Shadowed Paradise (44 page)

Jamie! Oh, God, where was he? Already dead?
“Jamie, Jamie!” Claire’s scream echoed from one end Palm Court to
the other.

“
Mom!” Jamie pounded on the closet
door. “In here, mom!”

Claire’s legs buckled as she turned the key.
She sank to her knees as her son tumbled into her arms. Their tears
mingled. The poker, forgotten, lay on the bed where Claire tossed
it when she heard Jamie’s shout.

A hand fastened around Claire’s ankle.
Tight.

“
Inside!” Claire shoved Jamie back
through the closet door, snatched the big old-fashioned key out of
the lock and tossed it after him. “Lock it,” she commanded, “and
don’t come out!”

Jordan, swimming up out of darkness, reached
reflexively for the first thing that caught his eye, grabbed and
held on. He shut his eyes, tried to focus. He was lying on his side
sprawled on the floor. His head felt like it was caught in the maw
of a giant bell, pulsing painfully to each swing of the clapper. He
could hear words, sense movement. Jody?

He pried his eyes open; the room shimmered
into focus. Something hard, uncomfortable, was digging into his
side. Incredibly—women were such fools!—he was lying on the knife,
which was still in its sheath. When he looked up, he discovered he
was holding not Jody, but Claire.

Claire, sweet Claire, on her knees with her
back to him as she slammed the closet door. Jordan forced his head
around to look behind him, sucked in his breath as pain struck him
hard. Jody was lying where she’d fallen when he was attacked. Dead?
He thought so. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter now. He had
bigger game in sight.

When Jordan turned back to Claire, she had
collapsed sideways onto one hip, her ankle still in his hand. For a
long, silent moment they stared at each other. “Why?” she
whispered. “How could you?” Even as she said it, Claire knew how
foolish she sounded. There was only one explanation for what he had
done. He was mad. And the why of that might never be known.

The eyes regarding her from the
familiar face of a friend were oddly sane. Sad perhaps. Regretful?
The fire, the overwhelming desire, the need, were gone. Assuaged by
Jody’s sacrifice? Oh, God, don’t let it be so, Claire begged. Jody
was too young to die.
We all
are.

“
It just happened,” he said. “I didn’t
plan it. Not at first. The Realtor in Manatee Bay—the first one—the
bitch was asking for it. I went a long time after that, no problem,
but then Mom got real nasty. I think she knew, or guessed. One
night I just lost it. I was sick of hearing her nag, so I did her
too. After that, I tried to be good, let that be the end of it, but
it was . . . exciting. A real turn-on. I found . . . I liked
it.”

Jordan pulled the knife out of its sheath,
held it up to the light, admiring the carved handle, the classic
lines, the simple beauty of it. “I never got much satisfaction from
women . . .” With a sharp movement he thrust the lethal phallic
symbol back into its sheath. “Men didn’t do anything for me either.
I decided sex just wasn’t for me.”

Claire breathed easier as the knife
disappeared into the leather. But the poker, black and ugly, was
lying on the bed, out of reach; her cell phone was in her purse on
the kitchen counter. But if she could keep Jordan talking, surely
someone would come. Brad, Pat Farrell, Slade. Someone was bound to
come.

“
Then I met Phil,” Jordan continued in
a perfectly normal conversational style. “She was always so well
dressed, fresh, sweet-smelling.” His lips thinned. “Too much in
control, too tight-assed to encourage a pass. Damned princess
wanted a eunuch to wear on her arm, fetch and carry, sit up and
beg. And then Diane came along. Drove me crazy, that girl. She was
so full of sex, she scared me shitless.”

“
You killed her, didn’t you?” Claire
said softly. “Brad was right, you did it.”

“
I did, I surely did.” Jordan sucked in
his breath. His head was better now. He was getting his second
wind. “I loved her, you know. Don’t know why. I never loved
anything before. Except maybe Mom. I didn’t want to kill her. Mom.
I buried her under the pines, made her a cross . . .” His voice
died away as he thought about the cross lying on an evidence shelf
in some cold, dark, aseptic place. Claire shouldn’t have found it.
Shouldn’t . . . fucking bitch.

Keep him
talking
. She had to say something. Anything. Mustn’t
let him slip back into madness. “Jordan, was it you that day at the
mall? And at the model?”

“
Of course,” he retorted, as if
insulted she could have thought otherwise. “How many murderers do
you think we’ve got around here?” His lips quirked in appreciation
of his wit. Once again, his fingers found, and fondled, the hilt of
the knife that rose above his belt. “I suppose we should get on
with it,” he sighed. Somehow he had to finish it, but the fever was
gone, his resolve fading as fast as his lust. Nothing was left but
a whimper.

But Claire had to die; it was part of the
plan. Rook takes Queen. The next to the last move in the ritual of
death.

Claire saw his eyes change, the melancholy
switch, not to madness but to . . . determination. The hand around
her left ankle was like a leg iron. But . . . was it only reflex?
Perhaps he’d forgotten it was there. While Jordan talked, Claire
eased her right foot out from under her left leg. With her hands
braced behind her, she tried to hitch herself backwards. Jordan’s
eyes flamed, his jaw clenched. Claire’s abortive movements went
nowhere. All she’d done was make him angry.

And then he smiled. A beautiful, absolutely
charming smile. And Claire knew what the others had seen just
before death. If the smiling man in front of her looked less like
the friend who helped with her wedding, who raised funds for all
the most socially correct charities . . . If he looked less like a
pillar of the community and more like the monster he was, it would
be easier to convince herself she had to fight, to kick and gouge
and scratch and bite. She had to live for Jamie and Brad. For
herself. For the new life to which a crack had miraculously opened.
And was about to be slammed shut.

The hand fingering the knife hilt tightened
as, once again, Jordan Lovell began to slide the long shining blade
from its sheath. Claire twisted violently, kicked the two-inch heel
of her right shoe straight into Jordan’s knife hand. As he howled
with pain and rage, she scrambled to her feet and dashed toward the
door. The hall to the back stairs and the kitchen was too far, but
the tower room had a door that locked . . . she thought. And a
phone.

She almost made it. She was on the second
step when Jordan tackled her. They crashed down in a tangled heap.
No hope of besting him in a contest of strength. Jordan Lovell
might be brass to Brad Blue’s steel, but, though Claire’s will was
strong, she rated her physical strength somewhere between
marshmallow and cream puff. She had to fight smart. Fight
dirty.

Claire’s head banged hard into one of the
wooden stair risers. Infuriated by the sharp crack of pain, she
swung at Jordan’s head, straight at the rising bruise where she had
slugged him with the poker.

With a sharp grunt of pain, he loosed his
grip. Claire made a dive for the knife, but he’d rolled on top of
it where neither of them could reach it. Claire gritted her teeth
and did what had to be done. Not as ruthlessly as she should have,
but the result was spectacular. Infinitely satisfying.

While Jordan clutched his crotch and rolled
in agony, Claire raced up the stairs to the tower, slammed the door
and . . . and was hit by another kind of panic. The hole in the
door, where the long metal key should have been, was empty. She
dragged a small chest in front of the door, knowing it wouldn’t be
enough. It might, however, hold long enough for her to make a phone
call.

The phone was an ancient rotary dial,
so surprisingly heavy she almost dropped it. She had completed the
long circular motion of the
nine
and was on the first short
one
when she realized there was no dial tone. Oh, God, not
again.

Claire took a good look at the phone, at its
dangling cord ending in a square of beige plastic with teeth. The
phone wasn’t plugged in. What did she expect? The room probably
hadn’t been used in years.

There was a banging on the door, the
dresser heaved. Frantically, Claire looked around for the phone
outlet. There had to be one. Somewhere.
Brad! Where did you hide the damn plug?

With the grinding sound of wood on wood, the
door flew open and Jordan came in with a rush, pausing with his
back to the stairs, the knife gleaming in the sunlight of the tower
room’s many windows. He was no longer having difficulty holding it,
Claire noted with the clarity that comes when you know death is
certain. That there is nowhere else to run.

But there was. The spiral staircase, the
sundeck on the roof. From there, if she screamed loud enough,
perhaps one of the neighbors would hear her. If she could slow
Jordan down, keep him stalking, toying with her instead of
attacking Jamie and Jody. He was intelligent, sophisticated. He
liked to move slowly, elegantly. He liked to talk.

To smile and smile. And kill.

“
Look, Jordan, you don’t really want to
do this,” Claire breathed as she backed slowly toward the narrow
winding staircase. “You know Brad is going to be here any minute.
Slade Whitlaw and the county cops as well.”
If only!
“Give it up and they’ll go easy on you.
Kill me and Brad’ll make you into hash. And you know it.”
That much at least was true.

“
I’m counting on it,” Jordan replied.
And started across the floor. Smiling.

“
Claire!” Brad’s voice boomed up from
the kitchen. Hard. Anxious. “Claire, where are you? Answer me,
dammit!”

Thank you, Lord!
By some miracle her bravado had come true. Taking advantage
of Jordan’s momentary distraction, Claire kept backing toward the
spiral staircase.

Jordan’s pulse rate soared. This was
it. Wonder Boy Blue to the rescue. Ready . . . and more than
willing to do his part in the scheme of things. He supposed he
should make one last attempt to kill Claire. There was just time.
But somehow the excitement had gone out of him. Time to move on to
the final act. He wanted something spectacular. Even a madman could
enjoy the grand gesture, the
beau
geste
.

Claire came to an abrupt halt as the black
metal stair rail dug into her back. Very slowly, she reached behind
her, clutched the railing to keep her legs from buckling, groped
with her heel to find the first step.

Brad’s voice was joined by Slade’s: “Claire!”
“Jamie!” “Jody!” “Claire!” Behind their shouts came the distant
sound of wailing sirens. “Brad, I’m starting up.” Slade’s shout
came from the foot of the formal staircase in the living room.

Brad’s reply was strong and steady, the voice
of a man who had been in tight spots many times before. “I’m on
two. Come ahead easy.”

Jordan turned sideways, peered down the third
floor stairs toward the landing where Slade would soon appear.
Claire inched up to the second step of the spiral staircase, never
taking her eyes off Lovell.

They heard a shout, the sound of running
feet, an anguished exclamation, quickly bitten off, from Slade.

They’d found Jody.

Claire turned and sprang up the steps,
promptly banged her head against the ceiling. Frantically, she
struggled with the bolt that held the trap door in place. Her
fingers were all thumbs. No time to look, but she sensed that
Jordan had abandoned his interest in the action below and was close
behind her. Blindly, she lashed out with her foot, felt her heel
strike flesh, heard an angry grunt of pain. The bolt gave way and,
breathless and exhausted, she hauled herself out onto the roof,
hand over hand on the black iron extension set into the sun deck’s
tile floor.

She was finished, she realized, as her legs
noodled out from under her. Her spirit was willing, but her body
had simply stopped. So there she was, sprawled on her hands and
knees, head hanging, ready for the slaughter.

Jordan—the knife glinting in his
hand—clambered over her and just kept going. When he reached the
western wall of the tower, the one with the four-story drop to the
cement patio surrounding the pool, he turned around and stared past
her.

Claire whimpered as a hand gripped her
shoulder. “You okay?” Brad’s voice said just above her ear.

Out of a wild haze of relief, Claire summoned
the strength to nod her head. For some strange reason it wasn’t her
day to die. She’d been relegated to the role of observer. Brad
stood above her, gun in hand, while an odd look of satisfaction
spread over Jordan Lovell’s handsome face. Claire saw no sign of
panic, no fear. As if he’d wanted Brad to arrive carrying a
gun.

“
I regret I didn’t have time to finish
it,” Lovell said. Clearly, distinctively, tauntingly, he added: “I
planned to kill them both, you know. Jody’s such a sweet little
thing, I couldn’t resist. And Claire? Claire was to be your
punishment, Blue. For having Diane. For knowing too much.
Understanding too much. And also”—Jordan drove the knife down hard
into its leather sheath—“and also for killing me.”

“
You’re too sick to kill,” Brad said
evenly. “I won’t give you the satisfaction. We’ll just let the
doctors pick apart that weirdo head of yours. Give it up, Lovell,
let’s go.”