Her heart fluttered, a series of rapid irregular beats. Lord-a-mercy! Was she having a heart attack? Her doctor said her blood pressure was sky-high. He wanted her to lose weight, 100 pounds, he’d said, wagging his finger.
She leaned against the wall and pressed her hands to her chest.
She was going to die here all alone. Because of that awful girl.
Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window on the second-floor landing, casting scary shadows on the wall. She looked up the dark staircase. Again her heart fluttered. But she couldn’t give in to fear. She had to find out what that sneaky girl was up to.
Pausing after each step, she crept to the third-floor landing.
The Blue Room was the first door on the right, not a speck of light showing under the door.
Little Miss Innocent must be fast asleep in the four-poster bed.
Summoning her courage, she rapped on the door. No response. The girl must be a sound sleeper. She rapped again, harder.
A new thought almost made her wet herself. Maybe April West was gone. What if that sneak tiptoed downstairs last night while she was watching TV in her apartment? What if that awful girl just scooted out the door, got in her car and left, leaving her poor old landlady at the mercy of the terrible storm that was about to hit them?
The thought enraged her. April West was worse than sneaky, she was a coldhearted bitch. The girl had no respect for her elders. Abandoning her at a time like this!
She found the key to the Blue Room on the brass ring, slid it into the lock and opened the door.
Moonlight shone through the filmy white curtain above the air-conditioner in the window, enough light to tell her the four-poster bed was empty. The canvas bag that held the girl’s laptop sat atop the blue comforter on the bed. A sturdy gray suitcase stood in the corner.
Maybe the girl wasn’t going to abandon her after all. She wouldn’t leave without her belongings, would she?
Mrs. Reilly turned on the overhead light and opened the closet. Inside on wire hangers were a pair of blue jeans and that Yankee T-shirt. April West was a Yankee fan. It figured. How could anyone root for a team with a name like that? Damn Yankees, that’s what her husband used to call them. Tom's great-granddaddy had fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War, got shot in the leg and had to have it amputated.
She checked her wristwatch. Lord-a-mercy, two-thirty in the morning.
Where was that girl? At this hour she had to be up to no good.
Mrs. Reilly left the Blue Room and descended the stairs, gripping the wooden banister, her mind awhirl with questions, questions that made her head throb. The girl’s belongings were still here, but what if she came back in the dead of night, took her belongings, got in her car and left town while her helpless old landlady was fast asleep?
By the time she reached the first floor, she had made her decision.
She marched through the dining room and straight through the foyer to the front door. She peered through the glass in the top half of the door. It was dark outside, but the streetlights were on. Gusts of wind were blowing the two big fir trees across the street, making them sway back and forth.
That hurricane was going to hit them for sure.
She set both dead bolts, the top one first, then the one at the bottom, and nodded with satisfaction.
If that girl tried to sneak into Parades-A-Plenty and grab her belongings and run off without waking Mrs. Reilly, that girl was in for a big surprise.
CHAPTER 32
Fear coiled inside her like a deadly cobra.
Frozen her in her tracks, she stared at the snub-nosed .38 Special. She’d chosen the one with a matte-black finish, thinking it looked more frightening than silver. It was. Even more frightening were the implacable eyes of the man who aimed it at her.
Never in her life had she been so terrified, not when the cops questioned her after Randy fell off the bluff, not when Tex recognized her in the store, not even when the cops chased her after she killed Oliver.
She felt utterly defenseless.
Was this how Mom felt when BoBo strangled her?
This was supposed to be the stunning triumph at the end of her journey, the culmination of her quest for vengeance. Lying in bed last night, unable to sleep, she had imagined this moment in vivid detail. The fear in Chip’s eyes when he saw the gun. The thrilling moment when she took control of this insufferable man. Her conquest when she stripped him of his power and heard him beg for mercy.
But now Chip had the gun.
To avoid looking at him, she focused on the
wall behind him and noticed the print. A Mardi Gras poster, a bosomy blonde with her nipples peeking out of her bra. It seemed familiar. Where had she seen it? Then she remembered the photo in her mother's case file. The poster on the wall above the bed where her mother lay. Naked. Dead. Another Mardi Gras poster with a busty blonde.
The realization crushed her.
She was going to die in a sleazy hotel room like her mother.
“Take your clothes off, bitch.”
Her insides were shaking uncontrollably, as if she’d been standing outside in a blizzard for hours. A feeling of lassitude enveloped her, a bone-deep weariness that made her want to capitulate. Why not get it over with? Chip just was as ruthless as his father. No matter what she did, he would kill her.
She conjured a vision of her mother, recalling the bright sunny day they had strolled along the Mississippi River, warmed by the midday sun, licking their ice cream cones—strawberry for her, chocolate for Mom. An ordinary day, peaceful and carefree, a fun time with Mom.
Do your homework and go to bed, Natalie, and I’ll see you in the morning.
The last words Mom had spoken to her.
Somewhere deep within her, anger stirred and became a steely resolve. Chip's father had murdered her mother and had never been punished for it. She would not capitulate. Mom deserved better. Mom deserved justice.
A jolt of adrenaline energized her. Moving seductively, she took off her clingy top and gave Chip a sexy smile. Aware of his eyes roving her body, she shimmied out of her slim black skirt.
“That’s better, dawlin. I like your underwear. Black turns me on like you wouldn’t believe.”
She believed it all right. But what turned him on most was holding the gun on her. Having power over her. Power, the ultimate aphrodisiac. The power that enormous wealth could buy.
Shimmying her hips, she stepped closer, unhooked her lacy black bra and let it fall to the floor.
“I like your tits, April. Ditch the panties.” He lowered the gun.
She took another step closer. Shoved her panties down to her ankles. Felt his greedy eyes devour her body. She stepped out of her shoes and kicked her underpants aside. Forced herself not to look at the gun. “Aren’t you going to undress, Chip? I thought we were going to have some fun.”
“You got that right.” He tossed the gun on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.
Waves of relief washed over her. She wasn’t home free yet. Chip was over six feet tall and weighed at least 200 pounds. But now the gun was on the bed. If she was very careful and totally focused, she might be able to save herself and complete her mission.
Eyes fixed on her breasts, he took off his white shirt, pulled off his undershirt and dropped it on the floor. Thick blonde hair matted his chest and curled from his armpits. The muscles in his arms rippled as he unbuckled his belt. He unzipped his fly and looked at her.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
Take your pants off, you pig.
He shoved his trousers down to his knees, sat on the bed, toed off his shoes and pushed off his trousers. Then he rose from the bed and took off his jockey shorts. His erection was enormous, deep red, pulsing and throbbing.
“Okay, dawlin, let’s get it on.”
Fixing her lips in a smile, she mustered her strength and her courage. This would be the most important move of her life. Get it right, or she was dead.
She took a breath and released it, seeking the centered calm she worked so hard to achieve during her TKD workouts. Felt the energy reach the focal point below her breastbone. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Rearing back, she spun her body and kicked him with all her might, slamming her foot against his head above the ear.
His face sagged, an instant of shocked disbelief. Like a wounded animal, he emitted a low guttural sound. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed on the floor with a thump. She pounced on him. Her strike had been a solid hit, but Chip was a powerful man, strong and muscular. His eyes were shut, but his chest rose and fell rapidly. She had to disable him before he came to his senses. Sickened by the smell of him, a gamy odor triggered by his anticipation of fucking her, she located the Dokko point below his ear. Made a knuckle fist with two fingers. Set them against the Dokko point and twisted.
Shock the nerves, but not too much.
She didn't want to kill him. Not yet.
His body shuddered and lay still. But for how long?
His head lay near the wall, his feet close to the bed.
The leg is the most powerful weapon.
Mr. Larson's oft-repeated warning.
Chip’s muscular legs looked powerful enough to hurt her badly. She grabbed a pair of plastic handcuffs, knelt down and cuffed his ankles together. Checked to make sure his eyes were closed. They were. Reassured, she grasped his thick hairy ankles and dragged him closer to the foot of the bed. Inch by inch, she heaved him closer to the bed, his body deadweight.
Panting, she let go of his ankles, raised the bedspread and studied the metal frame. The cylindrical legs were an inch thick, sturdy enough to support any acrobatic lovers. She grasped his ankles and heaved his body closer to the leg. When his ankles were close enough, she took another set of cuffs, looped one half around the cuffs that bound his ankles and secured the other half around the leg of the bed.
Chip's muscular legs looked powerful, but she believed the double bed and the heavy frame were too heavy for him to move. Kneeling on the carpet, she studied his face for any sign of awareness. His eyes remained closed, his lips parted, his raspy breathing clearly audible in the stillness of the room.
She rose to her feet and took the .38 Special off the bed.
It felt heavy in her hand. Heavy and reassuring.
Was Chip truly unconscious? Or was he pretending? She placed the .38 Special on the carpet beyond his reach but where she could quickly grab it. Cautiously, she grasped his wrist and raised his hand above his belly. His skin felt clammy and wiry hairs prickled her fingers. A diamond-studded Rolex with a gold expansion-band encircled his wrist. Rich men loved expensive toys.
She lowered his hand, bound his wrists together with another set of cuffs and assessed his ability to resist.
His ankles were secured to the leg of the bed. Cuffed together, his hands lay on his abdomen. His erection was long gone, his penis limp and flaccid against his thigh. She'd feel safer if she could secure his wrists to something, but the flimsy nightstand wasn't an option. Chip could easily tip it over.
If she dragged his torso closer to the head of the bed, she could secure his wrists to the leg below the headboard. But she didn’t dare.
If he came to before she finished, he might grab her.
Again, she assessed his ability to resist. His legs were immobilized, his wrists cuffed together. He could move his arms, but only within a certain arc. She had to stay clear of his hands.
His eyes remained closed, his raspy breathing audible as air escaped from his nostrils. He appeared to be unconscious, but for how long?
Keeping her eyes on him, she put on her clothes: First her bra, then her top, then her panties and slim black skirt. That made her feel better. Now he was naked and she wasn’t. That was part of the power game. Chip had made her undress first, but now the power equation was reversed.
Her tape recorder, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, lay on the floor beside her tote. She made sure the tape was inside and pushed Start. When she heard her own voice, she hit Rewind, then Stop.
Excellent. The stage was set and the actors were in place: Chip Beaubien, Arnold Peterson, and Natalie Brixton with her gun.
A soft moan startled her. She grabbed the .38 Special and aimed it at Chip. He didn't move, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, his breathing steady. She checked the time, amazed. 3:15. But she wasn't sleepy. On the contrary, she felt energized and excited. Now that she had Chip under control she wanted him to wake up and face the music.
A car door slammed, a loud thud, then another. Her breath caught in her throat. It sounded like the car was right outside the room. Were the cops here to raid the motel? It probably wouldn't be the first time.
She crept to the window, parted the drapes an inch and looked outside. A huge pickup truck with oversized tires was parked in front of the room two doors down. She heard a woman laugh, a rollicking laugh, the laugh of a woman about to have sex with a man.
Relieved, she turned away from the window. But the interruption reminded her that precious minutes were passing, minutes she couldn't afford to waste. Holding the gun in her right hand, she grasped the plastic cuffs that bound Chip's wrists with her left hand. Bracing her legs for leverage, she raised his arms toward his head.
He didn’t stir. She let them fall onto his belly. Still nothing.
She slapped his face. “Wake up, you slimy piece of shit.”
His eyelids flickered, but his eyes remained closed. She hit him again, a sharp smack on each cheek. He grunted. She moved away so he couldn’t grab her and waited, with the gun aimed at his face.
His eyes flicked open and settled on the gun. He raised his hands, saw the cuffs that bound them together. His face hardened in a frown.
“You cunt. What do you want?”
She smiled, her first genuine smile of the day. “I want to have fun, Chip.”
He tried to move his legs, but couldn't. Realized his ankles were secured to the bed frame. His thigh muscles bulged as he tried to free himself. The cuffs held, but the bed moved two inches. Scowling at her, he jerked his legs. "You tied me up, you fucking cunt."
“Now I’ve got the gun, Chip. One pull of the trigger blows your brains out."
His eyes, malevolent with fury, fixed on her face. "Bitch."
“'The sins of the father are visited upon the son.'”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Get these fuckin cuffs off me and we’ll get out of here.”
“No. I want you to listen to something that proves what a slimy shit your father was.”
His cheeks reddened. “What is this some kind of revenge movie? You got some bone to pick with Pops? Hell, you never even met him.”
“Your father murdered my mother.”
His eyes widened. Then he laughed. “My father did no such thing.”
“Yes he did. Twenty years ago BoBo murdered my mother.”
“That’s bullshit, those old rumors—”
“Shut up, Chip. The rumors were true and I’ve got the proof.”
"You're full of—”
“Shut up!” She hit Play on the tape recorder.
Tell me how you met BoBo, Arnold.
Her voice, loud and clear, on the tape.
Chip’s eyes widened. When Peterson’s voice came over the speaker, he said, “Jesus. Arnold Peterson?”
“That’s right, Chip. Your father’s pal. The man that helped him get away with murder.”
“You got no—”
“Shut up and listen!” She stepped closer, aimed the gun at his face. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”
Chip clamped his lips together and listened to Peterson explain how he met BoBo in 1988. But as Peterson droned on, Chip’s expression grew angry. “That lying sonofabitch.”
“Shut up. You haven’t heard the best part.”
Peterson described what happened when he picked BoBo up near the hotel on Royal Street and drove him home. Under her prodding, Peterson admitted that on the way, BoBo told him he’d murdered a woman in the hotel and asked him never to tell anyone.
She shut off the tape recorder. “Still think Pops was a great guy?”
"I don’t believe it. You can’t prove he killed that woman. Peterson got murdered in a hotel room last month. It was you, right? You held a gun on him, just like you’re doing to me. Arnold lied. He told you what you wanted to hear so you wouldn’t shoot him.”
“He wasn’t lying. He was part of it. You heard him. He picked your father up at the hotel after he murdered my mother and drove him home.”