Act of Betrayal (37 page)

Elijah stepped into the cone of light around him. It was hard to believe the man was in his sixties. He was lean, with the kind of hard muscles Schultz hadn’t had in fifteen years. There was a toughness to him that had been shaped by his military years followed by mercenary work, a toughness that Schultz didn’t think would be dented by two more killings in cold blood.

Elijah looked over at Libby, who was holding PJ at gunpoint. Schultz saw an enigmatic—hostile?—look on the man’s face that vanished as soon as he made eye contact with Libby. He wondered if Libby had caught it. His cop’s intuition latched onto that look, flipped it over on its belly, and examined the possibilities.

Trouble in the ranks?

A spark of hope ignited and streaked through him. But if there was trouble, how could he exploit it, sitting trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, with his mouth taped?

It was all up to PJ. He was glad she was a shrink, and a woman to boot. That was a deadly combination in his estimation, and it gave them both half a chance. Well, maybe a quarter of a chance, but that was enough to put some fire in his eyes.

P
J WAS STARTLED WHEN
Schultz raised his head. Then she couldn’t meet his eyes anymore after a brief connection. She might get drawn too deeply into them and not be able to function. Instead, she checked him over, and didn’t see any signs of serious injury besides the foot. One side of his face was bruised and his eye was puffy, but that didn’t qualify. The foot looked bad, but if it came to that, he could do without a foot. Her mind wandered into a scenario of Schultz with a prosthetic foot, learning to walk again, with PJ at his side. Then she yanked her thoughts back to their situation. She had to get them both out of this horrible room before she could tack on the happy ending.

Her mouth wasn’t taped like Schultz’s, so at least she could talk. And talk she intended to do.

“No hidden tape recorder this time, is there, Miss Lakeland or Gray, or whatever your name is,” Libby said. “I knew all along there was something phony about you.” Her voice was soft and controlled, and all the more deadly for it.

“It’s a good thing Darla got away from you in time,” PJ said, turning her head toward Libby. “I think she suspected, but she just didn’t want to know for sure.”

“Elijah, get over there and cut that cord on her wrists. I want her arms tied down to the chair,” Libby said. Then she turned her attention back to PJ. “Darla couldn’t stand it when her sister was killed. She nearly had a breakdown. Or maybe she did have one, I don’t know. You can’t trust anything she says.”

“Seemed perfectly rational to me.” Out of the corner of her eye, PJ could see Elijah watching them with an almost morbid fascination, as he would a weasel about to attack a helpless snake. She reassured herself that, despite outward appearances, it was Libby who was the snake and she who was the calculating attacker. It felt good to tell herself that.

“You saw Darla? Tell me where she is,” Libby commanded.

“Not a chance in hell,” PJ said. “And you’re going to know a lot about that. Hell, that is.”

PJ darted a glance at Schultz. He was watching intently. There was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen at first, something that said he hadn’t given up. She licked her lips nervously. A verbal misstep on her part could cost them both their lives before she had a chance to worm her way out of it. Elijah came over and slit the cord on her wrists. Her hands fell limply to her side. Pin pricks from the numbness cascaded down from her wrists to her fingertips. Sitting in the swivel chair, she tried to loosen up and look more confident, but her ribs punished her for attempting to sit up straight.

Libby ignored PJ’s remark and came over to her. She pointed the gun at PJ’s head. “I said, I want to know where Darla is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” PJ said.

Libby swung around and aimed the gun at Schultz. PJ saw him take a deep breath and fasten his eyes on Libby’s. He didn’t flinch. If he was going to meet death, he’d meet it straight on.

“Tell me, bitch,” Libby said.

The sight of Schultz about to be gunned down nearly made PJ frantic. She strained not to show it. She wasn’t going to let him die.

“I don’t know where she is at this moment, but I do know where she was,” PJ said. “She was in Dayton. But you won’t find her at home, especially if it’s you at the door.”

Libby spun and struck PJ across the side of her face with the gun. Blood filled PJ’s mouth, and she coughed it out. She started to rise from her chair in pure reflexive anger at the woman, then realized that even if she could disable Libby, Elijah was armed and ready to take control. He was across the room where she didn’t stand a chance of reaching him in time. Good teamwork.

“Don’t get smart with me,” Libby said. “I don’t put up with that. Never have. ’Less you’re under six years old. Then I figure God hasn’t given you any sense yet, so it doesn’t do any good to get mad.”

PJ ran her tongue over her teeth and spat blood onto the floor.

“Let’s get back to that hell part,” PJ said. “When do you figure that Rider on the wall over there is coming for you?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. It isn’t me who’s going to hell. It’s Schultz and all the others who killed my boy. I know all about the damnation of the wicked and the redemption of the just.”

“Maybe you do,” PJ said. “You just got the cast of characters mixed up. Why don’t you ask her about that, Elijah?”

Elijah, who had been lingering at the edge of the room, started at the sound of his name.

“You got anything to say?” Libby said to him.

He shook his head. There was no defiance in him.

“Then get over there and tie her to that chair. I’m ready to get on with this.”

“Jeremiah saw you take the bloody handkerchief,” PJ said. Desperation had given her a cold calmness. She was running out of time. She had to skip to dead center.

Libby’s eyes widened. PJ felt a twinge of satisfaction at the woman’s reaction.

“Were you on top when you scratched him?” PJ taunted. “Is that the way you liked it when you had sex with your son, always in control?”

“Shut up!”

“Why should I shut up? What are you going to do to make me stop? Kill me?”

Elijah was frozen in place. He’d started to walk toward PJ. Libby gripped her gun with both hands, uncertain whether to choose Schultz or PJ as the first target.

“How many times did you hit Eleanor with that baseball bat? Ten? Twenty? Then you clipped her nails like you used to do when she was a child, and squeezed the blood onto her hands. Your own son’s blood.”

Libby took a step toward her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything you’re saying is a lie.” Her voice was a low dangerous hiss.

“Jeremiah told me, Libby. In his own words, right before he died for your crime. The blood’s really on your hands, not his. You killed your own daughter and son!”

Libby’s face was livid. There was something out of control in her eyes.

“What about it, Libby?” Elijah said, choking on his words. “I want to hear what you’ve got to say about it. I saw the letter. I saw where my boy cried when he wrote it. I want to know what that means, Libby. You tell me now, and you tell me straight.”

She rounded on him, her mouth in a deep frown. “You ordering me around? That sure sounds like you’re ordering me, and you know that’s not the way it is between us.” She pointed her chin toward some rope on the floor. “Get that rope and fasten the bitch. Make it real tight. It’s time to get down to business here.”

Elijah pulled himself up to his full height and met both her frown and the stabbing light in her eyes. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said.

Libby shifted the gun and fired four shots in quick succession. Elijah’s body jerked with the force of each one, and he was driven back against the brightly lit wall. He sagged to the floor, leaving a broad smear of blood across the hooves of the apocalypse riders’ horses. His head fell forward on his ruined chest.

“There’s your answer,” Libby said.

PJ planted her feet and forced herself upright. Her left leg gave under her, but she dove for Elijah’s gun, which had clattered to the floor. She got her hands on it, could barely hold onto it because of the numbness in her fingers. Then the rest of her hit the floor hard, and she crashed into Elijah’s side. Twisting, she squeezed the trigger. Her first shot went wild, into the ceiling. She tried to get her wavering hands under control.

Libby fired in her direction, and she felt the thump of the bullet as it entered Elijah’s body. A miss. PJ pulled the trigger and saw blood erupt from Libby’s shoulder. Another shot, and Libby’s face disappeared.

When the noise of the shots fell away, PJ dropped the gun. It clattered noisily in the stillness of the room.

A minute later, she scrambled to her feet and went to check on Schultz. He showed none of the shock of killing that she felt sure was visible on her own face. All she saw there was relief. She pulled the tape off his mouth. He took in a big gulp of air. Of life.

“Christ,” he said, his chest heaving. She held his eyes as his breathing returned to normal.

Tentatively, she touched the bloody rag that enclosed his foot, uncertain if she wanted to get a better look.

“Better leave that for the medics,” he said. “By the way, you should’ve aimed for the center of the chest with a two-handed stance. There’s a high probability of missing when you go for the extremities.”

She didn’t know whether to slap him or hug him.

I
T WAS A BEAUTIFUL
morning for August. The night before, a storm had swept through in advance of a cold front that Canada had misplaced. Riding behind the storm were low humidity, blue skies, and a gentle breeze that stirred the flowers brought to the grave site.

It was eight days since PJ had killed someone.

She wasn’t listening to the words spoken by the clergyman, although she assumed he had the usual things to say. Schultz had spoken earlier, at the funeral service in the chapel. Schultz had poured his heart into the words he’d said over his son’s coffin. PJ saw that the gates were open and the grieving process was well under way, and for that she was relieved.

Schultz was in a wheelchair, and griped about it constantly. The bones of his left foot had been shattered by Libby’s gunshot, but the damage was repairable. He wouldn’t lose the foot, although he’d be a little off balance with it, the doctor said, because of the missing toe. He’d been unable to master getting around on crutches for anything more complicated than going to his refrigerator for a snack, so over his objections she’d insisted on a wheelchair.

Schultz fiddled with some lever on the wheelchair as the words that were meant to comfort floated up on the breeze. Julia stood next to him, in the same way she had psychologically stood next to the man who had been her husband for so many years, willing to lie to be his alibi and acting blindly on his word. Her face wore the same brave mask that had been held up to the public by countless millions of grieving mothers.

By her own choice, PJ stood apart and let the parents be together for the funeral of Rick Schultz. Thomas stood next to her, looking grand and solemn in his new suit. On her other side was Helen Boxwood, a loyal friend, one whom PJ had come to depend upon.

It hurt PJ to stand for any length of time, but she put aside her discomfort. Her cracked ribs were wrapped tightly with elastic bandages under her black dress, making her take shallow breaths. She didn’t have any broken bones in her legs, just deep severe bruising. Emotionally she had bruising, too. She had taken quite a beating from Elijah Ramsey, but she’d been damaged even more when she shot and killed Libby. Even though it was a clear case of saving her own life and Schultz’s, PJ regretted that she’d had to take a life in the process. Yet she knew she’d do so again if she had to. It was a hidden level of responsibility in her work.

Schultz had told her once that killing, even in a good cause, took away a little piece of your soul, and the more of it you did, the more your soul looked like Swiss cheese.

All Leo and I will need is a couple of pieces of rye bread to make a good cheese sandwich.

Anita was there, of course, and a large number of law enforcement officers, few of whom actually knew Rick. Dave was recovering from surgery to remove the bullet that had lodged near his spine. There had been some chance of it shifting, and so the risk of leaving it in place had outweighed the risk of removal. He’d come through the surgery like the tough young fighter he was. His girlfriend had pulled herself away from the hospital long enough to make a showing at the funeral. PJ saw her checking her watch as the graveside service came to a close.

The crowd broke up. Schultz talked quietly to Julia, who then left with her friend from Florida. Anita took Thomas home. That left PJ with Schultz. He rolled over to her.

“Hey, babe,” he said, leering playfully at her. “You look sexy in black. How about you and I go back to my place and screw ‘til the sun comes up?”

PJ burst out laughing. “Look at us. We’re walking wounded—not even that, in your case. I hurt all over, you’ve got a cast on your foot, and now you’ve got sex on your mind? That reminds me. We need to talk about Helen, and where she fits in all this.”

“I don’t mind a threesome. I’m adaptable. I can do kinky.”

“Really, Leo. You’re supposed to be in mourning.”

He gave her a mock frown. “Well, wanna get a pizza, then?”

“Sure,” she said. “And besides, I might have two or three places that don’t hurt.”

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