Catherine Coulter - Split Second

“I’m up in the attic, Uncle Alan. I’ll be right down. Is Aunt Jennifer with you? Court and Miranda?”

“Nope, only me. Your Aunt Jennifer sends her love. Court and Miranda—well, it seems the less I know about what they’re doing, the better. Your Aunt Jennifer, ah, hopes you’re all right.”

All right? How could she be all right? “I’ll be right down, Uncle Alan.”

Alan Silverman, her grandmother’s youngest brother, was actually her great-uncle. He’d been in her life from her earliest memories. He was in his seventies now, having retired hurriedly after the bankers screwed the world, and she wondered cynically how many shaky derivatives and fancy bond packages he himself had conjured up. He’d married late, produced two children, Court and Miranda, who were, actually, her first cousins once removed, many years older than Lucy. Neither of them had ever married, and that seemed a bit odd to Lucy, both of them, well into their thirties and still out dating. Court was a gym rat and liked to think of himself as a stud, and maybe that explained it—he was too focused on himself to consider letting another person in. He was a successful retailer, owner of three vitamin stores in the D.C. area—LIFE MAX Natural Supplements—that were doing very well.

As for Miranda, she was a wannabe hippie, something of a resurrected flower child but without the usual freshness or color. Her clothes were all long and too loose, too depressing, really, all browns and grays and blacks. She always wore her hair straight, parted in the middle, and Lucy wished she’d wash her hair a bit more often. She played the French horn quite beautifully, though as far as Lucy could tell, that was the only thing on which she expended much effort. Once, she remembered, Miranda invited her to a séance in her condo before she’d moved back to her parents’ house some months before, after breaking it off with a guy her Aunt Jennifer had called The Louse. Lucy had politely declined the invitation.

She opened the door and was immediately pulled into Uncle Alan’s arms. He held her close and patted her back. “How are you, kiddo?”

She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I’m okay—well, as okay as can be expected. I miss Dad all the time, of course. But they’ve made me one of the leads on this whole deal with Ted Bundy’s daughter; talk about a major-league distraction.”

“But you’re not in any danger from her, are you? I know, I saw you and Agent McKnight on TV at the news conference with your boss, Agent Savich. It’s quite an accomplishment that they’ve made you such a big part of that, Lucy. If she was watching it, she knows who you are. You’ve got to promise me to be careful, sweetheart.”

“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”

She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”

Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.

She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”

“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”

She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.

He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”

She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.

“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”

Because of what my father yelled out right before he died. But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”

“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”

“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?

“Everything’s okay, Uncle Alan. Tell Aunt Jennifer not to worry. If a ghost turns up, why, then we’ll have a nice chat and I’ll offer it coffee with lots of Splenda. As for Bundy’s daughter, I don’t even live here officially, so she can’t know my address, and don’t forget, I’m always armed and dangerous.”

“Even Court says he’s impressed with what you can do in the gym. He still spends much of his time there, you know.”

Lucy thought again about her dashing, beautifully dressed cousin once removed, and that smirk he always wore. From their youngest years, Court had known he was hot. He’d hated his sister, Miranda, enough to make her hate him as much as she loved him. Lucy once saw Miranda haul off and punch him in the nose. He’d been so shocked, he hadn’t retaliated. Lucy laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed since Coop had come to her hotel room in San Francisco. No, she’d also laughed when he’d patted her hand as they left Lansford’s suite at the Willard early that afternoon, and Coop had remarked to no one in particular that anyone who told his lawyer to shut up without even sparing him a glance couldn’t be all bad, and he’d given Lucy a blazing smile.

Uncle Alan drank more coffee, though it had to be lukewarm by now, with all the milk he’d added, and then drummed his fingertips on the table. There was something on his mind, Lucy realized, and he didn’t know how to bring it up. So she patted his hand just as Coop had patted hers, and said, “Spill it, Uncle Alan. I can take it. What do you want to say?”

He took another sip of his coffee, carefully and studiously returned the mug to the middle of a napkin, then finally looked at her. “Your Aunt Jennifer and I want you to come stay with us for a while, Lucy. We’re worried.”

Worried? Why, for heaven’s sake? She was shaking her head as she said, “I really appreciate your offer, but I need to stay here.” She realized she might have sounded a bit cool, and added, “I can’t, Uncle Alan. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, and I’ve got so much to do here—” She broke off, wondering how in the world she could be an FBI agent when things she wanted to keep buried insisted on popping right out of her mouth.

“Of course you’ve got lots to do. This is a very big house, too big for one single girl.”

She ignored that. “I’ve got help. Mrs. McGruder cooked for me and stocked the whole kitchen, and Mr. McGruder takes care of the yard, of course. They were here a while ago. They’ll continue coming. Everything will be fine.”