"If you'd done as I asked," he said mildly, "everything would have been fine."
Now. She spun around and bolted across the lawn. Where was Clate with his damned antique knitting needle? Where were her brothers? Adrenaline and terror and crazy thoughts sped her along, but the tension of the last days, the fatigue, had taken their toll on her legs. She couldn't get breaths deep enough, fast enough. She dug hard, concentrated on running, running, running.
Paul shot out after her. He smashed one hand into her back and sent her sprawling face first in a move so vicious her mind reeled. This was Paul Shepherd? This was Sally's husband, a Cape Cod innkeeper?
Piper went down hard, her hands coming up just in time to keep her from landing on her jaw. The wind went out of her, and she gulped for air and tried to scramble to her knees.
Paul stomped her down with one foot on her back. "Don't move until I tell you to move."
"Paul, what the hell's the matter with you? You can't want to do this. It doesn't make any sense. Hannah's treasure doesn't exist. It's a dream she's had. I was humoring her."
He pressed his foot harder into the small of her back. "Stop!"
His voice sounded strangled, close to tears. If he pressed down any harder, she wouldn't be able to breathe at all. As it was, she could smell the grass and sand, could feel clover tickling her nose. "Paul, don't say any more." She tried to control her mounting terror. She had to think, be rational, reason with him. "I can't prove anything. Whatever you've done, the police have no evidence. It'd be like Tuck. They let him go."
"It's too late. It's gone too far." He sucked in a breath, eased back on her. "Now. On your feet. Slowly, Piper. No tricks. Trust me, I'm not some big stupid beef like Tuck O'Rourke. You won't get a second chance to cooperate."
As if a first chance would get her anywhere. But when he removed his foot, she got up onto her hands and knees, stifling a wave of nausea as she spat out dirt and grass, then, slowly, as instructed, climbed to her feet. Her head spun. Clate. Where are you?
She focused on Paul Shepherd. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild, his clothing impeccable. He was perspiring heavily, but not breathing hard at all. He was in better physical shape than Tuck. Sending a woman flying hadn't winded him. "Paul, don't let this thing escalate further. So far, you haven't hurt anyone. Clate's up at the house. He's waiting for me. My brothers will be here any minute. You can't succeed."
A terrible smile at the corners of his mouth widened to show his straight, white teeth, and finally erupted into a cold, amused, miserable sound that was half laugh, half sob. "You think the love of your life is going to rescue you? Ah, Cinderella. Think again."
"Paul—"
"He's dead, Piper. Dead."
"No!" A croak, a gasp as the air, the energy, the spark, went out of her. Yet she knew it wasn't true. He was bluffing, or he was wrong. Clate wasn't dead. She knew.
"I killed him." Tears welled in his eyes, and he took a breath, calming himself. "Just the right amount of a few of Hannah's special herbs in his iced tea. I'm sure it tasted awful, but by the time he realized it, it was too late." He sniffled, croaked a sob. "Oh, God, I've never killed anyone before."
"Paul, don't. You can't—he can't—"
He straightened, collecting himself. "I know it's hard for you, Piper. You finally find a man, and I kill him. I'm sorry. Truly. But I have work to finish, and I've just gone too far." He pulled his lips in between his teeth, as if to hold back his emotions. "I never planned for any of this to happen."
"Paul, I'm sure date's not dead." Piper spoke carefully, not wanting to spin him deeper into whatever vortex he'd created for himself. "I'm sure of it."
"Come," he said. He straightened, in control of himself, the man, she thought, on the other end of the phone yesterday before her house caught fire. "You can help me dig buried treasure."
Clate moaned. Even with his eyes shut, everything was spinning. His stomach rolled and lurched. Bile crawled up his throat and burned in his mouth. Sweat drenched his clothes, his hair. And the foulest smell on the planet seemed stuck under his nose. He couldn't escape it. Finally, he turned onto his side and heaved his guts out onto the floor. He saw, vaguely, that someone had put down newspaper as if he were a sick dog. He started to swear, groaned, heaved again.
"Jesus, Hannah." Andrew Macintosh's voice boomed through the haze of Clate's consciousness. "What the hell is that stuff?"
"It's something I made up when Jason was having those spells." Hannah's voice was as placid as ever.
"Well, don't tell the police. They'll dig him up and have his body tested, make sure you didn't poison the poor bastard."
"I had him cremated, remember?"