A Rush to Violence (36 page)

That was nearly two months ago. The police released Camille as a suspect when Laura’s plot was exposed by the microphone Sam Ireland used to capture her conversation with her brother, Tyler. Instead of going back to Paris, Camille came here. She needed to get her head on straight. She needed solitude. She needed to be someplace remote and this was as remote as it got. She was able to avoid the press, the tabloids, television. She knew the murders had created a frenzy, but she didn’t have to listen to it or be part of it. As usual, nobody knew where she was.

For weeks, Sam called daily, but she never answered. What was the point? How could they move forward now? Eventually, the calls dwindled. They came a couple of times a week. Then once a week. Then he got the point and they stopped. She was surprised he kept at it as long as he did. Maybe he did love her. Or at least the memory of her.

Time passed. She thought of him and wondered what could have been. Then, she decided it didn’t matter.

She looked out at the ocean as the first drops of water started to fall from the sky. She looked at the lawn below her and at the dock that stretched out into the ocean. More than anything, she wanted to walk down that dock, plunge herself into the cold deep and sink to the bottom of it. She wanted to suck in that water, fill her lungs with it and be done with it.

But she wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t do that to her daughter’s memory. That was the easy way out. Her hell would be going forward without Emma, growing old without the chance to celebrate Emma’s marriage or the opportunity to have grandchildren to love and to spoil. It’s what she deserved. Camille believed in karma. This was hers. She created it herself when she went to Paris all those years ago and met an idealistic young man by the name of Sam Ireland, who possessed a set of beliefs that made sense to her.

She stubbed out the cigarette, stood and went into her bedroom. She closed the glass doors behind her and looked across the room to her bed, on which sat an open suitcase filled with clothes.

Tomorrow, she’d return to Paris. She had no idea what she’d do, but she knew she’d miss Maine. On whatever level, being here helped her, likely because it allowed her to think, but also because when she was growing up, her father often took her here. She remembered those days when it was just the two of them. They’d take a plane from New York to Bangor, rent a car and drive here for the weekend while the others stayed behind in New York. She savored those memories. They were good memories. He understood her in ways that most didn’t. He had every reason to judge her, but for some reason he didn’t. He just accepted her.

She looked at the suitcase and then checked the time. She had no interest in eating, but she had to eat. She’d make dinner. She’d figure out what to do with her life when she arrived in Paris.

* * *

NEW YORK

Even now, two months after the fact, Marty Spellman still saw things in his dreams that no one should see. Before Jennifer urged him to go to a doctor, each night, he watched his family being slaughtered.

He watched them get shot. He watched them get stabbed. He saw them being abducted. He saw them being beheaded. The men in the trees returned. As often as he shot them, they wouldn’t die. They just hung there. And when they were ready, they killed his family in front of him. Over and over again. The cycle spun out and it wouldn’t cease.

He dreaded sleep. He stayed up late to avoid it. He had a couple of drinks before he went to bed in hopes that he could nullify what was to come, but it didn’t. Eventually, he’d wake in a panic. Jennifer would try to calm him. The dreams grew increasingly intense to the point that for several weeks, he just shut down.

That’s when Jennifer intervened.

The doctor helped. Talking helped. Ambien helped. He was told he had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He believed it. He was in treatment for it.

Life went on.

And eventually, life got better.

* * *

Now, it was time to celebrate.

Marty got out of the cab, came around to Jennifer’s side of the car and opened the door for her. A red shoe stretched out, then the bottom half of a steel-colored dress stirred in the air. There was the glimmer of a jeweled bodice and then Jennifer herself fully appeared, her blonde hair hanging over her bare shoulders in loose waves. It was just warm enough outside for her to be comfortable without a jacket. He moved behind her as they stepped to the sidewalk.

“You look terrific,” he said.

“It’s Marchesa.”

“Come again?”

“The dress. It’s Marchesa Couture. You paid plenty for it.”

“What does Marchesa Couture cost?”

“Doesn’t matter. Look at me. It’s doing everything I couldn’t do on my own. It lifts, it tucks, it sucks, it gives me a butt. It’s my wearable plastic surgeon. I look twenty-nine again.”

“I won’t argue there.”

“That’s good,” she said, taking his hand. “Because the dress cost ten grand.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Later tonight, I’ll show you just how grateful I am that you bought it for me without your knowledge.”

What he loved and admired about her was that through it all, she treated him no differently than she ever had. Her attitude was that they would get through this together. They needed to live and behave normally. Period. Their conversations always had a rhythm to them and she was determined to retain that rhythm. So was he, and so they worked at it. It was starting to sound natural again.

“I did a bit more shopping,” she said.

“You don’t say.”

“I did. I also bought new running shoes, a kick-ass black running suit, a water bottle that ties around my waist, Spanx, reflective tape, a few new clips to hold back my hair. Oh, and a watch with a timer on it so we know exactly how well we’re doing when we start our nightly runs tomorrow.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I was serious the first day you mentioned it. When you were having that ridiculous day in which you thought you were fat. I’m a runner.”

“At best, you’re a jogger.”

“I’m so going to kick your ass.”

“In Spanx? Really? You won’t even be able to breathe properly.”

“It’s all about the look.”

“You’re so going to be humiliated.”

“Bring it on, babe. My type A is in overdrive. It’s out of the cage like a lion. Hear it roar.”

They walked down the sidewalk to the gallery, which was in SoHo on Spring Street. Here, the city was alive in ways that it never was on the Upper East Side. The restaurants and bars were full. Outside, on the sidewalks, people were smoking in groups. Cabs lurched down the street. The night had an air of promise and excitement to it.

“So, tonight’s a big night,” she said. “I’m glad everyone is ready to celebrate.”

“Beth’s fifteenth.”

“I know she’s been fifteen for a couple of months, but I still can’t believe it.”

“Try being me.”

“Your arthritis must be acting up.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I have to say, it was nice of Jack to have the party at the gallery. Actually, the space is perfect for it.”

“Agreed.”

“Maybe I’ll buy one of Gloria’s paintings.”

“I’m sure they’ll be everywhere.”

“How much do they cost?”

“As much as that Marchesa.”

“Where would we put it?”

“Is that even a question? Obviously, we’d mount it on the ceiling over our bed.”

“Why does that turn me on?”

They looked at each other with a smile as he opened the door for her. Inside, there must have been two hundred people of all ages milling around the bright white space. Family and friends, as well as dozens of Beth’s friends and a few of Katie’s. Marty scanned the room for Beth, found her on the stairs talking to a young man around her age and felt his gut sink. They had “the talk” two years ago. Looking at her now, glowing in ways that he’d never seen her glow before, he decided they probably should have another.

Gloria was across the room, also watching Beth. She looked appropriately horrified, which was a relief. At least they hadn’t lost their similar concerns and fears for their children. He checked to see if Barbara Moore had arrived but as far as he could tell, she hadn’t. Since Brian Moore’s death, their friendship had waned. Neither he nor Gloria saw much of her anymore and they missed her.

“I just need time,” she said several weeks ago, when he and Jennifer invited Jack, Gloria and Barbara out to dinner. “Don’t worry. I’ll call. With Brian gone, there’s still much to do.”

But she hadn’t called back and he felt terrible about it.

Gloria spotted them, reached around for Jack, who was behind her, and they started to walk toward them.

“She’s wearing Marchesa,” Jennifer said with a smile.

“How can you tell? It looks nothing like yours.”

“Women know.”

“Yours is prettier.”

“Hers is more expensive.”

“Which would you rather have?”

“The one that makes me look twenty-nine.”

She held out her hands, which Jack took. They kissed and talked while Gloria and Marty did the same. Each couple switched. More kissing, more talking. But none of it was fake or manufactured. At this point, there was genuine affection between them. Jennifer said something to Jack about this being the perfect space while Marty said something to Gloria about Beth. They all heard it and as such, all heads turned to look up at the staircase, where Beth was laughing with another young man. Only this time, her hand was on his shoulder.

“Who the hell is he?” Marty asked.

“He’s just one of the many young men we’ll have to deal with as she grows up,” Gloria said. “But who can blame any of them for trying? Look at her. She’s a knockout.”

“Fifteen…”

“It still hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“Look at her in that blue dress,” Jennifer said. “And I love that her hair is up and that her make-up is so natural. She’s going to need security.”

Marty and Gloria looked at each other and for the first time in a long time, they cracked a smile. “At this point, I think we all can agree that Beth can take care of herself,” Marty said.

His cell rang. He thought he’d turned it off. He made apologies, dipped his hand into his pants pocket, retrieved the phone, looked down at the number, saw that it was private and stepped outside.

“Marty Spellman,” he said.

Silence.

Marty turned his head in hopes of getting better reception. “This is Marty Spellman.”

“Are you enjoying the party, Mr. Spellman? You look as if you are. Black jacket and tie. Nice shoes. Even your hair looks freshly cut.”

Marty instinctively took a step back into shadow in spite of the fact that they already had a make on him. He scanned the area around him, but this neighborhood was teeming with people. It was impossible to know who was making the call.

“You think it’s over, don’t you?”

The man had an Eastern-European accent. Czech? It sounded Czech. “I think what’s over?”

“Your relationship with Camille Miller.”

“Who is this?”

“Someone who could shoot you right now, but won’t. Why ruin a good evening when you and your wife look so smart? I’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Spellman. When you contact Camille to tell her about this, which I’m telling you to do, make sure you let her know an old friend is thinking of her. And remembering.”

“Remember what?”

“The past. And please tell her something else for me.”

“What’s that?”

The man told him.

Marty was about to respond when the phone went dead.

Behind him, the gallery door swung open. Jennifer.

“Inside,” he said.

She was surprised by the urgency in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He took her by the arm, led her through the doors. “Inside.”

They stepped into the gallery, cut through the crowd and went to the rear of the room. Katie was there, talking with friends, but she hadn’t seen them yet. They cut right and positioned themselves in such a way that left them concealed in case Katie wanted to come over and talk.

“Who was on the phone?”

“A man. Private number. Definitely Eastern European. Maybe Czech.”

“What did he want?”

Marty looked at her and in her eyes he saw the same wary look he used to see in Gloria just before their marriage started to decline. It was a look that said, “My life can’t always be like this.” It was a look that said, “We have to have some sort of normalcy.” It was a look of fear and warning. It was a look that said, “Not again. Not so soon.” He knew at one point this moment would come. He just didn’t know it would come so quickly.

“He asked me to say hello to Camille Miller for him,” Marty said. “And when I did speak to her? He told me to tell her to go to hell. He told me to tell her that he hadn’t forgotten about his son. That soon, she’d be dead because of what she did.” He hesitated before going on, but he had to be honest with her. He owed her that. Otherwise, their marriage was a sham.

She could read his face as easily as Gloria could. “What else did he say, Marty?”

“He said it was my responsibility to contact Camille. He said that if I didn’t, I’d be dead, too.”

###

The
Rush to Violence
series continues in 2013 with Marty Spellman and Camille Miller in
A Rush to Murder
. The last book in the series,
A Rush to Vengeance
, will appear thereafter.

For the first Marty Spellman Thriller, check out the international best-selling thriller
Running of the Bulls
on Amazon:
http://amzn.to/J41Z0X
.
That book is part of the international best-selling
Fifth Avenue
series, which you can find here:
http://amzn.to/x70DwQ

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