“There it is.” I pointed to the trapdoor in the ceiling. “Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” He reached up, grabbed the cord, and pulled. The catch released. The door dropped down and the ladder shot out of the darkness, metal shrieking against metal. McKenna leapt out of its path. And I launched myself off the wall, slamming against his shoulder and sending him spinning into the banister rail.
The same banister rail I’d been thrown against myself, on Thursday. It had been three-quarters wrecked then, so it was no match for McKenna’s weight and momentum. Pieces of wood broke free and scattered in all directions, and for a moment McKenna’s body seemed to pause, frozen at an impossible angle.
I could have reached out and saved him, if my arms had been longer.
And he hadn’t just tried to kill me.
Sunday. Late morning.
IT LOOKED LIKE JACKSON POLLOCK HAD BEEN TO WORK ON MY hall floor.
I went to the linen closet and pulled out all the sheets and blankets I could find. I kept one back, and threw the others down until they’d formed a cover over the worst of the bloody mess. Then I ran down the stairs and along to my study. I grabbed the spare keys to my Jaguar. Fished an old cell phone out of a drawer. Took my Lichtenstein off the wall. Wrapped it in the sheet. Made doubly sure the canvas was well protected. Moved to the kitchen to recover McKenna’s black box from under the countertop. And then left my home for the last time.
WHEN CAROLYN’S DESPERATE FOR something to happen a particular way, she visualizes the outcome she wants. A new contract. A raise. The Mets to beat the Yankees. I’d never been convinced, personally. But that morning I needed all the help I could get. So, as I reeled in the miles between my house and LeBrock’s—and the hands on the clock crept ever closer to noon—I conjured an image into my head. His driveway. With Carolyn’s car on it. Just like it had been on Friday night.
Her method worked. A hundred yards from LeBrock’s drive I caught a glimpse of silver paint through the trees. Two glimpses. Carolyn’s BMW, and another car. An Aston Martin. The photographer’s? My heart jumped. I leaned harder on the gas, and seconds later I was out of the Jaguar and hurrying along his front path.
For the second straight day, LeBrock opened his door before I got there. But this time he was fully dressed—in black jeans, boots, and a faux biker’s jacket, which looked ridiculous on a man his age—and he wasn’t coming to greet me. He actually flinched when he saw me, which scotched a fleeting hope that Carolyn had sent him out to give us a little privacy.
“Going away somewhere, Roger?” I nodded at the gray polycarbonate suitcase he was wheeling behind him.
“No.”
“Then why do you need luggage? And what about Carolyn? Is she here?”
“Change of plan, Marc. Sorry. Carolyn couldn’t make it, after all.”
“No? Then why’s her car on your drive?”
“She asked me to sell it for her. Dropped it here earlier, and took a car service to the airport.”
“But she’s having the fake passport photo done at noon. That’s in, what? Ten minutes? She can’t have left already. She wouldn’t travel under her own name. So spill. What’s really happening?”
“Nothing. I had the photo guy come early. She didn’t want to wait till tomorrow to fly out, is all.”
The lower lid of his left eye started to tremble.
“What’s in the case, Roger?”
“Nothing. Sorry, Marc. I have to go.”
I grabbed the handle, ripped it from his grip, and held him off long enough to ease back the zipper.
The case was stuffed full of neatly-wrapped bills.
“The forty million? You’re running off with my wife, after all? You lying bastard.”
“No.” He lunged for the case, but I shoved him away. “There’s no we, here. Just me. Carolyn’s not coming.”
“You stiffed her, too? You piece of shit.”
“I didn’t. This isn’t my idea.”
“Then whose is it? Carolyn’s? She asked to be left behind, vulnerable and penniless?”
LeBrock didn’t reply.
“This makes no sense, Roger. Look, neither of us is blameless. I’m not looking to pin anything on you. I just want to understand what’s happening.”
“OK. But not here. Come away from the door.”
LEBROCK PERCHED ON THE HOOD of his Mercedes, and his head dropped.
“Carolyn is in the house,” he admitted. “In the basement. But you can’t see her.”
“Why not? Is she OK?”
“She is. At the moment.”
“Stop this cryptic bullshit. Tell me what’s happening.”
LeBrock took a small leather folder from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Inside, a piece of paper was attached to each cover. On the left, two names: Roger LeBrock and Carolyn Clark Bowman. On the right, three words: Death by suffocation.
“Note there are only two names,” he said. “And one outcome.”
“This is from the guy you were telling me about?”
“He gave it to me this morning. Showed up in my bedroom and handed it to me like a room-service breakfast menu.”
“And you chose to save yourself, leaving Carolyn to die? How could you do that?”
LeBrock didn’t answer.
“Oh.” I raised the suitcase. “Maybe this made the choice a little easier. Did the guy know the cash was in the house?”
“Of course he did.” LeBrock looked up at me, his back stiffening. “He brought me the case to carry it in! Don’t you get how this guy works? It’s not just psychopathic with him. It’s psychological. Think about it. If I walk away with the money, how can I enjoy it? Knowing what I did to get it?”
“And yet you’re doing it anyway.”
“Easy for you to sit on your high horse and judge! You think you’d have done the noble thing? Because let me tell you—you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“Yeah? Like when you shot down Carolyn’s chance to leave AmeriTel? So you could live off her fat paycheck? Like a damn pimp?”
“That was different.”
“Prove it.” LeBrock dived across the hood and this time he managed to claw the case away from me. Then he zipped it open the rest of the way and started to hurl handfuls of wrapped-up bills at me. Dozens of them. He didn’t stop till they were heaped and scattered at my feet like bricks at a construction site. “There. That’s five million, at least. Go inside and offer your life in your wife’s place. Or scoop up the cash and drive away.”
“Wait. What about other options? How many guys are in there with her?”
“One.”
“Only one? There’s two of us. Why don’t we go inside and bring her out? And tell this guy to fuck himself at the same time?”
“We can’t. You don’t understand. Carolyn’s tied up in my safe room. The guy’s cut off the air supply. Right now, the door’s open, which means she’s still OK. But he’s holding a dead-man’s switch. Can you believe I paid extra for that? Anyway, all he has to do is let go, and the door closes. Automatically. And once it’s closed, there’s no way to open it from the outside. Literally, no way. The thing’s impregnable. And totally airtight.”
“OK. Then we call the police. They have negotiators. And hostage rescue teams. They deal with this kind of thing all the time. That’s got to give her a better chance than walking away and leaving her. Unless you think the guy’s bluffing?”
“The one thing this guy doesn’t do is bluff. Ask Melanie Walker’s husband.”
“Then I’m calling 911.” I pulled out my phone.
“No point. There’s not enough time. Because regardless of the dead-man’s switch, the guy’s closing the door at noon. The only question was who’d be inside. Carolyn, or me? Now it’s Carolyn, or you.”