Dangerous Lies (38 page)

Leaning me back against the door, he kissed me softly. “I’m not going to sleep tonight.”

“Because of earlier, at the swimming hole?”

“Because I’m worried about you. But yeah, what happened at the swimming hole? I’m not going to forget it any time soon. It’s seared in my memory. Thank my lucky stars.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “You did that to make me smile.”

“I like making you smile. You’d be amazed at the things I’d do to keep you happy.”

“You’re awfully good to me, Chet.”

“Just getting started.” He kissed my hand, and once again, I quashed my guilt. I would not let it rob me of this moment. I watched Chet walk away until the darkness closed around him.

Flopping in the porch swing, I pressed a hand to my chest. I wondered if I was entitled to feel this happy. This deliriously, wondrously, steal-your-breath happy. Everyone deserved to feel this way at least once, I decided. A light to cling to when things got dark. One sliver of happiness, to give a person hope that the light would come again.

Shortly after, I let myself in, fumbling for the light switch several paces down the hallway. Still basking in the afterglow of being with Chet, I didn’t register right away that the lights didn’t turn on.

When it finally hit me, the hairs on my scalp rose.

Suddenly I was back in Philly; it was late; it was dark. Something was very wrong.

I heard a soft wheezing behind me.

I spun around to see Trigger. He sat in the chair Carmina kept at the bottom of the staircase, his breathing shallow, his chin slumped on his chest. He clutched his abdomen, blood trickling out between his fingers.

He lifted his head, his face screwed in a tight grimace of pain, his eyes blazing with hate. “It . . . shoulda . . . been me who . . . killed you,” he gasped.

I didn’t understand. But I knew I was in danger. I could feel it vibrating all around. I stumbled toward the front door, my body shaking with fear. I had to get out. Chet. I had to get to him.

But a dark, looming shape stepped into the hall, blocking my path.

“ESTELLA, ESTELLA,” THE MAN SAID.
He didn’t speak with the flat, gliding accent I’d grown accustomed to hearing in Thunder Basin. His was Eastern European. One of a hundred accents I’d heard on the streets of Philly.

I shrank back.

“You do not trust me?” he said, his tone amused. “You think I am a bad man? Why would you think a bad man is hunting you?” His voice turned taunting. “Maybe you have been a bad girl. Maybe you screwed with the wrong people.”

My blood ran cold. No.
No, no, no.

I had to get out. I had to run. But my legs felt slippery, watery.

“You called Sandy Broucek,” he chided. “Tsk, tsk. They did not tell you not to do that?”

I shook my head in disbelief. I’d turned off the phone immediately. I’d done everything right. It was a stab in the dark for Danny Balando’s man to find me.

“Technology is sophisticated, yes? I tapped the phone of your mother’s friend. I traced your call. I came to town and showed your picture. This boy”—he gestured dismissively at Trigger—“led me right to you. Easy, so easy.”

“Shoulda killed you . . . at the Sundown,” Trigger rasped.

The man turned and fired on him. It happened so fast. The bullet was quick and popping. Trigger’s body sank sideways and the wheezing sound stopped.

Black dots crowded my vision. I felt myself sliding into shock. I had to stay alert. But Trigger’s body was right
there
, dead. This was just like Philly. Death was everywhere. I could smell it, hear it rushing in my ears.

“I’m not going to testify against Danny.” My voice quivered. “I know he didn’t kill that man, the man they called the Pharmacist. I’m going to tell the prosecutor the truth and they’ll let Danny go.”

“Ah, but I do not believe you.”

I shuffled backward, deeper into Carmina’s dark, dark house. The blinds were closed and the drapes drawn for night; there was very little light for our eyes to adjust to. “Please. Don’t do this.”

He rushed forward. I had my house keys in my hand, and I slashed them at his face.

He made an enraged, animal-like sound and doubled over.

He fired at me, but I was already fleeing out the back door.

Outside, moonlight bathed the yard. There was nowhere to run. He’d find me in the open fields. The barn door didn’t lock. Chet’s house was too far.

I heard him staggering through the house, knocking into furniture as he came for me.

In a state of blind panic, I ran. I tripped over a low structure that materialized out of the darkness. The storm shelter.

My hands slid the bolt on the doors leading underground. I lifted one, then the other. The smell of cold, wet earth wafted through the opening. A stairway of railroad ties descended into utter darkness.

Climbing in, I shut the doors noiselessly behind me. With each downward step, the ice in the pit of my stomach expanded. Down, down, down. It was so inescapably black at the bottom. I couldn’t see. But neither could he.

Feeling my way through a second door, I felt a lock and turned it behind me. Carmina would be home any minute. I just had to hide for a bit. I tried to slow my panicky, racing thoughts. I could smell sweat. My sweat.

The metal doors above groaned open. I felt dizzy with dread. Next came footsteps, methodical and heavy, descending. When the doorknob on the door rattled, my breath turned to hard, dire pants.

In dry-mouthed terror, I listened to him bang the door. He was kicking it in. I heard the splinter of wood, louder with each thrust.

And then I was listening to his soft breathing.

“Estella,” he called softly. His shoes scuffed over cement as he felt his way inside. “Do you remember Mr. Balando’s promise after you identified him to the police?”

How could I forget? Danny’s words had ripped through the one-way glass at the police station. Even now, his crazed voice growled in my ear.
I will kill you. I will find you and I will kill you. You’ll never be safe.

Danny’s voice had risen above the officers’ shouting to have him hauled away. Even after the guards wrestled him from the small room behind the one-way glass, I could hear him shrieking my name in that awful, bloodthirsty snarl.

“Danny would prefer to be here,” the man cooed chillingly. “But no matter. He gave me instructions. I know exactly what to do to you.”

Every part of me rattled with fear.

A deafening
bang!
split my ears.

I cupped a hand over my mouth, willing myself not to whimper, not to make a sound. I pressed my back to the wall, my legs shaking too hard to hold me up. Dread and blind, wild desperation coursed in my veins.

“Maybe I start shooting bullets, yes? This way and that. All around the room. You will scream when I hit you. I will find you, Estella Goodwinn.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Tears streamed down my face. I hugged myself tightly. I was trembling to the bone. He was going to find me. Just like he’d found Reed. Just like he would someday find my mom.

Danny Balando would keep his promise.

“Put the gun down.”

Chet’s voice sliced through my dizziness. I lifted my head, eyes searching the black, black room. Had I imagined hearing him?

“I’ve got a twenty-two long pointed at you,” Chet told the man. “Put down your gun and kick it over here.”

The man chuckled. “I cannot see you. So how do I know you are speaking the truth?”

“You don’t.”

“Do you know how to use that rifle, boy?”

An ear-splitting blast erupted, followed by a casing clinking on the floor. “Looks like I know how to use it,” Chet said. “Gun on the floor, kick it over here, nice and easy.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “I am putting it down.” There was a skidding noise as the gun slid across the floor.

“Got a phone?” Chet asked him.

“In my motel room, yes.”

“Then that’s where we’re going. You’re going to call the people you work for. Tell them you killed Stella, job’s over. If you want to walk out of here alive, make your story convincing.”

The man laughed smoothly. “And then what? You kill me? My employer will know if I do not return to Philadelphia. He will send more men. He will not stop until he finds her. Now or later, it makes no difference, she will die. She is—how do you say it?—a ticking clock. You are putting your life in danger unnecessarily. Forget the girl and save yourself.” He made a casual grunt. “What I do with her is not your concern.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Step over to the wall.”

The man exhaled a troubled sigh, as though telling Chet he was making a big mistake.

“The wall,” Chet ordered.

“Yes, yes, I am going.”

“Stella?” Chet said. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

“The Scout’s in the drive. Key’s in the ignition. Drive to the police station. Don’t leave until Carmina comes for you. Stay there and don’t come out for anybody else.”

Pushing to my feet, I felt my way across the room. A fresh wave of tears tumbled down my cheeks, but these were tears of relief. Chet had found me. I was going to live. I was going to see him and Carmina again.

With one hand on the wall, I moved through the darkness. Just a few more steps to the door—

I heard a scuffle of feet and felt fumbling hands. Before I could move away, he grabbed my arm, yanking hard. I whirled, stopping with my back to his chest. His breath panted against my cheek. Something cold and sharp dug into my throat. I gasped as the pain cut deeper.

“I have a knife to her throat,” the man snarled. “Lower your gun. Put it and the one you took from me on the floor. Slide them over.”

“Stella?” Chet called out.

“Three seconds before I cut her throat,” the man growled.

I heard Chet set his rifle on the floor. The smaller gun followed. They scraped over the cement as he kicked them toward us.

The man barked, “In the corner. On your knees. Head down. Speak to me as you do these things. I hear your voice and know where you are.”

“I’m moving,” Chet said. “I’m on my knees. Head down.” The sound of his voice confirmed his location.

“You next,” the man ordered me, shoving me in Chet’s direction. I scrambled to him, pressing close. I grappled for his hand, locking mine around his. He felt warm and solid, and while he wasn’t shaking, I knew he had to be afraid.

I heard the man feeling the ground for the guns.

Chet pulled me into his arms. We were on our knees, holding each other tightly.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I sobbed quietly.

He kissed my forehead and nudged my damp hair off my face. I shut my eyes and imagined I could see him. Dark curly hair, sizzling blue eyes. A chiseled, handsome face. One I associated with strength, intelligence, and tenderness. “Shh, don’t say that,” he murmured. “No matter what happens now, we think about each other. We remember the good. Until this is over, we cling to that. No regrets.”

The man picked up the rifle. I gripped Chet tighter.

“Estella first,” the man ordered. “Stand up.”

Before I could even process his request—or realize this was it, we were out of time, he was going to shoot us, one and then the other—Chet shoved to his feet. “I’m going first.”

“No!” I cried, scrabbling to get up and stop him. I couldn’t find him. It was too dark. “Chet, no!”

I heard the man push Chet toward the stairs. Next thing, I felt a strike to my chest, sending me sprawling backward on the hard concrete. All breath left me in a whoosh. It took several moments for air to burn down my throat again.

I listened, dazed and horrified, as the metal doors above shut and locked between Chet and me.

“Chet!” I screamed.

“Remember what I said,” he yelled through the doors.

I dragged myself after him and pounded on the metal doors. It was no use. The bolt was secure. I couldn’t get to Chet. I couldn’t stop this from happening. I drew up a mental image of him and played it in my head, over and over.

Folding my hands over my ears, I wept. I didn’t want to hear the shot. I didn’t want to know when he was dead. Stumbling downstairs, I put distance between me and that horrible sound I knew would come.

I still had things I wanted to tell Chet. There were things—important things, life-changing things—we’d never done together. I’d been wrong about tonight. I was haunted by regret. This was not how our story ended.

The sound of the gunshot ripped me open.

And I knew.