Death in High Places - By Jo Bannister Page 0,68

may still have one, if you play your cards right. Dead right, first time.”

McKendrick wanted to be absolutely sure that he understood what Horn was telling him. “You’re saying I should hand you over and hope for the best.”

“I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”

There was a pause while McKendrick almost seemed to wonder, to resist coming to the same conclusion. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t find an alternative because there wasn’t one. “I can’t let him hurt Beth. Not if there’s any hope she can come safe through this.”

“I’ll…” Horn was going to say he’d get his things. One word into the sentence he realized there was no point. He wouldn’t be doing any more carpentry. “Open the door. Shut it and lock it again as soon as I’m outside. If he can’t see an easy way to get at you, I think he’ll let Beth go. If he can’t silence all the witnesses, he’s better not killing any of them.”

“Just you.”

There was a world of tiredness, of acceptance, in Horn’s pale smile. “I’ve stayed ahead of the game for four years. That’s four years more than Patrick got. I think maybe it’s enough.”

Incredibly, McKendrick found a lump in his throat. “There has to be another way. How can I…?”

Horn knew the answer to that. “Because you have to. You can find someone else to do … what you wanted me for. You can’t find yourself another daughter.”

“We could make a fight of it…”

“If we do that, we’ll all die. He’s not just the man with the gun, he’s the one who knows what he’s doing. How this works, how it pans out. Every time. And he has no conscience. That’s more than an edge—it’s a whole bloody sword. Even in a crisis, most people hesitate before they’ll hurt someone else. He won’t. He’ll kill you like swatting a fly if you give him the ghost of a chance. So don’t. Keep the castle locked down until you know he’s gone. Don’t even open the door to let Beth in. She’s safe as long as you’re safe.” Probably, Horn added privately. He moved toward the door.

McKendrick put out a hand that stopped short of actually touching him. As if he were already out of reach. Then his fingers went to the console but again hesitated, as if he couldn’t bring himself to touch it either.

“You have to open the door,” Horn said again. It almost sounded as if he was pleading. As if dying was no longer the worst thing that he faced. “You have to let me go. Or he’ll hurt her.”

Eyes haunted by guilt, McKendrick tore his gaze away from the young man’s face and sought his daughter’s on the monitor. The man was still standing behind her, showing little of himself besides his hands gripping her shoulders—firmly rather than tightly, no hint of panic or desperation, still comfortably in control.

Finally McKendrick steeled himself to do what needed doing. Circumstances had left him no choice. He glanced again at Horn. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” mumbled Horn, “not your problem. Do it.”

“I can’t let him hurt her.”

“I know. Open the door.”

With one long finger already on the button, still he hesitated. “Although…”

Horn waited, but nothing followed. Bizarrely, he found himself growing impatient. “Although what?”

McKendrick was regarding the monitor with one of those intelligent, speculative looks that Horn imagined was the last thing seen by any number of CEOs before they went on gardening leave. “Although,” McKendrick repeated slowly, “actually he isn’t hurting her, is he?”

“Yet,” said Horn, underlining heavily. “He isn’t hurting her yet.”

“Quite.” But other thoughts were marshaling behind his eyes. “I wonder why not.”

“What?”

“Okay,” said McKendrick quickly, “I could have put that better. But think about it. He knows we’re watching these monitors—it’s what they’re for. He knows we know he’s got Beth. Now, he might wait a minute while we wail and gnash our teeth a bit, but after that he’s going to want to focus my attention. So why isn’t he hurting her? Making her yell, and bleed? Why is he standing there as if he’s got all the time in the world and doesn’t mind how long I think about what to do next?”

“Because he has,” suggested Hood grimly, “and he doesn’t?”

“Nobody’s that safe. And a real professional should know it. Anything could happen. Someone could spot our tablecloth and come to investigate. Beth might get away from him. I might make a last stand with Grampa’s old elephant gun—anything. To