Now You See Her Part 29

Chapter 115.

EMMA AND I stood in the living room like statues, kids caught in a game of freeze tag.

"Daddy doesn't like bad little girls," Peter said, grabbing Emma by her wrist with his free hand. He pivoted on his heel as he leaned back and swung her like a rag doll. There was a shattering sound as she crashed face forward into our gla.s.s bookcase. It teetered and fell over on top of her, raining down books as she hit the carpet.

That's when I saw it. Peter's gun was where he'd left it, on the couch next to the tape. It was my only chance. I spun, my feet sending fallen books flying, as I dove for the couch.

The gun bounced with a double thud off the carpet. I grabbed it, my finger curling around the trigger as I swung around. But I wasn't in time.

Peter slammed into me, knocking the gun out of my hand as he pile-drived the back of my skull into the hardwood.

I felt as if my head had been split open, as if I'd been hit with a hatchet. I forgot the pain as Peter wrapped his hands around my neck.

I made an involuntary gurgling sound as he started squeezing. More books went flying as I kicked and flailed my arms. My vision dimmed as my oxygen was cut off.

Peter interlaced his fingers around the back of my neck and dug his thumbs into my windpipe, as if he were trying to pry it open.

I'd lost all hope for myself when the tightening at my throat eased up suddenly.

"Don't go yet, Jeanine. Time for one last round of truth or dare," Peter whispered in my ear. "I go first. Truth. Remember Ramon Pena? That night on the beach? Yeah, well, you didn't actually kill him."

He licked my earlobe and gave it a playful bite.

"That was all me," he said.

Chapter 116.

GASPING, my throat on fire, I stared at Peter's smile.

"That's right," he said with a nod. "Pena was an informant who was going to rat us out to the Feds. I was actually chasing him over the beach, planning to kill him, when I heard you drag-racing down the beach road. As he ran to the sidewalk to wave you down, I shot him three times with a suppressed gun. Next thing I know, he falls into the street in front of your spinning car. There was no way you could have avoided him."

I shook my head, my eyes slits of disbelief and pain.

Peter nodded. "At first, I thought I was going to have to kill you, too, until I smelled alcohol on your breath and came up with a quick plan. I never got a chance to thank you for giving him a lift back to my house. Great job, Jeanine."

As Peter's hands went around my throat again, something happened. A cold ball of pure hatred formed behind my eyes. It traveled down my left arm into my hand, where it formed itself into a claw.

I swung up stiff-armed and buried my sharp nails into the pink, fleshless wound on the side of Peter's head where his ear used to be. Then I raked them down.

Peter flung himself off me, shrieking. I turned over and lifted myself to my knees, flailing through the pile of fallen books, looking for the gun. I spotted black metal under the couch and dove for it. I pulled the heavy gun up off the floor, in toward my stomach, and slipped my finger over the trigger.

Swinging it around at Peter, I squeezed. Nothing happened. The trigger wouldn't move. I pushed the safety in with my thumb and then raised the gun again. It still wouldn't fire.

I screamed as Peter booted me in the side of the head. The gun went flying out of my hands. It spun as it sailed over the hardwood, down the hallway, and toward the bedroom.

"It's called a double-action pistol, you dumb b.i.t.c.h. You need to squeeze the trigger really hard in the beginning to get off the first round," Peter said, stepping toward it. "Allow me to demonstrate."

I jumped up and ran in the opposite direction. I was going to run out the front door screaming for help, but I knew what Peter would do to Emma.

I turned at the last second and ran into the kitchen. I grabbed at the knife block beside the stove. The big eight-inch Henckels slid easily into my grip. I raised it over my head and ran back into the living room.

Peter, standing by the bedroom doorway, now had the gun trained at my face. He actually laughed as he watched me coming.

Still chuckling, he tried to pull the trigger.

Nothing happened. Instead of disengaging the safety, I must have put it on!

I kept coming and swinging as I dove forward. The barrel of the gun hit me in my mouth, knocking two of my teeth loose. I still kept coming.

My knuckles brushed the smooth underside of Peter's freshly shaven chin as I came down with all my might.

I opened his throat and buried the knife to the hilt in his collarbone.

He fell back into my bedroom, making a wet, gagging sound. I remember warm blood in my eyes and on my cheeks as I turned and ran for Emma. Kicking books away, I found Emma's hand and dragged her to the door before she groggily got to her feet. We hobbled out of the apartment and down the stairwell, clutching each other.

A woman with a bad face-lift, walking her Labradoodle, screamed and took off sprinting when she saw me come out of the building's service entrance onto the sidewalk in my b.l.o.o.d.y bathrobe. When we got to the Korean grocery store on the corner of Third Avenue, I stopped by the florist sink beside the racks of cheap roses. I was still hosing the gla.s.s out of Emma's eyes when the first cop car jumped the curb.

Epilogue.

ONE YEAR LATER.

Chapter 117.

"JEANINA! Get in here!" Charlie screamed from the office at ten to seven on Sat.u.r.day morning.

I lifted my head off the pillow and sighed at the pet name Charlie had invented on the way back from our honeymoon the month before.

Charlie's was the first face I saw when I woke up in the hospital a day after Peter's attack and the last one I'd seen every night since. Not only had he forgiven me, but he'd done the impossible: helped me to forgive myself.

I'd also underestimated the response from my boss and firm. Tom couldn't have been more supportive or understanding once everything came out. I even got a postcard from Justin Harris. It was from Antigua, where he'd relocated after he was finally cleared. He'd given me a standing offer to visit anytime.

He was going to be waiting awhile. I didn't think I'd be heading back down to the Caribbean any time soon.

"Jeanina!" Charlie called again.

I crawled out of bed and stepped into the hall.

"What's he hollering about?" Emma said with a groggy smile as she poked her head out of our new Upper West Side apartment's second bedroom.

"No idea," I said, happily noting the lack of bags under Emma's eyes. She'd been having fewer and fewer nightmares. She was definitely moving on and so was I. We'd just about wiped the last of Peter off our shoes.

"Jeanina!" Charlie screamed again as I walked into his office. "Oh, there you are."

"What is it?" I said.

"We need to celebrate," Charlie said, springing up from his office chair.

He clicked a b.u.t.ton on his laptop. The printer turned on with a long beep before pages start spitting out.

"I'm done!" he said triumphantly. "My book is finally done."

"You're done? Congratulations! Oh, Papa Charlie," I said, giving him a kiss. "But wait a second. What's your story about, anyway?" I said coyly, as if I hadn't been editing the d.a.m.n thing for the last year.

It was actually a really good lyrical detective story set in Dallas, where Charlie had grown up. Charlie had talent. Tons of it, in fact. Grisham had to watch his back.

"OK, here's the pitch for Spielberg," he said, his bathrobe billowing as he raised his hands. "It starts out with this young, very attractive girl on spring break in South Florida."

He was joking, of course. I decided to go along. I'd go along with Charlie anywhere from here on out.

"A young Gisele Bundchen type?" I said, leaning in and kissing him.

"Exactly," Charlie said with an intense nod. "She falls in love with this unbelievably handsome, muscular lawyer."

I grabbed his biceps. "So it's a romance with a s.e.xy lawyer? I'm liking this already. Is there a trial?"

"Better," Charlie said. "They get a guy off death row."

I smiled at him, started laughing. "Does everyone live happily ever after?"

Charlie stopped. He grabbed his stubbled chin, thinking it over, as he looked up at the ceiling.

"You'll just have to wait for the sequel," he finally said with a grin.

AN INNOCENT ART STUDENT FINDS $13 MILLION IN DIAMONDS. LET THE MANHUNT BEGIN.

FOR AN EXCERPT, TURN THE PAGE.

One.

SOME PEOPLE are harder to kill than others. The Ghost was thinking about this as he huddled in the deep, dark shadows of Grand Central Station. A man named Walter Zelvas would have to die tonight. But it wouldn't be easy. n.o.body hired the Ghost for the easy jobs.

It was almost eleven p.m. The evening rush was long over and the crush of commuters was now only a thin stream of weary travelers.

The Ghost was wearing an efficient killing disguise. His face was lost under a tangle of matted silver and white hair and a s.h.a.ggy beard, and his a.r.s.enal was hidden under a wine-stained gray poncho. To anyone who even bothered to take notice, he was just another heap of homeless humanity seeking refuge on a quiet bench near Track 109.

He eyed his target. Walter Zelvas. A great hulk of a man with the nerves and reflexes of a snake and a soul to match. Zelvas was a contract killer himself, but unlike the Ghost, Zelvas took pleasure in watching his victims suffer before they died. For years the ruthless Russian had been an enforcer for the diamond syndicate, but apparently he had outlived his usefulness to his employer, and the Ghost had been hired to terminate him.

If he doesn't kill me first, the Ghost thought. With Zelvas it was definitely a matter of kill or be killed. And this would surely be a duel to the death.

So the Ghost watched his opponent closely. The screen on the Departures monitor refreshed, and Zelvas cursed under his breath. His train was delayed another thirty minutes.

He drained his second cup of Starbucks cappuccino, stood up, crumpled his empty cup, and deposited it in the trash.

No littering, the Ghost thought. That might attract attention, and the last thing Zelvas wanted was attention.

That's why he was leaving town by train. Train stations aren't like airports. There's no baggage check, no metal detectors, no security.

Zelvas looked toward the men's room.

All that coffee will be the death of you, the Ghost thought, as Zelvas walked across the marble floor to the bathroom.

A half-comatose porter, mop in hand, was slos.h.i.+ng water on the terminal floor like a zombie tarring a roof. He didn't see Zelvas coming.

A puddle of brown water came within inches of the big man's right foot. Zelvas stopped. "You slop any of that sc.u.m on my shoes and you'll be s.h.i.+tting teeth," he said.

The porter froze. "Sorry. Sorry, sir. Sorry."

The Ghost watched it all. Another time, another place, and Zelvas might have drowned the man in his own mop water. But tonight, he was on his best behavior.

Zelvas continued toward the bathroom.

The Ghost had watched the traffic in and out of the men's room for the past half hour. It was currently empty. Moment of truth, the Ghost told himself.

Zelvas got to the doorway, stopped, and turned around sharply.

He made me, the Ghost thought.

Zelvas looked straight at him. Then left, then right.