Tess Gerritsen - The Keepsake

“Looks abandoned,” said Frost.

“I’m going to get out and take a look around.” Jane reached for the handle and was about to open the door when she heard the warning clank of a chain, a sound as ominous as a snake’s rattle.

Something black bounded out of the darkness.

She gasped and jerked back as the pit bull slammed against her door, as claws scrabbled at glass and white teeth gleamed in the window.

“Jesus!” she cried. “Where the hell did he come from?”

The dog’s barking was frantic now, claws scraping as though to tear through metal.

“I don’t like this,” said Frost.

She laughed, a wildly unhinged sound in the closeness of that car. “I’m not loving this too much myself.”

“No, I mean I don’t like the fact he’s tied up on that chain. This house looks abandoned, so who’s feeding the dog?”

She stared at the house, at dark windows that seemed to gaze back at her like malevolent eyes. “You’re right,” she said softly. “This is all wrong.”

“It’s time to call for backup,” said Frost and he reached for his cell phone. He never got the chance to dial.

The first gunshot shattered the window.

Fragments of stinging glass peppered Jane’s face. She dove beneath the dashboard as a second explosion rocked the night, as another bullet slammed into the car. Frost, too, had ducked for cover, and she saw his face was tight with panic as he crouched only inches away from her, both fumbling for their weapons.

A third bullet pinged into metal.

An ominous odor seeped into the car. The fumes stung Jane’s eyes and seared her throat. In that instant she and Frost stared at each other, and she saw that he, too, had registered the smell.

Gasoline.

Almost simultaneously, they each kicked open their doors. Jane flung herself out of the car and tumbled away just as the first flames whooshed to life. She could not see if Frost had made it out the other side; she could only hope that he had scrambled away safely, because an instant later the gas tank exploded. Windows shattered and a brilliant inferno spouted flames skyward.

As glass pelted the ground, Jane scrambled for cover. Thorny underbrush ripped through her sleeves, clawed at her arms. She rolled behind a tree and gripped crumbling bark as she frantically tried to catch a glimpse of their assailant, but all she saw were flames consuming what remained of Frost’s car. The dog, excited to a frenzy by the fire, ran howling back and forth across the yard, chain clattering behind it.

Another gunshot exploded. She heard a cry of pain, the crash of snapping underbrush.

Frost is down!

Through the obscuring veil of smoke and fire, she saw the shooter emerge from the house and step onto the porch. The woman’s blond hair reflected the glow of the flames. Rifle raised, she moved into the light. Only then could Jane see the face of Debbie Duke.

No, not Debbie. Carrie Otto.

Carrie started down the porch steps, her rifle poised to finish off Frost.

Jane fired first. Even as she squeezed the trigger, she wanted it to be a killing shot. She felt no fear, no hesitation, only cold, controlled rage that took possession of her body and guided her aim. In quick succession she fired off one, two, three shots. They slammed into her target like repeated punches to the chest. Carrie jerked backward, dropping the rifle, and collapsed onto the porch steps.

Lungs heaving, Jane eased forward. Still clutching her weapon, her gaze stayed on her target. Carrie lay sprawled against the steps, still alive and moaning, her half-open eyes reflecting the satanic glow of the flames. Jane glanced toward Frost, and saw him lying at the edge of the woods.

Be alive. Please be alive.

She managed to take only a few steps toward him when the pit bull slammed into her back.

She had thought she was beyond the reach of the dog’s chain, and did not see it hurtling at her, did not have time to brace herself against the impact. His attack sent her sprawling forward. She put out her hands to break the fall, and as she landed, she heard a bone snap and her wrist collapsed beneath her. The pain was so excruciating that even the grip of the dog’s jaws on her shoulder seemed merely troublesome, a nuisance to be shaken off before dealing with this true agony. Twisting, she rolled onto her back, her weight landing on top of the dog, but it would not release her. The gun had fallen out of reach. Her right hand was useless. She could not beat the animal away, could not reach back and grip his throat. So she rammed her elbow into his belly, again and again, and heard ribs crack.

Yelping in pain, the dog released its grip. She rolled away and scrambled to her knees. Only then, as she stared down at the whimpering dog, did she see that the chain was no longer attached to the collar. How had he gotten free? Who had released him?

The answer emerged from the shadows.

Jimmy Otto moved into the firelight, pushing Josephine before him as a shield. Jane lunged for her fallen weapon, but a gunshot made her flinch back as the bullet kicked up dirt only inches from her hand. Even if she could reach her gun she did not dare return fire, not with Josephine standing in the way. Jane knelt helpless in the dirt as Jimmy Otto came to a halt beside the burning car, his face aglow in the light of the crackling flames, his temple blackened by an ugly bruise. Josephine tottered against him, unsteady in her leg cast, her head shorn of all hair. Jimmy pressed his gun to her temple, and Josephine’s eyes snapped wide with fear.

“Move away from the gun,” he ordered Jane. “Do it!”

Supporting her broken wrist with her left hand, Jane struggled to her feet. The fracture was so painful that nausea clenched her stomach, shutting down her brain just when she needed it most. She stood swaying as black spots danced before her eyes and a cold sweat bloomed on her skin.

Jimmy looked down at his wounded sister, who was still slumped back against the porch steps, moaning. In one ruthless glance, he seemed to decide that Carrie was beyond saving and no longer worth his attention.

He refocused on Jane. “I’m tired of waiting around,” he said. “Tell me where she is.”

Jane shook her head. The black spots swirled. “I have no idea what you want, Jimmy.”

“Where the fuck is she?”

“Who?”

Her answer enraged him. Without warning he fired his gun just above Josephine’s head. “Medea,” he said. “I know she’s back. And you’re the one she’d contact, so where is she?”

That shocking explosion swept her brain clear. Despite her pain and nausea, Jane was fully focused now, her attention only on Jimmy. “Medea’s dead,” she said.

“No, she’s not. She’s alive. I know damn well she is. And it’s time for payback.”

“For killing Bradley? She did what she had to do.”

“So will I.” He pressed the gun to Josephine’s head, and in that instant Jane realized that he was fully prepared to pull the trigger.

“If Medea won’t come back to save her daughter, maybe she will for the funeral.”

From the darkness, a voice called out: “Here I am, Jimmy. I’m right here.”

He froze, staring toward the trees. “Medea?”

She followed us here.

Medea strode out of the woods, moving without hesitation, without any sign of fear. The mother lion had arrived to save her cub, and she moved with grim purpose toward the battle, coming to a halt only a few yards from Jimmy. They faced each other in the circle of firelight. “I’m the one you want. Let my daughter go.”

“You haven’t changed,” he murmured in wonder. “All these years and you’re exactly the same.”

“So are you, Jimmy,” Medea answered without a note of irony.

“You were the only one he ever wanted. The one he couldn’t have.”