Let Darkness Come (31 page)

Briley stares at the faces around the table, her emotions bobbing and spinning like a toy boat caught in a flash flood. How can William sit here and make small talk if he's betraying her? She searches for some logical reason why he might receive a call from Antonio Tomassi, but she comes up blank. Why would William betray her? Maybe for money. Or maybe the partners have asked him to be a silent link between Briley and one of their favored clients.

Ordinarily Tomassi would consult one of the partners about his business, but the partners have maintained a careful distance from this case. They've done nothing to directly involve themselves, but they've only allowed Briley to have help from a paralegal and a librarian…and with William, they've covered their tracks. If he's ever questioned about his involvement with the case, Wills could truthfully say that he attended the trial on personal time and merely provided assistance to a friend.

While Timothy and Kate study their menus, William clears his throat. “So, Briley—what's our strategy for the closing argument?”

She lowers her gaze. Are her next words about to be repeated to Antonio Tomassi or Travis Bystrowski? She can't imagine the straitlaced prosecutor being involved in an unethical situation, but one never knows what a person might do when he's under pressure. And Antonio Tomassi is capable of applying extreme pressure.

“Let's not talk business.” She picks up her menu. “Let's try not to think about tomorrow morning. I think we've got this case wrapped up.”

She props her chin in her hand and pretends to debate the
choice between enchiladas and empanadas. After a moment, William drops his menu to the table. “I just remembered…” He gives Kate an apologetic look. “I've got this thing I need to take care of. I'd better run.”

Briley hopes he doesn't notice the frayed edges of her parting smile. “We'll see you tomorrow.”

He says goodbye to the others, grabs his coat, and heads for the door. Briley peers over her shoulder and watches him take his phone out and punch in a number.

He's calling Tomassi
.

Certainty settles in her bones like a bad chill. So he's calling Tomassi, so what? What does that mean?

She looks at the others. “Let me run a hypothetical situation by you,” she says. “Suppose you were a rich and powerful man. Suppose you were dead set on seeing justice done when your son is killed. Let's also suppose that as the trial winds down, new evidence arrives, evidence that convinces you the defendant—the person you believe responsible for your child's death—is going to walk.”

“I'll play.” Timothy props his folded arms on the table. “How rich am I?”

Kate dips a chip in the salsa bowl. “Do you know something we don't know?”

“Maybe I'm just trying to cover my bases,” Briley answers. She looks at Timothy. “And you're rich enough that no one ever tells you
no
.”

Timothy doesn't hesitate. “If I were that rich, I'd send henchmen to make sure the acquitted defendant didn't walk far.”

“Henchmen?” Kate makes a face. “Are you talking about hired killers?”

Timothy's mouth pulls into a rueful smile. “Don't laugh, Ms. Skeptical. I've met lots of people who will do anything to be aligned with the rich and powerful.”

Kate gasps. “Like…hire someone to assault a defense attorney?”

Timothy looks at Briley, his brown eyes sparking. “You were assaulted?”

“I'm fine.” She holds his gaze. “Do you think Antonio Tomassi is the type to hire a henchman?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That settles it.” She reaches for her purse, then groans. “Kate, are you sure you don't have your phone?”

“Positive.”

“Timothy?”

“Any time, Bri.” He takes his phone from his pocket and hands it over.

“Who's she calling?” Kate perks up. “What's going on?”

Ignoring her, Briley dials directory assistance, then asks for the Cook County Jail. “Make that the sheriff's office,” she asks. “Or Security.”

A moment later, the operator is connecting her to the sheriff's office. While the phone rings, Timothy nudges her shoulder. “You anticipating a crisis?”

She holds up her hand when a man answers and identifies himself as Deputy Mackenzie. “Please,” she says, her desperation growing by the minute. “I'm calling about an inmate, Erin Tomassi. I have good reason to believe you need to take her into protective custody.”

The deputy laughs. “If the woman's in jail, ma'am, she's
in
protective custody.”

Briley bites her lip. The deputy might have a point, but then again…Timothy's words replay in her memory:
Lots of people will do anything to be aligned with the rich and powerful
.

“I need—” she gulps back her fear “—to speak to the sheriff.”

“He's unavailable.”

“Then…the head of security at the jail.”

“Which division?”

“Four. Division Four.”

“Just a minute, I'll put you through.”

Briley waits, anxiety swelling in her chest, as recorded
music fills her ear. At her right, a waitress comes over and smiles at Timothy, then proceeds to take his order. The canned music stops. “Hello?” When no one answers, Briley looks at Kate and raises her voice. “Hel-
lo?
”

Every eye within a ten-foot radius swivels in her direction. “The line's dead.” She lifts the phone to search for a signal. “I need a better connection.”

“Hey, lady,” a man calls from another table. “Leave the phone at home or take it outside.”

Timothy looks at her, his eyes sharp and assessing. “You wanna go?”

“I do.” Briley grabs her coat and scoots out of the booth, still clutching the phone. Maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe her imagination is in overdrive and Antonio Tomassi couldn't care less about what happens to her client.

But as she strides toward the door, the frigid breath of foreboding chills her heart.

E
rin's eyes fly open when a hand touches her shoulder. “Hey, Sleepin' Beauty,” her cellmate says. “Somebody wants to see you.”

She sits up in her bunk and sees a guard standing outside her cell. Why is he here so late in the day? She blinks to focus her blurry vision. “What's wrong?”

“You're Erin Tomassi?”

“Yes.”

“You're wanted in the office. You need to come with me.”

Erin runs her hands through her hair and stands, smoothing the wrinkles out of her uniform. After spending the morning in court, she came back and slept through dinner, preferring to go hungry rather than face the bullies in the cafeteria. She's tired and her limbs feel like dead weight, but if Briley's here, maybe she's brought good news. Maybe the judge has decided that the trial was a mistake and she's free to go.

She steps toward the bars and waits as the guard unlocks the door.

“Hey, handsome,” her cellmate calls, “you taking me to the office, too? That place should be cleared out about now.”

“Get in line.” The burly man grins. “Wait your turn.”

Erin steps out of the cell and extends her arms, expecting the guard to slap cuffs on her wrists. When he doesn't, she shoots him a curious glance and resists the surge of hope that springs up in her heart. Could the charges have been dismissed?

That's when she notices the short club in his right hand.
The guards don't usually bring weapons into this hallway, so why is he carrying a club?

The hair on the back of her neck rises with premonition when he slams the cell door and gestures down the hall. “After you, sweetheart.”

Erin straightens her spine and walks down the hallway, keenly aware of the other inmates' taunts and curious gazes. The women in this cell block are a tough lot, having been strengthened and chiseled by bad men, bad mothers, and bad memories. During the thirteen weeks she's lived among them, she's learned to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open.

And never to turn her back on anyone.

Maybe that's why walking in front of this guard makes her nervous. His face is familiar and there are plenty of witnesses, but those spying eyes won't be able to see her once she steps through the doorway at the end of this hall.

“Go on, sweetheart,” the guard says. “Open the door, it's not locked.”

Erin obeys, the brass handle cold beneath her hands. They move into a stairwell, where a flight of steps leads to interview rooms on the floor above. But the guard points his snub-nosed club toward the stairs that lead to the basement.

“I thought you said—”

Without warning, he slams his stick onto her back, knocking her against the stair railing and stealing the breath from her lungs. She tries to shout, but she can barely summon enough air to breathe.

“Down.” He winds his free hand into the hair at the back of her head. “We're going for a little walk.”

With no choice, Erin staggers forward on legs that feel about as substantial as marshmallows. She grabs the railing and creeps downward, continually conscious of the brutal club at her back. When they finally reach the basement floor, the guard drags her forward, but she clings to the stair rail with both hands. She grips the iron rail, determined not to let go, but then the club crashes down on her fingers.

She tips her head back and releases a rattling cry that echoes in the cavern of the stairwell. Even as her scream flows over her lips, she knows no one will hear it. This place is closed off from the rest of the building, unheated and unattended. She is alone with this brute, and she has no idea what he has in mind.

Just as she never knew what Jeffrey had planned for her.

“Come on, darlin'.”

His tone is oily and taunting, like Jeffrey's. She feels a strange lurch of recognition at the sound, and then another voice fills her head:
Good grief, Erin, stop it. It's time you stood up for yourself
.

“Not again.”

Invigorated by pain and anger, Erin locks her arms around a vertical post, but the guard uses the club again, striking until she lets go. Then he loops an arm around her rib cage and drags her down the hallway, a limp, life-size doll. Through a haze of pain, she recognizes the door leading to the furnace room, but her tormentor keeps moving. He stops outside the entrance to the laundry.

He unlocks the door, the clink of his keys nearly drowning out the sound of her soft whimpering. As he drags her through the doorway, she tries to catch the edge of the door frame, but her battered fingers will not obey her commands. She hangs her head, gathering her strength, but the sound of a second male voice sends a wave of black terror sweeping through her.

“You sure that's the right woman?”

“What, don't ya think I can tell 'em apart? She's the one you want.” The guard releases his grip, dropping Erin to the concrete floor. She pushes herself up and shoves the hair out of her eyes. Two strangers stand before her, both wearing the white shirts, white pants, and white jackets of a laundry service. A back door stands open, allowing entrance to a whistling March wind.

Shivering, she stares at the men and tries to place them
in her memory. Their faces look familiar, but they could be anyone from workers at her local grocery store to employees of her father-in-law. “Thanks,” one of the men in white says. “We'll take care of things from here.”

The security guard grunts, takes a back step, and hesitates. “Give Mr. T my regards, okay?”

The man on the right folds his arms. “Yeah, sure. Now, get on back before someone notices you're gone.”

The guard walks away, his footsteps echoing over the concrete. The two uniformed men wait until the laundry-room door slams, then one of them kneels in front of Erin. “Seems a shame to do this to such a pretty little thing.”

“We got our orders,” the other one says, moving to a laundry tub. “Come on, let's get a move on. I want to get home before my fingers freeze off.”

The kneeling man pulls a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Erin closes her eyes, her throat tightening as Jeffrey's face plays on the back of her eyelids. “You don't think I can kill you?” he'd say, taking the duct tape from his drawer. “So easy. All I have to do is tie your arms and cover your mouth and nose with this….”

“Please,” Erin rasps as the man in white unwinds a length of the sticky gray material. “No.” She lifts her arms, ready to fight him off, but the second man expertly catches her wrists and holds them. Behind her, a pipe groans as water runs into a laundry tub. “You shouldn't do this,” she says, resisting the urge to panic. “They'll investigate, they'll figure it out.”

“I doubt it.” The man binds her wrists as calmly as he might wrap a sandwich. “The sheriff's department won't want to risk the bad press. It'll be a jailhouse accident, that's all.”

“But
why?
” Her voice breaks on the word. “I haven't done anything to you.”

“Doesn't matter. My boss—” He shakes his square head. “The boss says you gotta go.”

“Come on.” Tears slip down her cheeks. “You could let me go and tell him I escaped.”

“Afraid not.”

“Is he paying you? I could pay you, too. I'll pay more than he's offering—”

The man chuckles. “Lady, you don't get it. There's a lot more than money involved.”

“But I didn't kill his son!”

She waits, hoping, as a gleam of interest flashes in his eyes. “That's not what he says.”

“He's wrong. You have to believe me, he's wrong.”

“Shut up, lady.” The second man releases her wrists and moves away.

Erin looks directly into the eyes of the man in front of her. “I didn't kill anyone. But if you kill me, you'll regret it. You'll always remember this moment and wish you'd done the right thing….”

“Lady, I'm gonna sleep like a baby tonight.”

He can't actually mean to—

He stands, pulling her to her feet, but experience and adrenaline have prepared her for this moment. She jerks free, then turns and runs, her rubber-soled shoes slapping the concrete in sync with the pounding of her heart. She heads for the laundry door and realizes that it's locked, so she ducks behind a bank of silent industrial dryers. The low ceiling in this part of the room is webbed with ductwork, so she ducks and dodges, moving in blind panic until she runs headlong into a hot water pipe. Seeing stars, she buckles at the knees as if her bones had dissolved into ash.

“Come here, you hellcat.” The square-headed man has found her; his hands close on her wrists and drag her back into the light. She kicks at empty air, vainly struggling to defend herself, then four hands fasten on her shoulders and lift her upright, then four arms press her forward into…wetness.

The slap of frigid water sharpens her thoughts to a point of startling clarity. She has been shoved headfirst into a laundry tub. The rim of the tub cuts into her stomach while
the two brutes stand beside her, holding her under the bone-chilling water. In an instant woven of eternity, Erin realizes that no one is coming to save her, not husband, mother, father-in-law, or lawyer. She will never leave this jail, never again experience freedom.

Another voice echoes in her head as Lisa Marie screams, her voice ragged with fury: “Do something, you weak fool! We can't end like this!”

Grief and despair tear at Erin's heart as primal panic takes control of her body. She kicks and cries, the sound watery and muffled in her ears, but her hands are tied and her captors are as impassive as pillars. Is this how life ends? She should have learned how to resist…long before this.

Her last cry exits in a gurgle, bubbles brush past her nose, and consciousness flickers like a spent light bulb. Finally she surrenders to regret and the warm, encroaching darkness. Her pounding pulse slows, her peripheral vision narrows, and then she is floating through a tunnel, moving toward a light radiating warmth and love.

Her heart stops. Her regrets fade.

And she is not alone. As always, Lisa Marie is with her.