9 Kill for Me

  Bobby resisted the temptation to touch the gun in her pocket. It was real. It was loaded. She’d checked it, taking it into a ladies’ room stall minutes after it had been passed to her from behind, wrapped in a jacket and stuffed in a backpack. Her contact had done well. See, I have something, old man. She had a mole in GBI.

  That Paul gave you. And Charles gave you Paul. It left a bitter taste. When she thought back, she realized how she’d been played. That she’d met Paul exactly when she’d needed a cop inside APD had seemed like fate at the time. Now, she knew she’d been just like one of the pawns Charles carried around in that ivory box of his.

  But for now, she needed to focus. For the next hour she was Marianne Woolf, ace reporter. Marianne wouldn’t be needing the identity for a while, not until she woke up. She wasn’t dead after all, just stunned. There had been no need to kill her. Bobby didn’t kill everyone, no matter what Paul thought. Paul, that sonofabitch.

  Don’t think about him or you’ll fail. Think about . . . She searched for a topic. Marianne. Bobby had always liked Marianne. She’d been the one tight ass at that stuffy private school who had lowered herself to talk to her. Taunted by the rich bitches as “the girl most likely to do everybody,” Marianne had been in dire need of a friend back then.

  Their friendship had continued over the years, mostly since Garth had been elected mayor. Since then, a lot of the rich bitches who hadn’t given her the time of day were suddenly more attentive. She’d gone to their charity lunches and smiled, secretly smirking at the knowledge they had welcomed a murderer and a high-priced whore to their Irish-lace-covered tables where they sipped tea from antique silver teapots.

  But the day she’d been invited to tea at Judge Vartanian’s house had been very difficult indeed. Sitting amidst the quiet elegance of old money without screaming MINE and grabbing Carol Vartanian by the throat had taken every bit of her self-control. It had taken a meeting with Charles beforehand to calm her. It had taken his assurances that her time would come. That someday she would be sitting in the big house, drinking from her great-grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea set.

  That would never happen now. Now that the police knew who she was. Now that Susannah had ruined everything by finding that damn girl in the woods. Now she’d have to leave Dutton, leave Georgia. Leave the fucking country.

  Now even Charles had abandoned her.

  Don’t think about Charles. Keep your hate sharp. Think about the Vartanians. She’d so wanted, needed to break Carol Vartanian’s scrawny neck. The judge’s wife had been the reason the Styvesons had been forced to move from the well-paying Dutton parsonage before Bobby’s earliest memory. It had been Carol’s interference that had kept her father in low-paying churches in the middle of nowhere. It had been Carol Vartanian who’d ruined her life. Her mother had told her so.

  And it was Susannah Vartanian who’d lived her life. Up there in the big house with the fine things. The designer clothes, the pearls handed down six generations. It was Susannah Vartanian who would lose it all today. First her dignity. And then her life.

  Bobby resisted the temptation to fiddle with Marianne’s press credentials hanging around her neck. Marianne had responded quickly to her call for help this morning, just as Bobby had known she would. Garth had been arrested and their bank accounts had been frozen and what is to become of me? Marianne had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. No doubt the promise of an exclusive hadn’t hurt her Good Samaritan zeal.

  GBI Agent Talia Scott was walking across the stage, clasping the hand of each woman at the table. Agent Scott lingered over Susannah, her expression concerned, but Susannah nodded resolutely. Scott stepped off to the side and Gretchen French pulled her microphone close.

  Gretchen cleared her throat. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming.” Conversation died quickly and all eyes were on the stage. “We are six of sixteen women raped by the Dutton men you in the media have called the Richie Rich Rapists. Please understand that there is nothing comedic about this for the six of us sitting here before you, or the seven of us who for reasons of their own chose not to appear. Or for the three of us who did not survive. This is not funny. It is not cute. It is real and it happened to us.”

  A few reporters actually looked ashamed. Gretchen’s good, Bobby thought.

  “We were sixteen,” Gretchen went on, “and we were raped by a gang of young men who used our shame and fear to keep us silent. Not one of us knew that there were others. Had we known, we would have spoken then. We’re speaking now. We will take your questions, but be advised that we may choose not to answer them.”

  It’ll be soon, Bobby thought, her pulse beginning to race. An anonymous phone call to a Journal reporter known to skirt the boundaries of good taste was about to cause the uproar she would use to her advantage. Casually she edged through the crowd to where she had a clear shot. She planned three clear shots. The first would finish Gretchen French off and cause a commotion. The second would be for dear little Susannah. The third shot, Bobby thought, is for whichever poor sap is standing closest to me. The resulting stampede was all she’d need to get away. It had worked before and Bobby was a firm believer in not fixing what wasn’t broken. And just as before, Bobby had an escape plan all worked out.

  She scanned the crowd. The Journal reporter she’d called with a tip was sitting in the third row, a feral gleam in his eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

  So am I.

  Susannah was calm. Surprisingly so. She looked out at the sea of faces and knew she’d made the right choice. She also knew the gossip had begun the moment she’d sat at the table. The media knew the victims were going to speak out. They’d had no idea she was one of the victims. They certainly knew now. Her face had been instantly recognized and the buzz had ripped through the room, viral and electric. Reporters had whipped out their BlackBerries and cell phones, each wanting to be the first to deliver this juicy morsel.

  Marianne Woolf was standing off to the side, covering the event for her husband’s Dutton Review. Marianne’s pictures of Kate’s murder and Sheila’s funeral had been splashed across the Review’s front page that morning. Susannah imagined she’d be among tomorrow’s front-page stories.

  Luke was also out there, standing near the back of the room, on edge, on guard. She and the other five victims had been brought in through a back door to avoid the crush, but everyone else in the room had passed through a metal detector. The GBI was taking no chances with their safety. Still she knew Luke measured each face, each demeanor. It was comforting, knowing he was watching over her.

  Talia had come by with encouraging words for each of the women on the stage, pausing to ask Susannah one last time if she was sure. Susannah was very sure.

  When Gretchen began speaking everyone went still. Gretchen had shared her prepared statement with the five of them beforehand, and her eloquent but passionate words had brought tears to the eyes of more than one of the women. But now their eyes were dry as they prepared for questions.

  The first came from a woman reporter. “How did you find out about one another?”

  Talia had provided Gretchen with a scripted response to this question. “In the course of a multiple murder investigation in another state, pictures of our assaults were recovered. Over the past week, the GBI determined our identities from those photos.”

  Cameras flashed and Susannah heard whispers of Simon Vartanian and Philadelphia intermixed with her name and Daniel’s. Leaning on the skills she’d honed through years of living with Arthur Vartanian, she kept her chin up, her eyes impassive, completely aware most of the cameras were pointed at her face.

  A man stood up. “How have your lives been impacted by the assault?”

  The women looked at each other and on the other side of Gretchen, Carla Solomon pulled the microphone closer. “The impact has been felt differently by each one of us, but overall, it’s been consistent with the aftereffects suffered by most assault victims. We’ve had trouble establishing and maint
aining relationships. A few of us have battled substance abuse. One of us committed suicide. It was a defining, devastating moment in our lives, one that has left permanent scars.”

  Then a man in the third row stood and Susannah felt an instant prickle of unease. His eyes were on her and there was a . . . satisfaction in his expression that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  “Troy Tomlinson with the Journal,” he said. “This is for Susannah Vartanian.”

  The microphone was passed down the table. From the corner of her eye Susannah searched for Luke, but he was no longer in the back of the room and her unease grew.

  “You all were victims thirteen years ago,” Tomlinson began, “and I think I speak for us all in saying we have sympathy for what happened to you and understand why you failed to report your assaults then. You were all sixteen years old and far too young to deal with the enormity of your experience.” His voice oozed a false sincerity that set Susannah’s teeth on edge, and beside her, Gretchen stiffened. “But, Susannah, how can you, especially given your record of pushing rape victims up in New York City to come forward, how can you explain your failure to report a second assault, seven years later, one in which your friend was brutally murdered?” The buzz swelled and Tomlinson spoke louder. “And how do you respond to Garth Davis’s denial of your assault?”

  Susannah’s heart began to pound. How did he know about Darcy? As the second question sank in, fury flared, tamping the fear. Garth Davis denies raping us? With all of those pictures as proof? Son of a fucking bitch.

  No. Stay calm. Tell the truth.

  “Mr. Tomlinson, your insinuation that any rape victim who does not report her assault is somehow negligent or immature is both egregiously insensitive and cruel.” She leaned forward, no smile on her face. “Rape is more than a physical assault, and victims, including myself, must deal with the resulting feelings of loss of personal safety, control, and confidence each in her own way. This is true whether they’re sixteen or sixty.

  “When my friend was murdered six years ago, I cooperated with the authorities the best way I knew how. I made sure the facts were known even as I struggled to survive a second assault. My friend’s murderer was subsequently caught and is paying for his crime.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I’m not finished, Mr. Tomlinson. You asked two questions. Mr. Davis cannot possibly deny our assaults occurred, nor his part in them. The evidence is irrefutable. Vile and disturbing. But irrefutable.”

  Tomlinson smiled. “I interviewed Mayor Davis. He doesn’t deny all the assaults, Susannah. Just yours. He challenges you to show one photo of him raping you.”

  You’re a son of a fucking bitch, too. But she kept her cool. “Mr. Davis must answer to God and to the people of the state of Georgia for his crimes. I know what happened to me. What Mr. Davis says is immaterial. As I said, the evidence is irrefutable. Now please sit down, Mr. Tomlinson. You’re finished.”

  Bobby drew a steadying breath. Bitch. She’d sailed through that minefield like it was a field of fucking poppies. Damn her. Goddamn her. Susannah Vartanian had come out on top for the very last time. Now. It would be now.

  Stop. Breathe. Follow the plan or you’ll leave here in handcuffs. Gretchen first. Susannah second. Bystander third.

  Her hand was steady as she reached into her pocket, positioning her gun so she could fire from within the pocket. Her aim was sure as she pulled the trigger, the pop of the silencer covered up by the cries of reporters jockeying to ask the next question. Her smile was grim when her bullet hit Gretchen in the chest. Gretchen slumped forward as the next bullet hit Susannah right in the heart, sending her flying backward to the floor.

  Her third bullet landed in the back of a man with a video camera resting on his shoulder. He dropped like a rock, his camera crashing to the floor.

  Screams filled the air. It was priceless.

  She moved through the surging crowd, feeling like a celebrity on the red carpet with cameras flashing all around her. But the lenses were pointed at the stage. The cop who’d been standing guard at the stage rushed forward to kneel by the cameraman.

  Calmly Bobby walked past the stage on her way to the back entrance and her way out. Then stopped. Lying on her stomach under the table was Susannah Vartanian, her eyes wide open and alert, her small hands wrapped around a very large gun.

  People were screaming. Behind her, Gretchen was moaning and she could hear Chase yelling for a medic. Susannah’s chest was burning. Shit. It hurt. Worse than the last time. She’d instinctively rolled under the table, her hand diving into her purse for the gun that had not been there before she’d sat next to Leo Papadopoulos at lunch.

  Then the burning in her chest was forgotten as she found herself staring into a pair of cold blue eyes. She had only an instant to register the visual disconnect. The hair and the breasts were Marianne Woolf’s. But the eyes belonged to Barbara Jean Davis.

  Those eyes narrowed, then her lips pulled back in a snarl, and the hand Barbara Jean held in her pocket lifted her coat, revealing the rigid line of a gun barrel.

  For a heartbeat Susannah aimed between Bobby’s blue eyes, then reconsidered. Death is too good for you, bitch. Dropping her aim to Bobby’s right arm, she fired.

  Bobby’s eyes registered shock, then pain, then rage. The crack of Susannah’s gun sent new screams through the crowd and the thunder of feet shook the stage.

  “Drop it!” came the shouted order above her head as a new wave of camera flashes left spots dancing in front of her eyes. Still, she could see the smirk on Bobby’s face as she took several steps backward and was swallowed up into the crowd.

  “But—” Susannah cried out in pain when a booted foot came down on her forearm.

  “Drop the gun and put your hands where we can see them,” another voice barked. Arm throbbing, heart pounding, Susannah placed the gun on the stage and held her hands straight out in front of her. Six uniformed cops pointed guns at her head.

  “Listen to me,” she said loudly. “Dammit.” She winced when the booted foot moved off her wrist, replaced by the cold steel of handcuffs. “She’s—”

  The cop had grabbed her other arm, twisting it behind her back, when someone vaulted from the floor to the stage and an authoritative voice boomed. “Officer. Back away. Now.” Luke. Finally. Susannah let out a breath as the six cops took a measured step back and Luke dropped to his knees by her side.

  “What the hell happened here?” Chase demanded from behind her.

  “I don’t know,” Luke said. “Susannah, where are you hurt?”

  Susannah grabbed his arm and dragged herself to her knees, the handcuff swinging from her wrist. The room spun and she clenched her eyes shut. “It was Bobby. She has a gun. She’s here, in the crowd somewhere.”

  “What?” Luke demanded.

  “Where?” Chase snapped.

  “That way,” she pointed and prayed Mama Papa’s lamb would stay put in her churning stomach. Now that it was over, she was shaking like a leaf, her words choppy. “She’s wearing a wig. Marianne Woolf. She looked like Marianne.” A wave of hysteria was bubbling up and she shoved it back. “She was wearing a black trench coat.”

  “I’ve got it.” Chase was running, making the stage bounce. “You stay with her.”

  Susannah swallowed hard as her head spun and her stomach roiled. Luke’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Oh my god. Susannah.”

  She forced her eyes open to find him staring at her chest in horror. Slowly she looked down and blinked at the Kevlar vest showing through the bullet hole in her sweater, right over her heart. “Shit,” she mumbled. “This was my last clean outfit.”

  Bobby unbuttoned her coat with one hand, cursing Susannah Vartanian. Goddamn her. Bullets just bounced off the little bitch, both literally and metaphorically. My arm burns like hell and Susannah Vartanian should be dead. Dead. A vest. Susannah was wearing a goddamn vest. I should have known, should have planned. I failed.

  Stop thinking about Susannah. Ge
t yourself out of here. There would only be a few seconds before Susannah raised the alarm, assuming the cops let her speak. Right now they thought she was the shooter. There was some joy in that irony.

  Get busy. Get gone. In the middle of the throng of pushing people, Bobby shrugged out of her coat and draped it over her wounded arm. Now she had free passage, thanks to her GBI mole who’d wrapped the gun in a jacket before stuffing it into the backpack she’d passed to Bobby before the press conference began. The jacket with GBI emblazoned across the back was a tad tight, but it would do the job. Quickly she slipped Marianne Woolf’s press credentials beneath her shirt.

  “Pardon me,” she said loudly. “Coming through.” The people crowding her took one look at her jacket and moved aside. “Stay calm,” she said officially. “Just stay calm.”

  Cops were shepherding the crowd to the middle of the room, away from the doors. Head high, Bobby walked through one of the rear doors, nodding to the Atlanta cop who stood guard. He nodded back, briefly, then returned his eyes to the crowd.

  She kept her chin up as she walked past the police searching in the hallway.

  “Anything?” one asked her.

  She shook her head. “They caught one of the shooters inside, but they’re still looking for the second one. Excuse me.” As she walked, coat over her arm, she fumbled her right hand into the pocket that held the gun. Her arm burned like hell, but her hand still worked. The door was in sight. Just a few more steps to freedom.

  “Stop! Police!”

  Fuck. Turning as she ran the last few steps, Bobby started to fire.

  “She shot you.” Kneeling on the stage, Luke’s heart climbed up into his throat.

  Susannah pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, covering the hole in her sweater. “I know. Hurts like a bitch, too.” She frowned, trying to concentrate. “Bobby’s hit. I shot her right arm. She had a gun in her coat pocket. She was going to shoot me. Again. Damn.”