Page 110 of The Promise
Owen's derringer was pointed directly at his heart, his father's friend's eyes were narrowed and his face was shuttered with a cold mask Michael had never seen. "Throw your pistol over here." Owen gestured with his gun.
Michael slowly drew his six shooter from his jeans and threw it on the ground beside Owen. "I don't understand."
Owen picked up the Colt, pocketing his tiny derringer, and smiled ruefully. "And I'd hoped you never would, but I think your brother has nosed his way into the answers."
"What answers, Owen?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain urged.
Owen laughed and Michael shivered at the hatred and anger concealed in the sound. "Ah, dear boy, 'tis your mother whoshould be answering these questions, not me." Owen's eyes glittered in the candlelight, the blood marring his face adding a sinister cast.
"My mother? What in hell does she have to do with this?" Michael felt a growing chill of understanding.
"Michael?" Patrick skidded to a stop, his eyes moving quickly from his brother to Owen. "Where's Cara?" His voice was low and intense, his attention focused completely on Owen.
"At the bottom of a very long hole, I'm afraid. Such a lovely girl. Rather like your mother. Stubborn to the end. Always ready to believe the worst." Owen's voice had lost the edge of rationality.
"Where is she?" Michael's voice echoed through the tunnel.
Owen waved the gun. "I told you, Michael, she fell down. Way down." His laughter held the echo of a madman.
Patrick tried to inch around Michael, gun drawn.
"Drop it." Lucidity was back with frightening clarity.
Patrick stopped, but didn't drop the gun. Michael heard the hammer click into place.
Owen stood his ground, Michael's Colt pointed not at Patrick, but still at Michael. "Shoot me if you dare, little Patrick." There was a condescending note in his voice, almost as if he wanted Patrick to shoot. "But," he waved his other hand in the air in a theatrical gesture, "I'll kill Michael, even if you do manage to shoot me." Again, he let go with his tortured laugh.
Patrick met Michael's eyes and he shrugged, dropping the gun.
"Kick it over here," Owen barked.
Michael reached over with a booted foot and kicked the gun. It landed off to the right of Owen in the shadows of the tunnel.
"That's not exactly at my feet," Owen snarled, "but it will have to do. Now, move over there by the wall." He gestured to the left side of the tunnel, away from the gun.
Michael met Patrick's gaze and tried desperately to read the message there.
"I said, now." The hammer on the gun clicked into place, echoing through the stillness of the tunnel.
Oh God,she was destined to spend eternity in the dark. First the cave-in and now… Cara paused trying to remember exactly what had happened. The rabbit hole. She sighed. At least Alice had been able to see. She'd had the white rabbit and the little glass table. Cara had, well, inky blackness and… roses.
She sniffed deeply, but the smell evaporated almost before she was certain itwasroses. She shifted uncomfortably, realizing she was lying on a bed of rocks—sharp rocks. Sitting up, she took hesitant inventory of her body, relieved when all parts reported in hale and hearty. Her ankle felt a little iffy, but for the moment at least, there seemed no point in pressing the issue. As long as she was seated, she was fine.
A sharp jabbing in her left hip remained the only uninvestigated pain, and when she shifted right, the stabbing stopped. Reaching across with her hand, she located the source of her discomfort. The candle holder. Wrought iron did not make a comfortable seat cushion, especially if it had a sharp point. There was no way to see the thing, but she recognized the feel of it, remembered the satisfying thwunk it had made as it had sunk into Owen Prescott's flesh.
She hoped it hurt like hell.
For a moment she pictured Michael, and her heart twisted with agony, but then her mind stepped in with a public service announcement about people stuck at the bottom of deep, darkrabbit holes. A picture of a long forgotten episode ofAll My Childrenflashed in her mind.
Natalie at the bottom of a well.
That had ended happily, hadn't it? Oh God, she didn't remember. She never watched regularly and Natalie was off the show now. Had she died in the well? Cara forced back a swelling of hysteria. She wasn't Natalie, and Owen certainly wasn't Janet. No, whispered a perverse voice in her mind, he was much worse.
She struggled to gain control and was relieved when all images, television and otherwise, disappeared and she was alone in the deep darkness, clutching a twisted piece of wrought iron. Used for lighting, her still functioning brain pointed out. She frowned, the information failing to have significant impact.
Lighting, her brain repeated, telegraphing letter by letter. She slapped a hand to her forehead and felt for the hooked end of the candle holder, finally getting the message. With a shaking hand, she touched the candle. Wax had never felt so good.
Drawing the matches from her pocket, she lit it, relieved when a pale white light cast a feeble circle into the darkness.
