Part 34 (1/2)

”They needed to die, so that you would be blamed.”

”Me? But how? I had nothing to do with them.”

”Didn't you?”

”Of course not.” She inched backward, still trying to figure out how to save Ryder, save herself. ”I didn't even know them.”

”Oh, but Anne-Marie, there's the problem.” Calderone wagged the gun a little and her eyes were fixed on the muzzle. Was it her imagination or over the whistle of the wind did she hear the faint shriek of sirens?

The police!

Ryder had called 9-1-1!

Had they come up with the right location?

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

”You can't prove it though, can you? That you'd not met those women,” Calderone was saying, so caught up in his own story, in his bragging, that he hadn't heard the sirens as he stood confidently behind her SUV.

He couldn't prove it-yet. But he would. He wouldn't be so outwardly c.o.c.ky if he hadn't made certain of that fact. Oh, how her fingers itched to grab Ryder's Glock.

”You know, it looks very suspicious that those women happened to die just about the time you arrived in town, don't you think? And then, oh dear, evidence points to you.”

”What do you mean?”

”Your fingerprint, Anne-Marie. Your f.u.c.king telltale print showed up on the victims' personal effects.”

”But I never-”

”I guess you just got careless.”

”What? No! You're bluffing,” she accused. But she knew him too well to believe her own words.

The glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and his cold, cold smile convinced her he wasn't lying. To prove his point, he kept the gun trained on her with one hand, while with the other, he unzipped his jacket to expose a chain that he lifted and she saw something withered and dark and . . .

Her stomach dropped and she retched, fighting the urge to throw up. ”Oh, G.o.d.”

”That's right. A little keepsake from my dear wh.o.r.e of a wife.”

”You s.h.i.+t!”

His eyes flared. ”So let's end this,” he said harshly.

The sirens were getting closer, but Calderone didn't seem to notice the noise over the wind, so intent was he on killing her. ”Go ahead and try for the gun,” he said smoothly. Confidently. Always the supercilious egomaniac. ”I know you've got one, but, trust me, Annie-girl, you'll never reach it, aim it, and fire before you're dead.”

So much for the element of surprise. She saw him level the gun straight at her heart and threw herself backward into the open doorway.

Blam! Calderone fired.

Wood splintered.

She hit the floor, rolled over, reached around her back.

A big engine roared to life.

What the h.e.l.l?

Blam! Another shot, the bullet whizzing into the cabin.

The engine raced louder, a truck spinning its tires in the snow.

Looking through the doorway, she saw Calderone turn, his face a mask of horror. Suddenly his aim was no longer on her or the open doorway, but on the huge truck, Ryder's Dodge, churning forward, gathering speed, heading straight at him.

Blam! Calderone fired again.

The Dodge's winds.h.i.+eld shattered.

Ryder's body jerked.

Blood sprayed.

The horn blared.

”Nooooo!” Anne-Marie screamed, rolling to her feet, yanking out her weapon from the back of her jeans and swinging her arm around. ”No! No! No!” She started firing wildly, all of her pent-up rage forced into pulling the trigger.

But the truck didn't stop.

Calderone stepped back, a bullet grazing his shoulder. For a second, he forgot the truck. When he looked up again, it was too late. The Dodge slammed into him, pinning him against the back of her SUV. In a mash of shattering bones and crumpling metal, he howled in agony. His voice rose to the heavens. Writhing. Screaming. To no avail. Calderone dropped the gun and frantically pushed on the hood of Ryder's truck as if he could shove it off him. But the wheels kept grinding, churning in the snow, mangling him, twisting the lower half of his body into a pulp of bone and tissue and blood.

”Oh, G.o.d!” Horrified, Anne-Marie threw herself off the porch and ran to the truck. Snow was blowing inside the cab. She yanked open the door as the engine continued to turn over, trying to drive the Dodge's spinning wheels forward, still crus.h.i.+ng the man pinned in the contorted metal.

”Troy. Ryder!”