In the next room a door creaked open.
She froze, motionless as the rabbit she had seen.
“I’m glad to report Mr. Kent has given his approval,” said a voice she recognized too well, the voice of the man with steely gray eyes. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kent”
Charles’s voice, drained of strength: “God damn you, Cain.”
Cain. Trish filed the name away.
“I take that to mean yes,” Cain answered.
Laughter from the other two. Trish had no idea what that exchange had been about, and no time to contemplate it.
“You two get started on the den.” Cain again, crisply authoritative. “Bag the loot and trash the place.”
Dangerous to listen any longer. Time to go. Right now.
She eased away from the wall, then heard footsteps, rapid and heavy.
“This way, Mr. Kent.”
The two of them-Charles and Cain-they were coming. Straight for the kitchen, it sounded like.
They would be here in five seconds. She could never get out the door fast enough. She was trapped.
Her gaze swept the kitchen. Under the sink, a cabinet. Big enough to hold her It had to be.
On her knees. Clawing at the double doors. They swung open. Household cleansers cluttered the left side. The other side was clear
The footsteps-close. Go.
Pain flared in torn muscles as she squeezed in backward. Her hair brushed the garbage disposal, her shoulder bumping the trap of the sink drain.
Folded inside, she pulled both doors shut.
Darkness. Wet clothes. A cramped, airless space.
Abruptly she was back in the trunk, water rising as she groped for the latch. She suppressed a suicidal impulse to burst free.
Boots and dress shoes thumped on the kitchen tiles.
“Why are we in here” Charles murmured in the voice of a dead man.
“Brandy on your breath. Remember”
They stopped directly before the sink.
Too late, she remembered her wet shoes. The trail of footprints must point to the cabinet like an accusing finger.
She unholstered the Glock. The handcuff chain jingled softly. She did her best to steady her trembling arms.
Behind her head, a metal riser hooked to a valve hummed briefly with running water.
“Take this,” Cain said. “Rinse out your mouth…. There you go. Good as new.”
“Never be good as new. Never again.”
“Think positive. Twenty million bucks can buy you one hell of an overhaul.”
“Cain. Don’t hurt her. Please.”
An impatient sigh. “We already agreed-“
“I know what we agreed. But what I mean is … when you do it … don’t make her suffer.”
“Your darling little girl will never know what hit her.”
Trish listened, her mind swirling with a rush of half-formed thoughts.
Charles Kent was part of this. Millions of dollars were involved. Barbara Kent was heiress to the Ashcroft fortune. Charles must have set her up. Hired Cain, arranged the breakin, staged the whole thing.
Now for some inexplicable reason Ally had to die. That development clearly hadn’t been part of the plan, but Charles had acquiesced in it just the same.
Hollow clunk overhead-a drinking glass had been set down on the counter. The two men stepped away from the sink, and Cain grunted as if catching his balance.
“Watch it. Floor’s wet.”
Her shoes and her dripping uniform must have left a puddle directly in front of the sink.
Teeth clenched, she aimed the gun at the cabinet door. She could shoot right through it, hope for a lucky hit—
Cain again: “You spilled some of your water, Mr. Kent.”
“Spill …” Charles sounded confused.
“Guess you couldn’t help it. You’re shaking almost as bad as that rookie cop when I said she wasn’t needed anymore.”
“I … I don’t think I-“
Cain ignored the denial. “What you need is a maid.” He chuckled as their footsteps receded. “Just take a look at that living room. It’s a goddamned pigsty.”
Gone.
Trish allowed herself to exhale.
Warily she opened the cabinet, crawled out. Her joints crackled as she stood.
She could leave now. Use the cordless phone to call 911 from the backyard.
But the response time to this location would be ten minutes even for a code three call.
Ally might not have ten minutes.
Most likely Charles was rejoining his wife and the Danforths at this moment. That was why he’d rinsed the residue of liquor from his mouth.
Once Charles was locked up, Cain would be free to do the job he’d promised.
She crept toward the kitchen doorway, heading for the east wing-and Ally’s bedroom.
Of course Trish had to save Alison Kent. There was no question of that, no slightest doubt.
She might be crazy to risk it. Her lifetime allotment of luck surely had been used up by now. But …
No medals for quitters.
At the doorway she peered into the living room. Empty. From the den rose muffled thuds and crashes. The destruction, purely for show, continued.
Okay. Go.
Through the dining area. Into the side hallway.
At the far end-Cain and Charles Kent, their backs to her. Trish ducked back into the dining area, hugging the wall.
After a mental count of ten she dared another look. The two men were gone. Must have entered the room at the end of the hall. Through the doorway Trish saw a vanity and a mirror. Master suite, presumably.
Ally’s room was closer. First door on the left, if her visualization of the house’s layout was correct. She crept toward it.
Movement in the master suite.
She froze. Was it Cain
No, only her reflection in the vanity’s mirror.
But if she could see herself in the silvered glass, anyone in the master suite could see her too. Either Charles or Cain might notice at any moment. Hurry.
She reached Ally’s door. Locked Please don’t let it be locked.
The knob turned freely.
Before opening the door, she lifted the Glock in her right hand.
Ally had appeared to be alone, but not every corner of the room was visible through the windows. There might be a guard.
Go in fast.
Her left hand swung the door ajar, and she pivoted through the doorway, her gaze sweeping the bedroom.
Canopy bed. Computer work station. Crowded bookcases. TV and VCR. Navajo rug tacked on the wall. Ally bound to a chair.
Nobody else.
The girl’s mouth formed a round shape of surprise. Trish silenced the half-voiced cry with a wordless shake of her head.
Softly she eased the door shut and locked it.
Ally stared through a skein of disheveled hair. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “You’re dead.”
Trish managed a smile, her first in a long time. “Not yet.”
30
“My God.” Barbara stared at Charles as he stumbled into the closet, shoved by the tall ski-masked man with gray eyes. “What did they do to you”
Charles didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even understand. He blinked vapidly.
The doors swung shut, darkness slamming down.
“Charles” Philip laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right”
“Did they … hurt you” Barbara whispered.
No reply.
Outside, a chain rasped, a padlock clicked, footsteps retreated.
When Barbara was sure the man had left, she switched on the flashlight she’d hidden behind her back. Charles blinked in the wavering beam.
“Philip found it on the shelf while you were gone,” she said. “We put a box of earthquake supplies in here, remember”
Still Charles was silent. She studied his face, chalky in the pale circle of light. She saw no bruises, no sign of injury, yet an awful change had come over him. His smug assurance was gone. He was a broken man, a concentration camp survivor, all hollow eyes and bloodless lips.