A Face at the Window (23 page)

Maybe he hadn't heard it. The scream…maybe Pierce had been told what Campbell's guy would say on the phone. Time, place…but the scream could've been improvised on the spot, not planned, and in that case no one would've mentioned it to Pierce.

Thought about who might be helping?
Bob had asked.
Somebody local, giving this guy the lay of the land…
On top of that, who better for Campbell to get snooping equipment from than Pierce?

A radio scanner, for instance, and a phone-eavesdropping device. Suddenly it all fit together.

She wished she hadn't told him she had the gun. "Kid's so dumb," he was saying, "I'd be surprised if he could chew gum and keep his eyes focused, but they let him run a boat."

He sighed, turning to her in the dim passenger compartment. "Anyway, things happen. Accidents, all kinds of things. And most girls, they get to be fifteen or so, they'll turn around and tell you to shove it, but Helen hasn't, yet, and I just want her to be able to handle ‘em if bad things happen to her, that's all."

It sounded believable, Jake had to admit to herself. But now that one of the bad things had happened to Helen, Pierce didn't seem disturbed enough. And the scream on the phone, so horrific it had driven her out here to meet Campbell…

Pierce still wasn't saying anything about it. "So what's his story, anyway?" Pierce asked. "This guy doing all this?"

In as few words as possible, she told him. Maybe Pierce knew all about Campbell already. Maybe he'd heard the whole story-Jake's mother, her long-ago murder, and the upcoming trial— from Campbell himself.

But if he had, she didn't want him knowing that she was onto him. "All I can think of is that something in my victim's impact statement set him off," she finished. "But I don't know why. The only detail in it isn't the kind of thing that could hurt him, things like what my mom wore that night. Her hair ribbon, black velvet. Her dress: flowered, silky material. And…"

The ruby earrings, bloodred in the firelight. She let her voice trail off as the old, familiar lump invaded her throat. "I don't see why he'd care," she finished. "It doesn't make sense."

She slowed the car, drove it onto the sandy shoulder. She could pull the .22, but if his intentions were bad he'd probably try to go for it; he was bigger than she was, after all, and he'd already put a local kid in the hospital with his fists.

On the other hand…oh, the heck with it. If he got grabby it was his funeral. She aimed the .22 at him. "Get out."

His eyes widened; he hadn't been watching for this. Women like her didn't point guns at people.

"Sorry. I had to let you in the car when I thought he was watching. But he isn't, you've convinced me. So if you're on the level, I apologize. If not—"

His lips pursed ruefully. "Listen, this having a gun aimed at me is kind of…"

Startling; that was the idea. Be forceful, or be forced; she wasn't sure if she'd learned it first as a financial whiz in an office in Manhattan, or years earlier in a small candlelit room in a house in Greenwich Village, seeing her mother strangled.

Either way, it seemed to be working now. "I can't trust you. So I need to unload you." If she could get him out of the car she could drive in ahead of him, get to the house alone.

"Okay. I understand," he said. "But here's the thing: Either you shoot me now, or I'm going in. I'm here to get Helen back and I mean to do that, with you or without you."

He looked at her. "Your choice. But make it snappy, because we haven't got all night." He glanced down at his own watch. "In fact, we've only got about fifteen minutes now. And…"

"What?" she demanded.

"Well," Pierce replied, "first of all, when I get Helen out of there I'm going to give her that new iPod she's been fussing at me for. Already ordered it, rush-express, so it ought to get here soon…"

He spoke earnestly. "I mean a girl deserves some foolishness once in a while. Don't you think? And not for nothing," he added, "but if you can't trust me you're better off keeping me in sight. No offense, but your only other option really is to shoot me, and I just don't think you're going to. You're not the type."

Nice try, she thought, though the part about the iPod had been very persuasive. "You have no idea what type I am. And when you find out, it might be too late. Now, why don't you—"

"Nice job on Hoke's deck step," he said suddenly. "Canoe, too. Though at the time I thought you'd never leave."

That closed hallway door at Hoke's, she recalled. The old man had said it was to hide his sloppy housekeeping, but now she realized: He'd been hiding Pierce. And
that
meant…

If Hoke had needed help, he could've told Jake so. While she and the old man were out by the canoe, or while they'd worked on the deck repair together.

And he hadn't. "I could've ambushed you in your driveway," Pierce added, "if I wanted."

But by now she'd made her decision: He could have taken the gun from her, too. She lowered it.

"Christ." He let a breath out, rubbed his palms on his pants legs. "Never had one pointed right at my head like that, before. Just out of curiosity, what convinced you?"

She told him. "Hoke trusted you. And…the iPod. Because if it were my son, Sam, that'd been taken, that's what I'd be…"

Thinking. Praying. That I'd get the chance to surprise him with some silly gift.
Pierce nodded solemnly. "Yeah. What you'll do for them, huh?"

"Anything," she agreed, noticing for the first time that he was dressed in fall hunting camouflage, green and brown mottled canvas jacket and pants, sturdy black lace-up boots on his feet. Slowly he produced his own weapon, a Glock 9mm, small and pricey.

She'd seen them at gun shows, recalled now the good rifles in the gun case at his house. "Semiauto," she said, unable to keep the appreciation from her voice.

She let the car roll back onto the road; soon the pale dirt driveway to the Jiminy Point house showed once more between the evergreens. He tucked the gun away. "Beats a twenty-two pistol for firepower, with not much more size and weight. And if
you don't mind my saying so, I've got a better idea than you do, too," he added.

As the car pulled to a stop he shoved the car door open and got out.
Smart-ass,
she thought, absorbing the mine's-bigger-than-yours jab. But then she heard the rest of what he'd said.

"Hey." She rolled the window down. It hadn't occurred to her that
he
might go in without
her.

"Nose the car into the trees," he called back softly. "You leave it in the road, it'll be pretty obvious to anyone who—"

Headlights appeared behind them. Hastily she got the car in gear, eased it forward, and doused the lights. A truck roared by without slowing, its muffler clanking as it disappeared uphill.

When it was gone, Pierce leaned in. "Here. You carry this." He shoved a flashlight at her. "Are you okay?"

"No," she said furiously, pulling off her seat belt. "And this wasn't the plan. I'm supposed to see Campbell, to get him to let the girls go. I don't want you to…"

Screw things up.
Brief chuckle from Pierce; what she wanted or didn't want wasn't entering into his calculations at all.

Never had. "They'll see your light, focus on that, and with any luck not think to look for anyone else," he said.

The two guys from the security tape, he meant, who'd taken Helen and Lee. Assuming that was who they'd be confronting, the operative phrase here being "with any luck."

"By the time you get spotted, I'll have gotten behind them," he went on. "I'll drop one of them real quiet-like, and…"

His tone chilled down to the bone-cracking temperature of a February night. "We'll see about the other one," he finished.

Wrong, she thought as he turned and walked away from her. This was all going wrong; she never should've let him…

Just as he was about to disappear among the trees, he turned back. "Jake. I know what he wants."

This bossy little prick thought he knew it all, didn't he? Her fists clenched. Even if she could trust him, even if he had as good a reason to be out here as she did, he was still way more trouble than he was…

"What who wants, Campbell? That's ridiculous, how could you possibly know what he—"

"You. Think about it. All he wants is you."

He vanished into the woods.

The dirt driveway,
Pierce informed her as they started down it, was about two miles long; he'd been here before, to put in an intercom system when the Jiminy Point house was being built.

"But the path through the woods is better for us," he said, striding into what looked like a puckerbrush thicket but was in fact two massive cedars growing up out of a single root.

They'd gone a hundred yards in silence when he stopped and pulled a flask from his pocket. "Snort?" he offered. "We're still a few minutes ahead of ourselves."

I am,
she thought clearly,
out here in the woods late at night with a guy I don't know, getting ready to sneak up on some other guys who I definitely don't.

And ambush them. Which had emphatically not been part of her plan.…The stuff in the flask was Allen's; swallowing some, she made a face.

"Coffee brandy, cures what ails you," he said. "Did you know that of the ten best-selling alcoholic beverages in the state of Maine, Allen's is four of ‘em?"

He had another gulp, offered it to her again. She tipped it; in her opinion, the taste was right up there with the smell of burning rubber, but the warmth it produced was welcome.

" ‘Cause there's four different bottle sizes is why. You gotta watch it, though," he added. "Calories. Some folks call the stuff ‘Fat Ass in a Glass.’ "

It was unbelievably dark in these woods. "You're just full of fascinating information, aren't you? But don't you think we should be quiet?" She found a big rock by feeling around for it, lowered herself onto it.

"On account of them?" he answered. "Don't worry, they're not out here, yet. I'd hear ‘em. They're up at the house; neither one of ‘em's any good at rompin’ around in the forest."

"You sound awfully sure of things," she said.
Not the least of them being yourself, she.
added silently.

"Saw ‘em on the tape," Pierce explained. "Before I slipped in an’ dropped it on Bob Arnold's desk while all the lawmen"—he gave the word a sardonic twist—"were over at the Waco Diner for coffee, I had a look at it."

He drank from the flask again. "That camp on the Shore Road I got the boys jobs cleanin’ out an’ paintin's got a VCR in it. That's how I know both our pals, here, are dumber'n flounder."

He held out the flask; this time she shook her head. For one thing, after a couple of swigs, Allen's brandy had improved; now it just tasted like old coffee grounds soaked in cough syrup. Besides, warm and energized was one thing; drunk and stupid was another.

"In a minute you'll get on the driveway with that lamp," he said. "Start walking. I'll stay on the path, get ahead of you."

She got to her feet. "What'd you mean before, about Campbell wanting me?"

He shrugged. "Obvious, isn't it? I mean, why didn't this guy just offer to make some kind of a trade on the phone with you?
Say what he wants?" He tucked the flask away. "Whatever it is, he knows you'd do it. It's why he picked ‘em, the little girl Helen was taking care of, especially. He's done his homework on you."

They began moving forward together. "That's why I think the deal was just the carrot, you see. And the scream…"

So he had heard that, too. Faint light showed ahead.

"… the scream was the stick." At the gleam from between the trees he put out a silencing hand, stopping her sharply, and in the next instant he was gone, slipping away into the forest.

The light went out.

H
elen Nevelson stumbled like a sleepwalker
through the dark, cold night, barely knowing what she was doing, much less in what direction she was managing to keep going.

Her head hurt and her mouth was still agonizing. Scary, too; bleeding. Every so often it filled with hot, coppery blood, and she opened it just barely enough to spit. Anything more made
her injured head feel as if it might split wide open, while her safe, cheerful home, her family, and her warm, safe bed all seemed like things that might have existed, once, on some other planet in the distant past.

Or in a dream. Here, though, all she knew was that if she gave in and lay down on the cold ground as she desperately longed to do, she would die.

Move. Walk. Don't give up.

Never. Helen kept reciting this to herself as well as she could, which was not very well. Somebody kept hitting her in the side of the head with an enormous hammer; somebody else pushed her down, giggling each time she struggled up again.

After a long while, through a window of lucidity she slammed shut in a reflex bolt of terror almost immediately, she knew that the madly giggling person was herself.
Losing it, I'm starting to…
Unwilling, or possibly by this time unable, to admit that she already had.