"No, she shot Evans."
Full-blown "Huh?" on his face now, and I realized that whatever he'd seen from his post, it wasn't enough to understand what had happened. That's why he'd been bewildered when I said I'd shot the housekeeper. He didn't know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.
Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn't seem to be running. Just heading this way.
Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.
He started shoving me toward the sofa. "Get behind it. I'll handle this."
"Don't hurt--"
I barely got the words out before his frown killed the rest in my throat. Whatever he meant by "handling it," his plan did not involve hurting Evans's innocent wife. I should have known that.
The footsteps continued. He pushed me toward the sofa. I grabbed his wrist and hauled him along behind me.
"I can't--" he began.
Now I tightened my grip, not looking back, just pulling him with me until we were at the sofa. It rested a few feet from the wall. I nudged him in first.
"I won't--" he whispered.
I gave him a shove.
What he'd been trying to say was that he wouldn't fit. Which wasn't exactly true. He could crouch, very awkwardly, behind it, with me beside him. It was the "very awkward part" that bothered him, judging by his glower as I wedged in. Or the indignity of hiding from an elderly woman.
As we squeezed behind the couch, I thought I smelled cat pee and I froze. I don't know why. My heart hammered, and I swore I could smell that acrid urine stink, but then it vanished and I shook off the feeling and pushed in deeper.
Now we waited ... for Mrs. Evans to walk into the study and see her dead husband and dying housekeeper. I thought of that. The horror of it.
I could spare her. Jump up and say she didn't want to go in there. Pull her out. Force her back.
But I only held my breath and listened to her footsteps as they approached.
"Once she sees the bodies, we'll leave."
I jumped as Gabriel whispered the words at my ear. He squeezed my shoulder, and I'm sure it was more a restraining gesture than a reassuring one, but it felt good, the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and I realized my heart was pounding.
I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath.
"We'll back out," he whispered. "Move fast. Get outside. Call 911."
I thought of telling him to shush. It really wasn't the time to be talking. But maybe I wasn't the only one a little freaked out.
"It's best if we call," he said. "The wife knows you were here."
I nodded.
"It'll be all right," he whispered. "I'll look after it."
I twisted, saw the concern on his face, and knew that's what he was worried about--that I was going to have to admit I'd shot the housekeeper. He couldn't shield me from that. In that brief moment, mid-crisis, the wall came down, blue eyes clouded, allowing himself, for a moment, to be worried.
"I'll be okay," I said.
The wall swung back up. "Yes, of course you will. Now, shhh."
Right. Because I was the one talking.
Mrs. Evans had to be close to the study door. It seemed to take forever, her steps excruciatingly slow.
I heard her shoes squeak as she must have turned in. Yet there was no scream. Not even a gasp. Her steps just continued, as if she'd seen the blood and the bodies and kept going.
She's in shock.
Gabriel put a hand on my shoulder. "Follow me," he whispered.
He stood, stooped, ready to duck again as his gaze scanned the room. Then he nodded and exited the other side of the sofa. I followed.
From where we stood, we couldn't see into the study. To get out of the house, though, we had to pass that open door. Gabriel made it two steps before Mrs. Evans said, "I'm here."
Gabriel stopped. His gaze swung back, measuring the distance to the sofa.
"Yes," Mrs. Evans said. "I'm in the study."
She was on the phone. Calling 911, it seemed, her voice dead with shock. I motioned for Gabriel to keep going.
"No, the girl isn't here," Mrs. Evans said. "Just William. He's dead. And Maria. I think she's dead, too." A pause. "There's a lot of blood. She isn't moving."
I stood there, staring toward the study, mentally looping her words. It sounded like a child speaking, the words simple, matter-of-fact. And her tone. There was no tone. Her voice was completely flat.
"No. I don't see a gun." Pause. "Yes. In the desk." Pause. "I will."
Gabriel nearly yanked me off my feet as he dragged me at a jog across the room. As we passed the study door, I glanced in to see Mrs. Evans pulling a gun from the desk drawer. She'd pushed her husband's chair back, his body still draped over it. Pushed it aside as if it was a piece of furniture.
I stutter-stepped as I saw that. I caught a glimpse of her face. Her blank, expressionless face. Just like Maria's.
That's her husband, the man she must have been married to for almost fifty years, shot dead, and she's shoving his body aside. What the hell is going on here?
She looked up. She saw me and she gave no reaction. None at all.
When I'd first seen Gabriel without his sunglasses, I'd thought his eyes looked empty. They weren't. Frosted over, yes. Walled off, yes. But not empty. Mrs. Evans's eyes were empty. Blank pools of nothing.
I flashed back to that morning. I heard Rose and Patrick, talking about mind control. That's what I was seeing. As impossible as it seemed, that was the only answer.
I remembered Maria's face when she walked into the study. The way she dropped the tray and fired like a seasoned assassin. A middle-aged woman told to play assassin. Triggered by a phone call. From Edgar Chandler.
I started to run. I didn't need Gabriel's help anymore, but he kept his iron-grip on my arm.
Mrs. Evan's shoes thumped on the hardwood. It was a slow thump. Methodical. Just following orders.
Orders to kill me. That's what Chandler had been telling her on the phone. The "girl" had escaped and now Mrs. Evans was to make sure I didn't get far.
I looked down at the gun still in my hand. I could kill her first. Easily, I was sure.
The thought barely flitted through my head. If this was mind control, then Mrs. Evans wasn't a killer; she was merely the puppet of one.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she'd been in on it all, even her son's death. If I'd known that for certain, I could have killed her. Protected myself and Gabriel. But I didn't know. So I kept going.
We made it out of the living room easily. Mrs. Evans was an old woman and her orders obviously hadn't been "run after the girl." Chandler knew the limits of his weapon.
We reached the front hall. The hair prickled on my neck and as I turned, the edge of a shadow crossed on the sidelight.
I yanked Gabriel back as the front door flew open. The young gardener stood there, spade in hand.
I saw the gardener's eyes--those empty eyes--and I heaved Gabriel off balance just as the spade swung at his knees. He twisted. The spade hit his calf instead. It struck with such force that he gasped, leg buckling.
The gardener pulled back for a second swing. I lifted my gun. I heard the shot. Saw the gardener crumple, and for a second I was certain I'd pulled the trigger ... until a second bullet grazed my shoulder and I stumbled back. Gabriel swung around, gun raised, in time to see Chandler's bodyguard--Anderson--dive to the side, out of sight.
Gabriel started for the door. I caught the back of his jacket as pain ripped through my arm. Gabriel stopped. We couldn't see Anderson, but we knew he was there, and any second now, his gun could swing around the doorway and fire.
Gabriel hustled me along the hall. At the first door, I reached for the handle. Gabriel struck me in the back and I stumbled as a gun fired. I turned to see Mrs. Evans. Gabriel was falling, twisting, his injured leg buckling, blood blossoming. He hit the floor. I fired. I react
ed too fast, no time to aim, probably for the best, the bullet hitting Mrs. Evans in the hip, just enough to send her to the floor.
I started to drop beside Gabriel, but he was already rising, pushing me toward that door. I yanked it open, took a step into darkness, and almost tumbled down a flight of stairs. The basement. I started to back out, but Gabriel was at my shoulder, prodding me, whispering, "Go!" between clenched teeth.
I went. He followed.
Chapter Sixty-five
I felt my way down the stairs, shoulder blazing. By the time I made it to the bottom, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I turned to see Gabriel still near the top, leaning on the rail, slowly descending, hand pressed to his thigh, grimacing with every move.
I started back for him, but he waved me off, emphatically gesturing for me to get into the next room. I stayed where I was but did look around, taking in our surroundings. A basement. Unfinished. Bare walls. Concrete floor.
Light filtered in through distant windows. I jogged to the nearest lit doorway and peered through. It was a laundry room with one window, near the ceiling. I checked the other two rooms--both storage, similar windows.
"Hide," Gabriel said as he hobbled over. "Before--"
I raced back to the stairs. He let out an oath and tried to grab me, but I'd already passed. I wiped blood drops off the steps. Then I hurried back to Gabriel and prodded him into the laundry room. I closed the door most of the way--all the way would seem a clear sign we were in there.
I tried to nudge Gabriel to sit on a pile of sheets, but he caught me instead to get a look at my shoulder. Blood had seeped through and it hurt like hell, but there wasn't a bullet hole, just a shredded line of blood-soaked fabric.
"It's a graze," I whispered. "I'm fine."
I tried to move away, but he caught me again, by the chin this time, lifting my face up to his and studying me. I knocked his hand aside.
"I'm not going into shock, Gabriel."
I looked at him, his hand on the washing machine, his weight all on his right leg. His left one was bleeding at the thigh, where there was a bullet hole, and at the calf, where the spade had sliced clean through his trousers.
"You need--" I began.
"Later. Now, the window. You have to--" He looked at the dryer. "Perfect."
"I know. I checked the options. Can you get up on that?"
"I'm not--"
"I'll help you if you can't, but you're going first. You're hurt worse than me."
"I'm not going--"
"Yes, you are. Now move before--"
"Olivia. Stop. I won't fit through that window."
I looked up at it, my heart pounding as I realized he was right. I would barely get through.
I took a deep breath. "Okay, plan B." I fumbled my cell phone from my pocket. "Call for help."
His hand shot out to stop me.
I moved back out of his reach. "I'm not going to be the idiot who lets you bleed out rather than phone 911. It'll be fine. You haven't done anything wrong."
I put a little too much emphasis on "you" and he said, "Neither have you. It was self-defense. Now, get your ass outside. Then call 911."
I dialed my phone.
"Olivia..."
I backed up and placed the call, keeping my voice low, in case Chandler's bodyguard picked that moment to open the basement door.
When I hung up, Gabriel said, "Now you're going out that--"
"I'm not leaving you."
"Don't be stupid. I have a gun." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .45.
"Which will knock you on your ass if you try firing with a bad leg. Sit down before you fall."
"I'm--"
"Sit down."
I walked to the door and peered out. If I strained, I could hear footsteps above. Anderson would search the other rooms first. Then he'd come down here.
When I returned, Gabriel was still standing, leaning against the washing machine. Stubborn bastard.
"So you're staying with me?" he said.
"Yep."
"You may not want to do that."
"Too bad."
"I wouldn't stay for you."
"Probably not."
His mouth opened, as if he'd been prepared for me to disagree. He paused and then said, "I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't."
"Doesn't matter. You're my partner. I watch your back."
He paused. Then he cleared his throat. "What if I've done something that I'm quite certain would make you change your mind about that?"
"About what?"
"Whether we are, indeed, partners. Whether you should stay to watch my back."
I checked out the door again. "If you mean about your mother, I already know."
Silence. I was still peering out the door, listening. After a moment, I backed in and closed it a little more.
"Evans told me," I said, not turning. "He called me here for that. He'd done a background check when you first tried to interview him. An extensive one."
More silence. When I turned, his face was taut, blank.
"You said something about my mother," he said finally. "He told you that she left, I presume?"
"And the rest."
"The rest?"
I backed into the room, flexed my arm, shoulder still aching.
"Evans told me that the police found her body; they just never made the connection. Evans tried to say you gave her the overdose. I think you just moved her, so you wouldn't get sent to children's services. Maybe I'm wrong. Frankly, I don't care. Whatever you did, I'm not leaving you behind."
"Found her body...?"
His tone made me look over, and when I saw his expression, I knew without a doubt that he had not moved Seanna Walsh's body. That he had not killed her. That he'd had no idea his mother was dead.
Shit.
His gaze lifted to mine. "What exactly did Evans say?"
"Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn't have opened my mouth. He was just trying to throw me off the trail."
"What did he say?"
"Never--"
"Olivia."
I met his eyes and saw not anger, but shock. Dread.
"He said they found her body a couple of months after she disappeared. He had photos. Maybe they were doctored. I just ... I thought that's what you meant. I'm sorry. But I'm not leaving, okay? We need to wait here until the cops arrive."
He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. "No. We can't do that."
"Yes, it's not the most heroic conclusion but--"
"If we lose Chandler, we lose our explanation for all this. If the police show up, he'll bolt." He moved his leg and grimaced. "Damn it."
A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was in extreme pain. Enough to distract him from any plan except getting me out of here. And having me tell him his mother was dead really hadn't helped.
"Would you sit down?" I said. "Please."
He hesitated, then lowered himself to the sheets. "We need Chandler. He's out there."
"Out where?"
A wave, curt, almost annoyed. "Out there. Watching."
I shook my head. "He phoned in his instructions to Maria. I saw the call display. He's sitting at home, orchestrating all this."
"It was a cell phone. He's here. Keeping his distance but keeping control."
"How do you know that?"
Another flash of annoyance. Or maybe just pain. "Because I know what kind of man he is. He's here, and I would like you to get the hell out that window, so I can go find him."
I cast a pointed look at his leg. "Really?"
He grabbed a sheet and tore off a strip to bind it. "I'll be fine."
"Okay, so if I won't leave, I'm being stupid. If you insist on taking down Chandler when you can barely stand, you're being brave?"
"Olivia..."
"How about we call him. See what's what." I lifted my phone.
"I have his home number, not his cell."
"I saw it on the call display."
"And you
remember it?"
"Of course. I'm playing detective. The area code was 817. Is that his home number?"
He checked. "No."
I started to dial.
"No," he said, rising. "Let me--"
I shook my head. "I'm the client, remember?"
"I thought you were my partner."
"It varies depending on which best suits my needs."
"As either your lawyer or your partner, I believe I should be privy to your plan."
I told him. He adjusted it. I would have argued on one point, but there wasn't time.
When I called, Chandler's cell rang a few times--I didn't expect him to answer an unknown number. Then it went to voice mail.
"Hello, Dr. Chandler," I said. "This is..." I paused. Considered. "Eden Larsen. We need to talk."
Guinea Pig
Chandler listened to the message. Then he smiled. He could hear the desperation in the girl's voice, in the way she'd hesitated, barely able to get the words out. She'd kept her tone clear, trying to be brave, but she was trapped and she knew it. She wanted to negotiate. How quaint.
He summoned Anderson first. Then he phoned the girl back. She answered on the first ring.
"Miss Larsen," he said. "Is that the name you use now?"
"It is."
He gave a soft chuckle. "All right. Let's talk. By that, I presume you mean negotiate."
"I might."
He strained to pick up noise that might suggest where she was hiding. "Admirable, but under the circumstances I don't think you have anything to negotiate with."
"Then you wouldn't have returned my call. Technology is amazing, isn't it? We don't have to play cat and mouse, blindly groping around unable to communicate. Likewise, I don't need to play that old ruse where I say I have details of your crimes locked in a safe, to be opened in the event of my death. I can just tell you that I have it right here, in an e-mail, complete with photos of what happened in this house."
He tried not to pause. He wasn't concerned, of course. He'd cleaned up worse messes than this. Still, it annoyed him that he hadn't considered this possibility. He'd been out of the game too long.
He glanced at Anderson, coming out into the yard now. That reminded him what he was supposed to be doing--not chatting with the girl, but using background noise to pinpoint her location. Just keep her talking. She seemed willing enough.
"And Mr. Walsh himself?" Chandler asked.
"Dead, I think. Or dying. Your bodyguard shot him in the thigh. He seemed all right, but after running through the house, I think that bullet nicked the femoral artery. There's a lot of blood. He might still be alive. I can't tell. But if he is, I'd suggest you fix that when you get a chance. Otherwise, you'll need to bargain with both of us, and he's a much tougher negotiator."