Love Kills (23 page)

A heavy rain pounded the roof, rattling the shutters as I worked feverishly on the story, listening, hoping for a footstep at the door yet fearing the sound, hoping that Riley would keep her promise and call me back.

When I finished, I attached the photos with detailed captions, added a cheerful
See you soon!
and, with a great sense of relief, e-mailed the entire package to Fred.

At least I tried to send it.

“Not now,” I moaned, as my laptop froze. “Don't crash on me now. Please, not now.” When you are desperate and need it the most, modern technology never fails to turn on you. Nothing I tried worked.

I had saved the package on a CD. Little good that did. There was no Sir Speedy, Office Depot, or FedEx box just down the block.

Lacey's laptop! I thought. Brilliant. Where is it? I tossed the entire cabin but didn't find it. Frantic, I closed my eyes to visualize him as he walked out the door, playing the scene over and over in my mind. He wasn't carrying it. But he had it when he arrived. I stumbled out to the Ford through the rain. I found nothing beneath the driver and passenger seats. But when I reached under the backseats, there it was. “Thank God,” I murmured, praying I could make it work.

I opened it on the table beside my worthless piece of crap.

The screen blossomed to life, then requested the password. Son of a bitch.

I typed in variations of John Lacey's name and the company that employed him. Access denied. I tried the word
novel
, then
Suzanne.
That one worked.

“Thank you, Lacey,” I murmured. “Thank you, Suzanne.”

Hearing her name brought flashbacks, terrible images of her fragile body shattered on the canyon floor. “You are not forgotten, Suzanne,” I whispered. “I promise, you are not forgotten.”

I transferred the contents of the disk into the laptop and then opened his e-mail, using the same password. Thank God Lacey was consistent. I prayed to see him alive again.

I sent everything to Fred.

Your message has been sent.

I sighed with relief. Then sent the same package to Detective Sam Stone. He had never called me back.

Neither had K. C. Riley. I don't know why that surprised me. What should I expect? I regretted begging for her help, giving her that satisfaction.

Except for the baby I carried I was completely alone here, closer to Russia and North Korea than to Miami and Cuba. How surreal is that? I wondered. I began to wish that I'd learned the baby's sex. This isn't fair, I thought. None of it is fair.

Lacey's e-mail had dozens of saved messages, both sent and received. I clicked on one at random and blinked as it opened, startled by the intimate and personal content.

From Suzanne, I thought. I know people who have kept messages from dead loved ones on their answering machines for years. They cling to that final connection.

The e-mail was a love letter. So were most of the others. Their audacious language and lush overripe endearments titillated the voyeur in me. The lovers' wild libidinous energy, their passionate, poetic, and lyrical prose, exposed a relationship fraught with erotic drama, angst, and storm-tossed sperm. My jaw dropped as I read.

Streaks and pricks of light exploded like fireworks in my brain. I felt as though I were drowning.

This must be a feverish dream, I thought. I reread a number of the messages in stunned disbelief. Was I delirious? Delusional? Totally irrational? No. The truth was perfectly clear. The lovers who exchanged these passionate letters were John Lacey and Marsh Holt.

I stared zombielike at the computer screen, then scrambled into the bathroom to be sick.

I sat gagging on the side of the old-fashioned claw-footed tub, gasping for breath and coming to terms with the fact that in this strange place, surrounded by hostile strangers, I was the only one I could trust.

My last hope was gone. Nobody was coming. No rescue. No knight on a white horse. It was up to me.

I forced myself to eat something. There were sourdough rolls and canned soup in the cupboard. I fixed a sandwich and heated some soup, a strange breakfast. I added a tablespoon of blackberry brandy to the soup, hoping to calm both myself and the baby.

In Miami, I kept a gun in the glove compartment of my T-Bird. Having it now would be a comfort. Why, when I need it most, is it always out of reach? The rain had finally stopped. I slipped an oversized loden-green sweater on over my maternity jeans, replaced Lacey's laptop under the backseat, along with the fireplace poker, then drove back down the mountain toward Holt's cabin. According to the car radio, the temperature was 51.

I parked off-road within walking distance and trudged through the damp woods. I sat on a fallen tree trunk and watched the cabin through the binoculars.

Within twenty minutes, Marsh Holt appeared on the front porch. He bent and stretched for several minutes, scanning the road and surrounding woods as he exercised and limbered up. I held my breath. He didn't see me.

He seemed to be waiting for Nancy, who appeared within minutes. They spoke briefly and went back inside together. Five minutes later they reappeared, wearing backpacks and hiking gear.

They skirted the side of the cabin and struck out to the west. After a few minutes, I followed.

Nancy's bright red sweater helped me keep them in sight, but their pace was brisk and I found it difficult to keep up.

No sign of Lacey. Just thinking of him set my mind and pulse racing. He and Holt obviously shared a long-term relationship; their letters made that clear. How? When did they hook up? What was Lacey's real relationship with Suzanne? Why did he sacrifice her to his lover's murderous scheme?

Greed, I thought. The money. Their exchanges included numerous references to their long range goal, the time when they would be free at last to enjoy each other and their future together, financed by the dead brides' assets and life insurance proceeds.

Up ahead, the newlyweds paused several times, to photograph wildlife, to taste and collect wild berries and native foliage. Even with those welcome breathers, I was panting and relieved when they finally stopped for lunch beside a wide and fast-moving, rocky stream.

I watched, careful not to be seen. They took pictures. Nancy waving, in her red sweater, her short blond hair bright next to the shining water. The hair prickled on the back of my neck as she posed. What if…? What would I do? What
could
I do? This was insane.

They packed up, on the move again. But my heart sank. It looked as though they were about to use slippery rocks as stepping stones to cross the rushing rain-fed stream, a feat I was loath to attempt. The water roared, the current swift and powerful. Who would rescue me if I fell?

Nobody. I couldn't risk it. I had to find a safer place to cross before I lost them. Which way? I ventured downstream. Wrong choice. The sound of rushing water built to a crescendo. Sure enough, cascades, rapids, and sharp drops appeared up ahead. Frustrated, I turned to go back and saw Nancy, about seventy feet away.

She stared, then shrieked and charged me, running full tilt, screaming and waving her arms.

Oh, crap, I thought. I was at a distinct disadvantage and had no desire to grapple with her.

The woman could run. She rapidly closed the gap between us, red-faced and still screaming. No way could I outrun her. I raised my hands in surrender, in supplication, wondering if Holt was right behind her, or me.

“Wait, wait, Nancy. Don't!”

She didn't slow down. I braced for her assault at the last second.

She flung herself at me. Sobbing aloud, she wrapped her arms around me in a crushing bear hug that nearly knocked me down.

“Help! Help me! He tried to kill me,” she cried. “You were right! You were right!”

“Thank you.” I shook off her hug. “Where is he?” I looked apprehensively around us.

“Back there,” she gasped, indicating the picnic area and the stream. “He's after me!”

“Let's get out of here.”

“Which way? Which way?” She looked lost and bewildered.

“Come on.” I caught her arm and we scrambled into the brush. “Take off that sweater!” I said.

“He tried to kill me, he tried to kill me,” she blubbered.

“I won't say I told you so. But take off the damn sweater. It's like a red flag.”

“He wants to kill me!”

“So do I,” I hissed, “if you don't take that thing off. Get rid of it, or I will. He can't miss you in it.”

She looked down, as though hearing me for the first time, and then pulled it off over her head as we ran.

She wore only a little silk camisole underneath.

“Don't bring the sweater with you, for God's sake,” I said. “Hide it in those bushes, cover it with leaves.”

“Cashmere,” she panted tearfully. “Brand new.”

“Ditch it!”

She did.

We stayed off the trail. When we paused to listen and catch our breath I asked how she got such a head start on Holt, who still hadn't appeared behind us.

“I knew it, I just knew it,” she said, voice trembling, close to hysteria. “You planted the seeds. I began to think. He started to scare me. Last night he went out to chop a few sticks of firewood and didn't come back for hours. I couldn't see him. I don't know where he was, but I thought I heard voices in the woods. He had moved the car and was acting strangely. Just now, at lunch, he kept pouring more wine in my glass. I dumped it in the grass when he wasn't looking. Then he insisted we cross the stream. I was afraid. He knows I'm not a good swimmer. He wants me dead. He told me to butch up, it was the only place to cross. He's never talked to me like that before.”

I remembered Colleen, afraid of that last run down the ski slope.

“He said to trust him. But I saw something in his eyes. You were right. I don't know who he is. He was too good to be true. I didn't know him long enough.”

“Shush,” I said, “he'll hear us. We have to keep moving. Watch for a ranger, other hikers, or anybody. I don't like being out here alone with him.”

“Thank God you were here.” She began to sob.

“Shut up.” I looked around fearfully. “Where is he? What is he doing? Why isn't he right behind you? How did you get away?”

“I hit him hard, really hard, as hard as I could, with the wine bottle.” She snuffled. “He fe-fell in the water.” She hiccuped.

I stopped to stare at her. “Was he conscious?”

“When he reached out to grab my arm, to drag me onto the rock, I swung as hard as I could. The bottle broke on the side of his head.”

I paused and looked over my shoulder. “You think he drowned?”

She wiped the back of her hand across her drippy red nose.

“No. The water just carried him a few feet.” She stopped and sniffed. “Then he grabbed hold of a rock and yelled at me to help him. His head was bleeding. I told him you were right and he could get himself out. Then I ran. Thank God I found you.”

She tried to hug me again.

“Stop it,” I snapped, alarmed. Not only was Marsh Holt homicidal, now he was also soaking wet, bleeding, and mad as hell. As would be Lacey, his lover, who was lurking somewhere, most likely in these very woods.

Even then, as my adrenaline spiked and my fight-or-flight response ratcheted into high gear, I took delight deep down at what a great story this was. Already it needed updating. Again. I could see the new caption under Nancy's photo:
THE BRIDE WHO FOUGHT BACK
.

She'd be booked on every talk show, a spunky role model for all endangered little girls romanced by the wrong men. Her cookbooks would sell like hotcakes. She'd write a best-selling sequel combining honeymoon recipes with her harrowing tale of heartbreak and survival.

If, of course, we survived.

She was whimpering. “Beautiful wedding…expected to be together when we were seventy-five…”

“I hate to say this to you too, Nancy, but butch up. I'm not trying to scare you, but another man's involved, an accomplice. He was probably one of the voices you heard last night. He's dangerous too. We have to get to the car and then go to the police. If we walk into headquarters together, they'll believe us and won't arrest me.”

At least I hoped they wouldn't. No way, I thought. I had prima facie evidence of the lovers' crimes, plans, and schemes. It was all on Lacey's laptop.

I had my story—but first we had to find our way out of these woods.

I checked the compass to be sure we were headed toward the car.

“Marsh has a gun,” she whimpered.

“What?” I hadn't thought to ask. I'd simply assumed that gunplay wasn't his style, since his MO was staging accidents. “How did he get it on the plane?”

“He didn't. He bought it in Fairbanks. Said we needed it for protection from wild animals—and you, because our cabin was so isolated. He said you're dangerous.”

I felt a chill, as if someone had walked on my grave. If Holt was armed, Lacey might be too. “Where is the gun?”

“Maybe in the cabin, or in his backpack.” She wiped her eyes. “What can I say to my parents, my friends, my television audience? How can I tell them?”

“Come on,” I said, weary of her whining. “Hurry.” The undergrowth we pushed through had practically shredded her lacy camisole.

“Can you keep up?” Her watery blue eyes focused on me. “You don't look good.”

“Just keep going,” I panted. “I'll feel a lot better when we get to the car.”

My lower back ached. I kept stumbling, clinging to low-lying branches, tree trunks, and bushes for support as I struggled. It took hours. My stomach was cramping. My feet were numb and I couldn't catch my breath. Just when I thought things couldn't be worse, it started to rain. The occasional fat raindrops that splashed onto leaves grew into a heavy downpour that continued to build. Rain pelted my face and my aching shoulders. How could this be any worse? I wondered. I quickly found out. The temperature was dropping. Nancy was shivering.

Then, like a miracle, I spotted a familiar landmark.

“Nancy,” I gasped. “We made it! The road is up ahead. The car is beyond those trees to the left, just off the road.”

She jogged ahead, hugging her arms for warmth, then turned back to me, an odd look on her face. I drew upon my last ounce of energy, caught up, and staggered into the clearing where I had left the car.

It was gone.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Nancy demanded. “You must be mistaken. The trees all look alike.”

“No, this was it,” I gasped. “I left it right here.” I groped in my pocket for the key, realizing there must have been two. Either Holt or Lacey must have spotted the Explorer and taken it.

“Oh, no,” I murmured. The laptop with its incriminating letters, the only evidence to link the two men, was gone with the car.

“This can't be the place,” Nancy insisted.

“I can't make it back to our cabin on foot,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Your place is closer. But it's a risk to go there.”

“I could get a sweater.” Her teeth chattered.

My feet were cold, wet, and numb. What ever happened to global warming? I wondered bitterly.

I tried to think. “Where are the keys to the Range Rover?” I asked, praying they weren't in Holt's backpack.

Her nose wrinkled as she rubbed her arms, trying to stay warm. “I don't want to be a divorcée.” Her eyes welled.

“You don't have to be,” I said. “Have it annulled.”

“Think I could?” she asked brightly.

“The keys, Nancy, the car keys. Focus. Do you know where they are?”

“You needn't be rude,” she pouted. “If life was only candy and nuts, every day would be Christmas.”

“Oh, God, Nancy. What the hell does that mean?”

She stared sorrowfully at me through the drenching rain.

“The keys,” I said. “The keys.”

“Maybe…on the hook, just inside the door? Or on the bedroom dresser.”

We were tempting fate. Holt, Lacey, or both might be waiting for us. Then I thought of how long it would take me to slog uphill in a downpour through the mud, to the cabin Lacey had rented. And for all we knew, they might be waiting for us there.

“Let's go,” I whispered. My heavy boots, full of water, chafed at every step.