Dead In Red (29 page)

“You’re full of answers,” Richard
groused.

My fingers gripped harder on the steering
wheel. “Gene did give me the phone number at the house, but he told
me he had caller ID and unless he knew the number—”

“Surely he’d answer a call from Cyn.”

“I doubt Veronica would let her tip him
off.”

Richard kept consulting his watch, while
only the air conditioner’s fan and road noise filled the car for
the next ten minutes.

I took the cut off for Route 219 and the
traffic around us petered out. The expressway ran for another ten
or fifteen miles before narrowing to a two-lane highway. Forty
minutes down, another twenty to thirty more to get to Cyn’s
vacation home. Despite the car’s cool interior, my palms were
sweating. Richard was still fiddling with his watch. “Damn. The
band just broke.”

“Well if you hadn’t been playing with it for
the last half hour.”

Richard pocketed the watch.

The “Welcome to Ellicottville” sign flashed
by on our right. With no bypass, we were forced to go through the
middle of town, stopped by traffic lights and pedestrians.
Richard’s fists kept clenching and unclenching. “Come on,” he
murmured at the longest red light in western New York.

Green. Go!

The village grew smaller in my rearview
mirror. I pulled off the main drag and onto one of the side roads,
leading up into the hills.

“This is where a plan would be helpful,” I
said.

“I haven’t come up with anything. You?”

I shook my head. “Then it’s on foot to
reconnoiter. And after that—we wing it.”

“Winging it sounds like it could be
dangerous. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not wearing my
Superman underwear.”

And bullets hadn’t bounced off his trench
coat back in March, either.

I hit the brakes and the car skidded to a
halt. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me, I said get out. You’re not
coming with me.”

“Don’t start that shit again.” He crossed
his arms over his chest. “You can’t make me. I’m bigger than
you.”

Brenda was right. Sometimes we did act like
a couple of overgrown kids.

“You’re wasting time,” Richard said. “And
unless you want Cyn’s and Gene’s deaths on your conscience, I
suggest you get your foot off the goddamn brake and move this
car.”

We glared at each other for maybe ten
seconds before I looked away, hit the accelerator.

# # #

CHAPTER 24

Only one car sat in the middle of Cyn’s
vacation home’s driveway, and it wasn’t Gene’s. Richard and I
peered at it through a thicket. No other sign of habitation. Nice
and quiet. Idyllic.

Too damned isolated.

“Okay, now what?” Richard asked.

I certainly wasn’t going to risk his life.
“I go in.”

“And do what?”

“See if I can diffuse the situation.
Veronica can’t stab all of us at once.”

“And what if she has a gun? Let me tell you
from personal experience, getting shot hurts. A lot.”

“Thanks for the news flash. Look, you’re my
ace in the hole. Someone’s got to go for help if the situation
warrants it.”

“And how am I supposed to know when and if
to do that? I’m not the one who’s psychic.”

Okay. Thinking rationally was and
wasn’t going to do it. Sophie told me to come see her on Saturday
night—
if I could.
That wasn’t
an automatic death sentence. If I trusted her—and I did—that meant
there was a possibility I’d survive. She saw a future for Richard.
Maybe not a great one, and I didn’t want to think about what that
meant, but she saw a future for him. The missing elements of the
equation were Cyn and Gene. Her clairvoyance hadn’t included
them.

I turned to Richard. “My gut tells me at
least one of us is going to come out of this alive, but I don’t
know about Cyn and Gene.”

“One of us? And who might that be?”

I hesitated. If I said him, he’d probably
make some stupid, grandstand move that would blow Sophie’s
predictions about his future straight to hell. “I don’t know for
sure,” I lied. “If we walk away, we’re okay. If we storm the
joint—we might both live. Living isn’t the same as thriving, or
happily ever after. You almost met your maker already this year.
What do you think?”

Richard let out a breath. “Jesus, you
couldn’t give me something easy to contemplate?” He wiped a hand
across his mustache, his expression grave. “The way I see it,
Veronica’s got two hostages. She’s killed at least one person. I
trust your gut. If we can save only one of them—we’ve got to try.”
He nodded, reaffirming it. “Yeah. One is better than none.”

“What if it isn’t Cyn?”

“From what you’ve said, Veronica is angry at
Gene for replacing him—her—in Walt’s affection. She’ll go after him
before Cyn.”

“I don’t want either of them to get
hurt—”

“You think I do? A physician’s first
responsibility is to do no harm.”

“I thought that was the witches’ credo.”

“Hypocrites came before Wicca.”

“Says you.”

“We’re wasting time.”

I wanted to believe Sophie. I wanted to
believe with all my heart. But what if she was wrong?

I didn’t have time to worry about it.

I studied Richard’s worried blue eyes.
“Okay. I’ll go to the door. Knock. If it’s open, I’ll go in.”

“If it’s not?”

“I’ll smash the window. If nothing else,
that’ll get Veronica’s attention.”

Richard cast around, found a rock the size
of an Idaho spud on the ground, handed it to me. “Here. Use this
instead of your fist. If you get the chance, use it against
Veronica, too.”

I took it from him, hefted it. Smashed
against a skull, it could do considerable damage. Yeah, like the
baseball bat had done to me. I gulped, unsure if I could inflict
that kind of damage on anyone else. Then again, if it meant my
survival . . .

I met his gaze. “Whatever happened to do no
harm?”

Richard shrugged, the barest hint of a smile
on his lips. “You’ve got the rock. Not me.”

I turned back to look at the house, took a
couple of big gulps of air. Yeah—I could do this—and stood, pushing
aside the branches.

I walked into the clearing that was the
front yard, slowly making my way, as though a landmine might
explode under my feet.

Nearer, nearer to the closed front door.

In less than two days Richard would marry
Brenda. Maggie and I would stand up for them, then spend the rest
of the day—and possibly the night—together.

I hoped.

I was within five feet of the door when it
cracked open. My hand with the rock snaked around behind me as I
backed up a few steps.

“What do you want?” asked a male voice I
didn’t recognize.

“Myron?”

The door opened wider. A swollen-eyed Cyn,
her face streaked with tears, stood rigidly in front of the
skinhead the hospital receptionist had described, the long barrel
of a shotgun pressed against her jaw. “Help,” she squeaked.

“Myron, you don’t want to do this.”

“Wanna bet? Seems to me I don’t have a whole
helluva lot to lose.” He laughed, smug. The voice was and wasn’t
Veronica. Lower, rougher.

“You’re looking at twenty-five years to life
for Walt Kaplan’s death.”

“So what’s a few more years on the sentence?
I could probably have a whole lot of fun in jail. Think of all the
fine, rough sex that could come my way? It might just be the answer
to all my prayers.”

“No operation. No more dresses. No more
shoes, wigs, makeup—fun.”

“Please help me,” Cyn sobbed.

I gulped air. “Where’s Gene?” I asked,
sounding a lot braver than I felt.

“He’s here. He’s just—” Myron laughed. “A
little tied up.”

I stood only ten or twelve feet from the
door. If he swung the shotgun down, he could very easily take me
out. Had he ever used a gun before? Had he—?

Cyn slumped, catching Myron off guard. She
rammed an elbow into his stomach.

Myron let out a painful oomph, fell back
inside, landed on his backside.

Cyn stumbled down the steps. I dropped the
rock and grabbed her hand, pulling her with me as I ran for the
bushes.

No gunshot followed.

The front door slammed.

The yard was hauntingly silent.

Richard captured Cyn in a rough embrace and
she started to cry in earnest.

“Where’s Gene?” I demanded.

Cyn pulled away, wiped at her eyes. “He’s
. . . Veronica tied him up. He was kicking Gene, over and
over again. I tried to stop him and he hit me.”

Gently, Richard pulled the hair away from
her face to reveal a bright red mark that would be a bruise before
nightfall. “That was a pretty brave thing you just did.”

“Cowardly you mean,” she snapped. “I left
Gene in there to die!”

Richard turned to me. “Why didn’t he fire at
you?”

“That might alert the neighbors, who might
call the cops.” I turned my attention back to Cyn. “Where’s your
cell phone?”

“In his car. But it’s locked. He’s got the
keys.”

“Damn!” Still, getting Cyn out of the house
and away from Myron was one less life to worry about saving.

Richard’s imploring stare cut through
me.

“I’ve got to get in that house.”

“We’ve
got
to,” he corrected.

“No! You stay here with Cyn. In fact, get
the hell out of here—both of you. Go to the neighbors. Call for
help.”

“Not until you promise to wait right
here.”

Placate him, placate
him!
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll wait here. Go!”

“If you’re lying to me—”

I pushed his shoulder. “Go!”

Richard grabbed Cyn’s hand, pulled her
through the trees, back toward my car.

I watched until they were out of sight, then
turned my attention back to the silent house. Staying put was the
smart thing to do. But knowing we were out here meant that Myron
was going to have to do something. He knew we knew he’d killed
Walt. He’d held Cyn hostage. That she got away didn’t mean he
couldn’t be charged for it. If he made a break for the car—

The drapes in the leftmost front window
moved. Still clutching the gun, Myron peered out, looking for us.
He scanned the hedges, stared long and hard before the curtain fell
again.

I waited, panic growing within me. My own or
Gene’s? My connection to him had never been strong, but I couldn’t
ignore the feeling. I stood, feeling like magnetic north had made a
sudden shift south and I was being pulled toward the house.

Closer.

Closer.

My heart pounded so loud and hard as I
approached the front steps that I thought cardiac arrest was
imminent.

My trembling fingers clasped the aluminum
door handle, pulled the screen door open. Relief flooded through me
as I entered the empty entryway and wasn’t blown to pieces.

“Myron?” I tried calling, but only a croak
came out.

No answer.

I moved a few tentative steps forward,
peering into what looked like the living room.

No one.

A grand, wide oak stairway in the center of
the foyer led to the second floor. To my far left a set of opened
French doors led into a tidy library-office filled with wall to
ceiling bookshelves. A large rectangular, intricately woven Persian
rug in hues of red and gold covered the floor.

My ears strained, but no sounds broke the
stillness, save for the call of a crow somewhere outside.

I took another step forward. The hardwood
floor creaked beneath my sneakered foot.

I froze.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

Bypassing the library, I crept along a long
hallway that opened into a dining room. A door at the end was
propped open with a wedge. I tiptoed up, hesitated, before darting
into what turned out to be an orderly kitchen. The components of a
chef salad graced the dark granite counter, with a large clear
glass bowl half filled with lettuce.

No sign of Gene or Myron.

I tiptoed across the linoleum, tried the
back door, found it double locked. They hadn’t escaped out the
back. That meant they had to be upstairs.

Creeping back down the hall, my heart nearly
stopped when I heard a noise in the foyer.

Back pressed against the wall, I edged
closer to the source of the sound. The doorway was only two feet
from me when I saw a figure standing in the open. Weak with relief,
I had to lean against the doorframe for support.

Richard.

“How did you ever become a doctor when you
can’t goddamn follow directions?” I grated.

“Look who’s talking.”

I pressed a finger to my lips to silence
him.

He pointed down the hall where I’d just
come.

I shook my head.

He indicated the floor above us. I
nodded.

Cyn?
I
mouthed.

At the next-door neighbors’. Now what?

I jerked my thumb toward the ceiling.

He shook his head emphatically.
Let’s wait for the cops.

The cops’ arrival might push Myron to pull
the trigger. And if it didn’t, how long would it be before they
could pull in a hostage negotiator and a SWAT team from
Buffalo?

Richard’s anxious gaze implored me to
think this through rationally. He was right. Why
should
we give Myron another two
hostages?

Okay,
I
mouthed.

Richard turned, reached for the screen
door’s handle when we heard scuffling overhead and the muffled
sound of yelling.

Then a gunshot.

Without thinking, I dashed across the foyer
for the stairs, with Richard right behind me. My heart raced as I
hit the landing, saw Myron standing in a doorway, an arm around
Gene’s shoulder, the shotgun jammed under his chin. A hole had been
blasted in the ceiling above them, and powdered plasterboard
clouded the air.