Shades of Twilight (49 page)

Webb swore viciously even as he threw himself into the open, rolling, bringing his own weapon around. He squeezed off a shot, the heavy pistol bucking in his hand, but the dark figure at the other end darted toward Lucinda's door. Smoke filled the hallway, and the stench of cordite burned in his nostrils as Webb scrambled to his feet and threw himself forward.

As he'd expected, the shots had the entire family opening their doors, poking their heads out. “God damn it, get back in your rooms,” he yelled furiously.

Gloria ignored him and stepped completely out into the hallway. “Don't swear at me!” she snapped. “What on earth is going on?”

Behind her, the assailant stepped out into the hallway, but Gloria was between them and Webb couldn't get off a shot. Roughly he shoved her, and with a cry she sprawled to the floor.

And he froze, suddenly helpless. The man had one arm hooked around Lucinda's neck, holding the frail old woman in front of him as a shield. The gun was steady in his other hand, the barrel laid against Lucinda's temple, and a savage grin was on his face.

“Unload the gun real slow,” he ordered, backing toward the front hallway. Webb didn't hesitate. There was an
expression on the man's face that told him Lucinda would be dead if he didn't obey. With deliberate movements he flipped open the cylinder and removed all the bullets.

“Throw them behind you,” the man said, and Webb obeyed, tossing the bullets down the hallway. “Now kick the gun toward me.”

Carefully he bent and placed the empty weapon on the carpet, then took his foot and shoved it toward the man, who made no move to pick it up. He didn't have to; he had separated the bullets from the weapon, so there was no way anyone could pick up a bullet, get to the pistol and reload it, then fire, before he could shoot them.

Lucinda was standing very still in his grip, as colorless as her nightgown. Her white hair was rumpled as if he had dragged her from her bed, and perhaps he had, though more likely she had jumped up at the first shot and was coming to see what had happened when he grabbed her.

The man looked around, his savage grin growing even bigger as he saw all the people standing frozen in their bedroom doors, except for Gloria, who was still lying on the carpet and whimpering softly.

“Everybody!” he suddenly bellowed. “I want to see everybody! I know who you all are, so if anybody tries to hide, I'll put a bullet in the old biddy's head. You got five seconds! One—two—three—”

Harlan stepped out of the bedroom and bent to help Gloria to her feet. She clung to him, still whimpering. Greg and Lanette came out of their rooms, ashen faced.

“—four—”

Webb saw Corliss and Brock appear from the other hallway.

The man looked around. “There's one more,” he said, sneering. “We're missing your little brood mare, Tallant. Where is she? You think I'm fooling around about killing this old bitch?'

No, Webb thought. No. As much as he loved Lucinda, he couldn't bear the thought of risking Roanna. Run, he silently pleaded with her. Run, darling. Get help.
Run!

The man looked to the left and gave a pleased laugh. “There she is. Come on out, darlin'. Join the happy crowd.”

Roanna slipped forward, moving to stand between Corliss and the front double doors of the veranda. She was as pale as Lucinda, her slender figure almost insubstantial. She stared at the man and gasped, going even whiter.

“Well, ain't this nice?” the man crowed, grinning at Roanna. “I see you remember me.”

“Yes,” she said faintly.

“That's good, because I remember you real well. Me and you got some unfinished business. You gave me a scare when you walked up on me here in the hall that night, but I heard tell that little bump on the head gave you a concussion, and you don't remember nothing about it. That right?”

“Yes,” she said again, her eyes huge and dark in her white face.

He laughed, evidently pleased by the irony. His cold eyes swept over them all. “A real family reunion. All of you get together, over here in the front hall, under the light so I can see all of you real good.” He moved back, out of reach, holding Lucinda's head arched back as Webb silently shepherded the others forward, grouping them together with Corliss, Brock, and Roanna.

Webb spared a single murderous look at Corliss. She was watching the man as if fascinated, but there wasn't a single flicker of fear on her face. She had let him in, and she was too stupid to realize he would kill her, too. All of them were dead, unless he did something.

He tried to move closer to Roanna, hoping that perhaps he could shield her with his body, that somehow she might survive. “Uh-uh,” the man said, shaking his head. “You stand still, you bastard.”

“Who
are
you?” Gloria shrilled. “Turn loose of my sister!”

“Shut up, bitch, or I'll feed the first bullet to you.”

“It's a good question,” Webb said. He stared at the man with a cool, hard gaze. “Who the hell are you?”

Lucinda spoke, her bloodless lips moving. “His name,” she said clearly, “is Harper Neeley.”

The man gave a rough, feral laugh. “I see you've heard of me.”

“I know who you are. I made it a point to find out.”

“Did you, now? That's real interesting. Wonder why you never visited. We're family, after all.” He laughed again.

Webb didn't want his attention on Lucinda, didn't want him watching any of them except himself. “Why, God damn it?” he snarled. “What do you want? I don't know you, I've never even heard of you.” If he could stall long enough, Loyal might be able to work himself into position and do something, or the sheriff would arrive. All he had to do was stall.

“Because you killed her,” Neeley said viciously. “You killed my girl, you fucking bastard.”

“Jessie?” Webb stared at him, astonished. “I didn't kill Jessie.”

“God damn you, don't lie!” Neeley roared, jerking the pistol from Lucinda's temple to point it at Webb. “You found out about us, and you killed her!”

“No,” Webb said sharply. “I didn't. I didn't have any idea she was cheating on me. I didn't know until after the autopsy when the sheriff told me she was pregnant. I knew it couldn't be mine.”

“You knew! You knew and you killed her! You killed my girl and you killed my baby, and I'm going to make you watch while I kill
your
baby. I'm going to shoot this little bitch right in the stomach and you're going to stand there and watch her die, and then I'm going to do you—”

“He didn't kill Jessie!” Lucinda's voice rang out over Neeley's. She lifted her white head high. “I did.”

The pistol wavered slightly. “Don't try to mess with me, old woman,” Neeley panted.

Webb kept his attention glued to Neeley; the man's eyes were gleaming hotly, sweat beading on his face as he worked himself into a frenzy. He was planning to kill nine people. He'd already wasted one shot. The pistol was an automatic;
how many bullets did it have in the clip? Some carried as many as seventeen, but still, after the first shot he could hardly expect them all to stand there like sheep waiting for the slaughter. He had to realize that he was in an almost impossible situation, but that made him all the more unstable. He had nothing to lose.

“I killed her,” Lucinda repeated.

“You're lying. It was him, everybody knows it was him.”

“I didn't mean to kill her,” Lucinda said calmly. “It was an accident. I was scared, I didn't know what to do. If Webb had actually been arrested, I would have confessed, but Booley couldn't find any evidence because there wasn't any.

Webb didn't do it.” She gave Webb a look of sorrow, of love, of regret. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“You're lying!” Neeley howled, jerking her hard against him and tightening his arm around her throat. “I'll break your goddamn neck if you don't shut up!”

Greg jumped for him. Quiet, unassuming Greg, who had let Lanette run their lives without even opening his mouth to give an opinion. Lanette screamed, and Neeley jerked back, firing once. Greg stumbled and fell forward, all of his coordination suddenly gone, his legs and arms moving spasmodically. He sprawled on the floor, his chest heaving and his eyes wide with surprise. Then he gave a funny little cough that turned into a moan, as blood slowly spread beneath him.

Lanette stuffed her fingers into her mouth, staring in horror at her husband. She started forward, instinctively going to him.

“Don't move!” Neeley screamed, waving the pistol erratically. “I'll kill the next one who moves!”

Corliss was staring down at her father, her mouth open, her expression stunned. “You shot my daddy,” she said in amazement.

“Shut up, you fucking bitch. Stupid,” he sneered. “You're so fucking stupid.”

Webb caught the faintest movement out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't dare move, didn't dare turn his head, as
terror seized him. Roanna shifted again, just the slightest of movements, taking her a fraction of an inch closer to the doors.

On the code box to the left of the doors, Webb saw the green light change to red.

Roanna had opened the door.

Fifteen seconds. The deafening blare would be all the diversion he would get. He began counting, hoping he could time it right.

Tears streamed down Corliss's face as she stared down at Greg, feebly writhing on the floor. “Daddy,” she said. She looked back at Neeley and her face twisted with rage, and something else. “You shot my daddy!” she screamed, lunging at Neeley, her hands extended like claws.

He pulled the trigger again.

Corliss skidded, her torso jerked backward even as her feet tried to keep moving. Lanette screamed hoarsely, and the pistol swung unevenly toward her.

The alarm went off, the shrill, deafening sound painful in its intensity. Neeley's finger tightened on the trigger even as Webb was moving, and the bullet plowed into the wall right over Lanette's head. Neeley shoved Lucinda to the side, his free hand coming up to cover one ear as he tried to bring the pistol around. Webb hit him, driving one shoulder hard into the man's stomach, slamming him back against the wall.

With his left hand he grabbed Neeley's right wrist, holding it up so he couldn't shoot anyone else even if he pulled the trigger.

Neeley shoved back, gathering himself. He was enraged, and as strong as an ox. Brock threw himself into the fray, adding his strength to Webb's as they both forced Neeley's arm back, pinning it to the wall, but still the man pushed back against them. Webb drove his knee upward, slamming it into Neeley's groin. A choked, guttural sound exploded from him, then he gasped soundlessly, his mouth working.

He began sliding down the wall, taking them with him, and the movement wrenched his arm free of their grasp.

Webb grabbed for the gun as the three of them sprawled on the floor in a tangle. Neeley got his breath back with a high-pitched shriek of laughter, and only then did Webb realize that the shriek of the alarm had stopped, that Roanna had silenced it as quickly as she had set it off.

Neeley was scrabbling around, turning his body, still laughing in that shrill, maniacal tone that made the hair stand up on Webb's neck. He was staring at something, and laughing as he struggled, squirming on the floor, trying to bring the pistol around one more time—

Roanna.

She was kneeling beside Lucinda, tears running down her face as she looked from her grandmother to where Webb was struggling with Neeley, obviously torn between the two of them.

Roanna.

She was a perfect target, a little isolated from everyone else because Lanette, Gloria, and Harlan had rushed to Greg and Corliss. Her nightgown was a pristine white, perfect, impossible to miss at this range.

The gray metal of the barrel inched around, despite his and Brock's best efforts to hold Neeley's arm still, to wrestle the gun away from him.

Webb roared with fury, a great rush of it that surged through his muscles, his brain, obscuring everything in a red tide. He lunged forward that extra inch, his hand clamping down on Neeley's, slowly forcing the gun back, back, until he literally broke it free as the bones in Neeley's thick fingers popped under the pressure.

He screamed, writhing on the floor, his eyes going blank with pain.

Webb staggered to his feet, still holding the gun. “Brock,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “Move.”

Brock scrambled away from Neeley.

Webb's face was cold, and Neeley must have read his death there. He tried to surge upward, reaching for the gun, and Webb pulled the trigger.

At almost point blank range, one shot was all he needed.

The reverberation faded away, and in the distance he could hear the faint wail of sirens.

Lucinda was trying feebly to sit up. Roanna helped her, bracing the old woman with her own body. Lucinda was gasping for breath, her color absolutely gray as she pressed her hand to her chest. “He—he was her father,” she gasped desperately, reaching out to Webb, trying to make him understand. “I couldn't—I couldn't let her h-have that baby.” She choked and grimaced, pressing harder on her chest with her other hand. She collapsed back against Roanna, her body going limp and sagging to the floor.

Webb looked around at his family, at the blood and destruction and grief. Over the groans of pain, the sobs, he said in a steely voice, “This stays in the family, do you understand? I'll do the talking. Neeley was Jessie's father.

He thought I killed her, and he was out for revenge. That's it, do you understand? All of you,
do you understand?
No one knows who really killed Jessie.”

They looked back at him, the survivors, and they understood. Lucinda's terrible secret remained just that, a secret.

Three days later, Roanna sat by Lucinda's bed in the cardiac intensive care unit, holding the old lady's hand and gently stroking it as she talked to her. Her grandmother had suffered a massive heart attack, and her body was already so frail that the doctors hadn't expected her to live through the night.