Running Scared Part 43

"You're a f.u.c.king liar," Jon said, shivering despite the heat blasting from the front seat of the van.

"Do ya think?" VanHorn just lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror, his stare as cold as ice. "Maybe I am, kid. Maybe I am."

The plane landed with a jolt as the first rays of morning were visible in the eastern sky. Kate's throat caught as she realized she was finally back in Boston, the city where it all started. The flight had been long and nerve-wracking, not because of turbulence or any delays. No, her worries had been focused on her son and the man she'd so recently loved. Jon had been gone over two days and a creeping sense of panic clutched at her throat. She couldn't lose him, not now. Not ever.

She didn't know Robert Sullivan, couldn't imagine what the man had planned for her son, but she was bound and determined that she'd find out. Rather than contact him by phone and let him have the chance to hang up on her or flee, she planned to meet him face to face in his own home, and she wasn't about to leave until she had answers.

Laura was expecting her, and thankfully her sister had done a little more digging, determining that Robert Sullivan usually spent most of his workdays at his office, sometimes stopped off at his club for a drink or dinner or workout, but was always home by nine in the evening.

Tonight he'd have company.

For a second as the decelerating jet screeched down the runway, she thought of Daegan, just as she had all during the flight, but she wouldn't let her wayward mind dwell on him. He'd callously used her and toyed with Jon's emotions. Under the guise of the friendly neighbor, he'd burrowed his way into her home as well as her heart. He'd admitted to flattening her tire, to lying about his need to use her phone that first week, to wanting to get to know her because of Jon.

But he did save Jon from Todd.

He did teach him to ride.

He did laugh so deeply the mountains seemed to ring.

He did touch her as no man, not even Jim, had.

And there was a slight chance that she could be pregnant with his child.

"No," Kate whispered though the thought wasn't unpleasant. She'd always wanted another baby, and she was more than willing to raise that baby on her own.

The plane taxied to the gate, and she unbuckled her seat belt. Through the small window she watched snow fall from a pewter-colored sky while a ground crew scurried under the belly of the plane.

She grabbed her single piece of carry-on luggage and filed with the rest of the pa.s.sengers into the behemoth that was Logan International Airport. Soon, she'd face the grandfather of her son-the rich self-serving son of a b.i.t.c.h who had done everything he could to get rid of Jon fifteen years ago and now wanted him back.

Her fingers tightened over the handle of her bag, and cold determination steeled her. No one was going to take her son away. Not even Robert d.a.m.ned Sullivan.

There was no disputing the fact that Jon Summers would be killed. In Alicia's mind, the only issue that remained was how best to get the job done.

The question had thrummed in her mind for days, ever since she'd planted the seed in VanHorn's puny brain. She had expected the man to take on the task, baited by the promise of a tumble in the sack, but VanHorn, like most men, had proved disappointing. Alicia Sullivan McGivens let out an exhausted breath and rolled away from her husband, Bryan, who was hogging the sheets again, d.a.m.n him.

How difficult would it be to kill a person?

Really...how hard could it be? Just make sure he was dead and get rid of the body...as easy as that. And when the victim was a naive fifteen-year-old, he would certainly be unsuspecting, especially when it came to a woman like Alicia.

Not that Alicia relished the thought of snuffing out a life. She'd always recoiled at having to smash a spider in Wade's room or, G.o.d forbid, swat a fly. The crunch of their fat insect bodies sickened her, and the dark stain left behind on the woodwork was so disgusting. How much worse would it be to kill a person?

Not that Bibi's b.a.s.t.a.r.d was destined to make any great contribution to humanity. Really. An orphan child growing up in some G.o.dforsaken pasture out West? His intelligence was probably on par with the pigs rolling in the muddy pigpen. Didn't VanHorn say the boy had been raised out in the middle of nowhere? A hillbilly misanthrope. Too bad old Robert hadn't left well enough alone. In any case, she had come to think of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d boy as not so much a human being who mattered as a nonperson, a family problem, an obstacle to Wade's success.

With the b.a.s.t.a.r.d under Robert's wing, the whole chain of inheritance-everything Alicia had worked so hard for-would be ruined. Currently, without a male heir on Robert's side, the fortune would fall to Frank, then to Collin, who would certainly never have children. Which left her beloved Wade next in line for the Sullivan mantle.

My Little Lord Fauntleroy, she thought, clasping her hands under one cheek as an image of her apple-cheeked prince danced in her head.

Well, she wasn't about to let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d get in the way of Wade's future. Her son was the crown prince of the Sullivan dynasty, and he was going to rise to power and wealth without this traitor in his kingdom.

Which meant someone would have to get rid of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

How hard could it be?

She'd spent the last few nights in bed, staring at the crown moldings overhead and fantasizing over the perfect murder as Bryan lay softly snoring beside her. She'd seen enough detective shows to know the pitfalls of murder, the stupid ways people got themselves caught and convicted. Fingerprints, blood and hair samples left behind in cars, witnesses...and motive.

Well, it would be hard to tie her to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, especially since she had never seen his face, never been seen with him. And she would keep it that way.

She hated to dirty her hands, but if Neils VanHorn was going to wimp out on her, she would get the job done. Hiring another private investigator or some sordid contract killer would only widen the path of evidence and cost her another chunk of her son's inheritance. No, she didn't need some low-life blabbermouth out there owning a sensitive piece of information about her. It wouldn't be fitting for the mother of a future CEO, governor, perhaps even president.

If she had to, she would do it herself.

Neils could deliver the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to the summer house, blindfolded, of course. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was bound as well, it would be a piece of cake. She could loosen him up by lacing some of her tranquilizers into a nice soothing drink for him. Then, she would take him on a little lake cruise-after dark. The lake would be empty this time of year, and once she got out to the deepest part, it would be so easy to push him over the side. Of course, she'd need to attach some weights. A couple of those minibarbells she'd been training with would work-wiped clean of fingerprints. She wasn't about to slip up and leave prints, and fortunately, this time of year, no one would question her wearing gloves.

That settled it. Tomorrow night when she met with VanHorn, she would tell him to deliver the boy to the lake house and she would take care of the rest. What was that old adage? If you want something done right, do it yourself. She took a deep, relaxing breath and felt soothed by the image of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d securely anch.o.r.ed to the bottom of the lake. Safely tucked away.

Contented at the thought of all her problems buried in a watery grave, Alicia McGivens stretched out her legs amid the Egyptian cotton sheets, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Boston.

It was not the city Jon had seen in movies, not the place he'd imagined when he'd spoken to his aunt on the phone, but then, he didn't think Laura lived in the rundown neighborhood VanHorn had brought him to when they'd checked into the Ivy Motel. Through the grimy window he'd gotten an occasional view of a dark alley lined with trash cans and the drab shingled building that backed up to the motel. This place was a h.e.l.l-hole, made worse by the fact that he felt like he was sitting here on death row, waiting for VanHorn to sell him off to the "aunt" who wanted him dead.

A sitting duck, that's what he was.

But not for long.

If he'd learned anything from Daegan, it was that he didn't have to cower and take abuse...not from anyone. He was going to fight back, escape, go to the police and Aunt Laura. If everything went according to plan, VanHorn would return to his room tonight to find cops waiting for him. That would be sweet.

But first, he had to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

Reaching under the mattress, his fingers searched for the small bar of soap he'd tucked away when VanHorn wasn't looking. It was something of a long shot, but with just one hand cuffed to the bed, he planned to soap his way out of the other manacle. Carefully, he used his free hand to douse his wrist with water from a bottle VanHorn let him keep by the bedside. The soap stung the abrasions on his skin as he worked it into a lather, but he winced and rubbed the bar over the inside of the cuff, trying to make it as slippery as possible.

Then, it was a matter of collapsing his hand, pulling and tugging until the cuff tore into his bruised swollen skin, sc.r.a.ping and pulling despite the excruciating pain.

He tried to block out the pain by reminding himself of the freedom ahead. Escape from the man who was ready to sell him off like a slave; VanHorn had told him as much.

"Well, boy," VanHorn had said, cackling. "You're my gold mine. I'm going to sell you off to the highest bidder. And no doubt that'll be your auntie. She's got everything to lose, and I enjoy doing business with her. Thing is, she's promised me a few perks your old grandfather can't offer, if you know what I mean."

And as VanHorn had begun to close the handcuff over Jon's wrist that night, Jon had caught a glimpse into the man's dark soul.

"You won't be safe in Mexico," Jon had said.

"What?"

"Or Canada, either. You can't sell me off to a killer and get away with it."

VanHorn's mouth had dropped open a second. "How did you know...?" And he'd backed away warily, before he'd had a chance to crank the cuff closed to the tightest notch.

Which was why Jon might have a chance to escape now, despite the throbbing pain in his swollen wrist. As he pulled, it felt like he was going to shave the fingers right off his hands, but he couldn't stop now, not with the cuff now squeezing the base of his thumb. Bracing himself against the dizzying pain, he pulled hard. With an agonized groan, the cuff slipped off.

At last...he was free.

With no time to lose, he unlocked the door and fled down the rickety steps covered in rock salt, careful to avoid the icy edges. Not sure which way to run, he squeezed between two parked cars and bolted across the small motel parking lot. On the corner a handful of men gathered around a trash can fire, laughing as someone threw something in and stirred sparks in the night. Now that he was outside, the edginess of the neighborhood was more apparent, with its boarded-up windows, doors covered by wrought-iron gates, walls of graffiti, and cracked, peeling paint.

He had to get out of here-fast.

He hit the sidewalk running and didn't slow when two headlights loomed down the dark street. Just a pa.s.sing car.

Then why was it screeching to a stop beside him?

The door flew open and Jon gasped as the familiar man emerged, his face red with fury.

VanHorn.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" VanHorn shouted.

But Jon backed away and raced down the street, his shoes sc.r.a.ping over rock salt, his legs pumping.

Run, run, run!

Adrenaline shot through him as he tore through the dark streets, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would explode. Piles of dirty slush lined the unfamiliar streets.

This city was so foreign to him...

Except that he'd dreamed of it. He knew this cityscape.

He was living out his worst nightmares, but he had to run. Escape from the killer.

Behind him a siren wailed, and he plunged on, toward the lights, the music.

Christmas music.

"G.o.d rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay..."

Here the streets were better lit. Buildings gleamed with shiny gla.s.s windows, their doors adorned with wreaths and winking Christmas lights. It was the sort of neighborhood Aunt Laura might live in. The door of a pub opened, and laughter and music drifted out with two patrons. Jon had to lunge to the left to cut around them, though the couple didn't seem to mind.

A man walking his dog looked up and shook his head. "What's your hurry, kid?"

Running, Jon panted, the cold air fire in his lungs.

From my killer.

G.o.d, help me.

"...to save us all from Satan's power when we have gone astray..."

Breathless, Jon glanced over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuer. He ducked into the doorway of a shop that was closed, trying to catch his breath and think.

Reality didn't have to mirror his vision. He could control the outcome, escape VanHorn, get himself back home to Oregon. Right now he had to believe that. He was going to get away.

Hearing only the animated conversation of two pa.s.sing shoppers, he leaned out of the doorway. No sign of VanHorn.

Feeling relieved but cautious, he stepped out and strode down the street behind the two women. I can do this, he thought, easily falling into step behind them. I can lose him and find the nearest police station...

"Jon..." The voice slammed into his consciousness as a dark figure stepped out of the shadows of a store-front behind him.

Oh, G.o.d!

Cold steel pressed into his shoulder blade-the gun.

The cold tip of the weapon stopped Jon in mid-stride as VanHorn's thoughts flashed into his mind.

He wants to kill me. He's seriously considering squeezing the trigger.

Just kill the boy now and be done with this...

"That's where you're wrong," Jon said aloud. "If you shoot me now, you'll never be done with this. You'll be paying the rest of your life."

"Just shut up," VanHorn said with a low growl.

Jon felt something clamp on his shoulder-his jacket. VanHorn was using it to hide the gun.

"You left without your jacket, son." VanHorn's voice oozed with paternal concern. Two women in hooded jackets and boots pa.s.sed by unfazed, unable to smell Jon's panic as they ducked into the door of a boutique strung with tiny white lights. "You can't run around here without a coat," VanHorn reiterated in a cheerful, booming voice. "You'll catch your death of cold."

"It's not a bad way to go," Jon muttered under his breath as the pistol jabbed into his ribcage. Caught. Deflated. And running out of time.

Chapter 23.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Kate demanded, spying Daegan in the hallway of her sister's apartment. Laura had answered the door and Daegan had barged in, looking as out of place as spurs on tennis shoes. Wearing a rawhide jacket, jeans, boots, and a faded blue work shirt, he looked the part of a cowboy in the city. His flinty eyes when they connected with hers were just as s.e.xy and throat-catching as ever. G.o.d, she was a fool!

"I came to find my son."