CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
I kicked Maria’s gun out the door while checking back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn’t getting up.
“Olivia.”
Gabriel came around the corner, Chandler’s big .45 in hand. I gave Maria’s pistol another kick and he saw it. He bent to scoop it up.
“Don’t!” I said. “It was used on Evans. I don’t want to leave it where—”
He lifted it by the barrel.
“Or I could have done that.”
He caught my arm and tugged me into the living room as he whispered, “Shhh. The wife and housekeeper are still here.”
“We don’t need to worry about the housekeeper. I . . .” I glanced down at the gun in my hands and swallowed. “I shot her. I think she’s dead. Or dying.”
He shot me a look. Quizzical. Confused.
“Okay . . .” he said slowly. He straightened. “We’ll handle this. We’ll say that Evans shot himself, and she walked in—”
“No, she shot Evans.”
Full-blown “Huh?” on his face now, and I realized that whatever he’d seen from his post, it wasn’t enough to understand what had happened. That’s why he’d been bewildered when I said I’d shot the housekeeper. He didn’t know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.
Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn’t seem to be running. Just heading this way.
Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.
He started shoving me toward the sofa. “Get behind it. I’ll handle this.”
“Don’t hurt—”
I barely got the words out before his frown killed the rest in my throat. Whatever he meant by “handling it,” his plan did not involve hurting Evans’s innocent wife. I should have known that.
The footsteps continued. He pushed me toward the sofa. I grabbed his wrist and hauled him along behind me.
“I can’t—” he began.
Now I tightened my grip, not looking back, just pulling him with me until we were at the sofa. It rested a few feet from the wall. I nudged him in first.
“I won’t—” he whispered.
I gave him a shove.
What he’d been trying to say was that he wouldn’t fit. Which wasn’t exactly true. He could crouch, very awkwardly, behind it, with me beside him. It was the “very awkward part” that bothered him, judging by his glower as I wedged in. Or the indignity of hiding from an elderly woman.
As we squeezed behind the couch, I thought I smelled cat pee and I froze. I don’t know why. My heart hammered, and I swore I could smell that acrid urine stink, but then it vanished and I shook off the feeling and pushed in deeper.
Now we waited . . . for Mrs. Evans to walk into the study and see her dead husband and dying housekeeper. I thought of that. The horror of it.
I could spare her. Jump up and say she didn’t want to go in there. Pull her out. Force her back.
But I only held my breath and listened to her footsteps as they approached.
“Once she sees the bodies, we’ll leave.”
I jumped as Gabriel whispered the words at my ear. He squeezed my shoulder, and I’m sure it was more a restraining gesture than a reassuring one, but it felt good, the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and I realized my heart was pounding.
I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath.
“We’ll back out,” he whispered. “Move fast. Get outside. Call 911.”
I thought of telling him to shush. It really wasn’t the time to be talking. But maybe I wasn’t the only one a little freaked out.
“It’s best if we call,” he said. “The wife knows you were here.”
I nodded.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “I’ll look after it.”
I twisted, saw the concern on his face, and knew that’s what he was worried about—that I was going to have to admit I’d shot the housekeeper. He couldn’t shield me from that. In that brief moment, mid-crisis, the wall came down, blue eyes clouded, allowing himself, for a moment, to be worried.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
The wall swung back up. “Yes, of course you will. Now, shhh.”
Right. Because I was the one talking.
Mrs. Evans had to be close to the study door. It seemed to take forever, her steps excruciatingly slow.
I heard her shoes squeak as she must have turned in. Yet there was no scream. Not even a gasp. Her steps just continued, as if she’d seen the blood and the bodies and kept going.
She’s in shock.
Gabriel put a hand on my shoulder. “Follow me,” he whispered.
He stood, stooped, ready to duck again as his gaze scanned the room. Then he nodded and exited the other side of the sofa. I followed.
From where we stood, we couldn’t see into the study. To get out of the house, though, we had to pass that open door. Gabriel made it two steps before Mrs. Evans said, “I’m here.”
Gabriel stopped. His gaze swung back, measuring the distance to the sofa.
“Yes,” Mrs. Evans said. “I’m in the study.”
She was on the phone. Calling 911, it seemed, her voice dead with shock. I motioned for Gabriel to keep going.
“No, the girl isn’t here,” Mrs. Evans said. “Just William. He’s dead. And Maria. I think she’s dead, too.” A pause. “There’s a lot of blood. She isn’t moving.”
I stood there, staring toward the study, mentally looping her words. It sounded like a child speaking, the words simple, matter-of-fact. And her tone. There was no tone. Her voice was completely flat.
“No. I don’t see a gun.” Pause. “Yes. In the desk.” Pause. “I will.”
Gabriel nearly yanked me off my feet as he dragged me at a jog across the room. As we passed the study door, I glanced in to see Mrs. Evans pulling a gun from the desk drawer. She’d pushed her husband’s chair back, his body still draped over it. Pushed it aside as if it was a piece of furniture.
I stutter-stepped as I saw that. I caught a glimpse of her face. Her blank, expressionless face. Just like Maria’s.
That’s her husband, the man she must have been married to for almost fifty years, shot dead, and she’s shoving his body aside. What the hell is going on here?
She looked up. She saw me and she gave no reaction. None at all.
When I’d first seen Gabriel without his sunglasses, I’d thought his eyes looked empty. They weren’t. Frosted over, yes. Walled off, yes. But not empty. Mrs. Evans’s eyes were empty. Blank pools of nothing.
I flashed back to that morning. I heard Rose and Patrick, talking about mind control. That’s what I was seeing. As impossible as it seemed, that was the only answer.
I remembered Maria’s face when she walked into the study. The way she dropped the tray and fired like a seasoned assassin. A middle-aged woman told to play assassin. Triggered by a phone call. From Edgar Chandler.
I started to run. I didn’t need Gabriel’s help anymore, but he kept his iron grip on my arm.
Mrs. Evan’s shoes thumped on the hardwood. It was a slow thump. Methodical. Just following orders.
Orders to kill me. That’s what Chandler had been telling her on the phone. The “girl” had escaped and now Mrs. Evans was to make sure I didn’t get far.
I looked down at the gun still in my hand. I could kill her first. Easily, I was sure.
The thought barely flitted through my head. If this was mind control, then Mrs. Evans wasn’t a killer; she was merely the puppet of one.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’d been in on it all, even her son’s death. If I’d known that for certain, I could have killed her. Protected myself and Gabriel. But I didn’t know. So I kept going.
We made it out of the living room easily. Mrs. Evans was an old woman and her orders obviously hadn’t been “run after the girl.” Chandler knew the limits of his weapon.
We reached the front hall. The hair prickled on my neck and as I turned, the edge of a shadow crossed on the sidelight.
I yanked Gabriel back as the front door flew open. The young gardener stood there, spade in hand.
I saw the gardener’s eyes—those empty eyes—and I heaved Gabriel off balance just as the spade swung at his knees. He twisted. The spade hit his calf instead. It struck with such force that he gasped, leg buckling.
The gardener pulled back for a second swing. I lifted my gun. I heard the shot. Saw the gardener crumple, and for a second I was certain I’d pulled the trigger . . . until a second bullet grazed my shoulder and I stumbled back. Gabriel swung around, gun raised, in time to see Chandler’s bodyguard—Anderson—dive to the side, out of sight.
Gabriel started for the door. I caught the back of his jacket as pain ripped through my arm. Gabriel stopped. We couldn’t see Anderson, but we knew he was there, and any second now, his gun could swing around the doorway and fire.
Gabriel hustled me along the hall. At the first door, I reached for the handle. Gabriel struck me in the back and I stumbled as a gun fired. I turned to see Mrs. Evans. Gabriel was falling, twisting, his injured leg buckling, blood blossoming. He hit the floor. I fired. I reacted too fast, no time to aim, probably for the best, the bullet hitting Mrs. Evans in the hip, just enough to send her to the floor.
I started to drop beside Gabriel, but he was already rising, pushing me toward that door. I yanked it open, took a step into darkness, and almost tumbled down a flight of stairs. The basement. I started to back out, but Gabriel was at my shoulder, prodding me, whispering, “Go!” between clenched teeth.
I went. He followed.