Part 26 (2/2)

Just then a telephone screeched on the kitchen wall behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin. The call was answered after only one ring, followed by the rumble of a single male voice-Ron's voice-speaking into the phone.

This can't be Heather calling? I told myself. She's supposed to call on Dillon's cell phone.

Using the noise of the call as audio cover against any possible floor-board squeaks, I crept through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Moving slowly, I inched forward past the dining-room table until I had a partial view of the living room. Tracy and Amy sat like bookends at opposite ends of the couch. Jared, stretched out between them, was sound asleep with his head in Amy's lap. Ron's chair was parked close enough to the couch so he could, if needed, reach out and touch his wife's hand, but right now he was busy speaking into the phone. Molly Wright was nowhere to be seen, but it was possible she, like Dillon, was sitting just outside my range of vision.

”No,” Ron was saying firmly. ”We have absolutely no interest in buying a vacation time share. Please remove us from your list.” And then he hung up.

A thick fog of cigarette smoke filled the room. Since neither Amy nor Ron smokes, I knew the stench had to come from whoever was with them. I was still standing there like an idiot, waiting for the sound of a ringing cell phone when the front door slammed open and a Kevlar-vest-covered Heather stormed into the living room.

My stomach lurched. My plan had called for her to stay safely in the car. Instead, she had now blundered into a room where the tension was so thick it was difficult to breathe.

”Heather!” Ron exclaimed.

What the h.e.l.l is she doing here? I wondered. And how did she get past Mel?

At the sight of her stepdaughter, Amy made as if to rise to her feet. Jared whimpered and half awakened. ”Don't move.” I recognized Dillon's voice at once. ”Stay where you are,” he commanded. Saying nothing, Amy subsided back into her seat and patted Jared's shoulder until he settled again.

Without a glance in her parents' direction, Heather walked as far as the middle of the room and stopped. Yes, it was stupid for her to be there. It was also terribly dangerous, but even as I feared for Heather's life, I couldn't help but applaud her courage as she stepped into the noman's-land between her family and her troubled boyfriend. Standing deathly still, she fixed her unseen boyfriend in an unwavering gaze.

”I tried to call you,” she said. ”You didn't answer the phone.”

”I lost my charger,” Dillon said. ”The battery ran down.”

Both Mel and I had been afraid Heather would fall apart when it came time for her to confront Dillon. At the sound of his voice, Heather's cheeks, flushed from being outside in the cool air, paled suddenly, but she didn't back off.

”What's going on?” she asked. ”What are you doing here? And what are you doing with that knife?”

A knife! I felt a surge of panic. Kevlar can protect someone's chest from flying bullets, but the soft armor would do little to protect Heather if Dillon came after her wielding a knife.

”Why did you run away?” Dillon asked in return and without answering any of Heather's questions. ”Why did you leave me?”

”Because you hit me,” Heather replied matter-of-factly. ”Don't you remember?”

Ron must have missed the bruising on Heather's face as she hurried past him. Hearing the news that his daughter had been a.s.saulted hit Ron hard. His hands darted reflexively toward the wheels on his chair. I had little doubt that his first fatherly instinct was to charge across the room and smash Dillon Middleton's face into a million pieces. Had I been in Ron's place, I'm not sure I wouldn't have, but with amazing self-control Ron forced his hands back into his lap and left his chair parked next to the couch. Only fear for his daughter's life could have forced him to stay where he was.

”I didn't mean to,” Dillon replied. ”Hitting you was an accident, but that's why I'm here. I came back to get you. I need you with me, so I came back.”

”All right,” Heather said. ”I'm here. Let's go.”

”No,” Ron said. ”Heather, you can't do this. You can't go with him. If he's already hit you, what do you think he'll do with that knife?”

”I have to go, Dad,” Heather said. ”Leave me alone. Come on, Dillon.”

I realized then that Heather was still trying to keep to our original game plan. When Dillon's cell phone hadn't worked, she had somehow eluded Mel and Brad and come inside to carry out her part of the deal. And she was absolutely right in doing so. Whatever was going to happen next couldn't take place in a living room full of people.

Before Ron could raise another objection, I moved into the doorway far enough that he could see me. I mimed that he should zip his lip and then mouthed the words, ”Let them go!”

Turning away from Dillon, Heather walked as far as the front door and held it open. Then she turned back to Dillon. ”Well,” she said. ”Are you coming or not?”

Dillon moved forward. When he reached Heather, he grabbed her with one arm. Then with his other arm, the knife arm, wrapped around her shoulders, they stepped outside.

My part of the job was to usher Amy, Ron, and the kids to safety. Hurriedly I ducked back out of sight behind the dining-room wall.

As soon as the front door slammed shut behind then, I heard someone shout, ”Freeze!”

I didn't wait to hear more. I charged out of the dining room. ”Come on, come on,” I yelled at Amy and Tracy, who both seemed astonished to see me. ”Into the kitchen, quick!”

I grabbed the startled Jared from his mother's arms and carried him to safety. Amy and Tracy were right behind me, with Ron in his wheelchair bringing up the rear. I handed my now-wailing namesake, Jared Beaumont Peters, over to his father and then raced back to the front door. I shut off the interior lights before I opened it. Just as Heather and Dillon must have done, I had to pause on the porch for a moment before my eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light.

When I could see again, there was Dillon's Focus parked in the middle of the drive. Brad stood on the driver's side of the vehicle, and Mel Soames stood on the other. Both had their weapons drawn and were pointing toward the Ford's interior. ”Drop the knife!” Mel ordered.

As I moved closer, there was some illumination from a nearby streetlight, enough that I could glimpse a single occupant in the front seat of the vehicle. If Dillon was holding Heather down on the far side of the seat, if he was threatening her with the knife, he was probably too preoccupied with the weapon to turn the key in the ignition. That explained why the Focus wasn't running.

Taking in the chilling scene, I lost all hope. With two .38s trained on the vehicle from the outside and with a drawn knife inside, Heather Peters didn't stand a chance. And if she got hurt or died, it really would be all my fault.

”Put down the knife.” This time Brad issued the order. ”Put it down and step out of the vehicle.”

But nothing happened. The car door didn't open. The knife didn't tumble onto the driveway. Determined to help, I charged off the porch, only to be knocked off balance by someone coming toward me at breakneck speed.

”Help him, Uncle Beau,” Heather pleaded as I righted myself. ”Stop them before they shoot him. Please.”

Overwhelmed to realize Heather wasn't being held at knifepoint, I clutched her in a quick but heartfelt bear hug. ”All right,” I said. ”I will, but you have to go inside. Don't come back out until we say you can.”

Without waiting to see whether or not Heather did as she was told, I sprinted forward.

”Come on, Dillon, we don't want to hurt you,” Mel was saying. ”You're not going anywhere. Now put down that knife.”

”We shouldn't have done it,” I heard Dillon say as I reached the back b.u.mper of the car. ”I'm sorry.”

There was a sudden flurry of movement from the driver's seat.

”s.h.i.+t!” Mel Soames exclaimed, and she wasn't talking about the Special Homicide Investigation Team. Brad leaned inside and retrieved the knife. He emerged with both his hand and the knife dripping with blood. By then I could see what Mel had meant. Dillon Middleton sat slumped sideways in the driver's seat with blood gus.h.i.+ng from a self-inflicted wound to his gut.

”No!” Heather shrieked from behind me as she darted toward the car.

Seattle's award-winning EMTs arrived within two minutes of receiving my 911 call, but I suspected long before they got there that no matter what medical magic they brought with them, it would be too little too late to save Dillon Middleton.

CHAPTER 21.

ALL h.e.l.l BROKE LOOSE after that. By the time the aid car took off for Harborview Hospital with Heather and Dillon on board followed by the rest of the Peters family, West Highland had filled up with cop cars and media vans. Queen Anne Hill was no longer my turf. In this instance, it wasn't Brad's or Mel's, either. Temporarily relegated to the sidelines, we stood in the rain watching the proceedings just like the other neighborhood onlookers.

”I guess you heard what Dillon said.” Mel's comment was a quiet one, but it packed a gut-wrenching wallop, because I had indeed heard what he said. ”We shouldn't have done it.”

It was pretty apparent that the ”we” in question had to be Dillon and Heather. And as for the ”it”? That had to be the murder of Rosemary Peters. All three of us-three sworn police officers-had heard what might well turn out to be Dillon Middleton's deathbed confession. Dillon was on his way to a hospital and maybe a funeral home. As for Heather? If what Dillon had said was true, Heather Peters might well be headed for prison. The idea that she had played a part in her mother's murder had been a possibility all along. I simply hadn't accepted it. Now it was unavoidable.

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