Sawyer, Meryl (53 page)

But what? It looked lovely in the darkness: solid wood with a
small hexagonal window of beveled glass. Still, something about the door
disturbed her.

Another insistent knock. She stepped into the living room and a
vision hit her with startling clarity. This was the door she'd seen in the
nightmare she'd had when she'd come home with Mitch. Couldn't be. But it was.
She steadied herself by leaning against the cool plaster of the wall, recalling
with startling clarity that horrible dream.

Someone was trying to kill her.

Come on, Royce. You're overtired. Wally has come by, the way he
has every night. Blaming himself for her split with Mitch, Wally had spent more
time with her lately.

But hadn't Wally said he'd be attending a Press Club meeting
tonight? Or was it tomorrow night? Her mind had been so obsessed with Mitch,
she hadn't really listened.

With a sense of foreboding she approached the door and flicked on the
porch light. Nothing. She'd momentarily forgotten that the light had been
broken during the police raid. The memory of that blitz brought a groundswell
of anger, and she yanked open the door.

"Hello, Royce."

First she saw the gun aimed directly at her heart, then she saw
the knife—just like in her dream—the moonlight glinting off the silver blade.

Mitch looked at Gian Viscotti across the narrow table in the
detention room where lawyers spoke with their clients, but his mind was on
Royce. Since Paul had let him off a short time earlier, Mitch hadn't been able
to think of anything else but Royce. Not long ago he'd sat in this very
room—with Royce. Concentrate, he told himself. Hard work was the only way to
forget her.

"I don't understand why they're denying me bail," Gian
said, all vestiges of his Italian accent gone, replaced by a Texas twang.

"There's no automatic bail for treason or murder," he
said wearily. "Judges rarely set bail for anyone accused of murder. In
your case it looks as if they're going to charge you with Linda Allen's murder
too. That's two murder counts. You can forget bail entirely."

Gian ran his manicured fingers through his thick hair and Mitch
saw they were trembling. No wonder. Jail was a real shocker—even for a killer.
He almost felt sorry for the kid, then he remembered how brave Royce had been.
She hadn't fallen apart, but Mitch had enough experience to know he'd have a
basket case on his hands by the time Gian's trial rolled around.

"Since I got your cell changed," Mitch said, "are
things better?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Gian shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"I don't shower every day. Sorry if I'm—"

"Good idea," Mitch said, but he wondered if the kid had
any idea how tough things would be at a state prison. Being accosted in the
shower would be the least of his problems. "Let's discuss the evidence, so
I can start on your case."

"Evidence? Somebody planted that gun. I would never
kill—"

"Wait," Mitch cut him off. "Just give me the facts.
I don't want you tying my hands with some bullshit story."

By the time he'd listened to Gian's tale, a new twist on the
American gigolo, Mitch was exhausted. And he had the disturbing feeling that
Gian—slick hustler that he was—hadn't murdered Caroline. He climbed in his
Viper and headed toward his home, telling himself with Jenny there the house
wouldn't be so lonely. He wouldn't miss Royce.

"To hell with her," he cursed out loud. Why had she
insisted on investigating him? While he'd been busting his butt for her, she'd
been sneaking around behind his back. Okay, okay, she had written a brilliant
article that had saved his reputation. But it had been printed too late to do
his mother one damn bit of good.

The car in front of him was going so slow that he slammed his palm
down on the horn, his frustration with Royce getting the better of his temper.
The telephone rang just as he floored the Viper and swerved around the poky
car.

"Durant here," he said, and heard the familiar click of
static. He'd been meaning to get the damn phone repaired, but hadn't had a
spare second.

"It's Howard Schultz, Mitch. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, but this phone may cut out any second. If it does, I'll
call you"—he paused for another volley of irritating static—"when I
get home."

"I just wanted to tell you that you're going to be appointed
to replace Judge Willner."

"Great." He tried to sound enthusiastic, but frankly, he
didn't give a damn about being a judge any longer. Nothing seemed to matter. It
was as if an alien being had taken over his body—most of it, anyway. Part of
him still regretted what had happened with Royce, but he'd be damned if he'd
let her become the focal point of his thoughts.

"It'll be—" Another burst of static, then nothing.

Mitch rattled the receiver. Silence. He dropped the phone back
into the cradle as he came to a stop at a traffic light. Finally, he'd achieved
his dream. He was going to be a judge.

Legal nirvana it wasn't, but he was sick of the parade of
criminals he'd defended over the years. He was ready for a new challenge. Hey,
he had no illusions. Same legal bullshit seen from the other side of the bench.

The phone rang again and Mitch picked it up, gunning his engine
and shooting into the intersection just before the light turned green.

"Val?" It was Royce's voice. The hair across his neck
bristled. He'd changed his home phone and left orders at the office not to
accept Royce's calls, but he hadn't changed the car phone, expecting to replace
it. What the hell was she up to? Don't tell me that she dialed this number by
mistake.

"Royce, stop bothering me. Dammit—"

"I just wanted to tell you that I won't be able to go with
you and David tonight to the late show. I'm really tired, but I'll call you
tomorrow."

She said something else, but another round of static butchered her
words. "Royce what the hell are you talking about? You know David
isn't—"

"When you see Mitch, tell him I loved him. I honestly loved
him. I—"

Suddenly the line went dead, but the dial tone was clear. What the
hell? The phone hadn't cut her off. She'd hung up without finishing her
sentence. Son of a bitch.

The whole conversation was weird. Why would she call and make up
such a half-assed story? Didn't make sense. So what else is new? Royce was
always a little offbeat. Once he'd found that charming.

He sat at the stoplight for so long he could have read
War and
Peace,
trying not to notice that with a left turn, he'd be at Royce's house
in minutes. Why would he go there? She wasn't in trouble. Naaah. Royce was just
trying to get his attention. Damn straight. That's all it was.

Kicking himself, he turned left, accelerating way past the speed
limit. He was in front of Royce's house in minutes. The house was dark except
for dim light leaking out from drawn blinds in the attic. He parked, telling
himself he was a class A sucker. No one answered the bell, then he remembered
it had been disconnected during the police search. He knocked but no one came.

He started to leave, but turned back to study the new door.

It was remarkably like the one Royce had described after her
nightmare. Why would she buy a door that was bound to trigger unpleasant
memories? Didn't make sense. The ominous feeling he'd had since her telephone
call intensified.

What if her call had been a plea for help?

Christ! Maybe he was imagining things. If he were dead honest with
himself, he'd admit he loved her. No matter how he tried to convince himself,
his feelings hadn't changed. And Paul's words kept nagging at him. Some part of
him— okay, his weak side—wanted an excuse to forgive her.

He raced around to the back and was surprised to find the door
unlocked. He quietly entered, some inner voice cautioning him not to call out
her name.

Flicking on the light, he saw the stacks of boxes, but nothing to
cause alarm. He tiptoed into the hall, where the telephone sat on a stand in
the alcove. A drop of something dark marred the ivory-colored receiver. He
touched it with his finger and brought it up to the light filtering in from the
kitchen.

Blood.

Royce's blood.

The truth hit him with the impact of a blow to the solar plexus.
His gut instinct hadn't been wrong. The killer wasn't in jail.

Gian had been framed, just like Royce. Mitch didn't have to ask
who. The answer didn't even startle him. He should have seen it all along.

Son of a bitch, he'd been an arrogant fool.

In a maelstrom of debilitating panic he realized just how much he
loved Royce. Hadn't the five years they'd been apart taught him anything? He'd
missed her so much, but not the way he did now that he really knew her. How
could he live with himself if something happened to Royce?

He grabbed the receiver, set to call the police, but the line was
dead. A muffled noise drifted down from upstairs. Mitch's hand froze in midair
as he identified the sound.

A man's laugh. Royce must still be alive. Thank you, God.

In an instant Mitch evaluated his options. If he went for help she
might not be alive when he returned. He couldn't risk it.

He crept up the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. As he neared
the second floor, the voice became louder, the tone almost conversational. A
husky masculine baritone and Royce's. softer voice. Attagirl. Keep him talking.

The last flight of stairs to the attic was narrower than the main
staircase. Mitch tiptoed up and halted at the top, hidden by the half-open
door. Through the crack between the hinges and the doorjamb Mitch peered into
the small room. Royce was lying on the daybed with her hands tied to the
bedposts and sitting beside her, his back to Mitch, was Brent Farenholt.

Sonofabitch! Why didn't he have a gun? He wouldn't even feel
guilty about shooting the bastard in the back. You're so stupid. You totally
underestimated Brent.

While Mitch mentally accused himself of being an arrogant
imbecile, he stuck one finger through the crack and wiggled it. His eye to the
opening, he saw Royce catch the movement and quickly look away.

Tears filled Royce's eyes. Thank heaven, Mitch had understood her
cryptic plea. She'd been surprised Brent had allowed her to make the phone
call. She'd gambled on Brent believing her hastily concocted story about going
out with Val and her brother. She'd dialed Mitch's car phone-—for once luck was
with her—and he'd answered, instantly suspicious when she'd pretended he was
Val.

Royce quickly found out why Brent hadn't wanted Val to come
looking for her. Sadistically, Brent wanted her to die slowly—like Caroline. To
suffer over a number of hours while he enjoyed the sight.

Already he'd cut her—minor cuts—but in time she'd bleed to death. Even
now she felt weak and her clothes were sticky with her own, still warm, blood.
She knew she didn't have that long to live unless her wounds were treated.

"Caroline never cried, you know," Brent said, mistaking
Royce's tears of relief at seeing Mitch for fear.

Royce was emboldened now. Having Mitch so close gave her hope,
although she knew he didn't have a weapon or he would have charged into the
room.

"She tried to trick me by playing dead, but it didn't
work." Brent chuckled, the disarming laugh she knew so well. The laugh
that put everyone at ease. "She made a grab for the phone, but I stepped
on her arm and held her down until God himself couldn't save her."

Why hadn't she detected the evil side to this man? Royce reminded
herself that many psychopaths seemed amazingly sane. Even when he'd slit her
veins, he'd had the detached manner of a surgeon performing a delicate
operation. The only time he'd lost his temper and revealed his psychopathic
side was when she'd said she loved Mitch. Brent had jammed down on the phone,
cutting her off. In a second he'd slashed a small vein on her arm and she'd
begun to bleed.

Royce blinked back the tears, thinking she needed to be able to
see clearly if she were going to help Mitch. Brent had tied her, but
carelessly. One wrist was very loose.

With a Glock semi-automatic in his hand he was cocky about her
making hasty moves. She knew he didn't intend to shoot her, he'd keep using the
knife, slowly opening more veins until her lifeblood drained into the mattress
beneath her.

"A gun and a knife," Royce said, desperate to let Mitch
know what he was up against. "If you want me to bleed to death, why the
gun?"

Holding the flat blade of the knife under her chin Brent said,
"I might change my mind and shoot you. You really pissed me off, you know.
I liked you. I was searching for someone to frame, but you were so cute, I
almost let you go-"

"What changed your mind?"

"A kiss in the dark."

Royce remembered the kiss with startling clarity.
A kiss in the
dark.
Brent had been outside the door when she'd kissed Mitch with such
passion. That night her life had changed forever, but she didn't know it until
now.