He thought of Cynthia. That one hadn’t been planned. There’d been no time for the sort of organization that he prided himself on. After it was concluded, yes, sure. A quick minute to think things through. The bit with the hand over the heart. A smart move. The others had been more to his liking. Problem. Plan. Execution. In Ross’s view, a smart person could accomplish anything he set out to accomplish. Anything. You just had to be the one in control of the situation. Plan. Execute. And make sure your ass was covered. Life was so simple, really, it was laughable.
Ross didn’t know whether the young woman was alive or dead. It didn’t matter. She was out cold, that was the important thing. It was her own fault, those several extra hits with the crowbar. She’d just been so fucking irritating. And not just now but in general. All he’d done for her. He’d given her a life, for Christ’s sake. If only she’d remained on her side of the country.
Ross paused and looked at the battered head at his feet. He thought he might throw up. He hadn’t needed to hit her that hard. It was Fox, dammit. He was the person to blame for all this. Marshall and his insatiable ego. And Cynthia, of course. The both of them. What Ross still marveled at was how in the world those two had managed to pull off their affair without Ross knowing. The secrecy, and especially the betrayal, that’s what was so infuriating. How many times had Ross made a complete ass of himself in front of Cynthia Blair, begging her, begging her to take his feelings for her seriously? She had no idea how urgently she had mesmerized him. No idea at all. She never listened properly. She never heard. Cynthia had said she was “flattered.” Who the hell cared about flattery? Alan Ross flattered people every day of the week; he could flatter a cement wall if he had to. Cynthia didn’t understand. He had to have her. This wasn’t a negotiation, it was a requirement. It was a need. Ross had groomed Cynthia at the network. He’d watched her grow and develop. He’d helped train her, helped her to sharpen her skills, to put the bite into her work. And hadn’t it paid off when he brought Marshall onto the scene? His two creations? His creations. Cynthia owed him. Big-time. Ross treasured the dynamic he and Gloria had established in the industry. They’d become a true power team. But that was Act One. Ross wanted the intoxication again, this time with Cynthia. He needed it. He needed to do it all over again, with fresh supple blood. If Cynthia played her cards right, she was definitely going places. Ross planned on going there with her, as simple as that. And if patience was what it required, he was prepared to remain patient. Power comes from action; it can also come from patience.
What Ross hadn’t been prepared for was running into Cynthia leaving Marshall’s building in tears one night the previous April. He had not been prepared for their walk through Central Park and her confession of her affair with Marshall. She’d allowed Ross to hold her, to keep his arm around her as she told him the squalid details. The words had moved about in Ross’s head at precarious angles, crashing into one another. Marshall. Lovers. Affair. Cynthia had allowed Ross a closeness like never before. She had told him she trusted him more than anybody else in her life, that his coming along at that precise moment was a miracle. The two had traveled arm in arm along the southern portion of the park, past the boat pond, pausing at the Alice in Wonderland statue, so creepy in the moonlight. Especially the Mad Hatter, with his large bony nose and his bad teeth. They’d moved on, traveling north, pausing at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, where Cynthia had said she had something else she needed to tell Alan. Something more important to her than anything else in the world and that he had to promise not to breathe a word to anyone. This was something she would be handling in her own way. She had already made her decision, she said, and she was ready to live with the consequences. In fact, she was overjoyed with her decision. Taking hold of Ross’s hands, Cynthia had placed them on her stomach and held them there. Her touch sent an electrical current jolting through Ross’s system. He dared to massage her belly, ever so lightly. His fingertips kneading her pliant flesh. Then she smiled at him. Ross had never seen Cynthia smile like this before. Angelic.
“It’s so perfect, Alan. I mean, that you’re the first to know. It couldn’t be better. Because really, if you think about it, without you, none of this could have happened. Seriously. This is all because of you.”
She squeezed one of his hands, helping it to massage her belly a little harder as she told him her wonderful news.
TRACY JACOBS LET OUT a groan. Small and gurgling. Ross nudged her with the toe of his shoe. Oops, he thought. DNA all over my Lazzeris. So she was alive. Barely, he was sure. It didn’t matter. Maybe some duct tape on her ankles and wrists, to be safe. Certainly on her mouth. Ross aimed his flashlight beam at the wall, where several tools were hanging. There was the duct tape, just where he knew it would be. He wrapped the woman’s ankles together, then her wrists. He scraped the bloody hair back from her mouth and allowed her to complete her next groan before securing a large piece of tape on her mouth. He decided that the kind thing was to stick some duct tape over her eyes as well. She really didn’t need to see what was coming next.
Ross straightened. God, his knees ached. Isn’t aging a bitch. He shone his flashlight down at the black water lapping against the sides of the Whaler-paper-thin sheets of ice had formed-then trained the light back on the wall, stepped over to it and lifted the hacksaw from its nail. He returned to Tracy and eyeballed the distance between the edge of the dock and the gunwale of the boat. If he attempted to roll her into the boat, he could well miss and she would go toppling instead into the water. Not good. Not here. And not all in one piece.
He’d have to lift her at least partway. This would be the awkward part. He set the flashlight down on the wood so that its beam was trained on Tracy. He set the hacksaw down next to it. Taking a deep breath, he knelt and wrapped his arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugged her torso to him, then rose to a squat. For a cute young thing, she was surprisingly heavy. Ross adjusted his grip and pulled her closer. Her head flopped onto his shoulder.
It was then that he heard a noise and looked up to see the boathouse door opening.
51
THE CONE OF LIGHT from a flashlight was illuminating a body lying prone on the wooden dock. A long slender boat bobbed between Megan and the body. It took Megan several seconds to realize that the body-it was a woman-was bound at the ankles and wrists and that something was terribly wrong with her face. Then she saw, directly behind the woman, a pair of legs, a shadowy figure. It was holding something metallic, something that caught a portion of the flashlight ray.
“Drop it!”
Megan fell to one knee, her Glock aimed at the area just above the illuminated legs. A silent shriek was whistling in her ears. If he has a gun, I’m dead. She shouted again. “Drop it! Police! Show me your hands!”
It was duct tape on the woman’s eyes and mouth. Her forehead was smeared with blood. The figure standing over her was not moving. Megan registered that what the figure was holding was a handsaw. Panic raced through her system. The Swede! Her gun wavered.
“Drop it! Now!”
Her words echoed in the hollow structure, almost as if a second Megan were straddling the narrow roof beams up above, calling out from up there. The figure standing over the bound woman knelt down slowly and set the saw on her hips. A man. He was wearing a fedora-style hat that partially covered his face. As he set down the saw, Megan heard a small scraping sound. Of course it wasn’t Albert Stenborg. The Swede was very dead. Even so, Megan strained to make out Albert Stenborg’s nearly invisible blond mustache. He’d stood straddling Helen just like this, his clumsy six-five frame rocking gently with the movement of his fetid-smelling houseboat, obsessively stroking his imperceptible mustache.