Tough Cookie

Out of nowhere, a hand slapped me hard across the face. I reeled. It was the kind of hit I used to take from John Richard. One hand pulled my hair hard to tilt my head back, while another hand yanked the duct tape off so roughly I knew my cheeks were bleeding.

I blew a mouthful of vomit all over Jack Gilkey. He cried out and swung at me again. I dodged—one thing I’d learned in my years with The Jerk.

His glossy dark brown hair was loose and wild, his handsome face menacing, gray with shadow. He grabbed me in a choke-hold around the neck. His mouth brushed my ear. “Where’s the tape, bitch?”

My brain thumped and throbbed. The building seemed to echo the vibrations in my head. “The videotape,” Jack snarled.

“If I tell you,” I managed to say, “will you let me go?”

In answer, he tightened his grip around my throat and shook me hard. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. I made a squeaking, submissive sound.

“Is it here with you? In this building?”

“Yes,” I said, when he shook me again. Think. “Yes, yes, let me take you to it.”

“No.”

“It’ll take you hours to find it. Maybe more.”

He didn’t reply. Panic gripped my gut. Then he said, “Get up,” harshly, with just a shade of doubt. In this I took comfort. Apparently, Chef Well-Organized didn’t have a plan to cover this exigency. Think. How could I get away from him? The agony in my brain made mental work impossible.

“Please undo my hands,” I whispered. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. “I’ll fall if I can’t get balanced.”

“No way,” he snapped. Then he lifted his flannel shirt, revealing a flat stomach—and a small pistol. He pulled the gun out of his waistband. “Don’t move unless I tell you to, don’t fall, don’t run, don’t yell. If you do, I’ll kill your son at your house in Aspen Meadow, once I lure your husband out of the house. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said angrily, still trying to think. On my feet, I shuffled through the long, shadowy kitchen. Why had the TV people left without checking on me? They must have figured I’d gone down on the gondola. I should have kept somebody with me. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to Tom’s warnings? Hindsight. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Easy. You’re going to die hitting a tree. You hiked out of the bistro, got confused, and bam. We’ll get more snow by morning, nobody will ever know it wasn’t an accident. Move.”

I shambled groggily toward the hall that led to the storage-area stairway. Think. What do cops advise in a situation like this? Talk to the criminal. Use his name

.

“Jack,” I begged, “Eileen’s my friend. I was just trying to help her—”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, prodding the gun painfully into my back to push me forward. “I knew you were looking for something, and guessed it had to do with Nate because today you brought Rorry here. I quizzed Magill, found out about the camera, and figured out what you were doing.” His voice deepened. “You’re not on Eileen’s side. You’re on the cops’ side, that’s why you came here in the first place. To set me up, figure out Portman’s scheme. You’re not going to steal Eileen from me, trying to prove to her I killed Fiona.”

Reggie Dawson’s call echoed in my brain: Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?

“But you did, didn’t you? You killed Fiona. That’s what’s on the tape. How’d you kill Doug Portman? I thought you were prepping for lunch on Friday—”

He laughed and shoved me. “You give your staff a ton of prep, they don’t notice whether you’re there or not.”

“Jack, were you the one who hit my van on the interstate—”

He opened the door to the storage area. He didn’t need to answer; of course he’d tried to get rid of me. He just hadn’t been successful the first time. “Get down those stairs,” he commanded.

“Jack,” I said softly, “did Eileen know you bribed Portman so you could be paroled early?”

“She knew and she didn’t know.” He announced it triumphantly. “I needed ten thousand a month for six months, but she never asked what for.” He gave me a shove. “Alimony?” Another shove. “Child support?” Shove. “Surely not bribery, Jack?” He laughed sourly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

We’d reached the first landing. The foul smell of trash rose up to greet us. “Please, Jack,” I begged. “Please stop, I have to rest.” I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. “So, you framed Barton Reed? Your old prison chum? You knew he had cancer, knew he’d had the Duragesic, knew he hated Portman?”