Skin Dancer (37 page)

“I understand how you must feel, Frankie. I do. Revenge is a very human emotion.”

“Oh, I think you'll understand a lot better before this is over.”

“Look, you can tie me up and leave now. Dilson won't call the law. He's going to try to get out of this and keep everything hush–hush. He still thinks he can rise above all this.”

“I know.” Frankie stroked the blade. “That's exactly what I'm counting on.” She replaced the knife without slowing the speed of the truck. “My plan was to take Harvey at his press conference. To publicly take him and make him beg, make him confess in front of the media. I wanted to humiliate him and for him to know his career was over. This is going to be better. Something private, where I can take my time.”

They arrived at the gate to Frankie's house. “We'll go to the back. If we make it too easy, he'll smell a trap.”

# # #

Harvey perched in the large elm three hundred yards from the back of Frankie's property. He held the rifle across his lap as he looked through his field glasses. She was pulling into the drive. Another woman was in the truck. It took him a moment to recognize the deputy, Rachel Redmond. Wrong place, wrong time.

The women got out of the truck. Frankie held a handgun. So the deputy was a hostage. Good. More fodder for the PR machine once he got it cranked up.

He lifted the rifle and sighted. Rachel's head came into his crosshairs. His finger teased the trigger as he followed them up to the steps. At the door, when they paused to open it, he'd take the shot and eliminate Rachel. Too bad, she was a pretty girl. Like her mother. But he couldn't risk what she'd learned. She would die, then it would be between him and Frankie.

His finger registered the tension on the trigger. One more iota of pressure and the bullet would go singing into Rachel's head. This was no .22. He'd bought a rifle that could bring down an elephant.

The women climbed the back steps. Frankie fumbled with the keys to the back door.

He pulled the trigger.

# # #

Chips of brick and mortar stung her face, and Rachel felt herself flying through the air. First her shoulder struck the tile near the steps, then her head. Consciousness started to slip from her, but she fought against the darkness.

Beside her, Frankie was laughing. “I'm impressed with Harvey. He's thinking ahead. He meant to take you out, Rachel, because he figures you know too much. Then it would be just me and him,
mano–a–mano,
so to speak. Killing all of those drugged and injured animals has given him delusions of grandeur. He thinks he's a crack shot.”

The truck blocked them from further fire, and Rachel eased herself into a sitting position beside Frankie. “You saved my life.”

“I'll kill you if I have to, but I don't necessarily want to do that.”

“You knew Harvey would take a shot here.”

She nodded. “It was a safe assumption. It's what I would do. He could hit you, claiming a mistake, then take me out. He doesn't know if Richard is alive or dead, so he's assuming that all of the witnesses to his past will be gone.”

Rachel digested the events. Dilson was a righteous bastard. If she had a gun and a clean shot, she'd be tempted to take him out herself.

“You want to kill him.” Frankie nudged her shoulder. “I see it in your face. See how easy it is to step across that line. Imagine me, a prisoner in a wheelchair, unable to walk or talk for several years. All I had was the fantasy of my revenge.”

“Is Jake here?” Rachel didn't want to encourage Frankie by talking about killing Dilson.

“Let's go inside and see.”

“Dilson will kill us if we move.”

“No, he won't. He's gone.”

Frankie spoke with such assurance. “How can you be sure?” Rachel asked.

“He's moved to a new location. He's afraid I'll target him because I can figure out the angle of the shot. I'm an engineer, and he won't forget that.” She handed Rachel the keys to the door. “Open it and go inside.”

Rachel held the keys. “What if you're wrong? What if he's still there, waiting for us to show ourselves.”

“One of us has to open the door. In my opinion, you're more expendable than I am.”

Rachel's fingers clutched the keys. She rose slowly. If she made it, she could bolt the door, maybe find a weapon, search for Jake. It was a chance.

She dashed up the steps and thrust the key home. The door opened but the key refused to come out of the lock. She left it. She was inside. Frankie was two seconds behind her, but it was two seconds too late. She slammed the door hard, driving the deadbolt home, leaving Frankie standing on the steps.

“Rachel! Open the door!” Frankie yelled.

Rachel found herself in a mud room. Coats and boots neatly lined one wall. Gardening tools hung next to the coats. She grasped a hand rake with tines as sharp as stilettos.

Frankie's body slammed into the door. Then silence.

Rachel moved swiftly, going to the east side to check the French doors. She could only pray that with Frankie's exquisite taste, the glass was shatter proof and the door strong enough to withstand an assault. She moved on to the front door. It was locked tight. She made her way to the west side of the house, checking doors and windows, her breath coming short and shallow in her fear.

When she'd made a circuit of the main floor, she stopped and listened.

Silence.

Frankie was out there, somewhere. And so was Harvey Dilson. Either one of them would kill her.

Frankie would have an arsenal in the house, but Rachel didn't know where. She clung to the rake, listening. Which direction would the assault come from? She had to second guess Frankie. It was her only chance to stay alive.

A cordless telephone was on a table in the hallway, and she picked it up. She wasn't surprised to discover the line was dead. Frankie had beaten her to it, cutting the line at the box on the side of the house.

All the downstairs rooms were empty, and Rachel moved upstairs. That would be the best defense point. She could set some booby traps, hold her position at the top. First she had to find Jake.

She moved along the spacious hallway, her footsteps falling softly into the thick, beige carpet. The bedrooms circled an atrium. All of the doors were closed, and if Jake was a prisoner, he could be anywhere. Rachel felt time ticking away. Frankie would come, and soon.

She opened the first door. The empty bedroom looked as if it had been designed for a fashion shoot.

The same with the second, third, and fourth. When she got to the master suite, Frankie's room, Rachel stopped. As soon as the door opened, the whiff of blood seeped out to her.

“Jake?”

She crept into the room. It was almost too late when she heard the growl of the dog. The huge Rottweiler charged at her, jaws open and saliva dripping. Armed only with the rake, Rachel stumbled backwards out of the room. She hit the railing and flipped.

At the last moment, one hand caught a banister. She gripped it for her life, her body swinging over the open void of the atrium.

She had to drop the rake to hold on. It clattered to the tile floor below. As she found a purchase with her second hand and began to pull herself up, she came face to face with the jaws of the dog.

He lunged at her, going for her fingers that gripped the banister spindles. With one powerful arc of her body, she swung her leg over the railing.

The dog was on her in a flash. He sank his canines into her calf. The pain was electric, and she had no weapon to beat him off. She could feel his teeth sinking deeper into her muscle, chewing and tearing.

Focus. She mentally grasped the training she'd struggled so hard to attain. Focus. She brought her free leg over the railing and planted the kick at the dog's nose.

Blinded by pain, the dog let loose. Rachel ran. Her leg gave with each step, but she didn't stop. She hurled herself into the master bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

She looked at her leg and felt nausea rise in her throat. No time now. No time. She had to find a weapon and she had to find Jake. Frankie was out there. She wouldn't wait forever to attack.

Blood trailing behind her, she hobbled into the bedroom. She saw Jake instantly, tied to the bed.

Her breath caught in her throat. It looked as if the dog had bitten his hands and feet.

“Jake!” She didn't care that her voice broke and the sob she'd tried to hold back finally escaped. “Jake!”

His head turned slowly. “Get out of here, Rachel,” he managed. “Every time I move, the dog is on me.”

She went to the bed. He'd been bitten, but she didn't see any abdominal wounds. Jake's hands were tied with scarves, and she worked to unknot his right one.

“Get out.” His voice was weak. “There's a dog.”

“I know about him. It's okay.”

“Where's Frankie?”

“Outside the house. She'll be here any minute.”

“She's the killer. She's got Richard Jones.”

“I know.” His right hand was free. She set to work on his leg. “She's outside and so is Dilson.”

“The senator?” Jake sounded groggy.

“Yeah. Dilson murdered her father. He hid the body in a mine shaft. He was screwing her mother. Look, I'll explain it all later, but we have to get out of here. Dilson tried to kill me, and he'll kill us both if Frankie doesn't.”

“Rachel, leave me. I—”

She shook him lightly. “Stop it. I'm going to get you some water. Untie your left arm and leg. If she gets in here, you're going to have to move and fast.”

“The dog?”

“Outside.” She hurried into the master bath and brought a cup of water which Jake drank greedily. He gingerly moved his arms and legs.

“Can you walk?” she asked. Her gaze went to the window. From this angle she had a clear view of the backyard, the truck, the tree at the far back edge of the estate where Dilson had obviously hidden in his ambush.

“I'm not sure. She gave me something.”

“Are there any guns up here?”

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

She went to the dresser, pulling out drawers and dumping the contents. Silky underpants frothed to the floor. Hose, nighties, bras followed. She moved to the closet, dumping boxes of shoes from the shelves and tossing them into the center of the room. A small gourd rattle hit the carpet with a soft hiss. She picked it up. She'd heard of bone rattles but never seen one. Legend had it that the rattle contained the vertebrae of a warrior's dead enemies. She dropped it and turned back to help Jake.

“Try to stand,” she ordered as she worked. As soon as Jake was off the bed and standing, she flipped the mattress. Her calf burned, and she could only imagine what Jake felt like, but he was walking, searching for a weapon.

“Is your cell phone here?” Rachel asked.

“She took it.”

“Radio?”

He shook his head. “She took everything.”

“There have to be guns in this house.”

“If there are, you're going to have to go through Brutus to get them.”

At the sound of a low whistle that came from somewhere in the house, Rachel turned to Jake. “Maybe not,” she said. “Frankie's home.”

 

Harvey left the tree as soon as he fired. It was impossible that he'd missed Rachel. Frankie had pushed the deputy out of the way as if some sixth sense had warned her. Damn it. Now they were in the house. It was going to be a lot harder to kill them.

Circling the property, he stopped to scan each window on the west side of the house, hoping for telltale movement that would indicate where they were located.

The house was still. It looked empty, but he knew better.

He went to the front and maneuvered down the driveway. Frankie didn't have gates and alarms. She probably thought she didn't need such things.

As he got closer, he saw that the front door was open. An invitation to a trap? Moving from bush to shrub, he drew closer. This was the hunt, the real thing. As annoyed as he was at the disruption of his carefully laid plans, he couldn't help but feel the rush of blood. He'd hunted many things, but never anything that could hunt him back.

As he slipped to the front door, he hesitated. Frankie was likely waiting on the other side, but he had to go inside if he was going to kill her.

Careful not to make noise, he stepped onto the marble of the foyer. It was as if the house held its breath. Not a single sound came to him.

He moved forward, the rifle pointed down but his finger on the trigger. Edging into the parlor, he was startled by the dark shape of the sofa. For a moment it had looked like a rhino he'd killed when he was entertaining a group of Russian businessmen. They'd never known the old beast was bought from a zoo and drugged. Turning back to the hallway, he felt the cold barrel of the gun right behind his ear.

“Hello, Harvey,” Frankie drawled. “So nice of you to stop by for a visit.”

“Frances.” He used her formal name, the name Dub had always called her. “You had us all fooled, didn't you?”

She never answered. She drew back the gun and whacked him with the butt. He sank to his knees and fell face–forward into the carpet.

# # #

“Now,” Rachel ordered.

Jake opened the door. When the dog burst into the room, Rachel, on her knees, jammed the chair from Frankie's vanity at him. As Brutus hit the chair legs, Rachel rolled backwards, using the momentum of the dog to push Brutus, tangled in chair legs, over her head. The canine landed across the room with a thud.

“Run!” she ordered Jake. As he hobbled from the bedroom, she was right on his heels. She managed to slam the bedroom door before Brutus could reorganize and charge them.

The wham of the dog's body on the wooden door made the frame shake.

“Come on,” she whispered to Jake as she put his arm around her shoulders. “We have to try to get out.”