Omens
Page 107
“Evans told me that the police found her body; they just never made the connection. Evans tried to say you gave her the overdose. I think you just moved her, so you wouldn’t get sent to children’s services. Maybe I’m wrong. Frankly, I don’t care. Whatever you did, I’m not leaving you behind.”
“Found her body . . . ?”
His tone made me look over, and when I saw his expression, I knew without a doubt that he had not moved Seanna Walsh’s body. That he had not killed her. That he’d had no idea his mother was dead.
Shit.
His gaze lifted to mine. “What exactly did Evans say?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He was just trying to throw me off the trail.”
“What did he say?”
“Never—”
“Olivia.”
I met his eyes and saw not anger, but shock. Dread.
“He said they found her body a couple of months after she disappeared. He had photos. Maybe they were doctored. I just . . . I thought that’s what you meant. I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving, okay? We need to wait here until the cops arrive.”
He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“Yes, it’s not the most heroic conclusion but—”
“If we lose Chandler, we lose our explanation for all this. If the police show up, he’ll bolt.” He moved his leg and grimaced. “Damn it.”
A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was in extreme pain. Enough to distract him from any plan except getting me out of here. And having me tell him his mother was dead really hadn’t helped.
“Would you sit down?” I said. “Please.”
He hesitated, then lowered himself to the sheets. “We need Chandler. He’s out there.”
“Out where?”
A wave, curt, almost annoyed. “Out there. Watching.”
I shook my head. “He phoned in his instructions to Maria. I saw the call display. He’s sitting at home, orchestrating all this.”
“It was a cell phone. He’s here. Keeping his distance but keeping control.”
“How do you know that?”
Another flash of annoyance. Or maybe just pain. “Because I know what kind of man he is. He’s here, and I would like you to get the hell out that window, so I can go find him.”
I cast a pointed look at his leg. “Really?”
He grabbed a sheet and tore off a strip to bind it. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so if I won’t leave, I’m being stupid. If you insist on taking down Chandler when you can barely stand, you’re being brave?”
“Olivia . . .”
“How about we call him. See what’s what.” I lifted my phone.
“I have his home number, not his cell.”
“I saw it on the call display.”
“And you remember it?”
“Of course. I’m playing detective. The area code was 817. Is that his home number?”
He checked. “No.”
I started to dial.
“No,” he said, rising. “Let me—”
I shook my head. “I’m the client, remember?”
“I thought you were my partner.”
“It varies depending on which best suits my needs.”
“As either your lawyer or your partner, I believe I should be privy to your plan.”
I told him. He adjusted it. I would have argued on one point, but there wasn’t time.
When I called, Chandler’s cell rang a few times—I didn’t expect him to answer an unknown number. Then it went to voice mail.
“Hello, Dr. Chandler,” I said. “This is . . .” I paused. Considered. “Eden Larsen. We need to talk.”
GUINEA PIG
Chandler listened to the message. Then he smiled. He could hear the desperation in the girl’s voice, in the way she’d hesitated, barely able to get the words out. She’d kept her tone clear, trying to be brave, but she was trapped and she knew it. She wanted to negotiate. How quaint.
He summoned Anderson first. Then he phoned the girl back. She answered on the first ring.
“Miss Larsen,” he said. “Is that the name you use now?”
“It is.”
A soft chuckle. “All right. Let’s talk. By that, I presume you mean negotiate.”
“I might.”
He strained to pick up noise that might suggest where she was hiding. “Admirable, but under the circumstances I don’t think you have anything to negotiate with.”
“Then you wouldn’t have returned my call. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? We don’t have to play cat and mouse, blindly groping around unable to communicate. Likewise, I don’t need to play that old ruse where I say I have details of your crimes locked in a safe, to be opened in the event of my death. I can just tell you that I have it right here, in an e-mail, complete with photos of what happened in this house.”
He tried not to pause. He wasn’t concerned, of course. He’d cleaned up worse messes than this. Still, it annoyed him that he hadn’t considered this possibility. He’d been out of the game too long.
He glanced at Anderson, coming out into the yard now. That reminded him what he was supposed to be doing—not chatting with the girl, but using background noise to pinpoint her location. Just keep her talking. She seemed willing enough.
“And Mr. Walsh himself?” Chandler asked.
“Dead, I think. Or dying. Your bodyguard shot him in the thigh. He seemed all right, but after running through the house, I think that bullet nicked the femoral artery. There’s a lot of blood. He might still be alive. I can’t tell. But if he is, I’d suggest you fix that when you get a chance. Otherwise, you’ll need to bargain with both of us, and he’s a much tougher negotiator.”
Another chuckle. “So I’ve heard.”
By God, she was a cold one. Last night, she’d been ready to shoot him to save Walsh. But the moment her lawyer became more burden than help, she’d let him die. Not surprising, given where she came from. He understood now why the Huntsmen had forbidden him to simply remove her from the equation. The restriction rankled, but he dared not defy them. That was beyond dangerous.
The girl continued. “I’m sure your plan isn’t to leave me alive, either. Actually, I’m surprised you let me live this long. You knew I was digging for answers. You could have killed me. Instead, you had brainwashed assassins kill Niles Gunderson and Joshua Gray before I could get to them. That seems . . . complicated.”
“Found her body . . . ?”
His tone made me look over, and when I saw his expression, I knew without a doubt that he had not moved Seanna Walsh’s body. That he had not killed her. That he’d had no idea his mother was dead.
Shit.
His gaze lifted to mine. “What exactly did Evans say?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He was just trying to throw me off the trail.”
“What did he say?”
“Never—”
“Olivia.”
I met his eyes and saw not anger, but shock. Dread.
“He said they found her body a couple of months after she disappeared. He had photos. Maybe they were doctored. I just . . . I thought that’s what you meant. I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving, okay? We need to wait here until the cops arrive.”
He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“Yes, it’s not the most heroic conclusion but—”
“If we lose Chandler, we lose our explanation for all this. If the police show up, he’ll bolt.” He moved his leg and grimaced. “Damn it.”
A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was in extreme pain. Enough to distract him from any plan except getting me out of here. And having me tell him his mother was dead really hadn’t helped.
“Would you sit down?” I said. “Please.”
He hesitated, then lowered himself to the sheets. “We need Chandler. He’s out there.”
“Out where?”
A wave, curt, almost annoyed. “Out there. Watching.”
I shook my head. “He phoned in his instructions to Maria. I saw the call display. He’s sitting at home, orchestrating all this.”
“It was a cell phone. He’s here. Keeping his distance but keeping control.”
“How do you know that?”
Another flash of annoyance. Or maybe just pain. “Because I know what kind of man he is. He’s here, and I would like you to get the hell out that window, so I can go find him.”
I cast a pointed look at his leg. “Really?”
He grabbed a sheet and tore off a strip to bind it. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so if I won’t leave, I’m being stupid. If you insist on taking down Chandler when you can barely stand, you’re being brave?”
“Olivia . . .”
“How about we call him. See what’s what.” I lifted my phone.
“I have his home number, not his cell.”
“I saw it on the call display.”
“And you remember it?”
“Of course. I’m playing detective. The area code was 817. Is that his home number?”
He checked. “No.”
I started to dial.
“No,” he said, rising. “Let me—”
I shook my head. “I’m the client, remember?”
“I thought you were my partner.”
“It varies depending on which best suits my needs.”
“As either your lawyer or your partner, I believe I should be privy to your plan.”
I told him. He adjusted it. I would have argued on one point, but there wasn’t time.
When I called, Chandler’s cell rang a few times—I didn’t expect him to answer an unknown number. Then it went to voice mail.
“Hello, Dr. Chandler,” I said. “This is . . .” I paused. Considered. “Eden Larsen. We need to talk.”
GUINEA PIG
Chandler listened to the message. Then he smiled. He could hear the desperation in the girl’s voice, in the way she’d hesitated, barely able to get the words out. She’d kept her tone clear, trying to be brave, but she was trapped and she knew it. She wanted to negotiate. How quaint.
He summoned Anderson first. Then he phoned the girl back. She answered on the first ring.
“Miss Larsen,” he said. “Is that the name you use now?”
“It is.”
A soft chuckle. “All right. Let’s talk. By that, I presume you mean negotiate.”
“I might.”
He strained to pick up noise that might suggest where she was hiding. “Admirable, but under the circumstances I don’t think you have anything to negotiate with.”
“Then you wouldn’t have returned my call. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? We don’t have to play cat and mouse, blindly groping around unable to communicate. Likewise, I don’t need to play that old ruse where I say I have details of your crimes locked in a safe, to be opened in the event of my death. I can just tell you that I have it right here, in an e-mail, complete with photos of what happened in this house.”
He tried not to pause. He wasn’t concerned, of course. He’d cleaned up worse messes than this. Still, it annoyed him that he hadn’t considered this possibility. He’d been out of the game too long.
He glanced at Anderson, coming out into the yard now. That reminded him what he was supposed to be doing—not chatting with the girl, but using background noise to pinpoint her location. Just keep her talking. She seemed willing enough.
“And Mr. Walsh himself?” Chandler asked.
“Dead, I think. Or dying. Your bodyguard shot him in the thigh. He seemed all right, but after running through the house, I think that bullet nicked the femoral artery. There’s a lot of blood. He might still be alive. I can’t tell. But if he is, I’d suggest you fix that when you get a chance. Otherwise, you’ll need to bargain with both of us, and he’s a much tougher negotiator.”
Another chuckle. “So I’ve heard.”
By God, she was a cold one. Last night, she’d been ready to shoot him to save Walsh. But the moment her lawyer became more burden than help, she’d let him die. Not surprising, given where she came from. He understood now why the Huntsmen had forbidden him to simply remove her from the equation. The restriction rankled, but he dared not defy them. That was beyond dangerous.
The girl continued. “I’m sure your plan isn’t to leave me alive, either. Actually, I’m surprised you let me live this long. You knew I was digging for answers. You could have killed me. Instead, you had brainwashed assassins kill Niles Gunderson and Joshua Gray before I could get to them. That seems . . . complicated.”
