Daughter of Darkness (42 page)

    She walked over behind Priscilla and put the gun to the back of her head. "One false move, babe, and I kill you on the spot. You understand?"

    Priscilla, whose eyes suddenly filled with tears, nodded slowly.

    Gretchen started undoing Priscilla's bra straps. Priscilla had a straight, lean back. "I can see why teenage boys have trouble with these things. They're not easy when you're in a hurry." Then she got the hooks undone and slid the straps off Priscilla's shoulders. Gretchen stepped back and looked at Priscilla's large, well-shaped breasts. "Oh-oh. Store-boughts, Quinlan. Or hadn't you ever noticed that before. You used to be as flat as I am, weren't you, Priscilla? You got your money's worth, though. Those are nice tits. They really are."

    She was starting to feel the frenzy, that strange tornado of emotions that was rage, fear, shame, self-loathing, and arrogance all at the same time.

    "Get over here, Quinlan," she snapped. "Get over here and take her panties off."

    "Please," Priscilla said again. "Please, just let me go."

    "Shut up, Priscilla," Quinlan said.

    Gretchen made a clucking sound. "If there's one thing I hate to hear, it's two lovers having a spat." She shook her head in mock grief. "It's just so sad."

    Then the frenzy overtook her. She grabbed Priscilla by the arm and yanked her across the room to the bed. She threw her on the bed face-up and then reached down and ripped her panties away. "Now get over here and service her, Quinlan. And I mean right now."

    "I won't do it," he said.

    "Sure you will," she said. And shot him in the right thigh.

    He cried out, as did Priscilla. Gretchen knew she wouldn't have long now. Barcroft and the other guards would come lumbering down here any moment now, after the gunshot.

    "Service her, Quinlan," Gretchen said. "Or I shoot your other leg."

    What choice did he have? He looked pale, pasty, profoundly confused. He did not enjoy being treated like this at all. But his terror overcame even his pride and, clutching the leg wound that was already starting to saturate his trouser leg, he began hobbling toward the king-sized waterbed.

    Gretchen followed right behind him, prodding him with the gun. How many times she'd wanted to do this within the walls of the psychiatric hospital. Wipe away all the superiority and pity and amusement on the faces of all those doctors.

    "Now, take care of her, Quinlan," Gretchen said. "Give her a real ride."

    Quinlan eased himself down upon the bed. Priscilla reached out and touched the leg wound. "He's bleeding pretty badly, Gretchen. He really needs to see a doctor."

    "Is he now?" Gretchen said. "The poor thing. Bleeding like that."

    And then it was there, bigger than her will to fight it back, bigger than her self-control to keep it at bay temporarily.

    "Hold her, Quinlan," Gretchen said, barely whispering, "hold her the way you held me and tell her all the things you told me. She'll like that, Quinlan." She leaned over the bed where Quinlan and Priscilla clung to each other like frightened children.

    Then she could hear them coming. Heavy footsteps, hurrying, hurrying down the hall. Coming here. Barcroft bellowing.

    "C'mon, now," Gretchen said. "We don't have much time. I want to hear you tell her you love her, Quinlan. Tell her that. She'll love it."

    He glared up at her. Barcroft or one of his guards began pounding on the door.

    "I told you we didn't have much time," Gretchen said. "Now go ahead and tell her."

    He looked at her and started to say something but then stopped himself. How could you possibly argue rationally with anybody as far gone as Gretchen?

    He turned his attention back to Priscilla. "I love you."

    The pounding grew louder. "That's nice, Quinlan. That's very nice. Just the kind of note I'd want to go out on."

    She shot Quinlan three times in the head. Even as meaty chunks of his brain were sticking themselves to the wall next to the waterbed, Priscilla was trying to roll away from him. But it was too late. Way too late.

    Gretchen put three bullets in her face. There was some writhing-and the blood on her naked body gleamed with rubylike beauty-and then the air was fouled by Quinlan's bodily fluids.

    And then Barcroft and three guards were smashing through the door with a red fire ax.

    She acted quickly. Had to. Otherwise she would have been at their mercy, and she did not want the Barcrofts of this life-stolid, unimaginative, cynical-to control her anymore. She wanted ail decisions to be her own. She wanted dignity, if nothing else.

    They were rushing at her-the scene had assumed certain surreal aspects, not the least being the dreamlike haze which seemed to be rolling through this apartment like a fog… and somewhere in the fog somebody shouting, "She's got a gun! She's got a gun!"

    And then the bullets ripping into her. There was a strange beauty in the pain. That was the thing uppermost in her mind… the beautiful and painful
inevitability
of all this… as if her entire life had been a joke and this room the punchline that tied all the stray moments of her life together.

    She fell backward onto the bodies on the bed, the gun dropping from her hand and landing on the floor.

    And then they were all over her, a circle of the guards, peering down at her and cursing her because of what she'd done to the father they'd all adopted. What would become of them now, Quinlan's children?

    One of them, so overwhelmed with anger he couldn't help himself, came over to her and spit down into her face.

    She was only vaguely aware of this. It was a sunny day and she was in a park at a duck pond and she and Quinlan were throwing the ducks pieces of bread. Gretchen was five months pregnant and positively gorgeous. And every few minutes,.' Quinlan would put his hand on the curve of her belly and listen to the child inside. And oh, how he'd smile. The perfect husband. The perfect mate. Here in this sunny, perfect world inside Gretchen's perfect mind.

    "Bitch," one of the guards said.

    That was the last thing Gretchen heard, and then she was dead.

    

    

    … Rolling away from the knife that was coming straight down toward her neck, Jenny angled herself so that she could get to her feet before Stafford could slash at her again.

    But he didn't give her much time. She reached out and grabbed on to the edge of the nightstand so she could push herself to her feet. But by the time she did this, he was already lunging at her. Fortunately, she was able to step aside. He stumbled onward, slamming into the nightstand in the deep shadows of the bedroom. When he jerked his head around to look at her, his face was an angry silver mask that the moonlight had painted on him. Spittle ran from the left corner of his mouth. His teeth looked huge, predatory.

    She had to get out of this room. Not only did he have a knife, he was strong and fast. She needed to get downstairs, outdoors. She felt guilty leaving her mother… but her mother was dead. Now she had to worry about herself.

    But as she turned to the door, Stafford righted himself and leaped on her, tangling his fingers in her hair, yanking her to her knees.

    The pain was blinding. She could feel hair being torn from her head. And then she could feel the blade of the butcher knife at her throat.
This is where I'll die
, she thought. She'd always wondered about that, where and when death would come to her. She hadn't seen this as morbid, just simply a natural curiosity about her time on the planet, and when it would end.

    Here's where it would end.

    "She betrayed me," he said. "Our whole life together was a lie."

    She could almost feel sorry for him. She had no idea why her mother had kept the identity of her real father a secret, but whatever the reason, her mother had been wrong. She'd owed Stafford the truth.

    "I… I'm sorry, Tom," she said.

    That was when she bit him. His forearm was directly in front of her mouth. She knew that he could react by slashing her throat-if there was time, if the bite didn't weaken his grip-or he would give in, at least momentarily, to his pain.

    She bit hard enough to draw blood. He cursed her, tried to rip his arm away from her teeth. She raised her hands and clamped on to his arm, enough to push the knife blade away from her, enough to let her get to her feet and run, stumbling, sobbing, to the guest room doorway and the hall.

    Darkness. The staircase. If she could reach the front door, and outside…

    "Make it easy for both of us," Stafford said, emerging from the bedroom. "Just stop running, Jenny. You know I'm going to catch you."

    The stairs… clinging to the banister… if she stumbled, he'd leap on her and kill her… halfway down now… and then turning around… seeing him at the top of the stairs… his chalk-white face streaked with blood… his hands gleaming in the moonlight with blood… like a surgeon right after a particularly gory operation… coming down the steps one at a time, not hurrying at all, as if he knew for sure that he would catch her, kill her… as if he was the messenger of death, inevitable, inexorable.

    She started to move again, but stumbled. He grabbed her, the man who used to be her father… the man who was now her enemy.

    

    

    She started to get up, but then he was there, grabbing her by the shoulder, jerking her to her feet. He pushed her back against a wall. Moonlight through the front windows once more made a silver mask of his face. "Be a good girl now, Jenny," he said, his voice startlingly gentle. "Just give me a little bit of help here, and I promise you it won't hurt you. I'll do it very, very fast."

    He raised his hand and gently touched her face. "I hope you understand that I really do love you, Jenny. It's just that I need to destroy everybody involved in the lie-Ted and your mother and… you. I'm sorry, Jenny. I really am."

    He raised the bloody knife once again.

    

    

    Coffey used his two-way to phone for police help. He gave the address of the Stafford mansion and told them that he thought the place had been taken over by burglars. He also threw in the fact that he used to be on the force. That could play either way. Either the dispatcher would glow warmly in the light of police brotherhood and sisterhood or he'd do the verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes, and let you know that just because you
used
to be a cop didn't do diddly-squat for him, and in fact he was embarrassed for you that you'd even brought it up, like listening to some old fart brag about what a stud he'd been in his youth. This dispatcher just said, "Oh."

    He was just now pulling into the mansion's drive, passing the smashed gates that looked like the broken wings of angels.

    

    

    This time, Stafford didn't try to stab her. He just studied the knife in the moonlight-as if it was an object he'd never seen before.

    He'd already told her all the things he'd done to her over the past five years with Quinlan.

    He brought the knife to her face. She kept trying to ease her way out of his grasp. But how?

    "You're still my father," she said. "Blood doesn't matter, Tom. You were the one who raised me. You were the one who loved me. And who
I
loved."

    He smiled sadly, the blood streaks blending with the moon-silver of his mask. "I'll bet you don't love me very much right now."

    She reached out and touched his face. "That's the strange thing, Tom. I still do. I really do."

    Then, from the bottom of the stairs, a voice said, "It's time to put the knife down, Tom."

    Both of them stared down at Coffey. He stood there with a gun in his hand. His police training had included talking to hostage takers. Calm. Friendly. "Nobody else has to get hurt, Tom. Just put the knife down on the step."

    Stafford pulled Jenny even closer now, the knife at her throat. "We're coming down the stairs and walking to my car. Just stay back, and I won't kill her."

    Coffey was still out of breath from running inside. All he could do now was watch.

    "You need to calm down," Coffey said as gently as possible.

    "You heard what I said," Stafford said. "I'm going to kill her soon-but it doesn't have to be right now."

    Coffey knew he had just one opportunity. He couldn't take the chance of shooting Stafford. In a moment of panic, Jenny might get in the way. All he could do was hope to scare Stafford-and give Jenny her chance to escape.

    He fired two bullets into the wall to the side of Stafford.

    Stafford, startled, instinctively loosened his grip on Jenny. And then-just as instinctively-he started to tighten it again. But it was too late. Jenny worked herself free, pushing Stafford against the banister with such force that he screamed and pitched over the side, falling four feet to the floor.

    His cry told Coffey immediately what had happened. Coffey ran to him. In the shadows, Stafford lay facedown. Coffey knelt and rolled him over. Stafford had fallen on his knife, the blade piercing his heart and killing him almost instantly.

    Jenny ran up the stairs, crying out her mother's name. She knelt next to Molly, hearing the dreadful death rattle in her mother's throat as she tried to speak.

    Sirens. "It's an ambulance, Mother. You're going to be all right."

    Her mother's face seemed to have lost detail in the moonlight. The only clear aspect were the lovely, dark eyes that glistened with tears.

    Jenny felt her die. It wasn't dramatic. No shudder, no spasms, no last gasped words. Rather, she felt her mother's body simply and quietly
stop
. All the busy circuits, all the highways and byways of the physical self, simply ceased.