Night Whispers
Page 89
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She had a house key with her but no car key and no weapon. Her Glock was still in the custody of the Palm Beach police, her loaner-replacement was in her purse in the bedroom. Her thirty-eight was in the desk in the living room. If there was anyone in her house, the sensible thing to do was leave, go to a neighbor's, and call for assistance.
That was her plan until she rounded the front corner of the house and saw a familiar Jaguar convertible parked on the street. Paris's car. Had Paris broken into the house and left her car right there in plain view? The idea was so bizarre it felt eerie.
Sloan quietly retraced her steps to the rear of the house and moved to the back door, silently turning the knob while she automatically stood to one side out of the line of fire. She heard something inside then. A movement? A whimper? A word?
She stole a quick glance into the darkened kitchen through the broken window and was pretty sure that the room was empty, the swinging door that connected it to the living room closed.
Her senses were alive now, tuned to any nuance of sound as she stole into the kitchen and carefully pried the swinging door open with a finger.
Paris was sitting at the desk in the living room facing the kitchen, white-faced with terror, while a man with his back to Sloan held a gun pointed at her. Praying there was only one man, Sloan pulled the door open a little further.
Paris saw her, and on a desperate impulse she started talking, trying to distract everyone, trying to give Sloan a clue. "Sloan won't write a confession that she killed my great-grandmother just to get my father off the hook. She'll know you intend to kill her as soon as she does."
"Shut up!" the man hissed at her. "Or you won't live long enough to find out if you're right!"
"I don't see why it takes three of you with guns to try to kill one woman!" She knew at that moment that Sloan and she were going to die; she sensed it with a terrifying fatalism.
"Now that you've showed up," the man to the left of the kitchen door told Paris softly, "it's going to be two women."
Paris assumed Sloan would retreat, but what she actually did was so ghastly to watch it was unthinkable. Sloan opened the door further into the kitchen, held up her hands palms up to show she wasn't holding anything, and stepped into the living room. "Let her go," she said calmly. "It's me you want."
Paris screamed, the man at the desk whirled around, and the other two grabbed Sloan's arms and slammed her into the wall, each holding a weapon at her head. "Well, well, welcome home!" one of them said.
"Let her go, and I'll do whatever you want," Sloan said so calmly that Paris couldn't believe it.
"You'll do what we want or we'll kill her while you watch," the one by Paris said as he moved around to her side of the desk. He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her up off the chair, shoving her toward one of the men with Sloan. "You," he said, pointing his gun at Sloan, "get over here. You're going to write a letter."
"I'll write," Sloan said as she was shoved forward with enough force to make her stumble. "But you're making a mistake."
"You made the mistake when you walked in the door," the gunman by the desk said as he grabbed her and yanked her into the chair.
"If you want to go on living when you leave here," Sloan warned, "you'll pick up that phone and call whoever sent you."
He pressed the barrel of his gun to her head. "Shut the fuck up and start writing."
"Okay. Let me get some paper out of the desk, but listen to me—my sister has nothing to do with this. No—don't shove that gun into my head any harder. I know you're going to kill me. But you're not supposed to kill her. Call your boss and ask."
To her left, Sloan noticed a shadow move in the hallway that led from her bedroom, and she felt sweat break out on her forehead as her adrenaline escalated. She babbled harder, faster, trying to distract her captor so he wouldn't see the shadow. "She's the one they're trying to protect by killing me. Tell your boss—"
The thug grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. He shoved the gun against her mouth. "Say another word and I'll pull this trigger."
She nodded slowly, and he moved the gun away and released her hair.
"What do you want me to write on this paper?" she asked, opening the drawer slowly. With her right hand Sloan pulled out a tablet, while her left hand closed around the butt of the thirty-eight. Using the tablet for cover, she got the gun into her lap and slid closer to the desk to hide it.
"What do I write?" she repeated.
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and slapped it in front of her on the desk.
In Paris's mind—just before everything went black—the slap of the paper coincided with simultaneous explosions from every direction and a sudden sharp pain in her head. The last thing she saw before she slipped into a pit of darkness was Paul Richardson's face, and it was contorted with fury.
52
The atmosphere at Bell Harbor General Hospital was distinctly festive, despite the fact that the little hospital was under siege by the same frenzied media that had descended on Palm Beach to cover the murder of Edith Reynolds. The attempted murder of Sloan and Paris Reynolds the night before had caused an uproar of grim conjecture and wild theory.
The local TV stations preferred to credit Detective Sloan Reynolds and Officer Jess Jessup with all the acts of courage and daring that night, and to overlook the heroics of two FBI agents who'd participated in the raid that night.
The national media found it very curious, and very exciting, that one of those FBI agents had made headlines only days before during the search and seizure of Noah Maitland's yachts.
The announcement a few minutes ago, shortly after dawn, that Paris Reynolds had regained consciousness signaled the beginning of a celebratory mood. And—it was hoped by the hospital staff—the departure of the throngs of reporters at their doors.
"Mr. Richardson?" A smiling nurse stepped into a private waiting room on the third floor. Lowering her voice so she wouldn't wake up Kimberly and Sloan she said, "Miss Reynolds is awake. If you'd like to see her alone for a few minutes, this is your chance."
Paul stood up. After waiting at the hospital, hour after hour, for Paris to regain consciousness, he suddenly had no idea what to say to her.
He panicked a little when he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he sat down beside her bed, he realized her breathing was strong and even and her color was vastly improved.
He took her hand in his. Her eyes opened, and he watched her register who he was. Now he waited for her to remember what he was—the bastard who had doubted every honest, decent thing she'd done and then committed the final, vicious injustice of accusing her of murdering the great-grandmother she had loved. He felt he deserved the same treatment he received the night she slapped him and slammed the door in his face.
That was her plan until she rounded the front corner of the house and saw a familiar Jaguar convertible parked on the street. Paris's car. Had Paris broken into the house and left her car right there in plain view? The idea was so bizarre it felt eerie.
Sloan quietly retraced her steps to the rear of the house and moved to the back door, silently turning the knob while she automatically stood to one side out of the line of fire. She heard something inside then. A movement? A whimper? A word?
She stole a quick glance into the darkened kitchen through the broken window and was pretty sure that the room was empty, the swinging door that connected it to the living room closed.
Her senses were alive now, tuned to any nuance of sound as she stole into the kitchen and carefully pried the swinging door open with a finger.
Paris was sitting at the desk in the living room facing the kitchen, white-faced with terror, while a man with his back to Sloan held a gun pointed at her. Praying there was only one man, Sloan pulled the door open a little further.
Paris saw her, and on a desperate impulse she started talking, trying to distract everyone, trying to give Sloan a clue. "Sloan won't write a confession that she killed my great-grandmother just to get my father off the hook. She'll know you intend to kill her as soon as she does."
"Shut up!" the man hissed at her. "Or you won't live long enough to find out if you're right!"
"I don't see why it takes three of you with guns to try to kill one woman!" She knew at that moment that Sloan and she were going to die; she sensed it with a terrifying fatalism.
"Now that you've showed up," the man to the left of the kitchen door told Paris softly, "it's going to be two women."
Paris assumed Sloan would retreat, but what she actually did was so ghastly to watch it was unthinkable. Sloan opened the door further into the kitchen, held up her hands palms up to show she wasn't holding anything, and stepped into the living room. "Let her go," she said calmly. "It's me you want."
Paris screamed, the man at the desk whirled around, and the other two grabbed Sloan's arms and slammed her into the wall, each holding a weapon at her head. "Well, well, welcome home!" one of them said.
"Let her go, and I'll do whatever you want," Sloan said so calmly that Paris couldn't believe it.
"You'll do what we want or we'll kill her while you watch," the one by Paris said as he moved around to her side of the desk. He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her up off the chair, shoving her toward one of the men with Sloan. "You," he said, pointing his gun at Sloan, "get over here. You're going to write a letter."
"I'll write," Sloan said as she was shoved forward with enough force to make her stumble. "But you're making a mistake."
"You made the mistake when you walked in the door," the gunman by the desk said as he grabbed her and yanked her into the chair.
"If you want to go on living when you leave here," Sloan warned, "you'll pick up that phone and call whoever sent you."
He pressed the barrel of his gun to her head. "Shut the fuck up and start writing."
"Okay. Let me get some paper out of the desk, but listen to me—my sister has nothing to do with this. No—don't shove that gun into my head any harder. I know you're going to kill me. But you're not supposed to kill her. Call your boss and ask."
To her left, Sloan noticed a shadow move in the hallway that led from her bedroom, and she felt sweat break out on her forehead as her adrenaline escalated. She babbled harder, faster, trying to distract her captor so he wouldn't see the shadow. "She's the one they're trying to protect by killing me. Tell your boss—"
The thug grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. He shoved the gun against her mouth. "Say another word and I'll pull this trigger."
She nodded slowly, and he moved the gun away and released her hair.
"What do you want me to write on this paper?" she asked, opening the drawer slowly. With her right hand Sloan pulled out a tablet, while her left hand closed around the butt of the thirty-eight. Using the tablet for cover, she got the gun into her lap and slid closer to the desk to hide it.
"What do I write?" she repeated.
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and slapped it in front of her on the desk.
In Paris's mind—just before everything went black—the slap of the paper coincided with simultaneous explosions from every direction and a sudden sharp pain in her head. The last thing she saw before she slipped into a pit of darkness was Paul Richardson's face, and it was contorted with fury.
52
The atmosphere at Bell Harbor General Hospital was distinctly festive, despite the fact that the little hospital was under siege by the same frenzied media that had descended on Palm Beach to cover the murder of Edith Reynolds. The attempted murder of Sloan and Paris Reynolds the night before had caused an uproar of grim conjecture and wild theory.
The local TV stations preferred to credit Detective Sloan Reynolds and Officer Jess Jessup with all the acts of courage and daring that night, and to overlook the heroics of two FBI agents who'd participated in the raid that night.
The national media found it very curious, and very exciting, that one of those FBI agents had made headlines only days before during the search and seizure of Noah Maitland's yachts.
The announcement a few minutes ago, shortly after dawn, that Paris Reynolds had regained consciousness signaled the beginning of a celebratory mood. And—it was hoped by the hospital staff—the departure of the throngs of reporters at their doors.
"Mr. Richardson?" A smiling nurse stepped into a private waiting room on the third floor. Lowering her voice so she wouldn't wake up Kimberly and Sloan she said, "Miss Reynolds is awake. If you'd like to see her alone for a few minutes, this is your chance."
Paul stood up. After waiting at the hospital, hour after hour, for Paris to regain consciousness, he suddenly had no idea what to say to her.
He panicked a little when he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he sat down beside her bed, he realized her breathing was strong and even and her color was vastly improved.
He took her hand in his. Her eyes opened, and he watched her register who he was. Now he waited for her to remember what he was—the bastard who had doubted every honest, decent thing she'd done and then committed the final, vicious injustice of accusing her of murdering the great-grandmother she had loved. He felt he deserved the same treatment he received the night she slapped him and slammed the door in his face.
