Danielle Steel: The House on Hope Street

“It's just for a month, Phil, until you give us the information we asked for. We can undo it anytime. Monday, if you want. Just take it easy.” Jack's voice was deep and calm and soothing, but his heart was racing.

“No, you take it easy. Don't tell me what to do. It's too late anyway. It doesn't matter anymore. You ruined everything. You made me do it.”

“Made you do what, Phil?” But Jack knew instinctively, even before Phil Parker said it. Liz had been right, they had driven him over the edge, and as Jack watched him, he was suddenly panicked for Amanda. What had Parker done to her, or the children?

“I killed her,” Phil said flatly, and began to sob as soon as he said it. “It's your fault. I didn't want to do it. But I had to. She wanted to take everything I had … she wanted all of it, didn't she? The little tramp … you had no right … what was I supposed to do while you froze everything? Starve?” Jack knew it was pointless to answer him, all he could do now was pray that what Phil said wasn't true.

“How did you know I'd be here, Phil?” Jack asked calmly.

“I followed you. I've been outside your house all morning.”

“Where's Amanda?”

“I told you … she's dead….” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and the blood on his jacket smeared across his face as he did it.

“Where are the kids?”

“They're with her. I left them there,” he said, crying softly.

“Did you kill them too?” Phil shook his head and pointed the gun at Jack's head.

“I locked them in her bedroom with her.” Jack felt his stomach turn over as Phil said it. “And now I have to kill you. It's only fair. This is all your fault. You made her do it. She was a nice girl until you came along. It's all your fault, you bastard.”

“I know it is. It's not Amanda's fault, Phil. Now put the gun down and let's talk about it.”

“You son of a bitch, don't tell me what to do or I'll kill you too.” He went from grief to rage in the fraction of an instant, and his eyes were lasers as they bore through Jack's, and Jack suddenly realized that he meant everything he was saying, and was capable of delivering on it.

“Put the gun down, Phil.” Jack's voice was calm and powerful as he slowly took a step toward Phillip Parker. “Put it down, Phil.”

“Fuck you, you bastard,” he said, but lowered the gun slowly down from his aim at Jack's forehead, and Jack realized that he was slowly winning. Phil was wavering, and in a minute, Jack was going to make a move and take the gun. He never took his eyes from Phil's and continued to advance slowly toward him, and then as he had almost reached him, there was the sound of an explosion in the room, and Jack stared at him in amazement. The gun was aimed at his chest, and for a long moment, Jack felt absolutely nothing, and was sure he had missed him, but the bullet had gone into him so cleanly he barely felt it. He stood where he was and watched, unable to move or raise his arms, as Phil Parker then put the gun in his own mouth, squeezed the trigger, and blew the back of his head off, and as his blood and brains splattered all over the wall behind him, Jack felt a cannonball hit him in the chest, and he dropped to his knees, trying to understand what had happened. It had all happened so quickly. He knew he had to call someone before he lost consciousness, and he could see a phone on the desk as he fell slowly against it. He could just barely reach it, as he grabbed the receiver and pulled it toward him, and dialed 911. He could hear the voice in his ear as he fell toward the floor, but he could barely breathe now.

“Police emergency.”

“I've been shot….” He managed to squeeze the words out, and he could see red oozing from his sweater onto the carpet where he was lying.

They repeated his phone number and address back to him, as Jack gasped into the phone and confirmed it and told them the door was open. “Call my wife,” he said hoarsely, and could feel his eyes closing as he gave them her number.

“An ambulance is on its way. They'll be there in less than three minutes,” the voice said, and he had trouble understanding what they were saying. Why an ambulance? Why were they sending an ambulance? He couldn't remember. All he wanted was Liz. And as he closed his eyes and lay on the floor, he felt cold and wet, and he could hear a siren in the distance. He wondered if it was Liz, and why she was making so much noise. And then suddenly, he could hear voices all around him, and someone was moving him. They put something on his face, and they were tearing at him and pulling him, and the voices were shouting. He couldn't remember why they were there or what had happened. And where was Liz? What had they done with her? He could feel himself sliding into blackness but someone kept calling him, and all he wanted was Liz now, not all these people, shouting at him. Who were they? And where were his wife and children?

Liz had still been in the kitchen in her bathrobe when they called. It was about ten minutes after Jack left, and she had a funny feeling suddenly that it might be Amanda. But she was surprised when it was a strange voice on the phone. The caller said he was a police officer and they had reason to believe that her husband had been injured at their office, and had asked them to call her. An ambulance had already been dispatched to their office.

“My husband?” She wondered if it was a prank. It didn't make any sense. He had only left a few minutes before. “Was he in a car accident on the way over?” But why didn't he call her himself? This was crazy.

“The caller said he had been shot,” the officer said gently.

“Shot? Jack? Are you sure?”

“They're not on the scene yet, but the caller asked us to call his wife, and gave us your number. You might want to go right over.” As Liz listened to him, she thought about going upstairs to get dressed, and then decided not to. If it was true, and Jack was hurt, she needed to get there in a hurry. She thanked the voice on the phone, and ran to the foot of the stairs to call out to Peter and tell him to keep an eye on Jamie.

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” she called up to him when he acknowledged her, and she didn't wait around to explain it. She just grabbed her car keys off the kitchen counter, and headed out the door in her bathrobe. And as soon as she got in her car, and backed out of the driveway, she found herself praying… let him be okay … please God … let him be okay … please…. The words on the phone kept ringing in her head … the caller said he had been shot … shot … shot … but how could Jack have been shot? That was crazy. It was Christmas and he had to make the stuffing. All she could think of was the look on his face as he had smiled at her and walked out of the kitchen in his khakis and red sweater … the caller had been shot. …

She drove into the parking lot outside their office at breakneck speed and saw two squad cars and an ambulance with their lights flashing, and she ran inside as fast as she could to see what had happened. She raced up the stairs saying his name under her breath … Jack … Jack … as though to call out to him … to let him know she was coming, and she couldn't see him when she walked in. All she could see was the cluster of police officers and paramedics hovering around him. The paramedics were working on him, and as she looked behind them, she saw the wall of blood where Phil Parker had shot himself, and she felt dizzy the instant she saw it. His body lay below it, covered by a tarp. And then, without thinking, she shoved one of the officers aside, and was suddenly looking down at her husband. He was the color of concrete, and his eyes were closed, as instantly she put a hand over her mouth and gasped, as she dropped to her knees beside him. And then as though he knew she was there, Jack's eyes fluttered open. They had an IV in his arm, and were doing something to the wound in his chest. The sweater they had cut off lay on the bloodstained carpet beside him. There was blood everywhere, all over him and them and the carpet beneath him, and as she leaned over him, it was suddenly all over her too, but he smiled when he saw her.