Eclipse (26 page)

Suddenly, she seemed replete with, fueled by, tension.

‘You have to shoot him, Toni,' Kate said. ‘You know it.'

‘I don't know that at all,' Toni said, though her grip on the weapon spoke otherwise.

‘No,' Sam said quietly. ‘You don't, Toni. What you do have to do is show me where Billie is, and then you have to let her go. You have to do the right thing now, both of you, before it's too late.'

It was not enough, and he knew it.

Knew it was going to take more than that.

Like a SWAT team, maybe.

‘Shoot him, Toni,' Kate Petit said again.

And Toni raised the gun.

‘I've been so scared,' Felicia said to Grace.

Grace looked at the tear-stained face, at the dark, wounded eyes, always hidden away from the world because of a lifetime's fears of a different kind.

‘Of course you have,' she said. ‘How could you not be?'

‘But what I've done is so bad.' Felicia reached up for her glasses, was about to put them on, then changed her mind, gripped them instead, took a deep breath. ‘Not talking all this time, after what happened to my mom, and I knew I should tell, I
knew
it, but I just couldn't seem to do it.'

‘And now?' Grace said, very gently. ‘Do you think you can tell me?'

‘I have to,' Felicia said. ‘Except maybe it's too late already, and maybe they've already done it again to someone else.'

Grace heard the word, needed to be clear.

‘They?' she asked, a chill running down her spine.

‘I saw them,' Felicia said.

‘Hey,' Martinez said.

Seeing the man now.

Seeing the window open at the back of the house.

The guy was climbing in, one leg already inside.

Thomas Chauvin.

Martinez trod silently up behind him, stuck the Glock right up against his back. ‘What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?' he hissed in his ear. ‘Get your butt out here right now.'

‘I think Sam might be in trouble,' Chauvin whispered, still astride the ledge.

‘You want to get out here,' Martinez said, ‘and tell me why the fuck you think that.'

‘I was watching when he went inside. Something didn't feel right to me.'

‘I told you to get out here' – Martinez relocated the handgun to the other man's thigh – ‘before I put a bullet through your leg.'

‘I don't believe you,' Thomas Chauvin said.

And slid the other leg over.

Into the house.

‘Sonofabitch,' Martinez said.

His cell phone vibrated.

‘Shit,' he said, and slammed it into complete silence.

And then, swearing under his breath, he followed Chauvin over the window sill and into the house.

‘Two women,' Felicia said.

The chill inside Grace turned to sickness.

Her conflict beginning, an almost painful tearing, because she was here as this child's psychologist, but Sam and all the other investigators were out there struggling to find this killer – and she had just learned more than any of them knew.

Nothing she could do about that now.

Not yet.

Just be here for this teenager, just listen.

‘We had a fight,' Felicia said again, and stopped.

Not the prelude to another shutdown, Grace felt; rather that the girl was waiting for recrimination to rain down on her. Because she had fought with her mother on the last day of her life.

Felicia's eyes flicked to Grace's face, found no censure there, but could not hold her gaze.

Her hands played with the sunglasses. But she did not put them on.

‘It was one of those dumb arguments,' she went on at last. ‘And I was being a brat. Worse, I was being a bitch, and all it was about . . .'

Grace waited a few seconds.

‘What was it about?' she asked, quietly. ‘Can you tell me?'

‘Maple syrup.' Tears welled up again, but she went on. ‘Can you believe that? I wanted French toast with maple syrup, but there wasn't any, and Mama said why didn't I have cinnamon toast instead, but I said I wanted . . .'

She had to stop to weep again, and Grace passed her tissues and resisted her impulse to embrace and comfort, just laid a hand on her upper arm for a moment to connect, and Felicia did not shake her off, just cried for another moment, then blew her nose hard, angrily.

‘I said I
had
to have French toast, and why couldn't she be like other, normal moms who made sure they had the things their kids liked? And Mama said she was sorry, and she would get some later, and I said that was going to be too damned late – only I didn't say “damned”, did I? I said something much worse – to my
mother
, who was going to
die
, who was about to be . . .'

‘It's OK,' Grace told her.

‘It's
not
OK,' Felicia said. ‘Oh, God, it's not OK, and it's never going to be.'

And the tears came again.

‘What was that?'

Kate's head turned toward the hallway, her chin jutting as she listened intently.

Still sitting on the sofa's armrest, Toni on the seat beside her.

The Colt still leveled at Sam.

A figure appeared in the doorway.

Sometimes – the thought struck Sam in that microsecond – it really was hard to believe your eyes.

‘Drop it,' Thomas Chauvin said.

And all hell broke loose.

Kate grabbed the gun from Toni.

Did it fast, in one smooth motion, so that it was still pointed at Sam, and there was nothing he could have safely done to disarm her.

‘I knew you wouldn't do it,' she said. ‘Call yourself a fucking sister.'

‘Kate, don't,' Toni said.

She stood up, reached for the gun, but Kate stepped sideways, eluded her.

‘I said
drop
it,' Chauvin said.

And hurled himself at Kate Petit.

Who pulled the trigger.

Joe Duval's black Dodge Magnum had just come to a halt about fifty yards along from Sam Becket's Saab when he heard it.

Unmistakable.

He grabbed his phone, punched in 911, identified himself and his location to the Broward Sheriff's dispatch for Hallandale PD and reported hearing a single gunshot.

‘Officer inside,' he said. ‘Request backup. One woman suspect believed to be inside, possibly more, and possibility of a female African-American hostage. Police officer also African-American, six-three, MBPD Detective Samuel Becket.'

Duval got out of the car, closed the door quietly, popped the trunk, pulled out his black bullet-proof vest and suddenly noted the Chevy Impala parked a little way along the road.

‘Possible second MBPD inside, Detective Martinez, five-ten, Cuban-American. Note, both officers may be armed, so attending should ID themselves immediately. Request 10-40, no lights, no sirens. I'm Caucasian, five-ten, armed, wearing bullet-proof vest, and I'm going inside. 10-4.'

‘No!' Toni screamed. ‘Kate,
no
!'

‘I'm OK.' Kate Petit scrambled to her feet, hands shaking but still gripping the pistol.

‘Chauvin?' Sam addressed the man on the floor. ‘You OK?'

‘I'm shot.' Thomas Chauvin lay on the rug and groaned, clutched his bloodied left arm. ‘She
shot
me.'

‘Who the fuck is this joker?' Kate demanded.

‘I don't know,' Toni said. ‘Kate, I'm begging you—'

‘Shut up, sis,' Kate said.

Sam stared at the gun, knew he was back in her sights, any chance of jumping her gone again, thanks to Chauvin.

He heard the soft creak of a floorboard
just
before a new voice rang out.

Oh, so familiar, and oh, so welcome.

‘Like the man said, drop the fucking gun.'

Martinez stood in that doorway now, his Glock pointed center mass at Kate Petit.

Who turned her face briefly toward the newcomer, gave a strange, twisted smile. And then looked back at Sam.

Leveled the Colt.

With another scream, Toni Petit threw herself at her sister, wrenched the gun out of her hands and backed into a corner, weapon still aimed at Sam.

‘That's good, sis,' Kate said, panting. ‘That's more like it.'

‘No.' Toni was parchment pale, bright tears in her eyes. ‘Not this time, Kate. I can't let this go on anymore.' She took a breath, and a deep, gut-wrenching sob came with it. ‘I'm so
sorry
.'

She moved.

Hardly more than a pivot.

Sam saw her trigger finger moving.

‘Jesus,
no
!' he yelled and tackled her.

He felt the force of the gunshot, his ears deafened.

Kate Petit was beside him on the floor, blood pumping from her temple.

‘I'm so sorry,' he heard Toni say again, very softly.

Sam stared up at her, saw the Colt turning, its black muzzle travelling swiftly up to her own forehead. He lifted off the floor, slammed into her, grabbed the gun, and Martinez pounced, pinioned her arms behind her.

‘Jesus, man,' Martinez said, cuffing her.

A crash jolted the room, the front door being smashed open.

Special Agent Joe Duval entered, moving into the living room in tactical combat fighting stance, low, his personal use Glock 27 in both hands, as ready as he could be for whatever was waiting for him.

‘Good to see you.' Sam's heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

Duval took in the scene, registered enough to straighten up. ‘You guys OK?'

‘We're good,' Martinez said.

‘
Please
.' Toni Petit's voice was despairing, her eyes tormented, fixed on Sam. ‘Please shoot me, Sam.'

Sam took a breath, his pulse calming. ‘No can do,' he told her.

‘Oh, God.' Toni's whole body was trembling. ‘Oh, God, if you won't do it, please let me.' Still the appeal to him. ‘I shot my sister. I just want to die.'

‘Got a few questions to answer first,' Sam told her.

He knelt back down beside Kate, checked her pulse, shook his head, then carefully removed her dark glasses.

She had closed both her eyes while dying, but there was an old, ugly scar running from her left eyebrow down to just above her cheekbone.

The pitchfork's legacy, he supposed, as Toni began weeping.

‘Backup on the way,' Duval said. ‘Anyone care to fill me in?'

Still on the rug, just feet away from the dead woman, Thomas Chauvin groaned again. Sam moved over to him, crouched, took a look at his arm, his touch not especially gentle. ‘You'll live, and you're damned lucky.'

‘I saved your life,' the Frenchman said, hurt.

‘What did you think you were doing?' Sam said. ‘Playing some fucking fantasy game? You're a jerk, Chauvin.'

‘You don't know the half of it,' Martinez said, and then, still holding on to Toni Petit, he started to call it in.

Sam straightened up, looked at Toni.

‘Where's Billie?' he asked.

‘So can you tell me what happened?' Grace asked.

Going as gently as she could.

‘I stormed out of the house,' Felicia said. ‘Said I was going out for breakfast before school, and my mom said she'd take me, but she wasn't dressed so I told her not to bother. I grabbed my bag and opened the front door, and she said I needed a ride, and I knew she was trying to be patient, I knew she didn't want to fight, but I didn't care, did I? I was too busy being a spoiled brat nightmare kid. So I left, and I slammed that door as hard as I could.'

Grace could almost hear its reverberation, could see the ravages of its repercussions in Felicia's face. A commonplace argument now forever elevated to something that had to feel like the worst sin she could have committed against her mother.

It had to be unbearable.

‘She was right, of course,' Felicia went on. ‘I did need a ride, because it was a long walk, but I was going to have my French toast if it killed me.'

She stopped short, that word hanging in the air.

‘Go on,' Grace said, after a moment.

‘I got my breakfast,' Felicia said, very softly, ‘in a place on 71st, and I looked at it on my plate and knew I couldn't eat it, but I sat there anyway, feeling sorry for myself, the way I often do – and I know I do that, Doctor Lucca, same way I know how weird I am about my . . .'

Hands shaking, she finally put her sunglasses back on. Her mask back in place. Yet Grace was grateful to have been trusted this much by this poor, suffering child, and at least Felicia had not yet told her to leave.

Almost a minute passed in silence, and Grace sat calmly, waiting.

‘Then I decided to go home,' Felicia said. ‘I didn't feel like going to school. I was going to be late, anyway, and have to explain myself, and I hated the way I'd left things with my mom, didn't want to have to wait for hours till I could make it up with her.'

It occurred to Grace to ask Felicia how long she'd sat over that breakfast, because it was something Sam would want to know, but that kind of question might jar with Felicia, might turn her straight back into ‘wife of cop'.

Here and now, she was Grace Lucca, here for Felicia.

‘And if I'd gone straight back then, everything might still have been OK,' Felicia went on. ‘But there was a phone store near the café, and I was sick of my cell phone, so I went in there and mooched around for a while until I knew I was really ready to go back.'

Grace waited again.

‘I felt tired on the way,' Felicia said. ‘Hot and sick, too, my stomach all tied up in knots because I was going to have to back down, and I always hated saying sorry to my mom.' Her mouth trembled. ‘And now I'll never be able to say sorry to her again.'

She got up off the floor, her movements slow, weary.

Grace held her breath, afraid she was going to stop.

Almost as afraid that she would go on.

Felicia stepped sideways to the window.