Shrouded in Darkness (Shrouded Series) (32 page)

“I don’t particularly care what you think. But I do care about Miracell.” He lifted the gun and waved it to one side. “Move away from the computer. I want those copies.”

“You’re too late.”

Malcolm frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They’re gone.” He edged away from the computer. “They don’t exist. Got it?”

“You’re lying. Only a fool would destroy them.”

Jake watched cautiously as Malcolm rushed over to the desk and attempted to pull one empty file after another from the computer. He backed away from Malcolm. Maybe, just maybe he might get out of the lab without getting shot at.

Swearing loudly, Malcolm whipped around. His eyes flared with hatred. “You stupid idiot! How could you?”

Jake tensed. For a second, he thought the gun would go off then and there.

“We’re talking millions. Do you know what a person can do with that type of money? Do you!”

“I really don’t give a shit.” Jake lifted a brow and rammed Malcolm’s words right back at him. “Life’s not that simple. Haven’t you learned that yet?”

Face mottled an ugly red, Malcolm swore again and kicked viciously at the garbage can. The contents inside spewed into the air and onto the floor.

Malcolm lifted the gun suddenly. Jake saw the flash. No time to react. A shot blasted, whizzing by but missing him. Too damn close. Inches if that. He aimed a shoulder and dove into Malcolm’s gut. The gun spun into the air. It clattered to the floor, and skidded across the tile to butt up against a cabinet door to his right.

They both went for the gun. He grabbed onto Malcolm’s jacket to keep him from getting there first. The corner of the desk slammed into Jake’s hip. He blinked and struggled with the pain, desperately keeping his grip on Malcolm’s jacket. Malcolm rammed an elbow into his throat, tore from his grasp and shoved him aside. Choking, Jake landed hard on his stomach and saw Malcolm scramble for the gun.

No, damn it.

Swiveling, Jake kicked out. His toe connected with the handle and the gun darted across the floor, parallel to his shoulder. He lunged for it. His fingers closed over the warm handle. With the other hand, he struggled to his feet with the help of the desk while Malcolm raced around the chair toward the front door.

Before Jake had a chance to use the gun, Malcolm had opened the door and escaped outside.

The sound of a gunshot shattered the quiet, morning air. Margot dropped the bag of trash she’d carried outside. With a cry, she sprinted around the corner of the veranda toward the lab. Jake was down there!

Just as she reached the side of the house...someone came rushing from the lab. For one second she thought it was Jake. But the runner didn’t have the easy, smooth gate of Jake. No, this man was thinner, shorter and—

Malcolm!

He plunged to his left and through the knee deep snow butted up against the building. Rounding the corner, he stumbled to a stop and pivoted until he stood half hidden from the open lab door. He stood hunched as if waiting to strike. An instant later Jake barreled out of the door. The snow and sun reflected off something in Jake’s hand. Metallic silver blinked, once, twice.

A gun.

Hunched over, Jake edged toward the corner where Malcolm waited. At the same time, she saw Malcolm pick something up from the ground. Frowning, she hurried down the steps. She couldn’t see—Oh, God. A shovel. Malcolm hefted it up in both hands as if to weigh it.

Margot leapt down the last two steps. “Jake! Look out!”

At her voice, both men looked up, but Malcolm moved first. He lifted the shovel, leapt forward and swung it at Jake. The metal hit the side of Jake’s head. She recoiled. Even from this far away she heard the sickening thud of metal against flesh and bone. The force of the shovel sent Jake sprawling to the ground. He didn’t move, didn’t do anything. Just lay there like some broken and abused doll. He was probably unconscious. He could even be—

“No!”

Her cry of pain and anguish exploded from her lungs as she stumbled forward.

Malcolm turned in her direction and threw the shovel aside. It landed against a snowdrift. Once deadly, now harmless on its own. But Malcolm was far from harmless. She stilled, feeling his threat even with the distance between them. A sudden fear, not for Jake, but for her own safety crawled across her skin. She edged backward.

Then Malcolm was running, running right toward her.

Margot whipped around and raced up the stairs to the front door. She opened, slammed and locked it behind her. The phone.

She needed to call for help. She grabbed the receiver from the one in the hall. No dial tone.

No. No. This couldn’t be happening. It was a nightmare. Things like this just didn’t happen.

Her breathing became more ragged, labored and hard to grasp. She dropped the receiver just as Malcolm started twisting the knob and banging against the door.

“Margot!” Malcolm’s voice, hard and urgent, penetrated into the house. “Let me in! I’m not going to hurt you.”

Full-blown hysterical laughter peeled past her lips. Margot backed along the wall toward the kitchen. She needed to get a grip, push back the fear if she wanted to survive—

Think. Think. If Malcolm had the gun, it wouldn’t take him long to use it on the lock and blow it open. Her cell phone. Yes. In her purse. The kitchen. With her gaze fixed on the front door, she edged to the threshold of the kitchen, then rushed to the counter and her purse.

She dove into her purse, rifling through the mess, flinging wallet, receipts and pens wildly out onto the counter and floor but couldn’t find her cell.

Glass shattered from the back door’s window right beside her. Shards bounced off her arm and caught in her hair. She jumped back and screamed. Malcolm’s arm appeared from outside as he reached inside for the dead bolt.

Lurching to the door, she punched his hand with a fist. Once, twice. It didn’t do a thing. Stupid. So stupid. She needed a knife not her stupid hand. He managed to grasp the lock.

“Damn it, Margot. Calm down. I just want to come in and talk to you.”

“Liar. You sick liar!”

She ran to the drawer where she kept the knives. Just as she opened the drawer, the lock snapped open with a loud clink. She glanced back to the door. In one second, Malcolm would have that door open and be inside. No, time. No, time. Even if she did get a knife in her hands, the thing would probably end up being used against her.

Her boot heel squealed against the linoleum floor as she twisted around and dashed across the floor and out of the room. Just as the kitchen door banged open, she grabbed the baluster. Margot tumbled up the stairs, using one hand on the railing to pull herself up faster. If she could just get into the bathroom. It was the only place in the upper floor with a lock. But that wasn’t going to stop Malcolm. Not if he had a gun. Or did he? She’d just assumed—

Margot couldn’t remember. Think. She couldn’t think. Did Malcolm get the gun from the ground by the lab? She hadn’t seen him pick it up.

Then she realized the bathroom was out of the question. There was no window, no other exit other than the one door. It had to be her bedroom. Maybe if she could get through the window and up on the porch roof, she could backtrack to the kitchen and get the car keys.

She hit the landing and turned sharply right and into her room just as she heard footsteps, heavy and rapid in the hall below. It wouldn’t take but moments for him to come charging in here. She looked around the room in indecision. She didn’t have a gun; she didn’t have anything to stop him from walking through that door and killing her. She glanced around. The dresser. It was big, heavy, and wouldn’t hold long. There was no carpet to lock the dresser legs against the floor. But it could delay Malcolm and give her a couple more minutes to plan, to think, to live.

She rushed over to the dresser and shoved her shoulder against the side, grunting and digging her heels into the floor. The dresser’s legs squealed a protest as she pushed it across the hardwood floor and up against the door.

Something slammed against the door, shaking the dresser. Malcolm. He hit the door again. The dresser gave several inches. She didn’t know how long it would keep Malcolm at bay.

Panicked, she glanced around and saw the window. She raced over, snapped the locks and slid the window open.

The bedroom door shuddered again. She looked over her shoulder with dread. The dresser had inched further across the floor and the door had opened a crack. She could hear Malcolm’s heavy breathing from the other side. He shoved at the door. The dresser legs slid even more across the floor. Malcolm’s hand appeared in the widening gap. No gun. But he could have it hidden in his other hand.

She banged on the screen until it snapped off at one corner. Then she pushed the remainder of the frame off with her shoulder.

The screen fell to the roof of the veranda and skidded across the sloped overhang for several feet. Cold air slapped at her skin as she ducked her head outside and looked around. She stood directly above the veranda.

The roof from here was probably a fifteen-foot drop. But further down, on the other side of the house, it sloped downward several feet. From there, she could hang from the side and hope to hell the shorter drop and layer of snow cushioned her fall. Then she could sneak back in the kitchen and get her keys to the car and get help.

Jake.

She couldn’t get a clear view of the lab area from here. She wondered if he was unconscious, mortally wounded or already dead. No. She couldn’t, wouldn’t think of him in that light. Otherwise, she might just give up.

What to do? What to do? A gun really stacked the deck against her. She also needed to consider Malcolm’s strength. He might be thin, but he was still pounds heavier than her, and had more muscle and power in that frame of his.

For several terrifying seconds she stood in complete uncertainty, but the widening gap between the door and the frame spurred her into action. Taking a deep breath, she flexed her fingers, gripped the window seal and lifted a leg over the ledge to the outside.

She straddled the ledge and tried not to think of losing her footing and sliding off the roof.

Malcolm grabbed her arm and yanked her backward and into the room. “Oh, no you don’t.”

Grunting, she twisted away and stumbled. She caught a palm against the wall and pushed, launching herself away from Malcolm and across the bed. He caught her ankle and pulled. Crying out in fear, Margot clawed at the mattress. The comforter bunched between her fingers. She slid backwards, losing ground. She grabbed the edge of the mattress and pulled frantically at its edge. Her muscles screamed in protest as she tried to gain ground, but she found it impossible. Malcolm was just too strong! It would be only a matter of minutes before he had his hand wrapped around her throat instead of her leg. She kicked back with both feet, trying to shake free of Malcolm’s vise-like grip. Her foot connected with something solid.

Malcolm grunted. “Damn it!”

Panting, Margot twisted back and forth, jerking her ankle, again and again. He wouldn’t let go! She rolled on her side, and glanced back. Face flushed, teeth gritted into a savage grimace, Malcolm hunched over her and now had both hands bolted around her ankle. This time she aimed with her free leg, snapping her heel back into Malcolm’s groin.

He cried out but somehow managed to keep his hands glued to her ankle.

A loud bang crashed into the room.

A gunshot? Margot stiffened. That couldn’t be. She twisted around, but Malcolm’s hand on her back shoved her against the mattress.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked from above her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her back as Margot squirmed and bucked.

“What I should have done months ago.” Anger and rage dripped from the person’s voice.

“For God’s sake, don’t—”

Another blast resounded inside the four walls—a gunshot. A new burst of terror gripped Margot’s mind and jerked her body into motion.

Frantic, she clawed at the bedding as Malcolm landed on top of her. His full weight crushed her against the mattress and shoved her face into the comforter. Struggling for air, she turned her head to the side and inhaled sharply, smelling linen, dust and something else she couldn’t define. She wiggled and twisted from beneath him until she turned to her side. Her hip hit his stomach and she stared at his face. Malcolm grabbed at her shoulders. His dull nails bruised her skin as disbelief and fear flashed in his blue eyes.

Then he stilled, his hands limp on her arms, his body once heavy, now unbearable.

Sightless eyes stared at her, while blood from a wound in his cheek dripped onto her brow. She shoved at the suffocating pressure of his body with the flats of her hands. Using her knees as added leverage, she pushed out from under Malcolm. Blessed air scraped into her lungs.

She scrambled off the edge of the bed. Joyce she stood in front of the doorway to the hall. A gun rested in her right hand.

Rising to her full height, Margot clutched at the bed’s foot board to keep herself from falling. Her entire body shook in reaction.

“Y—you saved my life,” Margot managed to get out.

Joyce stared back, an unfamiliar expression on her face.

“He was going to kill me.” Margot’s voice strengthened. “If you hadn’t come when you had...” Feeling her legs start to buckle, Margot lowered herself to the bed but froze. Blood stained the daisy comforter. Malcolm, his face buried, his hair matted with blood, lay motionless on the bed.

Dead.

Margot’s stomach rolled with nausea and she quickly turned away and faced Joyce once again.

Joyce blinked rapidly, but tears welled from her eyes and trailed down a red, blotchy face. “The bastard. He deserves to die. He killed my brother.”

“Why did he murder Carl? Do you know?” Margot took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her heart still hammered like crazy inside her chest.

“It all started with your brother’s death. Carl began asking questions after that. I know he was hiding something about the car accident. I found this strange guy’s wallet in Carl’s desk drawer. It took me the longest time to try to figure out why my brother would hold onto something like that. I uncovered a couple other things to where I think someone else died in that crash—was even murdered—and John’s alive somewhere. I think Carl covered it all up to protect John either from Malcolm or from being arrested for murder. I never could figure out which one, but I do know he did it because of you. He loved you, you know. He would have done anything for you. And you didn’t give a shit.”