Читать книгу Until Death - Sandy Curtis - Страница 5

Fourteen years later

The hypodermic reflected the living-room light as Wesley Scanlan placed it next to the ampoules in the case his companion had given him.

'Are you sure this will work?'

The other man smiled. 'Of course. I've seen the results often enough. The tablet you'll put in her drink will make her groggy and disorientated. You take her up to the bedroom and lock the door. If she starts to recover and you can't get another tablet into her before I can get there in the morning, just use that,' he nodded towards the case as Wesley placed it on the coffee table. 'Everything's arranged. By Saturday night you'll be a married man and all your worries will be over.'

'I damn well hope so,' Wesley muttered. He glanced around the spacious room with its elegant rosewood furniture, thick cream carpet and expansive views across Sydney Harbour. 'I've worked too hard to get where I am. No bleeding-heart do-gooder is going to take it from me now.'

His companion looked past him, and watched a ferry's lights twinkle on the dark water before it steamed through the garish reflection of Luna Park's harbourside face. Then he placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. 'Don't worry. I'm not going to let that happen.'

Loud voices.

Familiar voices.

Penetrating the dark mists in her mind.

Libby tried to shake her head, but the movement swept nausea through her stomach. She stilled, forced herself to concentrate, to take control of her body.

Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes. The ceiling swam into the walls, and she stayed motionless until it stopped.

Recognition came like creeping fog. Her bedroom. Shadows wavered beyond the haloed light of her reading lamp as she lifted her hand to her forehead and registered her trembling fingers.

One of the voices grew louder. She struggled to make sense of the words but her brain appeared to have forgotten how to comprehend them.

Suddenly there was silence. Gently, Libby eased onto her side, then carefully pushed herself up and swung one leg, then the other, off the bed until she was sitting upright. Bare feet spaced to brace herself, she tried to stand, but the room seemed to move at the same time, so she waited a moment more, then tried again. This time she succeeded.

She struggled to make sense of how she felt. What had happened to her? She felt as though she had the granddaddy of all hangovers, but she'd only had two drinks. After that ...

Fragments of memory spun through her mind, but they were weird, too weird to make sense. If the queasiness she felt now was any indication, she'd probably contracted one of those dreadful viruses that had swept Sydney during winter.

With an unsteady gait she crossed the room to the half-open door and stumbled out into the hallway. At the top of the long, wide staircase she leaned against the wall, wondering if she should try to walk down on her own. Then her eyes focussed on the tableau at the foot of the stairs.

Two men were bending over the body of a woman. The back of the woman's head was matted with blood, her face turned to the side as though looking towards the front door for help.

Her mother.

Shock hit Libby like a blow. Her legs trembled and she hugged the wall to keep herself from falling.

One of the men spoke, and she caught the words 'dead' and 'stupid'. Then her stomach heaved as part of the reply floated up to her. 'Libby killed her.'

She shook her head, her mouth opening, but the denial in her mind refused to take voice.

The first man stood up. There was a gun in a holster at his waist and something hanging on his belt glinted. A badge? Police? He was a policeman. Oh, God! What had she done? She had to tell him she hadn't ... didn't ... couldn't possibly ...

'We don't have a choice now,' he said, 'we'll have to get rid of Libby tonight or it won't work.'

'Tonight? It's too soon. We've arranged her death for Tuesday,' the man with the familiar voice replied.

Libby stared at the back of his head, trying to place his speech, but her shocked brain refused to cooperate.

'It can still look like an accident. She has to die -'

Whatever else the other man said was lost to Libby as terror flooded through her. They were planning to kill her. She had to get away. She lurched back down the hallway to her bedroom. The long wall of mirrored wardrobes threw her image into stark contrast with the soft chintzy furnishings and lacy curtains. Her short brown hair was mussed, her pants and blouse dishevelled, and the eyes that stared back at her could have been those of a madwoman.

She gazed wildly around the room, her mind searching, grasping, trying to determine what to do next. She looked down at her feet. Need shoes, she told herself. Can't run barefooted. She slid open a wardrobe door, pulled out her sneakers, glanced over to the dressing table, grabbed her handbag, then moved as quietly as she could to the door and looked out.

No-one. She hurried down the long hallway, away from the staircase, weaving dizzily. When she reached the bathroom at the end she slipped inside and closed the door. Only moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated the pale marble and tiled room. She hesitated before opening the door to a large cupboard. At the sight of the dark hole below the towel-filled shelves, the terror that had shot through her before increased.

Her mind told her it was only the clothes chute. The chute that the housekeeper used to toss the soiled linen down to the laundry below. The same chute she had often used as a child to escape the one-sided anger surging out from her parents' bedroom. But her gut told her it was a tunnel, a tunnel that held as much horror as that at the bottom of the staircase.

It was the memory of her mother's limp form that forced her to push her sneakers into her belt and ease herself backwards into the hole. She'd been thirteen when she'd last climbed down, and she hadn't grown much since then, but now the timber walls seemed too close, the time to reach the door at the bottom too long. Her breath came in short, panicky bursts, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest.

Suddenly she slipped and fell to the sloped bottom. Her feet hit the door and pushed it open, and she scrambled out into the large wicker basket that caught the washing. At the sight of the light pouring in from the adjacent kitchen, Libby's heartbeat slowed in relief. She quickly pulled on her sneakers and tied them clumsily, then slipped the long handbag strap over her head and across her chest.

She dashed from the house, skirted the swimming pool and ran through the rows of regimented garden beds that her mother had recently had installed. At the side of the property, the branches of several large trees overhung the high brick fence, and it was to the middle tree that Libby raced.

Prayers spun in ritual habit in her mind as her fingers searched for, then found, much higher than she expected, the recesses her father had cut in the sturdy trunk so many years ago. She climbed to the first thick branch, grabbed it, swung herself up and crawled along until she reached the other side of the fence. Over the years the branch had bent under its own weight, and the drop to the ground wasn't as bad as she'd feared. But she lost her balance as her feet hit the grass and she fell heavily on one shoulder.

She pushed herself up and sprinted across the parkland separating the property from the harbour foreshore. It was only when she'd reached a thick grove of bushes that reaction finally set in. The nausea she had managed to control burst out, mingling with the tears that now streamed down her cheeks. Finally, exhausted, she staggered away, grabbed a tissue from her bag and wiped her face.

Her mind seemed to shut down, her body walking purely on instinct, trying to get away from the horror she couldn't comprehend. When a car whizzed past her, she became aware she was now walking on a street, and made a half-hearted attempt to orientate herself. The houses were set well back from the road, their tall brick fences a barricade she felt she couldn't pass. Street lights pooled white at intervals on the neatly grassed footpaths and smooth bitumen.

A car slowed down behind her, then began to draw level. Suddenly panicking, realising the men could be looking for her, she turned to run. Then the light on top of the car roof caught her eye.