At least she was breathing. She had been knocked out by the fall, and would probably end up with a slight concussion. Forgetting all his own aches and pains, Webb turned her over, very gently, very carefully, and checked for any other injuries.
Her pants were torn at the knee and he thought he felt the warm stickiness of blood.
She was soaked to the skin, just as he was, and her flesh felt cold and clammy. He had to get her indoors and into dry clothes. They couldn't be far from the entrance now-she had tried to tell him so when she had stumbled and fallen. She couldn't be allowed to stay out here, which meant that he had to risk running into Ria or anyone else.
He tried to lift her but couldn't, weakened himself by their flight and his wounded back and their struggle against the tide.
As gently as he could, he managed to drag her limp body up further; he ripped off his shirt and folded it with fingers that shook, in spite of himself, with cold and put it under her head.
He touched the bump on her forehead-it seemed to have become larger-and felt with relief the flutter of her breathing against his fingers.
Dammit, he would have to leave her here while he went ahead and checked things out. And Webb swore again when he realized that all he had' was a knife. The gun he'd shoved into his waistband earlier would be wet and useless now. He frowned, sitting back on his haunches while he massaged Anne's limp wrists, then her temples, very lightly. It was Ria he had to be careful with. But if he told her he'd gotten rid of Anne, and then had difficulty getting back through the caves ... she might buy it. Slim chance, but one he'd have to take.
He's started to move away, feeling along the damp, rocky walls, when he heard her moan. "Webb ... ? The door .. ."
"Hush, love." He came back to her and kissed her salty lips. "Listen, I don't want you to move, do you understand? Yon fell and hit your head, you probably have a slight concussion. Wait for me, I'll be back."
Without waiting for her incoherent murmur of protest, he forced himself to turn his back on her and go forwards again. "The door," she'd said. It had to be right ahead, if he remembered right.
It opened easily when he found it, and he almost fell inside, feeling warmth and light that made him dizzy and blinded for a while. Completely off guard. Bitterness seared itself across his brain when he heard the casual, almost friendly voice that greeted him.
"Hi, Carnahan. Thought I'd wait here for you. I suppose you know there's hell to pay?" Hyatt. Instinct made him stand where he was, swaying slightly with exhaustion while he tried to blink salt-stinging eyes back into focus. He tried to act more dazed then he felt.
"Christ, I didn't think I'd make it. What-where's Ria?"
Craig Hyatt's body wavered, blurred around the edges before Webb could see him clearly. And the gun he held.
"Ria? She was looking for you, you know. But she decided not to wait. She seemed rather perturbed-do you know why?" Webb took a step forwards, risking it, and the gun muzzle lifted slightly.
"What the hell's that for?"
"Protection, naturally. Especially after what happened to poor Harris." Hyatt grinned.
"I put him in your car. Your wife isa careless housekeeper. She just left him lying here, with blood all over the place. I'm tidy myself." And then, still in the same incongruously pleasant voice: "By the way, what did you do with Anne?"
Death looked out of Craig Hyatt's eyes, in spite of the friendly grin. Webb poised himself on the balls of his feet, hoping they would carry him forwards, even while he shrugged.
"I followed orders, that's all. .. And then, like an idiot, I got myself trapped by the tide, and lost my way in the goddamn caves. You ought to issue a road map." He let a note of bluster creep into his voice, hoping like hell that Anne would stay quiet. "Hey-why the gun?"
"As I just said-for protection. And persuasion." The mask dropped. Hyatt's face hardened. "I asked you about Anne." "And I told you. You going to shoot me or let me go get some dry clothes on?" He could only hope his bluff worked. No way of knowing what Ria had told Hyatt or where the man stood himself. "I don't think I believe you," Craig Hyatt said softly. His voice hardened. "You have a gun. Drop it."
Webb shrugged. "It isn't any good anyhow. Got wet, like the rest of me." He pulled it out of his waistband and dropped it, keeping his eyes on Hyatt. "Would you mind telling me which side of the fence you're on?"
Craig's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Like you, I'm straddling the fence right now. But you see, I have the gun, so you'll follow orders. My orders this time. Walk over to that wall and press the button. When the doors open, get in your car and start it up.
You're going to take our late friend for a ride and dump him. I'll leave the 'where' to your imagination."
"And after that?"
"After you've proved your loyalty and your-sincerity, I really don't give a damn. You can keep going, or join the others upstairs. In any case, the last radio message I got said the coast guard is on its way in. I read that to mean
our mutual employer. And he doesn't like untidy messes,does he?"
The Ferrari roared out of the garage like a bat out of hell, the sound of the powerful motor reverberating off the walls.
Lying where Webb had left her, with her head throbbing and her whole body a mass of bruises she hadn't even begun to feel yet, Anne heard the sound, not quite understanding what it meant. And then the explosion of gunfire as Craig, taking careful aim, shot out the two rear tires.
The car seemed to take off into the air before it flipped over. He thought, with satisfaction, that he heard a scream of pure anguish before the dull whoosh of an explosion as it burst into flames. So much for Webb Carnahan. He hoped he'd had time to suffer before he died. But the screaming continued, and it came from a different direction.
Anne! So far he'd guessed right and calculated right. Now he had to find her. He hoped that at last she'd appreciate his cleverness.
Anne had managed to pull herself up into a sitting position with her back against the rock wall. She put her hands against her ears when the gunfire came.
They had killed him! She started to scream without knowing it, keening shrieks of pain and anguish that bent her double.
She rocked with agony until her throat closed up and she could only moan, like a mortally wounded animal.
Dead-he was dead. She wanted to die with him, she should have been beside him.
She felt as if her heart had been tom out of her still-living body as she sobbed dryly.
"Anne?" Everything stilled inside her at the sound of the softly questioning voice. She lifted her head, very slowly; it felt as if it were bursting when she saw the tall silhouette framed against the light. Shattered pieces falling slowly into place as the long-buried memory came back. . Very long time ago . . . the same voice calling soft and cajoling, "Anne? Come out, I know you're there hiding. You shouldn't do naughty things like spying on your own mother ..."
She'd stayed hidden in one of the little caves, curled up inside with her knees against her chin, her arms wrapped around her cold legs as she closed her eyes and pretended not to hear. It was the same voice that used to say, "Helen?" when her mother slipped out to meet him.
The survival instinct had been strong in the child she had been then. Strong enough so that her mind had blacked out certain memories. Now she didn't want to live because her life had no more meaning. If she'd had a gun herself she would have shot and killed him-the arch-traitor, her mother's lover who had made her his wife, who had killed the man she loved.
"Anne, you're safe now, my darling. You don't have to hide from me." Soft Judas voice behind a gun. Had he saved a bullet for her?
A strange calmness overtook her. With the backrush of memory, her sobbing had stopped. She was dead inside-the only thing still alive in her mind was hate.
"I-I'm right here Craig." She had to force herself to pronounce his name; her voice sounded husky and strained. "I've grown too big to hide away in little caves, you see."
Craig Hyatt felt a sudden tightening of his muscles. Her words gave him an unpleasant shock, coming out of the darkness, sounding exactly like Helen's voice.
He took the flashlight out of his pocket and shone it ahead of him as he stepped forwards into damp darkness. She was sitting down, her back against a wall, looking at him, her eyes blue discs that didn't flinch at the light. Her face was bruised-Helen's face, bruised by her husband's slap. And time slid back in that instant as he heard her voice again, and was eighteen again.
"I'm sorry, darling, but don't you see? If he actually hit me, it means that he still cares.
And I married Richard because I was in love with him-now I know he isn't quite as cold and detached as he pretends to be. You're sweet, but you'll get over me, you know! This has been a kind of experiment for both of us, hasn't it? And I'm sure you'll find someone else ..."
Cheating, patronizing bitch! But he'd shown her, hadn't he? Anne looked like Helen, but she was a ghost, a paler, washed-out version of Helen who had smiled pityingly when he'd pleaded with her. He had loved her, been obsessed by her with all the fervor of an eighteen-year-old. Until she'd shown him what she really was; and once he'd seen, she'd soon stopped smiling. He'd held her face underwater, waiting patiently until her body had stopped its futile thrashing before he'd let her go; giving her up to the ocean tides for their plaything.
Now Craig looked at Anne, who looked like Helen but hadn't any of Helen's warmth and sexuality. Not with him, anyhow, and that was the most unforgivable thing of all.
She had been his revenge-his precious, ironic revenge on Helen and on Reardon, Helen's husband, his father's friend. Marrying Helen's daughter-possessing Helen all over again. But Anne, like Helen, had betrayed him. He'd tried, but she'd rejected him for other lovers-like Webb Carnahan, like Harris. And they were both dead. He wanted her to know that before he killed her, too. But, above all, he wanted to see her frightened, begging and groveling, before he took her back to the ocean and held her face under the water, shallow water. Just as he had done with Helen. And no one would knowl He was cleverer than all of them-even Reardon himself. No one had known, no one had guessed. How could they? He had been eighteen, a college freshman on vacation. Shy and rather serious until Helen had seduced him. Bored, beautiful Helen with a husband who stayed away too long. But he would have given her everything and anything she desired if she hadn't rejected him. Anne could have shared in his final triumph if she hadn't turned out to be too much like her mother.
Poor Anne! That was what they would all say afterwards. They would believe that it was Webb Carnahan who had killed her. Another beautiful irony, that. And only he would appreciate it. Too bad!
He moved forwards, and the flashlight at waist level, shining upwards, made his face look like a death's-head to Anne. He was smiling strangely, his voice still soft and meant to soothe and disarm.
"My poor darling! What did he do to you? But you mustn't worry, I got rid of him for you. They died together, Webb and Harris. They were both bad for you, surely you can see that now? You should have trusted me and let me look after you."
He was standing over her now. He had turned off the flashlight and was a silhouette again with the light from the garage behind him, reflecting dully off the gun he held.
"Get up, darling, you're safe now. You have to come with me, I'm going to make sure the others don't find you."
I got rid of him for you ... they died together, Webb and Harris. Each word a spike driven deeper and deeper like hammer blows. The agony in her voice was real. "I –I can't move. I think I've broken my ankle. You'll have to help me, Craig."
Whimpering bitch! He hesitated, annoyed; but he believed her. He prided himself, as he always had, on being clear-headed. Better that she die without a bullet wound in her. He came closer, reaching out his hand, and she grabbed for the gun, screaming like a wild thing as she did.
The gun went off, sound splintering into a million echoes in the hollow space. At almost the same instant Webb Carnahan, looking like an apparition out of hell itself, threw his knife. It caught Craig Hyatt between the shoulder blades, and his body poised and leaped like a dancer's before it started to slump forwards. He screamed once as the knife was pulled out to rise and fall again and again.
When he'd gunned the motor to drive out of the garage Webb had expected Hyatt to pull something. He'd had the door on his side unlocked, holding it with one hand while he'd pressed his foot down on the gas pedal. Just beyond the garage doors there was an embankment blanketed by ice plant, and he'd counted on the soft resiliency of the succulent to break his fall when he threw himself out of the car at about the same instant that Hyatt shot the tires. He'd fallen and let himself roll, arms over his head, as pieces of burning metal had scattered all around him. And then, when he'd got his breath back, he'd gone to find Craig, crawling part of the way because his legs felt like rubber under him.
Anne-waiting for him, trusting him. He'd known Craig would try to find her, he'd prayed he wouldn't be too late. The door leading to the caves had been open and he'd begun to run, stumbling; not knowing how he managed to stay on his feet. The sound of the gunshot slammed into his ears, and Hyatt's back made a blurred target as he threw the knife he'd carried strapped to his calf. Anne-he thought of what she must have gone through before the rotten bastard had fired his gun at what must have been point-blank range and he was driven by cold, killer rage that made him want to stab and slash at the man's body long after he was dead. He'd killed before-in war, to defend himself. But never like this, out of a blind urge born of despair and hate and frustration. Hyatt's body lay on its back now and he slit his throat. If he had lived a century ago, he would have taken the scalp as well, as a symbol of bloody vengeance.
Sweat poured from him, dripping into his eyes. Anne was a still, huddled heap on the floor of the cave. Sickly, in the light that poured in from the garage, he saw the stain of blood trickling down her outstretched arm.