The Perfect Victim

She wondered what he could possibly have in mind for her. What he could possibly have to gain. What sort of twisted game he was playing. The only thing she knew for certain was that her life was at stake—and she didn't intend to lose.

 

"Come with me. I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes." He motioned toward the door. "Please."

 

Hoping to stall for time, she obeyed.

 

The hall led to a wide salon that smelled of eucalyptus and heated air. The mini-blinds had been drawn and closed tightly. A curving double settee upholstered in white leather lined the port side. Twin ebony coffee tables complemented the settee. Opposite, an entertainment center replete with a large-screen TV and stereo system dominated the entire starboard wall.

 

"Please, sit down."

 

Addison started at the sound of his voice. She'd been staring at the opulent surroundings, tormented by the thought that it would be the last place she'd ever see.

 

Turning, she faced him, acutely aware that her knees were shaking. "Why am I here?"

 

"I wanted to meet you, of course."

 

"You'll never get away with this," she said, swallowing the fear that had lodged in her throat like a sharp bone.

 

"Get away with what, Miss Fox?"

 

"You brought me here against my will."

 

"I merely want to talk to you. Sit down."

 

She sank into the settee.

 

He walked to a small bar and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler. "Would you like a cognac?"

 

"What I'd like, Tate, is for you to tell me what the hell this is all about."

 

He poured a second drink and carried it over to her, setting it on the end table next to her when she refused to accept it. With the verve of a dramatic actor, he raised his glass in a solitary toast. "Power, Miss Fox." Never taking his eyes from her, he sipped. "It's all about power. More valuable than gold. More sought after than money. The greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Wars have been waged over power. More men have been killed for power than for all the jewels in the world." He set the cognac on the coffee table. "Frankly, I'm not willing to give it up for the likes of you."

 

"You murdered my parents."

 

"Unfortunate, but necessary, I'm afraid. Your father knew who your birth mother was. I couldn't risk exposure. I had no choice but to silence them both."

 

"Agnes Beckett. Jim Bernstein. You murdered them in cold blood."

 

"How else is it that you kill someone? With warm thoughts? With regret?" He smiled. "I don't think so. A man does what he must to survive."

 

"This wasn't about your survival."

 

"I have no desire to see my life ruined by scandal."

 

He spoke of the people he'd murdered as though their lives had had no more significance than that of an insect. It took every ounce of her control not to launch herself at him, if only for' a fleeting moment of primal satisfaction. For an instant, she imagined gouging those gray, emotionless eyes with the manicure scissors, slashing his face, drawing blood.

 

Instead, she forced herself to relax and focus. It was time she needed now. Time was her only hope.

 

"Politicians have been forgiven for much worse than an illegitimate child," she said. ''Ted Kennedy and Chappaquiddick."

 

"Ah, but there's so much power in a name. Look what happened to poor Mr. Edwards back in the election of 2008. One indiscretion and he was ruined forever."

 

She pretended to consider his words; all the while her mind scrambled wildly. She needed time. To think. To plan. Questions would keep him talking. "What about Agnes Beckett?"

 

"The mistake of a, shall we say, irresponsible young man."

 

"Mistake? You beat and raped a sixteen-year-old girl. That's not a mistake. That's an atrocity committed by a monster."

 

In the backwaters of her mind, she saw the tiny mobile home in the poor section of a town so small it barely made the map. She remembered the bloodstains on the cheap paneling, the ghastly pictures Sheriff McEvoy had left for her to see.

 

"Your mother was nothing more than a piece of white trash. An ignorant and uneducated whore who knew more about the carnal pleasures by the time she was sixteen than most women know in a lifetime. The only thing she had going for her and ever would was her body. I gave her exactly what she wanted that night. I drove her home. Things got hot and heavy. She didn't know her place." He shrugged. "I was just a kid. I had a bright future ahead of me. I couldn't let her ruin that."

 

"You're a monster."

 

His eyes glinted cruelly. "Insatiable is the word the men in town used to describe her. She liked it rough. And she knew what she was getting into. Let's just say she got paid to submit." He studied her, rubbing the cleft of his chin with his thumb. "The likeness is incredible."

 

"You son of a bitch." She reached for the decanter and swung it with all her might. His face went from composed to utterly astonished. She aimed for the side of his head, but he deflected the blow with his forearm. The decanter slipped from her hand.

 

Out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands grasped her arms from behind. Cruel fingers sank into her biceps and jerked her back.

 

"You're a coward," she said between clenched teeth. "When this hits the media, you're finished."

 

Tate's face tightened with anger. "Let her go," he said to his bodyguard.

 

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