Playing Dead Page 22

  When neither of them said anything, Claire knew she was right—and so did they.

  “I have to do this.”

  “It’s okay, Claire. I can die now.”

  “No! Dammit, what’s with this fatalistic attitude? You escaped during the earthquake, why? To go back and die?”

  “I escaped so that I could have a chance to convince you I didn’t kill your mom.”

  “No. No! You escaped to prove you’re innocent. Fifteen years was stolen from us. Half my life I hated you. Hated myself. It was a lie. We can’t get the time back, but we can find out who took it away from us.”

  “I’m turning myself in.”

  “Please don’t—”

  Nelia said, “Claire, he has to. He can’t live the rest of his life running. And—” She glanced at Tom, worry crossing her face.

  “What?” She looked from Nelia to her dad, fear making her heart beat faster.

  “There’s a bullet in me. Nelia patched me up, but she couldn’t remove the bullet. It’s been bothering me the last few weeks. We think it’s shifted.”

  “Bothering.” Nelia shook her head. “Your dad has been in severe pain. His legs are weak, and he’s experienced numbness during the last few days. He needs medical attention.”

  Claire stared at them in disbelief. “They’re not going to do anything to save you when they plan to execute you in six weeks.”

  “I’ll take my chances. If I keep running I doubt I have six days, let alone six weeks.”

  This was not happening. Claire closed her eyes, tried to change it, but when she opened them Nelia and her father stared at her.

  “I’m going to do everything I can, Claire, to make surgery a term of his voluntary surrender,” Nelia said with passion. “Your father saved lives these last four months. He was responsible for apprehending nearly every one of the escaped fugitives. They owe him.”

  “They won’t see it like that.”

  “I’ll convince them.”

  Claire desperately wanted to believe Nelia. But she also feared this would be the last time she saw her dad. She believed him, believed in him, and now he tells her he’s dying?

  “Dad.”

  He held her tight and she clung to him like a little girl awakened by a nightmare. Her daddy. Her protector.

  Now it was up to her to save him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The assassin watched the GPS tracking program on his computer. Claire was still at home. Good. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. It was getting late and he still had many chores to complete.

  First things first. He learned long ago that he couldn’t keep the girls alive indefinitely. The first time, he’d had a warped idea that he could convince the young runaway to stay with him, to be his forever, and she had played along. Played with him. But the first opportunity she had, she ran.

  He’d caught her, but it had been close. Too close. He wouldn’t trust another one, no matter what they said or promised.

  His mother had promised she wasn’t going to die, and she died.

  Bridget had promised he was her special man, and she lied.

  He’d hoped someday Claire would come to him, stay with him, on her own, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could dream about it with the heart that loved her, but in his calculating mind he knew she’d never feel for him what he felt for her.

  He could protect her from himself for only so long. With the discovery of Oliver Maddox’s body, there was a chance he could be exposed. He listened for the telltale police cars in his driveway, one ear cocked to the police scanner.

  There was no way he would go to prison and leave Claire to someone else. It physically hurt knowing other men had slept with her, but he’d allowed it because he hadn’t been ready yet. Self-preservation drove his actions for years.

  But if decades of secrets leaked out, he would have to kill her. Better to have her dead and buried than for him to be locked behind bars knowing another man had her body and her heart.

  There was all the difference in the world between killing the runaways and killing Claire. First, no one missed the runaways. Claire had people who would look for her if she disappeared. Her employer, her friends. That made taking her dangerous.

  But with Tom O’Brien on the run and the stress of these last months on her, coupled with the newly discovered information about her boyfriend, taking her now and making it look like she’d killed herself . . . or run away . . . was tempting.

  He’d think about that.

  For now, he needed to take care of the girl in the shed.

  He left his house and crossed to the back of his property, protected by rows of trees that were a windbreak, as well as a sound barrier. Even if the girl screamed, no one would hear unless the wind was just right.

  The evening was still warm after the hot day. Another reason he couldn’t leave the girl for long. Without food and water in this heat, she’d die and start to decompose. Flies would lay eggs and maggots would infest her orifices and her skin would get slimy and start sliding off.

  He hated the dead.

  He unlocked the shed. If it hadn’t been shaded by the trees, the girl would likely have died from the heat. She was kneeling where he’d left her early this morning chained to the wall. The white gown he’d put on her was dirty from sweat and the dust in the shed. He cleaned the place weekly, but still dirt accumulated. Her arms were bolted to the wall, body sagging to the floor. He had no desire to torture the girls, but he found that if he restrained them in a prone position they regained some of their strength. He didn’t want to have to explain any scratches or bruises she might inflict, and he couldn’t take sick time now.

  “Hi, Claire,” he said. He never knew the names of the girls. They may have told him, but he never remembered. In his mind they were all Claire.

  She whimpered, straining against the tape secured across her mouth. Her chest and neck were bruised. He felt bad about that. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it was inevitable when they had sex that she’d get hurt. It was something he was working on; he didn’t want to hurt Claire when he made love to her.

  But if he wanted to feel anything, he had to hold them tight. Squeeze them. And like a treasured insect in a young boy’s hand, sometimes the life got squeezed out of them. It wasn’t his fault they were too fragile.

  He touched her black hair. Longer than Claire’s, the way Claire used to wear it. Long and flowing.

  He took scissors and cut it off. Held it to his face. He’d washed the girl’s hair in the same rich shampoo Claire used. He walked across the large shed and tied a pink ribbon around the thick lock of hair, then placed it in a drawer next to more than a dozen others.

  He unlocked the restraints and brought the girl to her feet. “Claire, I’m sorry, but this is good-bye. I promise, you won’t suffer.”

  He had wanted to bury her last night, but he’d kept her in his bed too long, until dawn, and he didn’t trust that he wouldn’t be seen. Even on his large property, it was better to do this task under the cover of darkness.

  Her grave had already been dug.

  His aversion to dead things held true. He had, two or three times, accidentally killed his girls while they were in his bed. He’d had to dispose of them immediately, and he couldn’t touch their flesh when he did it. Those times were the worst. He still had bad dreams. But he’d practiced and learned, and now he could make love without choking the life out of them.

  He didn’t want them to suffer. He didn’t want Claire to suffer.

  He put a blindfold over her eyes. She had the dark hair that Claire had, but not the blue eyes. He’d been in a rush, needing someone, and this one was close enough that he could pretend.

  He was good at pretending. And he had the disks to play in the background. As a reminder.

  But the blindfold wasn’t just to cover her eyes so he didn’t see them. He didn’t want her to see her fate. The first time . . . he still heard the first Claire’s screams, every day, and that was fourteen y
ears ago . . .

  He led the girl, naked under her white gown, to his garden. He breathed in the scent of roses. All white roses, because those were the flowers Claire loved best.

  He’d excavated the grave with his backhoe. He’d gotten quite proficient with it over the years. It hadn’t taken him long. The smell of fresh dirt mixed with the floral aroma and he smiled. This was his favorite place on earth. In his garden. Surrounded by Claires.

  “Good-bye, Claire.”

  He pushed her into the freshly dug grave, a scream coming from her chest, but without the power to project beyond the dirt walls of her eternal prison.

  He walked over to the backhoe and turned the ignition. He refilled the grave.

  It was better this way. They died quickly, within minutes he was pretty certain. And he didn’t have to touch or see their dead bodies.

  He drove the backhoe back to its place next to the shed. With a hoe, he returned to the fresh dirt and smoothed it out. Then he planted a new rosebush at the head of Claire’s grave. Finally, he spread the rocks out so no one at a glance could tell that there were fourteen graves in his rose garden.

  By the time he was done, he was physically tired but mentally alive. He returned to his house and checked the status of Claire’s Jeep. Still at her house. Good. It was late, he doubted she’d be going anywhere tonight.

  He showered under scalding water, scrubbing the dirt from his pores. Then he turned the water icy cold, before stepping out. He dried off and walked downstairs, naked. Poured a glass of dark, rich cabernet. Then he went back to his bedroom and lay naked on his bed, the air moved by the ceiling fan caressing his body. He turned on his special disk. Claire filled the screen. A teenage Claire nude in her old bedroom, standing in front of the closet trying to decide what to wear. He watched her dress and undress for hours, working himself up into a frenzy.

  “You’re mine, Claire. I protected you. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me. Dead!”

  That’s why he knew he could kill her now without remorse. She should have died fifteen years ago. But when he saw her photograph, he knew he couldn’t kill her.

  All these years, she had been living on borrowed time. Time he’d given her.

  He was ready to take it back.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mitch’s cell phone woke him. 1:00 a.m. Good news never came after midnight.

  It was a blocked number. “Bianchi.”

  “This is Tom O’Brien.”

  Mitch swung his legs over his bed, wide awake, and grabbed a pencil from the nightstand. Where was the paper? He’d put it there . . . he picked the pad off the floor.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m surrendering tomorrow. I have a new attorney and she’s going to meet with the Sacramento district attorney in the morning. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I can pick you up now—”

  “No. I need a few things before I come in.”

  “I can help—”

  “I saw you watching Claire’s house the other morning.”

  Shit. Tom O’Brien had been that close and Mitch hadn’t seen him! Hadn’t even felt him. Was he losing his touch? Or maybe he was just too preoccupied with Claire.

  “It’s my job. To find you.”

  “You almost had me a couple times. After the warehouse shoot-out you were right on my heels most of the way north. Sheer luck had you looking the wrong way in Salt Lake City.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me where Doherty and Chapman were?”

  “I didn’t know exactly where they would be, and if they thought the Feds were on their tail, they would have gone under. I had to find them first, then it all went to hell. Believe me, Bianchi, if I could have changed things I would have. I wish people didn’t have to die.”

  “I wish you’d let me pick you up right now. There’s a lot of new information we’re trying to get a handle on. Oliver Maddox was murdered—”

  “I know. That’s the reason I’m calling you. I made a huge mistake. I wrote to my daughter and told her everything I knew about Maddox’s investigation. I didn’t know he was dead. I was transferred from North Seg the day after he was supposed to meet me, and I couldn’t get phone access to find out why. Then the earthquake hit, and I didn’t try to approach Maddox, fearing he’d be under surveillance. If I’d thought for a minute he was dead, I’d never have given Claire the information I did.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Oliver believed that Taverton was the target and a man named Frank Lowe was the key. I asked her to find Maddox so he could convince her he had something to prove I was innocent. I thought with her knowledge and resources at Rogan-Caruso she could help him, then I could come in free and clear. But Claire told me—through my attorney,” he quickly added, “that Lowe was dead, killed in a fire the night after Taverton and Lydia. And their coroner’s reports are missing. There’s more, but I don’t have time.”

  Mitch wrote it all down. “Of course you have time, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Bianchi, we’re on opposite sides right now.”

  “I believe you’re innocent.”

  O’Brien continued, “My attorney told Claire that I plan to surrender tomorrow after we make arrangements with the D.A. I told Claire—my attorney told her—to leave it alone. If Maddox’s killer knows Claire is retracing his footsteps, she’s in danger. Protect her, Bianchi. You have to keep her safe. She’s not going to let this go.”

  Mitch’s heart pounded in rhythm with his growing headache. “I’ll try, but—”

  “You have to do better than try! Put her in protective custody. Arrest her for, for—hell, you can come up with something! Tell her to back off. Anything to keep her safe.”

  Mitch wasn’t surprised that Claire had made progress on the investigation. She had additional information that could help them track Maddox’s killer. “I’ll bring her in for questioning. Find out what she knows and go from there.”

  “Thank you. I’m counting on you to keep Claire safe.”

  Click.

  Jeffrey Riordan woke up before dawn in the San Francisco hotel room he’d been living out of for the last three days while he met with every major donor in the area. He hadn’t planned on returning to Sacramento until Sunday, but his meetings were over and the situation at home was dire.

  Damn Hamilton and Richie. Hamilton was supposed to have made sure that Tom O’Brien died in prison so no one would be interested in pursuing his cause. If he didn’t die, there was always the possibility that someone would dig into the files. Between appeals and do-gooders like the Western Innocence Project, they couldn’t be certain that the case was dead unless O’Brien himself was dead. They’d done a damn good job of covering their tracks, but nothing was foolproof.

  Too many people were involved. Someone was going to talk. It was just a matter of time. And it wasn’t like they could kill everyone who had a piece of the puzzle.

  Jeffrey didn’t think the authorities could trace Taverton’s murder—or any of the others—to him. That bastard law student had been too close, knew too much. But he was dead and he should have stayed buried.

  Less than four weeks! Three weeks from Tuesday was the primary, and then he could focus on the general election, where he was a shoo-in. No Republican had won a U.S. Senate seat in California in more than twenty years, so Jeffrey wasn’t worried about his right-wing competition. All Jeffrey had to do was win this primary and it was smooth sailing.

  He slid out of bed and started packing, fuming that the primary wasn’t in the bag. Everyone had some skeletons in their closet. Sheryl Browne couldn’t possibly be as squeaky clean as she came off. She had been in college during the sixties, for shit’s sake. While long-ago drug use wouldn’t damage her, if she had hit someone while drunk driving or high . . . or had an affair with a married man . . . and what about her ex-husband? What had happened there? And if not that, what about her current husband? He’d made his money in the dot-com boom an
d sold out before it fell apart. He was ten years younger than the bitch. What was up with that? If Harper found out he was cheating on the bitch . . . no, that might generate sympathy for her. What about her public record? She’d been on the board of supervisors of some small central valley county, and Jeffrey knew there were many opportunities to put your hand in the wrong pies. He’d done it. It was just a matter of being careful and finding the right people . . .

  Dammit. He’d paid for an opposition report and nothing juicy was in it. They hadn’t looked deep enough. Everyone had a scandal in the past. Even that perfect bitch.

  Barring that, there was always the October Surprise technique. Or, in this case, the May Surprise.

  He would have someone come forward against Sheryl Browne. Tell the voters she was a two-faced corrupt bitch. It didn’t have to be true, it would only need to generate enough doubt about her. It would leak late on the Friday before election day so Browne didn’t have time to respond. It would be all over the Sunday papers, the Internet, the news.

  Now that Jeffrey had a plan, he felt much better.

  He also needed a plan to deal with the crap going on back home in Sacramento.

  Jeffrey had been the one to come up with the blackmail plan so that he, Hamilton, and Richie wouldn’t get their hands dirty. It had also been his idea to take Chase Taverton out, and who had thought about the court archives? Jeffrey, of course. Not that there was anything incriminating in the transcripts. But if someone dug deep enough, they might connect Hamilton to the mole in O’Brien’s legal team, which would open up scrutiny regarding the pretrial motions. And if the case was under serious investigation, the falsified coroner’s report would be discovered, and the lab tech Harper blackmailed might decide the fact that he solicited underage prostitutes wasn’t worth keeping secret any longer.

  Maddox was settled, and now Claire O’Brien needed to be dealt with. Just like Jeffrey had dealt with Rose Van Alden, which had unfortunately led to Chase Taverton needing to die ten years later.