The Other Lady Vanishes (Burning Cove #2)(79)

Adelaide sensed Jake moving. In the blink of an eye he was at the cell door, key in hand.

She grabbed his arm.

“No,” she said. “Please.”

Jake glanced down at her fingers on his arm and then raised his burning eyes to look at her.

“Don’t you see?” she said quietly. “He’s like a maddened bull right now. Let the tisane take care of the situation. When it wears off, he’ll be facing bankruptcy and charges of fraud and kidnapping and who knows what else. He’ll be ruined. That’s all the revenge I need.”

The brew was working quickly. Conrad gripped the bars and stared at her. He made a visible attempt to focus his eyes.

“You lied to me,” he mumbled. “You said it was tea but it was poison.”

He released the bars, stumbled to the bunk, and collapsed on the thin mattress.

Adelaide became aware of the acute silence around her. She turned, walked across the room, and set the empty mug on the counter.

“I gave him a very heavy dose,” she said, keeping her voice expressionless. “He’ll probably sleep for a few hours.”

She stared at the wall in front of her and wondered why she felt numb.

Jake came to stand beside her. He turned her gently in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I almost let you go into that cell,” she whispered. “But you might have killed him. I couldn’t allow you to do that. Not for me.”

“There’s no one I would rather kill for than you.” Cold steel underlined the words.

She managed a teary smile. “Thank you but it’s not necessary. I’m not alone now. I don’t have to hide any longer. I’ve got friends here in Burning Cove.”

“Damn right,” Raina said.





Chapter 45


Everything had gone wrong. Again.

Gill flung the last of his clothes into the suitcase, wiped cold sweat off his forehead, and swung around to examine the hotel room. He must not leave anything behind that would lead Truett and the police back to him. Truett was the one who worried him the most. The bastard should have died tonight, the victim of a jealous husband who had gotten drunk and then gone to a midnight rendezvous with the intention of killing his rival.

The plan had included Conrad Massey’s death, as well. At least that part of the scheme worked. One of the bullets had struck Massey. He went off the end of the pier. There was no way he could have survived.

No possible way.

Gill forced himself to check the bathroom cabinet and the closet one last time to make certain he had not left anything behind. He had been careful to register under another name when he had checked into the cheap, run-down hotel. Truett and the police would not be able to use the guest records to identify him. Not that they were ever likely to trace him to this dump, he thought.

He closed the suitcase, hauled it off the bed, and headed for the door. He hurried downstairs to the dimly lit lobby. There was no sign of the night clerk at the front desk. The sound of snoring came from the inner office. One piece of good luck at last—there would be no one to witness the late-night departure of the mysterious Mr. Smith.

Gill opened the door, hurried across the porch, and went down the front steps. He walked quickly along the sidewalk and around the corner. Earlier, when he had returned from the debacle at the pier, he had parked on an empty side street. There was only one streetlamp at the end of the block. The light it cast did not reach far into the darkness. He did not think anyone would notice the Ford.

He tossed the suitcase into the trunk, closed the lid, and started toward the driver’s side door. A figure emerged from the shadows of a long row of bushy oleander trees. Calvin Paxton moved into the moonlight. He had a gun in his hand.

“I always knew that you were too weak to stick with the plan if things got complicated,” Paxton said. “Figured you’d lose your nerve and run.”

“What are you going to do?” Gill opened the driver’s side door. “Shoot me here on the street outside my hotel? If you really think that’s a smart move, you’re as crazy as any of my patients at Rushbrook. The cops will investigate. Once they identify me they’ll start asking questions. Sooner or later they’ll find a connection between us. It’s over, Paxton. The operation is crumbling. If you had any sense, you’d run, too.”

“There’s no need for me to run,” Paxton said. “No one knows that I’m involved with you and the drug business that you and Ormsby were running out of Rushbrook. Zolanda and Leggett are dead. They are the only ones who could have pointed the finger at me. I’m in the clear, unless, of course, you decide to talk to the police or the FBI.”

“I’m not going to talk to anyone,” Gill said. “Massey’s dead. As long as you and I keep quiet, we’ll be all right.”

“You don’t know, do you? Of course not. How could you know?” Paxton lowered the gun. “Massey survived.”

Gill felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. For a second or two he could not catch his breath.

“The hell he did,” he said. “I saw him go off the end of that pier. He was alive but he was bleeding. I shot him, Paxton. In addition, he was in a full-blown delirium. If he didn’t bleed to death, he must have drowned.”

“I watched Truett and Pell take him into the police station. From what I could tell, Massey was only semiconscious, but you’re right, he was hallucinating wildly. That means we’ve got some time. You gave him a big dose of Daydream, so it will take at least a couple of days before the effects of the drug start to wear off. But when they do, he’ll talk. He’ll tell the police that you drove him to that pier to meet Truett. He’ll say that you were the one who set him up—that you drugged him and put the gun in his hand.”