Her Darkest Nightmare (43 page)

“Do you have any idea where she went?” Amarok asked.

“Home, I would think,” Pellier replied. “Considering the weather, she'd be crazy to go anywhere else.”

“Wherever it was, she seemed to be in a hurry,” Levine added with a whistle.

She was probably irritated that he hadn't come back for her. “Is there a phone I can use?”

“Of course.” Pellier took him into a small guard station, where he dialed his own number. But there was no answer at the house, which led him to believe she was still in transit.

He called
her
house, too, just to be sure she hadn't gone there, but didn't achieve any better results.

“Thanks!” he called out as he left. Then he jumped in his truck and, as soon as he turned out of Hanover House, drove very slowly, hoping to come upon her little Beamer.

*   *   *

When Evelyn saw the light through the trees, she couldn't believe she'd made it clear across town. She never would've been able to do that, not without the shovel on the truck she'd borrowed. It didn't seem as if Phil had been out at all, clearing the streets. She'd barely crept along the entire way, and once she'd turned down the long drive that wound around to Fitzpatrick's cabin it was even worse. She almost got stuck twice, despite having four-wheel drive.

Fortunately, all of that was behind her now. She'd arrived at last. Although it was too dark and stormy to see much detail, if she stopped in the right spot she could make out a faint glow through the trees. She wondered if it could be headlights but didn't think so.

What am I going to find here?

She hoped it wasn't Fitzpatrick's dead body. But she also hoped he wasn't lying in wait—
for her
.

Did he possess the kind of rage required to do what had been done to Lorraine and Danielle?

If so, he cloaked it well.

After parking down the hill—she felt it wouldn't be wise to announce her arrival—she trudged on foot the last hundred yards. The snow was so deep in places it came up to her thighs, making her grateful for her snowsuit. She was cold enough as it was.

Soon she could see Fitzpatrick's house peeking out from behind the trees that separated her from it. He had an SUV in addition to his sedan. She figured both vehicles must be in the garage, because they weren't out front.

There
was
a commercial vehicle parked haphazardly, however. The light she'd seen turned out to be a high-powered commercial pole to one side of the property, so she could make out that unfamiliar truck as clearly as the storm would allow.

After taking a moment to watch the area, during which she saw nothing to alert her as to what might be going on inside, she slid the handle of her purse over her head to be able to wear her purse across her body, held her gun at the ready and approached the house.

The blinds were down, making it impossible to see through the windows.

She listened at the door, trying to figure out what might be happening. But that didn't help. She couldn't make out a thing above the howl of the wind.

Shit.
With a deep breath for courage, she tried the knob.

The door was locked. Should she knock? Would Fitzpatrick hear her? Even if he could, she wanted to know what she might be walking into before landing in the middle of a bad situation.

Her heart seemed to be ten times too big for her chest as she trudged around to the back.

It was darker here. There were no lights, except the flashlight she pulled from her purse. Fortunately, that thin beam was enough to reassure her that she was alone—and to see the gleaming shards of a broken window.

Given the truck out front and this, she was beginning to believe Hugo
had
made his way to Hilltop. But she couldn't imagine how he'd found the strength.

Still afraid of letting her presence be known, she decided to sneak in and have a look around. Her gloves and snowsuit were thick enough she was fairly certain she could climb through that broken window without getting cut.…

After hoisting herself up, she pushed the blind over and crawled inside. Due to the wind, she wasn't overly afraid the small noises she made would alert anyone to her presence. It wasn't until she moved away from the window and the sounds of the storm dimmed that she became aware of someone deeper inside the house cursing and ranting.

Was it Fitzpatrick? What was being said didn't sound like him. The words were filled with vitriol instead of his usual tight-lipped scorn. But the voice …

Although she couldn't be sure, she thought it
might
be him.

So where was Hugo or whoever had broken that window?

She crept around the corner. She intended to take a quick look before slipping back out of the house. But what she saw froze her to the spot.

*   *   *

Amarok drove between his house and the prison twice before he thought about checking his messages. He'd been so intent on believing that Evelyn had just given up on him and decided to head home, that he'd find her on the side of the road since there was no way she could make it all the way in her Beamer, that he'd never dreamed she would leave him a message—other than to ask where he was. The phones were out at his place, anyway. He had to stop by the trooper post to be able to access his voice mail, but what he heard turned his blood to ice.

“Amarok, I hope you get this soon. Fitzpatrick just instant messaged me on the computer, saying something about Hugo and asking for help. Now he won't respond. No clue what it means, but it's very strange. I realize it could be a trap, but with Hugo on the loose it could also be a legitimate cry for help. You know how badly Hugo hates Fitzpatrick. I have to go out there and see what's going on. Come if you can.”

“No,” Amarok muttered, closing his eyes. “Tell me you didn't.” He didn't want her anywhere near Fitzpatrick, let alone risking her skin to save his life, especially after how Fitzpatrick had treated her. If only Amarok had known she might do something like this when he decided not to tell her about Fitzpatrick's sessions with Hugo. Maybe she wouldn't have gone.…

Scooping his keys off the table where he'd dropped them before calling his voice mail, Amarok rushed out to his truck. He'd managed to switch vehicles with Phil earlier in the evening, so he had a working shovel. That made him wonder how the hell Evelyn thought she'd be able to get to Fitzpatrick's in that car of hers.

“You'd better not have hurt her.” He skidded around the corner going much faster than he should've been and upped his speed from there. He didn't have a second to waste. All he could think of was Lorraine's severed head—with that one eye gouged out.

*   *   *

Fitzpatrick was holding an iron fireplace poker and had blood spatter all over him—on his face, his clothes, in his hair. Hugo—if the man lying on the floor was indeed their escaped convict—was wearing ill-fitting clothes and his head was bashed in. Evelyn was pretty sure he was dead. He wasn't moving, was no longer a threat, yet Fitzpatrick wasn't trying to call for help. He was pacing and cursing, and every once in a while he'd strike the inert body.

“You think I'd hurt her?” he'd shout. Then he'd mutter, “How dare you do this to me. This is … not right, not right at all. I don't deserve this; I never have.”

Seeing him so out of control turned Evelyn's stomach. She'd feared he might not be able to defend himself—or that Hugo had brought a knife or a gun. Weapons were everywhere in Alaska. He could've taken a hunting rifle from a pickup or an empty house. He'd obviously found clothes. But whether he'd had a weapon or not, Fitzpatrick had dealt with the problem.

The memories of stumbling onto the bodies of her dead friends welled up, causing her to break into a cold sweat.
This is different,
she reminded herself. As crazy as Fitzpatrick was acting, he wasn't necessarily a homicidal maniac. She didn't know who'd killed Lorraine and Danielle, but what she saw here was a clear case of self-defense. It wasn't as if Fitzpatrick had
invited
Hugo to his home.

So why had he come? He'd escaped. He could've gone anywhere.…

Evelyn decided she'd rather ask those questions tomorrow, when Amarok was around. Maybe this was self-defense, but that file she'd found in Fitzpatrick's cabinet—and what she'd seen on those videos—made her hesitant to confront her former associate. She didn't want to be here, with this. She wanted to get out of the house and put some distance between her and another death, whether it was a justifiable one or not.

She was backing away so she could return to the living room and quietly let herself out when someone came up behind her.

“Evelyn?”

Startled, she whipped around and aimed her gun.

“Whoa!” Russell Jones lifted his hands. “Don't shoot. I-I didn't mean to startle you.”

He was shaking, had tears streaking down his face.

Almost automatically, Evelyn lowered the muzzle. She was frightened, but Russ seemed more traumatized than she was. What'd happened here?

Before she could ask, Fitzpatrick came rushing around the corner, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “
Evelyn?
What are you doing in my house?”

She cleared her throat, tried to remain calm. “What do you mean what am I doing in your house? I crept in because you sent me an instant message saying you needed help!”

“I can't believe you came.”

He seemed touched by her effort, which made her uncomfortable. She had no interest in mending their relationship, not after what she'd viewed in those video sessions. She'd never be able to look at him the same, never be able to trust him again. “Of course I came, in spite of the many reasons I shouldn't have. I didn't know you had Russ here.”

“I didn't. If Russ hadn't shown up when he did, I'd be dead right now.” He touched a slash in his neck she hadn't noticed for all the other blood. “That son of a bitch tried to stab me.”

“I didn't see your truck,” she told Russ. The one in front wasn't his. Had it been stolen by Hugo? Hugo had had to get here somehow.…

Russ barely seemed capable of coherent speech. “I-I came on my snowmobile. It's parked out back.”

Of course. Russ lived only half a mile from Fitzpatrick, and a snowmobile parked off to the side would've been easy to miss in the dark and stormy night. By the time she'd rounded the house, she hadn't even been looking for a vehicle. She'd been too afraid she'd run into a man bent on murder.

“Why did Hugo come
here
?” she asked. “If he managed to escape, why wouldn't he make good on it?”

“He thought
I
was behind having him shanked,” Fitzpatrick told her. “And he was convinced I was a danger to you.”

Was
he a danger? “He couldn't have been in good shape.…”

“He could barely stand,” Fitzpatrick said. “But he had a knife, so it didn't matter—not as long as he could slash. He kept telling me I didn't know who I'd been fucking with and that he'd teach me once and for all.”

“I heard him screaming,” Russ jumped in, covering his ears as if he could
still
hear it. “If I hadn't snuck up on him, grabbed a lamp and … and”—he blanched—“hit him over the head, he would've murdered Tim.” Russ stared at his hands as if he couldn't believe they belonged to him. “How did I do that? I hit him so hard.”

Evelyn wasn't sure what to think or feel. She gulped for breath, trying to get her pulse to settle into a regular rhythm. “So then you … then you beat him with the fireplace poker?”

A sheepish expression claimed Fitzpatrick's blood-spattered face. “It was the adrenaline,” he explained, his voice pleading with her to understand. “When he went down, I grabbed this”—he looked at the poker, seemed to realize there was no reason to still have it in his hands and dropped it—“and-and went a little crazy.”

“I watched him die,” Russ marveled, his words disconnected from the conversation. “It's my fault he's dead.”

“Have you tried to reach Amarok?” she asked. “To get help?”

“
How
?” Russ cried. “Thanks to the storm, the phones are out.”

Evelyn wasn't sure she'd ever get through this terrible winter. Feeling dizzy, as if she was about to pass out, she bent over to get some blood to her head and struggled to push back the darkness that seemed to be closing in.

“Are you going to be sick?” Fitzpatrick asked.

“I think so.”

“Then give me that gun before you hurt yourself or someone else.”

Grabbing her arm, he wrenched it from her grip as she ducked past him for the bathroom. She hadn't cared for Hugo the way he was convinced he cared for her. Not even remotely. But at times it had been almost impossible not to like him. He was a human being, at any rate, and the sight of his head … the image of his brains spilling out on the carpet wouldn't leave her. Neither would the memory of Fitzpatrick striking him, even though he was dead.

As she leaned over the toilet, she could hear Russ and Fitzpatrick fighting about moving the body outside. Fitzpatrick didn't want it in the house any longer. But Russ didn't seem capable of coping with its removal. He was talking about how heavy Hugo would be, that moving him would get blood all over. He said they should leave Hugo until morning when they could get Amarok over and kept repeating himself as if he was in shock.

He probably was.

Evelyn hummed a song to tune them out. She already felt like death warmed over, didn't need to hear
that
conversation. As soon as she could gather the strength, she was going to walk out of the house and drive home before the storm made travel, even with a four-wheel drive that had a shovel, impossible.