Deadly choice, p.19
Deadly Choice, page 19
“Nice dinosaur,” Charlie said.
“Yes, it is.” Isabella admired the rainbow stripes that Nina was giving the Tyrannosaurus. Then she realized that Charlie’s compliment had been for her. “Art is what I do.”
“I used to think about learning to draw. Too old now.”
“When this is all over, come see me. I teach all sorts of people how to paint or draw. You’re never too old to learn. It’ll be payment for your door.”
She hadn’t thought about her shop for days, not since the Monster had kidnapped her. She had one employee, Brianne, who’d worked for her for the past three years and whom she trusted. Brianne had agreed to hold down the fort until Isabella returned from Chicago and her “vacation.”
The plan had been for Isabella to check in every day. Obviously, she hadn’t. Had Brianne kept the store open? Had she had any problems? Ethan had said he would take over her painting classes. Had he?
She’d been so worried about dying that she hadn’t thought about her business. It had taken her years to build it up to where she was making a decent living.
But had Wyatt or the Monster told Brianne that she wasn’t coming back? If Brianne believed it and closed the shop, Isabella could lose customers. She could even lose her whole business.
Not likely, she reassured herself. But it was a possibility.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car. Except it didn’t drive by. It slowed. And then stopped.
“That should be them. The women my friend sent.” She rose from her chair, but Charlie who had just cut a slice of bread with his hunting knife, shook his head.
“Stay away from the window. Just in case it’s not the people your friend sent. You take the little cutie here, and scoot upstairs and hide while I check it out.”
“Okay.” It made sense. After all, they were only a mile from the cabin that she’d escaped. Wyatt and the Monster would probably knock on the doors of the closest houses to check if anyone had seen her and Nina.
“And you’re expecting two women?” Charlie asked.
“Yes. Lizzie Vaughn and Murphy Green. Nina, grab Tiger.” Isabella picked up the sketch book and the colored pencils. “Take Mommy’s hand.”
Nina did both, and they climbed the stairs.
CHAPTER 44
Patricia
So, there I was with a gun under the apron, in the expensively decorated bedroom of that woman who’d not only helped kill my daughter but who had just crushed her own daughter’s spirit. Every bit of my being wanted to take out the gun and shoot until I ran out of ammunition. I could feel my hands trembling with the temptation. Just do it. Resisting that impulse was hard.
I wanted to kill her. I really did. I could feel my hand on the gun. I could picture her face when I pulled it out and then when I pulled the trigger.
It would be faster than she deserved, considering what Ashley had suffered—and the pain she was inflicting on her own children. But that one moment—when she’d see the gun and know that she was about to die—that would be lovely.
Not as lovely as it should be. I wouldn’t have time to tell her why I was killing her—because unlike poor old Tom Martin, who I felt a little bad about, she had more than my daughter’s death atone for.
Tom had been a coward who put his own well-being above my daughter’s life, knowing that she could die as a result. But he hadn’t been an overall terrible person. He hadn’t mistreated his own child. And he’d been pushed into denying Ashley the abortion that would have saved her life by laws passed by fanatics and by this woman who wanted to use the issue to propel herself into a higher office.
Brenda deserved to die even more than Tom had.
I wanted to do it.
But I didn’t.
I could hear Christina sobbing in her room down the hall. She’d hear if I shot. So would Kevin, who was in the room next to Christina’s doing his homework. Brenda might deserve to die, but her children didn’t deserve to be witnesses to her murder.
Still thanks to Brenda’s cruelty towards her own child, I was no longer wavering. I’d avenge Ashley and relieve Christina and Kevin of a terrible mother.
I just needed to wait for the right opportunity. It was no longer a question of whether to kill her. Just how. And when. To minimize the trauma to the children as well as to minimize the chances of my getting caught, it had to be planned. It had to be later.
When the kids were out of the house. Or asleep.
“Is that all?” I was back to playing the obedient servant.
She was brushing her hair as if nothing had happened. “For now. Maybe you could check that the children are doing their homework before you start lunch.”
I all but curtseyed. Then I headed for Christina’s room.
She was in her bed, under the covers, still sobbing.
I sat on the side of the bed and patted the shape that I assumed was her head. “It’s okay, honey.”
“No, it’s not.” Her voice was muffled by the sheets and blankets. “It’s not. It’s never okay.” Then she emerged. “I hate it here. I hate her. Can I come live with you?”
“I live here right now.” I was touched by the question. “You are living with me.”
“You won’t be for long. No one can stand her. I had such a great time yesterday and last night. All night I dreamed of horses. And she had to ruin it.”
“You can keep dreaming. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“She won’t. She doesn’t care about me. And she’s taking me shopping, not you. She’ll buy me more of what I already have. The same stupid dresses and the same stupid skirts that make me look fat. She won’t let me switch schools. I’m the fat weirdo and that’s all I am. Last night I thought…” Her voice became almost unintelligible. I had to strain to hear her. “Last night, I thought that even if kids made fun of me, I’d have something that made me happy. Being around horses. And now that’s gone too.”
“Maybe your Dad—”
“He won’t. He lets her do whatever she wants.”
“Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Someone who could talk to your Mom?”
“No. No one. The only family besides my parents is my uncle. But he lives in Paris, and he doesn’t talk to my mother anymore.”
I had a wild thought. Maybe not so wild. Kill both of them, Papa and Mama Phillips. On their best days, they were neglectful parents, and when they weren’t being neglectful, they were downright cruel. Get rid of both of them and take Christina and Kevin with me to Vermont. I had a sudden vision of driving north with the two of them, out of Texas, out of the South, into the cold and muddy Vermont spring where they could meet my horse, my cows, and my chickens. I could even get another horse or two. I had enough acres. And a big barn.
It was a nice thought. For a moment.
I wasn’t just mourning the loss of Ashley as a person whom I’d loved. I was mourning that I was no longer a mother, that special relationship that you have with your child, even after she grows up. That relationship was gone forever. And I was mourning that I would never be a grandmother. But here was my chance. I could be a mother again. I had grown very fond of both kids in just the few days that I’d been playing downstairs maid here at Downton Abbey.
The police wouldn’t look for the killer or the kids in Vermont, because Mindy Black had never been in Vermont. Mindy Black lived in Minnesota. The dark web where I’d bought her identity had no links to my real name.
The police would have the name of Mindy Black and her address. I didn’t know the real Mindy Black, and I didn’t wish her any harm. But when they found her in Minnesota, they’d realize that her identity had been stolen. She’d be cleared—because her fingerprints and her DNA wouldn’t be in the Phillips’ house.
Mine would.
I’m not in any national database, as far as I know. But once the police had my DNA, I could be tracked down if Ashley had ever used any of those DNA services. If any relative anywhere had, the police could trace that DNA back to me. Back to me on the farm.
Maybe the authorities wouldn’t track me down, but more likely they would. It might take time, but they’d find me eventually. I’d known that before I embarked on my mission, before I sent the concert tickets to Tom Martin’s wife and son. I knew there would be a price, and I was willing to pay it. Ashley was worth it. Whatever happened to me didn’t matter compared to what had happened to her.
But while I had already planned to hide the rest of my life—unless I just gave myself up when I finished killing everyone who needed to be killed—if I took Christina and Kevin with me, that would mean that they would have to be in hiding too.
We’d have to stay on the farm. I’d have to home school them so that they didn’t inadvertently reveal who they really were to kids at school. Horses and cows and chickens might sustain the interest of younger kids, but when they reached their teen years, they would want more. Like Ashley had. But Christina and Kevin could never have it.
No schools and no friends.
No college.
No trips to New York City. To Boston. To anywhere in fact.
How was that in any way less selfish and neglectful than what the Phillipses were doing?
And the kids were smart. They’d figure out what I’d done, sooner or later. What would they think if they knew I’d killed their parents? Even if Christina was angry at her mother now—how would she feel in a year, five years, knowing that I’d not only deprived her of her mother, but forced her into a life where she had no friends, went nowhere, and had no future?
Maybe Roland was a lousy Dad, but that wasn’t a death penalty offense.
I’d leave the kids for their Dad to bring up after I killed Brenda. Like Tom Martin, Brenda would appear to commit suicide. I’d stay on for a few weeks after, and then Mindy Black would quietly disappear.
Leaving the kids would hurt, but it was the right thing to do for their sakes.
I took a deep breath. “Now out of the bed. Let’s conjugate some verbs. Bien? On y va.”
CHAPTER 45
John
Wyatt, like an idiot, was pacing outside the cabin when John pulled up. How could the fool have let a pregnant woman with a four-year-old get away from him? More importantly, how had John let himself get sucked into this mess? Why had he accepted the personal mission of stopping Isabella from getting an abortion? As much as he didn’t want any woman murdering her baby, he didn’t need this shit.
Too late for regrets. He was in up to his eyeballs. If the woman went to the police, she could identify him as her kidnapper.
That she hadn’t yet done so was a good sign. Maybe she didn’t want to have to tell the police that she had been held because she was planning an abortion.
But both for his own security and to save a baby’s life, he had to find her.
“You see her on the road?” Wyatt approached the truck eagerly.
“She’s not stupid. She’d not going to be on the road. Did you check for tracks?” John swung the truck door open and stepped down.
“Do I look like fucking Davy Crocket?”
What a fucking moron. “Why didn’t you lock her in the bedroom?”
Wyatt flushed. “I told you. I dozed off in front of the television. After dinner.”
“You… dozed off. You know, soldiers are shot for going to sleep on duty.”
“I’m not a soldier.”
“That’s for damn sure.” But John was. He was in the war to stop the abortions, and because of Wyatt, he’d been dragged into a side battle that could keep him from achieving the greater glory.
John paced to the window outside Wyatt’s bedroom. The dirt was hard-packed and showed no footsteps, although there were broken twigs and bent weeds. He tried to follow a trail, bending over to look for more signs but it was confusing. There was a lot of bent grass. A lot of broken twigs. He couldn’t tell how old any of it was, whether made by humans, whether by animals, and if by humans, by who. Maybe he wasn’t fucking Davy Crocket either. “Not going to find them by searching on foot. They either got lost in the hills or they found shelter somewhere.”
“You think a mountain lion—or some coyotes—maybe got them? Jesus Christ. I didn’t want her hurt. Or Nina. Especially not Nina.”
“You hear any screams?”
Wyatt shook his head.
“Doubt a mountain lion could have killed both of them in total silence without a trace.”
“I was asleep.”
“So you said. Let’s go.” He headed back to the truck.
“Where?”
“Just get in.”
John could drive his Ram off road, but he decided not to. While he’d discounted the possibility of a mountain lion or coyotes killing Isabella, her unborn baby, and her child, he knew it was possible. If it had happened, there was nothing he could do.
If she had gone the wrong way in the dark, not towards help, but towards wild country, there was also little he could do. She might be found eventually but possibly not. There was a lot of empty space, easy to get lost.
He had two goals. One of course was to save the unborn baby that Isabella was carrying. But almost as important was that this mess with Isabella not jeopardize his important antiabortion work.
Isabella dying with her unborn baby in the wilderness would be a tragedy. However, the more concerning question was whether she’d reached someone who would help her. That posed a threat not only to the unborn baby but to him.
The closest house was a small ranch up the hill, maybe a half mile away but out of sight.
The house was occupied by a couple, two kids, a goat, five chickens, and a dog. The kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth, while the woman hung clothes on a line. When John stopped his Ram and opened his door, the dog barked and growled, hackles raised. John retreated back inside the truck and rolled down the window. The husband emerged from the house, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and shook his head at the description of Isabella, whom John depicted as mentally ill and prone to paranoid delusions. And a risk to her child.
“Nope, no woman wandering around with a kid. If she’d come ’round here, I’d know. My dog isn’t too friendly.” The man didn’t appear too friendly either.
“Thanks a lot.” John put the Ram into gear and drove off, followed by the dog that continued to bark and growl.
“Think they’re lying?”
“Nope. The dog. Too interested in us for there to be a stranger in the house.” John was getting worried. The longer it took, the less likely they’d find them.
This time, instead of driving up the mountain, he drove down. He should have driven down in the first place. Down was always easier. A woman carrying a child would take the easier route.
They drove in silence, back past the cabin, Wyatt half hanging out the window to scan for any sign of Isabella or the little girl, continuing down the road two miles or so to a new, three-story monstrosity that some person with money must have built for the experience of being out in the country without being in the country. Stone facade. Manicured garden.
John pulled in the drive. No cars. He looked at the signs in the window and in the yard announcing alarms to protect the property. “Go ring the bell,” he told Wyatt.
If anyone was home, it would be worth talking to them. If not, move on. Either Isabella had been there and was gone, being driven back to the city by whatever rich person owned the house, or this was a dead end. In either case, not worth him getting out of the truck.
Wyatt returned to the truck five minutes later.
“I rang and rang. No one.”
John heaved a sigh.
“You know, you missed a house,” Wyatt said.
“What?”
“There was a driveway about a mile back. Couldn’t see any house from the road, but where there’s a driveway, there’s a house.”
Maybe Wyatt wasn’t as stupid as John thought.
“Okay, let’s try that.”
John drove back up the road and then down a half-mile driveway to a dilapidated ranch house. The roof needed shingles. Paint was peeling off the side of the house. And the front porch looked old and rickety.
John parked the truck and got out.
CHAPTER 46
Lizzie
Lizzie stood on the rotting porch and peered through the half-open door. “Hello?” No one answered.
Murphy, beside her, had her gun in hand. “Push it open.”
Lizzie tried calling again. “Isabella? Ethan sent us.”
Still nothing.
Lizzie hesitated and then she glanced at Murphy. “Maybe you should put away the gun before we go in.”
Murphy shook her head. “Petersen is a dangerous son-of-a-bitch.”
“If he was here, he’s gone. If he’s not here, you could scare someone. And you know what people do in Texas when they’re scared.”
“Darling, you worry too much.” But Murphy slid the gun back out of sight.
“We’re coming in.” Lizzie pushed on the door. It creaked open. Her first sight confirmed Ethan’s description of the place—a weekend home for an older person. It had that kind of decor and feel—with a musty smell that mingled with something else, something fresh that Lizzie took a second to identify. Then she did.
“Goddamn. Smell that?” she asked Murphy.
Murphy didn’t answer, but the gun came out again.
The body wasn’t visible until she turned around and saw it on the floor in front of a window, blood pooling on the floor from a gunshot in the middle of his chest. An older man lay with his eyes half open, a hunting knife in one hand.
Lizzie should have dealt with Petersen the previous night the way she’d dealt with killers in Germany. Instead, she’d had sex with him, rooted through his files, and found nothing. She used to know what to do with monsters, and then she’d put all that behind her.
