She heard a soft keening sound, realized it was from her, from a wound deep inside her she thought she’d die of. Like Bruce had died.
She said to the two men, “That guy you’re talking about who was traveling with Bundy’s daughter? Bruce Comafield? Well, he wasn’t crazy.”
Both men were staring at her now. Ann Marie was, too. It came out of Ann Marie’s mouth in a wild burst—“I remember now, I’ve seen your photo. You’re her! Oh, sweet Jesus! You’re Bundy’s daughter! ”
Frank and Bald Guy froze.
Kirsten smiled at all of them as she rose slowly, reached into her leather jacket, and pulled out a small 340 S&W revolver. She shot Frank in the middle of his forehead; then, still smiling, she turned to Bald Guy, whose mouth was open to scream, but no sound came out, because she shot him in the heart. They both fell forward on the table, sending their coffee mugs flying, blood mixing with the coffee.
Ann Marie Slatter screamed and screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, shock holding her frozen. Her eyes never left Kirsten’s face. She heard a whimper, didn’t even realize it was from her.
Kirsten studied her dispassionately. “Hey, kid, I left you a big tip. I hope you get out of this podunk town,” and she left.
CHAPTER 50
Wesley Heights, Washington, D.C.
Thursday afternoon
Coop pulled into a parking slot in front of an older three-story redbrick building, beautifully landscaped with grass, bushes, and trees, already hunkering down now for the coming winter.
He looked over at Lucy, felt a slap of anger seeing the bandage over her temple, knowing too well she could be dead if the bullet had slanted only a bit inward. Her eyes were closed. He hoped she wasn’t still in pain. “Lucy? You awake?”
She opened her eyes and slowly turned her head to face him. She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” She looked around. “I’ve always loved this area. Did you know your neighborhood was developed in the 1920s, one of the first communities from a master plan in the country? So many beautiful properties here, you’re lucky.”
Coop said, “This building—I wanted to live here the first time I saw it four years ago.”
She said, “I want to go home, Coop.”
“One more time, kiddo—Savich ordered a guard for you until we get our heads around what happened. I’m not going to let you stay in that big house by yourself. Let me speak very slowly here, since your brain doesn’t seem to be plugged in—two guys, probably pros, tried to execute you today. Going home ain’t gonna happen.”
Lucy needed another pain pill onboard. It wasn’t only her head, it was all of her. Her muscles ached, and she had bruises everywhere. She felt exhausted, the aftermath of all the adrenaline that had rocketed through her.
He opened her car door, stood looking down at her. Finally, she gave him her hand, and he pulled her out. He saw she wasn’t all that steady on her feet, and supported her along the walkway. He unlocked the front glass doors, the panes, she saw, a colorful display of Art Deco, and led her into a good-sized lobby with a bank of mailboxes along one wall and three healthy-looking palm trees in Italian pots along the other.
He got his mail, took her elbow, and escorted her to the elevator. He pressed four.
The hallway was wide, covered with a stylish dark blue carpet with green splashes, but the track lighting was too bright, and it made her head hurt worse.
“Hang in there, Lucy. I’ll give you some water when we get inside, and you can take another pill. I’m thinking a nice nap would be a good thing for you; then I’ll order in our Szechuan.”
She nodded, but nothing was okay. On the other hand, she was alive, and for now, that was enough.
She’d been trying to think, of course, as best she could manage. Coop was right, it had been a pretty well-planned execution, and she should be dead. Pros? But who would hire pros to murder her? She shivered. No one had ever wanted her dead before, not she herself the target. And why should that happen now, today, if not because of the ring?
Of course, Dillon and Coop and everyone wanted to know everything, but what could she say? She couldn’t be sure who had tried to kill her, though, she had to think of her Uncle Alan. Did her grandmother tell him about the ring and what it could do? Did he or someone else who knew about the ring so many years ago find out her grandfather had left it for her? But how? And had the killers been told she kept the ring with her? And to take it off her dead body? Another big-time shiver.
She thought of the letter from her grandfather, tucked away in a book in her grandmother’s library. Did someone in the law firm know what her grandfather had left her? Surely not Mr. Claymore. Or had someone found the letter in the library? The McGruders had the key, and so did Uncle Alan. The painkillers still in her system tumbled and tossed the thoughts in her brain.