Cold River - Carla Neggers [117]
Sean Cameron would be miserable now that Hannah was dead. Lowell felt a rush of pleasure, but he didn’t indulge it.
He had another number to dial.
Bowie would still be upstairs in the farmhouse checking the chimney with Vivian. The man radiated raw masculinity and a palpable, if bridled, capacity for violence. Lowell had noticed how his wife had stood obnoxiously close to the stonemason while he’d explained brick saturation levels and how old brick, if not properly sealed, couldn’t absorb moisture properly and water would just spill out.
Lowell held his cell phone tight in one hand. He had one more bomb to trigger. He’d placed it carefully early that morning, while Vivian drank tea and read a book in the kitchen.
She would be dead soon, too. The police would blame Bowie.
He was surprised at how little emotion he felt. No anger, no fear, no regret. Their children would be grief-stricken, but they’d still have him. They’d turn to him now. They’d see him as he was, not just as Vivian painted him.
Once the bomb was triggered, he’d have to get rid of the cell phone. He could toss it into the fire. The police would believe that Bowie either killed himself or triggered the bomb prematurely and was caught in the blast.
It’ll work.
Then, when it was over, Lowell would rebuild the farmhouse and plant a beautiful flower garden in Vivian’s memory. He’d sell their house in New York and live in Vermont full-time. He didn’t have to continue to arrange killings. He could live here and spend his days chopping wood, walking along the river, watching the snow fall.
He’d be at peace.
Vivian jumped back from the chimney in the upstairs hall and gripped her chest, her heart racing. “What was that?”
“An explosion.” Bowie was already at the end of the hall, looking out the window. It provided a view of the backyard and the river, just beyond a line of trees. “Where’s your husband?”
Vivian gasped. “He went down to the guesthouse. He can’t—You didn’t…” She couldn’t breathe. “You didn’t just kill him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. The bomb in Melanie Kendall’s car was triggered by a cell phone. Did you see me make a call?”
“Bowie.” Vivian hardly breathed now. “What are you saying?”
“Spare me.” He gazed back out the window. “You’d better hope no one’s hurt.”
She edged toward the stairs. She had to get out of there. She had to run. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a half whisper.
“Yeah, you do.” He was calm, steady, but his eyes were narrowed and menacing when he turned back to her. “When did you figure out your husband was behind all these killings?”
“You’re insane.” Her tone was icy, bitter. She wouldn’t give in to this man. She’d stand her ground. “I’m calling the police.”
He looked back at her again, his expression tight, angry. “Do that. Where was your husband when Melanie Kendall was killed?”
Vivian didn’t answer. The question had been plaguing her for days, but she’d kept repressing it until she couldn’t any longer. She’d lain awake last night, as still as a corpse next to her husband. Pieces—scraps of information, memories of looks, scraped knuckles, odd smells—had flown at her, and she’d realized the clues had been there all along for her to see. She’d simply refused to see them. She’d buried her suspicions deep, protecting herself, her children—denying that the passive, cerebral man she’d married was capable of organizing and operating a network of paid killers. She’d become even more determined to see him as not the sort of man who could engage in such acts. To treat him as such.
Bowie dropped the curtain back in place. “He wasn’t here, was he? He was off blowing up one of his hired killers, trying to cover his own tracks.”
“Stop,” Vivian whispered, taking