“An olive tree near the gazebo.” He went on staring blankly at the cartridge case, his lips barely moving as he spoke. “Hard to explain, but it threw a shadow that looked just like a crouching human figure. Anyone could have made the mistake.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Wald said.
Trish wasn’t listening. To Philip she mouthed: How many
He laid his left hand on the table in a fist. One at a time he extended his fingers.
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky.
Four of them, Trish thought numbly, and then Philip’s thumb curled into view also.
Five.
A chill skipped lightly over her shoulders.
Five intruders. If one was armed, it was safe to assume they all were. Surely one or more of them were watching the table right now.
From where The windows Or one of the three doorways around the dining area and living room
The pounding racket in her skull was the steady beat of blood.
“So you’re certain you didn’t see anything,” Wald was saying.
Barbara managed an unconcerned shrug. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“Okay, then. Guess there’s no need for us to hang around. Though I’ve got to admit, that dessert looks damn good.”
Laughter from Judy Danforth, high and airy and too shrill.
Wald stepped away from the table, Trish following. Irrationally she felt a stab of shame at leaving. But two cops alone couldn’t handle five armed criminals or rescue a concealed hostage. Their best move, their only move, was to return to the squad car, then radio for backup and the sheriff’s SWAT team.
“We’ll call it in as a wild goose chase,” Wald said without inflection. “Mrs. Kent, no offense, but try to be more careful next time.”
“I will, and again, I’m so very sorry.”
“No harm done,” Trish heard herself say. The words, the first she’d spoken since leaving the car, seemed to come from nowhere.
Her whole attention was focused on the space around her and the desperate need to act natural. God, please don’t let her screw up now, because it wasn’t just her life on the line or Wald’s; it was the Kent girl who would die if this wasn’t handled right.
How young was she As young as Marta had been
Doubtful. A cup of espresso rested by her plate. A teenager, probably.
Don’t think of Marta. Don’t think of anything but getting out of this house alive.
Now she and Wald were in the living room, passing the sofa with Oxford stripe slipcovers, the silverado chest that served as a coffee table, the sea grass rug under the rattan magazine basket.
Trish scanned the room, alert for likely hiding places. To her left a door stood slightly ajar, darkness behind it. Most likely it opened on a den or study.
The doorway offered a clear view of both the foyer and the dining area. At least one of the intruders must be watching from that position.
Her hand brushed her holster. She couldn’t draw her gun without precipitating an attack.
Charles shadowed them, smiling anxiously. “Really a shame you had to come all the way out here.”
Wald nodded. “That’s all right. Hope your little girl feels better in the morning.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing we can’t take care of, I mean. Yes. We’ll take care of it.”
He was babbling, his voice uncomfortably loud. Trish wished he would shut up.
“Just a headache, after all,” Charles added. “It’ll pass.”
Damn. He’d just made a mistake. Barbara said Ally had an upset stomach, not a headache.
Had their hidden observers noticed Suspicions aroused, were they preparing to strike
She and Wald reached the foyer. Front door ahead, standing open.
The thought flashed in her mind that the foyer was the perfect place for an ambush. Tight space, little room to maneuver.
Carpet gave way to tile. She followed Wald toward the door, her back to the den. A marksman would aim midway between her shoulder blades. A clean hit would cut her down before she heard the gun’s report.
Five feet to go. Three.
Wald, nearly on the threshold, glanced back. ” ‘Night, Mr. Kent.”
Charles lingered in the living room. He seemed unable to answer, merely raised a hand in a shaky wave.
And still nothing had happened.
Trish allowed herself to hope they were going to make it, and then she remembered the coat closet opposite the potted plant.
Instantly she knew.
Too late.
The closet door blurred open, two ski-masked figures rushing out.
Panic burst like fireworks in her mind. For a heartbeat she stood paralyzed.
Wald reacted faster. With a backward lunge he threw himself clear of the closet, perhaps trying to shield her, perhaps simply putting distance between himself and the assailants.
His hand scrabbled at his service revolver, and Trish heard a single percussive beat, like the muffled pop of a champagne cork.
She didn’t realize a shot had been fired until spray misted her hair, and then she saw Wald’s face was gone, erased in a cloud of blood.
He toppled, dead weight, his gun belt clanking on the tile floor as he thudded down, and now there was nothing between her and two lifted pistols targeting her heart.
Her revolver was only halfway out of the holster. Useless.
Trish froze, knowing with total clarity that this was the final moment of her life.
From the den, a man’s voice.
“Wait.”
15
Silence, stillness, her racing heart.
Wait, someone had said, and she was still alive, still in the world.
The two killers glanced toward the den. She followed their gaze and saw a man in the doorway, masked like the others, watching her.
“Hands up,” he said without emphasis or inflection.
Shakily she complied. Her pulse throbbed in her neck. The pungent odor crowding her nostrils was the reek of her own sweat.
“Hook her.”
The thugs shoved her sideways, her face flush against the wall, rhododendron leaves in her hair. Pain flared in her shoulders as her arms were wrenched behind her back. From her gun belt, handcuffs were appropriated, the steel rings locking on her wrists.
Manacled, she was helpless, at the mercy of Wald’s murderers.
She fought to suppress the nausea coiling in her belly as the service revolver was removed from her holster, her trouser legs methodically patted down in a fruitless search for an ankle gun.
They’d blown Wald away without hesitation. Was she next Or would they keep her alive now that she posed no threat They had no reason to kill her, but were they likely to be reasonable
She was panting but couldn’t get any air.
Never should’ve become a cop. Must have been insane.
Gloved hands closed over her shoulders. One of the thugs hustled her out of the foyer while his partner held a gun to her face. The suppressor tube nuzzled her cheek with cold affection.
Leaving, she threw a backward glance at Wald, his head a blasted ruin, one eye staring. A stain discolored his crotch; at the moment of death his bladder had released.
