Killjoy

  Jilly wasn’t perfect by any means. She had a twisted view of motherhood, for she believed that because she had brought Avery into this world, she owned her. She spoke of Avery as her possession, not a person, and Carrie had taken that precious treasure away from her. For years her anger at her sister had festered, but Jilly was patient when it came to vengeance. No matter how long it took, she would get even.

  She insisted on being the one to push the button that would blow the house apart. She promised Monk she wouldn’t shed a tear over her sister’s death. Carrie had brought this on herself. She was the reason Jilly hadn’t succeeded in life; she was the reason Avery hated her. She was the reason for every one of Jilly’s failures. And so it was only fair that Jilly get to watch her sister die.

  Monk wasn’t put off by Jilly’s brutal honesty. How could he cast the first stone? She had accepted him with all his sins, and he could do no less for her.

  Now he was trying to clean up the mistakes at the abandoned mine. Jilly had been sure they would climb down into the shaft to find the next clue as to Carrie’s whereabouts, and then Monk could have dropped a couple of explosives into the hole, sealed it, and followed Jilly back to the retreat.

  Monk hadn’t believed Renard would go into the shaft, and he had been proven right. He had thought, however, that he could get a clear shot at the two and toss the bodies down the hole, but he missed his chance when they scrambled up the rocks and leapt into the river.

  He was methodically tracking them now. He’d lost precious time backtracking to his vehicle and crossing the river, but with his car he’d been able to make up some time by speeding down the mountain road and cutting back to where he anticipated they’d be heading.

  Renard hadn’t left any tracks, but then Monk knew all about the ex-Marine and hadn’t expected less. When he’d done his research on his stalker, he’d read his history, and he’d been impressed. He believed that under different circumstances they could have become friends. They were, after all, very much alike. They were both professional killers. Monk had murdered for money, while Renard killed for honor. That didn’t make him superior, however. If anything, Monk believed it made him a fool.

  Still, he would have liked to have had the opportunity to sit down with him, share some cold beers and talk about their past exploits. But Renard would never go for that. The man was too honorable for his own good. According to his sealed file, which Monk had gotten unsealed, Renard was suffering from burnout. Monk didn’t believe such nonsense. He thought Renard had left the job when he realized he was beginning to enjoy the power he felt every time he pulled the trigger. Honor be damned.

  Was Renard as curious about him? Did he fantasize about sitting down to discuss the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of the kill? Monk wished he could find out. Maybe if he was able to wound him, paralyze him, then Monk could sit down beside him and chat it up like old friends until Renard bled out. Wouldn’t that be something, to talk to an equal, to commiserate, to boast?

  Monk chuckled. Now who was fantasizing? He checked the time and then shook his head. If he didn’t spot the couple soon, he would have to get to his car and drive to where Jilly waited. She was anxious to get back to the little mountain retreat to see how her sister was holding up. By now, the three women had probably turned on one another like polecats, each one slowly going out of her mind with terror. That was what Jilly hoped anyway.

  Stop daydreaming and get back to business, he told himself. He lifted his high-powered binoculars and scanned the terrain once again. He was turning toward the north when he saw the observation tower in the distance, maybe a mile away. Climbing down was a forest ranger. Monk watched until the man was standing on the ground.

  “Well, well,” he whispered as he calculated. “Just my size.”

  Exactly one hour later he was leaning over the rail at the top of the tower, scanning the hills. Looking down at the bushes below he saw the white T-shirt of the forest ranger he’d shot in the temple and then stripped.

  He was just about ready to give up the chase when he suddenly spotted the couple. Avery’s blond hair, so like her mother’s, shimmered gold in the sunlight. Monk couldn’t believe his good fortune. There they were, all right, walking down the mountain as pretty as you please, looking as ragged and worn-out as any two people he’d ever seen. His burst of laughter echoed around him. Wait until he told Jilly. He knew what she would say. She’d tell him he was an exceedingly lucky man.

  He’d agree, of course, even though he knew luck had very little to do with finding his prey. After poring over his map, he’d anticipated that if they survived the white water, they would get out before that tremendous drop below Coward’s Crossing.

  Monk decided to meet them head-on. He climbed down the ladder and walked around to the path, his head down, the bill of his cap concealing his face.

  When he reached the wide-open space between the trees, he ever so slowly turned and pretended to notice them near the peak. He raised his hand to wave.

  Avery heard John Paul behind her. “Fall down, Avery. Do it now.”

  She didn’t hesitate. Pretending to stumble, she went down on one knee. John Paul caught up with her and dropped to put his arm around her shoulders to steady her.

  “Act like you hurt yourself.”

  Rolling to her side, she clutched her ankle and gave an exaggerated grimace. She wanted to cry from disappointment. “He’s not a forest ranger, is he?”

  “No.”

  She kept rubbing her ankle. “How do you know?”

  “I saw his rifle. Forest rangers don’t have scopes on their rifles.”

  She looked up at him. “You saw the scope from this far away?”

  “The sun caught it just right,” he explained. “I think it’s him. I’m not saying it’s Monk, but . . .”

  “Thinking he might be is enough for me,” she said.

  “Okay, I’m gonna help you stand. You lean against me, and we start down the hill again, but we’ll angle toward the west. When we reach the trees, we run like hell.”

  “He’ll come after us.”

  “Ready?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to answer, but hauled her up, lightly bracing her against his side.

  “Limp,” he ordered gruffly as they once again started down the hill. They were walking like two drunks, staggering toward the west as they moved along.

  He was deliberately keeping them out of Monk’s range. He was sure now that the man dressed as a forest ranger was the killer because he hadn’t moved from his spot at the base of the trail. Rangers were helpful, weren’t they?

  “He’s waiting for us to get within firing range.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You scared?”

  “Duh . . .”

  Her response made him smile. “That’s good,” he said. “Okay, sugar. Start running.”

  She immediately bolted toward the safety of the trees. John Paul was right behind her, but he dared a quick look down below and saw Monk running toward them. They had a good head start. Avery led the way steadily downhill, hoping to intercept the road below Monk, all the way praying there would be campers or real forest rangers around who could help them.

  Her ears were ringing. What was that sound? The wind whistling through the trees? Or was it the sound of gunfire sizzling? No, that wasn’t it.

  The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun; then it started up again, but it was louder, shriller this time. It sounded like a whistle.

  “Hear . . . that . . . ?” she panted.

  “Yeah.”

  Then she heard a trumpet. Was she losing it? She kept running, her feet pounding into the soft earth as she raced along, still panting from her exertion.

  The muscles in her legs were burning. Suddenly she lost her footing. She would have hurled headfirst into a gulley if John Paul hadn’t reacted instinctively, lifting her off her feet as he kept stride.

  He slowed as he let go of her, then kept pace just in case she went down a
gain. All at once, they broke through the trees, crossed the road . . . and ran into the middle of Boy Scout Troop 183. Before he could stop, John Paul bowled over one pup tent and mowed down the troop master, who got the wind knocked out of him. The trumpet he was holding went flying into another tent.

  “Cell phone,” Avery shouted at the man sprawled on his back. “We need your cell phone.”

  “No signal up here,” he answered as he came up on his elbows. His face was red with anger. “Who in thunder do you people think . . .”

  John Paul was frantically searching the road ahead of them. Monk wouldn’t have any qualms about taking a couple of kids out as long as he could get his primary targets. One of the boys shouted when he saw the gun tucked into the back of John Paul’s jeans. One blistering look from John Paul shut the boy up.

  Avery dropped down on her knees next to the leader. “Listen to me. We need help. There’s a killer coming this way. Where’s your transportation? Answer me, please,” she begged.

  Her terror got through to him. “We’ve got a camper here, but my Ford four-wheeler is parked about half a mile down the road. The keys are in my jacket in that tent over there, the one with the troop numbers painted on it.”

  John Paul was lifting Avery to her feet. “Get in that camper and get your boys out of here,” he yelled back at the man as he pulled Avery toward the next slope, staying well hidden in the trees.

  “Get to a phone and call for help,” she shouted.

  Her legs were trembling, and she didn’t think she had it in her to run much longer. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, her heart feeling as though it were lodged in her throat, she suddenly remembered they hadn’t gotten the keys.

  “We have to go back . . . the car keys.”

  “We don’t need them,” he said. “Now move it, sugar. You’re starting to drag.”

  She fantasized about hiding somewhere and waiting for John Paul to come back with the car. She could find a spot where Monk wouldn’t find her, couldn’t she?

  Suck it up. Damn it, I don’t want to. I can do it. I can do it. She kept up the drill until the pain in her side became excruciating. She wondered if she could die upright. Sure she could.

  Tears came into her eyes then, for she saw the old SUV parked in the gravel near the curve in the road. John Paul raced ahead of her. He broke the back window, reached in, and unlocked the front door.

  Avery ran around to the other side as he unlocked the door for her. It took less than forty-five seconds for him to hot-wire the car, throw it into gear, and take off.

  She was impressed. “Were you a juvenile delinquent growing up?”

  The second they rounded the curve, she fell back against the seat and allowed herself to fall apart. A sob caught in her throat.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  “Sure sounded like you were.” He gave her a sharp look.

  “I’m joyful.” She hastily wiped the tears of relief from her cheeks.

  He grinned. He had the very same feeling, but it didn’t last long. “Hell,” he muttered.

  “What hell?”

  “The road’s winding back around . . . he might be coming down, getting into position . . . ah, hell, that’s what he’s gonna do, and there isn’t any way we can go off-road here.”

  He leaned forward, pulled his gun out, and dropped it into his lap. He rolled down his window, then picked up the gun.

  She frantically got her weapon out and then rolled down her window. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “Getting ready just like you.”

  “No. Get down and stay down. If he’s coming at us, you’ll be on his side.”

  She ignored his order. “Just tell me when to start shooting. We’ll keep him down until we get past.”

  It sounded like a great plan, and she’d said it with gusto, but that was only because she didn’t believe Monk could have gotten down the hills that quickly.

  She was wrong about that. She spotted him before John Paul did.

  “Get the hell down,” John Paul shouted.

  Her response was to flip the safety off. Leaning against the door, she put her arm out the window, steadied the barrel of the gun on the side mirror, and waited. She ducked down as much as she could.

  When Monk crouched down and swung the rifle up, John Paul shouted, “Now!”

  They fired simultaneously, again and again as they sped toward the killer. Monk dove for cover, then scrambled to roll over and get his weapon up. Avery kept firing, pinning him down as they flew past.

  The road suddenly curved up the mountain. There was a dirt road that angled sharply to the south that would have taken them farther down the mountain, but John Paul knew that, at the speed he was going, the SUV would roll if he tried to make the turn.

  “I’m out,” he said as he emptied the magazine.

  She was turning to look when John Paul grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her down. “Get on the floor,” he ordered as the back window shattered.

  They were still climbing and had reached another sharp curve when Monk blew out the left rear tire.

  The car went into a spin. They careened off the road into the brush, narrowly missing a tree head-on, but finally stopping when they hit a rock.

  “Move it,” he shouted as he leapt out of the car and raced around to the other side. Avery had no sense of where they were, only knew they were once again climbing. Her heartbeat, like the turbulent white water, was roaring in her ears. She raced up the steep slope, then skidded to a stop.

  “No,” she cried.

  John Paul stopped beside her. “Ah, hell.”

  She wanted to weep as she stared down at the swirling water below. No. Not again. Shaking her head, she said, “I won’t do it. I can’t. You can’t make me.”

  He looked genuinely sorry when he grabbed her. “Sure I can.”

  Chapter 25

  PICTURESQUE, MY ASS. IF AVERY SAW ANOTHER WHITE-WATER anything, she thought she just might start screaming and never stop. At the moment, she was feeling malevolent toward pine trees too. Hated every one of them. She wasn’t real fond of John Paul either. He had tossed her over the cliff like a discarded candy wrapper, and on the way down she had vowed that, if he survived, she’d kill him, just for the sheer joy of it.

  She knew she was being irrational. She didn’t care. Her bad mood intensified when she cut her leg on a jagged rock. If they’d been in the ocean, the blood pouring from her cut would have sounded the lunch bell for the neighboring sharks. Trying to stay positive as she fought to stay afloat, she told herself to be thankful there weren’t any sharks around. And her leg didn’t hurt all that much compared to the searing charley horse in her calf that nearly caused her to drown. John Paul hauled her onto the bank, half carried her into the trees so they wouldn’t be seen, and then dropped her. She landed with a thud on her backside.

  He dropped beside her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Since she’d taken in more than enough water to fill a backyard swimming pool, she was too waterlogged to answer the absurd question. Shoving her hair out of her eyes, she glared at him.

  “It wasn’t as bad as the first jump, was it? I don’t think that drop was more than twenty feet,” he said.

  “You pushed me over a cliff.”

  Actually, he hadn’t pushed her. As he recalled, he’d thrown her so she wouldn’t hit the rocks jutting out from the base of the cliff. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention that now, though. “Did I have any other choice?”

  She wasn’t ready to admit that there really hadn’t been any other alternative. Their guns were useless against a high-powered rifle, and Monk was hot on their trail.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He grinned. “Cup half empty, sugar? Where’s that optimistic attitude?”

  “At the bottom of the river.”

  He stood and offered her his hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” r />
  She didn’t know if she had enough strength to even stand. She was so tired and cold and wet. Suck it up, she told herself.

  “Right,” she said as she grabbed hold. When he jerked her upright, she fell against him. He put his arm around her and held her tight while he made up his mind which direction they should go.

  “Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  She looked back toward the river. “Maybe he’ll give up now.”

  John Paul shook his head. “That isn’t gonna happen. He’s a professional. He’s taken the contract, and he won’t stop coming after us until . . .”

  “He succeeds?”

  “Or until I kill him.”

  “I vote for the second option.”

  They both heard the sound of children’s laughter. Avery pulled away from him and started running toward the noise. “I hope they have a phone.”

  “Doubt you can get a signal.”

  She actually smiled. “There’s that negativity I so love. You had me worried, John Paul. For a minute there you were . . .”

  “What?”

  “Cheerful.”

  “The hell I was.”

  He sounded as though she’d just insulted him. She was laughing as she ran toward the sound. The reason for her sudden good humor was either joy or hysteria. A family of five was setting up tents near a little stream.

  After a brief explanation, everyone piled into the father’s minivan and headed toward a town the man remembered he’d driven through on the way up the mountain.

  Thirty minutes later they reached the sleepy little community of Emerson. Downtown consisted of four streets. The father stopped the van in front of a two-story stone building. The second they got out of the van and closed the sliding door, the father sped away.

  “I think maybe you scared him,” Avery remarked.