With his left hand he ripped open the door to the bathroom and lunged out, the makeshift bat cocked back, ready to take the killer’s head half off, to beat the man helpless. He swung as he stepped out, taking aim at the temple of the—
It was a woman. Lithe, slim, and wearing a baseball cap.
5
Belinda yanked open the door of the janitor’s closet, the light flickering on as she did, so that she could see brooms and mops and a sink with a slow drip, a drop of water trembling at the faucet. A bucket stood just inside the door, the broken handle of a mop sticking straight up, a black Hawaiian shirt with blue and green parrots draped over the top, the whole thing like an anemic scarecrow. What the—
There was a noise behind her, the scrape of a door, and she whirled, one hand flying to her belt, fumbling against the gun as Daniel Hayes surged at her, a mop handle in one fist. She flinched back, watching that arc of wood whistling toward her with more than enough force to bat her arm aside. She could imagine the snapping sharp pain that would numb her hand, then the smack as it hit her head, stars and comets and the world hopping.
Only the blow never landed. At the last second Daniel pulled it, twisting awkwardly to bring the club whistling over her head. Momentum kept him going, following through like a batter at a pitch, and he stopped, arms up in an awkward backhand pose. He froze. His fingers opened, and the stick clattered to the floor.
Belinda lowered her hands. Daniel stared at her. It looked like he was trying to speak but had forgotten the muscles. He blinked, gaped, blinked. Managed to twist his lips into motion. “You?” His voice dry and thin. “But. You’re—”
“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.”
And then Laney Thayer stepped forward and threw her arms around her husband.
ACT TWO, PART TWO
“People always think something’s all true.”
—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
S
omeone had hooked electrodes up to either ear and slammed waves of electricity through his skull. His brain was static and noise. Questions surged on that buzzing sea, thoughts tumbled and spun. The mop handle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.
His wife was alive.
Dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, her hair now blond and pulled through the back of her baseball cap, a splotchy mark like a bruise running up her cheek and across one eye, but all of that no more concealing to his eyes than tissue paper. There were the high cheekbones, the pale pink lips he’d kissed a hundred thousand times, the long graceful neck, and the eyes, the eyes, bright and alive.
The connection between body and mind strained. He felt like a marionette with half the strings cut, a jerky, drunken thing. Was he going mad, really mad? Had all of this been some crazy dream? How could she possibly . . .
He blinked, swallowed, made his lips move. “You? But. You’re—”
“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.” Emily Sweet’s voice, the one he’d followed home from the edge of death. And then Laney threw herself at him, her arms ringing his sides and squeezing, her body fitting tight, the smell of her, that old familiar smell of home.
His wife was alive. Alive, and in his arms.
The wife whose loss had driven him to suicide. The woman he had fallen back in love with only to realize she was gone. Somehow she had crawled out of the underworld to stand in his arms.
A choking sound wrenched from his chest, and he pulled her tighter. She responded, crying and laughing against him, her skin warm, and the charge running through his body was like a swim in ancient waters, like finishing a screenplay, like over-proof bourbon and an expensive cigar, like making love for the first time. He could flex his arms and knock down the world.
“I thought you were. My god, how— Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Her words tumbling against his chest. “I wanted to find you, but you were gone, and I couldn’t go to the police, he had to think I was dead, it was the only way.”
“The only way to— What do you mean?”
“We have to go.” Laney pushed back from him, glanced down the hall. “Bennett’s here.”
“What’s a Bennett?” His fingers tasted the softness of her arms.
She cocked her head, said, “Huh?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Bennett, Bennett, the guy who.” She stopped. “Are you okay?”
“Well . . .”
Someone laughed out in the common area, and the echo of the sound made her jump. “Later. Let’s go. You have to trust me.” Laney’s eyes entreated. “Can you trust me?”
Nothing made sense. His wife back from the dead. Scared. Someone named Bennett was here. That must be the killer. The one he had been trying to trap. Only it had been Laney. And she wasn’t dead, so there wasn’t a killer. But then, someone had come after Sophie. And Laney was saying— He blinked, said, “Of course.”
“Hurry.” She grabbed his hand, their fingers lacing with easy habit; he could remember the way they slid together, but there was no time to savor it as she tugged him down the hall. The fluorescent lights a blur, his heart singing. They rounded the corner, stepped back into the market proper.
And directly in front of a man with a gun.
“Hello, kids,” the man said. “Miss me?”
Laney’s fingers tightened on his, hard enough that he could feel the fear humming in her skin.
“You look good for a dead woman, sister. You made a hell of a cleaning lady too.” The guy seemed relaxed, like he was chancing on old friends. His black shirt and pressed slacks, his neat hair and bland expression juxtaposed against the pistol to create a shattering dissonance. What had Sophie said? He was so calm. Smiling, always smiling. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
“Bennett?” Daniel asked, knowing the answer.
“The one and only.” The man had his back to the patio area, gun held low and out of sight, and none of the hundreds of people behind him seemed to have a clue what he was doing. “Let me guess, I look different than you expected. Taller, and with a bigger cock.” He smiled, turned back to Laney. “Speaking of my cock, it’s nice to see you again, sister.”
“I’ll scream,” Laney said.
Bennett shrugged. “Go for it.”
She opened her mouth, hesitated.
“Thought not. You scream, maybe the man who comes to rescue you is a cop. And you don’t want to be talking to any police, do you?”
Daniel turned from one to the other. He felt like he was lagging behind the conversation. By the time he’d processed one set of words, the next had come and gone. It had to be a blackmail thing, he’d put that much together, but the way this guy was goading Laney, it seemed like he knew her personally. And what was she doing? Why not scream? “Why don’t we want to be talking to the police?”