Black Widow (25 page)

“Christ,” she said, “what a mess.”

Elvis tilted his head and looked at her. “You’re lucky,” she told him. “For you, love is simple. Be grateful you’re not human.”

He smiled at her, tongue lolling halfway to the floor. “Get out of here,” she said, shoving at his massive chest. “You’re drooling all over me.”

The phone rang, and she hurried to answer it, grateful for the distraction. She didn’t want to examine too closely her feelings for Nick. Not yet. “Hello?” she said.

“Stop asking nosy questions, or you’re going to wind up dead.”

The voice was low-pitched, muffled, deliberately disguised. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. Her fingers tightened on the telephone receiver. And then fury bubbled up through her. “Go to hell!” she said, and slammed down the phone.

She was still trembling five minutes later when Elvis let out a short, sharp bark, and somebody knocked on her door. She went to answer it, Elvis by her side. “Who is it?” she said.

“Francis Willoughby.”

It took her a moment to recall the name, and then she released Elvis’ collar and opened the door. A stubby, balding man stood on her porch, ball cap in hand. “Mr. Willoughby,” she said, surprised. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, ma’am. I mean, I need to do somethin’ for you.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “This here’s for you,” he said. “I never shoulda kept the money. It was yours. Yours and Mr. McAllister’s.”

She stared in amazement at the check he held out, made out to her in the amount of two hundred and fifty dollars. “I always figured I’d pay it back some day,” he said, “and now’s my chance.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“Well, yes, ma’am, I do. Will you please accept it?”

She softened. “Of course I will. Come in.” And she opened the screen door for him. “Can I get you a glass of lemonade?”

With his sleeve, he discreetly wiped a bead of sweat from his face. “I sure would appreciate that, Miz McAllister.”

She hung the check on the refrigerator with a magnet, and got out the lemonade pitcher. “Nice little house,” he said from the living room. “Squarely built.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m renting it from a friend.”

“Not like that Chandler place,” he said. “Never saw any place such a mess. Crooked floors, saggin’ ceilings, bulges in the walls. Doorways all off-kilter. If it’d been built plumb in the first place, it wouldn’t have settled that way.”

She returned to the living room and handed him the lemonade. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and downed half of it in one long swallow.

“So the Chandler place wasn’t exactly a contractor’s dream?” she said.

“Hell—I mean heck no,” he said. “And that kitchen was straight out of the nineteenth century. Mr. McAllister was insistent that everythin’ be new and modern for you. Said he didn’t want to see you working so hard. And that crooked little wall between the kitchen and the dining room just had to go. It wasn’t a bearin’ wall, so it really wasn’t necessary, and all it did was block the light from the dining room windows. Somebody’d replastered it a few years back, and they didn’t have a clue what they was doing. It was an eyesore, all lumps and bumps and bulges. So we was gonna take it down when we gutted the kitchen. It woulda opened that space up right nice.”

He finished the lemonade, thanked her again, and went on his way. After he was gone, she sat back down on the couch, wondering why she was so unsettled by his visit. There was something, something right at the edge of her mind, the tip of her tongue, something that just wouldn’t break through from the subconscious to the conscious. Frustrated, she tried to call Nick back, but Rowena said he was out. So she shoved it aside, concentrated instead on the threatening phone call she’d received.
Stop asking nosy questions, or you’re going to wind up dead.
It was the same thing Wanita had told her, only Wanita was the one who’d turned up dead.

She was getting closer to Michael’s killer. The phone call was proof. She was on the right track and closing in, and the killer was getting nervous. As well he should be, because Kathryn McAllister was going to nail his hide to the wall.

She was in the shower, washing off her morning run and thinking of something else altogether when it broke through, so simple she couldn’t believe she’d overlooked it, couldn’t believe Nick hadn’t thought of it yet. If it hadn’t been for Francis Willoughby’s visit, it might never have occurred to her.

The house. There was something in the house.

She found Michael’s spare house key right where she expected it to be, Scotch-taped to the inside of a turquoise folder labeled
mortgage
. As long as Kevin and Neely hadn’t changed the locks, what she was about to do couldn’t technically be called breaking and entering, since she had a key. She hoped that the worst they could get her for was tresspassing. She dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt, pocketed the key, shut Elvis in the kitchen, and went outside to her car.

When she turned the key, the engine made a soft growling sound, then died. It figured. She’d spent sixty bucks this morning for a new tire, and now the damn thing wouldn’t start. She popped the hood and looked under it. The battery terminals were old and corroded, and the battery itself looked like there was a good chance it had come over on the Mayflower. She glanced at her watch. It was already 6:45, and Nick was expecting her at seven. Disgusted, she slammed down the hood and headed off on foot.

It was nearly ten past seven when she reached his house. She went into the entry hall and knocked on the door of his apartment. When he didn’t answer, she opened the door a crack. “Nick?” she said.

There was still no answer, but Pat Metheny was playing softly on the stereo, and she let herself in. She found him just beyond the French doors, on the backyard patio, standing over a sizzling steak. “You’re late,” he said.

She brushed the hair back from her face. “My battery’s dead. I had to walk.”

He glanced up, saw the expression on her face, the way she was dressed. “Why do I have the feeling,” he said, “that this isn’t going to be a nice, normal date after all?”

“It’s the house, Nick.”

He looked at her blankly. “What house?”

“There’s something in the house. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. But Willoughby came by today and paid me back the money Michael gave him, and
_—
”

“Whoa. Slow down. Willoughby who?”

“Francis Willoughby,” she said impatiently. “The contractor. Michael hired him to remodel the kitchen a couple of weeks before he died. I think that’s why he was killed. There’s something in the house, and he was about to stumble across it. The killer couldn’t let that happen, so he had to get rid of Michael.”

He digested her words, and an odd gleam lit his eyes. “Ruby Jackson,” he said.

She nodded, adrenaline racing through her veins. “Ruby’s in the house somewhere, Nick.” Now that she was so close, she could barely contain her excitement. “And I think I know where.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was an overcast night, a mixed blessing, for the darkness gave them cover, but there was no moonlight to illuminate their way. They parked the Blazer out on the shore of Lake Alberta, in the turnout where she’d waited in vain for Wanita, and she led him in the back way. In the darkness, all she could see of Nick was his hands as his shadowy form preceded her through dense forest, shoving aside hardwood branches, tangling in kudzu vines, skirting stands of palmetto and squeezing past the massive trunks of loblolly pine. In her hand, she carried his high-powered flashlight. In his, he carried a crowbar.

They skirted the edge of the swamp that connected with one end of Lake Alberta. There were millions of live things out there in that murky water, creatures that came out at night to buzz and slither and croak. She’d even heard stories about alligators, although she wasn’t sure she believed them. A bullfrog made his low, plucked-banjo sound nearby, and she gasped and stumbled, falling directly into Nick. He reached out a hand to catch her. “You all right?” he said.

“I’m sorry. He startled me.”

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

“I’m sure. I lived in that house for four years. I know my way around.”

He stood there for a moment, surveying the swamp, while her fingers clutched at the warm fabric of his shirt. “How frigging big is this damn swamp?” he said.

“I don’t know. Huge. It goes on forever, all the way to the Old Raleigh Road.”

“That must be two or three miles from here.”

“Do you suppose we could move along?” she said. “This place is full of water moccasins.”

“You’ve got me convinced. Hang onto my belt loop or something. I don’t want to lose you in the dark.”

The continued their slow progress, Nick leading, Kathryn navigating, until the denseness gave way to scrub brush and the occasional poplar. “This way,” she said, and they broke free of the forest and found themselves at the edge of a grassy field that had once been lawn. “There,” she said. “There it is.”

The Chandler place sat in front of them, dark and ominous, windows boarded up, a single shutter dangling at an awkward angle. Nick looked to the left, then the right. In the distance, through the trees that bordered the property, there was a faint light. “What’s that?” he said.

“That’s Harriet Slocum’s house. Don’t worry, she’s seventy-five years old and deaf as a post. She sits in front of the TV every night with the volume blasting so loud they can hear it downtown. The Concorde could take off over her head and she wouldn’t know it.”

They crossed the lawn together, climbed up the steps and stopped at the back door. “I want you to know,” he said, “that I’ve been a cop for sixteen years. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life. Never even lifted a pack of cigarettes when I was a kid. But what we’re about to do is illegal as hell.”

“I know.”

“I could lose my job over this.”

“You don’t have to do it, DiSalvo. If you want to walk away right now, I’ll never hold it against you. I can do this by myself.”

“There’s nobody else in the world I’d do this for.”

“I know.”

He lowered his head and kissed her tenderly. Her arms went around him and she stretched up on her toes to reach him, hungry for his touch. He ended the kiss, and she fell against his chest, both of them breathing with difficulty.

“Nick?” she said into the darkness.

His fingers played in her hair. “What?” he said.

She ran a finger up the back of his neck and into his hair. Wet her lips. “Never mind,” she said.

He patted her cheek, dropped a hard kiss on her chin and released her. “Key?” he said.

She fumbled in her pocket, handed it to him, rested her hand on his forearm and crossed the fingers of her other hand while he slipped the key into the lock. “Oh, baby,” he said as it slid home, “the Eagle has landed.”

Her fingers tightened on his forearm as he eased the door open. It squeaked like a rusty coffin lid, and she caught her breath, afraid somebody would hear. “Careful,” he whispered. “The threshold’s warped. Don’t trip over it.”

“I won’t.”

Still holding onto him, she stepped over the warped threshold and into the house where her life had come to an abrupt end four years earlier. Perhaps it was fitting that this was where her life would begin again, on this night, with this man. “It’s darker than the inside of a dog in here,” he said. “Shut the door behind you so I can turn on the flashlight.”

She eased the door shut, locking it for good measure, and they were in total darkness. Something scurried past her foot, and she gasped. Nick took the flashlight from her and clicked it on, and three huge cockroaches scurried away from the beam of light. “Jesus,” he said.

The house had that musty odor that all abandoned houses have, a combination of dust and mold and mouse droppings. Beneath it, faint but still discernible, was the rusty tang of blood. Even if they’d had the carpets cleaned after the murder, she knew the smell would still be there. For a moment, she felt physically ill as it struck her again, the godawful ripe, sweet scent of Michael’s blood as it pooled into the white shag carpeting beneath his lifeless body. Bile rose in her throat and she retched, and Nick sat her down hard on the floor and shoved her head between her knees. “Kat?” he said.

Tears stung her eyelids as she struggled to bring her stomach under control. “I’m okay,” she said, pushing him away. “I’m okay!”

“We shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This is too much for you. I should’ve just got a court order and come in here and got it over with. This skulking around in the dark is ridiculous.”

“I’m all right now. The smell of blood hit me, and for a minute, I was right back there in that upstairs bedroom, with the rain falling on the roof and thunder rolling outside, and Michael dead on the floor.”

“You okay now?”

“I’m okay.”

He touched her cheek with gentle fingers. “You’re one tough cookie,” he said.

She raised her head and looked up at him. “Damn right I am, DiSalvo!”

Still touching her cheek, he said gently, “Come on, McAllister, let’s see if we can find Ruby.”

He played the flashlight beam around the room, highlighted the ancient enamel appliances, the old-fashioned flowered wallpaper, the broken window over the sink. “Over here,” she said, and led him to the wall that Willoughby had been talking about. It was only four feet long, and ran between the doorways that led to the bathroom and dining room. It was thicker than most walls, and she suspected that at one time a chimney had run through it. On the other side, the dining room sat bleak and empty, and she wondered what had happened to the beautiful oak dining set she and Michael had bought.

“Here,” he said. “Hold the flashlight.”

She aimed it past his head, at the wall. It wasn’t papered like the others. Instead, it had been painted a color that had probably once been white, but which was now a dingy gray. Nick brushed aside a spider and played his fingertips over the surface of the wall. “Rough,” he said.

“That’s what Willoughby said. That whoever plastered it didn’t have a clue what they were doing.” She slowly scanned the flashlight beam lower. “See how it bulges?”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s an old house. Everything’s crooked.”

“Don’t shoot down my theory now, DiSalvo.”

“I’m not shooting down anything.” He lifted the crowbar and tapped gently. Held his ear up to the wall and tapped again, while she leaned forward, her chin almost digging into his shoulder in her eagerness.

“Do you hear anything?” she said.

“Shh.” While he listened, he tapped again, lower. “Come here,” he said.

They traded places and he showed her where to listen. “Okay,” he said, “I’m going to tap in two different spots, and I want you to tell me what you hear.”

She closed her eyes to concentrate, and he tapped the wall down low, about a foot above the baseboard. “Sounds hollow,” she said.

“Mmn. Now listen.” He moved the crowbar up to her approximate shoulder height and tapped it. There was no echo. It sounded solid as an oak tree.

“Nick? Do you think something’s in there?”

“Sure sounds it to me. Look, where I tapped up here
_—
” He pointed with the crowbar. “It’s right in line with the hollow spot down here. If it was some kind of a joist, it would go all the way, floor to ceiling. But it doesn’t. It stops right about
_—
” He bent and tapped near her knees. “Here.”

The full ramifications of what she’d suspected hadn’t hit her until now. If it were indeed Ruby Jackson inside that hollow wall, there were ethical considerations that must be taken into account. Ruby had lived her life with joy, and dignity. But what kind of dignity would she maintain with strangers gaping at her fleshless skeleton?

Outside, on the street, a car slowed and turned into the driveway. Nick spun around, his eyes wild as they met hers. “Turn off the damn light!” he said.

She plunged them into instant darkness as a car door slammed outside. “Shit,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Upstairs! Now!”

Flashlight in hand, she guided him through the darkness to the stairs, moving as silently as possible up the staircase she knew so well. “Hurry,” he whispered as somebody slid a key into the kitchen door lock and turned the handle.

She all but dragged him through the nearest door. Her old bedroom. The bloodstained carpeting muffled their footsteps. “There’s a closet,” she whispered, feeling for the door, her heart hammering as footsteps walked across the kitchen floor. Frantic, she felt the wall, and then she found the closet door. They dove inside and Nick yanked it shut behind them, catching it at the last minute before it could slam. “If you crawl,” she said, “the storage space extends under the eaves.”

“Go!” he said, and shoved her in ahead of him. On her hands and knees, she scrabbled like a crab, until she hit solid wall and realized she’d come to the end.

“This is as far as it goes,” she whispered.

“Set down the flashlight,” he whispered. “Trade places.”

In the cramped space, he squeezed past her and sat on the floor, his back against the wooden studding of the eave. Leaning forward because there was no head room, he pulled her up tight between his thighs. Hearts hammering in unison, they sat glued together, his arms around her from behind, his legs wrapped around hers, while beneath them the heavy footsteps moved slowly from room to room. In that small, enclosed space where there was no room to move an inch, it must have been well over a hundred degrees. Sweat dampened her forehead and fear quickened her breathing. Something with more than four legs ran down her arm. She gasped, opened her mouth to cry out, and he clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispered into her ear, and rocked her back and forth. “Shh
_…
”

Terror twisted her insides as those slow, deliberate footsteps climbed the stairs. They turned down the hall, and behind her, Nick let out a hard breath. The heat was nearly unbearable as her overtaxed lungs sucked in humid, searing air. They were both sodden with sweat, and she was starting to feel faint. The footsteps returned, came into the bedroom, and stopped. Nick’s hand tightened on her mouth. The closet door opened, and they both stopped breathing. She could feel the erratic racing of Nick’s heart as a flashlight beam, thin and weak, played around the corners of the closet, poked into the crawl space, missing them by inches. Her heart was thundering so loudly she was certain the intruder must be able to hear it.

Except that in this instance, they were the intruders.

The door shut, and still neither of them dared to breathe. Her lungs burned as though she’d inhaled chlorine, and then the footsteps went back out into the hall and down the stairs to the living room.

She let out a huge breath, gulped in another one while behind her Nick did the same. Kathryn uttered a tiny sob, and his hand again closed over her mouth. He tightened his arm around her, dropped a featherlight kiss on her temple. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered. “He’s leaving now.”

The kitchen door opened and shut, and moments later, they heard the car back out of the driveway and head down the street. Nick removed his hand from her mouth. Limp and wet and ragged, she scooted across the floor on the seat of her jeans until she reached the opening that led back into the closet. She scrambled to her feet, then turned and held out a hand to help him up.

The crowbar still in his hand, he swept her into his arms and they stood together, limp and trembling violently, for a very long time. “Come on,” he said finally, brushing a cobweb from her hair, “let’s get the hell out of this creepy place.”

“Who do you think it was?” she said as she sipped at the coffee he’d spiked with rum especially for the occasion. In his kitchen, their freshly laundered clothes tumbled in the clothes dryer. They’d both showered, and she was sitting on his couch, feet up on the coffee table, wearing the ugly striped bathrobe that Lenore had bought him years ago. It made him look like a troll, but on Kathryn, it looked sexy as hell.

In the rocking chair across from her, he sipped his coffee and considered her question. He’d been considering it since long before she asked it, since the moment that car had pulled into the driveway of the Chandler place. Nobody could possibly have known they were there. Even the eyes and ears of this town weren’t that good. Which could mean only one thing. The killer knew damn well they were hot on his ass, and he was keeping close watch over his most closely guarded secret. “It was a man,” he said.