Damaged Goods (33 page)

As he approached the house, he tried to make up reasons why he would need to come back for a gun. He was completely inept—planning to kill a man and going off without his gun. What kind of killer was he? A poor one. A
stupid
one. He was ashamed of his cognitive deficiencies. He still hadn’t found a suitable story that wouldn’t frighten Silvie. But, above all, he was scared that he’d overlooked some other critical detail that would give Castor the upper hand. He might have given the man just enough information to find and destroy them all.

Silvie stood on Kyrellis’s doorstep, her backpack slung over her shoulder, going over her plan one last time before turning the knob. She wondered if she should have parked in the driveway. Hershel might see the car. Then she thought about taking it and simply running. She could be in California by nightfall. Maybe
she’d head east across the southern states. Find a place in Florida. Or drive up the coast from there to New York City. No one would ever find her in New York City.

“Come in,” Kyrellis called a second time, louder than the first.

She wondered why he didn’t open the door and hoped she wouldn’t find him inside naked. He was just the kind of man who would do something like that. This was difficult enough. She’d need to work up to it.

It was dim inside, the shades drawn. Kyrellis stood in the middle of the living room, his eyes widened to the whites. He didn’t say hello as she closed the door.

“Silvie,” Jacob said, sending a jolt of lightning through her. He stood behind the door, two guns on Kyrellis, but his eyes on her.

“Jacob,” she whispered. “I—”

He shook his head, eyes fierce. “Don’t try to explain. Not yet.”

“I was scared.”

“I know you were, baby.” Castor turned back to Kyrellis, and Silvie felt like a child again. She wanted to run to Jacob and beg him to forgive her. She wanted him to gather her up in his arms. This simple sweet acknowledgment that he understood could turn everything around. It could restore them.

“Did this man hurt you?” he said, gesturing toward Kyrellis.

She assessed her would-be victim, realizing with great relief that she wouldn’t have to carry out her plan now. Jacob would take care of things for her.

Kyrellis shook his head, pleading with her. His eyes imploring. “I didn’t touch her,” he said. “Tell him, Silvie. Tell him that I didn’t touch you.”

“No, but he was going to,” she said. She had no sympathy for Kyrellis. “He was going to make me do things in return for your … for the—” She spied the ten photos carefully laid out on the coffee table. Jacob had undoubtedly seen them, too.

“Was he, now?” Jacob stepped closer to Kyrellis, who closed his eyes as if expecting him to pull the trigger. “Tell her where the others are.”

“Look, we can work this out. It’s not too late.”

“Tell her!”

Silvie winced.

“In the freezer,” Kyrellis said.

Jacob snapped his head to the side, ordering her to retrieve them. She scrambled into the kitchen, her hands shaking. She fumbled through the contents of Kyrellis’s freezer, finally dragging everything out onto the counter before finding the icy metal box underneath two large bags of frozen blackberries. She brought it to the living room, her fingers aching, and tried to open it, but it was locked.

“Where’s the key?” she said, breathless, trying to appear helpful to Jacob. His ally.

“Are you going to kill me?” Kyrellis asked. His eyes glistened, and Silvie could hear his fear. For an instant, she pitied him.

“What do
you
think, you stupid fool,” Jacob said.

Hershel parked in front of the garage, deciding that he’d tell Silvie there was a coyote prowling around the auction barn. It would prevent any idea of walking over there, as well as explain his need to take his gun. He’d take the rifle as well as his pistol.

The sun had brightened everything, but instead of giving him a new sense of purpose, as it usually did, it only sharpened his headache. When this was over—when he’d killed Jacob Castor and was rid of Kyrellis, too—he would suggest that they move somewhere new. Idaho, maybe. Or Colorado. A mountain state, with a rugged landscape and more days of sun. They didn’t have to stay here. A new start would be good for both of them. He had no choice in what he was about to do, but his future—their future—could be different. And maybe then these damn headaches would finally go away.

As he stepped down he noticed that the doors to the garage were slightly open, not the way he thought he’d left them. He
didn’t want Silvie trying to start the car and discovering that it ran. She thought she could outsmart Kyrellis, but she was wrong. Look what had come of her efforts. He didn’t blame her for Carl’s death, but neither could he trust her judgment on this. He should never have given Silvie a key to the Porsche. Another example of his abysmal capacity for thinking ahead, anticipating what problems might arise. But as he pushed the door closed the empty space inside registered. The car was gone.

Hershel sprinted to the house, bursting inside, calling Silvie’s name as he took the stairs two at a time. He went directly to his bedroom and gathered his pistol from the nightstand. He skidded back down the wooden steps on one foot, thumping against the wall at the bottom and knocking his sister’s oil painting to the floor. He stepped over it and went to the kitchen, still calling after her in vain, knowing that she wasn’t there. What kind of crazy idea had she gotten in her head to do?

He rustled through his utility drawer, looking for ammunition, scooping up one box for his pistol and another for his rifle. In the mudroom he took his rifle and was peeling down the driveway in seconds, his arsenal flung out on the seat next to him, heading for Kyrellis’s.

Kyrellis dropped to his knees, begging. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I’ll give you my gun collection. I have beautiful guns. Guns like you’ve never seen before. You can take them. Take them all. But, please, don’t kill me.”

“Tell her where the key is,” Jacob said again, his lips tight with impatience. The knuckles on his right hand had purpled.

“Under the yellow rosebush on the patio,” Kyrellis said, relenting.

Silvie hustled from the room after it. When she found it, she wondered if Jacob would make her watch him kill Kyrellis. He
might consider that punishment for running off with his pictures. As terrible as the idea was, she doubted that would be the extent of her reprimand. She returned to the living room with the key and struggled with the frozen lock, finally springing it and pulling the lid back. She dumped the contents of the box onto the coffee table and began counting the photos.

“He’s going to kill you, too, Silvie,” Kyrellis said, trying to win her over. “You told me so yourself.”

She locked eyes with him for an instant. He was terrified, and it was familiar to her. But she would not sacrifice herself for this man.

“Ask him where those other girls are. Do you think, even for a minute, that he didn’t kill them?”

Her eyes darted to Castor before she could stop herself.

“Don’t listen to him,” Castor said. “You know how much I love you.”

She smiled weakly; she wanted to believe him.

“Ask him,” Kyrellis urged.

“Shut up!” Castor said, stepping toward him. He turned to Silvie. “Are they all there?”

“I—I think so.”

“Lay them out so I can see them.”

She obeyed, making a disturbing sexual collage across the coffee table. He glanced over them, but she refused to look. The faces of those mysterious girls only deepened her doubt.

“He
bound
you, he
beat
you, he threatened to
kill
you,” Kyrellis said, just loud enough to get to her.

She stared back at him, incredulous. “You would have done the same. You were
going
to do the same.”

Castor placed the gun against Kyrellis’s forehead. Then he held the other gun out to Silvie. “Take it,” he said.

She walked slowly to Castor’s side. He gestured toward the gun with his chin. Her hand shook as she reached for it, the metal warm against her frozen fingers.

“Put it to his head.”

“I—I can’t.”

“Do it,” Castor said, his tone harsh and unbending.

She pressed the metal barrel against Kyrellis’s temple. It wobbled and bucked in her trembling grip.

“Does it feel good to hold a gun to this man’s head?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find words or solidify her thoughts.

“Maybe I’ll let you do the honors. But first,” Castor said. “Who is the other man?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t know who you mean.”

He studied her.

“Really, Jacob. This is the only man.”

He turned to Kyrellis. “Then you tell me the name of the other man, the man who wants you dead.”

“What’s in it for me?” Kyrellis rasped.

“Do you hate him as much as he hates you? Do you want him dead, too?”

Silvie’s stomach rolled. Hershel, she thought. Her Good Samaritan, her savior. His kiss was still fresh on her forehead. I love you, he’d said.
I love you
.

Kyrellis opened his mouth to speak, and Silvie squeezed the trigger. The sharp explosion erupted in her ears, and she saw Kyrellis’s head blow back. Blood sprayed across the leather armchair. She shrieked and dropped the gun.

Castor stood over Kyrellis’s limp body, a hard, angry scowl on his face.

Hershel slowed as he passed Kyrellis’s house. The Porsche sat in the driveway. His chest went tight. He pulled into the delivery entrance and eased the pickup between the rows of greenhouses. When he reached the service road that ran between the propagation house and the back of the property, he saw the other pickup.
A big Ford 4×4. Early nineties. Tan and white, with a crew cab. Wyoming plates.

He swung a wide U-turn, heading toward the equipment sheds behind Kyrellis’s house. He pulled the truck inside a gaping pole barn that housed a tractor with a scoop and a forklift. Quietly shutting the door, pulling the rifle with him, Hershel surveyed the area. His truck was well hidden from the back of the house and Castor’s pickup. He looked around, scouting for a position from which he could see the pathway between the back patio door and the waiting vehicle. Castor wouldn’t kill Silvie here. He’d take her with him. Hershel’s best chance was to lie in wait and shoot the man as he got into his truck. He took a practice aim, using the scope and imagining his bullet zinging through the back window and into Castor’s head. The hunk of metal beneath him, he finally noticed, was Floyd.