Quiet as the Grave (22 page)

He held his breath.

Please, let the proof be good enough
.

But then he saw the gun.

 

M
IKE ARRIVED AT THE MANSION
a few minutes before midnight. Suzie hadn't kept him long. When he'd asked her to leave, she had simply closed up like a flower in a sudden frost and departed without argument.

The “favor” he'd asked of her had been simple. He'd asked her to go back to Albany, to her town house, and spend the night there. He asked her to study the preliminary photographs she'd taken of Gavin before the portrait, looking for anything that might accidentally have been captured in the background.

She agreed, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that she wasn't sure whether to believe him. She had retreated behind that wall again—she wasn't giving a lot away.

If she didn't think his “errand” was genuine, she probably thought that he'd just lived down to every stereotype in the Dumb Jock book, using her to break his two-year sexual drought, and then shunting her out of the way when he was satisfied.

If she really believed that, she would not be back in the morning.

He hated to hurt her. But he couldn't say the words
that would set her mind at ease. At all costs he had to keep her from guessing the truth, which was that he was meeting Richie. Knowing Suzie, if she suspected anything, she might well pretend to leave, then double back and try to follow him.

His big mistake, of course, had been making love to her in the first place. He should have clung to his self-control a little longer and kept his hands to himself until the whole investigation was behind them.

But he wasn't that strong. When he and Richie met at midnight, the man planned to show Mike a video. Mike had no delusions about Richie's motives. If he wanted to show Mike a film, it was because he believed it would horrify or hurt him. Preferably both.

Mike wanted to go into this ordeal, whatever it was, with the taste of Suzie on his lips, with the memory of her on his skin.

So maybe the selfish-jock label fit after all. He had been using her to satisfy his own needs. The need to remember that, however dark it got, his world still held something wholesome and bright.

Tuxedo Lake communities were conservative, and very few cars were still on the roads this late, so he made good time. When he got to the house—he still thought of it as the Millner mansion, as if he hadn't lived here for nearly six years—he parked his car out on the street.

His spirits were leaden as he walked up the drive. Nothing new there. In all those years he couldn't remember a single happy memory of coming home to this place after his workday.

After his day building boathouses, coming home felt like reporting to prison after work-release. He loved building. Justine had been disgusted to find that
her rich-boy husband actually loved hard, sweaty, absorbing labor, loved being on the water, in the sunlight.

Even Gavin's high, laughing voice, calling
Daddy, Daddy!
hadn't ever completely banished the heaviness that settled over him when he saw the blue tile roof appear through the trees.

Frankly, if it burned to the ground, he would consider the world a cleaner place.

The main wings were completely dark and silent, as he expected them to be. But when he reached the apartment above the garage, he was surprised to see the front door standing open a couple of inches.

Richie hadn't struck him as the type to take risks like that. Any experienced blackmailer had more than a few enemies, victims to whom an unlocked door would be an invitation to redress some grievances up close and personal.

He rapped his knuckles against it sharply. “Graham?”

Nothing.

“Graham, are you there?”

Still nothing. He pushed the door open, again using his knuckles, and scanned the interior without actually entering. He'd learned his lesson finally. He wasn't going to walk into any suspicious location, dropping DNA and fingerprints like a bread crumb trail for the cops to follow. It was bad enough that he'd been in there just that afternoon.

The room appeared to be both uninhabited and undisturbed. The electronics were powered on but silent, their blue control buttons casting a pale opalescence over the nearby furniture. The fish tank bubbled, though its light was off, which reduced the vivid yellow and blue fish to languid silver shadows.

In the shadows of the kitchen, just visible across the room, the refrigerator groaned, cycling through a new tray of ice cubes. The clatter as they fell into their bin was as startling as a gunshot.

Nothing was overtly wrong, and yet, Mike's instincts prickled.

Richie should be here.

He backed out quietly and stood for a minute on the catwalk, surveying the property below. Everything out here seemed normal, too. The grass was pearly gray, washed in the moonlight, which was so bright the trees threw elongated shadows on the lawn.

Could standing him up be merely another of Richie's mind games? Had he never intended to tell Mike anything? Maybe the bastard was at a bar somewhere, picking up an unsuspecting teenager.

Suddenly Mike heard a shout. It sounded a long way off, as if it had come from the water.

He took the stairs quickly, his footsteps echoing in the empty air, and then he hit the grass running. He knew he might be overreacting. He might have imagined the sound, or it might have been an animal, a neighbor, or even a late-night boater whooping it up with a keg of beer.

But he didn't think so.

Just as he reached the edge of the property, something heavy splashed into the lake. He pulled his gun from his jacket pocket and began descending the cliff steps, his feet flying dangerously in the dark.

As he reached the sand, he thought he saw something moving in the shadows of the cliff, and he turned in that direction instinctively. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else—a body, floating facedown in the water.

It had to be Richie. The body was large, and it was dressed in white pants and shirt, both of which billowed slightly, as if they hadn't yet become waterlogged. The drifting hair was dark, and the outstretched arms seemed to glow in the moonlight.

The body was only about twenty yards out, not far from the edge of the dock. Though Mike knew it could easily be too late, he had no choice but to try. When he got to the end of the dock, he took off his jacket, slipped his gun in the pocket, kicked off his shoes and dived into the lake.

He swam hard, his arms churning through the warm, thick water as fast as they could. The body kept receding, as if deliberately teasing him, though he knew it was just the eddies he himself was creating, pushing the body away as he approached.

The lake was deep out here, at least thirty feet, so there was nothing to brace himself on. Treading water, he grabbed the back of Richie's shirt and pulled as hard as he could.

But the body was a deadweight. Mike's forward momentum jerked to a halt, unbalancing him. He went under, and when he resurfaced, the body had floated a few feet farther out.

Damn it.
He tried again. This time he grabbed Richie's left arm, which was utterly limp. He dragged Richie's arm over his shoulder, so that his weight slid forward, onto Mike's back.

The man weighed a ton, so Mike knew he couldn't raise him onto the dock. He'd have to swim all the way to shore. But for Richie to have any chance at all, he'd have to get him breathing soon.

And that was assuming he hadn't already been shot, or stabbed, or skull-crushed by a rock.

“Come on, come on,” Mike said through gritted teeth. He spat out a mouthful of lake water, recentered Richie's deadweight and tried again.

He kept his eye on the shore, calculating his progress. When he was only about ten yards away, he thought he saw something move on the shadowy fringes of the moonlit beach. Something as stealthy as a cat…but bigger…

Where was he, exactly? Was he still in front of the mansion? Had he drifted from center? He scanned the cliffs, trying to place something he could recognize.

And then he saw the stromatolite angel, its misshapen wings hovering over the invisible entrance to the cave.

His skin broke out in gooseflesh as he hit a cold patch of water. A tendril of something that grew in the mud wrapped itself around his ankle.

But he ignored all that, keeping his eye on the angel as a point of reference. From here, it seemed tragic, trapped a few feet above the ground, as if its broken wings were unable to break free and fly.

Without warning, the body behind him jackknifed. Mike froze, an adrenaline surge paralyzing him as the hand in front of his face clenched, then grabbed him hard around the throat.

S
OMEHOW
, M
IKE SNATCHED
a mouthful of air before he went under. He fought against the heavy pressure of the other man's body, trying not to sink so deep that he couldn't fight his way back to the surface.

He opened his eyes, but it was like being blind. He saw nothing—only a thick, wavering blackness.

Had he been a fool? Was he going to die? Had this been Richie's plan all along?

But the body above him wasn't holding him down deliberately. The thrashing was too frantic, too unfocused. As the adrenaline receded, Mike's brain cleared. He knew that Richie had regained consciousness suddenly, and had lashed out in terror.

The man was mindless now. Clawing for purchase, trying to use Mike's body to hold him up.

He would drown them both, if Mike didn't stop him.

He had to escape Richie's panicked clutch. That meant he had to go deeper. It defied his every instinct for survival, but it would also defy Richie's instincts—and right now those instincts were killing them both.

He forced himself to kick out hard. He headed downward, where the water was cold. Vegetation skimmed across his face like unseen hands.

It worked. The other man's fingers clutched his
shirt so long it almost came off over his head, but finally he felt the pressure ease. Richie had let go.

Mike darted sideways. His lungs were bursting. But he kept kicking. Sweeping his arms. Kicking…

And finally found the air.

Miraculously, Richie was still above water, too. His eyes were wide and unfocused. He reached out weakly now, grasping, but finding only water. He was pale. A ghastly disembodied head bobbing on a nightmare lake.

Mike grabbed one of Richie's hands just as he began to sink. The man must have lost consciousness again, which was a good thing—as long as it didn't mean he was dead. Mike flipped him on his back and towed him the last few yards to shore.

Dragging his inert weight up the sand was harder. He had to settle for getting Richie's head and torso clear. He put the heels of his hands on the man's chest and pushed, then pushed again.

Richie groaned. A stream of liquid bubbled out of his mouth, oozing down his cheek and onto the sand. The chest under Mike's hands lifted, fell, and lifted again, all on its own.

After that, just finding his own breath had to take priority. He was going to pass out. He knelt on hands and knees, his hair dripping in his face. He coughed up lake water that tasted of dirt and dead things.

When he had emptied his lungs, they burned, but they seemed to be working, thank God. He turned his attention back to Richie, who hadn't moved an inch.

He put his hand on the man's chest. It was still moving. The heart under the wet shirt was beating, but weakly.

He felt behind Richie's head for a wound. He
checked his neck. Then he looked on the rest of the torso. And that's where he found the blood, about three inches below the heart.

Cursing, he pulled open the shirt. His stomach spasmed, forcing more dirty water into his mouth. Richie's abdomen had a hole in it, not big but deep and clearly dangerous.

A bullet hole, surely. It was too round and symmetrical to be a stab wound.

Mike looked up, his heart pounding. He scanned the cliff line one more time.

This shouldn't be a surprise. He'd always known that drowning wasn't Richie's biggest threat. Just the most immediate.

In the far, far back of his mind, he'd understood all along that Richie hadn't stumbled into the lake. He'd known that it would take more than a push to leave the tough guy unconscious. Someone had rendered Richie helpless first, tossed him in the lake and left him for dead.

The running shadow suddenly became much more important.

He mentally ran through his options. His cell phone and gun were at the end of the dock, about ten yards to his right and then forty feet out into the lake. There was no boathouse—Justine hadn't wanted one. Just the long, exposed stretch of dock.

If a killer really still waited, gun in hand, in the darkness at the edge of the cliff, Mike would make an unmissable target.

But if he stayed here, he'd still be a target. And Richie could easily die. The wound wasn't bleeding much anymore, and his pulse was weak.

He decided to risk it. He didn't know who Richie's
enemy was, or what that person was capable of. But whatever happened, he couldn't just kneel here in the sand and watch Richie fade away.

He had to call for help.

“Hang on, Graham,” he said, though he had no idea whether the man could hear him. “I'll be right back. I'm going to call an ambulance.”

He stood, found his balance and began to jog through the thick sand. He ran every day, so this should have been easy. But he felt uncoordinated, his clothes heavy and awkward. His esophagus still burned, as if the lake water he'd inhaled had been filled with acid.

Once he reached the dock, his feet sprayed clumps of sand as he pounded across the boards. He didn't look over his shoulder at the cliffs. If someone stood there, he didn't want to know. He had to stay focused on reaching the end of the dock and getting that phone.

His jacket still lay in a clump where he'd thrown it before diving in. He squatted and dug in the pockets, feeling first for his gun. Yes, it was there. He hung his head for a second, his neck muscles suddenly weak. He hadn't realized how much that untended gun had worried him until he felt the relief sweep through his veins.

His cell phone was in the jacket pocket, too. He found it, flipped it open with sandy fingers, and dialed 911.

He gave the dispatcher the information quickly but coherently. He knew he was safe now. If the killer had been waiting in the shadows, determined to finish the job of eliminating Richie and prepared to eliminate Mike, too, if necessary, the bullet would have reached him long before he picked up the telephone.

Once Mike actually placed the call, the window of opportunity had closed. The killer would have to run.

Taking a painful breath, Mike retrieved his shoes and jacket. He turned around slowly. He was suddenly exhausted, but he had to go back. He had to tell Richie that help was on its way. He had to encourage the man to hang on, to live.

Mike didn't have any particular love for this arrogant blackmailer—who might well have been the man who drugged Loretta Cesswood, too. In a place deep inside Mike, a hard place that he wasn't proud of, he believed it would be poetic justice if Richie Graham, who had clearly lived by the sword, died by it tonight.

But not before Mike found out the name of the person who had shot him.

One household, two murders—Mike didn't believe there could be two killers. It had to be the same person. He didn't believe in that level of coincidence.

Damn it. He
needed
that name.

But, to his shock, when he turned back the beach was no longer empty. From two different directions, two men were running toward Richie's body.

“Hey!” Mike began to run, too. He was closer, thank God. He pulled his gun out as he ran, and put his thumb on the hammer. “Hey, get away from him!”

Both men halted, their postures shocked, as if they regretted coming down to see what was going on.

One of them even raised his hands, dramatically surrendering to the lunatic running toward him with a gun. Mike was close enough now to recognize the horrified face. It was poor Phil Stott, who lived next door to Justine.

“Mike!” Phil's voice was as high as a girl's. He was wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and his hair was standing in all directions. “Mike, for God's sake, don't shoot. It's me!”

“Damn it, Phil.” Mike transferred his gaze to the other man, who was also frozen in place. He had to work to keep his jaw from dropping.
“Rutledge?”

“What's going on here, Mike?” Rutledge was dressed all in black, but his face was as pale as his hair. “What's wrong with Graham?”

“Somebody shot a hole in his stomach,” Mike said, dispensing with the sugarcoating. He felt angry as hell. Why in God's name was Rutledge here? Phil Stott, yeah, that made sense. He had probably seen something from his backyard and come to investigate.

But Rutledge lived in an apartment on the other side of town.

It smelled bad.

“Phil! What are you doing? What's happening?” A woman's agitated voice carried toward them from the cliffs. Mike looked up in time to see Judy Stott barreling down the stairs that led from her property to the shore. She was in her nightclothes, too, something loose and shapeless that fluttered behind her as she ran.

“Oh, my God,” she cried as she reached the sand and began trying to rush toward them. She wore fuzzy bedroom slippers and kept stumbling over them. “Oh, my God. What's happened?”

She stopped like a cartoon character when she saw the gun in Mike's hands. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

It was the first time Mike had ever seen Judy Stott in disarray. He suddenly understood why she always kept her hair and makeup and clothes so compulsively perfect. She was, under the surface, a sadly unattractive woman.

Of course, he would bet he didn't look like any young girl's dream right now himself.

“I don't know what's happened,” he said. “I think he's been shot. I just pulled him out of the lake. The police will be here any minute.”

Judy might look like a frumpy housewife, but apparently she still felt and acted like a tough school principal. She obviously had grasped the situation faster than either of the men. She brushed past her husband and knelt on the ground beside Richie.

“Don't touch him,” Mike said.

She ignored him, bowing over Richie and placing her ear against his chest.

Mike fell to his knees. He put out a hand and pushed her shoulder, moving her away. The evidence was already compromised enough as it was. Footprints running back and forth across the sand, the wound washed in the lake, fibers and hairs and skin transferred from this gathering crowd…

“Don't touch him, I said.”

In the background, they all heard the wail of sirens. Rutledge and Phil turned toward the sound.

But Mike wondered if Judy even heard it. She was still staring at Richie. She brushed a lock of wet hair from his sandy forehead so tenderly that, instead of swatting her hand away, Mike found himself glancing at Phil, to see if he'd noticed.

He hadn't. Phil stared vacantly up toward the noisy street, where now the trees reflected the flashing blue-and-white lights. He seemed paralyzed, a deer caught in headlights.

Mike looked back to Judy. Her hands rested on Richie's chest.

“Take your hands away,” he said, though he knew it was too late.

She looked up at Mike. Her eyes were wet, shining in the moonlight.

“It doesn't matter anymore,” she said. “He's dead.”

 

S
UZIE PAINTED
until about three in the morning. It had always been her best therapy, and it didn't let her down tonight. This picture was going to be one of her best.

Then, when she needed a break, she went through the mail that had piled up while she was in Tuxedo Lake, living Mike's life instead of her own. She'd neglected everyone so long. One of her friends had been reduced to sending a card saying, “If you're dead, please be so kind as to let me know.” Her water bill was two weeks overdue, and her ivy was living on borrowed time.

She dealt with most of that pretty quickly. Then she showered, brushed her teeth, put on her Snoopy T-shirt, pulled her hair back in a chenille-covered rubber band and climbed in bed.

She'd put all of the preliminary photographs for Gavin's portrait on the table in her third-floor studio. She had flipped through them once, but nothing had popped out at her. She decided to wait until she'd had some sleep, and look at them again in the morning with fresh eyes.

Problem was, she couldn't sleep.

She kept thinking about Mike, which infuriated her. She was not one of those pathetic women who let an unrequited love dominate her life. She didn't sit around thinking of ways to get him back, or to make him pay.

She rolled over and tried to find a cool spot on the sheets.

Nope, she wasn't that kind of woman at all.

Or was she?

The problem was, she didn't really have any scientific evidence about what she'd do now that she was cursed with an unrequited love.

Because she hadn't ever actually been in love before.

She punched her pillow irritably.

It was true. That thing she'd felt for Mike when they were in high school—that had been just a crush. A big, bad, hairy, steroid-enhanced crush, to be sure.

But not love.

This
was love. This need to know, every single minute, if he was safe, if he was happy, if he was missing her.

This was love. This fury with anyone who hurt him. This longing to fill his life with white roses and blue kitchens, just because he had sounded so sad when he spoke of them.

This aching to fight with him, make love with him, face hell with him.

This sense that her beautifully constructed dream life had been built over a sinkhole, and the ground was starting to buckle, exposing the big empty place where her man should be.

Yeah, this was love. What a bummer.

Finally, she slept a little, restlessly. When her doorbell rang at about 5:00 a.m., she knew it was Mike.

She bounded out of bed, cast a longing look at her chest of drawers, where she had at least two perfectly gorgeous lacy nightgowns, but decided what the heck. If she played this right, she'd be out of this ugly Snoopy shirt in a very few minutes anyhow.

She flew down the stairs and twisted open the dead
bolt. Love apparently wasn't very good at playing hard to get, either. She practically threw herself into his arms and dragged him into her living room, kissing him all over his face.

He held her so tightly it hurt, but she didn't care. She wanted to be that close, because for the past six hours she'd felt so far away.