The Final Kill

“So you did. But I, at least, was wearing my chest protector,” he pointed out.

Pulling her jersey up over her chest, he swore again. His fingers carefully wiped the crimson glop from the flesh over her heart—where, despite her brilliant plan to one-up his character of “Frank Frett, the evil lilac killer,” he’d managed to get her with a big red splat of paint. The spot where the paintball had hit was badly inflamed. Ben stroked it gently. “Abby, this is final. If you don’t start wearing protective gear, I’m not—” He sighed.

“Not what?”

“Playing anymore.” The tone of his voice told her he knew the words sounded ridiculous, but his eyes were dead serious.

She pulled him down on the bed beside her and nuzzled his neck, while at the same time pressing herself seductively against him. “You’re not playing anymore? You sure about that?”

“I’m serious,” he said sternly. “This game is getting out of hand.”

She planted her lips against his ear. “And whose idea was it in the first place?” she murmured. “Who left me that scenario about some crazy gardener named Frank Frett killing off somebody’s lilacs? And where the hell did you get that scenario, anyway?”

He rubbed noses with her. “From watching you with your rose garden, of course. You almost leveled poor Sister Binny that day you caught her with a spray gun.”

She touched his lips with hers. “Only because I didn’t know she was using organic spray. And I made it up to her by letting her have all the lavender she wanted.”

“How kind of you. To be nice to a nun, of all people.”

“Not as kind as you, leaving that barn door open for me so I’d walk right into your snare, Frank Frett. I can’t believe you thought I’d fall for that.”

“Ah, but you did believe my fake death.”

“Okay, so I’m easy to fool where you’re concerned.”

Ben turned serious. “Easy to fool? What exactly does that mean?”

The way he said it made her think there was something she was missing. But she already regretted her choice of words. If there was something she was being a fool about, and lately her instincts had been telling her there was, she honestly didn’t want to know it. Not yet. Life was complicated enough, as her mother would say, without looking for dust balls under the bed.

“I didn’t mean a thing,” she said. “And by the way, don’t forget you promised to help us finish the remodel on the old friar’s chapel out back.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Abby. Dammit, this is it. It’s the second time you’ve been hurt during one of our paintball capers, and that wasn’t what the game started out to be.”

She grinned. “I know. But don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it. It’s our best sexual fantasy. If you hadn’t knocked me off my feet tonight, just imagine what might have happened.”

“I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.” He frowned. “Abby, ever since—Never mind. The point is, you’re way too reckless. What if you’d lost an eye?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ben. People play paintball all the time.”

“They get hurt all the time, too. There are thousands of cases every year of people being blinded by a paint-ball—and worse.” He swore. “I never should have taken you to survivor camp with me last fall. You’ve got to let this go, Abby.”

“But you agreed I needed to get my self-confidence back. And my experience there made a great article for Action Pursuit Games.”

“An article that barely paid you anything, and you already have more money than you know what to do with.”

“Not true. There’s the little chapel, and the Women’s Center for Learning needs expanding, and the old horse barn could use a ton of work—”

He groaned. “Look, I admire the fact that you decided to buy the Prayer House from Lydia and help the nuns out. But why do you have to live here?”

And now we’re getting to the real meat of things, Abby thought. What he means is, Why weren’t you happy enough living with me?

“I love your apartment in town,” she said. “But, Ben, you were out most of the time chasing criminals around Carmel, and I was alone. I wanted to be around people more.”

“You could walk around Carmel Village anytime and be up to your knees in tourists from every hemisphere.”

“But I can think better out here. It’s quiet. Besides, I can still drive to the village whenever I want to.”

The truth was, she didn’t want to all that often. Windhaven, the multimillion-dollar Ocean Drive house that she’d lived in with her husband, still held too many bad memories. Just driving by it gave her the willies.

“And as for chasing criminals around in quaint little old Carmel,” Ben said, “it’s not exactly the way I thought it would be when I moved down here from San Francisco. I thought having a chance to be chief one day would be the perfect job.”

“It’s not?” Abby was surprised. They had never talked about this before.

“It could be,” he said, “for the right person. But don’t you ever get the feeling that living in Carmel is like living in a bubble? We’re so isolated here. A two-hour drive to San Francisco, no direct flights out of Monterey to most cities…”

“Sweetie,” Abby murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “you’re not old enough to be having a midlife crisis.”

“Ha. I’m over forty.”

“No!” she said mockingly. “You’re that old? Good grief, what’s a young thirty-eight-year-old like me doing with the likes of you?”

“Growing old,” he said, grinning, “and way too fast, if you’re not careful.”

She punched him on the shoulder. “Okay, so how about this? You get a hobby.”

He snorted. “Like what?”

“Painting, maybe. Or golf.”

“Great. Then there would be three million and one painters in Monterey County. And four million and one golfers.”

She sighed. “You won’t let me make you feel any better, will you?”

“Depends on how you’re feeling now,” he said, pulling her close and nuzzling her ear. “Hey, ya know what? I just figured out my new hobby.”

She was about to agree that his new hobby was a fine one when the intercom next to her bed buzzed softly. Sister Helen, who acted as keeper of the front door at night, would never interrupt her when Ben was there unless it was important.

She pressed the button for two-way conversation. “What’s up, Helen?”

The nun’s voice was so raspy from allergies, Abby could hardly make it out. Turning up the volume, she put a finger over her lips to quiet Ben, who was still trying to nuzzle.

“There are two women here,” Helen said. “Rather, a woman and a teenage girl who looks old enough to be Hades.”

“Hades?”

“God of the dead. For heaven’s sake, girl, don’t you remember anything I taught you in high school? Anyway, the older one says they’re seeking sanctuary.”

“I haven’t had a call from anyone setting that up,” Abby said, looking at the clock. It read 2:38 a.m.

“I didn’t think so,” Helen said. “Do you think it’s safe to let them in?”

“Keep them in the reception room. I’ll be right there.”

Yet one more abused family, she thought wearily, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing her eyes. God, there were so many more than a year ago. And the little she did for them never felt like enough. Food, clothes, a bed for the night…then off they went in the morning to the next way station. It really wasn’t much.

“Abby?” Sister Helen’s voice came over the intercom at the same time that Ben nudged her, calling her back from a suddenly overwhelming depression.

“Sorry, Helen,” she said. “Tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

Abby pressed the off button. She knew Helen would also call Sister Benicia, who would be glad to get up and go to the kitchen to heat leftover soup from dinner for the two women.

Abby bent over to plant a quick kiss on Ben, but he’d have none of it. Rolling her under him, he covered her from head to toe and pressed himself hard against her. “Just remember, I won this time.”

“Hell, you can win all the time,” she said, wiggling beneath him until it was clear he was aroused. “But I really must go,” she added, laughing. “Duty calls.”

He groaned and let her up. “Vixen. Okay, I’ll go back to town and check in at the station.”

“I thought you weren’t working tonight,” she said, tugging on clean jeans and a sweatshirt.

“I’m not. I just feel antsy after all that exercise.”

“It’s not the exercise that got you antsy,” she said, tossing a pillow at him.

Abby reached for her boots, and Ben swatted her on the backside on his way to the bathroom. “I didn’t say what kind of exercise. See you in the morning, Annie Oakley.”

Abby looked briefly into the little mirror on the door that led into the convent, and brushed her shoulder-length brown hair back behind her ears with her fingers. No time for makeup. A clean flannel shirt to cover the paint splatters on her tee would have to do.

Downstairs, she entered the large old reception room with its antique furnishings and expensive rugs that Lydia Greyson had brought here from her own Carmel home when she owned the Prayer House. It was cold in here and, shivering, Abby noted both women were standing, warming their backs at the fireplace. She drew closer, then stopped midway, surprised to see that she knew both the older woman and the teenager with her: Alicia Gerard, one of her oldest friends, and Jancy, her daughter.

“Allie!” she said, crossing over to her and holding out both hands. “What on earth? I haven’t seen you in, geez, what is it—two years?”

Alicia’s smile was tight, her eyes distraught. Her pale blond hair, ordinarily smooth and shiny, was tangled, as if she’d been nervously running her fingers through it.

As for Jancy? Abby remembered her as a cute kid with a brown ponytail, dressed in Catholic school plaids. Now Allie’s child was dressed all in black, had a short, spiked hairdo with orange and purple streaks, and a strange, staring expression in her eyes, which were so heavily made up Abby wondered how she could hold them open.

Still, Helen’s reference to Hades, whether god of the dead or hell, had been a bit strong. Little Jancy had simply become a teenager.

Alicia grabbed Abby’s hands and held on as if they were her only lifeline. “You’ve got to help us,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please, Abby. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Looking into Alicia’s familiar green eyes, Abby knew she should be happy to see her old friend. Not only that, but she owed her so much. If Alicia hadn’t helped her, back when her own world was falling apart…

But something was very, very wrong. And some instinct—the kind that raises hairs on the back of one’s neck—told Abby that Trouble with a capital T had just walked through her door.

4

Alicia Gerard was forty-one, yet close up Abby could see that there were new stress lines in her forehead and around her mouth that made her look closer to fifty. Allie had always been beautiful, and still was. But her face now was more like a photograph that had blurred because life had moved slightly and unexpectedly, causing a distortion.

Abby had known Alicia Gerard since she was a reporter in Los Angeles, years ago. At that time, Allie’s husband was just beginning as a legal aid attorney. In a short amount of time he became a legislator, and finally progressed to what he was now—a mover and shaker in the business world. Abby had followed the growth of his career, from a real estate developer to a Donald Trump-like mogul whose face had been on the cover of every important magazine in the world. More recently, H. Palmer Gerard, better known to friends and family as Gerry, had spoken in Washington before a committee on illegal immigration. As one of the top developers in the world, he shocked the committee by taking the position that restrictions on immigration from Mexico were unrealistic and should be eased, and that pay for illegal Mexican laborers should be raised.

Paying illegal aliens a decent wage wasn’t a popular position, especially when the economy was in trouble and jobs were hard to come by. In an attempt to dilute Gerry’s argument, politicians came down on him in the media, calling him an “elitist who had so much money he no longer felt any loyalty to hardworking Americans who were struggling to make a living for themselves and their families.”

In response, Gerry then challenged the administration to create more jobs for U.S. citizens by cutting back on outsourcing—the hiring by U.S. companies of cheap labor in other countries at much lower pay than American employees commanded.

After his appearances on Capitol Hill, a storm of controversy began. Thanks to Gerry Gerard, the administration now had its hands full. If Gerry had been a politician, his career would almost certainly have gone downhill from there. But because of his powerful business ties, no one had dared to take an open stand against H. P. Gerard. Alicia’s husband was feared by senators and presidents alike—not because he played dirty, but because he refused to. Some said he could run for and win the next presidential election on the votes of the poor alone. There were impressive leaders of blacks and Hispanics who swore they could get out the vote if he ran.

Abby took Alicia’s arm and led her over to the sofa, at the same time taking in the state of Jancy, who, she thought, must be fourteen by now. Named Jan Christine, and called Jan C. to rhyme with H.P., the spirited little girl had changed the spelling of her name to “Jancy” herself, at the age of eight.

Abby urged Alicia and her daughter to sit on the large, comfortable sofa that was at a right angle to the fireplace; she sat across from them in a stiff antique chair with a cane seat. Jancy flopped down at the far end of the sofa from her mother and took up a slouching position, her arms crossed in front of her chest in a defensive manner.

For a moment, Alicia simply looked at Abby, a question in her eyes: Will you help us? Can we trust you? Abby had seen it so many times. Just about every time, in fact, that women came to her, pleading that she help them escape whatever abuse they were running from.

Paseo, the underground railroad that she’d operated out of the Prayer House for two years, was a secret organization. Ordinarily, women were sent here through the local women’s shelters. No one came here without their visit having been set up by a trusted third party, and great care was taken to ensure that they weren’t followed here, and that no one could know where they went when they left.

Alicia, however, had simply shown up. Might she have led someone here who could cause trouble for the Prayer House?

Before Abby could begin to ask questions, Sister Benicia came in with a polished wooden tray. It held three cups, three bowls and a plate of her homemade brown bread. Beside it was a small dish piled high with butter, three butter knives and three spoons.

“I’ve brought everyone a bowl of soup and some nice hot cocoa,” she said softly to Abby, setting the tray on the coffee table between her and the women. Abby thanked her, and the shy nun tiptoed out with barely a whisper of her rosary beads.

Abby turned to Alicia and Jancy. “Please, help yourselves. A warm bowl of Binny’s soup usually helps me to relax.”

She picked up a cup and put it on the sturdy mission-style end table next to her chair, then slathered a piece of bread with the butter and took a bite, hoping to set them at ease. Alicia picked up her knife and buttered a piece of bread, handing it to Jancy, who shook her head and turned away. Alicia sighed and set the bread down.

“Abby,” she began, taking a napkin and twisting it nervously in her hands. “I meant it when I said I didn’t know where else to go. I had a little…problem…in Carmel, and I remembered that you were here in the Valley, and that the Prayer House was kind of hidden…” She paused. “Out of the way, I mean. I thought you might put us up for the night.”

As she talked, Alicia kept looking around. Once, when a cupboard door in the kitchen closed a bit loudly, she jumped.

Abby leaned forward and kept her voice low. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Alicia shook her head. “Please, just trust me. Jancy and I need a safe place to sleep tonight. If you help us, I swear I won’t bother you after that.”

“You’re not a bother,” Abby said. “But tell me this, at least. Is it about Gerry? Has he…” She looked at Jancy. “Has he done something?” It was the most obvious question to ask a mother on the run, and came out without her thinking about it.

Alicia looked blank for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Oh, God no! How could you ask that?”

“Well, we haven’t talked on the phone or seen each other in a long time. People change.”

Alicia’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Abby. It’s just that I’ve been so damned busy. But you’ve always been the kind of friend I felt I could turn to if I ever needed help. You’re the most solid and dependable person I know.”

Clearly, my friend doesn’t know me all that well anymore, Abby thought—at least, not the insecure me that had grown out of searching two years ago for my friend Marti’s killer.

But as for Alicia’s plight, Abby had learned through her work with Paseo to be cautious in these kinds of situations.

“I need to know what’s going on before I can decide whether I can help you, Allie. One thing I can’t do is put the nuns and other women living here in jeopardy.”

Alicia stood and walked back to the fire, although the reception room was quite warm now. She paused there a few moments. When she turned to Abby, the expression in her eyes was that of strain, fatigue and a touch of something else. Fear?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it that way,” she said, her voice trembling. “I had no business coming here and bringing trouble into your home. I’ll leave, Abby. I’ll leave right now. I just…I mean, could you just…” She crouched down beside Abby and put a shaky hand on her arm. “Could you just keep Jancy a few days?”

Abby stole a glance at Jancy and saw that, though her chin was up and her lips drawn tight in a defiant expression, tears had spilled onto her cheeks. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her black jacket, the gesture of a five-year-old.

“Go ahead, leave,” she said sullenly to her mother. “You always do. And you know what? I don’t even care anymore.”

Alicia sighed. “Honey, I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to. But you’ll be safer here with Abby—alone, I mean. Without me.”

“Oh, sure, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Jancy laughed shortly. “No, Mother, the real point is, if you foist me off on your friend here, you’ll be free as a bird. You won’t have me to bother with anymore.”

Alicia frowned and stood, folding her arms as she addressed her daughter. “I don’t know about free as a bird, young lady,” she said with an edge, “but I will have less worry if I know you’re safe.”

She sighed, and her voice shook. “Honey, I need to be on my own a few days. There are things I need to do. Please try to understand.”

The bowls of creamy soup had become cold and glutinous. Abby carried them over to a sideboard to remove herself a bit from the argument. She needed a few moments to figure out how to respond to all this. Two phrases rang in her ears “Go ahead, leave…you always do…” And, from Alicia, “I will have less worry if I know you’re safe.”

What on earth had been going on in this family since she’d seen them last?

“Allie,” she said, turning back, “if this isn’t about some problem with Gerry, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t rather have Jancy stay with him.”

“No,” Alicia answered quickly, shaking her head. “Trust me, that wouldn’t work right now.”

“The thing is, I just don’t think I can help you with this.”

“Abby, please! I—it’s just that he’s in New York, and he’s up to his ears in major business negotiations.”

“But surely he’d want to help.”

“Absolutely not!” Alicia said even more vehemently. “I want Gerry kept out of this as long as possible. Believe me, Abby, it’s for his own good.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jancy said angrily, “why don’t I just stay at the house in Big Sur alone? I’m sixteen, after all. I’m not a kid.”

Alicia said, “Jancy,” reprovingly, while Abby just looked at the girl until her gaze fell away.

“Okay, I’m fourteen,” Jancy snapped. “But I’m more grown up than most kids my age. If you only knew…”

Alicia looked at her in desperation, as if to say, “See what I have to put up with?”

Jancy turned away, her angry gaze pretending to examine the air.

Abby studied the two of them and thought a minute, while Jancy fidgeted and Alicia looked over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to jump out from a corner at any moment.

Despite whatever other factors there might be, Abby’s strongest urge was to help. Alicia and Gerry had supported her when her job at the Los Angeles Times was on the line, years ago. Abby had written a story about a brilliant fifteen-year-old boy who, after having been orphaned at the age of five, had lived alone in an abandoned tenement building. The little boy had taken care of himself by stealing food off the streets and living with homeless adults who took care of him as best they could. Still, the situation he’d lived in was undeniably perilous.

The kid had talked to her only on the condition that she promise never to tell anyone who he was. Abby made the promise but vowed to do everything she could to help him after the story broke. She’d get a promotion and have plenty of money then, she reasoned, to do whatever was needed for him: high school, college…who knew what heights a kid that bright and self-sufficient might reach?

Abby shook her head now at the memory of those youthful fantasies. Instead of being promoted, she was fired for not giving up the boy’s name, and accused of making the story up. Stone-cold broke, she was on the verge of being homeless when Gerry, a young legal aid attorney at the time, represented her in court pro bono, while Allie took her into their house until her salary started coming in again. Abby won the case against wrongful firing, kept her job, and once the story hit the wires she won awards around the world. Not only was her career saved, but she was able to help the kid just as she’d hoped. He was now a resident MD at Swedish Hospital in Seattle.

None of that would have happened without Alicia and Gerry. She owed them a lot.

But her job now, first and foremost, was to protect Paseo. When Lydia Greyson, a good-hearted Carmel philanthropist, became ill and sold the Prayer House to her two years ago, she had trusted Abby to keep Paseo going. And Abby did, using the money that came out of her ill-fated marriage to Jeffrey, and the sale of the multimillion-dollar house on Ocean Drive. She had been still recovering from the monstrous act that killed her best friend, Marti Bright, though—and the attack that nearly killed her, as well. So at first, more or less sleepwalking through life, she just plowed money into Paseo, giving it little thought otherwise. It was her plan, indeed, to do that and no more.

It didn’t take long, however, to become emotionally involved. Some of the stories of abuse she heard—stories the women who came to the Prayer House for help had told her—were horrendous.

So, protecting Paseo was her first priority. And to take Alicia and Jancy in without knowing what kind of trouble they were in might risk the secrecy and safety of the other volunteers, and the moms and kids as well.

While she was considering all this, Allie picked up her purse and motioned to Jancy. “C’mon, honey, we have to go.”

“Al—”

“No, it’s all right, Abby, I never should have come here. I’m sorry.”

Her voice was shaking and her stride unbalanced, as if she were too tired to walk straight. She took Jancy’s arm, though, and pointed her in the direction of the door. Abby hesitated a few seconds more, but Allie’s condition and the sudden expression of fear on Jancy’s face was what settled it.

For some reason, the girl was afraid to leave here. But why?