Someone was trashing the place but doing it in a strangely half-hearted way.
As the dining area and the living room came into view, she saw the extent of the wreckage in the weird patchy light of the one remaining lamp. Nearly everything breakable was in pieces.
Two of the killers, their backs to her, were methodically sweeping glazed earthenware pitchers and crystal vases from the glass-and-steel divider.
Both had taken off their masks. One was the woman, the other a blond ponytailed man.
At the intersection of the rear hall and the east wing she paused. The kitchen lay behind the wall to her right. To get inside, she would have to pass through the dining area.
A major risk. At any moment the killers might turn. But she had no choice.
Now.
Balancing speed with silence, she pivoted through the kitchen doorway and ducked behind the wall.
They hadn’t seen or heard her. The carpet’s thick pile had muffled her steps.
She looked toward the west end of the house. Past a laundry nook was a side door. She could exit that way.
First the keys. She holstered the Glock to free her hands. After a rapid inspection of the key rings, she chose the most complete set, cramming it deep in her pants pocket.
Got it. All right, get going, move.
She almost stepped away from the noteboard but hesitated, her gaze drawn to the phone on the wall. For a bewildered moment she had no idea why she was looking at it. Impossible to call from inside the house; the risk of being overheard was too great.
But this phone was cordless. It could be operated anywhere within range of the base unit-even in the backyard.
She might not need a boat after all.
Heart pumping, she lifted the handset and wedged it under her gun belt, hard against her hip.
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.
