Chapter 19
Marla gazed at her grandson as if he were from a different planet. “What have you done?”
“I brought him to see his grandmother. Go on,” she urged, pressing a hand to B.J.’s back, but the boy was as reluctant to meet Marla as she apparently was to see him. “She’s been dying to meet you.”
“Mommy,” he whimpered. “Mommm…meeee…”
“This is your Nana Marla,” Elyse told him. This reunion was not going like she’d hoped.
“Why did you bring him here? Do you want us to get caught?” Marla was beside herself.
Elyse decided not to fill her in on the altered plans just yet. Kidnapping B.J. hadn’t been part of their original scheme, but sometimes, when opportunity knocks, you’ve just got to go with it. Couldn’t Marla see that?
“You’ve got to take him away. He can’t be here.”
“He doesn’t know where we are. He’s too little.”
“Somebody will see him. Oh God, look! He’s going to cry!”
B.J.’s face had crumpled and was turning red. Marla was right. The kid looked ready to wail for all he was worth.
“We’ll see your mommy soon,” Elyse said hurriedly. “Don’t worry.”
For an answer, he threw back his head and howled. The noise was loud enough to wake the dead. Marla looked ready to throttle the kid, so Elyse dragged him upstairs. What the hell was she supposed to do now? The little house scarcely had any furnishings apart from what Elyse had found for Marla’s secret room.
There was a beat-up chair in one of the two bedrooms, and Elyse carried the screaming child down the hallway, trying to shush him without scaring him. God, he could make noise! Were all children so loud?
“Shh…shh…,” she said, holding him awkwardly on her lap. What the hell was she going to do?
“Dad-dee,” he cried. “Dad-dee.”
“Make up your mind, kid. Mommy or Daddy.”
She could hear Marla hammering with something downstairs. Now what? Muttering furiously, Elyse hauled the kid back down the stairs while he wailed “No-o-o-o!” and tried to grab onto the handrail. Her head felt like it was going to split in two.
“What are you doing?” Elyse demanded of Marla. “I could hear you! Someone else might hear that pounding too!”
There was a piece of pipe on the floor beside her. “I wasn’t through,” Marla said, glaring at her. “We’ve got to leave. I’ve got to leave.”
“Not yet!”
“Look…” Her gaze centered on the television, where the news was just breaking on the murder of a young woman near Burlingame. Tanya.
Elyse stared in a kind of horrified fascination as Marla said, “You did that. You killed her.”
“It’s all part of the plan,” Elyse said through her teeth. Why did Marla question her? When she knew what had to be done!
“Did they see you? Get your picture? Like when you killed Rory?”
“No.”
“That picture of you in the newspaper? That artist’s composite? They’re saying it’s me. They’re blaming this on me.”
“Well, of course they are.” Elyse was fast losing patience, and the kid’s continued crying was enough to split her head right open. It was all she could do not to shake him.
“You want me to take the fall for this,” Marla said on a note of discovery. “You want to get away scot-free.”
“That’s not true. This is a partnership. Didn’t I help you escape?”
“You never intended to share. That’s why you’ve kept me down here. You want it all for yourself.”
“I haven’t kept you down here. You refuse to go upstairs! For God’s sake, Marla, get a grip!”
But Marla was right. Elyse did plan to double-cross her. Did want the police to blame all the murders on her. Why not? It was Marla’s relationship with her relatives that created the motive. Nobody knew Elyse was involved. They thought Mary Smith was Marla.
Elyse couldn’t take it anymore, so when Marla ordered her to get the kid to stop crying, she hustled him upstairs again.
“Go home!” he sobbed. “Me go home!”
“We’re going to my place.”
“No-o-o!”
“Shhhh!”
It was dark now. The ground was wet, but the rain had ceased for the moment as Elyse hauled a whimpering B.J. back to her car. She strapped him into the damn car seat. Couldn’t risk getting pulled over for not having him properly buckled in. Jesus, the rules they had these days.
Why did anyone ever have a child?
Across the way she saw someone peeking through the blinds of the old biddy’s house, the lady with the cat. The bitch was watching her! Infuriated, Elyse jumped behind the wheel.
“Shut up,” she warned B.J., who gazed at her with big eyes.
“Bad word,” he said.
Yeah, well, he was just lucky she hadn’t said the phrase that leapt to her tongue.
Damn! She could see the old bitch now as she’d pulled the blinds up and was watching Elyse like a hawk, her pointy face aimed in Elyse’s direction.
Had she seen the kid?
Carefully, Elyse backed out of her driveway, resisting the urge to flip the old crone the bird. She had things to do. Family business to take care of.
And nobody was going to get in her way.
Cissy watched dully from the apartment parking lot as CSI techs did their work and the detectives canvassed the area, searching for witnesses, information. Jack was with her, his arms pulling her close. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out her fear.
Everyone kept urging her to go home, get some food, get some sleep, take care of herself, but Cissy couldn’t leave. Jack was one of the few people who understood. He stayed by her side as the afternoon wore into evening and evening into night.
It was only when a weary Detective Paterno made the effort to bring them up to date that both Cissy and Jack knew there was nothing left for them here.
“We’ve canvassed the area,” Paterno told them. “Checked with the neighbors. People around the area.”
“Did they see B.J.?” Cissy asked urgently.
“Several of them remember seeing a woman carrying a boy about B.J.’s age from her car. The description fits Miss Watson and your son.”
“And?” Cissy gazed at him.
“She carried him into her apartment.”
“Did they see anything else?” Jack asked.
“Not really. One of them reported seeing a silver car, but she wasn’t specific about the make and model.”
“A silver car,” Jack repeated. “Like the one used by Mary Smith.”
Paterno nodded. “A lot of silver cars out there,” he reminded.
“The neighbor, Corinne Glenn, heard a ‘pop.’ Maybe the gunshot,” Jack said. “Anybody else?”
Paterno shook his head. “We’re still checking with people. But the crime scene’s off-limits. There’s no reason for you to stay.”
“Where would she take him?” Cissy asked. “Oh God…She can’t hurt him.”
Jack said, “We don’t know it was Marla. Maybe Tanya was into something we don’t know about.”
“We’re checking into her history. How did you come to hire her?”
“Jack’s father, Jonathan Holt, recommended her.” Cissy’s tone was sharp.
“Do you know how he knew her?” Paterno asked.
Jack’s face was a mask. “I believe he learned of her through a woman he was dating. He meets a lot of people that way.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Paterno promised.
The area had all but cleared out by the time the streetlights fully came on. The rain was a sputtering mist, as if being turned on and off by a spigot.
Cissy felt like her body wasn’t her own. She wanted to pinch herself, make herself wake up from this nightmare. Reluctantly, she allowed Jack to take her home. Both of them looked through the pantry and refrigerator, but neither had an appetite.
“We have to eat something,” Jack said, and he split a sandwich with her that he made from the leftover tuna salad used for B.J.’s lunch. Cissy took two bites and couldn’t go on. She laid her head on the table and sobbed.
Jack wanted to die. If he hadn’t trusted Tanya with B.J. she might still be alive and his son would be with them right now. Safe and sound. Cissy had given up blaming him, but he sure as hell was still blaming himself.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her to him and guiding her upstairs. “We’ll go to bed. Maybe by morning, Paterno will have found him.”
“You think so?”
“We’ll know more,” he evaded.
“Jack, if anything’s happened to B.J….”
“Shhh.”
“I just can’t bear it!”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand, kissed the top of her head, prayed that his son was all right.
And inside, a deep, boiling rage took root. Whoever had taken his son would pay a price. Jack would make sure of it.
Paterno drove to the station before dawn broke. He hadn’t slept. He’d tried to, but he’d watched the clock, his thoughts traveling various routes, all of them leading to Marla and her accomplice.
He’d left a message for Quinn. She was in charge of getting the background information on Tanya Watson. Meanwhile Paterno was chafing for the hours to pass. He wanted the ME to get the bullet from Tanya’s skull and give it to ballistics. And he wanted ballistics to compare it to the bullet that ended Cherise Favier’s life.
He’d bet dollars to doughnuts they came from the same gun.
Now, he rubbed his face as he got himself a tall cup of black coffee, the terrible sludge offered at the station, the perfect stuff to keep him awake.
He would check with the feds later. It was really their case now, but Paterno wasn’t about to back off one bit.
He sighed. He hadn’t told Jack and Cissy Holt that he was worried for their son’s life. He hadn’t wanted to scare them. But Marla Amhurst Cahill had never shown the smallest bit of humanity, and if she’d taken the boy—or had hired someone to take him—it wasn’t out of love and/or a crazy, obsessive need. Nope. The boy’s abduction would be for other reasons. Monetary, most likely. Something to feed Marla’s need for freedom and greed.
And he would be expendable.
Paterno popped a few antacids. Coffee and bicarbonates. Breakfast didn’t get any better than this.
He wondered about Tanya. Why had she taken the kid? Was it simply that she went back to her apartment for some reason, and B.J. was with her? Or was she somehow involved in Marla’s plot to systematically kill the members of her family? If that’s what Marla was doing.
And if so, why hadn’t she killed the boy and left his body with Tanya’s? Maybe Tanya had her own agenda, something unrelated to Marla herself. Maybe she had wanted something from the Cahills and ended up working at cross-purposes to Marla. Maybe that put her in Marla’s sights, and blam! She was permanently removed.
But why was Marla so careless? What was going on with her? The crime-scene investigators—under Tallulah Jefferson’s command—had scoured Tanya’s apartment. They’d found hairs and bits of fingernails—clipped pieces—that didn’t seem to match the victim’s. So whose were they? Someone Tanya knew? DNA tests would take weeks to get results, sometimes longer, and Paterno knew he didn’t have that much time.
He needed answers now. He needed to find Marla Cahill. Before she killed anyone else.
Before she killed her own grandson.
Cissy stood at the kitchen window. She’d watched the sun rise and glisten through the raindrops. She’d heard birds twittering and the groan and hum of their new furnace kicking into gear. She’d smelled the coffee Jack was brewing and felt the warm mug he pressed in her hand.
“Ciss?”
“What’s he doing right now? He should be asleep in his bed. We should be waiting for him to wake up. What do you think he’s doing?”
“Don’t torture yourself.”
“How can you stand there and not care!” she burst out.
Jack swallowed. “I care.”
Cissy sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “I can’t do anything. I can’t think. I just want to go to sleep till they find him, safe and sound, but I can’t sleep!”
“Paterno will call us as soon as he knows something. Or, the FBI.”
“What if we never find him? What if we never know?”
“Don’t think like that,” Jack said sternly.
In truth, Jack was beside himself. His fury and fear were bone deep. If it turned out Marla was behind this, he planned to strangle her conniving neck himself!
The minutes crept by. He made toast for himself and Cissy. He practically had to browbeat her to get her to eat anything. In truth, he could scarcely choke down food himself, but he was determined to keep up his strength. There was a showdown ahead, and he planned to be ready for it.
It was barely nine when the feds arrived. They began to systematically set up for the expected kidnapping ransom call. Cissy and Jack hung back, watching and staying out of the way. Hearing another car screech to a halt in front of their house, Cissy rushed forward.
“Beej?” she whispered.
“Wait…,” Jack said, trying to stop her as she flew outside.
To Cissy’s shattering disappointment, she saw Jack’s father, Jonathan, and his brother, J.J., climb from Jonathan’s car and hurry their way through the rain. Cissy sagged against Jack, who held her tightly as they came inside.
“Is he back?” Jonathan asked, white faced. “Have they found him?” Jack had called his father the night before to tell him about Tanya’s murder and B.J.’s abduction.
Jack shook his head, and J.J., normally remote and completely self-involved, stared through wide, stretched eyes, as if looking at a harrowing vista only he could see. They both gave the feds a wide berth.
“Where’s Jannelle?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know, son. I just called J.J. and came over. God Almighty.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Have you had a ransom call yet?”
“No,” Cissy repeated faintly.
“Why else would someone take him?” Jonathan said, as if he were puzzling it out himself. “Has to be ransom.”
They all moved to the kitchen, and Jonathan sat heavily onto the chair Cissy had just vacated. J.J. stood by the back door, gazing outside. Jack spooned more coffee grounds into the filter and watched the pot fill.
“You have to pay the ransom,” J.J. said in a low voice. “Keep the police and FBI out of it. That never works.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Jack said.
“The kidnapper killed Tanya,” J.J. reminded. “He’ll kill again.”
Tears of fear filled Cissy’s eyes.
“Murdering bitch,” Jonathan said angrily.
“We don’t know it’s Marla,” J.J. said.
“We don’t know anything,” Jack reminded. “Let’s not speculate. Let the feds take care of it.”
“I’m surprised at you, Jack,” Jonathan said. “You can’t trust the police with your son’s life!”
“What do you propose I do about them?” Jack responded repressively, gesturing toward the federal agents. His fists clenched. He didn’t want this argument. He sure didn’t want it in front of Cissy.
“Get rid of them!” Jonathan gazed at him as if he’d never seen him before.
At that precise moment, one of the agents separated from his partners and looked into the kitchen. “We’re almost done here, Mr. Holt. Can I have a minute with you?”
Jack talked to the man, and Cissy waited in the kitchen with Jonathan and J.J. She appreciated their desire to help, but she would rather just be alone with Jack.
The agent explained the procedure if and when the kidnapper called. Jack nodded, listening but barely hearing. This was B.J.’s life they were discussing. Anything could go wrong. He wanted to kill whoever had stolen his son. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, given the chance. But there were rules of engagement. And he damn well wasn’t going to break them. Not yet. Not while the risk was too great. Once B.J. was home. Once he was safe. Then the rules changed.
Returning to the kitchen, Jack said, “For now, we wait.”
“For the ransom call.” Cissy shivered.
Jack nodded, adding grimly, “And for our kidnapper to make a move, or a mistake, or something.”
The downtown office of Treasure Homes Realty was a narrow building hosting a luxurious windowfront reception area with a lovely, wraparound rosewood desk. But that facade was for the client who needed convincing and dazzling. The real work took place behind a solid-core door that led to rabbit-warren work spaces, of which Sybil Tomini’s was one of the largest. She, like the other agents, was part owner in the company, which didn’t amount to diddly-squat when things downturned like they had just recently. Although the downturn hadn’t affected everyone. Nuh-uh. Those sharks at Luxury Unlimited were selling multi-million-dollar palaces like they were tract homes.
Sybil looked at her desk and sighed. It was covered with stacks of papers: loan docs, inspection reports, earnest money agreements. She felt like sweeping it all into the trash. It was amazing how many deals fell through when the interest rate went up a half percent. There had to be an easier way to make a living.
And the rental real-estate business was no picnic, either. She was trying to ease out of that business entirely. There just wasn’t enough money for all the problems rental units created. Whenever someone called in wanting Treasure Homes’ rental department to lease their home, she did her damnedest to convince them to sell.
Her phone buzzed. Sybil waited for the receptionist to announce what she wanted, but no such luck.
“I’m here,” Sybil reminded frostily. What was with these receptionists? This girl’s IQ had to be in negative numbers. She always buzzed and then couldn’t seem to verbalize what she wanted.
“Sybil?”
Oh for God’s sake. “Yes?”
“There’s someone here to see you. A Mrs. Owens?”
Sybil had to fight back a short bark of annoyance. She practically tugged her blunt-cut, straight black hair out of her head.
Mrs. Owens was a perfect example of why the rental market was such a losing racket. The woman was the nosiest old bag you would ever hope to meet. She lived across the street from one of Treasure Homes’ rental tenants and complained and complained about them. Worse, she’d somehow gotten Sybil’s name as the person to call.
“I’ll be right there,” Sybil said, at the same moment the receptionist said, “I’ll send her back.”
No! Sybil did not want that big mouth tottering into her work space.
She glanced down at her papers, made a sound of annoyance, then headed for the door just as Carrie, the stupidest receptionist on the planet, threw it open, nearly knocking Sybil in the teeth.
“Come on in, Mrs. Owens,” she invited in a sweety-sweety voice she reserved for the infirm or mentally disabled.
Sybil made a mental note to fire Carrie’s sorry ass immediately following Mrs. Owens’s visit.
“Hello, there,” Sybil said to the eighty-something woman. “Come right in.” She gave Carrie the evil eye, and the girl just gazed at her blankly before heading back to her desk.
Sybil closed the door behind them and wondered if she would make it through another day without a cigarette. She’d quit a month earlier. Thirty-one damn days.
With an effort, she dragged her mind back to the problem at hand and, smoothing the skirt of her cream designer suit, pasted on a friendly smile. Mrs. Owens couldn’t be more than five feet tall, probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, but it was clear she was a force to be reckoned with as she tapped her cane along the carpet and worked her way toward Sybil’s work space.
“I’m glad to finally meet-choo,” she stated primly.
Was there a note of censure in her voice? Sybil inwardly sighed. They’d spoken on the phone two, maybe three times, but this was the first time the woman had actually made her way to the office.
“You can use my chair,” Sybil told her, as it was the only one around. She rarely invited clients to her desk, preferring to meet with them at a restaurant or at the hotel lobby down the street with its niches and alcoves and historical feel. Clients liked the smell of money, and so did Sybil.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Don’t really trust chairs with wheels.”
Suit yourself, you old harpy.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Owens?” Sybil asked politely.
“It’s Tilda. My friends call me Tildy. And you know how you can help me. I’ve told you enough times.”
All Sybil had heard was a long and loud rant about Tildy’s neighbor, the one who rented the little Berkeley house through Sybil’s company. For the measly commission Sybil had scored from the deal, it was a total disaster. Tildy was making her life a living hell.
“I told you she looked familiar, coming and going like all get out.” Tildy sniffed. “It’s that woman. The one on the news.”
“Which one?”
“The one that escaped from prison, y’know? Marla whatever her name is. I saw her going in and out of the house you rent, I did!” She tapped her cane hard on the floor, pushing its tip into the carpet with disdain. “And she nearly killed my cat! Poor old Mr. Timms! That woman doesn’t look where she’s going!”
Sybil drifted, wondering if the Lundeens were really going to be able to find new financing. That house they wanted was close to a million, and the down payment was going to kill them if their current lender backed out, which it looked like they were. Shit. What did she have to do to make a sale go through?
“You’re not listening!”
“I heard every word. Is your cat okay?”
“Traumatized, that’s what he is.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“Call it in! Tell the police we got ’er!”
“Mrs. Owens—”
“Tildy.”
“Yes, Tildy…The woman who rented the house across the street is named Elyse…Hammonds, no, Elyse Hammersly. I checked her out. I’ve met her, and she is not Marla Cahill. She lived in Oregon, a suburb of Portland.”
“Huh. Well, she comes and goes at all hours of the day and night…sometimes doesn’t show up for days. And last night she was hauling somethin’. Looked like a kid to me, all bundled up in a big coat. The woman’s a menace. Nearly killed Mr. Timms.”
“Was the cat on Ms. Hammersly’s property?”
“He wanders.” The old woman shrugged her shoulders.
“But he’s not dead?” Sybil tried to be patient. She straightened the papers on her desk.
Tildy nodded emphatically, her permed hair scarcely moving, her chin stubborn. “Not yet! I’m telling you, that woman is a maniac!”
“She works odd hours, I think, but I’ll talk to her about the cat. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to keep Mr. Tom in the house.”
“It’s Mr. Timms.” Tildy squinted behind glasses that enlarged her eyes. “You just try to keep a cat in the house, miss. He’s been able to go outside since he was a kitten, and he’s not gonna stop now.”
“Sounds like the street’s dangerous.”
“Only since you rented to that maniac! She’s the reason Mr. Timms is short a few lives.”
“I’ll talk to Elyse,” Sybil heard herself promising.
“Good. Do that! Somethin’s not right over there.”
Sybil thought she could use a cigarette…maybe a couple. Tildy was a nuisance, and probably unbalanced to boot. Sybil’s aunt had started showing signs of dementia when she hit her eighties. It was bound to happen. “Do you watch the house all the time?” Sybil asked curiously.
“I keep up with the comings and goings in the neighborhood.” Tildy nodded.
“I’m sure everything’s all right.”
“If it was all right, I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to come down here.”
“I appreciate your telling me.”
“You’re just fobbing me off, aren’t you?” the old lady accused.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do? Anything? Maybe I should call the police.”
“No, no, no. I’ll go over there and check with Elyse myself.”
“I’ll be watchin’ for ya.”
I’ll bet you will, Sybil thought. “I’ll be by this afternoon. I’ve got a couple meetings, and then I’ll swing over your way.”
Sybil held the door while Tildy stubbed her way back out. She passed through reception and glanced back, seeming aware that Sybil might be humoring her. But Sybil knew she would never hear the end of this until she took care of things, and she was never going to get rid of Mrs. Owens unless she showed her she was acting on her information.
Like she had time to run out to Berkeley. Oh, sure.
“I’ll be lookin’,” she said again, then toddled through the door.
“What a sweetheart,” Carrie said, meaning it.
“You’re fired,” Sybil responded, reaching inside her purse for her spare, unopened pack of cigarettes, fingering it like a good-luck talisman.
“What have you got?” Paterno asked as Janet Quinn ducked her head into his office.
“Not much. Tanya Watson worked mostly as a babysitter or nanny. She was taking care of a couple of kids who belonged to a woman named Geena Barrymore, a single mother who dated Jonathan Holt for a time.”
“Nothing between Holt and Tanya?”
“Doesn’t appear to be. Geena’s moved on to a new guy too. Quite a while ago.”
“You think there’s any connection between any of ’em and Holt’s grandson?”
She lifted her palms.
Paterno sighed. “I called Jonathan Holt this morning. He’s with his other son, J.J., at Jack and Cissy’s. The feds were there, setting up. Holt didn’t have much to say about Tanya other than he barely knew her.”
“What do you think?” Quinn asked.
“He sounded pretty shaken up about both Tanya’s death and his grandson’s kidnapping.” Paterno inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I’m worried about what’s going on in Marla’s mind. I want to know what she wants.”
“Maybe she’ll keep the little boy safe,” Quinn said.
Paterno didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t like the response he would make.
It was after three by the time Sybil was on her way to the bungalow that was causing Tildy such a problem. Why, why couldn’t neighbors just mind their own business?
Sybil smoothed her hair over one ear and grabbed her cell phone. She was going to have to get Bluetooth. Something. Driving was such a bitch as it was.
She dialed Maureen Lundeen. How was that for a name? Using her own version of the sweety-sweety voice, she enthusiastically left a message, hoping everything was perking along toward closing. If Maureen needed anything—anything at all—just pick up the phone. Sybil would be happy to help with the lenders, if she could. She was at her beck and call.
As soon as she hung up, Sybil made retching noises. Good God. Sometimes she looked at the faces on the real-estate page, agents who’d hit the million-dollar mark in sales a thousand times over. They all smiled like they couldn’t stop. How did they get their names out there? Why did people choose them to be their agent?
“I wish Marla Cahill had rented it!” she declared. “Then I’d be on the news. Then I’d get some publicity!”
She pushed her toe to the accelerator, frustrated. By the time she was finally pulling onto the residential street that led to the rental, she was hot, tired, and thirsty. The green salad she’d slammed down at lunch had been wilted and swimming in acidic fat-free dressing. She’d eaten it anyway, though she’d really wanted a bacon cheeseburger. But God. Real-estate agents around here were like pencils with boobs. She had to watch every calorie, and she was relentless about it. One of these days she was going to get a break. And she was going to seize that opportunity for all it was worth.
She pulled into the drive of the house and climbed from the car, searching through her keys. If she’d forgotten to bring them and had to drive all the way back…but no, her fingers closed over the bungalow’s key ring.
She glanced over her shoulder to Tildy’s house. The place looked deserted. Sybil waved anyway, just in case, and was rewarded with a twitch of the blinds. Well, okay, Tildy was on patrol.
Sybil almost felt sorry for Elyse.
She knocked on the door and waited. Long minutes passed, and Sybil looked anxiously toward the sky. The clouds were gray, their bottoms darker, as if they were just holding in the rain, waiting to let loose with a maelstrom. Peachy.
She knocked again, but when no one answered, she slid her key in the lock and twisted open the door.
She was hit by the smell. Rotten. Putrid. Like a wet, unpleasant slap to the face.
“Oh…God…”
Almost afraid to tiptoe inside, Sybil held the front door open for some fresher air and scanned the rooms. Not a lot of furniture.
What? Did something die in here?
Maybe Mr. Timms hadn’t been so lucky after all.
Sybil pulled the lapel of her suit jacket over her mouth and coughed a couple of times. “Ms. Hammersly?” she called. “Are you here? Elyse?”
Moving carefully down the hallway, Sybil felt a shiver chase down her spine. Elyse may have been coming and going for a while, but she clearly hadn’t been here lately. Last night, Tildy had said, but the old bat had to be wrong. No one could stand the smell without finding the rotted little corpse and tossing it out.
She checked through the upstairs rooms but found nothing to account for the odor. Stopping at the top of the stairs that led to the basement, Sybil called again, “Ms. Hammersly? It’s Sybil Tomini from Treasure Homes.”
No answer.
“Screw this,” she muttered, grabbing her cell phone again and calling Rich, one of Treasure Homes’ other partners, a real prick but at least the man possessed a brain.
Creeping down the stairs, Sybil kept one hand firm on the rail, the other pressing her phone to her ear. The basement was unfinished space, she recalled, with a wall that divided off one section that could be made into a bedroom or workspace. There was a narrow doorway to access it.
As she reached the bottom step, the smell reached out to her, nauseating. Horrible.
Sybil coughed some more, just as Rich’s supercilious voice invited her to leave a message. “Rich, it’s Sybil. I’m at one of our rental properties. The Berkeley cottage, and it’s…weird.”
Beep. Rich’s phone suddenly cut her off. Didn’t even ask if she was satisfied with her message.
“Damn it.”
She clicked the phone closed but kept it in her hand as she stepped forward and spied a narrow, nearly secret, doorway to the closed-off area. Holding her breath, Sybil squeezed into the room.
She looked ahead, and all the hair on her body stood on end. In the bluish light of a television, she saw the back of a woman’s head. The woman was watching the news. She sat still as a statue.
“Elyse…?”
She eased around to get a better look at her, her fingers fumbling for the light switch. She snapped on the fluorescents. Illumination flickered uncertainly.
Sybil’s mouth opened in a silent scream.
The woman seated calmly in the chair had been sitting there for some time. She gazed at Sybil serenely out of blank eyeholes. Her face—all her skin—was being systematically eaten by insects and larvae. The dead body was putrefying, melting into the chair.
But it looked as if someone had recently given her a manicure.
Sybil backed away as if burned, her fingers scrabbling on the phone, searching for 9-1-1. Screaming like a banshee, she stumbled up the stairs, through the house, out the front door, and, in full view of Tilda Owens’s house, threw up that damned salad all over her cream designer suit.
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, CA
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
I can’t believe that no one has come in to check on me. I only wish I had one more chance to tell Jack that I love him…. But it’s too late…. I know it now. The doctor says it’s time to take me off life support, that it’s best to let me die and harvest my organs.
Oh God, no!
No, no, no!!! I’m alive.
I strain with everything I’m worth. Panic spurts through me. Certainly it registers on those damned monitors, right? Can’t they see my heart rate soaring into the stratosphere? Don’t they know I’m responding?
For the love of God, check me! Shine that bloody light into my eyes and watch me flinch, my pupils react.
Give me time. I’m waking up. You’re giving up too quickly.
I struggle to move, to show them I’m alive, but nothing happens.
Stop this madness. Think of me.
Through all my fear, I hear the doctor say resignedly, “It’s time. I’ll call the family….”