Twice Dead (17 page)

Sam nodded and drank more lemonade.

After they'd left ten minutes later to go grocery shopping, Becca cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs. She made her bed and straightened the bedroom. She didn't want to have anything to do with Adam Carruthers, but she sighed and walked down to his bedroom. The bed was neatly made. Nothing was out in plain sight. She walked over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer. Underwear, T-shirts, and a couple of folded cotton shirts. Nothing else. She pulled his dark blue carryall out from under the bed. She lifted it on top of the bed and slowly started to pull back the long zipper.

The phone rang. She nearly leapt three feet in the air. The phone rang again.

She had to run downstairs, as that was the only phone in the house. She'd started using her cell phone again but it had run out of power and was recharging. She picked it up on the sixth ring. “Hello.”

Breathing. Slow, deep breathing.

“Hello? Who's there?”

“Hello, Rebecca. It's your boyfriend.”

Her brain nearly shut down. She stared at the phone, not believing, not wanting to believe, but it was him, the stalker, the man who murdered that poor old woman, the man who shot the governor in the neck.

He'd found her. Somehow he'd found her. She said, “The governor's alive. You're not so great after all, are you? You didn't kill him. You were so ill informed, you didn't even know there would be a bunch of doctors around him.”

“Maybe I didn't want to kill him.”

“Yeah, right.”

“All right, so the bastard is still breathing. At least he won't be climbing into your bed anytime soon. Hear he's having a tough time talking and eating. He needed to lose a few pounds anyway.”

“You killed Dick McCallum. You made him tell those lies about me and then you killed him. How much did you pay him? Or did you threaten to kill him if he didn't do as you asked?”

“Where did you get all this information, Becca?”

“It's true.”

Silence.

“Nobody could have found me. The FBI, the NYPD, nobody. How did you find me?”

He laughed, a rich, mellow laugh that made her want to vomit. How old was he? She couldn't tell. Think, she told herself, listen and think. Keep him talking. Use your brain. Is he young or old? Accent? Listen for clues. Make him admit to murdering Dick.

“I'll tell you when I see you, Becca.”

She said very deliberately, very slowly, “I don't want to see you. I want you to go someplace and die. That or turn yourself in to the cops. They'll fry you. That's what you deserve. Why did you run down Dick McCallum?”

“And just what do you think you deserve?”

“Not this bullshit from you. Are you going to try to kill the governor again?”

“I haven't made up my mind yet. I know now that he isn't sleeping with you, but only because he doesn't know where you are. An old man like that. You should be ashamed of yourself, Rebecca. Remember Rockefeller croaking when he was with his mistress? That could be you and the governor. Best not do him again. But you're a little slut, aren't you? Yeah, you'll probably call him so he can come sleep with you some more.”

Why hadn't she had the phone tapped? Because neither she nor Adam dreamed he'd find her here in Riptide and call her.

“You murdered Dick McCallum, didn't you? Why?”

“You're all confident again, aren't you? You've been away from me for only a couple of weeks, but you're all pissy again. Too confident, Rebecca. I'm coming for you very soon now.”

“Listen, you come anywhere near me and I'll blow your head off.”

He laughed, throaty, deep laughter, indulgent laughter. Was he young? Maybe, but she couldn't be sure. “You can try, certainly. It'll add some spice to the chase. I'll see to you soon. Real soon, count on it.”

He hung up before she could say anything more. She stood there, staring blankly at the old-fashioned black phone, staring and knowing, knowing deep inside her that it was all over. Or it soon would be. How could anyone protect her from a madman? She'd done the best she could and yet he'd found her, nearly as easily as Adam had.

How had he found her? Did he have as many contacts as Adam? Evidently so. No, she wasn't going to give up and let him come to kill her. No, she would fight.

She laid the phone into the cradle and walked slowly from the living room. She was tired, infinitely tired. She couldn't stand there in the middle of Jacob Marley's house, she couldn't. She felt itchy from the inside out, and cold, very cold. Nearly numb.

She loaded her Coonan .357 Magnum automatic, slipped it in the pocket of her jacket, and walked to the woods where she'd confronted Adam two days before. Had it really been only two days? She sat down in front of the tree where he'd been doing his tae kwon do exercise. She looked at the spot where she'd stood, pointing her gun at him, so afraid she'd thought she'd choke on it. But she hadn't had time to shoot or to choke. He'd kicked the gun out of her hand before she could draw two breaths. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the tree. Would the stalker have as easy a time with her as Adam? Probably so.

She closed her eyes and let her mind shut down. She saw her mother, laughing down at her—she couldn't have been more than seven years old and she was trying to do a cheerleading chant. Then her mom had showed her how to do it and it had been so wonderful, so perfect. Her mother's laughter, so sweet, filling her, making her warm and happy. She rubbed her wrist where Adam had kicked the gun out of her hand. It didn't hurt, but there was memory of the cold numbness that had lasted for a good five minutes. Where was he? Why had he left?

Adam was back at Jacob Marley's house and he was so scared for a moment he couldn't think. She was gone. The door was open but she was gone. There were even two lights on but she was gone. The stalker had gotten her. No, no, that was ridiculous. He was the only one who had found her.

He searched every room in the house. He saw his carryall lying on top of his bed. It looked like she'd started unzipping it and then, for whatever reason, had walked out of the room, leaving it there for him to see.

Why? Where had she gone? Her car was in the driveway, so she couldn't have gone far ... unless someone took her.

Don't panic.
She'd gotten a call, something of an emergency. She'd gone to Tyler's house. It had to do with Sam. The kid was sick, yeah, that was it.

But she wasn't there, no one was home. He drove by the Food Fort, the gas station, the hospital but he didn't see her, he could drive all over this town and not find her.

He drove slowly back to the house. He cut the engine and sat in his black Jeep, his forehead against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

Where are you, Becca
?

He didn't know why he raised his head and twisted around to look toward the woods. And in that instant he knew she was there. But why? It took him three minutes to find her.

She was asleep. He came up on her very quietly. She didn't stir. She was leaning against the tree trunk, her right hand in her lap. She was holding the Coonan, its polished silver stock gleaming from the slashes of sun through the tree branches.

Had he seen that flash of silver? He didn't know how he could have, yet he'd known she was there. Why couldn't he have had this marvelous intuition before he'd scared himself spitless?

He came down on his haunches. He looked at her, wondering what had made her come out here. He saw dried tear streaks down her cheeks. Everything had gotten to be too much for her, and no wonder. She looked pale, too thin. He looked at her fingers curled around the trigger of the Coonan, at her nails, short and ragged. He touched his fingertips to her cheek. Her flesh was soft to the touch. He lightly stroked her cheek. Then, slowly, he shook her shoulder.

“Becca. Come on, wake up.”

She came awake instantly at the sound of a man's voice, the Coonan up and ready to fire. She heard him curse, then felt the gun fly out of her hand. Her wrist was instantly numb. “Not again.”

“You nearly shot me.”

It was Adam. She looked up at him and smiled. “I thought it was him. Sorry.”

His heart began to slow. He eased down beside her. “What's up?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. I couldn't find you and I nearly lost my mind trying to figure out where you were. You scared me, Becca. I thought he'd taken you.”

“No, I'm here. I'm sorry. I didn't think. So how'd you find me?”

He shrugged. He didn't want to tell her that he knew very suddenly exactly where she was. He would sound nuts. She didn't need anyone else around her sounding nuts.

“How long will my wrist be numb this time?”

“Not more than five minutes. Don't whine. Did you expect me to let you shoot me?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You look tired. Better if you'd taken a nap in your bed than come out here to snore beneath the tree. It might not be all that safe.” That was one of the best understatements out of his mouth yet.

“Why? The only one who was ever lurking outside here was you, and you're not lurking out here anymore. You've moved right into the house.” She sighed. “I don't know why I came out here. I couldn't stand to stay in the house alone anymore.”

He said again, “You scared me, Becca. Please don't take off again without leaving me a note.”

She looked up at him, her face so pale now it was nearly as white as winter sleet, and said in a dead voice, “He's found me. He called.”

“He?” But he knew. Oh yeah, the stalker had found her and he hated it, had dreaded it, but he'd known it would happen. This guy was good. Too good. He had contacts. Whoever he was, he knew people, knew how to use them to get what he wanted. Adam was sure he'd been on her the minute she'd left New York. Still, it surprised him. More than that it scared him to his soul. He hated that surge of fear, deep and corroding. He could almost smell the flames. The fire was coming closer.

“All right, so he called. Get a grip.” He stopped, grinned at her. “Oh yeah, I'm talking to myself, not you. Now, what did he say? Did he tell you how he found you? Did he say anything that would help us pinpoint him?”

He'd said “us.” She had felt utterly frozen inside, then he'd said “us.” Slowly, she began to feel a shift deep inside her. She wasn't alone anymore.

She looked up at him and smiled. “I'm glad you're here, Adam.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

“Even though you're gay?”

He looked at her mouth, then jumped fast to his feet. A man did better when temptation wasn't one inch from his face. He looked down at her, then offered his hand. “Yeah, right. Now come on back to the house. I want you to write down everything you can remember him saying. Okay?”

She got a look on her face that was hard and cold and determined. Good, he thought, she wasn't going to lie down and let this guy kick her like a dog.

“Let's do it, Adam.”

They walked side by side up the steps to the veranda. They were nearly to the front door, and he was thinking that he needed to show her again that he wasn't gay, when a shot rang out, and a knife-sharp chunk of wood flew off the door frame not two inches from Becca's head and slammed into Adam's bare arm.

FOURTEEN

Adam twisted the doorknob, pushed the door in, and shoved Becca into the entrance hall in an instant, and still it seemed too slow. Another bullet struck the lintel right over his head, spewing splinters in all directions. None struck him this time. He slammed the front door, then grabbed Becca's arm and dragged her out of the line of fire.

He came down on his knees beside her. “Sorry to throw you around. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. He's a monster, crazy. It's got to stop, Adam. It's got to.” He watched her jerk her Coonan out of her jacket pocket and crawl to one of the front windows. He was right behind her. “Becca, no, wait a minute. I want you to stay down. This is my job.”

“He's after me, not you,” she said calmly and, slowly, very cautiously, leaned up to look out of the corner of the window. He thought he'd collapse of fright right then.

Another two shots came at heart level through the front door, spewing shards of wood into the entrance hall. Another shot. Becca saw the flash of light. She didn't hesitate, fired off all seven rounds. He heard the
click click click
when there were no more bullets in the magazine.

There was dead silence. Adam was on his knees right behind her, furious with himself because his Delta Elite was in his carryall in the guest bedroom. “Becca? I want you to stay right here. Don't move. I've got to get my gun. Stay down.”

She gave him a quick look. “Go ahead and don't worry. We're not helpless. I hit him, I know it, Adam.”

“Stay down.”

“It's okay.” He watched her pull another magazine out of her jacket pocket. He stared at her as she slowly, calmly shoved it into the Coonan.

“Go get your gun,” she said, looking out the window, her back to him. “If I didn't hit him, I can at least keep him away from the house.”

He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was up the stairs and to the bedroom in three seconds flat. When he came back downstairs, his pistol in his hand, Becca hadn't moved. “I haven't seen a thing,” she called out. “Do you think maybe I was lucky enough to hit him?”

“I plan to find out. Keep a sharp lookout. And don't shoot me.”

And then he was gone before she could draw a breath. She heard him walk quickly through the kitchen, then the back door opened and closed very quietly. She prayed she'd hit him. Maybe right in his throat, where he'd hit the governor. Or in the gut. He deserved that for killing that poor old bag lady. She waited, waited, not moving, watching for Adam, for his shadow, anything to show her he was all right.