CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
I hung up. Then I opened the door and peered out. Gabriel was crouched by the foot of the stairs. He waved me over.
As I headed to the steps, a phone started to ring. It came from the body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Anderson. Unconscious. Blood seeped from the back of his head. Judging by the way his hair stuck up on one side, I guessed Gabriel had grabbed him by it and cracked his head against the concrete. There was more blood on the steps. Bits of shoe, too. And flesh.
I looked over at Anderson’s foot. It was a bloody mess, half of it blown off.
“How’d you manage that?” I whispered to Gabriel.
“I waited behind the stairs and shot his foot through the risers as he came down.”
“Smart.” I looked around. “Messy, though.”
“It’s a big gun.”
Anderson’s phone had stopped ringing. Mine started.
I answered and said to Chandler, “You’ve called him off?”
A hesitation, then, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry about that, Miss Larsen. I—”
“Whatever. Now, let’s negotiate. I want—What the hell? I thought you said you—”
On cue, Gabriel fired his gun. I dropped the phone and fired my own gun, aiming somewhere across the basement. Then I hit the floor, groaning.
“Miss Larsen?” Chandler called from the fallen phone.
I stopped groaning.
“Anderson?”
Silence. Then a curse. I could still hear Chandler’s breathing, quickening now, as buttons clicked. He hung up. Anderson’s phone began to ring.
I winced as I rubbed my shoulder. “I need to work on my pratfalls.”
Gabriel motioned for me to save the commentary and play dead. I did, lying on my back, gun gripped in my hand. Gabriel crossed the room, his left foot dragging now, breath coming ragged. How badly was he hurt? Too badly to play this game much longer.
Too badly to finish it? I hoped not. Really hoped not.
A few minutes later, the basement door creaked open. A long pause. I imagined Chandler peering through. A curse as he saw Anderson’s fallen body. Then a louder one as he saw me lying several feet away. He started down the steps. I counted them off.
Four, five, six . . .
“Stop,” Gabriel said. He didn’t bark it. Barely even raised his voice. Just a calm and steady, “Stop.”
I sat up, gun aimed.
“You know the routine,” I said. “Drop the gun. Don’t bother backing away this time. Just drop it over the side of the steps.”
He paused. Then he started to raise his gun. Gabriel fired, the bullet passing close enough to make Chandler lose his footing and tumble down the stairs, gasping, gun falling.
“Or we can do it like that,” I said as I walked over to where he lay, moaning as he struggled to get up. “I’d stay down there. I’m sure you broke something. The cops are on their way, and lucky for you, they’re bringing an ambulance. Unluckily, yours will be going straight to a prison hospital.”
Chandler managed to sit, grimacing at the pain. “You don’t want to do that, Miss Larsen.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“No, you do not. You have no idea what you’ve gotten involved with. What you’ve stirred up. I can help you.”
“Right. Let me think about that . . . No.”
“You’re a child,” he said. “A silly little girl who has mistaken being glib for being clever.” He turned to Gabriel. “There’s opportunity here, boy. I’ve heard you appreciate opportunity.”
Gabriel didn’t reply.
“At least hear me out,” Chandler said. “Call the police and tell them it was a mistake. Listen to my offer—”
“Like Ms. Jones, I am not interested.”
“Then you are a fool, boy.”
“Perhaps.” Gabriel glanced up at the door above and I heard faint voices. “I believe we have company. Olivia? It’s best if a woman’s voice hails them.”
Before I could shout, Chandler grabbed my ankle. I kicked him off and backed away.
“Reconsider, Miss Larsen,” he said. “You have no idea what you’ve—”
“We’re down here!” I shouted. “In the basement.”
“We should back out of their line of fire,” Gabriel said, raising his voice to be heard over Chandler’s protests and proclamations of doom.
We moved to the side and readied our guns, just in case whoever was at the door wasn’t who we’d invited. But when it opened, it was indeed the police. We lowered our weapons to the floor and lifted our hands.
“You’ve made a very big mistake, Miss Larsen,” Chandler hissed as Gabriel shouted up an explanation. “Do you think Cainsville will protect you?”
I glanced over sharply. “Cainsville? What does Cainsville have to do with—?”
“You’ll find out.” Chandler smiled. “The hounds will come to Cainsville and when they do, you’ll wish you’d made a very different choice today.”
• • •
It wasn’t long after the police arrived before I did begin to wish I hadn’t been so quick to call them. When you’re trapped in a basement with gun-wielding mind-controlled assassins at every turn, it’s easy to think, Damn the consequences—just get me out of here! The consequence, as it turns out, was that the daughter of Pamela and Todd Larsen had been found in a house full of dying people.
Within about fifteen minutes, I was convinced I’d be joining my parents in jail. That’s as long as it took for the paramedics to wrap Gabriel’s leg, and for him to hobble back and handle things for me.
The evidence was clearly on my side. We’d documented every step, including taping my conversation—I’d put Chandler on speaker and recorded with Gabriel’s phone. We hadn’t touched the trigger of the gun that killed Evans, leaving only Maria’s fingerprints. We expected to find drugs in my coffee, further supporting my story. And there were no actual deaths to lay at our feet. Mrs. Evans, the gardener, and Anderson were still alive. Even Maria had survived—for now, though she was being rushed into surgery in critical condition. Mrs. Evans and the gardener had no idea what was going on, and I was sure tests would reveal drugs in their systems, too. As for Anderson, he’d started ratting out his boss the minute he woke up to find himself with half a foot.
Still, it was messy. Really messy. And we weren’t even saying the words “mind control,” instead sticking with “they seemed to be drugged.” We weren’t mentioning Niles Gunderson and Josh Gray, either. If Anderson wanted to pin those on his boss, that was his choice; we wouldn’t muddy the waters.
As for Chandler, he still blamed Will Evans for everything. Naturally. Dead men don’t tell tales—or refute accusations. The truth would come out at trial. All that mattered was that my question had been answered. My parents hadn’t killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.
Did that mean they were innocent of all charges? Not necessarily. But they could be. It was a start.