Tailspin

  “Why else would she have put up with him except for threats from the old man?”

  Rachael said, “Well, her father took my father away from my mother, threatened my mother while sending her a bloody check.” She realized her voice had gone up. The old man—dear heavens, he was her grandfather—he was dead, his eldest son dead, as well. There was no changing that. And here she was living in their house, alone, a house she hadn’t even known about until such a short time ago. “Jimmy told me when Laurel met Stefanos, she fell really hard for him, never saw any of the rot below the surface.”

  Jack turned on the dishwasher. “Seems weird to me the old man wouldn’t have checked him out thoroughly, seen the rot. So why did he let Stefanos marry his daughter?”

  “Good question. Jimmy said Stefanos had a big problem—namely he needed a huge influx of money, and Laurel was his solution. And evidently she wanted him badly. She was thirty-five, her biological clock ticking.”

  Rachael took the two napkins Jack had wadded up and began to methodically smooth them out and fold them. He watched her for a moment, said, “They’re dirty, Rachael.”

  “What? Oh, the napkins. It’s just that they’re so beautiful, so well made and . . . I’m losing it. I’ll wash them tomorrow. By hand.” She stacked them neatly on the counter. “Jimmy showed me some photos of Laurel when she was young. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was smiling, full of hope. He said being married to Stefanos made her what she is today. It’s sad.”

  A dark eyebrow went up. “Sad? Give her something sharp and she’d slit your throat, Rachael.”

  “Yeah, I know. I also know she’s capable of a killing rage because I’ve seen her rage up close and personal. It’s stark and ugly. I can see it breaking over her when Jimmy told her he was going public with what he’d done.

  “She could have killed him—for herself, for her family, for the business, any and all of it. But her husband? Would he even care? Does he care about anything? And Quincy? I think he’s got dark wormy things inside him, but kill his own brother? I just don’t know.

  “If Laurel was the ringleader, it only makes sense she would want me gone, too. I suppose I could tell her and Quincy that I’m not going to give Jimmy’s confession for him, but—” Rachael shrugged. “I don’t know yet what I want to do. I suppose I could tell them I’ve dropped it, lie straight out. I’m not very good, but I could practice until I convinced myself. Uncle Gillette, now, he would have made a great spy. He could lie his way out of a pig convention even with bacon grease smeared all over his mouth.”

  Jack smiled. “I’ve learned in my years with the FBI that people are never what they seem. We’ll see. Don’t forget, two people carried you down that dock, dumped you into the lake. We only know one of them for sure—Perky.”

  He added over his shoulder as he opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a wedge of Parmesan cheese, “Who was the other?”

  Rachael pointed to one of the cabinets. “There are crackers on the middle shelf.”

  He placed a slice of cheese on a cracker and handed it to her, then made one for himself. He leaned back against the counter. “Savich said all those initials and numbers in Perky’s address book—even MAX can’t crack it. Who knows what it means?”

  Rachael bit into a cracker.

  “I’ve been thinking, Rachael.”

  She said around the cracker, “About what?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, fixed himself another cracker, and ate it.

  “What, Jack?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired. I think we should both sleep pretty good tonight.”

  “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

  “I go back to some solid, boring everyday police work, like running in-depth checks on everyone remotely involved in the case, and take another look at Perky and all her merry men.”

  She washed and dried her hands. She stood facing the kitchen window, her head bowed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled her back against him. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve every right to be freaked out.” He knew it was a mistake, but he did it anyway. He slowly turned her to face him and tugged her into his arms. He hadn’t imagined the shock of her, not only how she felt, but the way she fit against him, like she was made for him, no other guy, only him. But that was plain stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He wasn’t thinking right. No, he was simply offering her comfort. She needed comforting, no harm in that. Maybe he needed some comfort, too. He said close to her ear as his hands rubbed up and down her back, “Don’t stiffen up on me. I’m a friend, Rachael, and friends help each other. Remember how you helped me and Timothy when the plane crashed? You didn’t even know at that time what a great guy I am; you just charged right in and saved our bacon.”

  She laughed against his neck. Then she kissed his neck, added a little lick, then froze. “Ohmigosh, I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to do that. It just happened. I mean, you’re here to protect me, not get involved. . . .” Her voice fell off a cliff.

  Jack said, “I guess not.” He knew she could feel exactly how much he wanted to be involved—actually, totally involved with her that very minute, maybe on that lovely oak kitchen table.

  He kissed her, and, bless her heart, she kissed him back. He tasted cracker and Parmesan and something else, something elusive and sweet. Then, just as suddenly, she flattened her palms on his chest, pushed back, and said, “I can’t do this. I can’t lean on you like this, compromise you. You’re an FBI agent. I’ll bet you’ve got rules and regulations regarding people you’re guarding. Right?”

  “No.”

  He pulled her in close again, leaned his forehead against hers. “Not a single rule except common sense, and common sense isn’t all that great a thing in every single situation, now is it? Hey, you’re not a shrimp. That’s good.”

  She said against his neck, “I’m so not a shrimp. I’d be licking your eyebrows if I were wearing heels. No, wait, I didn’t say that, did I?”

  She felt the laughter deep in his chest. “Yeah, you did. Anytime you’d like to, lick away.”

  She ran her fingers over his cheek, and he felt it in his gut. Jack knew he should release her this very instant, knew it, and knew he wasn’t about to. He lowered his forehead to hers again. “I’m not a teenager with my hormones dive-bombing my brain. You’re right, it isn’t the smartest thing we could do at this point in time.” And he cursed low, ripe, pungent curses. Rather impressive, she thought, and smiled. Uncle Gillette could curse like that. She could see him cursing at the rabbits who’d gotten through his tomato cages, digging underneath, hear her mom yelling at him that certain little girls had big ears.

  Slowly, Rachael stepped back. She said, “I’m very glad you don’t gamble.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  He saw her to her bedroom, looked at her mouth a moment. “I’m glad you realize I’m nothing like that jerk ex-fiancé of yours. But, Rachael, I’m hurting right now all the way to my heels.”

  “No, you’re nothing like him. My heels are in pretty bad shape, too.”

  He reached out his hand, dropped it, stepped back. “See you in the morning, Rachael. Sleep well.” To her surprise, and disappointment, he closed the door.

  She felt so revved, so ready to rock and roll—with Jack—she doubted she’d sleep at all, but within minutes, she was out.

  Black water closed over her head, something was pulling her down, no way to stop until she hit bottom and silt swirled up around her, blinding her until it slowly settled again. She knew she was going to die. It wouldn’t matter if she held her breath for ten minutes, she would die. No, she didn’t want to die, she didn’t—

  She lurched up in bed, abruptly awake, breathing fast and hard, sucked in air. But she wasn’t at the bottom of Black Rock Lake. She wasn’t drowning. She was here, in Jimmy’s house, in her bed, but—What had awakened her? Whatever it was, she was grateful. But what was it? She must have heard something that shouldn’t be there,
something not part of the fabric of the house. She didn’t move a muscle, listened.

  It was Jack, she thought, trying to be quiet so as not to wake her. He was probably checking the alarm, the locks, or maybe he did his best thinking when he walked around.

  Still, even as her muscles uncoiled and eased, she kept listening. She realized that ever since her thankfully brief trip to the bottom of Black Rock Lake, she had not completely let go, even with Jack close by. Her brain was always charged, always looking, weighing, assessing, wanting to know if anyone was trying to kill her.

  Breath whooshed out of her and she realized she’d been holding it, just like when she was at the bottom of lake. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to go to Jack, to . . . what? Have him protect her, chase away her fears, or make love to her until she couldn’t think at all? She stopped cold, simply held very still and listened.

  It was quiet outside in the corridor. The summer night air was sweet and still. The nightmare had conjured up the bogeyman, put him so close she’d popped awake, covered with sweat. She looked out the window. The quarter moon lit up the sky. She looked at that moon, kept listening, waited. A minute, another.

  Nothing. She lay back down again, forced her muscles to relax, and she waited. She breathed deeply, but the question nagged her mind—Who is trying to kill me? Her brain squir- reled around that until finally her breathing slowed, and her head fell to the side.

  She heard a sound, a light footfall. Was Jack standing outside her door, his hand on the doorknob, wanting to come in and make love to her? Now, that was a fine lovely thought. . . .

  It wasn’t Jack. She knew it wasn’t Jack. She leaned over and quietly slid open the night table drawer. It made enough noise to awaken the dead. Easy, easy. She reached in, felt the cold shock of Jimmy’s gun against her palm, and curled her fingers around it.

  Was that another footstep? Stepping away? No, there was nothing. Nothing at all. She was losing it. She had to get a grip, calm down, use her brain, not let the terror crush her. She heard it again. She swallowed spit and a scream. If a scream burst out of her, she knew Jack would come running as fast as he could to get to her. Would he have his gun? What about the person probably now pressing close, his ear against her door? Would he simply turn his gun on Jack and shoot him? No, no way was she going to take a chance like that.

  She lay there, waited. Her fingers loosened on the gun. She stilled. Where are you, you bastard? Wait, maybe he wasn’t outside her door, maybe . . . She jerked around to look toward the window again, at the yellow moon, the dark clouds webbing in front of it. Something moved, something at the edge of the window, near that huge oak tree, maybe someone was in that tree, coming toward her, coming to kill her. She didn’t have her gun. Where was it? How could she save herself if she didn’t have her gun? She’d taken it out of the night table, held it close, but it wasn’t there.

  She couldn’t find her gun. Had she put it back in the drawer? She lurched to her side, grabbed for the drawer handle, but she couldn’t find it, there was nothing there except blackness that was coming toward her, somehow through the closed window.

  She screamed.

  FORTY-SIX

  Rachael! Wake up! Dammit, wake up!”

  She screamed again, out of control. Jack slapped her, then shook her. “Wake up, Rachael! Come on, wake up.”

  She choked, stared at him with panicked eyes.

  “Breathe, dammit, breathe!”

  She sucked in air, heaved a huge sigh. She fell forward against him.

  “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right.”

  She burrowed in, her hands clasped tightly behind his back. No way was she letting him go, even if he had called her—

  “Baby?” she whispered against his shoulder. His bare shoulder. Her hands were against his bare back.

  Reality flipped on like a light switch.

  “Yeah, well, baby’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t have a shirt on, Jack.”

  “No, only boxers. But they’re quite modest.”

  He kissed her temple. “Rachael, you were having a whopper of a nightmare. Can you tell me about it?”

  She heaved a breath and held on. “Give me a moment, just another moment.”

  He held her, rubbing her back, then after a while she said against his shoulder, “I heard him outside the window. I knew he would come in and I couldn’t find my gun, the night table wasn’t there, nothing was there, only blackness, and I was sucked into the middle of it, and I couldn’t see, but I knew he was coming to kill me—damn, I got hysterical and lost it. I’ve never been hysterical before. I’ve always scoffed at people who get hysterical.”

  “Hysterical’s okay sometimes. You were dreaming. Breathe lightly, don’t talk, that’s it. Keep breathing, slowly, in and out. Good girl.”

  She concentrated on breathing, on blocking out that waking nightmare so real she could still feel it.

  “That’s it,” he said against her hair. “Center yourself, you know how to do it. Feel me, I’m real here, not that damned dream.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you’re real.”

  He smiled as he rocked her a bit, and he looked toward the window. The night had been quiet, a light breeze, nothing more than that. But now the wind was picking up, gusting tree branches against the house. Maybe leaves had hit the window.

  The alarm went crazy, whooping loud and long.

  She lurched back, the braid slapping against his cheek. “Someone’s in the house. Jack, we’ve got to hurry, someone’s in the house.”

  “It’s okay, Rachael. Go disarm it, now.”

  Jack was out the door even before she scooted off the bed and ran to the keypad on the bedroom wall. He yelled, “Stay put!” She couldn’t get her fingers to work. She tried again, punched in the five numbers. The alarm cut off instantly.

  She heard him running. Then nothing. She stood in her bedroom, Jimmy’s gun held tightly in her hand, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She pulled on jeans under her sleep shirt, and ran out onto the second-floor landing, bent over, her gun at the ready. The entrance hall lights were on. The front door stood open. She threw on all the lights as she ran down the stairs, fanning the gun around her like she’d seen on TV. She felt a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was so afraid she thought she’d choke on it. Calm down. She ran to the front door and looked out. The moon was directly overhead, and the wind was up, swirling through the leaves, ruffling her hair. She saw a light in the Danvers’ house across the street. It went out. The alarm must have awakened them, but they’d figured it was an error on her part and gone back to bed. She stood on the front steps, the flagstone cold beneath her feet, and she didn’t move.

  “Jack? Where are you?”

  “Here,” he said a foot from her elbow, and she jumped. She whirled around, thought her heart would leap out of her chest. “How’d you do that? I didn’t hear you. Are you all right? Did you see anyone?”

  “He was gone by the time I ran outside. I found an open window in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. I guess it’s not in the alarm system because it’s not an entry. There’s an oak he could have used to climb in—a big one. He was already in the house when you screamed. He ran down the front stairs and out the front door, and that triggered the alarm.

  “In the morning, I’ll check for footprints, particularly by that oak tree. He could have ripped his clothes, maybe left some threads or material on a branch. We might get lucky. Rachael?”

  She was shivering now from reaction. “What?”

  “Come inside. You’re cold.”

  “I shouldn’t be. It’s a warm night. I was even sweating.” She started trembling. Jack took her arm and led her back into the house. “Give me your alarm code.”

  He shut the front door, punched in the code to reactivate the alarm. He turned to her. “I’m glad you got hysterical, glad you screamed your head off. You heard something. It was real.”

  She walked to a sideboard,
poured a shot of brandy for herself and one for him. “Here.” They both drank.

  A moment later the phone rang in the living room.

  “Yes? Rachael Abbott here.”

  “Rachael? It’s Dillon Savich. Are you guys all right?”

  She stared at the phone. “How did you know something happened?”

  There was silence on the line, then Savich said calmly, “A feeling, a gut feeling, that’s all. Talk to me.”

  She told him what had happened, then handed the phone to Jack. The first words out of his mouth were, “What did your gut tell you, Savich?”

  “That you were running around Rachael’s house in your underwear.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  At ten o’clock Sunday morning, an FBI evidence team converged on Rachael’s house and set up shop around the big oak tree outside the guest-bedroom window, Agent Clive Howard the team leader.

  Savich, Sherlock, and Sean sat at the oak kitchen table, Sean next to his mother drinking cocoa and eating a vanilla scone slathered with peach jam, Rachael and Jack opposite him.

  “He’s like you, Dillon, a sucker for scones.” A big dollop of jam fell onto the table and Sherlock scooped it back into his scone. She said to Rachael and Jack, “They were releasing Agent Tomlin when we got to the hospital. They said he was fine, he said he was fine, he was great, he wanted to kick himself, but Tom very much wanted to go back to guard Dr. MacLean.”

  Savich said, “Poor Sherlock. Agent Tomlin’s no longer looking at her with such tenderness. Now it’s Nurse Louise who’s got his eye. He couldn’t stop talking about how fast she was.

  “I sent him back to relieve the agent guarding Timothy. You can bet from now on Tomlin won’t let any hospital staff he doesn’t know come within ten feet of MacLean’s room.”

  Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, he didn’t get too good a look at the guy who shoved the needle in his neck, and couldn’t identify the photos we showed him.”

  Jack said, “Tomlin’s one tough mother, I hate to see something like this happen. It was too close. For both him and Timothy, it was too close. I wish you’d called me, Savich.”