Michael Prescott: Blind Pursuit

All right, then, how about the stove itself? Could it be moved?

A downward glance gave her the answer. The stove’s legs were bolted to the floor.

There had to be something she could do. Free her arms, at least.

But she couldn’t. The chain was wound too tight, jamming her elbows hard against her ribs.

No hope, then. No chance for her. For either of them.

Licking her lips, dispelling the last of the numbness that had frozen her mouth, she called her sister’s name.

“Annie?”

She heard no answer. She had expected none.

Maybe Annie was dead already. It might be best that way.

Her gaze moved to the front door, hanging ajar, letting in the warm night breeze.

Oliver still had not returned.

But he would, of course.

Soon.

With gasoline.

Walker picked up two T.P.D. patrol cars at the interstate’s Miracle Mile entrance. As he passed the Valencia Road on-ramp, he collected a sheriff’s department cruiser also.

The patrol cars activated neither sirens nor light bars on the freeway, a standard safety precaution. Walker, still in the lead, used his horn to scare slower traffic out of the fast lane.

On a tactical frequency the other units were asking questions, and he was doing his best to fill them in. But his best, he had to admit, wasn’t very good.

All he really knew was that a suspect in a possible kidnapping might be at a ranch on Ravine Road, with a hostage.

Or two hostages.

Driving with one hand, he put down his walkie-talkie, switched on his car phone, and punched in Annie’s number.

A recorded voice came on, as it had the last time he’d called. “Hi, this is Annie. I’m not home right now, so if you’re a burglar, I’m in trouble-”

He turned off the phone. Swallowed hard.

I’m in trouble, the message had said.

A joke, of course. Recorded days or weeks ago, irrelevant to this situation.

I’m in trouble.

Ridiculous to dwell on those words, the mock plaintive tone of voice.

I’m in trouble.

Leaning forward, Walker pushed the Mustang to eighty-five.

“Annie?”

Still no response from the other side of the stove.

Though it was futile, Erin struggled against the chain, as if believing that by sheer force of will she could crack open the welded links.

“Dammit, Annie, answer me.”

“Sorry, Doc. She can’t.”

Erin jerked her head toward the doorway, where Oliver stood motionless, watching her across yards of darkness.

His arms hung straight at his sides, his hands wrapped around the handles of two bulky metal canisters.

Gas cans.

“Did you… shoot her?” Erin whispered. “Is she dead?”

“Unconscious.” He spoke in a monotone, all emotion drained from his voice.

“Let her go. Please. If you want one of us”-she sucked in a sharp, shallow breath-“take me.”

“I’m taking you both.”

He set down the gasoline cans near the door, knelt, and calmly unscrewed the lids, his actions controlled, deliberate, robotic.

Nothing she said could move him. Even so, she had to try.

“Oliver.” She held her voice steady, fear channeled into her madly shaking hands. “You can’t do this. Can’t keep on killing.”

“I won’t. You two will be the last. Once you’re gone, I’ll be free.”

He picked up one can, tilted it, and began to pour.

The gurgle of fluid from the spout set Erin’s heart racing still faster. Her legs twisted, knees bending and straightening, boot heels dragging on the floor’s hardwood planks.

In her mind a stranger’s voice kept up a manic, witless patter: I’m afraid, so afraid, so very afraid…

But when she spoke, her own voice was calm and reasonable, the voice of a therapist doing her job. “You’ll never be free that way.”

“Yes, I will.” Oliver walked with the can, pouring as he went, staying close to the living room wall. “Once I’m through with you… once you’re out of my life…”

“We’ve been out of your life before. After 1968 you weren’t Oliver Ryan Connor anymore. You could have stayed away from us forever. You didn’t.”

“No.”

“You waited until August of 1973. And then… Well, you know what you did then.”

No response.

“It was you, Oliver. It had to be. Albert Reilly never set that fire. You did.”

Still nothing.

“Why? Oliver, tell me why.”

Even now he was silent. She feared he had slipped still deeper into the fugue state, to the very bottom of the abyss, where no voice could reach him.

Then, without looking up, he spoke one word.

“Revenge.”

Not much of a reply, but something. She had to capitalize on it, maintain a dialogue. “Revenge-for what?”

“I’d warned her. Warned Maureen never to tell.”

Erin understood. “She waited two years-but in the summer of ’68 she told Lydia at last. That’s why Lydia disowned you.”

“Yes.”

He reached the corner, then continued along the adjacent wall, methodically laying down a trail of fuel along the room’s perimeter. The smell of gasoline, the smell Erin hated more than any other, rose to her nostrils. Nausea coiled in her stomach.

She forced herself to continue her charade of disinterested professionalism. “Tell me about it.”

The noise he made was intended as a chuckle, but came out stillborn, a croak of pain. “An ugly scene. Lydia called me names. Terrible names. I told her she could say the same about the man she’d married. And I told her why.”

Erin nodded. It wasn’t fear for Oliver’s safety that had put Lydia in the hospital with a nervous breakdown, as everyone assumed. It was the double shock of learning the truth about her son and her husband.

The five-gallon can dribbled out its last drops. Oliver tossed it on the floor with a hollow clang. He walked past her, toward the doorway, where the other gas can waited.

Desperately Erin tried to keep him talking, fighting to reinforce the fragile connection she had established. “So you waited five years, then went to Maureen’s house-our house-for revenge?”

“But first I visited Albert at his office.” He hoisted the can by its handle. “He’d thought I was dead. I straightened him out about that… and other things.”

“You told him you were our real father.”

Remorselessly Oliver began wetting down the opposite side of the room. “Came as kind of a surprise,” he said mildly.

“Weren’t you afraid he’d go to the police?” Erin wished the sound of her voice would cover the low, insidious murmur of gasoline escaping from the can. “You were confessing to rape and murder-”

“There was no risk. If I were arrested, the truth about you and Annie would come out.”

The truth. That they were products of an unnatural union, products of incest. Sideshow specimens. Freaks.

Oliver was right. Neither Albert nor Maureen would have willingly brought that fact into the light. Especially not in a small town like Sierra Springs, where everyone would talk.

He reached the doorway to the hall and continued past it to the living room’s rear wall. The thread of fuel was lengthening, inexorably boxing her in.

“What was Albert’s reaction?” she asked slowly.

“Shame. Grief. Most of all, anger. But not at me alone.”

“Who else?”

“Maureen.”

“My mother? She was the victim in all this.”

“Was she?” Another lifeless chuckle. “I told you, Maureen wasn’t married when she visited the ranch. Wasn’t even engaged.”

“Then when she found out she was pregnant-”

“That’s right, Doc.”

Erin shut her eyes. Her mother, panicky, unwilling either to abort the babies or have them born out of wedlock, had lied to Albert, convinced him that whatever precautions he’d taken had failed, railroaded him into a hasty wedding.