Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard 3)

“Because he said no, I didn’t ask any other questions about the house. Carrie called it a retreat. I assumed that everything Monk told her was a lie. But what if it wasn’t?”

“Why would you think he was telling the truth about their destination?”

“It’s what you said. Why lie when you don’t have to? Lies have a way of coming back to bite you.” She repeated his very words. “Monk already had grabbed her, right? And he’d already told her his name. She was meekly going along, probably without a care in the world. But she called me on her cell phone from the ladies’ room. And I doubt she would have told Monk she’d made the call. There wouldn’t have been any reason.”

“If Monk had told her where he was really taking her, he wouldn’t have let her out of his sight.”

“He couldn’t go with her into the ladies’ room,” she pointed out. “And he might not have known she had one of her cell phones with her.”

“One of her cell phones?”

Avery nodded. “She carries two at all times. Carrie’s a workaholic, and it makes her crazy if the battery runs down. Besides, she uses one for personal and the other for business.”

“She could just carry an extra battery.”

“Oh, she does,” she said. “So what do you think?”

“The truth? I think you’re reaching.”

“No, I’m analyzing the data, and I think we have at least a fifty percent chance I’m right. We have to check it out.”

“You know where this house is?”

While he opened the map, she told him about the old gentleman who sat with her in McDonald’s.

“Yeah, I see the circle he made.”

Avery then told him about the couple who were fighting over ownership. “The judge is supposed to decide soon which one of the thoroughly unpleasant couple gets the house. He also told me the place has been vacant for weeks.”

John Paul slowly nodded. “Okay, it’s worth a look. Break’s over. Time to move.”

“We’ve got to get to a phone. That’s the first order of business.”

“No,” he whispered. “The first order of business is staying alive so we can get to a phone.”

And that, he knew, was easier said than done.

Chapter 23

NOW THAT THE THREE WOMEN WERE FINALLY READY TO leave, they were immobilized with fear.

It was four o’clock in the morning, and they estimated that they had approximately two hours before dawn. They huddled together at the kitchen table, dressed for the forest in layers of clothes, sipping hot tea to fortify them against the night air. A frigid breeze poured into the kitchen from the hole in the pantry wall.

“What if Monk put down trip wires or something?” Carrie asked. “What do we do then? We won’t see them in the dark.”

They all worried about the possibility, and then Sara said, “I don’t think he’d take the time to climb up the side of the mountain. I’m sure he thinks he’s got us locked in tight.”

Carrie was so scared, she was trembling. “Listen,” she whispered. “If I don’t make it . . .”

“Don’t talk like that. We’re all going to make it,” Sara said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Let me say this,” Carrie insisted. “If I die, I want you two to promise me you’ll make the police find Avery and protect her. Call my husband,” she added. “Tony will want to help keep Avery . . .” Her voice caught on a sob, and she couldn’t go on.

“Focus on one worry at a time,” Sara suggested.

“That’s right,” Anne said. “Concentrate on climbing down the rope.”

Carrie nodded. “Yes, all right.” She pushed her teacup away and stood. “We should go now. No more stalling.”

Anne grabbed Carrie’s hand. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”

Smiling, Carrie squeezed her hand. Uh-oh. Anne’s eyes were getting that glassy look. She had probably taken one of her pain pills. When Carrie had searched the upstairs for a way out, she’d noticed the bottles of medications lined up on Anne’s vanity. There were enough to start a small pharmacy.

“Did you remember to put your medicines in your jacket?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, of course I remembered.”

“I could put some of the bottles in my jacket.”

“No need,” Anne assured her.

“What about the letters,” Sara asked Carrie. “Did you zip them in your pocket?”

“Yes, I’ve got them.”

“Okay, then,” Sara said. “Let’s do it.”

They had already decided that Sara should go first. One end of the sheeted rope was anchored to the kitchen table, which couldn’t be pulled through the doorway, but Carrie and Anne were still going to hold the rope while Sara lowered herself to the ground. Anne had tied big knots twelve inches apart so they would have something to grab.

Carrie was the second one to go because Anne had argued that since she weighed the least of the three, she stood the best chance of getting down on her own if the rope came loose from the table.

Carrie had wanted to go last, but Anne wouldn’t hear of it. “If the rope doesn’t hold or I fall, you and Sara could maybe catch me, but I couldn’t help catch you or Sara. I have to go last.”

“Oh, God, don’t think about falling. You made a good, strong rope, Anne. It’s going to hold.”

“Yes, we’ll all be just fine.”

Anne sounded obscenely cheerful. Was she getting nuts again, or was the pain pill responsible?

Sara led the way into the pantry. Carrie and Anne watched as she picked up the end of the rope and tied it around her waist. “I hope this is long enough.”

Sara got down on her knees, then scooted to the opening. “Get down on your stomach,” Carrie whispered. “And go out slowly, feetfirst.”

“Did you put the penlight in your pocket?” Anne asked.

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

Carrie sat on the floor and braced herself with her feet against the two-by-fours. Anne got behind her to help hold the rope. Just when Carrie thought Sara was never going to reach the ground, the sheet went limp. Carrie fell back against Anne. Recovering her balance, she took a deep breath and said, “Guess it’s my turn.”

She rolled onto her stomach and scooted to the edge.

“Wait,” Anne whispered. She grabbed Carrie’s jacket, shoved a thick envelope in the pocket, and zipped it closed.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re the strongest of the three of us, so if Sara and I don’t make it, you make sure . . .”

“Yes?” Carrie prodded. “Come on. What?”

“Just make sure. Now go.”

Carrie didn’t waste time arguing. She would find out what Anne meant after they’d gotten away from the house.

Her hands were bleeding and raw, and she was too frightened to cry. She slowly lowered herself down. Anne tried to help, but when she tried to pull up on the rope so she could get a better grip, she almost went out the opening headfirst.

Carrie made it to the ground.

The rope went slack and Anne fell back. Quickly straightening, she looked down, trying to see the two women. She stayed on her hands and knees for a moment and listened to the soft calls from below.

Then she pulled the rope up. She backed away from the opening. “Three blind mice, three blind mice,” she sang. “See how they run, See how they run . . .”

She stood up, brushed the dirt off her borrowed sweatpants, and walked into the kitchen. “See how they run,” she sang. Odd, that that particular melody had popped into her head and wouldn’t let go. She and Eric had decided never to have children, yet now she was singing a silly nursery rhyme. Her father used to sing that song to her. How did the rest of it go? Was it, “They all ran after the farmer’s wife, she cut off their heads with a carving knife”? Or was it, “They all ran away from the farmer’s wife”? And why couldn’t she remember the rest of the song?

“Three blind mice,” she sang softly as she

knelt down and tried to get the knots out of the sheet. Realizing she could break a nail, she got up, went to the counter to get the scissors Carrie had brought down, and cut the rope from the table leg.

“Three blind mice.” She stood again, paused to take a drink of her lukewarm tea, and then, because she knew that Carrie and Sara were anxiously waiting for her, she walked to the opening in the pantry and dropped the sheets down. They surely couldn’t misinterpret what that meant, for she’d tossed away her only lifeline. She heard one of them cry out, thought it must be Sara, for, of the two women, Sara seemed a tad more tenderhearted.

“Three blind mice. My goodness, I can’t get that silly tune out of my head,” she said as she shut the pantry door. Noticing the messy kitchen, she went to the sink, filled it with soapy, hot water, and did the dishes. When she was finished, she straightened the table and chairs, put fresh place mats in front of each chair, then blew out the candles and headed for the stairs.

She was feeling so tired and old and haggard. A good long nap would fix that, she thought. But first things first. She simply had to do something about her sorry appearance. She couldn’t understand how fashion-minded women with money, like Carrie and Sara, could ever wear sweatpants. Why, even the name was offensive. Ladies shouldn’t sweat. They shouldn’t even perspire. Only common, coarse women did such disgusting things as sweating and belching and body piercing . . . or letting others, like doctors, mutilate their bodies for them. Hadn’t her loving Eric told her that was how he felt? He adored her body and couldn’t stand what the surgeon wanted to do.

Feeling a bit light-headed, Anne gripped the banister as she slowly made her way upstairs. After she took a long, hot shower, she curled her hair with her curling iron, then brushed it and lacquered it in place with hairspray. It seemed to take an hour to decide which of her new St. John knit suits to wear. The mint green with the adorable silver clasps won because she thought it was both elegant and chic. Slipping into her silver pearlized high heels, she picked up her favorite platinum-rimmed diamond earrings and put them on. The diamonds were a gift from Eric on their last anniversary.

She’d walked all the way down the hallway before she remembered she hadn’t put on any perfume. Retracing her steps, she squirted a dab on each wrist. Sighing with contentment, she hurried downstairs but stopped on the bottom step. The rising sun had turned the living room into a golden temple. The color took her breath away. Eric should be here to see this, she thought. Yes, he should.

Anne didn’t know how long she stood there. Ten minutes might have passed, or twenty, maybe more. The effects of the second prescription pain pill had finally caught up with her, and she zigzagged across the living room, giggling because she found it so amusing that she couldn’t walk in a straight line. Was this what it felt like to be stoned? Was she stoned? Trying to focus, she reached the sofa and plopped down. She fell asleep seconds later.

Although she hadn’t realized such a thing was possible, she knew she had wept while she slept because, when she awakened, her face was wet with tears. She struggled to sit up and wiped the dampness away with her fingertips. Noticing the makeup on her hands, she’d decided to go back upstairs to powder her face again when she thought she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Still somewhat disoriented, she staggered to her feet, adjusted the lapels of her jacket, and walked into the dining room to look out the window at the circle drive. Her gate was stiff and unsteady.

A silver Cadillac DeVille came screeching around the curve. “Now, who could that be calling at such an early hour?” Anne asked. She checked the time on her Bulgari watch—another gift from her beloved Eric—and was astonished to see that it was after nine in the morning.

Anne stepped back into the shadows as the car came to a rocking stop. The door opened and a woman with the most frightful look on her face leapt out. She slammed the door shut, then opened the back door.

The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Anne couldn’t remember where she might have seen her before. Her face was contorted with rage, and though Anne couldn’t hear what she was saying, she knew she was talking because her lips were moving.

Was she Jilly? The stranger did have blond hair, and she was tall and shapely, as Carrie had described, but she certainly wasn’t what Anne would consider beautiful by any means. Perhaps, if her expression weren’t so hostile and if she were smiling instead, she might be pretty. But not beautiful.

Her complexion was lovely. She’d give her that. From a distance it looked almost flawless, and Anne decided she really must find out what kind of facial cleanser the woman used to get such perfect skin. Or was it heavy makeup? Anne made a mental note to find out.

Her haircut was a little too short and spiky, but the color was wonderful. Highlights, Anne thought, and she wondered if the unpleasant woman would give her the name of her stylist. Why, she’d kill to have highlights like that. Suddenly feeling self-conscious about her own appearance, she patted her hair down, certain she’d gotten it mussed during her little nap.

“My goodness,” Anne whispered when she saw what the woman was carrying. She had a red gasoline can in one hand and an ax in the other. “What does she think she’s doing?”

The woman’s head was down, and she hadn’t spotted Anne yet, but as she strode to the steps, Anne remembered where she’d seen her before. She was pictured in one of the clippings she’d found in the chest. Oh, yes, she remembered now. The woman and her ex were fighting over ownership of this house.

Anne rushed to the foyer and stood in front of the elongated beveled glass panes that framed the door. She could hear what the woman was saying now. She was spewing filth. Anne’s hand went to her throat. She was appalled by the vulgarity. The woman must have said the “F” word a good ten times, enraged at a judge for giving her house away.

Ah . . . now Anne understood. The house had been awarded to the husband. Anne didn’t have any sympathy for the crude woman. She obviously hadn’t been a good wife. Shouldn’t the husband make all the important decisions? He’d paid for the house. He should keep it.

The woman rushed up the porch steps, screaming now. “That son of a bitch thinks he’s going to take my house and leave me penniless? Screw the prenup. He thinks I’m bluffing. I told him he’d never live here. Surprise, surprise, bastard. When I’m finished redecorating . . .” She spotted Anne and came to a dead stop. Then she roared, “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

“Hello there,” Anne called out. “What are you doing with that ax and that can?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“I really would appreciate it if you wouldn’t use obscenities in my presence. It offends me.”

The woman put the can of gasoline down, dropped the ax, and reached into her pocket to get her key out.

“Did the bastard hire a housekeeper?” she yelled loudly enough so that Anne could hear through the door.

“I assure you I’m not a housekeeper.”

“Open the fucking door.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The woman shoved the key in the lock and tried to turn it. When she realized it wouldn’t work, she screamed, “Damn him to hell. How dare he change the lock. How dare he. He knew . . . He had that judge in his pocket. Well, fuck him.”

She pulled the key out of the lock, threw it down and glared at Anne. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to use this ax. You don’t want to mess with me, bitch. Not today.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Open the damned door.”

The sneer was the last straw. Tears flooded into Anne’s eyes as she swung the door open and forced a smile. “Won’t you come in?”

There was a second’s delay, long enough for the woman to shove Anne back and step over the threshold.

The explosion blew half the mountain away.

Chapter 24

KEEPING UP WITH JILLY WAS A FULL-TIME JOB, BUT MONK found it thoroughly exhilarating

. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. He was the cautious one, of course, while she, with the enthusiasm of a novice, planned her grand schemes, never worrying about the little mundane things, like the FBI tracking one of the credit cards she’d used.

Monk couldn’t fault her for making that mistake. He blamed himself because he should have destroyed the cards after he’d used them. He kept all of his credit cards under various names and addresses in his attaché case, and Jilly had simply helped herself to the first ones her hand touched.

The result hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, though. John Paul Renard was now involved, and Monk was absolutely delighted about that turn of events. He’d known that Renard was trying to track his movements for over a year. He’d intercepted several inquiries Renard had made to various law enforcement agencies in Europe. Now Monk had the opportunity to get rid of the pest before he caused real trouble, and Monk could humor Jilly at the same time.

Before they’d settled on using Utopia to bring the women to Aspen, his beautiful fiancée had had the time of her life, sitting at the table hour upon hour, poring over her notes. Oh, how she loved the intrigue, the excitement, and most of all, the danger, and she was trying to teach Monk how to have fun too. Whenever he did anything to please her, such as agreeing to last-minute changes in her complicated plans, she aptly rewarded him in creative ways. All of them of a sexual nature. Just thinking about some of the things she’d done to him and allowed him to do to her made him blush like a teenager.

She was turning him into a true romantic, but he didn’t view that as a weakness, for his obsession was with Jilly and no other. He believed with all his heart that, if the erotic games they played in bed didn’t kill him, they would grow old together.

Oh, yes, she was an obsession. His every waking minute was spent thinking about her, protecting her from harm. As long as he maintained his vigilance and cleaned up her mistakes, they would be safe.

Monk had had to talk Jilly out of one scheme. She had briefly toyed with the idea of kidnapping Avery and sitting down with her to tell her the truth about Carrie. Jilly was such an innocent. She believed she could convert her daughter. Monk gently explained that, after all the years of brainwashing by Carrie, Jilly would never be able to convince her daughter that she was, in reality, a loving mother.