Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3)

Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3) Page 31

“Liar.”

Only he could make the insult sound like a caress. “Did you get all hot and bothered?”

“Hell, no.”

She laughed. “Now who’s lying?”

“The first rule in any operation is to tell as few lies as possible. Now try to rest. Ten more minutes and we’re moving.”

She couldn’t rest, not until she relaxed, and there was only one way to do that. She moved away from John Paul, assumed the lotus position she’d learned from her yoga instructor, put her hands on her knees, palms up, straightened her back, and closed her eyes. She concentrated on her breathing, deep cleansing breaths, forcing herself to block the noises of the forest and the thoughts rushing through her mind. It took a good five minutes before she could feel her muscles easing.

“What are you doing?”

His question pulled her back. “I’m doing my relaxation exercise.”

“Yoga?”

“Sort of. I clear my mind, then I go . . .”

“What?”

She sighed. Home, she thought, I go to my imaginary perfect home. She answered, “I go to my happy place. Okay?”

He didn’t laugh. “Yeah? So you were serious about that? I thought you were joking.”

“I picture a place that makes me feel good. It’s a porch,” she said. “And I see myself sitting on this swing. I can smell lilacs, and I can hear water in the background. It’s . . . soothing, and it frees my mind. Then I start filtering through the data I’ve collected.”

“Whatever works,” he drawled.

He didn’t understand, but then she didn’t expect him to. She closed her eyes again, ignoring him now, and once again concentrated on her breathing.

Another couple of minutes passed, and she began to let the bits and pieces of the puzzle come together. Ironically, it was something that John Paul had said that got her mind racing.

“What did you mean?” she asked.

“About what?”

She stretched her legs and then turned to him. “The first rule of an operation is not to lie?”

“No, I said tell as few lies as possible.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant. Why is that a rule?”

“Lies can come back to bite you . . . trip you up. So . . .”

She took it from there. “So, if you stick to the truth on all the little things that don’t matter, you won’t get tripped up. Oh, my God, of course.”

She was suddenly as excited as a kid in a toy store. She unzipped her jacket pocket and pulled out a soggy map.

“I’m such an idiot. Monk could have read about the property in the paper, and when Carrie asked him where he was taking her, he came up with that name. I assumed he was lying. Why wouldn’t I assume that? He’d lied about everything else, but John Paul, what if he was telling her the truth?”

Her babbling worried him. “Are you getting punchy?”

She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “But it still all makes sense anyway.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I think I know where Carrie and those other women are.”

Her announcement gained his full attention. “You think you know? How?”

“Carrie told me where Monk was taking her.”

One eyelid dropped. “And you’re only now mentioning that fact?”

“Hear me out,” she said. “I thought he’d lied to her. I told you my aunt left me a message on my machine, and I erased it, and you heard my question to Cannon, didn’t you?”

“I heard you ask him if there was a water problem.”

“And Cannon said, no, not at Utopia. I also asked him if the spa owned a house in the mountains.”

John Paul nodded. “I remember his answer was no.”

“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.