She was coming closer. A small statuette of an old totem pole was on the coffee table nearest Clara; she picked it up and tossed it across the room, in the direction of the door to the kitchen.
As she’d hoped, Emmy immediately fired, thinking it was Clara in the kitchen, not having seen her jump behind the couch. One bullet, two, three. Clara winced at each heavy sound as the bullets crashed into wood.
Emmy moved toward the dining room. “Clara, come on out, wherever you are. Here’s the thing. You were key in taking away the man I loved—so, now, you really have to die. Oh, yeah, and you think you’re an actress? Wait until you see the performance they’re going to get when they find you dead in the snow and me mortally injured! Come on, say something, Clara! Your guy killed Tate—killed him in cold blood! He has to see you killed the same way.” Emmy paused to giggle again. “Cold—get it? I mean, there’s not much other way your blood could be, huh, out here.”
Clara tried to stay calm, tried to assess her situation. She wasn’t getting out the front door; Emmy had the key.
There was the side door—out of the kitchen. But she’d just sent Emmy in that direction.
She suddenly wished that the bloody props remained—there would have been lots of body parts to throw Emmy’s way.
If she didn’t think fast, she’d soon be body parts herself...
A whisper suddenly sounded against Clara’s ear; she was so startled she nearly cried out.
Thankfully, she didn’t. The whisperer was Amelia.
“I knew something wasn’t right. I mean, Kimball was a strange man, but, man...the way they were walking, all bundled together. And her doing the talking!” Amelia went on.
She was hunched down by Clara, behind the sofa. Hiding, as if Emmy could see her, too.
“But, watch this, Clara. I’m getting good!”
Amelia Carson headed toward the stairway. She slammed her hand and her side against the wall.
And she made a sound—a soft sound.
“Ah, Clara, upstairs?” Emmy called out, her tone aggravated. “You know, it’s not that you’re a heavy cow or anything, but I’m a little thing. Dragging you down those stairs again—it’s not going to be easy. You should show yourself. You don’t want me pissed off at you—you really don’t. Because I can shoot you in the jaw first, maybe knock off an elbow. Knees are supposed to be especially painful.”
Clara stayed perfectly still and stared up at Amelia. Amelia looked back at her and smiled proudly. Clara nodded her appreciation.
Emmy headed for the stairs.
“Come out, Clara.”
When she reached the point on the stairs where Amelia was standing, she paused for a second. Amelia had a look of absolute loathing and disgust on her face. She drew back a hand and slapped Emmy.
Of course, her hand just went through Emmy’s face.
But it must have done something. Because Emmy stood there for just a moment; she sucked in her breath.
But then she said softly, “Is that you, Tate, my love? Is that you? I’ll finish what you started. I swear, so help me God, I will finish for you, before I lie beside you in eternity!”
“In hell!” Amelia muttered bitterly.
Emmy couldn’t hear or see her. But, once again, she felt something. She shivered; the gun wavered slightly in her hands.
Amelia ran on up ahead. In the upstairs hallway, she managed to make another sound.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Emmy called. She continued up the stairs.
Clara waited; she rose and nearly flew across the room for the kitchen—and the door from which she had once left the Mansion before...
To run across the snow for her life.
*
Thor arrived at Black Bear Island alone—and not alone.
He had Boris and Natasha.
Jackson and Mike would be heading out as soon as possible, but he couldn’t wait for them. Enfield had wanted to arrange police and Coast Guard assistance—Thor had pretended they’d lost the connection.
He couldn’t wait for anyone.
He’d snagged the first boat he could find; luckily, it was with someone he knew well, a weathered older man of Russian and Native American descent—as rugged, worn and hardy as the landscape itself. Thor didn’t have to say a lot to the man; he moved at the greatest possible speed as they made their way across.
Every minute of the ride was agony for Thor.
He’d quit trying Clara’s cell. She already had a dozen messages from him. If she had her phone, she’d call him back.
He tried to tell himself that Clara was fit—working the theater had kept her so. He realized that neither of them knew yet what each other’s daily routines were like, but he was pretty sure that she was young enough for roles that called for a certain physical prowess, and that she went to a gym on a regular basis. He thought about her when she was at his family compound, playing with the dogs, the laughter in her eyes when she looked up at him with delight. He didn’t know that much about her.
He knew, however, that she meant everything to him now.
Boris and Natasha jumped onto the dock before the boat was even tied; Thor didn’t wait, either. He thanked the man who had brought him across, overpaid him.