I'll Find You Part 38

Callie took a slow step to the side, so that she could get out of harm's way. They glared at each other. Andre's gun hand was slack, she saw, and his free hand was pus.h.i.+ng hard against his temple. "You killed them . . . and Lumpkin . . . Jerrilyn . . ." he muttered.

"And Teresa," she said coldly. "Your handmaidens . . . You really thought they were capable of killing for you?"

"Naomi ran down the old lady," Andre growled.

"No . . ." Callie murmured, horrified.

"Is she dead?" Aimee asked with an edge.

"She will be," Andre a.s.sured her, seeming to get some of his strength back. "Teresa killed for me."

"Always Teresa," she said in disgust. "She was supposed to kill Stephen Laughlin, but she got someone else to do that one. Couldn't quite dirty her hands. She'd had the man's child and had feelings for him."

"She killed him under my orders," Andre snarled. He looked ready to throttle Aimee who seemed not to care about the danger.

"She did murder Jonathan Cantrell, though," Aimee conceded. "But only because he found your camp here," she sneered, throwing out a hand to encompa.s.s the house. "Stupid a.s.s wouldn't stop looking for his lovely, lovely Teresa. It's like a fairy tale, isn't it? His quest for her. He even married her lookalike. She didn't love you, Andre. She never loved you." Her mouth worked as if she were about to cry. She fought back her emotion and dragged her gaze back to Callie. "They didn't give a d.a.m.n about killing your kid. Set it up from the start. A test for Teresa."

There was a beat inside Callie's head. An angry pounding. She was being goaded but the way Aimee talked about Sean's death sent blood running hot through her veins.

"He told me about it," Aimee went on, correctly interpreting the storm gathering in Callie's eyes. "When he came to Martinique. Gloated about it."

"You lie!" Andre roared.

"I'm the one who loved you," she spat at him through her teeth. "But you never even saw me. They were leaving you!" She flung her arm in the direction of the bodies. "But I waited for you. All that time. All that time. Waited while you and Teresa played your games. Conned your marks. When Teresa brought me the boy, I thought, now he'll see. Now he'll know what a cheating b.i.t.c.h she is. But she never told you about him." She gestured to Tucker's room. "Never told you she'd had Stephen Laughlin's son!"

"I found out," Andre shot back. "I knew!"

"Only when I told you," she reminded. "I kept him for Teresa. Planned to contact you when the time was right and turn him over. But you had those f.u.c.king handmaidens! Called yourself Messiah!"

Callie slid another step away from them until her back was against the hallway wall.

"Teresa told me she was leaving you," Aimee railed on. "Said you weren't well. And then I saw for myself." She lifted the hypodermic. "And you still didn't even notice me. You were on a mission to find Teresa and you couldn't see what was standing right in front of you. All those wasted years . . . I had to turn to others, Andre. Find someone I could count on. Because it wasn't ever going to be you and those f.u.c.king wh.o.r.es, was it? Even after you told me how to find them, who they saw, what they did. You said you wanted me to kill them! You don't get to be sorry now!"

Andre was pus.h.i.+ng, pus.h.i.+ng, pus.h.i.+ng at his temple.

"I told you to come home," Aimee said tautly, "and look what you brought . . . her." She flung a disparaging look Callie's way.

Quick as a snake, Andre reached forward and slapped Aimee. Hard. Callie was running for the back of the house before the decision even reached her brain. She had to get free! Save Tucker! Get away from them!

Aimee staggered from the blow but got a hand out, grabbing Callie's leg, tripping her. Callie went down hard, her cheek slamming into the hardwood floor. The hypodermic flew over her head and into darkness beyond. Andre slammed himself down on her. Callie witnessed his cell phone clatter to the floor and skim across the hardwood before Andre grabbed her by the hair and dragged her forward. Her hands scrabbled for the cell, caught it just as Aimee reeled toward the end of the hall, blindly searching for the hypodermic. Andre smacked Callie's head against the wood and she momentarily saw stars and went limp. It was easy to play dead. The cell phone was beneath her.

Andre was breathing hard near her ear. Then he backed off and snapped, "What's in that? You gonna roofie her?"

Callie's heart sank. Aimee had found the hypodermic.

I work at a clinic . . . Callie dimly recalled Aimee's answer to West's question about employment.

"It's something else," Aimee told Andre sullenly.

"You brought it from Martinique?" he asked.

"You think I'd risk Customs finding it? You know I barely was ahead of the gendarmerie."

"I can smell them," he said, switching subjects. "You overdosed them and now they're rotting."

Callie could feel herself quivering. Her hand cradled the phone. She ran her finger lightly over its face. She'd memorized West's number. She could call him. But she had to be careful. If she messed up digits she wouldn't get a second chance.

"I immobilized them," Aimee corrected. "Didn't you see the ankhs?"

"The ankhs?"

Callie had a brief flash of memory. A chain around the nearest body's neck. A cross at the end. She'd strangled them.

"Like the one you're wearing." Aimee's voice had changed from angry to softly persuasive as she moved closer to him. "Like the one you used to control Teresa when you were having s.e.x."

Andre made a sound that could have meant anything.

"Yes, she told me," Aimee went on, "but I still wanted you. Kept telling myself it was just a matter of time until you realized I was the right partner. Knew the handmaidens were just a distraction . . ."

A heavy moment pa.s.sed. Callie hesitated, ready to push the first b.u.t.ton, afraid it might make a small sound in the sudden silence.

"But I was wrong," Aimee admitted. "So, I did what you couldn't, or wouldn't, and I got rid of them. And Lumpkin."

Callie pressed the first number. No sound. She pressed the second, and third....

"I didn't mean for you to kill them," Andre said.

Callie pushed the fourth and fifth....

"Yes, you did. Of course you did."

"No," he denied.

"Y'know, I knew you were going to say that. I knew you'd back down. That's why I had to use the ankhs. They're your ankhs," she reminded, sounding regretful. "For your whole Messiah thing. When the police get here, the evidence will look like you set them up as sacrifices. Strangled them with your own crosses . . . robed them and covered them with ashes."

"What?" Andre inhaled a sharp breath.

"You shouldn't have brought the boy here," she said. "Now, they both have to die too."

"You set me up?"

"I loved you. More than anyone else ever would-"

Callie quickly pushed the sixth and seventh.

"But you weren't worthy and now you're sick!"

Quickly she depressed the eighth, ninth, and searched for the tenth number.

BANG!.

The gun exploded and Aimee shrieked. She jabbed at Andre with the hypodermic.

BANG! BANG!.

Callie lost her hold on the cell and it slipped away from her. She almost cried out with fear. She saw its lit-up face inches away and reached for it. Andre was swearing viciously. He yanked out the needle from his thigh. Aimee took three steps and toppled over. Callie grabbed the phone and pressed the tenth number, praying it would go through.

Seconds later she heard the front door open at the same time West's cell phone started ringing. She'd reached him and he was already here!

"Look out!" she screamed, struggling to get her feet under her. "He's got a gun! West! He's got a GUN!"

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Carmella Lane was a short street that teed into a dead end with no streetlights other than the one near its entrance. West had found it easily enough, and had driven its length, getting a cold feeling when he spotted a black Xterra parked facing the exit at the curb. It was probably Andre's SUV. He'd looked over the other homes along the street, mostly all remodeled, pre-World War II bungalows, when his cell phone had rung. He'd s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, praying it was Callie, and had been disappointed to see it was Dorcas.

"Yeah," he'd answered, his gaze still roaming from house to house.

"Man, you gotta get to the Cantrell house. Neighbor called. There's a guy dead on the driveway."

"What? What guy? Anyone else there?" he'd demanded, his heart clutching.

"Just the dead guy. Neighbor thought it was Jonathan Cantrell, for a moment. Spooked him. Door was wide open."

"Maybe Derek Cantrell," West had answered, thinking of what Diane had said about her brother going to see Callie. He'd climbed from his car in a sudden panic. "I'll call you back. I'm at Carmella." He'd hung up before Dorcas could say anything else.

BANG! Then, BANG! BANG!

Gunshots.

Coming from the brown bungalow with the steep drive and the Civic in the driveway.

West had immediately grabbed his Glock from beneath the front seat and climbed from the car in sudden panic. He'd wanted to race to the Cantrell house, but the gunfire took precedence. Where were Callie and Tucker? Who'd killed Derek Cantrell? He hoped Andre wasn't somehow involved.

He ran lightly uphill to the bungalow through a chill October wind. Just as he reached the door, he saw movement near the hedge that ran around the house. Lifting the Glock, he'd held it in front of him with two hands and was about to identify himself as a police officer when he'd seen the small form shoot out from the greenery.

"Tucker?" he'd called softly, his heart seizing with fear.

With a hiccup of fear, the boy had skidded to a stop, then had veered his course toward West. "Calleeee . . ." he'd whispered tearfully, pointing to the house.

That had been all West needed. He'd twisted the handle, readying to break down the door, if necessary, when to his surprise the k.n.o.b turned in his hand. He'd opened the door when his cell phone suddenly rang and Callie's cry burst out: "Look out! He's got a gun, West. He's got a GUN!"

Blast!

The wood paneling near West's head exploded and he dived for the floor. "Stay down!" he screamed to Callie, s.h.i.+fting wildly away, antic.i.p.ating another shot.

From farther down the hall he heard footsteps running away. Immediately he rolled to his feet and gave chase, stepping over a woman's body, pausing briefly at Callie who was struggling to her feet. "You all right?" he asked, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

"I'm fine . . . fine . . . Tucker's in the room . . ."

"He's outside. In the front."

"Oh, oh . . ." She heaved herself toward the front door. "I'll go . . ."

"Keep him safe. I'll be right there. Who'm I chasing? Andre?" West demanded, already turning to the back of the house.

"Yes."

"That smell . . ."

"Dead bodies," her voice trailed after him, as he burst through the half-opened door into the backyard.

West was here. He'd found her. Callie reached the front door, feeling a surge of hope and adrenaline. Tucker was outside. Safe. At the front of the house. She had to get to him before Andre found a way around.

She ran outside and felt the wind grab at her hair. "Tucker?" she called. "Tucker!"

"Ici! Ici! Calleee . . ." He darted from the shadows and into her arms. She hugged him close and wanted to cry with relief.

"How'd you get out?"

"The window. I climb up on bed and out. Michel show me."

"Good old Michel," she whispered. "Come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the steep slope to the street. She was worried sick about West, afraid to hear more gunshots. What if Andre killed him?

No. She couldn't think that way. She wouldn't. She had to get Tucker safe.

"We've got to go down the hill. Find some help." Regretfully, she realized Andre's cell phone was still on the floor where she'd dropped it. "Maybe knock on some doors."

Tucker ran toward the nearest neighbor's door.

West led with his Glock through the open back door. It was dark in the small, hedge-enclosed yard. Was there a gate to the front of the house? Could he get away?

Mindful of the fact that he had a weapon, West edged into the yard, hugging the house wall. He felt exposed and open, but he saw nothing to hide behind.

At the back of the yard something moved. Immediately West crouched down, the figure in his sights. He stepped sideways, farther away from the door, half-expecting a hail of gunfire.

A groan met his ears as his eyes zeroed in on the p.r.o.ne figure lying up against the hedge. Knowing it could be a trap, he moved carefully forward.

"Help me," the pain-filled voice called weakly.

"Andre?" West responded, once again sidling quickly away after he spoke, in case the sound of his voice could pinpoint his position if Andre had laid a trap.