move. It was locked. He peered through the tiny window of the door,
but saw only the entry hall. Could Brad have taken Cassie
somewhere? His instincts said no.

He raced down the steps and around the side
of the house. Near the back of the house, a black Harley Davidson
stood parked in the alley next to the garage.

He stopped short as the implication of the
motorcycle hit him like a sledgehammer. Brad had come for Cassie.
He hadn’t left. He must be inside with her. She was in danger. If
Brad hurt her...

NO. That couldn’t happen. Ian wanted his
fingers around Brad’s throat.

He raced up the back steps to the kitchen
door. The door rattled, but refused to open. Locked like the front
one.

Ian pounded on the door. “Cassie. Cassie,
open up. Brad, if you’re in there, I’ll get you. Leave her alone.
It’s me you want. Open up and let me in.”

Ian hit the door with his shoulder. He had to
get inside. He’d bust the damn door down and every bone in Brad’s
body. He lifted his foot to kick the door in and put all his
strength behind it.

Just before his foot hit, the door opened.
The force of his rush carried him past the door and on into the
kitchen. A wide-eyed Cassie stared in horror as he hit the table on
the far side and crashed to the floor. He lay there panting for
breath. The place where his head hit the table throbbed.

He stared up at the familiar face of Justin
Lord gazing down at him, only he wasn’t Justin. He was Brad
Harrison.

How could he have worked with the man
everyday and not recognized how twisted he was? Ian had thought of
Justin as a nice, ambitious college kid, not as a devious would-be
killer. He shook his head and groaned.

Brad grinned down at him, “How nice of you to
drop by.” He motioned with the gun. “Just join your girlfriend over
there. Now I can take care of you both.”

Cassie rushed forward to Ian. She brushed the
hair from his eyes and gently touched his forehead.

“Ouch,” Ian gasped.

“Sorry.” She pulled her fingers back. “Are
you badly hurt?”

“I’m all right, just a little sore.” He
patted Cassie’s shoulder then stared up at Brad. “Let her go. You
want me, not her.”

“I did, before she called you about Justin.
Now I have to get rid of her too. Move.”

With Cassie’s help, Ian climbed to his feet.
Somehow, he had to distract Justin, no, Brad, long enough for
Cassie to get away. She had done nothing to Brad. Ian wanted her
out of this, away from the vindictive Brad and his gun.

Brad rested his hand on the door just beyond
the table. “We’re going to the basement. I was just going to open
the door, but now you can do it. Open it.” He stepped back and
motioned Ian toward the door.

“It’s stuck. It always sticks,” Cassie
explained.

Ian put his arm around her and pulled her
close. She fit the curve of his arm just right. He had to protect
her.

Brad stared at them, a nasty gleam in his
eye. “Come here, bitch. As long as I have you, Hotshot here won’t
do anything.”

Grabbing Cassie’s arm, Brad pulled her toward
him. He glared at Ian. “Now get on with it.”

Ian stared at Cassie in Brad’s tight grip.
His cruel fingers curled around her slender arm and dug into the
flesh. Ian’s fists clenched in tight balls. He wanted to hit Brad
for hurting Cassie.

“The door, man. Open the God damn door!" Brad
grasped Cassie tighter. “You want me to shoot her?”

Ian shook his head and walked the few steps
separating him from the door. He turned the knob and pushed gently,
but the door didn’t move.

“What’s the matter? No muscles?” Brad
sneered.

He glared back at Brad. “It’s stuck. Try it
yourself.”

“So unstick it. Come on, I haven’t got all
day. Maybe I should just shoot you up here.”

Ian pushed harder and the door began to inch
forward. He shoved his shoulder against it, and the door gave way.
He stumbled forward.

“Stop right there or I shoot your
girlfriend.” Brad held the gun to Cassie’s temple. She stared out
of the corner of frightened eyes at Brad.

“The door’s open. Now what?” Ian faced Brad
and tried to gauge the distance between them and the chances of
deflecting the gun before Brad could injure Cassie.

“We go downstairs. You first, and remember
I’ve got my gun on the bitch.”

Ian started down the steps, one at a time as
slow as he could. He heard footsteps behind him. Cassie’s sort of
stumbling and then the heavier ones of Brad.

“I said move.”

A cold, hard object pushed Ian in the neck.
Brad had moved the gun to him and away from Cassie. Ian threw
himself backward against Brad’s legs.

“Cassie, run,” Ian shouted as he turned to
struggle with Brad. He pulled down hard on Brad’s legs, trying to
pull him away from her.

* * * *

Cassie fell against the top step alongside
Brad. He had let go her arm as he dropped and tried to grab the
railing. She scrambled upward on her hands and knees and over the
doorsill into the kitchen. Once there, she pushed herself to her
feet and raced for the living room. They needed help.

Praying for Ian, she grabbed the phone and
hit 9-1-1. “Police, quick. Bradford Harrison is trying to kill
Ian.”

“Ma’am? Is this 263-4879 at 2110
Sycamore?”

“Yes. Hurry. It’s an emergency.”

A shot rang out.

“Oh, my God! He’s killed Ian.”

“Lady, a patrol car is on the way. Get out of
the house and wait for us.”

Cassie dropped the phone. Ian.

Brad had killed Ian. Tears stung her eyes and
blinded her. With a quick swipe, she dashed them away.

She raced back toward the kitchen. The table
lay on its side with the tablecloth hung askew. Fragments from the
vase she kept on the table littered the floor.

Crunching over the mess to the open basement
door, she peered through the darkness. She stared down into the
inkiness below expecting to see Ian’s body sprawled there.
Nothing.

She switched on the stairway light. Only a
quiet emptiness met her anxious gaze. The washer and dryer stood
under the window on the far side. She scanned past the furnace and
back to the wooden steps leading down.

No Ian. No Brad.

Cassie turned back to the kitchen. Sirens
whined outside. The roar of a motorcycle filled the air. The vivid
memory of the black helmeted motorcyclist filled her vision. She
started toward the back door as the front door chimes rang.

Hesitating, Cassie shifted her course. She
wanted to find Ian.

The chimes rang again followed by a heavy
thumping. “Police. Open up.”