9 Kill for Me

  She was in pain. Biting back the whimper, she shoved through, her shoulders and upper arms burning. Her skin was scraped raw.

  It didn’t matter. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be dead, then some scraped skin won’t mean anything. She wriggled her hips as if she were doing the breaststroke and her hands hit the floor on the other side. She slid the rest of the way out until she knelt on the floor, breathing hard, then looked around her. She nearly laughed out loud. On this side of the wall were all the tools she’d needed to break free. On a table she saw about a hundred doorknobs, some glass, some marble, some still assembled in the old-fashioned cast-iron plate that fit into the door. She lifted one with a marble knob, hefted it in her hand. It fit her hand better than a brick. From the table of tools she chose an awl with a wicked-looking point.

  Then she pulled on the door. It creaked loudly and she froze.

  “Who’s there?” It was the sleepy, slurred voice of the guard.

  Run. She darted into the night, appalled to see the moon so bright. She was completely visible. Vulnerable. All this and she was going to be caught.

  “Stop!” The thundered order was followed by the crack of gunfire.

  It was the guard. He’s shooting at me. Run. Her feet flew across the back lawn, the footsteps and heavy breathing of the guard getting louder and louder as he got closer.

  She grunted in pain when she hit the ground, two hundred pounds of man on top of her. “I got you, baby. I’m going to have you for free,” the guard said, and she could smell beer on his breath. That’s how she’d been able to work undetected. He’d been drunk. He wasn’t so drunk now and really strong. “Then I’m gonna kill you.”

  I’m going to die. No. No. With a desperate cry she wrenched her hand free and drove the awl into his shoulder.

  He howled in pain and she skittered back.

  “Tanner!” It was the woman. From the corner of her eye she saw the butler come around the house, a rifle in his hands—just as the guard lunged. Ashley brought her arm around in a hard arc, striking the guard with the doorknob.

  For a moment he was stunned motionless.

  The moment was all she needed. Go. Go. Go. She made it to the woods that separated the house from the river. God, help me. The sticks and rocks shredded her feet, slowing her down. They were coming. Coming. Uttering a hoarse cry she ran. She could see the water. It would be cold.

  Ready. Ready. Big breath. Brace yourself. Now. Jump.

  God. She hit the cold water and dove deep. Go. Go. Go. She surfaced a few seconds later, the water too cold for her to hold her breath any longer, and she flinched at the sound of the rifle. It had hit the water, somewhere behind her.

  Behind her. They were behind her.

  But they had no boat. And I am going to the Olympics.

  Move. She forced her arms to move, to stroke, to work with the current. It was working. I’m getting away. I’m coming, Dad. I’m coming home.

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 4:10 a.m.

  Susannah woke with lips on hers, unable to breathe. Panicked, she shrank back, her fist connecting with something solid and warm. That smelled like cedar.

  “Ow.” Luke pulled back, rubbing his jaw. “That hurt.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said breathlessly. “I mean it.”

  He moved his jaw back and forth. “I’m sorry. You looked sweet. I couldn’t resist.”

  “I’m not sweet,” she said darkly, and he laughed.

  “At the moment, no.” He sobered. “You were dreaming and I couldn’t wake you up.”

  She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue. “So you kissed me.”

  “And you woke up. We’re here. This is Angie Delacroix’s address.”

  “She’ll be asleep.”

  “I hope she wakes up better than you do,” he muttered, and came around to get her door. “Let me talk first. If I need you I’ll let you know.”

  “How, with some kind of signal?” she asked.

  “How about I just say, ‘Susannah, please help,’ ” he said dryly, and rang Angie’s bell. “You ready for this?”

  “No. But we’ll do what needs to be done.”

  Angie opened the door, curlers piled high on her head. “What’s this? Susannah Vartanian, what in God’s name are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” Susannah said quietly, “but it’s urgent. May we come in?”

  Angie looked from Susannah to Luke, then shrugged. “Come in.” She led them into a living room that shone, mainly from the plastic covers on every stick of furniture.

  Luke sat on the sofa without hesitation, then patted the cushion next to him. “I’m Special Agent Papadopoulos,” he said.

  “I know who you are,” Angie said. “You’re Daniel Vartanian’s friend.”

  “Miss Delacroix,” he said, “we need your help on a delicate matter.”

  Angie’s eyes shuttered. “What?”

  “Tonight we discovered there is another Vartanian,” Luke said. “A half-sister.”

  She sighed. “I was wondering when this would come out. How did you find out?”

  “Then you knew?” Susannah asked, and Angie smiled bitterly.

  “Honey, I know things I got no business knowing and things I wish I’d never heard. Yes, I knew. A body only had to look at her to know, even that young.”

  “Where is she, Miss Delacroix?” Luke asked, and Angie looked confused.

  “Now? I don’t know. She was just a baby when her parents moved away. We lost touch years ago.”

  “Miss Delacroix,” Luke said. “Who was the baby’s mother?”

  “Terri Styveson.”

  Susannah blinked. “The preacher’s wife?”

  “I thought Wertz was the pastor,” Luke said.

  “Pastor Styveson was here before Pastor Wertz,” Angie said.

  “You mean Mrs. Styveson had an affair with my father?”

  “I don’t know if it was as big as an affair. Terri really wasn’t your daddy’s type. Your mama was pregnant with Simon and as big as a house. That’s genetic, you know.”

  “Thank you,” Susannah said. “So because Mother was pregnant, my father just . . .”

  “Men have needs. Except, apparently, Pastor Styveson. Terri was one frustrated woman. He was very much into his daily devotional. She once asked me how to make herself more appealing to him. That sure made Sunday services more awkward.”

  “I guess it did,” Susannah said. “So she and my father had a fling?”

  “Yes.” Angie sighed. “I’ll never forget how hurt your mama was when she found out.”

  “So my mother knew. How did she find out?”

  “Like I said, you only had to look at the baby. One morning your mama was picking up Simon in the church nursery and she got a good look. That baby was the spittin’ image of Daniel at the same age.”

  “What happened?”

  Angie was quiet for a moment. “Your mother paid a visit to the pastor. Confronted him. The pastor was . . . angry. Humiliated. Your mama and I were friends for nearly forty years, but she had a mean streak, Susannah. She told Styveson that he had a choice—he had to go or the baby had to go. She said that she’d see he never got another congregation as long as he lived if she had to look at his wife’s bastard baby every week in church. She would’ve done it, too.”

  “So they left,” Luke said.

  “And as far as I know they never had any contact with your father or mother again.”

  She didn’t know about Barbara Jean Davis, Susannah thought. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. She started to rise, but Angie sat, her lips pursed.

  “So the woman’s come forward for the inheritance,” Angie said, and Susannah blinked. She honestly hadn’t even considered that.

  “Yes,” Luke said without hesitation.

  “Greed drives people to do terrible things.” She tilted her head. “So does anger.”

  “What does that mean?” Susannah asked.


  “Just that you might want to submit your own sample for paternity testing.”

  Susannah’s mouth fell open. “Miss Angie, don’t play games with me. Speak plainly.”

  “Fine. When your mother found out about your daddy’s dalliance, she reciprocated.”

  Susannah sat back, stunned. “With who?”

  Angie looked down at her hands, twisted together in her lap.

  All Susannah could hear was her heart pounding in her head. “Who?” she repeated.

  Angie looked up, her eyes filled with misery. “Frank Loomis.”

  Susannah’s lungs stopped working. “You mean . . . Sheriff Loomis is . . . was . . .”

  Angie nodded. “Your father.”

  Susannah’s hands rose to cover her mouth. Luke’s hand slid across her back. Warm and solid. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “You need to understand,” Angie said. “Frank loved your mama, for years.”

  “Did Frank know he was Susannah’s biological father?” Luke asked.

  “Not till later. Not till Simon got into more trouble than Arthur could fix. Your mother would plead with Frank, ask him to make the trouble disappear. ‘For me,’ she’d say,” Angie said bitterly. “Then one day Simon did something so bad, Frank couldn’t make it go away. That’s when your mother told him about you. He was so shocked. ‘For me,’ she said. ‘The mama of your baby girl.’ So he fixed it. And had nightmares for thirteen years because an innocent man had gone to prison.”

  “Gary Fulmore,” Luke said, and she nodded. “How do you know all this?” he asked.

  Her lips twisted. “Frank wasn’t the only one suffering from unrequited love.”

  “You and Frank had a relationship?” Luke asked, and her eyes flashed in pain.

  “Twenty-five years we were lovers. He’d come in the night, leave before morning. But he wouldn’t marry me. He wanted Carol Vartanian.”

  “You must have hated her,” Susannah whispered.

  Angie shook her head sadly. “No. She was my friend. But I envied her. She had an important husband and the love of a man who sold his soul to make her happy. But it didn’t make her happy. A year after Gary Fulmore went to prison, Simon disappeared and your mother was never quite the same. Neither was Frank. When he learned she was dead . . . that Simon had killed her. It nearly killed him. I guess in the end it did.”

  “Miss Delacroix,” Luke said, “we have one more question. The pastor who left, did he leave any forwarding address? Would there be any way to get in touch with him?”

  “Bob Bowie and his wife might know. Rose was always active in the church.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why was this so urgent that you woke me in the middle of the night?”

  “Someone shot at Susannah today,” Luke said.

  Angie looked surprised. “I thought they shot the French girl, the one who’s going public about . . . well, you know.”

  “Susannah was standing next to her. We’re exploring all possibilities.”

  “You think Terri Styveson’s bastard baby would shoot Susannah for an inheritance?”

  “People get shot for a lot less, every day.” Luke stood, bringing Susannah to her feet. “Please accept our apologies and thanks. I hope you’re able to get back to sleep.”

  Angie’s smile was wan. “I haven’t slept in days. Not since Frank was killed.”

  Susannah looked at Angie, her emotions seething. “Why tell me? Why now?”

  “I always wondered what went on in your house. I always wondered what went on behind those blank eyes of yours. I was afraid I knew. I should have said something, but . . . Frank didn’t want me to. It would have embarrassed your mother. When he finally learned the truth, that you were his, it was too late. It was too late, wasn’t it?”

  Susannah nodded, numbly. People had known then. They’d known. And they’d done nothing. “Yes.”

  Angie closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  It’s all right. That’s what she should say. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t all right. “Did my father . . . Arthur . . . Did he know? That I wasn’t his?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I do know you were your mother’s penance. Now you’re mine. I didn’t say anything then and I’ve lived with that all these years. Now, I have to live with knowing I could have helped you, and didn’t.”

  They left her sitting on her plastic-covered sofa, her face filled with regret.

  “Come on,” Luke murmured. Susannah made it to Luke’s car before her legs gave out, and he buckled her in as if she were a child. “That was a shock,” he said.

  One side of her mouth lifted. “It was difficult.”

  He hunkered down, his face close to hers. He cradled her cheek in his palm. “If I kissed you now, would you hit me?”

  His eyes were blacker than the night around them and fixed on hers. She didn’t look away, needing his stability. Needing his comfort. “No.”

  His kiss was warm and sweet, demanding nothing. Suddenly she wished he would. He pulled away, his thumb smoothing the corner of her mouth. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she whispered. “My whole life . . . it was a lie.”

  “Your life wasn’t. Just everyone’s around you. You are the same person you were fifteen minutes ago, Susannah. A good person who persevered despite everything to care about other people. You think you became a prosecutor just to erase the stigma of being Arthur Vartanian’s daughter? You didn’t. You did it because you want for others what no one cared enough to give you. Yet still you persevere.”

  She swallowed hard. “I hated him, Luke. Now I know why he hated me.”

  “Arthur Vartanian was a cruel man, Susannah. But he’s gone and you’re still here. You deserve the life you work to give people you represent every day.”

  “I always dreamed that Arthur wasn’t really my father, that I’d been stolen from gypsies or something . . . But I’m not sure Frank Loomis was much better.”

  “He died trying to save Daniel. And when Bailey and Monica escaped, he could have turned them over to Granville to save himself, but he helped them. He wasn’t all bad.”

  “Daniel needs to know. That Frank falsified the Fulmore evidence has torn him up.”

  “I think he’ll feel better knowing it tore Frank up, too,” Luke said, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s go back to Atlanta and you can get some rest.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Find out where Bobby is hiding. Angie gave us biographical information we didn’t have before.” His cell buzzed as he stood. “Papadopoulos.”

  His back stiffened. “Where is she?” He ran around the car and slid behind the wheel, his eyes narrowing as he listened. When he hung up, he was smiling fiercely. “Guess what a family on a houseboat pulled out of the water downriver?”

  “Bobby?”

  “No, maybe better. A seventeen-year-old named Ashley Csorka.”

  “The girl from the bunker. The one who scratched her name on her cot.”

  He did a U-turn in Dutton’s Main Street and sped out of town. “One and the same. She said she escaped from where they’re holding the girls.”

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 4:30 a.m.

  From his bedroom window, Charles watched Luke and Susannah drive away, then hit speed dial three on his phone. “Well? What did you tell them?”

  “The truth,” Angie said. “Just like you told me to.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 4:45 a.m.

  Luke found Jock’s Raw Bar in Arcadia with no trouble—its neon sign lit the way from the main road. Watching Ashley being loaded into the ambulance was Sheriff Corchran.

  “How is she?” Luke asked him.

  “In shock. Based on her core temp, the medics think she was in the water about twenty-five minutes. Jock over there heard a thump against his houseboat. He fished her out and called me. I recognized her name from the Amber alert you folks put out earlier tonight. She’s pretty lucid. She foug
ht hard to escape.”

  “Thanks.” Luke climbed into the back of the ambulance. “Ashley, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she managed, although her teeth were chattering.

  “My name is Agent Papadopoulos. Are the others still alive?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Where are they?”

  “House. An old house. Boarded windows.”

  “Did it have a dock?”

  “No.”

  “We need to get her to the hospital,” one of the medics said. “Either ride or get out.”

  “Where are you taking her?” Susannah asked. She was standing in the open doors.

  “Mansfield Community Hospital. It’s closest,” the medic answered.

  “Luke, you stay with her and I’ll meet you there,” Susannah said. “I’ll drive your car.”

  Luke tossed her his keys, then looked at Corchran, who stood behind her. “She’s been shot at twice today. Stay behind her.”

  Susannah stepped back as the ambulance drove away. She looked up at Corchran, her brain humming. “Do you have a computer model of the river currents?”

  “I’ve already given the River Patrol the coordinates. If she was in the water twenty-five minutes she might have floated a half mile. They’ve marked off a section of river about a mile long and they’re already searching.”

  “Sheriff, can you spare someone to drive me to the hospital?”

  He looked surprised at the request. “You can’t drive?”

  “I can, but I need to do some title searches on my computer. I may be able to find where they are. Time is of the essence.”

  “Larkin,” he called. “The lady needs a lift. Let’s go.”

  Inside the ambulance, Luke bent over Ashley’s cold face. “Can you see the house from the road?”

  “No. I had to run. A long way. Through the woods.”

  “Her feet are lacerated,” the medic said.

  “Describe the house for me, honey.”

  “Really old. Dark inside. Old doorknobs.” For some reason this made her smile.