Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

Had the kids known the truth…Grace smiled. With Cliff, she’d discovered a passion she’d thought lost to age. Even with his bum knee and her recent hip break, they managed just fine.

“What are you thinking, Gracie?” Cliff’s voice was a growling purr as he leaned over her. “That glint in your eyes tells me I might want to skip the show.”

She was opening her mouth to reply, when an usher passed, telling people it was fifteen minutes to curtain.

“Time for me to find a bathroom,” Cliff said. “That wine at dinner went right through me and this”-he lifted his empty champagne flute-“didn’t help. How about you?”

Grace paused. She hated using public bathrooms with this wheelchair. Darned awkward. But there was no way she’d make it until she got home after the show, and the hallway congestion would be impossible at intermission. Better to get it over with now.

“So who goes first?” Cliff said as Grace wheeled into the bathroom hall. “Flip for it? Or…” He grinned down at her. “Maybe we should go together. I’m sure you could use a hand.”

“If we do, will we get to our seats in ten minutes?”

“Probably not.”

“Then save that thought for another time.”

“Don’t think I won’t.”

A sly smile up at him. “Good.” Before he could answer, she waved at the bathrooms. “Seems we don’t need to flip for first dibs after all. There are two of them. You know you’re in a place that caters to us old fogies when…”

He smiled. “Too true. You take the first, then, my lady, and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.” He snuck a look her way and waggled his brows. “Sure you don’t want some help?”

“Oh, I want it…but I don’t want to be rolling into the auditorium after all the lights go out, or I’ll break my neck.”

He pushed open the door for her and she navigated inside.

He heard the knob turn and tensed, hose strung between his hands. The door opened, hiding him behind it. He pressed himself against the wall, waited until the door was swinging shut, then lunged.

He checked outside the door, then stepped out, letting it close-locked-behind him. As he strolled past the other handicapped washroom, the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way out.

As Grace waited outside the bathroom, the usher came by, announcing five minutes to performance time. She glanced at the door. Yes, some things weren’t as speedy at seventy-eight as they’d been at eighteen, and she hated to rush him, but she really didn’t want to be navigating the aisles in the dark. She rapped on the door. When Cliff didn’t answer, she rattled the handle.

“Cliff?” she said, as loud as she dared. “It’s me.”

Sill nothing. His hearing was fine, but she knocked louder, just in case. Her gut went cold. Why wasn’t he answering? She tried to calm herself. Her mind offered up a dozen logical explanations, but her gut shut them down. Something had happened. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack-just like David.

“Can I help?” A middle-aged man paused in his sprint from the washroom to the front hall.

“My-someone’s-I need a-an usher. Someone who can open the door. Quickly!”

He glided into the front foyer. People were still streaming in, and a few were heading out for that last-minute cigarette. He thought of joining them, but knew he couldn’t. Ushers were right there, watching each exit with disapproval, warning people the opera would begin soon. He might get all the way to the car before the Feds found the body-or he might not get down the steps. Safer to do what everyone else was doing and head into the auditorium.

As he walked, his gaze passed over the crowd and snagged on a face with a split-second of “Hey, don’t I know…?” But when he zeroed in, that spark of recognition faded. The man was in his late forties, an investment banker type, with that lean, slightly hungry look. On his arm was a younger woman, maybe thirty. Typical, especially here, amid a sea of trophy wives, but this didn’t look like your average “secretary turned spouse.” He let his gaze linger and didn’t worry about being obvious-he wasn’t the only one looking. She wasn’t a knockout. Just…pretty. A pretty redhead with a smile that turned heads, and sparked more than a smile or two in return.

She was chatting away animatedly, and her companion-he checked the man’s finger and amended that-her husband was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the…kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse-she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night.

A pang of remorse ran through him. If only she could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they’d be outraged. They’d demand action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her shell-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she’d been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he passed the couple, so close he could have reached out and-

The woman said something and her husband gave a low chuckle. Hearing the sound, he froze in midstep, then turned, slowly. That low laugh had triggered a connection in his brain, and he realized he’d been too quick to dismiss the gut-level recognition. He did know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong-he had to be-but his gut refused to believe it.

Still, the coincidence had to be just that-a coincidence. But as he replayed the last minute in his head, he saw the “banker’s” gaze, in constant motion as he’d walked, watchful, scanning, searching.

He glanced over his shoulder and found the couple in the throng. The woman’s grip tightened on the man’s arm. Their eyes met. Her head tilted to the left, toward a side corridor, and they veered that way, still talking, as if they’d been heading in that direction all along. He remembered that Internet chatter about hitmen teaming up to find him, and his gut tightened with an unexpected jolt of pain. So it was true. And this was who it was.

“But not for long, Jack,” he murmured. “Not for long.”

By the time the usher arrived, a crowd had gathered at the bathroom door. Two men argued over the best way to open it-credit card or a hard shoulder shove.

Just open it! Grace wanted to scream, but the words jammed in her throat and all she could think about was Cliff’s laugh and David, slumped on the garage floor, dead from a heart attack, just minutes after he’d kissed her good-bye. A split second, that’s all it took, and your world was shattered.

“Oh, God, please, please, please,” she whispered under her breath.

The usher arrived-two ushers, and two security guards, and two men in suits, guns flashing under their coats as they loped down the hall. Security? Armed men? What about paramedics? Where was the paramedic? Was there a doctor here? There had to be a doctor in this crowd, all these people, standing around doing nothing while Cliff was-

A hand closed on her arm. She looked to see a red-haired young woman crouching beside her. The same woman she’d almost crashed into earlier. Her husband was off to the side, scanning the crowd. Looking for his wife? No, his gaze touched hers, but moved past.

“Cliff,” Grace whispered. “He’s-he was in the bathroom. I knocked. He’s not-”

She couldn’t finish. As the young woman tugged off her glove and took her hand, genuine anxiety flooded her eyes. The woman opened her mouth to say something, but just then, the bathroom door swung open. Through the crowd, Grace caught a glimpse of a fallen figure and a shock of white hair. She gasped, but the sound came out as a whimper.