Obsession Falls (39 page)
He had to get out of here. He had to pack up and go home to California … except he’d promised to clear Summer’s name. She didn’t deserve it, that he should work for her …
But she did. She had saved Miles. Kennedy had made her a promise. He would keep it. And what she had done tonight opened his eyes to her true character. He should be grateful for that.
Yet … what if she was lying about Michael Gracie, too? What if he couldn’t find “Jimmy” because she had concocted the whole story? Then he was back to ground zero on finding Miles’s kidnapper.
Something like a shopping cart slammed into his Achilles tendon.
A woman’s slurred voice said, “Kennedy McManus.”
He turned to see Summer’s drinking buddy, Kateri Kwinault, leaning heavily on her walker.
“Where’s Summer?” Kateri asked. “Did he get Summer?”
“I don’t know where she is. The waiter took her.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Kateri put her hand to her forehead. She staggered.
He caught her arm and supported her as she moved the walker toward a seat along the wall. As he lowered her into the chair, she grabbed his cravat and twisted it in a stranglehold. She brought him face-to-face with her. “She’s been drugged,” she said.
“She has taken drugs. For fun.”
“You are so stupid,” Kateri said clearly.
That was something he had never been called in his life.
She continued, “
I’ve
been drugged.
She’s
been drugged.
He’s
here. I don’t know what’s going on, why he planned this party to take her and kill her. But this, all this”—she gestured around the ballroom—“is about revenge. Money. Power.
It’s a game.
”
The words sank into his brain. Sank, and illuminated a blaze so bright, he stood swiftly.
Kateri lost her grip on his cravat.
He faced the ballroom. And
looked
. Observed. Recognized. Realized.
A game. Yes. A game.
The game.
Everything about this party was familiar. The mirrors, the gold, the whirling dances, the celebrities, the laughter … all in place to confuse the players. Negotiating the ballroom and retaining your senses required concentration on a goal—that of retaining or taking the prize.
Kennedy stood in a living reenactment of
Empire of Fire.
And he had been manipulated by the only other player who had ever bested him.
Kateri was right. He
was
stupid.
Turning, he raced toward the door, through the lobby, outside. He hit the porch in time to see the helicopter hover, turn, then disappear into the clouds.
Kennedy raised his fists and bellowed his wrath and his terror, “Jimmy … James Brachler! I know you. I will find you. I will kill you!”
On the helipad, the circle of security men looked around, observed Kennedy, his upraised fists, his frenzy, his rage … and swiftly, silently dispersed into the darkness.
He ran inside. Goddamn it, someone here knew what was happening.
But in the ballroom, the party was over. The band was packing up. The faux guests were stripping off their masks, their wigs, their jewels. They exited by every door, and while they walked, they conversed calmly, like actors who had finished a job. Only the real guests were left, people who stood shaking their heads, as if the sudden change left them bewildered.
Then two of the genuine guests dropped to their knees and slithered to the floor. One was a pretty red-haired girl; her Coast Guard companion shouted for help, then fell unconscious beside her. More guests staggered, or tilted, and one ran from the room with her hand over her mouth.
Margaret Smith’s staff lifted her from her chair by the door. Her head was lolling, her eyes unfocused.
The actors—the other guests
were
actors, Kennedy was now sure of it—stepped up the pace of their departures.
Suddenly, a cool wind swept the ballroom. It swept the clutter of masks and streamers to the back wall and made the drugged guests lift their heads. Kateri had flung open one set of the French doors leading to the balcony, opening the room and the people to the incoming storm.
As she struggled with another set of doors, one man went to help her.
Although he had never met this guy, Kennedy recognized him. It was hard not to recognize someone this famous.
Tony Parnham, young, stout, with black hair retreating from his forehead and growing in long, messy sideburns down the sides of his face. Tony Parnham, in a ridiculously inappropriate medieval warrior costume. Tony Parnham, the Academy Award–winning director—and host of this party from hell.
Moving with speed and vengeance, Kennedy hit him from behind.
Parnham gave an
oof
as he fell, a yell as he skidded along the hardwood floor on his face.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, Kennedy dragged him out onto the deck. Turning him, he lifted him by his leather jerkin and hefted him up over the rail, until only Kennedy’s grip kept him from a deadly plunge into the Pacific.
Parnham screamed in terror and clutched at Kennedy’s hands.
“Don’t struggle,” Kennedy warned. “I might drop you.”
Tony froze.
“Now—tell me who put you up to this,” Kennedy said.
“Up to what?”
Kennedy tipped him backward.
Parnham’s nails dug into Kennedy’s hands.
“Who put you up to this?” It wasn’t a question. It was an ultimatum.
“Please don’t drop me.”
“I can hear sirens, so someone’s called the police and the ambulances. If I threw you, who would testify against me? Every person left in there is so drugged they can’t even see straight. Some are unconscious. They wouldn’t be reliable witnesses, and as sick as they are, they wouldn’t care if you died.”
From behind him, Kennedy heard someone clap once, twice, three times in encouragement. Kateri was there.
Parnham’s eyes bulged with tears and terror.
“You don’t have a lot of room to negotiate.” Kennedy shook him. Just slightly. Just enough to make the rail wiggle. “Who set you up to this?”
“Please. Please, he’ll kill me if he finds out that I told.”
“I halfway hope you don’t tell me, because right now, dropping you off this cliff is exactly what I want to do.” Kennedy had never spoken words so true. “Let me get you started. It was Michael Gracie.”
Parnham gasped. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell you!”
“Why did you do it?”
“I owe him. I owe him everything.”
Kennedy pulled Parnham toward him, slid him off the rail, pushed him onto the decking.
Parnham landed hard, but kept talking. “When I started, he saw my movies, said I had talent. He set me up, made sure the right people saw my work, invested in my first big effort. If not for him, I would still be an insurance agent.”
Kennedy leaned over. “So you agreed to do this? To drug people, set them up to be kidnapped?”
“I didn’t want to.” Parnham tried to put his hand on Kennedy’s shoulder.
Kennedy took his wrist and tossed it back.
“Right.” Parnham continued, “He said … when he set me up, he said I owed him a favor, and I promised to do it, whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I thought, you know, like put his girlfriend in a role or something. That’s bad enough. Can you imagine what it’s like putting a no-talent female in a—” Something about Kennedy’s expression stopped him. “Anyway, it’s been five years, and nothing, not a word. Then a few weeks ago, he contacted me. He’s got a scary reputation, you know. When he said … when he said he wanted me to host a party here, I was ecstatic. I’m building a house, I thought this would set me up as one of the good guys. Then … then … then…” Parnham was stuck.
“Then he told you what you had to do.”
“
He
didn’t tell me. It was that scary guy who works for him. He gave me a list of who to invite, and he told me who to hire: actors who could dance the way Michael wanted them to dance, play the scenes the way Michael wanted them played. It was this elaborate setup, I was the director, and I knew whatever was coming down … was bad.”
“What’s in the drinks?” Kennedy asked. “Drugs? Poison?”
“It’s a new derivative of the date rape drug. You get high. You get happy. You get horny.”
Behind Kennedy, Kateri said, “I’m not happy
or
horny.”
Tony Parnham’s eyes darted between faces: Kennedy’s and Kateri’s, Kennedy’s and Kateri’s. “Sometimes it works like speed, you’re wide awake and pissed. Depends on what other drugs you’re on.”
Kateri was intentionally harsh. “Like if I’m a cripple and on prescription drugs for pain?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Parnham’s gaze shifted to Kennedy. “So sorry. I was afraid they were going to kill me if I didn’t do what I was told. I was afraid.”
Kateri said coolly, “Kennedy, you should have dropped him over the edge.”
“That would be murder. How about if I do this instead?” Kennedy gripped the front of Parnham’s jerkin, pulled him forward, and slammed him back against the railing. Once. Twice. Three times.
Three times Parnham’s skull hit the iron. His eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped to the decking.
Kennedy stood and dusted his fingertips.
Kateri inclined her head in thanks.
Kennedy, looking neither right nor left, headed out to his car.
* * *
Every Coastie knew that every ocean was different. The smells, the currents, the birds, the heat, the cold, the salt spray, the storms … oh, God, yes, especially the storms.
As Kateri stood out on the deck, she listened to the oncoming storm push across chill water and deep swells, driving toward the coast. Beneath the howl of the harbinger wind and the inescapable scent of incipient violence, the Frog God muttered to her. He was displeased, and if his displeasure continued, she would be punished yet again.
She gripped the rails and screamed back, begging him to protect her men, the ones inside struggling against the combination of liquor and drugs, and the ones on the water. She sounded insane; she knew it. Yet the wind kept her on her feet, and the stimulant in her veins wiped her inhibitions.
So she screamed. Again. More.
At last someone touched her arm.
She swung around.
Mark stumbled backward as if he feared her. “Are you okay, Commander?”
“Fine.” She saw him through a wavering haze. “You?”
“Okay. This stuff hit Layla and Sienna harder than the guys. Body mass, you know. But I thought you’d like to know—we just heard from Luis. Everything’s okay. So you can, um, stop yelling about it.”
“Report, Ensign!”
Automatically, he straightened. “Currents were encountered. The cutter was briefly in jeopardy. Men were hurt: abrasions, contusions, one broken wrist.”
“Did they locate any drugs?”
“No sign of any whatsoever.” Mark glanced over his shoulder at the prone body of Landlubber Adams. “He drank a lot. Not that I hope he dies, but tomorrow I hope he barfs all day.”
Tonight, Adams had sent Luis into danger. Him, and a dozen more of her Coasties, men who pledged themselves to protect America’s waterways against threats from within and without. Kateri had taken that oath; she was still bound by that oath. “Someone should do something about Adams,” she said.
“Yeah. But who?”
She smiled quite pleasantly. “
I’m
someone.”
Kennedy found an older-looking gentleman directing the staff as they tended to the sick and brought in the emergency personnel.
The name badge read:
HAROLD
RIDLEY,
VIRTUE
FALLS
RESORT
MANAGER.
Kennedy told him what he’d learned about the drug, then added, “Tony Parnham is out on the deck. Looks like he fell and slammed his head against the railing … three times. Send someone out … when you get a chance.”
In an ugly voice, Harold said, “If Margaret Smith dies from this, Mr. Parnham might not recover.”
“That’s okay with me.” Kennedy pushed his way through the incoming stretchers and ran outside. The parking lot was lit up like a circus, teeming with emergency personnel, two ambulances, two fire trucks, and a hearse.
Kennedy grabbed the hearse driver. “Is someone dead?”
The driver looked grim. “No, but in a town this size, we don’t have enough ambulances for this crisis.”
“Sure.” Made sense. Kennedy ran to his car, a late-model sedan he’d rented in Seattle, put his hand on the door—and stopped.
He remembered all too well the explosion that had destroyed Summer’s rental SUV and ripped a hole in the Idaho forest. He took his hand away from the door, stepped back, and circled the car. Everything
looked
normal. The doors were locked. No scratches on the handles. He clicked on the mini-flashlight connected to his key ring and looked under the car. There it was—a puddle of fluid. Brake fluid, transmission fluid, oil, radiator fluid, gasoline. Hell, he didn’t know anything about cars except that fluids under the vehicle could not be good.
The game.
Empire of Fire.
Most likely, James didn’t want to play the final round. Not yet. He wanted to thwart Kennedy, to remind him that in college James had been the only person who had matched him in strategy, intelligence, and skill.
Fuck you, asshole
was not a mature response. Kennedy said it out loud anyway.
He returned to the resort and spoke to Harold.
Harold nodded absently, his attention on his conversation with the sheriff, and handed over car keys to his own vehicle.
Kennedy went out to the employees parking lot, climbed into Harold’s silver Prius, and hit the road at a sensible speed … like he had a choice. This car was born sensible.
He knew that if he had taken his rental, he would have made it halfway back to the house and the car would have died. No one would have been available to come and get him, not with the situation at the resort, and by the time he had walked the dark road to the Hartmans’, his rescue of Summer would be seriously delayed. And he knew, by the rules of the game, he had until tomorrow night to find her or he would lose the prize, the game, and … his life.
