A Perfect Life (30 page)

CHAPTER 47

The afternoon sun threw long shadows across the yard outside Charles Hunter's living room windows. Scott looked out and tried to run the events of the past few weeks through his head. He nodded almost imperceptibly at Natalie. “Give me a minute to think.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. He visualized a notepad in his head and began to make notes.

Timing

He could see the word floating there in black and white, the lettering in his own scratchy handwriting. The list grew.

Timing
Desire
Kate—Reynolds
Kate—Click
Kate—Charles Hunter

No, that was out of order. He mentally erased the page. Someone said his name, but he stayed inside his mind. The list was right, just out of order. He started over.

Kate—Click
Kate—Charles Hunter
Timing
Desire
Kate—Reynolds
and . . .
Kate—Scott Thomas

Scott heard his name again and opened his eyes. Natalie had a small smile on her face. Hunter was leaning forward in his chair. “What the hell's the matter with you? You need a nap or something?”

The most obvious answer is usually the right one.

Had Hunter provided the guiding hand, the motive, and the timing? Was that forty-something, whisky-soaked man really able to manipulate and corrupt so many people?

Scott cleared his throat. “Who was the first one who got seduced?”

Hunter had a small smile on his face now. “Depends on what you mean by seduced.”

“Right.” Scott tried hard to sound sure of what he was saying. “I understand that you seduced Kate with your life, with dreams of what her life could be. I just don't know whether you were sleeping with her at the same time she was sleeping with your wife.”

Now the architect grew agitated. “Patricia would fuck anything that moved. Man, woman, or—”

“Or her own teenage stepson? Is that what you were going to say?”

Hunter looked out the window at the Atlantic Ocean.

Natalie interrupted. “How do you know that?”

“Kate told me,” Scott said. “She said it was a rumor. Maybe she was trying to manipulate me into saying something derogatory about Patricia to Dr. Reynolds. I don't know. And I don't really know whether Kate and Patricia were getting it on in the hospital. But Patricia didn't strike me as the kind of woman who enjoyed the company of prettier women half her age. There was . . . something between them.

“So.” He turned back to Hunter. “You had Kate. And she had Patricia, in a matter of speaking. Now you needed a scapegoat, a . . .”

Hunter said, “A fool. Is that the word you're searching for?”

And there it was. Scott kept pressing. “Nope. Just someone with no support system. Someone who—if you made the evidence condemning enough and disgusting enough—there'd be no one to stand by him. Someone with a criminal history would've been perfect. Maybe a registered sex offender, someone like that. But the hospital did too good a job of screening personnel. So you ended up with me—after you sent somebody to Birmingham to check out my background.”

Charles Hunter stood. “Either of you want a drink?”

Scott was still thinking things out and didn't answer. Natalie suggested that Hunter make a rearward insertion of his drink. The architect chuckled and poured another for himself. “Well”—he looked over at Scott—“is that it?”

“No. Reynolds comes in there somewhere. The poor bastard thought Kate was going to leave you and come back to him.” Scott stood and began to pace.

“Come back over here beside me.” Natalie held out her hand toward Scott, and he walked over and sat beside her. She squeezed his hand. “I've got a question.” She took a breath. “What the hell are we waiting on?” Her eyes flickered toward Hunter. “Is he really going to call the cops, or is he going to kill us?”

“No, Natalie. No way. Too many people know we're on the island. Too many people saw us come in here under guard.” Scott tried to sound more certain than he was. “If we die now, acclaimed architect Charles Hunter gets indicted for murder.”

She was starting to look angry again. “Then what the hell are we doing?”

Scott turned to Hunter. “Waiting for my brother to kill Kate and Click.”

Hunter went pale, but kept quiet. He set his fresh drink on an end table, sloshing expensive whisky as glass collided with wood. The architect stood and walked to the window.

He still hadn't admitted anything.

Scott studied the older man's face. Charles Hunter may have been an asshole, but he was a brilliant asshole. If Scott was right, the man had managed to identify and recruit a beautiful sociopath to plan and organize the murder of his despised wife. He had set up a nearly flawless frame of Scott for the murder. And when that had started to fall apart, he'd managed to work out “a deal” with poor Bobby to clean up his mess.

The architect turned to face them. “Do you know where this murder is supposedly taking place? Tell me. I'll go there myself.”

And there it was.

No security guards would storm the Beckers' beach house. No cops would save the day. Charles Hunter would go himself, and, by the time the sun set on the perfection of Spinnaker Island, he would have discovered the double murder of Kate and Click.

Scott stood. “I can show you.”

Natalie's voice cracked. “No!” The look in her eyes showed that she understood more than she was letting on. At the very least, she'd figured out that accompanying Hunter to a scene of violence was a deadly idea.

Charles looked from Natalie to Scott. “I'm not going for a ride with the man who killed my wife.”

Scott sat back down on the sofa. “Up to you” was all he said.

The tensions felt by each person in the room seemed to feed off each other until there was a palpable charge in the air. Scott waited as Charles paced. Finally, when the architect couldn't work out a decent alternative, he said, “Okay. Let's go.”

“Natalie goes back to town.”

The older man paused. “In the company of my guards.”

Scott just wanted her around witnesses. “Not in some back room. Out in public. Take her to the restaurant.”

Hunter looked at Natalie. “Will you behave?”

She cut her eyes at Scott. He nodded, and she answered, “I'll behave. Just bring this one”—pointing to Scott's chest—“back to me.”

Hunter hobbled to the door, yanked it open, and called in the guards.

When everyone was loaded into the island Jeeps, Scott told Hunter to follow the guards.

“Is the place near town?”

“Just follow them until I tell you different.” He didn't think Hunter would hurt them, but he wasn't going anywhere with Charles Hunter until Natalie was around other people.

Hunter understood what Scott was doing. He slowed to a crawl and then stopped a hundred yards outside the town square. “You can see from here.” In the distance, the guards pulled up to the restaurant and gently guided Natalie inside. Hunter leaned toward Scott. “Okay?”

“Fine.” Scott wondered how long the architect would keep up his ruse. Clearly, Hunter had put Click into the Becker house. He knew where Bobby was even better than Scott. “It must get complicated.”

Hunter watched people move around his town. “What's that?”

“Remembering what you're supposed to know. Pretending not to know the thing that could be incriminating.”

Hunter looked to the right, past Scott's face. “I don't know what you're talking about.” His eyes changed. “What the hell is that?”

Scott's eyes only flicked right for a heartbeat, but that was long enough. Of course there was nothing—nothing but a tire iron across his cheekbone as he turned back toward Hunter. The world rocked from side to side. Hunter's form blurred. Only the iron stayed in perfect focus. Moving in slow motion, as if in a dream, the iron bar reached its pinnacle near the top of the windshield and bounced a little before beginning another downward arc toward his skull. Scott thought of yelling. He almost raised a hand to fight back, but he was hurt. He spun right, pushing hard with his legs.

A jolt of fire shot through his shoulder. Before he could even scream, the ground hit him full in the chest.

The only thought Scott had was “He's going to run over me.” Scott rolled hard away from the Jeep. The tires spun, and Charles Hunter was gone.

Struggling to his hands and knees, Scott raised his head to see Hunter speeding away toward the northern end of the island. The young shrink sat back on his haunches and touched his face. The skin felt thick and numb. When he pulled his hand away, the fingers were coated with blood. Scott tried to stand. His legs wobbled but held. The shoulder throbbed but seemed to work.

Scott looked toward town. If he ran into town in that condition, he'd be arrested by Hunter's security force. He looked at the guards' parked vehicle down at the restaurant then turned to watch the receding Jeep of Charles Hunter.

He made the only decision available to him. Scott turned his back on the town and started to run.

CHAPTER 48

Charles Hunter's mind spun as fast as the wheels on his Jeep. He ran over future scenarios in his head, then rolled memory clips of every conversation he'd ever had with Kate, Click, and, now, Bobby Thomas. He was certain he'd never promised Kate anything, never asked her to harm anyone. He'd said even less to Click and Bobby. That wasn't how he worked. Charles Hunter had always been able to get people to do what he wanted—
whatever
he wanted—without asking.

Some people can play the piano. Some carry a football with grace and power and beauty and don't understand how or why they can do it. Charles Hunter's gift was more subtle. He had never asked anyone for anything. It just came when he wanted it.

The hill was just ahead now. Soon he would pull into the driveway of the Beckers' house and confront a horrible scene.

His wheels slid on the shell drive, and the door of the house swung open. Charles stepped out of the Jeep expecting to see Bobby's shining mask peeking out. But there was nothing. Just an open door.

Hunter had no intention of stepping inside that house, not without knowing exactly what had happened. He would sooner climb back into the Jeep and deal with whatever scenario unfurled down the road.

“Who's there?”

No answer came. Hunter already had one foot in the Jeep when two figures appeared in the doorway. Bobby's plastic features shone over Kate's shoulder. Her face was drawn tight, her eyes round with fear. A knife was at her throat.

“Help me, Charles.”

“Where's Click?”

Kate's voice was half an octave higher than usual. “He's dead.”

“Who killed him?”

She didn't answer. Bobby said, “Come inside.”

Hunter examined Bobby's face, then his eyes slid down and lingered on the tight ligaments along the back of Bobby's right hand—the one holding the knife. “Don't kill her. I don't know what she's done to Scott, but you don't want to commit murder to save him.”

Bobby's blank eyes flickered over Hunter's face, and something that might have been a smile twisted the scarred slit that was his lips. His knife hand flicked hard across Kate's throat, and he spun her body onto the floor.

“I'm leaving.”

Charles held his hands out to his sides, palms open toward Bobby. “I won't try to stop you.”

Bobby turned to toss the knife inside the house, then he stepped out into the yard and continued to walk toward Hunter. “Yeah, I know you won't. I'm taking Scott's Cruiser.”

“I don't think you should do that. If you get caught . . .”

Bobby climbed into the old Land Cruiser and cranked the engine. He dropped the transmission into reverse, backed up, and stopped next to Hunter. “You better pray I don't get caught.”

“I—”

“Shut up.” His black irises bored into Hunter's eyes. “You think I got nothing to tell. Maybe. Maybe not. But I'll still come see you. Might take a year. Might take ten years. But I'll come. And you can't handle what I'd do.” Bobby paused. “Tell me you understand.”

Hunter's mouth was too dry to answer. He nodded.

“Good. Now go inside. You got what you wanted. Go inside and figure out how to handle it. If it was me, I'd go with the ‘Click cut Kate's throat after she shot him' story. But”—he gave his characteristic shrug—“that's up to you.”

Bobby let out on the clutch and backed the old four-by-four out onto the roadway. Seconds later, the only trace that Bobby Thomas had ever been there—other than the bodies inside—were two parallel clouds of white dust hovering over the road.

Scott's legs ached and wobbled. His lungs burned, and each labored footfall sent hot acid rushing through his smashed shoulder. He could see the hill now. The Becker place was just beyond it, just beyond the spot where his brother had stood in the storm and called out to him.

The roar of an engine sounded ahead of him. Panic seized something deep inside Scott, as though a giant fist had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart. All he could think was that Charles Hunter was coming back to finish him.

His eyes frantically searched for a hiding place and, failing that, a weapon.
Any
weapon. Anything he could use to take Hunter's head off.

Glancing once more in the direction of the approaching roar, he turned and sprinted twenty yards to a tangle of driftwood. There was a thick trunk, half buried in sand and covered with a sun-bleached tangle of limbs intertwined like finger-thick snakes. Scott grabbed the tree and pulled. The smaller branches broke and tore at the skin on his fingers. He jumped over the trunk and almost landed on a limb three feet long and three or four inches in diameter. Scott wrung the limb out of the sand and hunkered down as best he could behind the other driftwood.

He waited only a second or two before his own vehicle crested the hill like some dream of rescue. Bobby was at the wheel.

Scott jumped up and ran for the roadside, waving his driftwood weapon in the air. Bobby slammed on brakes, skidded to a stop ten yards away, and stepped out to face Scott. “You gonna hit me with that?”

Scott looked at the limb in his hand. “I thought you were Hunter.”

“He's back at the house.”

“Did you kill them?”

Bobby cocked his head to one side, like a dog hearing a loud whistle. “You could say that. I'm going into town. Need a ride?”

“You need to get off the island. I'll call the police when I know you're safe.” Scott began to walk toward the Land Cruiser. “If you ever need anything . . .”

Bobby nodded and interrupted his brother with that rusty hinge of a voice. “You remember the way it was?”

Scott stopped walking. “What?”

Bobby shrugged and climbed into the driver's seat.

Scott tossed away his makeshift weapon and got in beside him. His eyes stayed on the ground ahead. “I remember. I don't idolize it, though. The only good stuff . . . The good memories are about you and me.”

Bobby nodded. “Not them.”

“No,” Scott said. “Not them.”

Together, the two Thomas brothers drove to the town square. Natalie spotted them from the restaurant and called out. Scott jumped out and ran to meet her as the two beefy security guards looked on.

“Oh, God. I was so worried.” She stepped back to look at the bloody gash on his cheekbone. “What did that asshole do to you?”

“I'm fine. But everything else is pretty awful.” Scott smiled because she was there, and it hurt. “We need to help Bobby. I know—”

“Where is he?”

Scott turned toward the Land Cruiser. “He's . . .” His eyes scanned the square. “He was right here.”

Natalie put an arm around Scott's waist. “Bobby can take care of himself. We need to get your face looked at.”

“I've got to call the police, Natalie. We need to call as soon as possible.”

“Scott,” she said, “that's the smartest thing you've said since I met you.”

Charles Hunter ran scenarios through his head. It was time to bring in the mainland police. He reached into his pocket, flipped open his phone, and dialed 911. The emergency operator answered immediately.

“Hello? This is Charles Hunter out on Spinnaker Island. Oh, God, this is awful.” His voice had suddenly grown hoarse and high-pitched—conveying the timbre of horrified disbelief overlaid with adrenaline. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“What's happened, sir? Please give me your address and phone number.”

“I'm at the Becker house out on Gull Way. Oh, my God. I came by to check on the house. The owners are out of town. I came by to check on the house, and . . . oh, my God. There are two bodies in there. One of them is my nanny. Her throat is cut. And there's a man. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Stay away from the scene, sir. If you're alone, you should go to a safe location. Hold on, please.” Hunter took the opportunity to scan the horizon for surprises. There were none. He was pretty sure that Scott Thomas was out of commission for a while. He smiled at how easy it had been.
Why, Officer, as soon as my security guards left with Ms. Friedman, this Thomas man just attacked me. I was lucky there was a tire iron handy there in the Jeep. You know, he's a lot younger
. . . “Sir? Are you still there?”

“I'm here.”

“Sir. Please go to a safe location and wait. We'll have someone out there within twenty minutes. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand. But please—hurry.”

The operator said, “Leave the scene, sir.” And the line went dead.

Hunter grimaced at the thought of what came next. If you say you've discovered two bodies, he thought, there damn well better be evidence that you went into the house at least far enough to see them. He closed his flip phone and dropped it into his hip pocket.

A careful man by nature, Hunter approached the doorway cautiously. Kate's motionless body lay about five feet inside the house, where Bobby had tossed her. She was on her stomach. Her hair covered the side of her face. She looked finished. But if Bobby had missed the jugular . . . He had to be sure.

Hunter eased inside. The droning chords of ancient monastic chants floated in from a stereo somewhere in the house. He glanced toward the back of the room and then carefully positioned the toe of his cast above Kate's buttocks. With a flick of his knee, Hunter jabbed hard between her glutes to check for involuntary reflexes. Her buttocks tightened, and his breath caught up short.

Charles Hunter glanced at her head.
Oh, God
. There was no blood around her face or throat. He spun on his heels just as the front door slammed shut.

The famous architect managed to say one word—“Click”—before the knife ripped a hole in his stomach. Click stabbed again and again, pounding the blade into Hunter's gut in a series of vicious uppercuts.

Hunter fell to the floor, clawing at the bloody mess that had been his stomach. Beside him, he saw Kate jump to her feet. She looked down at him and spat. The room began to swivel on some wobbly axis, and bright colors turned gray. He stared up at Click's pale, smiling face, then let his gaze drift to the bloody right hand that still held the knife Bobby Thomas had used when he'd pretended to cut Kate's throat.

Muscle turned to mush, and Hunter's head flopped involuntarily to the side.

The last thing Charles Hunter saw on earth was the bandaged stump of Click's left wrist, where it looked for all the world as if someone had chopped off one of the hacker's strong, pale hands.