KILLING SPREE
“There’s been another death,” Paterno said.
Cissy inhaled sharply. “Who?” she whispered.
“Rory Amhurst was killed earlier tonight.”
Cissy blinked. “Rory…? Killed?”
“Murdered.”
She felt cold inside. Numb. “No—” She couldn’t believe it. First Gran, now Rory?
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
“What?”
“You probably shouldn’t be alone.”
The numbness was wearing off now, and her mind was starting to piece things together. “You think this has something to do with Marla’s escape,” she guessed and read a silent acknowledgment in Paterno’s eyes. “You think she’s behind his death? That’s what you’re saying.”
“We don’t really know what happened. Yet.”
“Just like you think she killed Gran?”
“It’s possible.”
“You’re insinuating that she broke out of prison and now is on some kind of killing spree, annihilating members of her, of my family?”
“We don’t know what her involvement is at this point. Marla Amhurst Cahill is the link between Eugenia Cahill and Rory Amhurst. She’s related to both of them. As are you.”
Cissy felt a chill deep in her soul.
“As is your son,” Paterno added, and she felt colder still. Fear and despair clawed at her. Her baby. Oh God, surely no one would ever want to hurt her baby….
Books by Lisa Jackson
See How She Dies
Final Scream
Wishes
Whispers
Twice Kissed
Unspoken
If She Only Knew
Hot Blooded
Cold Blooded
The Night Before
The Morning After
Deep Freeze
Fatal Burn
Shiver
Most Likely to Die
Absolute Fear
Almost Dead
Published by Zebra Books
LISA JACKSON
ALMOST DEAD
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.zebrabooks.com
To sister Nan—You were right.
One bite at a time….
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
I can’t thank everyone enough who helped with this book. I have to start with my sister, Nancy Bush, whose encouragement kept me going, and then my editor, John Scognamiglio, who first came up with the idea of “Cissy’s Story” as a sequel to If She Only Knew. He was the one who came up with many of the ideas which, I think, make this book unique. Thanks, Nan and John.
Of course, there are a raft of other people who contributed. My agent, Robin Rue, is at the top of the list as she is forever encouraging as well as fun as all get out, and also the staff at Kensington for their patience, creativity and support.
On the home front, I have my ace helpers, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, and Niki Wilkins, as well as Marilyn Katcher and Kathy Okano, Roz Noonan, and Alexis Harrington, who all played a part in getting this book on the shelves (or in keeping me sane!).
Prologue
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, California
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
They think I’m going to die.
I hear it in their whispered words.
They think I can’t hear them, but I can, and I’m listening to every single syllable they utter.
“No!” I want to scream. “I’m alive. I’m not giving up. I will fight back.”
But I can’t speak.
Can’t utter one damned word.
My voice is stilled, just as my eyes won’t open. Try as I might, I can’t lift the lids.
All I know is that I’m lying in a hospital bed, and I know that I’m barely alive. I hear the whispers, the comments, the soft-soled shoes on the floor. Everyone thinks I’m in a coma, unable to hear them, to respond, but I know what’s going on. I just can’t move, can’t communicate. Somehow, I have to let them know. My condition is bad, they claim. I understand the terms ruptured spleen, broken pelvis, concussion, brain trauma, but, damn it, I can hear them! I feel the stretch of skin at the back of my hand where the IV pulls; smell the scents of perfume, medicine, and resignation. The stethoscope is ice cold, the blood pressure cuff too tight, and I try like hell to show some sign that I’m aware, that I can feel. I try to move, just lift a finger or let out a long moan, but I can’t.
It scares me to death.
I’m hooked up to machines that monitor my heartbeat and breathing and God only knows what else. Not that it does any good. All the high-tech machines that are tracking body functions aren’t providing the hospital staff with any hope or clue that I know what’s going on.
I’m trapped in my body, and it’s a living hell.
Once again I strain…concentrating to raise the index finger of my right hand, to point at whoever next enters the room. Up, I think, raise the tip up off the bedsheets. The effort is painful…so hard.
Isn’t anyone watching the damned monitor? I must be registering an elevated pulse, an accelerated heart rate, some damn thing!
But no.
All that effort. Wasted.
Worse yet, I’ve heard the gossip; some of the nurses think I would be better off dead…but they don’t know the truth.
I hear footsteps. Heavier than the usual. And the vague scent of lingering cigar smoke. The doctor! He’s been in before.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” he says to whomever it is who’s accompanied him, probably the nurse with the cold hands and cheery, irritating voice.
“She’s still not responsive.” Sure enough, the chipper one. “I haven’t seen any positive change in her vitals. In fact…well, see for yourself.”
What does she mean? And why does her voice sound so resigned? Where’s the fake, peppy inspiration in her tone?
“Hmmm,” the doctor says in his baritone voice. Then his hands are on me. Gently touching and poking, lifting my eyelid and shining a harsh beam directly into my lens. It’s blinding, and surely my body will show some response. A blink or flinch or…
“Looks like you’re right,” he says, turning off the light and backing away from the bed. “She’s declining rapidly.”
No! That’s wrong! I’m here. I’m alive. I’m going to get better!
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and should be hyperventilating, should be going into cardiac arrest at the very words. Can’t you see that I’m stressing? Don’t the damned monitors show that I’m alive and aware and that I want to live? Oh God, how I want to live!
“The family’s been asking,” the nurse prods. “About how long she has.”
My family? They’ve already put me in the grave? That can’t be right! I don’t believe it. I’m still alive, for God’s sake. How did I come to this? But I know. All too vividly I can remember every moment of my life and the events leading up to this very second.
“Doctor?” the nurse whispers.
&n
bsp; “Tell them twenty-four hours,” he says solemnly. “Maybe less.”
Chapter 1
Four Weeks Earlier
Click!
The soft noise was enough to wake Eugenia Cahill. From her favorite chair in the sitting room on the second floor of her manor, she blinked her eyes open. Surprised that she’d dozed off, she called out for her granddaughter. “Cissy?” Adjusting her glasses, she glanced at the antique clock mounted over the mantle as gas flames quietly hissed against the blackened ceramic logs. “Cissy, is that you?”
Of course it was. Cissy had called earlier and told her that she’d be by for her usual weekly visit. She was to bring the baby with her…but the call had been hours ago. Cissy had promised to be by at seven, and now…well, the grandfather clock in the foyer was just pealing off the hour of eight in soft, assuring tones. “Coco,” Eugenia said, eyeing the basket where her little white scruff of a dog was snoozing, not so much as lifting her head. The poor thing was getting old too, already losing teeth and suffering from arthritis. “Old age is a bitch,” Eugenia said and smiled at her own little joke.
Why hadn’t Cissy climbed the stairs to this, the living area, where Eugenia spent most of her days? “I’m up here,” she said loudly, and when there was no response, she felt the first tiny niggle of fear, which she quickly dismissed. An old woman’s worries, nothing more. Yet she heard no footsteps rushing up the stairs, no rumble of the old elevator as it ground its way upward from the garage. Pushing herself from her Queen Anne recliner, she grabbed her cane and felt a little dizzy. That was unlike her. Then she walked stiffly to the window, where, through the watery glass, she could view the street and the city below. Even with a bank of fog slowly drifting across the city, the vista was breathtaking from most of the windows of this old home—a house that had been built on the highest slopes of Mt. Sutro in San Francisco at the turn of the century, well, the turn of the last century. The old brick, mortar, and shake Craftsman-style manor rose four full stories above a garage tucked into the hillside and backed up to the grounds of the medical school. From this room on the second story, Eugenia was able to see the bay on a clear day and had spent more than her share of hours watching sailboats cut across the green-gray waters.
But sometimes this old house in Parnassus Heights seemed so empty. An ancient fortress with its electronic gates and overgrown gardens of rhododendrons and ferns. The estate backed up to the vast grounds of the university’s medical center yet still sometimes felt isolated from the rest of the world.
Oh, it wasn’t as if she were truly alone. She had servants, of course, but the family had, it seemed, abandoned her.
For God’s sake, Eugenia, buck up. You are not some sorry old woman. You choose to live here, as a Cahill, as you always have.
Had she imagined the click of a lock downstairs? Dreamed it, perhaps? These days, though she was loath to admit it, her dreams often permeated her waking consciousness, and she had a deep, unmentioned fear that she might be in the early stages of dementia. Dear Lord, she hoped not! There had been no trace of Alzheimer’s disease in all of her lineage; her own mother had died at ninety-six, still “sharp as a tack” before falling victim to a massive stroke. But tonight she did feel a little foggier than usual. Unclear.
Eugenia’s gaze wandered to the street outside the electronic gates, to the area where the unmarked police car had spent the better part of twenty-four hours. Now the Chevy was missing from its parking spot just out of range of the streetlight’s bluish glow.
How odd.
Why leave so soon after practically accusing her of helping her daughter-in-law escape from prison? And after all the fuss! Those rude detectives showing up at her doorstep and insisting that she was harboring a criminal or some such rot. Humph. They’d camped out, watching the house, and, she suspected, discreetly followed her as Lars drove her to her hairdresser, bridge game, and the Cahill House, where she offered her time helping administer to unmarried pregnant teens and twenty-somethings who needed sanctuary.
Of course the police had discovered nothing.
Because she was totally innocent. Still, she’d been irritated.
Staring into the night, Eugenia was suddenly cold. She saw her own reflection, a ghostly image of a tiny woman backlit by the soft illumination of antique lamps, and she was surprised how old she looked. Her eyes appeared owlish, magnified behind her glasses, the ones that had aided her since the cataract surgery a few years back. Her once vital red hair was now a neatly coiffed style closer to apricot than strawberry blond. She seemed to have shrunk two inches and now appeared barely five feet tall, if that. Her face, though remarkably unlined, had begun to sag, and she hated it. Hated this growing old. Hated being dismissed as past her prime. She’d considered having her eyes “done” or her face “tightened,” had even thought about Botox, but really, why?
Vanity?
After all she’d been through, it seemed trivial.
And so she was over eighty. Big deal. She knew she was no longer young, her arthritic knees could attest to that, but she wasn’t yet ready for any kind of assisted living or retirement community. Not yet.
Creeeeaaaak!
The sound of a door opening?
Her heartbeat quickened.
This last noise was not a figment of her imagination. “Cissy?” she called again and glanced over at Coco, who barely lifted her groggy little head at the noise, offering up no warning bark. “Dear, is that you?”
Who else?
Sunday and Monday nights she was usually alone: her “companion,” Deborah, generally leaving the city to stay with her sister; the day maid gone by five; and Elsa, the cook, having two days off. Lars finished every night by six, unless she requested his services, and she usually didn’t mind being alone, enjoyed the peace and quiet. But tonight…
Using her cane, she trundled into the hallway that separated the living quarters from her bedroom. “Cissy?” she called down the stairs. She felt like a ninny. Was she getting paranoid in her advancing years?
But a cold finger of doubt slid down her spine, convincing her otherwise, and though the furnace was humming, she felt a chill icy as the deep waters of the bay settle into her bones. She reached the railing, held onto the smooth rosewood banister and peered down to the first floor. In the dimmed evening lights she saw the polished tile floor of the foyer, the Louis XVI inlaid table and the ficus trees and jade plants positioned near the beveled glass by the front door.
Just as they always were.
But no Cissy.
Odd, Eugenia thought again, rubbing her arms. Odder yet that her dog was so passive. Coco, though old and arthritic, still had excellent hearing and was usually energetic enough to growl and bark her adorable head off at the least little sound. But tonight she just lay listlessly in her bed near Eugenia’s knitting bag, her eyes open but dull. Almost as if she’d been drugged….
Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was getting away with herself, letting her fertile imagination run wild. She gave herself a swift mental kick. That’s what she got for indulging in an Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon for the past five nights.
So where the hell was Cissy?
She reached into the pocket of her heavy sweater for her cell phone. Nothing there. The damned thing was missing, probably left on the table near her knitting needles.
Turning back toward the sitting room, she heard the gentle scrape of a footstep, leather upon wood.
Close by.
The scent of a perfume she’d nearly forgotten wafted to her nostrils and made the hairs on the back of her neck lift.
Her heart nearly stopped as she looked over her shoulder. There was movement in the shadows of the unlit hallway near her bedroom. “Cissy?” she said again, but her voice was the barest of whispers, and fear caused her pulse to pound. “Is that you, dear? This isn’t funny—”
Her words died in her throat.
A woman, half-hidden in the shadows, emerged triumphantly.
Eugenia froze.
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Suspended in time.
“You!” she cried. Panic crept up her spine, and the woman before her smiled, a grin as cold and evil as Satan’s heart.
Eugenia tried to run, to flee, but before she could take a step, the younger woman pounced, strong hands clutching and squeezing, athletic arms pulling her off her feet.
“No!” Eugenia cried. “No!” She lifted her cane, but the damned walking stick fell from her hands and clattered uselessly down the stairs. Now, finally, Coco began to bark wildly.
“Don’t do this!” Eugenia cried.
But it was too late.
In a heartbeat, she was hoisted over the railing, pushed into the open space where the crystal chandelier hung. Screaming, flailing pathetically, hearing her dog snarling, Eugenia hurtled downward.
The Louis XVI table and tile floor of the foyer rushed up at her.
Sheer terror caused her heart to seize as she hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud. Crack! Pain exploded in her head. For half a second she stared upward at her assailant. The woman stood victorious on the landing, holding Coco, stroking the dog’s furry coat.
“Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” the woman gloated.
Then there was only darkness….
“Shhh! Beej, you’re okay, got it? You are okay!” Cissy Cahill leaned over the railing of the playpen and hoisted her eighteen-month-old son onto her hip. His face was red from crying; tears streaked down his chubby cheeks, and his nose was running something fierce. “Oh, baby, look at you.” Cissy’s heart instantly melted, and she kissed the top of his blond head while reaching for a tissue and dabbing at his nose. “It’s gonna be all right. I promise,” she said as she found his little jacket and the hat he hated with a passion. She somehow managed to dress him, grab the diaper bag, and head out the door of the old Victorian home she’d lived in for nearly two years. He’d been cranky all afternoon, probably teething, and when the pizza-delivery kid had showed up, for some reason Beej had ratcheted into full tantrum mode. She had no real idea why he was upset. Teething? Too cold because the friggin’ furnace had gone out? Too hot because his mother had piled on extra clothes? Whatever the reason, Cissy was convinced it wasn’t serious, and the baby would just have to deal with it. She was running late, and her grandmother would be angry.