See How She Dies (41 page)

“What?” a woman's voice screamed back as doors creaked open and banged closed, rattling the loose windows in their panes. The man knelt beside her again. “Now you just lay still, help's on its way.”

Voices filtered in through the open door and pierced Adria's pain-racked brain.

“What the hell's going on?” a woman asked.

“Hey, shut up! People are trying to sleep over here!” A man this time.

“Holy shit, what's going on in unit thirteen?” A younger man. “Mary, come look at this, will ya?”

“Don't get involved.” Mary wasn't too willing to help out.

Adria blinked and tried to stay conscious. There was something familiar about the attacker, familiar and horrible and…it teased the edge of her consciousness. What was it? Who was he?

“Hey, lady, I don't know what happened here, but it looks bad,” the man who was tending to her said.

She lifted her hand to the back of her head and felt sticky blood matting her hair. Groaning, she pulled herself upright, her eyes squinting, trying to get used to the bright lights. As she did, her heart squeezed in fear. The room had been destroyed. Chairs turned over, the television set smashed, sheets torn and ripped from the bed, as if someone had been in a fury so wild—so blind, he'd needed to lash out at something, anything, to vent his rage. On the mirror over the bureau, scribbled in a grease pen's bold black letters, was a simple and horrifying message: DEATH TO THE BITCH.

Worse yet, tossed onto the bare mattress was a pair of black panties, the pair she'd had stolen; it was shredded, as if sliced over and over again by a razor.

“Oh, God.” She felt suddenly sick again and the room seemed to spin around her. Her nose and mouth tasted foul, and she had to fight against the overwhelming sensation that evil still lurked beneath the bed or behind the curtains.

“What's going on here?” the man asked. “No—wait. You just lie still. Don't talk. Save it for the police.”

Footsteps. Shouts. People closing in, some curious, some concerned. She hurt so badly she didn't care.

“Sumbitch, would you look at that!”

“Did someone call the frickin' ambulance?”

“Hell, yes, but Jesus H. Christ, it looks like a bear came in here and went on a rampage.”

“Yeah, sure, and now bears cut up underpants.”

“Hang on, miss. Marge—the manager—?”

Headlights flashed against the window and tires crushed the gravel in the lot.

“Adria!” She heard his voice, roaring through the crowd, a lifeline to reach out and cling to.

Zachary!
Tears filled her eyes as she tried to scramble to her feet.

“You lie still!” she was ordered.

Zachary broke through the crowd beginning to collect at the door and gathered her into his arms.

“Adria, oh, God, Adria,” he said, holding her as if he could protect her, as if the strength of his body could stave off the pain, the fear. Clinging to him, she fought the horrid sobs that suddenly clogged her throat as relief flooded through her. She was with Zachary and safe. So safe.

“Hey, you, I wouldn't touch her!” a man advised. “Leave her for the paramedics, they're on their way. She's bleedin', man, no tellin'—hey, are you her old man?”

“What the fuck happened here?” the manager yelled, only casting Adria a cursory glance. “Who did this? Holy Saint Peter, what a mess!”

“Did anyone call the police?” Zach demanded.

“Called 911, you get it all,” the manager said. A short, balding man in boxer shorts and a nightshirt, he swore at the mess. “The insurance company will shit over this one.”

“Don't worry about it.” Zach kissed her forehead and wrapped her in his strong arms. “You'll be okay,” he said, as if to convince himself. She shuddered and he pulled her tight against his chest. “You'll be okay.”

She didn't believe it for a second.

She doubted he did, either.

 

Failed.

You failed!

You should have killed the bitch while you had the chance. Now she's alive, pretending to be London, bringing it all up again!

Adria's attacker eyed the haggard reflection staring back in the mirror mounted over the hotel sink. The plan had backfired. Because Adria Nash was stronger than expected. She didn't scare easily and now, it seemed, she wouldn't die easily, either!

Maybe she is London.

She'll prove it and the story will surface.

Now that she's been attacked, the police might be suspicious about Kat's death, the ruling of suicide reexamined.

Blood could be washed away but memories couldn't, and the memory of London Danvers just wouldn't die. It's as if over the years both she and her damned mother had been elevated to some kind of sainthood. At that thought, agony ripped through the brain of Katherine's killer, a pain so severe it cut more deeply than the physical wounds Adria Nash had inflicted.

Saints are usually canonized after they've died.

So see to it! Take care of Adria Nash.

Don't let her slip away again!

 

Every muscle in her body screamed and her head pounded despite the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. Adria stared out the passenger window of Zach's Jeep and tried to forget the last few hours. But scenes from the Emergency Room kept recurring while a litany of questions she'd been asked—first from the EMTs, then the nurses and finally the police—played through her mind. She was dead-tired, but figured she'd never fall asleep.

“Do you have any idea who would do this to you?”

“You're the woman claiming to be London Danvers, aren't you?”

“Are you allergic to any medications?”

“Did you get a look at the guy's face or see any identifying marks?”

“Do you have an insurance card?”

“You've got a report in with the Portland Police Department about a previous attack? What was the name of the detective involved?”

“Does this hurt?”

“Can you give me a time line? About what time did you leave the restaurant and when did you get back to the motel?”

“Is this your husband?”

Adria squeezed her eyes shut. The night had fled by in a whirl, and it seemed that the police agreed with her that someone from the Danvers family could be involved, although there had also been speculation that she'd collected her own special nutcase, someone who had been following the London Danvers story for years.

Adria had tried to answer all the questions that had been hurled at her. She'd even managed a weak smile at the detectives' jokes, but by the time the ER doctor had released her and Zach had tucked a blanket around her in the Jeep, she'd felt drained. Weary. And though no bones had been broken and she'd even managed to avoid a concussion, she was sore all over.

They'd spent most of the drive back to the motel in silence, both wrapped in their private thoughts, until Zach turned the final corner to the Fir Glen Motel and spied the media circus.

“Great,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

“Guess I'm suddenly popular.”

“Too popular.”

Rather than stop and deal with the press, he cranked on the wheel and turned the Jeep around to head directly east. The road was steep, winding through the snow-dusted mountains that were already gilded with the first rays of the morning sun.

“Where are we going?” she asked, though she really didn't care as she pulled the blanket higher under her chin and tried to get comfortable. She wanted to stop running, to end this quest, to quiet the questions that raged through her mind.

“My place.”

“Your place?” she repeated as she stared through the windshield. The Jeep was climbing steadily. Snowcapped peaks of the rugged Cascade Mountains loomed ahead. “I didn't know you had one.”

He slid her a glance—hard and stubborn, yet laced with worry. “We're going to the ranch.”

“In Bend?” she said, shaking her head before she sucked in her breath through her teeth and winced in pain from the movement. “I can't go there.”

“Why not?”

“It's too far away. I've got people to see. Meetings in Portland. Interviews and appointments with attorneys and reporters.”

“They'll wait,” he predicted, his voice stern. He'd been silent through most of the interviews but as she'd explained what had happened, how she'd been with Polidori and come home to be attacked, he'd grown increasingly grim.

“No, Zach, really, I can't—”

“You were almost killed tonight,” he shouted, clamping her wrist with one strong hand. Steering with the other, he kept an eye on the road as it wound snakelike through the foothills. “Maybe you don't take that seriously, but I do. Whoever sent you those warnings has just gotten a little bolder and if he would have hit you a little harder, or in a little different place, we might not even be having this conversation right now.”

Suddenly chilled, she tried to rub her arms, but his hand was digging into her muscles. “But I can't—”

“Of course you can. You've waited nearly twenty years to find out the truth—I think you can wait a few more days.

“Come on, Adria. Give yourself a little time to pull yourself together.”

She wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn't run her life, but she couldn't find the words. And she was frightened. More frightened than she'd ever been in her life. “This is just temporary, right?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across his beard-darkened chin. “I'm not holding you hostage, if that's what you mean.”

Nervously, she licked her lips. “That's what I mean,” she said.

“You can come and go as you please.”

“But my car—”

“I'll send for all your things. Including that bucket of bolts you call a car—after I have it checked by my mechanic.”

“It's fine,” she protested.

“It's on its last legs.”

“Please, I need the car—”

“It'll get there. In a couple of days. In the meantime there are plenty of vehicles at the ranch—cars, trucks, hell, we've even got a tractor if you get desperate.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so,” he said, but the laughter faded from his eyes. “Come on, Adria. Give it a rest for a few days.”

She was touched by his kindness and wondered fleetingly if his concern was genuine or if he was just doing his duty, babysitting her and keeping her out of trouble. “You…. uh…you don't have to do this, you know.”

He let go of her wrist and grabbed the wheel. Lines of worry etched across his forehead. “Of course I do.” He didn't add that he planned to stick to her like glue, that he was afraid for her life, that he felt sick with guilt because he hadn't followed his gut instincts when he'd known, he'd
known,
that he should never have let her out of his sight.

The sun, rising over the craggy, snow-covered mountains, sent harsh rays through the valley. Zach switched on the radio and glanced at the passenger side of the Jeep where Adria, tucked in the blanket, was resting her head against the window and breathing steadily, as if she was soon to give in to exhaustion and fall asleep.

Good. He tromped hard on the accelerator and the Jeep leaped forward. His jaw was clenched so hard it felt like granite and he swore silently that if he ever found out who'd done this to her, he'd kill the bastard with his bare hands.

“Idiot! What did you think you were doing?” Anthony Polidori wanted to rap his son over the head with his cane. He hadn't struck his son since the boy announced that he'd knocked up the Danvers girl years ago, but right now Mario deserved a swift, hard dose of reality—a swift kick wouldn't hurt either! Clamping his jaw shut, Anthony jabbed his cane in the soft grass of the backyard.

“I just wanted to feel her out—”

“I'll bet. That's the problem with you. Women. Any woman. For the love of God, stay away from her—you're only causing trouble!” Anthony wondered what he'd done to deserve such a stupid son. Stiffly he crossed the backyard and tried to rein in the anger that had kept him awake all night—ever since the phone call from his informant watching the Nash woman. He knew there would be trouble and he'd been proved right.

He paused by the tennis courts where he'd spent so many hours coaching his only boy. Now dandelions and long grass grew through the cracks in the cement courts. A climbing rosebush, untrimmed, sprawled up the tall fence, mistaking the mesh of chain links for a trellis. Dear God, where had the time gone? Had it all been spent feeding that hateful beast called “the feud?” Had he lost all sense of what was real? He remembered the years of hoping that his son would someday grow into a shrewd businessman, a leader capable of handling the considerable businesses that his own father had passed to him and he had hoped to hand down to his son—his only child, but Mario had never been much interested in business. He'd been an athlete, and even while he was in school his decided lack of brains—or at least of discipline—had been evident. That was the problem, the boy—well, man now—had enough gray matter if he only knew how to or wanted to apply it. But he never had. Aside from a little gambling business he'd run for a time, Mario hadn't worked a day in his life. Life had been too easy for him. Handsome by Hollywood standards, skilled on the tennis court or racing down the ski slopes, Mario had seen no reason to study and learn; his showing in school could only be described as poor, but he'd developed a way with girls. All girls. Including Trisha Danvers.

When Trisha had gotten pregnant—which was probably part of the slut's scheme to trap Mario and make life miserable for her father—Anthony had been furious with his son, but had blamed Mario's considerable lack of judgment on his youth. But this…this courtship of the Nash woman was asking—no,
begging
—for trouble, especially since the girl had been attacked last night. Mario was long past the time when Anthony could write off his stupid actions as part of the folly of adolescence.

With a heavy sigh, Anthony said, “The police have already been here asking questions and guess who I got a call from? Remember Jack Logan—the police captain, now retired? He was a detective sergeant at the time of the Danvers kidnapping. Apparently he's still working for the Danvers family and more than happy to start in on us again.”

Mario seemed unruffled. He showed no outward signs of remorse. “How was I to know she'd be attacked? Jesus, Dad, I didn't have a clue! How could I?” His dark brows slammed together. “Don't tell me one of your men was behind it!”

“Of course not!” Anthony snapped and felt a quick pain under his breastbone, the same pain that shot through him whenever he was under a great deal of stress. He took a deep, calming breath and ignored the irritating little jab. “We're in negotiations with her, aren't we?”

Mario's lower lip protruded thoughtfully and he shook his head. “Apparently not. She claims she's not interested.”

“But she will be, if we make it worth her while.” Anthony was sure of himself. He'd played this game before. Many times. And he always won. “But we must be careful,” he said, gesturing futilely with his hands. “We must use a little decorum, be patient and cautious so as not to tip our hand.”

“What's the point? She already knows what we want. You told her yourself that you were interested in the old hotel. I wasn't tipping anything.”

“No?” They walked along the kick path leading through the rose garden to the back of the house. Mario held the door of the breakfast room open for his father and Anthony, able to breathe now that his heartbeat was regular again, climbed up the stairs. He sat in his usual chair, spooned some sugar into his coffee cup, and tossed the morning edition of the
Oregonian
onto Mario's plate. The paper landed squarely over Mario's neatly sliced grapefruit.

“What the—” Mario stopped when he saw the picture of a cheap motel and below it a smaller photograph of Adria. Even in grainy black-and-white she was beautiful; the smooth lines of her face and her wide eyes reminded him that he wanted her.

“Read it,” Anthony advised as he snapped his napkin across his lap, then waited impatiently while the maid brought juice and coffee. “You'll find your name in paragraph three, I think. A Detective Stinson is coming by to take your statement this morning. She's with the Portland Police Bureau and she's handling her end of the case because Ms. Nash seems to be the target of some rather nasty letters.” He stirred his coffee, rattling the cup with his spoon.

Mario's mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval as he read the article and realized that he had been the last person to see Adria before she was assaulted.

“This is only an educated guess,” Anthony said, dropping his spoon and lifting his cup to his lips. “But I think you've probably made the early morning news broadcasts as well.”

The maid silently deposited a basket of muffins onto the table, then slipped quietly back to the kitchen. “From now on, son,” Anthony suggested as he reached for a bran muffin, “let me know when you plan to see Ms. Nash.” He broke the muffin in half and spread a sparing amount of butter on it. “I just might be able to save you and the family a lot of embarrassment.”

 

Zach paced from one end of the den to the other, stretching the telephone cord to its limit. He muttered curses under his breath and nearly slammed the receiver down.

“If I could just set up an interview with Ms. Nash at her convenience—” Ellen Rigley wheedled. She was pushy, a reporter who didn't seem to understand the word
no
. Zach glanced out the windows to the acres of ranch land that spread as far as the eye could see. It wasn't enough land. There wasn't enough to hide Adria.

“I'm sure she wants her side of the story told—”

Zach held firm and stared down at the front page of the local newspaper that lay open on the desk. Adria' s picture was on page one, along with an old photograph of Witt, Kat, and London. The headlines were thick and black and seemed to scream—
WOMAN CLAIMING TO BE DANVERS HEIRESS ATTACKED
.

It hadn't taken the press long to react. They'd only been at the ranch two days and it was already a madhouse.

Zach felt as if he were trying to plow through quicksand. The faster he went, the farther he tried to get, the deeper and deeper he sank until he felt as if he were choking and there was no way out. No way to save Adria.

Great, he thought sarcastically. Being this close to Adria and keeping his hands off her was hell; trying to keep her from getting herself killed was proving to be nearly impossible. The woman was already talking about returning to Portland, for crying out loud, when the bump on her head was still fresh, her stitches not yet healed.

The all-business female voice hadn't given up. “—so I could fly out this afternoon or tomorrow morning, meet her at the ranch and—”

“I told you Ms. Nash has no comment.” Zach had enough.

“I need to talk to her, Mr. Danvers.” She was obviously trying to bully him. “Adria Nash showed up claiming she was London Danvers, then was attacked in a tiny motel way out of the city by an unknown assailant. The
Post
wants to have an interview with her so she can tell her side of the story—”

Zach slammed down the receiver and pressed a button for the answering machine to pick up. He was tired of reporters and police and the whole mess. The phone jangled instantly and Zach, ignoring the impatient ring, threw his keys onto the counter.

He'd just returned to the ranch house after spending three fruitless hours at the office. A bevy of reporters had kept Terry busy on the phone or shown up and made themselves at home, swilling and complaining about his coffee, waiting for a quote from Zach. He'd given one, largely unprintable, and most of them had taken the hint and slunk out the door with their tails between their legs. But a couple of tough, salty types had lingered, hoping that he'd crack and give them some bit of news that would make their copy different from the others that were being written into word processors around the nation.

Zach had given up trying to get any work done, told Terry to close up shop for the rest of the week, stuffed some papers into his briefcase and tucked a couple of blueprints under his arm. He'd locked the press out of his office, climbed in his Cherokee and driven like a madman back to the ranch, to the eye of the storm. He would have turned off the phones to the house except that he wanted to stay in contact with the sheriff's department in Clackamas County, and the police in Portland. Then there was Sweeny's report. Zach's stomach clenched at the thought of it. Two days had passed since he'd talked to the slimy private investigator and, according to Jason, there was still no word.

The sleaze-ball detective was probably holding out on him. Or Jason was.

Ever since the attack on Adria, Zach trusted no one.

Yanking his jacket from a hook near the pantry, he stormed down the hall and out the back door. A blast of icy air greeted him and though the snow had melted at the lower elevations, a fine layer of white powder was visible in the foothills. The sky was clear, the sun high but without any warmth, and only a few clouds clustered around the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains. On any other day, he'd be glad for the bracing air and cool promise of winter. But not today.

The ranch wasn't impregnable, and before he'd thrown out the reporters and photographers who had insisted upon hanging around the front porch, he hadn't been able to hear himself think.

Fortunately, Manny had decided to take matters into his own Native-American hands. Wearing his well-practiced, stern-Indian expression, he'd wrapped a thick, horsehair blanket over his shoulders and positioned himself in his pickup at the front gate. A no-nonsense rifle was propped against his dashboard and a NO TRESPASSING sign had been posted on one of the weathered fence posts, in full view of the road.

No one suspected the .22 wasn't loaded or that Manny Clearwater was the self-proclaimed worst shot in the county and one of the easiest-going guys Zach had ever met. His severe countenance, shaded by a black felt hat decorated with silver and feathers, was enough to keep even the most ambitious reporters off the property.

For now.

Zach had envisioned bringing Adria here until she'd healed and hoped that the news about her attack would die a quick but quiet death. But his plan had blown up in his face and it seemed as if the entire world knew where she was.

Including the man who wanted her hurt. The muscles in the back of his neck drew together and his jaw clenched so hard it ached. Since she'd declined police protection, Zach had made it his personal responsibility to keep her safe. And alive. But it seemed as if the world, and Adria herself, were against him.

The bottom line was that she wasn't safe here. And that bothered him. It bothered the hell out of him.

He found Adria by the stables, the sunlight catching in her blue-black hair. Forearms bridged over the top fence rail, she watched a herd of mares and half-grown foals picking at the sun-bleached stubble of the field.

A whirlwind, laden with thick dust, danced across the dry paddock, picking up a few dead leaves and spinning them across the ground while the horses moved lazily from one tuft of dry grass to the next. Their hides were dusty and uneven, already beginning to change to the thick, longer coats of winter.

Unaware that he was behind her, she shifted, leaning on her opposite leg, her face turning in profile. His gut clenched at the sight of her and he told himself to forget that she was a woman. “You're a popular lady. The phone's been ringing off the hook.”

“Why do you think I escaped out here?” She ran a finger along the dusty edge of the top rail and her cheeks had turned a deep shade of pink with the cold. “At first I talked to them, but the questions got too heavy, so I decided to take a break.”

“Manny's keeping them at bay down at the gate—the answering machine should catch anything we need to know about.” He propped a foot on the bottom slat and stood next to her. Pretending interest in the ridge of mountains on the horizon, he asked, “How're you feeling?”

“Kind of like an eighteen-wheeler drove up my back.” Smiling a little, she showed off the hint of a dimple that he found incredibly sexy. “But I'll live and I'm afraid that's going to disappoint a lot of people.”

“Don't even say it.”

But she wasn't finished. “You know, Zach,” she continued, turning to face him as the breeze teased soft, curling strands out of the band that held her hair away from her face, “I can't stay here forever.”