How would they be tracing him? No, scratch that, she thought as the huge silver plane lifted into the Long Island night. How was she going to trace him? The L.A. police had given up before even starting, and she knew far too well the restrictions placed on tracking down international criminals. The only way she could face what she was going to find in L.A., the only way she could deal with her guilt at not listening to her mother’s cry for help, was to concentrate on how she was going to find Tim Flynn. She’d spent the last four months planning a bloody revenge for Randall Carter—she could simply switch her target. Once Flynn was taken care of she could turn her attention back to her nemesis.
She’d read somewhere that one killed the thing one loved best. Well, she didn’t love Randall Carter, and she probably wouldn’t kill him. With any luck Tim Flynn would serve as surrogate. And when she brought him down she could bury Randall Carter with him.
It was a hope, probably a vain one, but the best she could do for now. Turning her face into the blackness of the early December evening, she watched the rain streaking down the thick windows of the 747. And if tears streaked down her face, mirroring the rain, she didn’t even notice.
two
“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Maggie’s voice was calm, betraying none of the emotion churning underneath it. She turned away from the window overlooking the hospital parking lot and faced her three sisters, accepting her role with only a trace of regret. She’d hoped to break free of their needs, of everyone’s needs but her own, but now wasn’t the time. Not with Sybil lying so very close to death just three doors down.
“I don’t see what we can do about it,” Kate said. “The doctors are doing everything they can for Mother, the police on three continents are looking for Flynn. What can we do that they can’t?”
“For some reason the police don’t inspire me with confidence,” Maggie said. “What about you, Holly?”
“I think they figure it’s a lost cause,” Holly murmured from her seat by the humming coffee machine. She was still wearing her aqua silk dress, and despite the worry in her turquoise eyes, she looked beautiful enough to stop most doctors and even half the nurses as they bustled on their rounds. “Lieutenant Miller took statements from all of us, but of course we weren’t able to tell him much. And if Sybil survives that brutal beating and her knife wounds, it’ll be weeks before she’s in any shape to be questioned. By that time he’ll be so far gone that there’ll be no chance of ever finding him.”
“Exactly. If he’s going to be found it’s got to be right away. And I don’t think we can count on anyone to do it for us,” Maggie said, running a ringless hand through her short-cropped hair.
“What do you suggest we do?” Kate demanded. “Pull a Charlie’s Angels routine, I dump the baby and we all head after the murdering bastard? We did it once, in Chicago, but I don’t think our luck is going to hold.”
“No,” Maggie said, squashing down the fresh wave of nausea that swept over her at the antiseptic hospital smell. Ever since she’d stepped inside the huge building she’d had to fight the memories that had swamped her, of another hospital four months ago, another intensive care unit, another human being dying and taking her peace of mind with him. She shook her head, forcing the memories away. “I don’t think this should be a group effort. I’ll do better alone this time. And Sybil will need you here when she comes around.”
“If she comes around,” Jilly sai
d quietly.
Maggie turned to look at her youngest sister. Jillian Bennett Malcolm was only twenty-five and looked years younger, with her large aquamarine eyes, her pale, pretty face, her gentle manner. She was the daughter of the husband Sybil had always referred to as the great love of her life, probably because he’d died in a plane crash before she could tire of him, Maggie thought cynically. Surely a middle-aged British doctor and a flamboyant, much-married Hollywood actress couldn’t have much in common during the long haul. But Sybil had mourned for two years, her only stretch of celibacy as far as Maggie could remember, and Jilly had received more of Sybil’s sporadic maternal devotion than her other three daughters combined. Which still wasn’t much.
If Maggie was the strong one, Kate the practical one, and Holly the pretty one, then Jilly was the sweet one. She lacked her sisters’ sharp tongues, she lacked Kate’s drive and Maggie’s fierce independence. And she lacked Holly’s self-absorption. She’d followed in her father’s medical footsteps, training and working as a nurse-midwife in an impoverished section of the Northwest, devoting her life to the needy. Her three sisters looked at her with mingled guilt and affection.
“You don’t think she’ll make it?” Kate said finally, breaking the silence.
“There’s no way to tell. She’s in rough shape, but people have survived worse. They’ve also died of much, much less. It’s in the hands of God.”
The three older sisters immediately looked even more uncomfortable. Jilly was also the only one of them who believed in a higher power. Granted, Jilly’s God was a benevolent, liberal force for good in the world and not a fundamental judge and jury demanding blind obedience to a limited set of values, but faith hadn’t had much space in the sisters’ upbringing and had no space at all in their adult life.
“And in the hands of the doctors,” Kate added defiantly.
“And in the hands of the doctors,” Jilly agreed.
“So we’re back to the same question,” Holly said, stretching out her long legs in an instinctively graceful gesture. “What are we going to do about it?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “I’m going to England. Tonight. Alone. The L.A.P.D. were able to trace Flynn as far as London. They’ve passed it on to Interpol, but I’m not about to sit around waiting.”
“You’re going tonight? Sybil might not make it through the night,” Kate shrieked.
“Kate, it’s not going to make any difference if I’m here or not,” Maggie said gently. “And it’ll make a difference in whether I’m able to catch up with Flynn or not. He’s already got a twenty-four hours’ head start on me—I can’t afford to let him get much more.”
“But—” Kate argued, but Holly interrupted.
“Maggie’s right, you know. Sybil would rather have Maggie catch him than she would want her hovering over her hospital bed. But she’s wrong about something else. She’s not going alone. I’m going with her.”
“No, you’re not,” Maggie said flatly. “I can’t spend my time worrying about you while I’m trying to track down Flynn. All my energy needs to be concentrated on him, not on looking after an amateur.”
“I’m not needed here, Maggie,” Holly said. “Kate and Jilly are enough. You might find I’m more than simply decorative.”
Maggie shook her head. “I can’t take the chance. I can’t risk putting you in danger, Holly. This man has already killed a dozen women, not to mention countless political victims. He wouldn’t think twice about carving you up.”
“What about you?”