Keepsake (39 page)

Of course. Her friend Maggie. The woman who had accompanied her to the ABA convention. He’d forgotten she lived so close by.

He’d cruised by the house and found a rare parking slot a block away. He waited nearly an hour, hoping she hadn’t once again
slipped out a back way.

Turned out to be a very good thing he’d rented the car. When she left, she drove away in a green Toyota, and she wasn’t wasting
any time in getting out of the area.

Keeping well behind, he followed her.

All the way to the Cape.

The cottage looked much smaller than she remembered it. She’d noticed that before about things from childhood—to a child everything
seems larger than life.

Even allowing for the changes that thirty years of wear and tear and little care had wrought, the place was pretty sad. There
was a narrow living room area—
no
TV, she noted—as you stepped inside, with a sink, an ancient two-burner stove, and a half-size refrigerator toward the rear.
The bedroom was separated from the main part of the cottage by a ragged curtain. Within it was a sagging double bed that April
could have sworn was the same one that had been there thirty years before. It had a knotty pine headboard at one end that
she remembered. Had the mattress ever been changed? She sat down on it and sighed. Probably not!

There was dust everywhere, and dirt ingrained in the cracks between the floorboards. This, at least, was different. When she
and Rina had spent those summer weeks here, the place had been spotless.

And the new curtains had fluttered over what were now small, grimy windowpanes…

Why am I here?

She sat down in a battered chair in the living room, suddenly depressed. And tired. She’d been on the run since early in the
morning, and she’d had very little sleep last night. She didn’t know exactly what she was running from, and it seemed totally
futile to have come to this place. Her memories were not going to help her understand her mother. Everything that had happened
to change Rina had happened
after
those weeks they’d spent here, in this tiny cottage.

She picked up the photograph with its now-cracked frame. She stared at it, seeing the cottage in the background, the number
seven painted in a big white numeral by the front door. The number was still there, but the paint had faded. Everything had
faded, even her memories.

She’d have to replace the glass. Maybe have the thing reframed while she was at it. Get a decent frame. This one was loose,
from the fall this morning, probably. It had always bothered her that a photograph that her mother had left her as her only
personal memento had come in a cheap tin frame.

She stared at the loose frame and thought, for some reason, about the day she’d gone rollerblading in Central Park. Going
past the museum, seeing a crate full of picture frames being unloaded, being in the museum with Kate, listening to a lecture
on framing.
The importance of the frame to a work of art cannot be overestimated
…

Ohmigod.

She turned the photograph over and began to pry the heavy cardboard back off the picture. It ought to slide down through the
metal rims of the frame, but it was very stiff. The cracked glass protested, and cracked a little more as she pulled the thing
apart, impatient now…

The cardboard backing came away. Out came the glass and the photograph, and tucked between the picture and the backing was
a 3 ½-inch computer diskette.

Inscribed on the label were the words, “Rina de Sevigny: Autobiography.”

“I don’t believe it,” she whispered.

She’d had the missing diskette all along.

And now here she was in the middle of nowhere, far from Kate, without a computer. She had the missing document in her hands,
but without the laptop, it was useless to her.

Oh, Kate, Kate. Where are you when I need you?

She thought briefly of getting back in the car and driving back to Boston. She could use Maggie’s computer, or even take the
shuttle back to New York.

But she was here, and she was tired. Tomorrow morning, she decided. Her curiosity, powerful though it was, could wait one
more night.

It was earlier than her usual bedtime, but she might as well sleep. Get up early. The sooner she fell alseep, the sooner morning
would come and this mystery would be, at last, resolved.

She pulled out her nightgown and got ready for bed.

The place was perfect.

Small. Isolated. Hardly any people around, except one old guy in the office. So much for the Target’s brain-power. Picking
this dump had been a stupid move.

She was alone, and soon he’d fix it so she had nowhere to run.

She was history.

He’d wait until full dark. When she was deeply asleep he’d slip in there and take her.

She had hurt him—hurt his eyes. Humiliated him as well. Made him abort his job, and damaged his reputation. For that she was
going to pay. She was going to die slow. No need to bother about the client’s stupid instructions. No need to do anything…
except enjoy.

So many times over the past few days he’d imagined what he was going to do to that slim female body. He’d played it out in
every detail. No need to worry this time about making it look like an accident. It would be artful, elegant. Yeah, and slow.

He’d brought the necessary items, including rope, duct tape, and several appropriate tools of the trade.

Her arms and legs tightly bound.

Another piece of rope—a relatively short piece—would be tied in a slip-knot around her neck and secured to the headboard.
When he began to torture her, the pain would make her struggle. It was a response she would have no control over. And as she
struggled, the ligature around her neck would be pulled taut. Eventually she would strangle herself.

She would know what was happening. She would understand. She would see that surviving depended on not reacting to the torture,
and for a while he would allow her to think that she could control her reactions… could, perhaps, survive. Then slowly, inexorably,
he would demonstrate that pain was her master. He would watch her hope change to panic, her panic to despair. And in the end,
she would welcome death.

The thought of her alone and vulnerable in the dark was
unbearably exciting. He wanted to go in now, get started. Savor it. Make it last.

Patience, he told himself.

Killing time until killing time.

Despite her weariness, April had difficulty falling asleep. She lay awake in the darkness for more than an hour, tossing and
turning on the sagging, lumpy mattress. She heard little scratching sounds outside that might have either been branches brushing
the walls of the cottage or perhaps the vermin which had inspired the call to the exterminators.

She fell into a troubled sleep.

And came awake sharply as a hand smoothly covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming and a powerful arm held her down
on the bed.

“Shh. It’s me,” said a familiar voice.

Blackthorn!

She felt a moment of pure panic.

Somehow he had followed her. He had come to kill her, and this time she would not escape.

“April, I know something spooked you, but you’re going to have to trust me.” His voice was clipped and she
could hear no softness or sympathy there. He was on her bed, holding her down. His legs were straddling her thighs with only
a musty sheet between them. “You have no choice. The killer’s outside.”

She stared up at him in the darkness. She could only see a dim outline of his face and she couldn’t read his expression. He
kept his hand over her mouth, taking no chances that she might scream.

“I crawled in through one of the back windows. I’m reasonably certain he didn’t see me, but it was pure luck. Until I got
here, I didn’t realize anybody else was following you.”

She shook her head. I don’t believe you, she tried to convey. There was nobody outside. It wasn’t possible. His being here
wasn’t possible. How had he found her?

“You were wearing a wire,” he said as if he read her thought. “You didn’t know it, but ever since the day you took off rollerblading
in Central Park, we’ve been monitoring you electronically. So far it’s worked pretty well.” He touched the silver necklace
at her throat. “There’s a remote tracking device in your necklace. Another one is hidden in the briefcase that you take to
the office every day. It was the first one that led me here. Thank God you kept it on when you decided to flee me.”

Yes, she thought, she’d kept it on. That meant something, didn’t it?

“When you got on the Amtrak train, I went to the airport. Was in Boston before you. Rented a car and simply followed, staying
fifteen minutes behind you. Unless he also planted electronics on you—which I doubt—the killer was a lot tighter on your tail.”

Again she shook her head. She writhed against his hands, not violently, but trying to let him know that she hated being restrained.

“April, why did you leave like that? What frightened you? You were acting skittish all evening. Are you suspicious of me?”

She nodded.

“You think I’m in some way responsible? That I had something to do with Rina’s death?” He sounded completely baffled at the
thought.

If I had only been able to read the diskette, she thought. Then I’d know. There wouldn’t be this nagging doubt.

“Well, whatever you believe, you’re going to have to trust me now, at least for a little while. He looked like he was getting
ready to move… we don’t have much time.”

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see him better now. Why would he lie at this point in the game? She was
completely at his mercy. He could do whatever he wanted, and get away with it.

Tentatively, he lifted his hand from her mouth. “Just keep quiet, okay?”

“Give me a reason to trust you, Rob,” she whispered.

He considered. “Because you love me?”

“That’s a lousy reason!”

“How about because I love you.”

She swallowed. Something in the pit of her stomach seemed to fall away. She closed her eyes. “If you’re going to kill me now,
just do it and get it over with.”

“What I’d like to do is slap some sense into you,” he said savagely. “You’d better have a damn good reason for this… that’s
all I can say. Otherwise, when we get back to New York, I’m going to take you over to Isobelle’s place and borrow one of her
whips. I can’t believe that you—” He cut himself off. There was a low sound at the door.

Blackthorn abruptly pulled her off the bed and down to the floor. She saw him fumbling at his belt as he found
and drew his weapon—a large snub-nose handgun. “Roll under the bed. Lie flat and cover your head with your arms.”

She obeyed, lying on her belly and pulling her arms up so they were mostly covering her head. It didn’t prevent her from looking,
however. The foot of the bed was turned toward the front of the cottage, and from underneath with the dust (and, doubtless,
the cockroaches) she could see the bottom of the door.

Blackthorn rearranged the pillows and blankets, then moved silently away from her into the kitchen area six feet away. She
could see his legs, taking cover to the side of the refrigerator. His gun was directed at the cottage door. It had a flimsy
lock.

They heard the faintest squeak, then the door swung silently inward. It was difficult to see because of the darkness in the
cottage and the stealth of the invader. April imagined herself asleep in bed, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, waking to the
same horror that had nearly overtaken her in her bathroom less than two weeks ago.

As she watched his shadow slink into the cottage, she was damp with sweat and her heart was slamming into the floor. All she
could see were his legs as he moved towards them. He was wearing jeans and sneakers or running shoes similar to the ones he’d
worn the first time he’d tried to kill her.

He was closer now. Could he see the bed in the darkness? Could he see that although the covers were tousled, there was no
one there?

She wished Blackthorn weren’t so far away! She hoped—oh, God!—she hoped he would be quick, and if he had to shoot, accurate…

“That’s far enough,” she heard Rob say. The place was
flooded with light as he hit the switch in the kitchen wall. “Drop the knife and hit the floor.”

Morrow whirled toward the sound, raising the knife, tightening his arm and shoulder for the throw. He was quick and fast with
a knife, but the bullet was faster. He heard the crack before he felt the pain. In fact, there was no pain, simply an impact
in his chest knocking him backwards, against the bed, grabbing and reaching, feeling things slip from his hands and the floor
heaving upwards at his face.

As he rolled onto his side, doubled up, he saw her face. There beside him on the floor. Her eyes staring into his, but not
in agony or in supplication. Not acknowledging his power and surrendering to his will. No fear, even, nor anger. No, she was
looking at him in worry… or concern.

As his eyes closed he heard her voice. “Don’t die, dammit!” she cried.

Why not? he wondered. Why should she, of all people, care if he died? She should be triumphant. She had defeated him for the
second and final time.

“Who hired you?” she demanded. Vaguely he felt her shaking his stiffening body. “Who paid you to kill my mother? Who sent
you so persistently after me?”

He was ready to tell her. Why not? He felt no loyalty. She’d proved to be a worthy adversary. Let her have her revenge.

He would have told her, if he could have spoken before the darkness closed…

“You killed him,” April said.

Blackthorn rolled the killer over, studied the wound, felt the throat for a pulse. “He’s alive. High chest, right
side—he’s got a chance. Breathing’s steady. There’s no phone here, right? Run to the office and wake that old geezer. Smash
the window if he doesn’t answer and dial 911.”

“If he dies we won’t have a witness against the person who hired him.”

“The bastard deserves to die,” he growled. “But, yeah, you’re right. Hurry. I know some first aid.”