The Kill (42 page)

“In the meantime, why don’t you print out the financials for Manning and give him bank records for the race account,” Margaret said.

Thompson’s shoulders sagged as he blew out a loud breath. “I guess I could do that. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling double-teamed here.”

“Nonsense,” Margaret said. “The sooner you help Manning get up to speed on things, the sooner he’ll be able to help shoulder some of the bookkeeping burden.” She nodded at the built-in filing drawers beneath the bookcase. “Are the bank records in these files?”

“No. They’re at my house.”

“Then why don’t you run down and collect them. You can print off the financials at the same time. Manning and I will swing by for them on our way out. There are a few other files I want to gather for Manning before we lock up here.”

Thompson shot a look at his watch. “I have a business dinner to attend.”

“That’s all right,” Margaret said. “We won’t be long here.”

Thompson snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. “Give me ten minutes.”

Neither Manning nor Margaret spoke until the front door banged closed.

“Thanks for backing me up,” Manning said.

Margaret pressed her lips together and eyed him thoughtfully. “I don’t know if your suspicions are correct—I hope to God they’re not—but I think you’ve raised some legitimate questions.”

“I just can’t believe Richard let Thompson have free rein with the finances,” Manning said. “Thompson paid the bills, kept the books, and reconciled the bank accounts. With no checks and balances. And apparently no oversight from Richard.”

“Now don’t go blaming it all on Richard. The board knew Thompson was handling everything. In fact, Doug raised a concern about it at one board meeting and we all just brushed it off.” Margaret shook her head. “Now that I think about it, we really just turned the finances over to Thompson with blind faith. When Dottie Weymouth quit hunting and retired from the board, we were thrilled that Thompson volunteered to fill her shoes as treasurer. We knew Thompson was an accountant. We just assumed the books would be in good hands. Stupid of us, I guess, considering he’d only been a member of the hunt for a couple of years.”

“See, the fact that Thompson’s an accountant just adds to my doubts about the numbers,” Manning said. “He specializes in auditing companies to see if they’re cooking the books, for God’s sake. Generally, auditors have no mercy. They’re usually the type who’d go around a battlefield shooting the wounded. Yet Thompson’s all loosey-goosey about the two accounts, moving money back and forth to suit the needs of the moment.”

“I hear you.” Margaret pushed herself up off the love seat. “I think I’ll place a call to Doug now and ask him to have Jay Barnsby take a look at those two accounts.”

“Sorry, Margaret, I can’t allow you to do that.”

Thompson’s voice came from behind them. His tone hard, confident. Chilled with an air of authority.

The hair pricked on the back of Manning’s neck as he spun toward the hall.

Thompson stood in the doorway, a pistol gripped in both hands. Aimed squarely at Margaret.

“Don’t even think about it, Manning. I can see you’re trying to figure out a way to play hero. You make a move, and I’ll blow Margaret’s brains out. Then turn the gun on you. You think I won’t do it?” Thompson’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Ask Richard.”

N
either Miguel nor the other man had spoken a word since they’d left the parking lot at Big Lots. They’d been driving for about twenty minutes, and had turned off Sterling Boulevard into a residential area about five minutes ago. Miguel made a series of turns that seemed to be taking them in a circle. Abigale figured the indirect route was to ensure they weren’t being followed. And to make sure she wouldn’t be able to lead the cops back to Dario.

The truck splashed through standing water so deep Abigale felt the floorboards vibrate beneath her feet. Water sprayed up over the hood and the truck fishtailed to the left as the wheels fought for traction, then righted again.

“
Mierda!”
Miguel swore.

The truck slowed, then pulled up to the curb in front of a four-story apartment complex. Warped orange shutters hung like faded beacons against tired brown siding. Rivulets of mud meandered past cast-off toys in a dismal yard of crabgrass and mud.

“We meet Dario here,” Miguel said. “Inside.”

Abigale eyed the bleak building. She had managed to rein in her initial rush of fear by reminding herself that she was the one who had requested the meeting with Dario, that the fact Miguel had brought someone with him probably just meant he was being cautious, making sure he had protection in case she double-crossed him.

She was sandwiched between Miguel and the other man as they dashed up the cracked sidewalk and squeezed down an alleyway between two apartment buildings. Her jacket offered no protection against the icy rain that pelted her face. They skirted a Dumpster that looked as if it hadn’t seen a garbage truck in weeks, where rodents scoured brazenly among rotting food and garbage bags, indifferent to the rain or the threat of humankind. A single caged bulb hung crookedly above a graffiti-covered metal door midway down the alley. By the time they halted in front of the door, Abigale’s frozen legs shivered uncontrollably beneath her drenched jeans. Miguel banged once. The door swung toward them.

A young Hispanic woman with a mop of curly black hair and skinny-legged jeans held the door open, then clanged it closed behind them. She tossed her head in the direction of a staircase that ascended behind her. Her feet slapped the cement as she danced up the stairs ahead of them. Rap music blasted down from the second floor, the volume cranked so loud Abigale could feel the bass vibrate in her chest.

She stole a sideways glance at Miguel’s companion. His ball cap still covered half his face, but even so, she could tell he was young. Maybe in his early twenties. His expression said
don’t mess with me
. He shoved his right hand in the pocket of his hoodie, exposing the grip handle of a pistol. Abigale shot a glance at Miguel.

“Is okay,” Miguel said hurriedly. “Jaime, he protect us.”

Angry fists hammered a wall above them. A gruff voice bellowed, “Shut that fucking crap off!” The music instead got louder.

Miguel kicked a beer bottle out of the way and grabbed her arm. “Come on.”

M
argaret’s jawed ached. She’d worked her lips so sore she could taste the metallic bite of blood in her saliva, yet the duct tape still clung to her mouth like a tick on a dog. She’d rubbed her wrists raw, too, having stretched and twisted the duct tape so much it now clamped around her like sticky ribbons of steel. And, damn it, she knew better than that. Every horseman who’d ever duct-taped a hoof knew that the tape only got stronger, tougher, the more you stretched it. Yet she hadn’t been able to resist the urge to pull against the leg of the utility sink to which her wrists were bound, hoping she could use the metal as leverage to loosen the tape and slip a hand free.

She could tell by the muffled grunts whispering through the dark that Manning was struggling against his restraints, too. Thompson had bound Manning with his legs straddling the support beam in the center of the room, his ankles duct-taped together, his hands behind his back. Manning’s face had blanched pale as a corpse when Thompson had grabbed his broken arm and wound the tape around his wrists.
God help him, the amount of pain he must be feeling with it twisted behind him like that!

They were in the basement of Dartmoor Glebe, in the darkroom Richard had built for Abigale when she’d won her Pulitzer. Richard had loved the fact that in this digital age Abigale had a collection of old cameras, still liked to piddle around and shoot rolls of black-and-white, even develop her own film. He had planned to surprise her with the darkroom when—if—she ever came back to Virginia. As far as Margaret knew, Abigale had no idea the darkroom even existed.

Not only was the room windowless, but Richard had designed the space to be virtually soundproof as well. The darkroom shared a wall with Richard’s workshop, and he had said he wanted Abigale to be able to lose herself in her work, not be disturbed by him hammering or drilling on the other side of the wall.
Quiet as a tomb
was how he’d described it. Painfully prophetic.

Margaret found it hard to judge how long they’d been locked in the darkroom. Her inability to see—or hear beyond the four walls—had robbed her of her sense of timing. She guessed it had been less than an hour. She had no idea whether Thompson was still in the house, but if he’d left, she expected he’d be back soon.

There was no way he could keep them hidden in the darkroom for long. Too many people knew about their meeting. Smitty. Abigale. When she and Manning didn’t come home, Dartmoor Glebe was the first place they’d look, and Thompson the first person they’d contact. Besides, Manning’s car was parked out front. And her truck was down at the barn.

But what the hell would Thompson do with them? Kill them, no doubt. Thompson had probably decided that as soon as he realized Manning had caught on to his financial shenanigans. She wondered if Richard had figured it out as well—that Thompson was cooking the books—and confronted Thompson, and that’s why Thompson had shot him.

Fear, anger, and dread all swirled in Margaret’s heart. But mostly anger. Thompson had killed Richard. Betrayed them all. And he might kill her and Manning in the end, too. But she wasn’t going without a fight. If nothing else, she’d find a way to leave some kind of clue so Thompson didn’t get away with this.

T
he girl waited for them at the top of the stairs. They caught up to her, then followed her into a long hallway of ugly beige walls. The stench of garlic and onions saturated the air. Miguel walked in front of Abigale, Jaime half a pace behind. They’d gone maybe twenty yards when the music abruptly cut off. Half a minute later, the door to one of the apartments flew open and three men strolled into the hall. Abigale’s first impression was of testosterone and tattoos, low-slung jeans and close-cropped dark hair. One of them wore a white wife-beater undershirt. He folded his arms across his chest and tucked his hands under his armpits to pump up his muscles. The other two fell into place, flanking him on either side.

Abigale felt Jaime’s hand on her back, pushing her forward. No one spoke. Miguel and the girl kept walking. Jaime slid around to Abigale’s left, positioning himself between her and the men. The gaze of the one in the wife-beater undershirt focused on Jaime, and Abigale saw fear in his eyes. Jaime uttered something in Spanish, and the three men backed against the wall to allow them to pass.

The girl walked past two more apartments, then stopped and rapped lightly on an apartment door. “It’s me.”

The door instantly opened inward, revealing a tiny one-room apartment. The threadbare carpet was littered with dust bunnies, scraps of paper, and a couple of bags from fast-food restaurants. Battered aluminum blinds hung in a tangled mess from the lone window and a stained mattress was shoved against the wall. A closet-sized kitchenette was tucked into the corner next to a closed door that Abigale assumed led to a bathroom or closet. Light from a fluorescent bulb in the kitchenette flickered across the room, casting long shadows into the corners.