"I'll do what I can," Christian said, not making any promises he couldn't keep. Damn, Wyatt liked the man. It was too bad he'd just ruined his own career before they really had a chance to do much work together.
"Actually," Wyatt said, knowing that if there had ever been a time to call in the favors he had accumulated over the years, or reach out to one or two friends of his late father's, it was now, "I'm going to give you a phone number. Dial it, tell the person who answers you're calling on my behalf, and ask him to see what he can do to help the others. I don't want Dean, Jackie, Kyle, Alec, or Brandon getting crucified over this."
He rattled off the number, waiting while Christian repeated it back.
"Do I want to know who's going to be answering?"
"No," Wyatt replied. "That would probably make you too nervous."
"Huh," Christian said, reminding him that the man seemed to have no nerves at all.
"All right, not nervous. Let's just say it's for discretionary reasons."
"Got it."
Disconnecting, he resumed the drive, riding the gas pedal hard, despite the gathering storm clouds and the cold drops of rain that began to stab the windshield. The drive took half as long as usual. Soon enough he reached the private driveway, half-hidden from the road, and swung onto it. His heart was in his throat as he drove around one curve, then another, peering through the rainy darkness, trying to see if the Jeep was parked at the base of the steps.
"Thank God," he mumbled when he saw it there. Alone.
Pulling up beside it, he hopped out, felt the dwindling warmth of the engine, and knew she hadn't beaten him here by too long.
"She's fine," he reminded himself as he headed for the steps, his head down against the spitting rain. By habit, he glanced toward the motion sensor, certain it had alerted her to his presence. She was probably watching him right now on the surveillance cameras. Reactivating them would have been the very first thing she did when she arrived.
The red warning light was not gleaming in the near darkness. Neither was the green one that said he was free to proceed up the steep stairs.
The system had not been activated.
Tense, Wyatt glanced at the security camera on the garage. No sensor light there, either.
"Lily," he whispered.
The car engine hadn't been that warm. She hadn't arrived here such a short time ago that she hadn't had time to set the system. And no way would she have walked into that house and not seen to her own protection immediately.
Gripped by worry now, Wyatt began to jog, then to run up the steps, taking them two or three at a time, slipping a little on the wet wood surface. Reaching the top of the cliff, he darted to the porch, but hesitated before entering the house. He tested the knob. Unlocked.
This is not good. Wyatt reached down and removed his.40 Glock from its holster, then pushed the door open. It slid noiselessly, allowing him to creep into the darkened house. A few feet in front of him, he saw Lily's purse, lying on the floor, its contents strewn around. Along with everything else, it told a terrifying story.
He almost strode forward, but Wyatt suddenly remembered those crime scenes, all those lures that had to have drawn the victims inside those hotel rooms.
Instinct made him spin just as the person who'd been behind the front door lunged forward. He saw a blade, heard it whistle as it rent the air. An ax. Sharp metal bit into his shoulder, but he got off one shot, seeing a face as his attacker was thrown back.
Claire Vincent.
Blood dripped down his arm, pain eating him alive as his muscles and tendons gaped open. Thinking only of making sure the psychopath didn't get past him to the woman he loved, he ignored it, stepping closer to the lawyer who lay on the floor.
Claire wasn't dead; she was still wriggling, conscious. The bullet had hit her in the middle, above her right hip, and she bled profusely. Wyatt lifted the weapon again, not to finish her off, of course, despite how satisfying it might have been. He merely needed to cover her until he found out how badly she was hurt. "Don't move," he said, "or I'll send you where you belong, into a grave right beside your fucking brother's."
The woman stared up at him, insanity and rage warring in her eyes. Then she looked just past him, as if seeing the ghost of her twisted lover, and managed a weak smile laden with evil.
She whispered, "You first."
Her tone gave him a second's warning and he tried to get out of the way. But his responses were slowed by blood loss, his reactions a split second off due to the pain. He moved too late.
By the time he realized she hadn't been alone, pain, bright and intense, exploded in his head and he was lost.
Chapter 18
Lily heard the shot. Not violently explosive, not like in the movies, but unmistakable to someone who'd been alert for that sound, or any other threatening one, every night she'd been in this house.
She didn't panic. Didn't even reach for the shower handle to turn the water off. Instead, she stepped out in silence, grabbed her shirt, and pulled it on over her wet, naked body. Underwear, too. The jeans and shoes she'd taken off in the bedroom, on the other side of the closed bathroom door, not that she'd have wasted time with them, anyway.
She inched closer to the door, listening. Who would fire a gun? Not the FBI, not the police-whom would they be shooting at? They'd be bursting in here, ordering her to get down, arresting her.
Anspaugh? He might be enraged enough, but he wouldn't have the brains to track her down so quickly.
The killer, then. She'd been followed here. Either that or he'd figured out where she'd been hiding and he'd come here to wait for her return, as if knowing she'd be drawn back to this one safe place at some point. He must have disabled the alarm system while she'd been taking her leisurely shower, not even realizing how close danger had come.
But who were you shooting at?
A horrible possibility came to mind. Wyatt. Though her first instinct was to race into the bedroom, to get the gun from her dresser drawer, she did nothing, pulling all her thoughts into one tight, blazing point in her brain.
A sound somewhere, in the house. A voice. A thump.
She edged toward the window. It was small, high. But doable.
Standing on the toilet lid, she eased the sash up, pulled the screen in, and wriggled through the opening, one foot, then the other, shimmying out on her belly. Rain assaulted her, sharp and cold, flecked with hints of ice. One story above the patio, with no way to break her fall, she slowly slid down, dangling there, trying to keep her grip on the wet frame. Then, praying she'd forgotten to pick up the exercise mat after her last workout with Sarge, she let go.
The surface on which she landed was soft, wet, squishy. The mat. So at least one thing had gone her way today.
Lily immediately crouched down on her belly, peering through the sliding door into the kitchen. The darkness within surpassed even the nighttime sky, and she had to wait for her eyes to adjust.
She saw movement beyond the kitchen, in the cavernous living area. A man was bent over a shape on the floor. A few feet away lay another dark form, crumpled and lifeless. The man turned his head slightly, so she caught a glimpse of his profile.
Jesse Boyd.
She almost vomited, being this close to the man she'd once wanted to rip apart with her bare hands. You son of a bitch, you monster, I'll kill you. The words screamed in her head, but didn't pass her lips in even a whisper, for she knew the very faintest sound could betray her.
And she greatly feared she knew what those shapes on the floor meant. People, unconscious, injured. Dead? Her heart constricted, the air thick in her throat, threatening to choke her.