Double Indemnity (24 page)

“And then you killed her.”

“I could not leave her alive.”

“If something
is
here, and we don't find it, Walker and his people will.” Petersen's voice trembled, and Sam despised him even more. He had always been a bully and a coward, but never more so than now, when he was afraid of being caught for his complicity in the worst crime imaginable.

“Do not worry about Walker. He is finished.” The hit man was more certain.

Everything from the night after Patricia's death flooded back, especially the look on Petersen's face in the jail. Sam had interpreted his sickness at the time, perhaps benevolently, as distress over what he'd seen on the bridge. But then at the bar, Petersen had flipped when Sam asked if Patricia said anything to him before she jumped. Not because he was actually worried about Sam writing a blog post about it, but because she
had
said something. Something that had scared Petersen enough to make him lose his dinner. Something that had scared him enough to send him out on a stormy night to find whatever it was. Emma's evidence was somewhere in the house. Perhaps.

But if what the hit man said was true, this particular evidence would not only incriminate them, it would help Nathan—maybe even exonerate him. A desperate hope rose in Sam's chest until curses and crashing from the other room derailed his train of thought.

If Sam hadn't been tied to a chair and in fear for his life, he might have laughed. He'd always known Petersen was an idiot, but the hit man, twisted and murderous as he was, had proven himself just as bumbling. They were quite the pair, with hardly enough brains between them to realize they'd given away key evidence in close vicinity of a witness. As far as they were concerned, Sam wouldn't be a problem for long. But still. Sam had no idea how they'd explain away the disaster they'd made of Nathan's house.

“The chief will have my head for this,” said Petersen mournfully. “I'm as good as dead.”

“He is not the only one you should worry about, friend. We had a sweet deal going here until you had to ruin everything.”

“Me? It's not my fault!”

They began bickering like an old married couple, but Sam couldn't make out any more accusations in the rising cadence of their angry words. Besides, he'd heard what he needed to.

Sheldon had been involved all along. The confession he had played Sam must have been a fabrication. The hit man was a willing murderer, not a helpless victim of Nathan's manipulation. And Emma had been killed because she had evidence about Feldman's death, evidence linking the men in this house—and likely Sheldon—to the crime.

The man who'd looked out for him, who'd known and loved his father…. How could that be possible?

Sam blinked back angry tears as he struggled against the ropes incapacitating his hands. He only succeeded in cutting his wrists with the sharp, strong nylon. His ankles were crossed and tied to the back of the chair, and the contraption looped around his wrists so he couldn't move his feet without pulling on his hands. The more he moved, the tighter it seemed to get, cutting off the circulation until it didn't even hurt anymore. Finally he gave up and relaxed against his bonds, panting.

More crashing came from the other room, and an impotent rage bubbled in Sam's throat. They were destroying Nathan's things. Emma's things.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” the hit man said. “This is not doing any good.”

“What are we going to do about
him
?” Petersen asked in a harsh whisper.

“We kill him, of course.”

“But his truck. He could have told anyone he was coming. They'll be looking for him.”

“I will take care of it. No one will come until after the storm. And by then… well, it is very possible that he had an accident driving in the snow, yes?”

Sam's heart stopped. They were going to kill him and make it look like a car accident, but they were too dumb to recognize the irony.

Heavy footsteps heading in the direction of the dining room only seconds later gave him little time to react. Pretending to be unconscious wouldn't make any difference at this point, but his head kept lolling to the side anyway. He was so sleepy.

“Wake up.” Petersen smacked him across the face. Sam groaned as blood filled his mouth. He spat and blinked at the figures towering over him. “It's time to go.”

 

“G
O
WHERE
?”
Sam's tongue felt heavy, thick in his mouth. “I was just starting to get comfortable.”

Another smack, this one right under his eye. Burning pain blossomed and radiated out from the point of impact, and Sam saw stars.

“You keep your smart mouth shut.” Sam grimaced as Petersen cut the bonds around his ankles. The hit man pointed his gun in Sam's direction, and Sam had the distinct impression he might have peed his pants. Neither made any move to untie his hands, though, and his arms remained trapped behind his back.

“Stand up,” the hit man demanded.

“I can't.”

With a brutal shove to his shoulder, Sam lurched out of the chair, only stopped from face-planting by Petersen, who grabbed him by the back of his jacket. Sam stumbled to regain his balance, even as his mind scrambled for something—anything.

“Walk.”

“Wait a second. I know where the evidence is.” Sam started to sweat under the weight of his coat and the glare of the two men. It was a last-ditch attempt, but even so, he had to take the risk. He had nothing to lose.

The hit man scowled. “What do you mean, you know?”

“I was the last one to talk to Emma. She told me she'd hidden it in the house… in the attic.”

The hit man looked to Petersen. “Is that true?”

“It's true he was the last one to talk to her.”

“There is nothing in the attic,” the hit man said. “I looked myself.”

Sam shook his head. “Because Nathan packed everything up. She said she'd hidden it in… an antique clock.” Yeah, pulled that one out of his ass.

The hit man didn't seem convinced. “Why would you not come look for it sooner?”

“Because I was scared. I thought I'd be killed.”

It seemed feasible enough. Maybe. Sam hoped the two of them were desperate enough to believe.

Petersen looked at him with disgust. “That night at the bar when you came and talked to me, I should have known you were up to something, asking me what the Feldman bitch said. You and Emma, always so buddy-buddy. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Sam tried not to show his fear. He wouldn't give Petersen the satisfaction. How he resisted spitting in the man's face, he had no idea. “If you kill me now, you'll never find it. I'm the only one who knows.”

The hit man seemed to be losing his patience. “I think you are only saying this to us because you're going to try something funny, like escaping. Yes? You find this clock, we'll let you die quickly. Not like your friend, Emma. She did not like to cooperate, you see, so I took my time.”

If Sam had use of his hands, he probably would have done something stupid, like lunge at the guy. “Who hired you?”

A smirk. “You think I am a stupid man?”

Sam's vision swam and his gorge rose again. It all made such twisted sense. This scumbag had murdered Emma. When Petersen and McCormick found her, they had the chance to clean up or destroy any relevant evidence. Maybe they even helped. No wonder it had been such an open and shut investigation, a case of home burglary gone wrong—until Nathan started poking around, making himself a target in the process. Unless Sam had it all wrong and Nathan really was involved. Maybe they'd all been working together until Sheldon decided Nathan should take the fall.

“I can't help you with my hands tied,” Sam said, injecting a bit of real desperation into his voice. He didn't need to act scared shitless. “Let me go, and I'll find it, I swear.”

Petersen and the hit man exchanged a glance and seemed to agree. The next thing Sam knew, he'd been cut free. Feeling gradually started to return to his hands and feet with pinpricking needles. Wincing, he massaged his wrists where the flesh had been rubbed raw.

Now the hit man spoke up. His accent seemed to get thicker the angrier he got. “Remember what I said. No funny business.”

Sam knew he was living on borrowed time, but at least he had reason to hope Nathan was innocent after all. It shouldn't have been comforting, but it was.

The hit man pushed him forward. Sam stumbled, aware of the gun pointed straight at his back as he entered the chaotic living room. The assholes had upended all of the boxes Nathan had packed, strewing their contents everywhere—household items, clothes, pictures with broken frames. Sam tried to look purposeful. He nudged a broken vase with his foot before kneeling down. The movement made him dizzy. Behind him, Petersen and the hit man argued with each other, making it impossible to concentrate.

He had no idea what time it was. Rachel would worry if he was late for dinner, but he wasn't sure she would call the police. God, he hoped not. His only chance of escape was to distract them long enough to head for the door… and then what? From the sound of the wind howling, the snowstorm had only worsened along with the shitstorm in the house.

Sam remembered his truck was in the driveway, and the other two had likely parked on the back orchard road and come on foot. If he could get to his truck and start it without getting shot, he'd probably be okay. But that was a big “if.” His only hope lay in distraction.

“You don't know where nothing is,” said the hit man to Sam. Another blow shattered his concentration and sent him crashing to the floor. Something wet and warm ran down the side of his face. “We were stupid to listen to you. Richard, get him up.”

Sam clung to the stapler he'd found in a dismembered box of office items. He tried to think, but his head was throbbing, turning his brain to marshmallow.

And that's when he noticed the orchids.

All of them had been ripped out of their pots. They lay scattered throughout the other debris, their fibrous roots exposed and torn. The porous soil darkened the carpet. He picked up one broken stem and tried to focus on it. Emma's beloved plants had been completely ruined, and for nothing.

Or had they?

The orchid he'd given to Lisa, Emma's favorite. It was a complete long shot, but could that orchid have a hidden secret?

Don't overwater the soil.

The hit man's eyes were keen. He nudged Sam with his boot.

“You have seen something? What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Another strike, this time to his temple. Blood pounded in Sam's ears, and pain bloomed and clouded his thoughts, blotting out everything else. He dropped the plant. His vision swam, and his shoulder protested in agony as the hit man yanked him to his feet. Sam dropped the stapler when Petersen twisted his hands back behind him and tied them again. The barrel of the gun dug into his spine. He closed his eyes and waited for whatever pain would come next. He hoped against hope death would be swift and that someone would take care of his brother.

“Shit.” Petersen cursed. Sam's eyes flew open at the word. “Get down.”

Sam thought he might be hallucinating. Lights beyond the house appeared first, and then he heard men yelling. Someone flipped him unceremoniously onto his back and onto his bound wrists. His wounds screamed in protest. He tried to push himself upright but only managed to flip onto his belly and wriggle like an inchworm away from the fray. He couldn't lift his head. The air got cold as the storm burst into the room.

There were men in SWAT gear, and Sam dimly recognized one of them. Or he thought he did. His head hurt.

More yelling. Guns fired and someone fell down next to him. There was a ragged hole in the guy's skull, and blood and brain matter spattered out of the oozing wound and onto the carpet. Rich Petersen was dead.

Sam vomited before he lost consciousness.

Someone touched his head, right near the place where it hurt. It didn't feel good, but he liked it anyway. The touch was nice. Gentle. He opened his eyes.

“Jesus, Sam.” It was Nathan. “Thank God you're alive.”

“Nathan?” He tried to make his mouth say something else but the words didn't come. Nathan wore a dark blue jacket with the words “FBI” written across the chest in big white letters. He had on a woolen winter hat. Behind him, people were moving and doing things, but Sam didn't care. He blinked slowly. The vision didn't go away. Nathan was here and not in jail. He had Sam's head in his lap, and he looked worried.

“Can you hear me?”

Sam nodded, but it hurt.

“You're okay, but you have a nasty laceration to the scalp, which is why it's bleeding so much. I'm pretty sure you have a concussion too, which is why it's so hard to keep your eyes open. I'm going to have to ask you to stay awake, okay? No matter how much you might want to sleep. Can you do that for me?” Sam nodded again. His feet were cold as icicles.