Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“Tell her, Stevie. Explain to your lovely wife exactly what’s transpired here.”

“I–I don’t know where to start.”

“Then I’ll start for you,” Jack said breezily. “Your husband and I share a secret, Mrs. G. See, I have a nasty habit. And he knows about it. He’s known for seventeen years.”

Steve interrupted. “I wasn’t sure.”

“You were sure enough. Especially when you began to hear about Mister Twister.”

Mister Twister. Kirstie frowned. The name was vaguely familiar. Something she’d read in a news magazine months ago.

“Who…?” She coughed, swallowed, found her voice. “Who’s Mister Twister?”

Jack grinned at her. “I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seven women in the last fourteen months. That’s what it means.”

“Seven women…”

The TV news reader’s voice came back to her, the words sharp in her memory like shards of glass: Nationally the manhunt continues for a serial killer now officially linked to the deaths of seven women in six western and southwestern states…

Her throat closed up. Breathing was suddenly difficult. She struggled for air.

“It was you,” she whispered, staring mesmerized at Jack. “You’re the one they’re looking for.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You know that much?”

“I heard… on the TV… this afternoon.” She shut her eyes. “I turned it off before they gave the details.”

“Well, that was a mistake, Mrs. G. A bad mistake.”

She turned to Steve. “Why haven’t you told me? And why haven’t you turned him in by now?”

Steve dropped his gaze. “Kirstie…” The word was a croak, followed by silence.

“I’ll explain why,” Jack said. “He hasn’t turned me in because we’re working together. We’re partners, your hubby and I.”

She would not hear it, would not believe. “That’s impossible.”

“I already told you, we share a secret. All along Stevie’s known exactly who and what I am. But he could never tell anyone because, you see, he helped me kill my first girl. He was my accomplice.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve cut in.

“My accessory, then. After the fact. He covered for me.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew you were lying. You knew you were obstructing justice. You knew, Stevie. You knew.”

Steve said nothing. Small muscles in his cheek and jaw twitched under the skin.

“Is that true?” Kirstie whispered, already knowing the answer.

Steve looked at her. Slowly he nodded.

Kirstie moaned. Her stomach dropped away. The floor listed dangerously under her feet. She grasped the edge of the dining table to keep her balance.

Suddenly the rest of her life was losing its reality, melting into a dream, a meticulously detailed delusion. The house in Danbury, her job, her marriage-all of it was dissolving like smoke before her eyes, leaving only this room and these two men and the gun in her husband’s hand.

Her husband. But he wasn’t, couldn’t be. The man she had loved, had wed, was not the stranger facing her, this man who’d admitted to being an accessory to homicide.

The room began to spin. She thought she might pass out.

No.

She couldn’t afford the luxury of helplessness, not now. Now was when she had to be strong, stronger than she’d ever been in her life.

With trembling effort she forced down panic and light-headedness, mastered her emotions.

Later she would feel things about this. Later she would rage and grieve. Later, when it was over and she was safe.

Jack clapped his hands, the sound shocking in the stillness. “Okay,” he said briskly, “let’s not waste any more time. You have the pills?”

Steve wouldn’t look at his wife. “I have them.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“What’s the usual dose?”

“Two.”

“Okay. Six ought to do it.”

Kirstie listened, her heart pounding, not rapidly but in a hard, steady beat. The screeching hum of the cicadas outside seemed louder than before, deafening, an external projection of the scream building in her own throat.

She tightened her grip on the table, needing the feel of something firm and solid, something that made sense.

“What pills?” she asked, holding her voice steady, betraying no lapse of control.

Jack answered. “Your husband’s had some trouble sleeping lately. Guilty conscience. Too many secrets. Too many lies. So he brought along some sleeping pills. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You ever take a sleeping pill, Mrs. Gardner?”

“Once or twice.”

“Well, you’re taking some tonight. Six. More, if necessary.”

“The pills won’t hurt you,” Steve said hastily. “They’ll just… knock you out.”

Anger rose in her like a rush of heat. “Oh, good. I’m so glad you don’t want to hurt me. I can’t imagine that you would ever do anything to hurt me.”

He flushed. “You’ll be fine. Really.”

“Fine. Sure. Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I be just fine?” A new question struck her. She watched Steve’s face. “Where will you be when I wake up?”

“You don’t need to know that,” Jack said.

She understood. The realization winded her. She had to catch her breath before she could speak.

“You’re running away?” she whispered incredulously, her gaze still fixed on Steve. “With him?”

He averted his face, reluctant to look into her eyes. “I’ve got no choice.”

“Of course you have a choice.”

“They’ll put me in jail.”

“That would be better than this.”

“No.” She heard terror in his voice, a child’s panicky tears. “I’m sorry, Kirstie. I’m sorry.”

With his left hand he dug in his pocket and removed a crumpled plastic bag. Inside were six white capsules.

Kirstie studied the bag, then mentally stepped back, putting all her fears and hatreds on hold while calmly, logically, she assessed the situation from a distance.

Steve had a gun. But he wouldn’t use it. Not on her.

Jack must be unarmed. That was why he’d lunged for the Beretta. He wasn’t certain of his hold on Steve.

She wished Ana had been trained as an attack dog. One word of command, and the borzoi would be at Jack’s throat.

Pointless to think about that. Ana would never hurt anyone, least of all her sugar daddy. Uncle Jack.

Was that why Jack had played fetch with her on the beach, fed her at the table? Had he wanted to be certain the dog would see him as a friend?

Forget all that. The pills. Think about the pills.

If she offered no resistance, if she let the two men drug her… she would die. She was certain of it. Steve didn’t want to kill her, but Jack did, and Jack was the stronger personality of the two, the more resourceful, the more ingenious. He would find a way to take her life.

Couldn’t take the pills, then. Couldn’t allow herself to be sedated.

What was her alternative?

To bluff. To gamble her life on Steve’s basic decency.

She needed to get to the radio. To reach it she would have to pass through the kitchen. Steve blocked the doorway.

Boldly she took a step toward him.

“This is ridiculous,” she heard herself say.

“Keep back.” Steve waved the gun at her.

Ordinarily the Beretta would have scared her-she’d always been nervous in its presence-but here, now, it seemed to hold no menace. It was a toy, a prop, not even aimed at her but at some other woman she was observing from a secure vantage point.

She took another step. “Get out of my way.”

A string of words ran through her mind, spoken in a stranger’s voice, remote and wise: She’s being very brave.

Steve licked his lips. “I said, get back.”