Low Pressure (52 page)

But Strickland had enough leeway in his wrist to turn the knife toward Dent’s face. The tip of it was level with the corner of his left eye. One jab would blind him.

“I’m gonna mess you up, pretty boy. Then I’m going to cut her head off.”

Dent bared his teeth. “I’ll kill you first.”

“Drop it!”

The order must’ve come from one of the cops. Dent didn’t turn his head, but Strickland looked in that direction, and Dent used that momentary distraction to flip the knife away and, with his free hand, give the man’s Adam’s apple a hard chop. “That’s for my plane, you son of a bitch.”

Strickland, stunned and suddenly breathless, tried to suck in air. Dent squeezed his wrist so hard he released the knife and it clattered to the floor. Then four police officers swarmed them.

But, even gasping for breath, Strickland wasn’t going down easily or quietly. Dent fought his way past the policemen trying to subdue him and bolted up the staircase to where Bellamy was weakly crawling up the steps.

Panicked, he bent over her. “Are you hurt? Did he cut you?”

“No. Olivia.” Using handfuls of his wet clothing, she climbed up him until she was on her feet. “Up there. Help me.”

He put his arm around her waist and practically carried her up the remaining stairs and along the dark hallway to a bedroom.

The moment he saw Olivia Lyston on her bed, ghostly pale, lying in an ocean of blood, he knew she was dead.

A few minutes later, EMTs confirmed it.

Ray Strickland’s bellowed invectives against Bellamy and Dent echoed through the house. It took several officers to restrain him, and all the while he was hollering about injustice. But he bawled like a baby when his hands were secured behind him and he was led outside to the waiting squad car.

“I gotta kill them because it was on account of them that Allen died,” he blubbered. Bellamy heard him ask one of the arresting officers if he could have Susan’s panties back. “My brother told me to keep them.”

She and Dent were questioned separately, and the investigating officers, Nagle and Abbott among them, began linking together the bizarre chain of events. Dent’s Vette was towed away as evidence.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as they watched the tow truck’s taillights leave through the gate. “First your airplane, now your car.”

He shrugged. “They can’t bleed.”

She turned her face up to him.

“When I got here, the cops told me that a woman inside the house was bleeding out.”

“I’d called nine-one-one for Olivia.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.” He placed his hand on the back of her head, pressed her face against his chest, and kissed the crown of her head.

“I can’t believe she killed Susan,” she whispered. “All these years . . .”

“Yeah,” he said on a soft exhale. Then, in an even quieter voice, “Steven’s here.”

Austin police had found him and William at the airport, where they were waiting for a flight that had been delayed due to the weather. One of the officers had called Nagle, who’d handed over his cell phone to Bellamy, who’d had the unwelcome task of telling Steven about his mother’s suicide.

For a long time he’d said nothing, then, “We’ll be there soon.”

Now, as he and William entered through the front door, she went to embrace him. It was evident that he’d been crying. Given the way he and Olivia had parted, Bellamy knew he would bear responsibility for her taking her own life.

He allowed her to hold him close for several moments before easing away. “We heard about Strickland from the policemen who drove us here. Are you all right?”

“Bruised, but otherwise okay. Dent got here just in time.”

He looked at Dent. “Thank you. Truly.”

Dent acknowledged the thanks with a nod.

Coming back to Bellamy, Steven asked, “Where is she?”

“In her bedroom, but don’t go up. The coroner is in there now. In any case, she wouldn’t want you to see it.”

“You don’t understand. I must go to her. When I left—”

“She told me. But don’t blame yourself. I think she was looking ahead to life without Daddy, and simply couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

“Howard was her life.”

“Yes. She would have done anything for him.” She hesitated then said, “She did. She killed for him.”

Steven, who’d been staring at the top of the staircase, brought his gaze back down to her. He said quietly, “Susan.”

She glanced at William, who hadn’t even flinched at the revelation. Looking back at Steven, she stated what seemed to be obvious. “You knew?”

“No, I swear it. But I suspected.”

“Since when?”

“From the start, I think. When did you find out?”

“My memory of it came back tonight.” She related everything that had happened since Dent had dropped her there. “She was already dying. I think it must have been a huge relief to her to tell someone about it.”

She paused as a realization struck her. “I understand now why you were so opposed to my book. You didn’t want anyone—me—to find out.”

“As much for your and Howard’s sake as for Mother’s. At least she died without having to admit it to him. That would certainly have killed her. I, perhaps more than anyone, knew how much she loved him. More than anything. Or anyone.” His voice cracked. William placed a comforting arm across his shoulder, and Steven smiled at him gratefully.

“Steven?” Bellamy spoked his name softly, and when he was looking at her again, she said, “I told the police.” At his pained expression, she said, “They were reinvestigating the case. I had to tell them. It was only right. The record had to be set straight.”

He didn’t dispute that, but he looked extremely unhappy about it.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Once it becomes known, the backlash won’t be easy or pleasant for me, either, but we’ve been shackled to this lie for eighteen years. I refuse to be for the rest of my life.”

A short while later, Olivia’s body was carried out and placed in an ambulance bound for the morgue. As they watched it pull away, Steven said to Bellamy, “William and I will be at the Four Seasons. There’ll be no folderol like there was for Howard. We’ll bury her beside him. Privately.”

“I understand and agree.”

“As for the other . . .” He looked away briefly before coming back to her and saying, “You did what you felt you had to do. In a way, it’s a relief, isn’t it?”

She hugged him tightly and whispered, “For you, too, I hope.”

With tearful eyes she watched him walk down the steps and get into the waiting taxi with William. Her relationship with Steven would never be what it had been when they were young teens. She’d been naive to believe it could be. Their personalities, their destinies, had been reshaped by what had happened on that Memorial Day.

But she would continue to hope for a relationship with him.

Detective Abbott asked that she make herself available to answer questions that would invariably arise. “Ray Strickland will be charged with a laundry list of felonies. You’ll be called to testify.”

She had expected that, but she didn’t look forward to it.

Just as the detectives were leaving, Nagle passed her a business card and said, “Specialty cleaning service.”

Considering that and all the other unpleasant responsibilities facing her, she would have been disconsolate if Dent hadn’t been there with her to lock up the house and then walk with her toward the front gate. It had stopped raining, the storm having moved off to the east.

There were still several police cars on the street. Officers were having to move along gawkers who’d been drawn to the scene of the emergency. As soon as they got past the bottleneck, Dent said, “That son-of-a-bitchin’ vulture.”

Sitting on the hood of Gall’s pickup was Rocky Van Durbin.

“No, wait,” Bellamy said, putting out her arm to hold Dent back. She kept walking until she was no more than a foot away from Van Durbin, then she said in a tone that meant business, “Get off the truck.”

Shit-eating grin in place, Van Durbin slid off it. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Of course not,” Bellamy said, meaning the opposite.

“Seriously,” he said. “I was just waiting to ask you about Mrs. Lyston’s suicide. Was it grief over your father that drove her to it?”

She took a deep breath. “Van Durbin, you’re a sly, sneaky, bastard who thrives on the misfortunes of other people. You’re a bottom-feeder, the lowest life-form I can think of. But actually . . .” She paused for emphasis. “I’m glad to see you.”

She felt Dent’s startled reaction.

As for Van Durbin, his ferret grin wavered, as though unsure he’d heard her right. “Where’s your photographer?” she asked.

The columnist hesitated, then pointed toward a hedge that separated the Lyston property from their neighbor’s. “If he takes a single picture, this conversation is over,” Bellamy said. “Tell him.”

Van Durbin assessed her for a moment, then turned toward the hedge and drew a line across the base of his neck, a gesture that caused Bellamy to shiver. She hadn’t had time or opportunity to think about Strickland’s near fatal attack on her, knowing that when she did, she would likely have an emotional breakdown. She was postponing that until she could be alone.

She told Van Durbin to get out his notebook.

He took it from his pocket along with a pencil with a gnawed eraser.

She said, “I have a proposition for you, and these are the terms. You’re going to write them down, word for word, using no shorthand or symbols, and sign it. Agreed?”

“No, not agreed. What kind of terms, and in exchange for what?”

She simply stared back at him. After a moment, he grumbled, “What’re the terms?”

“You’ll never reveal me as your source for anything I’m about to tell you.”

“That’s a given.”

“Write it down.” She waited until he did so before continuing. “You’re to write nothing, and I mean not one allusion to, not one syllable, about my stepmother’s death.”

He gaped at her. “Is this a joke?”

“Shall I call the
National Inquirer
?”

He stuck the eraser in his mouth and chewed on it while he deliberated, then wrote down a line in his notebook.

Bellamy said, “You’re also never to reference my brother, Steven. His name is not to be mentioned in any article you write about this.”

“This,
what
? So far you’ve given me squat.”

Dent said, “If I were you, I’d shut up and do as the lady says.”

Van Durbin tilted his head toward him. “I guess he’s off limits, too?”

“Not at all,” Bellamy replied smoothly. “He’s to be hailed the hero he is for saving my life. He’s to be completely exonerated where my sister’s death is concerned. But you’ll write nothing about our personal lives. His or mine. Singly or together. Ever. And no more photographs of us.”

Van Durbin looked ready to balk. “This had better be good.”

“It is.” She took the notebook from him, read what he’d written, then passed it back to him. “Sign it.” Once she had the signed sheet in her possession, she motioned toward the stub in his hand. “You’re going to need a bigger pencil.”

“You can imagine my shock when I learned yesterday that a man in my employ, one to whom I had extended a helping hand, had taken another man’s life in such a gruesome manner.”

Rupe had decided to conduct his press conference in the showroom of his flagship dealership. His sales team provided a captive audience. Customers who’d come in to shop cars this morning were being treated to a show.

He had set up a small podium with a built-in microphone system. He didn’t want anyone to miss a single heartfelt word. All the local television stations were represented. Because of the popularity of
Low Pressure
, the story about Ray Strickland and Dale Moody—the electrifying final chapter of an eighteen-year saga—would no doubt make national news. The King of Cars could very well be appearing on network TV tonight.

He didn’t even lament his disfigured face. It added drama. He was feeling so good it was hard to maintain the solemn demeanor that the situation called for.

Things couldn’t have worked out better. Strickland had taken care of Moody, and the police had taken care of Strickland. He was under lock and key, ranting and raving like a lunatic. The things he’d been quoted in the newspaper as saying—such as asking for Susan Lyston’s panties back—made him sound like a total whack job.

He also continued to issue threats of vengeance against Bellamy Price, Denton Carter, and just about everybody else on the planet. Nobody would listen to a madman’s allegations against a former assistant district attorney, upholder of law and justice.

Thinking quickly, Rupe had preempted any questions that might arise about the telephone calls to and from him on Ray Strickland’s cell phone, which would have been noticed. He’d admitted to having helped support Ray, which now appeared to have been an act of Christian charity rather than a means of maintaining control over a potential threat.

And that crap about a copy of the case file? Moody hadn’t died with it on him, and it hadn’t been found in his car. Rupe figured Bellamy Price had been bluffing about its existence.

Rupe couldn’t ask for things to be any tidier. Moody, gone. Strickland, as good as. Bellamy Price and her book made to look incredible by Olivia Lyston’s staggering deathbed confession.

To capitalize on the hot news story, he’d called his own press conference to clear up any questions regarding his relationship with Ray Strickland, to express his regret over the grisly death of Dale Moody, a police officer for whom he had the fondest memories and utmost regard, and to convey his sympathies once again to the Lyston family, to whom the fates had been so grossly unkind.

He laid it on thick and the reporters were eating it up.

He was just about to close when Van Durbin and his photographer walked into the showroom.

National coverage!
he thought.

The columnist gave him a jaunty little wave. While Rupe was answering the last question posed to him, the two elbowed their way forward until they were standing directly in front of Rupe. When Rupe stopped speaking, Van Durbin raised his hand.

“Ah, I see our friend from
EyeSpy
has joined us. Mr. Van Durbin, you have a question for me?” He flashed a smile toward the cameraman, who was rapidly taking shots of him.