“So soon?” Jonathan seemed distressed.
“It’s been a long day. Cissy needs to chill out for a while.” She linked arms with her father while Jack retrieved his son and J.J., spying Gwen standing alone, grabbed another glass of wine and zeroed in on the trainer. He was obviously looking for another score.
Would the day never end?
Jannelle anticipated what was going on and cut him off at the pass. “Don’t even think about it, bro. You and me, we need to get the old man home.”
“I’m not an old man,” their father protested, and, it was true, he looked no more than ten years older than his oldest son. “And, damn it, I want to be with my grandson.”
Jannelle sent J.J. another warning glance.
Or did she?
There was more than a small chance that Cissy was overthinking it all, letting paranoia creep in, observing nuances that didn’t exist.
Telling herself that she was imagining things, she suffered through the next hour as the last of the mourners eventually said their final good-byes, leaving only Rosa, Deborah, Diedre, Rachelle, and Jack to finish cleaning up. Beej was in his element, tearing around the rooms, playing with anything he could find. When, eventually, the house was back to some semblance of order, the sympathy cards and donations had been picked up, the extra food either meted out to friends or stored, the candles extinguished, and all the pieces of furniture returned to their original positions, Cissy set down her wineglass, feeling as if she might collapse. She promised the tearful Deborah, the last person out the door, that she would write her a letter of recommendation. Then, as the door closed behind Eugenia’s “companion,” she turned the lock. “No more,” she whispered, shoving her hair from her eyes. She was so exhausted she couldn’t even summon up the heart or energy to suggest that Jack leave.
“Go upstairs, have a bath, go to bed,” he said as he and B.J. settled onto the couch. “I’ll watch Beej; we’ll hang out, and then I’ll get him to bed. You just take it easy.”
It sounded like heaven. “And then what about you?”
“I’ll be around.” He gave her a smile, and she felt the ice around her heart thaw a bit.
“That would be great. I owe you.” Leaning over, she kissed her son’s head and then headed upstairs. She didn’t bother with the bath, just washed her face, changed into her favorite pajamas, and tumbled into bed.
She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, and, dead to the world, she never noticed when, hours later, Jack slid into the bed next to her.
Chapter 12
“…I’m telling you, it was great! Great! No one suspected a thing! You would have been so proud of me! I walked through Cissy’s house as if I owned the place, and no one gave me a second glance.” Elyse was talking fast, exhilarated, still on a high as she explained to Marla what she’d done, how she’d mingled with the enemy and showed up not only at the funeral but at the gathering after the service. Her nerves were still jangled, and she felt breathless, as if she’d spent the last five hours in the company of hungry wolves. And she’d survived! Thrived!
“I should be proud of you?” Marla scoffed. “As if it was hard for you to blend in? Give me a break.”
Elyse stared. She’d expected praise.
During her last visit to the bungalow Marla had been pleased to hear that Elyse had killed Rory, just as Marla had requested.
“About time that half-wit got what was coming to him,” Marla had said with a little more animation than she’d shown for a week. “This is all working perfectly.” She’d actually ignored the damned television for once. “Do you know how much money it costs every month to keep him at that swank facility?”
Swank? There had been nothing swank or posh or expensive-looking about Harborside Assisted Living, but, of course, the kind of care Rory Amhurst needed hadn’t been cheap.
“He was lucky to be alive,” Marla had added. “I was there when dear old Mom ran over him. I heard the thump and the crunch of his bones.” She’d had the grace to shudder at the memory, but added callously, “But I guess he was an Amhurst. All of us are pretty thick-skulled.” She’d actually laughed and Elyse had felt strangely put off, even though, she was certain, she’d heard the same joke before.
“It was a freak accident. The poor kid…”
“Was it? An accident?” Marla had repeated enigmatically. “I guess dear old Mom didn’t set out to kill him, but you—defending him—when you baked him the brownies that killed him. What did you call him, ‘a poor kid’? He was a man; that accident was over thirty-five years ago! And don’t be acting all caring and warm and fuzzy. For God’s sake, you watched him die, you told me you did, and you liked it. That ‘poor kid’ didn’t know up from sideways. He’s better off dead.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Then why the hell did you kill him?”
“For you,” Elyse had blurted, stung. “What? Did you forget?”
“Oh, come on.”
“For the plan. Our plan.”
“You did it for the thrill,” Marla had said knowingly. “Because you could. It’s an incredible sense of power knowing you can take a life, even a pathetic one. Tell yourself it’s for our plan…we both know differently. But it was a good job. Now we can move forward.”
Elyse had let herself bask in Marla’s praise, grudging as it was. And Marla had been right. She had enjoyed the kill.
But now they were back to their same roles: Elyse trying to placate a testy, surly Marla. For God’s sake, the woman acted as if she were a prisoner, when Elyse had risked her neck to spring her. Ungrateful, self-centered bitch!
“You think you’re something special, don’t you?” Marla suddenly accused, as if reading her thoughts. “Because you killed two people who deserved to die. Oh, don’t deny it. I saw it on your face when you burst in here after killing Eugenia, and then Rory. You were on a high like no other. You felt invincible.”
Elyse was thunderstruck. Was it possible that Marla understood her better than she’d thought?
“But really,” Marla said stiffly, “just how invincible are you? Eugenia was tiny and old, had already taken her dose of Valium, right? She couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and so you tossed her over the rail. Big deal. And then Rory, just an innocent boy in a man’s body, right? Not a mean bone in his body. Crippled enough that he used a wheelchair and you slipped him some doctored brownies. How much intellect or skill does it take to trick a retard?”
“You wanted me to kill them. You told me to,” Elyse burst out.
“Yes, I did. And it’s fine that you feel exhilarated with the kills, but let’s just keep it all in perspective, okay? You preyed on the weak and the helpless. Things are going to get harder. A lot harder.”
Elyse didn’t know what she’d expected but it hadn’t been a lecture on the finer points of murder, a discussion of what was morally right or wrong.
Jesus, what did Marla want from her?
“You know, if I could get out of here, everything would be already done.”
“These things take time.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not stuck in this hellhole. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone flippin’ insane down here!” she said, then continued to whine and feel sorry for herself again. After all Elyse had done for the bitch. All the risks she’d taken. While Princess Marla was fighting boredom. Well, who the hell cared?
The trouble was, it appeared that Marla was getting weirder by the day, more paranoid about being caught. Not once had she gone up the stairs. She usually just sat in her damned chair in front of the boob tube. This was getting bad.
Yes, Marla wanted to hear every last detail of the funeral and the gathering afterward, asking about people Elyse didn’t know, but Marla was pouting as well. They had talked about her attending the funeral with Elyse in disguise, but had decided against it. The cops would be looking for her, and no matter how good the makeup, padding, wigs, contacts, and clothing, there had been the chance
that someone might have recognized her.
Elyse said now, “I’m certain the police are thinking you’re behind Eugenia’s and Rory’s deaths. Even though I gave your prison wear to the guy who’s going to leave it in Oregon, the authorities won’t buy that you’ve left the state unless we stop now.”
“We can’t,” Marla said fervently. For once, she seemed to understand. “Not yet.” She seemed upset now, fretting. “You just have to work faster. That’s it. Take care of everyone who’s in our way. Then send your man to Oregon. No, wait a minute. I’m going crazy here anyway. I’ll help.”
“How?” Elyse asked, not liking the turn of the conversation.
“I’ll leave here…go to a local hotel. I can take a taxi from there. Disguise myself, have the taxi put me near BART and I could take a bus or—”
“No!”
“Then I’ll drive the car,” she said with more animation than she’d shown in a long while. “I need to get out of here.”
“Not yet,” Elyse said, panicking. “You can’t leave yet.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Just show a little patience. Everything’s going according to plan.”
Marla glared at her.
“First go upstairs. See if you can handle being out of this damned basement. If you can, then we’ll see.”
“You’re like a damned warden!”
“I’m just making sense,” Elyse told her. She didn’t want to upset Marla, because there was nothing to prevent her from leaving if she so chose. Even if Elyse decided to lock her inside, Marla had keys, and she was a master at escape. No, Marla had to be convinced that she needed to stay inside for a while longer. Till they were both safe and the job was done. “Really, everything’s going perfectly.”
So don’t blow it!
Marla let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
That was more like it.
“I can stay hidden for a few more weeks. It’s god-awful, but it won’t be forever,” she said as if she were convincing herself. “I just have to keep telling myself that. This place is worse than prison. At least there I had people I could talk with.”
“You mean cons and guards?”
“I saw sunlight.”
“I know, I know, I’ll take care of it.” Secretly Elyse was glad to ratchet up the schedule. The highs of the killings didn’t last long, and she was anxious for everything to fall into place.
She picked up some of the garbage Marla let lie around…. Jesus, couldn’t she smell the rotting apple cores and bits of sandwiches? Maybe it was because she was trapped down here with it. She also, nonchalantly, cleaned the brush Marla used on her hair.
“Look,” she suggested, pocketing the snarl of hair when Marla wasn’t looking. “At least walk into the other room of the basement and stretch your legs. Go up and down the stairs and walk around on the other floor. I’ll go up there now and make certain the blinds are drawn. No one will see you.”
“I do need to get out.” Longingly, she eyed her coat draped upon a hook and the boots on the floor below.
“Absolutely. Go upstairs,” Elyse agreed, trying another tack to mollify the older woman. “I’d go stir crazy if I just sat down here all day and night.”
“But you’re not me, are you?” Marla asked, a sense of new-found pride in her voice. “You’ve never been penned up like an animal.” She smiled almost wickedly, her green eyes sparkling in the half-light of the little room. “You don’t have the same backbone I do, the same sense of purpose. That’s the difference between us.”
Not the only one, Elyse thought, but held her tongue. I’ve never been caught.
She left Marla, the weirdo, and took the garbage with her. She would put it in a bin in a park, as she didn’t have pickup service. She didn’t want to take the chance of someone going through it here.
Sliding behind the wheel of her Taurus, she glanced back at the house. What if Marla did leave? She could take off when Elyse wasn’t here and never return. Elyse would never know the difference, and Marla could screw up everything. Damn! Still lost in “what ifs” she jammed the gearshift into reverse, backing out of the driveway quickly.
BAM!
A thud echoed through the car.
“Hey!”
Elyse slammed on the brakes.
Somebody had pounded on the trunk of her car.
In her rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of a blur.
She gasped, looked again, just in time to see a bicyclist, one hand raised, middle finger extended, fly past in the glow of the street lamps. “Watch where you’re going, you lunatic!” he raved, and she paused a few minutes to catch her breath. Her heart was knocking so fast she couldn’t think. Sweat bloomed over her body, and she felt her insides tremble. She couldn’t afford to hit a bicyclist or pedestrian or dog or anything. She couldn’t risk getting caught. Could not! She was too close to having everything she wanted.
Cautiously, her heart jackhammering, she eased out of the drive and onto the street.
What if the bicyclist remembered her license plates? What if those same plates had been caught on some security camera at the nursing home, or on the street near the Cahill home on Mt. Sutro? These days, everyone had a cell/camera phone which they carried with them. Tons of crimes were caught on camera. Yes, it was dark, but the blue glow cast from the street lamps was enough illumination to read her license plate.
Don’t panic. The biker was flying by too fast to catch the plate’s numbers, and so what if he saw you: you’re leasing this place, remember, Elyse?
Inside she was quivering, but she set her jaw and regulated her breaths, her tense muscles relaxing a bit as she drove through the near-dark streets without another incident. No one stared at her. No one turned to follow the Taurus with their eyes. No one lifted a cell phone high and zoomed in to take a picture of her car. She wondered if the trunk was dented where the biker had driven his fist. She didn’t want any mark on the vehicle, nothing that would allow it to stand out or be identified.
Calm down, you’re safe. What you have to do is steal a license plate off another car, not switch it with the ones you’ve got now, just find another silver Taurus that looks similar, one parked in a Bay Area Transit station, and take the damned plate or two. They don’t have to match front to back; no one will ever know, and the driver of the car from which it’s stolen will just think his fell off somewhere and get a duplicate. You can do this. You’ll be fine.
Her fingers eased over the steering wheel. She clicked on the radio, listening to some smooth jazz. Cracking the window as she approached the bridge, she smelled the scent of the ocean, and she leaned back in the seat as she drove toward town, back to her real life. She thought about calling her boyfriend and making a date, but she knew that they were both tired. And he’d probably play that stupid cat-and-mouse game that seemed to be his favorite, as if he was always on the verge of breaking up with her, calling the whole thing off.
She knew better.
He was in too deep to back out.
“Silly man,” she chided as lonely notes from a saxophone drifted from the speakers. She would visit him another day. As much as she wanted to see him, to kiss him, to feel his hands on her, to straddle him and fuck his damned brains out, another time would be better. She needed to think things through, focus on her plan. Not Marla’s. Just hers.
She thought of Cissy Cahill Holt, the ultimate target.
God, she couldn’t wait to see the look on Cissy’s face when she realized she was about to die. Then there would be that other, unique moment of realization and recognition when she understood who “Elyse” really was. A little tingle of adrenaline slipped through her bloodstream again, a rush of anticipation. She licked her lips as the car’s tires sang over the bridge, the night-dark waters whipping by.
Yeah, Cissy. Just you wait, Elyse thought as she drove toward San Francisco, where the city lights were winking seductively over the black water. Things were working out so
well. She thought about the cell phone she had tucked in her purse and the key, two items she’d managed to pick up when no one was looking at the gathering of the bereft for poor Eugenia Cahill. She smiled to herself as she thought what she would be able to accomplish with Cissy’s cell phone and the key that was “hidden” by the staircase leading to the basement, a key probably no one would miss, not even Cissy herself. Elyse had left another key, one that looked identical. As long as no one tried to use it, no one would be the wiser that it was a dummy key, a decoy, just like those fake ducks hunters floated on a lake.
A pure stroke of genius.
But the cell phone was a different story. Cissy would miss it, freak out, and, when she didn’t find it, cancel her service. Elyse would have to work fast, use it before Cissy got wise.
But then, she intended to.
As she drove off the bridge and toward the city, the traffic snarling at some of the stop lights, Elyse stared at the taillights of the minivan in front of her and imagined Cissy’s frustration when she realized the phone was missing. She wouldn’t cancel her service immediately; she would expect the damned thing to turn up, probably lost when someone at the gathering had inadvertently moved it.
How perfect was that?
You’re in for the shock of your pathetic, spoiled life, bitch.
Cissy Cahill Holt didn’t know the meaning of the word fear.
Not yet.
But she was going to learn.
Soon.
And, better yet, so was her mother.
Cissy yawned and rolled over.
And bumped right into something solid and warm and snoring.
Her eyes flew open, and in the early hours of dawn she saw Jack lying beside her.
“What are you doing here?” she said, shaking him awake. “You can’t be here, you can’t be…Oh God…” What had she done last night? She didn’t remember, and the headache behind her eyes told her that she’d had a lot, maybe too much, to drink.
Jack opened one eye. “’Mornin’ beautiful,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting into a sexy grin.