The Charmers (18 page)

It took only minutes yet he knew anything might happen in only minutes. But nothing had. She was still lying there, eyes closed, bruised arms spread wide, exactly as he'd left her. Now, though, was the time for the main event. The rescue.

He hefted Verity over his shoulder and stumbled through the soft sand to the firmer part of the beach where the tide came in. He lay his burden down and watched the sea sweep over her. He caught a murmur as she moved her head to one side. She was good and wet and the time was right.

He hefted her in his arms, not over the shoulder this time, because she was meant to look like the maiden in distress and he was her valiant savior. Our hero.

Carrying her, he staggered back down the beach along the tide line and into the brightly lit area where his guests still mingled, drinks still in hand, worried looks on their faces. The Colonel was there, and Mirabella and that bastard Chad.

“I found her,” he gasped, staggering as he ran with her in his arms. “I think she drowned.”

 

34

Chad Prescott

On the beach, Chad raced toward what looked to him very much like a dead woman. She lay immobile, her jaw slack, eyes rolled back in her head. From experience he feared there was little he could do for her.

He knelt on the sand and felt for her pulse, felt it flutter under his fingers. Immediately he turned her over onto her chest, placed his hands firmly on her back, and pressed with all his might. Again. And again. Water trickled from her mouth. Then she coughed. A small thing but it meant she was returning to the land of the living. Just. He kept on pressing. A big cough. Then she vomited seawater and he knew she would live.

Standing next to him, the Boss said, “If I were a praying man, I would be praying.”

“Then become one,” Chad said abruptly. “Pray, for fuck's sake. Just pray she doesn't die.”

“Not at my party,” the Boss said. “I wouldn't allow it.”

Shooting him a disbelieving look, Chad saw from his expression the Boss meant it.

Over his shoulder he saw Mirabella, a hand clutched to her throat, a look of horror on her face.

“Tell me she'll be alright,” Mirabella begged.

He rolled back Verity's eyelids, noted the dilated pupils, knew she had been drugged. He recalled how she'd appeared drunk at the party, how she'd stumbled as she walked into the house, after which nobody had seen her again. Until now, unconscious in the incoming tide with the waves breaking over her.

“I have to get her to the hospital.” He reached into his pocket for his mobile, to call them. “I'll drive her there myself, it'll be quicker than waiting for an ambulance.”

“Wait.” The Boss held up a hand, palm out, to stop him. “We'll use my helicopter. I'll call the pilot now. He can be here in five minutes.”

Chad nodded. It was pretty amazing that not only had the Boss rescued the half-drowned girl from the sea, now he was about to save her life a second time, by helicopter. It seemed there was nothing the Boss could not do.

The Boss stared down at the immobile girl, then suddenly covered his eyes with his hands. “Oh God,” he murmured. “How could this happen? At my party? What will my guests think?”

He turned to the Colonel who was also on his phone. “You have to find the culprit. Somebody did this to her, put drugs in her drink the way I've heard men do in cheap bars. There's something they use to make young women unaware of their actions, then they take them home and rape them. I can't have someone doing things like that, here, in my home.”

Though the Boss did not actually say it, looking at him, larger than life and twice as rich, the Colonel half-expected expected him to say, “Do you know who I am?”

“You have to find the culprit,” the Boss stormed on. He was pacing now, hands clenched. Tension radiated from him. The Colonel respected his concern, his need to do something to help the young woman lying on the beach, more dead than alive. Chad was still pounding on her back. He turned her over, and gave her the kiss of life. The Colonel did not think it was going to work. How had this happened? What was she doing in the sea? Even drunk, even drugged, surely she would have recognize the difference between walking on sand and struggling through waves. It did not make sense.

“We're not after a ‘culprit,' sir,” he said to the Boss, who turned to look at him, eyes wide with anger. And with something else. The Colonel wondered if it could it be fear. “This was no accident,” he said. “What we'll be looking for is a would-be killer.”

The Boss stared back at him, silenced.

Chad attempted to lift the girl, intending to carry her to dry land and the Boss seemed to return to his senses. “No. Wait. I have a stretcher.”

They watched as he hurried back into the bunker. Chad checked Verity's pulse again. Mirabella sank onto the sand next to him.

“I promise I won't cry,” she said, despite the fact that tears were already running down her cheeks, along with a great deal of blue-black mascara. “Oh, dear God, please, please, Doctor, save her.”

“I'm afraid I've done all I can here.”

The Boss came back from his bunker with a folded lightweight stretcher. Chad glanced at him, surprised. It was not exactly the kind of thing you kept handy. In fact he did not know anyone who had a stretcher in their home. Two burly men accompanied the Boss. Now they helped move Verity onto the stretcher and carried her to the helicopter landing pad. In minutes the six-seater Beechcraft Bonanza G36 clattered overhead. The Boss was as good as his word.

In the stretcher Verity was lifted inside and placed across the seats. Chad and the Boss climbed in behind. The two men sat in back of them.

In less than ten minutes they were at the local hospital. The Boss was already on his mobile, speaking in French. Astonished, Chad realized he was talking to the party organizers, telling them to keep the party going, ordering up more wine, more champagne, more food, louder music.

“Let them dance,” Chad heard him bark in his giving-orders voice. Chad bet they would dance. They would not dare not to.

 

35

The Russian

The Russian found the pearls right where Mirabella had dropped them. He scooped them up, on the run, shoved them in his pocket, and kept on going until he reached the lane and his car parked beneath an overhanging tree, which conveniently hid it from passing traffic.

He threw the door of the Renault open so hard it crashed back on itself with a loud smack of metal on metal. Jesus. It sounded like a road accident. Anybody might show up now. He had the ignition turning almost before he sat down. He switched off the headlights, tense, waiting, eyes and ears straining in the darkness. No sound of following footsteps, no shouts, only the music still coming from the Boss's party, which he knew would go on until morning, when a breakfast of bacon and eggs, sausages and pancakes was to be served. God, he could use that breakfast right now, his stomach was rumbling with nerves and hunger, plus a couple too many drinks.

The Boss's rule was no drinks on the job, but fuck it, a man had to live. If caught though, a man might also die. He should know. Often enough he'd been the man who'd done that job. That's what happened to his pal, another Russian who'd done work for the Boss. Drank and opened his mouth, until he'd shut it for him. Forever. Which is why he was about to take the Boss for a hefty chunk of money. Blackmail. Dollars in his pocket, or at least in his bank account. Maybe open a new account in Switzerland, a secret one with only a code to identify it. You didn't know the code, you didn't get access. The Swiss were good at things like that.

Only trouble was, he had missed again. Missed killing Mirabella, who he knew the Boss needed dead so he could get his hands on her land, and also that little painting, on which it seemed he'd set his heart. Who would have known the Boss even had a heart? Ah, perhaps he was just an art lover. Anyway he'd missed doing the deed, simply because the fuckin' doctor had shown up at the crucial moment. Fuckin' nearly gotten himself caught, had to slide out from behind those curtains, off into the night like a fox, well, maybe a wolf was a better description. Yeah, he liked wolf. Fanged, fierce, fearless. That was him alright.

Okay, so now he was out on the lane, dodging the young parking attendants in their red jackets running back and forth as though their lives depended on getting cars in the right spot and returning them fast for the no-doubt lavish tips. He knew all about that, he'd been there, done that, once upon a time, as he'd also been the waiter, a role he'd played again tonight. The white apron was stuffed in the backseat, along with the bow tie, an item he considered a symbol of servitude. He was no waiter, not anymore he wasn't. He'd played that role many times in his life for real. Not like now. Now it was for big money and he was off to collect it. The Boss had better be ready for him. Plus, he'd sell him the pearls. He was sure he'd want to give them back to Mirabella.

At the beach, the lights were still on everywhere. Police dogs were sniffing every bush and sand dune. The Villa Mara was lit like a friggin' birthday cake. Music still wafted into the night, people still stood around with drinks clutched in their hands, heads together, talking urgently. Wait a minute, wasn't that the Boss himself? Running down the sandy path leading to his bunker? And wait again, wasn't that Chad Prescott sneaking along behind him? Well now, that was good news. With Chad Prescott otherwise engaged, it meant Mirabella would be alone. Perhaps now he could get the deed done; kill two birds with one stone, so to speak—Mirabella for money and the string of pearls for more money. This was going to be his night. After this he could retire.

He got back in the car and reversed along the lane, waving a disparaging hand at the parking guys that got in his way and who shouted at him, like he had no right to be there. Fuck them. This was his turf.

Of course he knew the Villa Romantica. He'd done his research when the Boss had first given him the job of eliminating Aunt Jolly. Nice old woman. He had taken her by surprise and she had surprised him. Calm, she was, and in control.

“Well, now, good evening,” she had said to him when he'd appeared in her room out of the blue. Not smiling, mind you, but looking him straight in the eye. She'd glanced back to the teapot she held in her hand. He knew from the pattern it was Wedgwood. Old and valuable too, he'd bet, though there wasn't much of a market for goods of that nature. Not worth pinching.

“I was just about to have a cup of tea,” she continued. “I hope you'll consider joining me?”

It had thrown him completely, of course. She was supposed to panic, call out for help, even run. Old though she was he'd bet she could still run. As he watched, speechless, she took a second cup and began to fill it.

“I trust you like Earl Grey. It's my favorite, a bit lemony tasting, y'know. Refreshing,” she added, with an upward glance and a smile as she offered him the cup and saucer. He noticed her hand did not so much as tremble.

He had enough sense not to accept it. Even though he was wearing gloves, the less he touched the fewer clues left behind.

“To answer an old woman would be polite,” she said, putting down the cup. “Of course you'd have to take off that ridiculous mask,” she added with a tinkling little laugh that annoyed the hell out of him suddenly. “Impossible to drink in one of those, I know from ski trips I made with my niece, Mirabella. I'm assuming you know of whom I speak?”

His confidence was being quickly eroded. She was treating him like a fuckin' visitor, not a masked man with a knife in his hand and eyes that glared malevolently at her. Didn't this woman understand she was about to be murdered? He'd never been in a situation like this before. It had always been get in, do the act, get out fast. Now she was offering him cups of tea for God's sake.

She turned her back to put down the teapot, and at that moment he had her. The knife slid between her old bones to the heart. He knew his anatomy. Had to, a man with his job.

She remained standing for what seemed to him an eternity, then crumpled to the floor, as though her bones simply withered and gave way. A woman like that, an old woman, it had been her strength of purpose, of character, of dignity and position that had kept her upright. Until she was dead, that is.

For the first time the Russian felt what might have been a pang of remorse. He wasn't meant to be killing old ladies. He was a wolf: fierce, feral, a street fighter.

He stared for a long moment. The urge to kneel next to her, to take her hand was almost overwhelming. In the end he simply said, “I'm sorry, ma'am.” Then turned his back, left the way he'd come in, through the open french windows.

When, he wondered, would people ever learn that an open french window was an open invitation to men like him? Too late now. What was done, was done. He would go immediately and collect his king's ransom from the Boss. Plus the bonus he would demand. All remorse aside now, he considered it a job well done.

He suddenly realized there was only one problem. He'd left without the painting, which was an equal part of his commission. He glanced in the rearview mirror. People everywhere. Christ, too late to go back. He'd just have to bluff it out with the Boss. Claim there was no painting. It was already gone.

 

Part III

Jerusha and the Past

 

The Beginning

Mirabella

I spent days sitting at Verity's bedside, at first simply staring at her, sleeping or in a coma, or perhaps something worse. I was afraid for her, afraid for myself. I could not stand it and finally I succumbed and took along Jerusha's letter to read. What could be better than going back to the past to take my mind off the present day?

It began simply enough with Jerusha saying no one could imagine the love with which she'd built the Villa Romantica.