Prime Suspect Page 18

Once he left the more populated area of the city, Caleb pushed the car as much as he dared. A half mile from the Fairmont Estate he pulled off the road and parked beneath a tree. From his toolbox, which was still in Mason’s backseat, he took a short coil of rope he kept stashed there and shoved it into a canvas nail pouch. An umbrella lay on the floorboard, and he added that as well as the wieners. So armed, he grabbed the pillow and abandoned the car to run the rest of the way, one hand pressed against his injured rib for support. With every step that took him closer, his fear mounted. He was about to do the one thing he dreaded most in the world.

  “Lord, You and I both know what’s on the other side of that fence around the Fairmont place.” His words bounced out as he ran, wincing against the pain the activity caused. “Now, I don’t know if You’ve gone quiet on me lately, or if I just haven’t been listening like I should. But I can’t do this alone. I need You.”

  As the last words left his mouth, he approached the corner of Fairmont Estate. A white plank fence marked the border here and all the way around, as far as he could see. A thick stand of trees blocked his sight of the mansion, which he knew lay at the end of the long, curving driveway.

  A sound in the distance drew his attention. A barking dog. His ears strained to pinpoint the location. A chill marched up his spine when he realized the barking was growing louder. A moving shadow, illuminated by white moonlight, was heading toward him at an alarming speed, snarling between barks.

  “I need You, Lord.” He repeated the words in a louder voice, then for good measure, tilted his head back and directed them toward the sky. “I need You.”

  The dog arrived at the fence. For a moment Caleb thought it might leap over the top to get to him, but it skidded to a halt and fixed its eyes on him, snarling and barking its fury. Apparently it had been trained to stay inside the fence.

  Unfortunately, that’s where Caleb needed to be.

  The snarls reached through his ears and tugged at a memory. He was nine, and the dog down the street had sounded just like this one. Fear reached inside Caleb’s rib cage and squeezed his heart with steely fingers.

  Fear not. That’s what the Bible says.

  Yeah, but he couldn’t think of a single Scripture reference to attacking dogs. Lions, yes. Bears, certainly. Before his giant-killing days, David the shepherd boy fought off a bear to save his sheep.

  “Uh, Lord, if You have a bear handy, I think I’d rather fight that.”

  Some corner of his brain recognized that he desperately wanted to laugh, but he squashed the impulse. Laughter was too close to hysteria.

  “All right, look here, dog. I don’t have time to mess around. I’ve got somewhere to be, and you’re in my way.”

  The animal’s barking trailed off into a rumbling growl. Its eyes glowed in the moonlight. Moving slowly, Caleb reached into the nail pouch and fumbled with the package of hot dogs.

  “Look here, doggie. Look what I have for you. Are you hungry?”

  He held a wiener up, waving it back and forth to get the creature’s attention. “Here you are. It’s all yours. Go get it.”

  With a toss, he flicked the hot dog over the fence to a spot eight feet away.

  The dog never even blinked, nor was there a pause in the menacing growl. So much for bribery. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Caleb realized there was only one way to get past this animal.

  Looping the rope around his arm, he closed his eyes.

  All kidding aside, Lord, You know I’m scared spitless of this animal.

  He felt it then, the touch he hadn’t felt for days. An assurance, deep and warm, resonated in his soul. His fear didn’t dissipate, but suddenly he realized that it didn’t matter. David probably faced that bear with his knees knocking and his hands trembling, but he had been confident that his God wouldn’t desert him.

  Nor would He desert Caleb.

  Holding the pillow like a shield and Mason’s umbrella like a sword, he advanced toward the fence.

  * * *

  Darcie’s breath came heavy through her nose. She tried in vain to spit the nasty rag out of her mouth, but the duct tape held fast to her skin. She was led roughly past the excited puppies and pulled through the kennel manager’s office door. Her gaze flew to the spot where she had seen Jason Lewis’s body. Which of these three men had killed him, and Uncle Richard, too? With a dreadful certainty, she knew she was about to find out.

  Her captor shoved her through another doorway, and she found herself inside the pool house. She barely had time to notice a wicker patio set facing a wall of curtains that hid the pool from view. The driver of the van opened a door and stepped into a closet. Interested in spite of herself, she watched him feel along the floor and then lift a carpeted, hinged panel. He disappeared into a yawning black hole, and a moment later a white light flickered on. She glimpsed a narrow set of steep stairs.

  “Ms. Wiley, you’re about to discover something interesting about your rich uncle.”

  That voice. Where did she know it? It came to her an instant before Aaron Mitchell stepped into view.

  Of course. How stupid not to have guessed. Who else would know the conditions of Uncle Richard’s will but his financial manager? And if he was trusted with the details of the will, no doubt he’d also been told the reason behind the special bequest to a young woman from Indiana.

  “Bring her down.”

  Mitchell descended the stairs, and Darcie was pushed forward after him. Her captor wrapped a fist in the T-shirt at the back of her neck.

  “I’ll carry you if I have to.” His lips were so close to her ear she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. With a shudder, she descended the stairway.

  The room below was stark, bare of all furniture except four folding chairs and a card table. A wide counter lined two of the walls, the surface crowded with pieces of equipment that Darcie had never seen before. A half-dozen huge steel canisters with gauges and dials affixed to the sides and thin pipes spiraling out of the tops put her in mind of pictures of illegal stills in the Appalachian mountains. Only these had a sterile, modern look. A low, electric hum emanated from them.

  “So here you have it.” Mitchell stood in the center, his hands splayed to indicate the room. “Our little laboratory.”

  A morbid curiosity settled atop the fear that had congealed in her belly. What was the function of those machines? Was this some sort of human experimentation laboratory like the Nazis operated during the war? Two men were dead, and more than likely she would follow soon. Was that why they’d brought her here, to do some sort of horrible experiment on her before they killed her?

  Lord, I don’t know if You’re there or not, but Caleb says You are. Please don’t let them torture me. If I have to die, let it be quick.

  Mitchell was watching her closely. “I see you have questions. If we take the gag off, do you promise not to scream?”

  She could say yes, and then when they removed the nasty rag from her mouth, she’d scream like a banshee.

  “It won’t do you any good if you do,” Mitchell told her. “No one will hear you. This room is as good as soundproof. A gun could go off down here and it wouldn’t even sound as loud as a firecracker outside the pool house. In fact.” He opened a metal drawer in the nearest cabinet and took out a pistol. Waving it in her direction, he asked, “Would you like a demonstration?”

  Her shoulders sagged. It didn’t occur to her to doubt him. Being underground no doubt acted as a muffler to sound, and the room had the heavy, dull feel of soundproofing. Defeated, she shook her head.

  Mitchell nodded toward her captor. “Butch, take the gag off but leave her hands taped.”

  “Hey, don’t use my name in front of her,” he protested.

  “It doesn’t matter, imbecile. She’s not going to tell anyone.”

  His meaning wa
s clear, even without the gun waving in her direction. Very shortly, she wouldn’t be alive to tell anyone anything. The tears that flooded her eyes were only partially due to the pain when Butch ripped the tape off, taking hair and pieces of tender skin around her lips with it.

  “There. I’m sure that’s better. Now, I know you have questions.”

  But Darcie didn’t trust herself to speak without giving way to the terrified sobs that threatened to choke her.

  “Oh, come on. You know you want to ask about these.” He waved the gun toward the odd-looking canisters. “Okay, I’ll tell you. These are crucibles. The cores are platinum, though they could have been constructed of any nonreactive material that can withstand high temperatures and pressure. But Richard wanted nothing but the best, so...” He shrugged. “Platinum.”

  In spite of her determination to remain silent, she asked a question. “Uncle Richard set up this lab?”

  “Well, he didn’t do it himself, of course. He paid to have it built and paid for the equipment. Had these designed and shipped up from China, I understand, though that was before my time.” He aimed a chilly smile her way. “If you want to know about that, your uncle can give you the details.”

  She knew without asking which uncle he referred to. “Uncle Kenneth.”

  “My illustrious predecessor.” Mitchell’s lip curled. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had guts, I’ll give him that. Why Richard let him take the rap for embezzlement instead of having him killed, I’ll never know.”

  “Take the rap? You mean he didn’t steal Uncle Richard’s money?”

  “Of course he did. But he did far worse than that. When he was caught, he threatened to expose Richard to the Colombians.”

  Darcie shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean. Expose him for what?”

  Behind her, Butch growled, “Can we get on with this? It’s getting late. What if they’ve figured out she’s gone by now? The cops will be swarming everywhere.”

  “Relax. They won’t find us down here.” Regardless of his words, Mitchell’s attitude changed. He dropped the conversational tone and spoke to Darcie in a voice void of patience. “Where’s the collar?”

  Her mind struggled to make sense of the question. He could only mean Percy’s collar, but what did that have to do with Uncle Richard and this secret laboratory?

  “I—I don’t have it,” she stammered. “It was in the truck when we crashed.”

  He looked at the third man, the one who had driven the van and was now seated at the card table. “Go get it.”

  The man jerked upright. “Me? No way.”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. “Who was the brain who decided to run them off the road?”

  “Hey, it was storming. I saw a chance and I took it. But then those other cars stopped, and what was I supposed to do? Hang around and get nailed?”

  The gun swung toward him. “Go get the collar. Now.”

  Fear flickered in the man’s eyes. Without another word he got up and headed for the stairs.

  When he had gone, Darcie gathered her nerve to ask a question. If she was going to die, then she at least wanted to understand why.

  “What are these machines?”

  A genuine smile curved his lips. “Here. Let me show you.”

  The gun still in one hand, he walked to a corner of the room. Darcie had been so intent on watching him she had not noticed a small safe tucked beneath the wide countertop. Samuels stooped in front of it and twisted the dial. Left, right, left. He grabbed the lever, turned it and pulled the door open. From inside he slid out a tray that looked like a cookie sheet.

  Darcie’s eyes widened. Those weren’t cookies on that tray. They were emeralds.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Caleb backed away from the dog and examined his handiwork. The rottweiler continued to snarl, though the makeshift muzzle he’d fashioned out of rope didn’t allow for its mouth to open wide enough for a full-throated bark. The end of the rope had been double-knotted around a fence post, which gave the animal about twelve feet of slack, but it strained toward him, stretching the tether to its limit. Every so often the snarl changed to a sound that could almost be interpreted as a pleading whine.

  An unexpected sympathy chased away the last remnants of Caleb’s fear. He squatted down on his haunches just beyond the dog’s reach. “I’m sorry, fella, but those teeth of yours are lethal.”

  Proof lay scattered around the grass in the form of pillow stuffing and the mutilated remains of Mason’s umbrella. They had served their purpose in distracting the dog long enough for Caleb to get hold of its nose and force its jaw closed, but he hadn’t escaped unscathed. Blood dripped from a bite on his arm, almost exactly over the scar from that first dog attack sixteen years before.

  He winced. It hurt like crazy, but in a weird way, he felt free. The fear that had gripped his insides was gone, leaving a strange sense of victory in his place. He’d prayed, and the Lord had heard him. Together they had conquered his bear.

  “You’ll be all right, fella. The only thing hurting you is your pride. I won’t leave you here any longer than I have to. As soon as I can, I’ll come back and let you go.”

  He extended a hand as a tentative peace offering. The dog lunged with such force that he feared the rope might snap, and Caleb fell backward, landing with a thud on his rear.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll send someone else to let you loose.”

  He scrambled to his feet. The encounter had taken no more than three or four minutes, but the panicky feeling vibrating through his body told him even that might have been too long. Darcie was in danger. He sprinted toward the house.

  When he neared, he slowed and looped around in a wide arc. The outbuilding he’d painted a few days ago served as a good shelter and gave him a vantage point of this end of the pool house. He saw the faucet where he’d been cleaning his brushes when he’d first met Darcie. A quick scan of the area showed nothing else. No sound, either. A light shone dimly in one of the upstairs windows of the mansion. Probably on a timer or something, since the detective had said Mrs. Fairmont was staying with her sister. Whispering a quick prayer, he dashed across the grass and closed the distance as quickly as he could.

  He flattened his back against the brick wall and crept to the corner, where he dropped to a crouch. He inched forward until he could see the back of the pool house building through one eye.

  No movement. Nothing.

  She has to be here! Lord, if she’s not here...

  He couldn’t finish the thought.

  The door to Lewis’s office lay on the far side of the building, beneath the breezeway that connected it to the kennel. Between his position and that door there was no cover at all, not even a bush. No way to see what was on the other side of the building, either.

  He’d have to take a chance.

  Breath gathered in his lungs, he left the shelter of the building and dashed toward the door.

  He’d almost made it when a dozen yapping dog voices shattered the silence. Little balls of fur tumbled out through a small rectangular doorway in the kennel and raced across the grass to the fence. They bounced and jumped on legs that must have been made of rubber, all the while barking with abandon.

  “Shhh! Be quiet.”

  They ignored him. Alarm ringing in his ears nearly as loud as the pups, Caleb hurried to the door. He put his hand on the knob and turned. Unlocked. Thank You, Lord.

  A menacing metallic click behind him froze the blood in his veins. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a gun’s hammer being cocked.

  “Put your hands up and turn around. Slowly.”

  Caleb raised his hands above his head and, moving at a snail’s pace, turned. The first thing he saw was a gun barrel pointed at his forehead. The second was the face of the gunman.

  C
orrection. Gunwoman.

  Olivia Fairmont.

  * * *

  Interested in spite of herself, Darcie studied the tray of gems Mitchell set on the counter. Some of those emeralds were huge like the ones Mrs. Fairmont had worn the other day, but most were a more realistic size for jewelry.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re smuggling emeralds? Then what are these gadgets for, polishing them?”

  “Not even close.” Mitchell’s expression was smug. “We’re not smuggling emeralds. We’re making them.”

  Darcie looked again at the sparkling gems. “Those are fake?”

  The smug grin faded. “Oh, no. They’re quite real. Impossible to distinguish from the ones that come from Colombian mines. The process to create them is the same, only sped up by a few thousand years. These crucibles use a hydrothermal method of a water solution at high temperatures and pressure to create a batch of high-quality gems in a matter of months. It’s perfectly legitimate. There are several well-respected companies that specialize in producing synthetic gems.”

  “Then why the secrecy?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because mineral gems sell at much higher prices than synthetic ones. Richard wasn’t willing to settle for less.”

  “Uncle Richard knew about this?” She didn’t want to believe it, but there was no hesitation in Mitchell’s face when he replied.

  “Of course he did. Didn’t you hear me? He had the equipment manufactured and this lab built.”

  “But why?” She glanced toward the ceiling, above which stood the elaborate Fairmont Estate. “He didn’t need the money.”

  “Money had nothing to do with it. It was the risk he thrived on. When he first got into the emerald business, the stones he sold were authentic, mined from Colombia and smuggled into this country.”

  “Uncle Richard was a gem smuggler?” Darcie couldn’t believe the kind man she’d met would be involved in something illegal. His brother, yes. That wasn’t hard to believe at all.

  He did say he admired Ryan’s daring ways and how he did whatever he wanted regardless of the consequences. Maybe there was a bit of that same daring in Uncle Richard, too.