Silver Falls - Anne Stuart [98]
The garage door splintered as she sailed through, and a moment later she was tearing down the road, heading toward the only place she needed to be. He had her daughter up at Caleb’s place. She didn’t know how or why, but after his veiled conversation she was absolutely certain of it.
It couldn’t be too late—she was somehow part of the equation. She was going to get there in time, and then she was going to kill David Middleton. Not for making a fool out of her. Not for making her sleep with a psychopath. But for even threatening to hurt her child. She was going to slice him to ribbons.
David surveyed his handiwork, pleased with himself. He’d been forced into this, and there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t succeed, but he had faith that everything would come out the way it ought to. He’d worked too hard for it to all fall apart, and besides, with his intellect it should be simple enough for him to outsmart the police. As he had for all these years.
His father suspected, but Stephen Henry would never betray him, for the simple reason that it would take attention away from the old man himself, and he wouldn’t be able to bear that. If the world discovered how very clever David had been, for all these long years, no one would care about the old man and his pretentious poetry and his overweening vanity. As long as he was the center of attention he’d turn a blind eye to his real son’s real accomplishments.
He whistled beneath his breath as he finished with the ropes. He’d expected better of Caleb. His brother had walked right into his trap, taken one look at little Sophie and forgotten who he was dealing with. His skull may have been smashed in—there was blood seeping into his shirt, and David shuddered. He hated blood—it made him physically ill. Any blood but his own, that was. His body was a crisscross of scars, some old, some new, the elegant razor tracings a road map of pain. He’d made a mistake a few weeks ago, and cut too close to his testicle. He’d been unable to perform under any but the most extreme circumstances for the last few weeks, and he’d been afraid Rachel would say something.
She’d never been particularly satisfying in bed—much too active, when he wanted her to lie still. And she wanted to touch him, when he couldn’t bear being touched. She’d been docile enough the first few times, and he’d really begun to believe it would work out. He could keep her until Sophie was old enough, and then a believable accident would take care of things. He hadn’t wanted her to suffer—she was Sophie’s mother, after all.
But right now he wanted her to suffer. He wanted to flay her flesh from her bones, he wanted to burn her alive. She’d done nothing but get in his way, and he’d seen her face when they found her in the motel with Caleb. She’d had sex with him. He could smell it on her, see it in her eyes, in Caleb’s eyes. Noisy, dirty, foul sex, and she loved it.
He ought to bless her for it. Any hesitation he’d had vanished in the morning light. Any pain he could inflict, any fear he could drive into her, would only be righteous and well-deserved. He no longer had to hold back—he could do anything he wanted and it would be justified.
Not that he should need to justify his actions. He had complete faith in his preordained path.
He yanked the ropes tighter, cutting into Caleb’s flesh, but his brother didn’t move. Maybe he’d never regain consciousness, never feel the fire eating through his clothes, making his skin crackle and pop like pork fat in the flame. It was only a small disappointment. Rachel would be awake. Rachel would know.
He rose. The meager afternoon light was fading, and he glance at his watch, pouting. What was taking her so long? He’d told her where they were—she should have been here by now. Didn’t she care about her daughter?
There was always the possibility that she’d gone to the police after all, but he didn’t think she was that stupid. If he saw flashing