Killjoy

  Did he even like Avery? Yeah, he did, he admitted. The woman was a real smart-ass. How could he not like her?

  He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred like a well-fed kitten as he put the gear into drive.

  God knows he tried, but he couldn’t summon up the strength to drive away. Damn it, she was making him nuts. She was just like a chigger, itching and irritating. She wanted him to leave. Right? Hell, yes. She was sure she was going to be fine and dandy with that super-duper team watching out for her safety. . . . God help her.

  Avery was a fighter, and she could certainly handle anything that came her way. But could she control the actions of the agents assigned to protect her? Could she prevent them from screwing things up? And while she was watching them, who would be watching her?

  He put the gear back in park and turned the motor off. What the hell was he going to do?

  Let the FBI worry about her. Damn right. That was definitely what he was going to do. He started the motor again, but this time he didn’t get the gearshift into drive. He sat there like a lump of ice, frozen with indecision, while the car idled.

  What a game player he was turning out to be. He was now desperately trying to convince himself he didn’t care what happened to her.

  She made him laugh. She made him want things he thought he could never have.

  Hell, she humanized him.

  John Paul fought the good fight, but when all was said and done, he lost the battle. He bowed his head in submission as the truth sliced through him. Son of a bitch.

  Face it, Renard. You aren’t going anywhere without her.

  He turned the motor off and reached for the door.

  The voice stopped him. “Will you get going? Move it, Renard. I’m suffocating back here, and your sleeping bag smells like dead leaves.”

  He swung around. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Don’t start with me, John Paul. Put the damn car into drive and get us out of here. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  His smile was slow and easy. The tension eased out of his shoulders, and his stomach stopped aching. The world was suddenly right again. Avery was snarling at him like a mountain cat, definitely giving him attitude.

  He started the engine and changed gears, but he didn’t accelerate. “If you go with me, sugar, I’m calling the shots, and you’re going to do what I tell you to do. Can you deal with that?”

  She didn’t hesitate in answering. “When I jumped off the fire escape ladder, I landed on the roof of your car and dented it. You deal with that.”

  He grinned as he drove down the alley. How could he not be crazy about her?

  Chapter 28

  JILLY WAS ANXIOUSLY WAITING TO HEAR THE BODY COUNT. SHE paced around her hotel bungalow while the television, tuned into a local Colorado station, droned on and on, but each time that wonderful film clip showing the explosion of the house came on, she hurriedly sat down on the edge of the bed. Enthusiastically and greedily, she devoured every second of the magnificent footage.

  How fortuitous that a hiker just happened to be filming the landscape at the exact second the house disintegrated. His lens had captured every bit of the back of the house. Had Jilly not been able to watch it on television, she would have been irate. Admittedly, she was still a little irritated because she had been looking forward to pushing the button, but this clip that the station kept showing over and over again was almost as good.

  The phone rang just as the clip ended. She hit the mute button before she answered.

  “Hello, darling.”

  A second’s pause followed. “Did you see it on television?”

  He sounded so eager to please, yet nervous at the same time. “Yes, of course I saw it. Wasn’t it marvelous?”

  “Yes . . . yes,” he replied. “Two bodies so far.”

  “One to go,” she said. “You sound nervous, darling. What’s wrong?”

  “I was worried that, after the fact, you might feel bad. I’m glad to know you’re okay.”

  “Feel bad about Carrie? She ruined my life and stole my daughter from me. I’m overjoyed,” she said.

  “I miss you,” he said. “I want—”

  Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “I know what you want. Are you in the car now?”

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  “You’d better pull over,” she said. And then in the most erotic detail she told him what she would do to him when they were together. His breathing amused her. The rapid panting of a dog in heat, she thought. The power she had over men excited her.

  “Will you like that?” she asked breathlessly so he would think she was as out of control as he was.

  And then she gave him more until he was whimpering with his need. A sudden silence followed a low groan. She knew what was happening and smiled with satisfaction. She could have had a wonderful career doing phone sex, she thought, but she certainly wouldn’t make the kind of money she wanted. Still, it was nice to know she had options.

  “Are you feeling less lonely now, darling?”

  “Yes,” he answered with a sigh. “I’ll be with you soon. I love you, Jilly.”

  “I know you do, darling. I love you too.”

  She hung up the phone and began to pace again. Would the police be able to tell who was who from what little was left of the bodies? She knew that skulls and teeth were one way of identifying victims, but what if those had also been blown to smithereens?

  Umm. What would they do then?

  The film came on the television again. Jilly rushed to the bed and sat down to watch. Oh, it was lovely, so lovely.

  When the news bulletin ended, she went to her overnight bag and took out her precious videotape. She carried it with her wherever she went. She popped it into the VCR and knelt in front of the TV to watch. How many times had she seen it? A hundred? A thousand? And yet, she never grew tired of it . . . or the feelings it provoked.

  “Now do you see why you have to die?” she whispered to the screen.

  She happened to notice one of her nails was chipped and rushed into the bathroom to repair it. Checking the time, she realized that Monk would be arriving soon. She needed to get ready to greet him properly. And reward him, of course. Like a dog who’d performed a difficult trick, Monk would be anxious for his treat.

  Virginal white, she decided as she pulled the negligee from her overnight bag. He’d like that. But then he liked everything she did to him, didn’t he?

  She mustn’t forget to put on red lipstick. Oh, how men loved pouting red lips.

  They loved her perfect body. They loved her angelic face.

  They all loved her.

  Chapter 29

  THE PARAMEDICS TOLD CARRIE SHE WAS IN SHOCK. SHE DIDN’T agree, but she understood how they had reached their diagnosis. Granted, there was something a little peculiar about her behavior. When they’d lifted her out of the ravine, she had been sobbing uncontrollably and incoherently. She knew the words she wanted to say, yet she couldn’t seem to get them out in the right order or at the right time. Still, their conclusion was a bunch of nonsense. They weren’t doctors. What the hell did they know? Her mind was working just fine, thank you very much.

  Camera lights glared in her face as she was carried on the stretcher and placed across from Sara in the waiting ambulance. Carrie struggled to sit up until she realized one of the paramedics had rudely strapped her down. She was able to move one of her arms, though. Reaching across the narrow aisle, she took hold of Sara’s hand.

  Her friend was in terrible pain. Both paramedics were working on her leg. “Is she going to be all right? Is she going to be all right?” The question became a chant she couldn’t stop. Even though both men tried to assure her that yes, yes, she was going to be fine, Carrie felt compelled to keep asking.

  One of them gave Sara an injection, and she closed her eyes seconds later. Her hand went limp in Carrie’s. After they finished immobilizing her leg, one of them checked her
blood pressure again while the other worked on Carrie.

  “He’s going to kill Avery. Make them stop him. Do you hear me? He’s going to . . . going to . . .”

  Carrie passed out. The terror of what she had been through, added to sleep deprivation, had finally caught up with her. Her body simply rebelled and shut down.

  When she next opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed. And, oh, how she ached. It seemed every muscle in her body throbbed. Had someone taken a stick to her?

  She desperately tried to clear the fog in her mind. Avery. Oh, God, she had to find Avery before it was too late. She saw the call button pinned to the sheet on her left and tried to reach for it. Pain shot up through her elbow and she cried out. Looking down, she saw the cast on her arm and let out a low curse.

  How had that happened?

  The ravine, of course. She’d fallen headfirst into that deep pit, and she remembered putting her arm out to try to brace against the fall. She knew she’d injured her wrist, but she thought she’d just sprained it. It hadn’t hurt all that much at the time, had it? She couldn’t remember. Maybe it had gone numb, as numb as the rest of her at that point. She did remember landing on top of Sara, though. Her friend had been writhing in agony, and Carrie distinctly recalled putting her hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, terrified that Monk was lurking in the dark waiting to catch them.

  Where was Sara? Carrie could hear men’s voices in the hallway, and she couldn’t reach the call button. She was about to shout when the door opened and a young doctor dressed in blue scrubs and a white lab coat came inside. He was holding a chart in his hand.

  His name was Dr. Bridgeport, and he looked as if he hadn’t had any sleep in a week. That can’t be good, she thought. Then she noticed his hands. They were huge, as though he’d had them transplanted from a bigger body, along with the new row of dark hair plugs in his scalp.

  “Are you my doctor?”

  “I’m a neurologist. I’ve reviewed your X rays and CAT scan,” he began.

  “I had those tests?” she interrupted.

  He nodded. “You suffered a mild concussion. I’m going to keep you overnight for observation. I didn’t see anything alarming on the scan,” he added.

  “What about my arm?”

  “You broke it.”

  “Obviously,” she said.

  He was writing in her chart and, without looking up, said, “Your primary physician will be in to check on you in a little while. Meanwhile, you’ve got quite a few eager law enforcement officers waiting to talk to you. I’m going to allow two in the room . . . if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “My head hurts. May I have something for pain?”

  “In a little while,” he promised.

  She knew what that meant. When Avery was little and wanted something Carrie didn’t want her to have, she used the very same phrase. It hadn’t worked on Avery then, and it wasn’t working on Carrie now.

  “I want something.”

  “You’ve suffered a concussion, Mrs. Salvetti, and I would rather—”

  She cut him off. “Oh, never mind. Doctor, a friend of mine rode with me in the ambulance. Her leg was all torn up. Where is she? Do you know?”

  The doctor nodded. “Judge Collins is in surgery,” he explained.

  There was a hard rap on the door. The doctor closed the chart, smiled at her, and turned to leave. “You need to rest,” he said as he opened the door and let two men in dark suits rush inside. “Ten minutes,” he said to the agents, “then she needs to get some sleep.”

  They moved like soldiers on parade, arms stiff, heads high. They were also dressed alike, except for the choice of tie colors. One wore a gray-and-black-striped tie, and the other had on a muted plaid.

  An agent named Hillman was in charge. There was a sharpness about his eyes she found comforting. She didn’t think he would miss much.

  The other, younger agent pushed the button to elevate her back, poured her a glass of water, and hovered at her side while Hillman questioned her. He led her through the sequence of events, rarely interrupting when she paused to collect her thoughts. She wanted to tell him everything at once, impatient to ask questions of her own, but Hillman was tenacious and made her keep to his agenda.

  She turned to the more cooperative agent and asked him to find her jacket.

  “The letters are in the pocket.”

  Hillman found the jacket hanging in the built-in closet. He pulled on a pair of gloves and dropped the envelopes into a Ziploc bag the other agent held out for him.

  “Anne gave a letter to me. I want to read it.”

  “We’ll let the lab dust it for prints,” the sidekick told her.

  She’d thought he was more malleable than Hillman, but now she realized he was just as tenacious.

  “I want to know what that sick bastard of a husband wrote to her. He hired Monk to kill her, you know. You have to arrest him.”

  Ignoring her demand, Hillman resumed his questions. Carrie had had enough. “No, it’s my turn. I want to know where my niece is.”

  “We’re searching for her . . .”

  “Find her.”

  Seeing how distraught Carrie was, sidekick offered her a sip of water by holding the straw under her nose. She turned her head.

  “Tell me what you know about . . .” Hillman once again tried to get her back on track.

  “I want an update on Judge Collins, and I want it now.”

  The agents exchanged a glance, and then Hillman answered. “She’s out of surgery and in ICU.”

  “So far, so good,” the other man said.

  She glared at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Bean, ma’am. Agent Peter Bean.”

  No wonder he hadn’t introduced himself. Saddled with a name like that, she wouldn’t have told anyone either. Bet they called him string bean in grade school, she thought.

  Hillman started the questions all over again. For an hour he kept it up, grilling her, going over the same facts again and again until she began to feel as if she were the criminal they were trying to get to confess.

  Her head was pounding. “That’s it,” she said. “I can’t answer any more questions now.”

  Hillman looked disappointed, but he agreed to let her rest for a little while. She wasn’t in the mood to be cordial. She told them not to come back until they had news about Avery. To calm her down—she was shouting now—Hillman let her call her husband. Bean dialed the number for her. The second she heard Tony’s voice over the phone, she burst into tears.

  “I need you, Tony. You have to come to Aspen.”

  His voice shook with emotion as he replied, “Sweetheart, they told me I couldn’t. They said as soon as you’re discharged from the hospital they’re going to move you and the judge to a safe house somewhere. Carrie, love, are you all right? I wish I could be there with you. I wish . . . I’m sorry you’re going through this alone.”

  “Have you heard from Avery?”

  “No,” he answered. “I didn’t know she was planning to join you at the spa. One of the agents who came to talk to me told me she missed her flight.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” she sobbed.

  “We’ll find her,” he promised. “Nothing’s going to happen to her. I promise you. And I’m keeping the line open. She’ll call. I know she’ll call.”

  “Tony, I didn’t realize . . . I’m so sorry about everything. You can have Star Catcher. You can run it any way you want. I don’t care about any of that anymore. I should have trusted you. I’ve been such a fool.”

  She was sobbing now and angry because the agents were listening to every word.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I do, Tony. I love you very much. Please . . . tell me it isn’t too late.”

  “No, no, it isn’t. I can . . . I love you too,” he stammered. “I’ll get on the next plane. We’ll make our marriage work again. Anything is possible with your love. Anything.”

  Chapter 30

  ANY HOPE THA
T THE FBI WOULD BE ABLE TO KEEP THE names of the survivors out of the papers and off the television had been squelched when a news crew filmed Carrie and the judge being carried into the ambulance near the site of the explosion.

  Avery heard about it on the radio as she and John Paul were driving through the mountains. As soon as they’d left the sleepy town, she’d climbed in front, clipping him on the shoulder with her left foot when she fell into the passenger seat. Her shoe fell in his lap. Shaking his head over her awkwardness, he handed her the shoe while she apologized.

  They continued to listen to the broadcast until the signal faded. “Does everyone in the United States carry video cameras now?” he asked. He sounded disgusted. “Some people just love invading other people’s privacy.”

  “Film crews from television stations usually carry cameras,” she said.

  “No need to be sarcastic, sugar.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was simply pointing out a fact. Carrie must have hated having a camera in her face. Someone from the FBI should have grabbed the film. The crime-scene investigators must not have gotten there in time.”

  “Should’ve, could’ve,” he drawled. “That’s the Bureau’s motto.”

  “You’re not going to rile me.”

  He laughed. “I wasn’t trying to.”

  She rolled the window down and let the cool night air in. “Yes, you were,” she said. “I’ve finally gotten you all figured out.”

  “You think so?”

  She smiled. “When I first met you, I thought you must have some kind of grudge against the FBI, but now that I know you better, I realize that isn’t true at all. Your phobia is much bigger than that.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “You don’t like any government agency.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “When we talked about your brother-in-law working for the Justice Department, you sneered.”

  “Justice has too much power.”