Sidney Sheldon's After The Darkness Part 20

"D-do you really think they'll find her quickly?"

Harry Bain said, "I'm sure of it. She's Grace Brookstein, Grace Brookstein, for G.o.d's sake. Where's she gonna hide?" for G.o.d's sake. Where's she gonna hide?"

IN HER DREAMS G GRACE HEARD KNOCKING, faint but rapid and insistent, like a woodp.e.c.k.e.r in the distance. The noise grew louder, closer. She woke up. faint but rapid and insistent, like a woodp.e.c.k.e.r in the distance. The noise grew louder, closer. She woke up.

There's someone at the door!

Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her switchblade and wrapped the bedsheet around her, stumbling toward the sound in the darkness.

"Who is it?"

"'S me."

Yoda. Grace put down the knife and opened the door a crack.

"You stayin' another night?"

The light from the corridor was blinding. Grace blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, you stayin' another night? It's noon. Changeover's twelve thirty. You ain't staying, you gotta vacate the room by then."

"Oh. No. I'm staying."

"Twenty dollars."

Grace pulled a second bill out of the wad Karen had given her and handed it to the old man. He took it wordlessly, scuttling back to his reception desk like a decrepit beetle.

Twelve o'clock! Jesus. I must have been out like a light. Grace opened the curtains, then closed them again. Far too bright. Splas.h.i.+ng cold water on her face, she pulled on her clothes-they stank of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d but they were all she had. She would buy new ones today. The TV was still on from last night. Grace turned up the volume. This time the news report was on the economy. But a few moments later her face was back on-screen again, this time a mug shot from the day they brought her to Bedford. Grace opened the curtains, then closed them again. Far too bright. Splas.h.i.+ng cold water on her face, she pulled on her clothes-they stank of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d but they were all she had. She would buy new ones today. The TV was still on from last night. Grace turned up the volume. This time the news report was on the economy. But a few moments later her face was back on-screen again, this time a mug shot from the day they brought her to Bedford. It still looks nothing like me. It still looks nothing like me.

The anchorwoman was talking. "With Grace Brookstein now missing for over seventeen hours, the police appear to have no concrete leads. With me is Detective Mitch.e.l.l Connors of the NYPD, the man leading the investigation into Brookstein's escape. Detective, people are already saying that you and your men are running out of ideas. Do you feel that's a fair statement?" "With Grace Brookstein now missing for over seventeen hours, the police appear to have no concrete leads. With me is Detective Mitch.e.l.l Connors of the NYPD, the man leading the investigation into Brookstein's escape. Detective, people are already saying that you and your men are running out of ideas. Do you feel that's a fair statement?"

An attractive blond cop responded by video link.

"No, Nancy, I don't believe it is. We're pursuing a number of different avenues. This investigation is only hours old. It's our belief that the prisoner will be apprehended swiftly and we're working toward that conclusion."

Grace studied the cop's face. Detective Mitch.e.l.l Connors looked like he'd been sketched by a cartoonist at Marvel Comics, all square jaw and steady, blue-eyed gaze. Physically he reminded Grace of a rougher-around-the-edges version of her brother-in-law Jack Warner. But his expression was nothing like Jack's. If anything, it was more like Lenny's. It's his eyes. He has kind eyes. It's his eyes. He has kind eyes.

He was still talking. "Grace Brookstein and her husband brought extraordinary suffering to thousands of people, particularly here in New York. Believe me, Nancy, no one wants to see this convicted felon back behind bars more than I do. Make no mistake. We will find her." "Grace Brookstein and her husband brought extraordinary suffering to thousands of people, particularly here in New York. Believe me, Nancy, no one wants to see this convicted felon back behind bars more than I do. Make no mistake. We will find her."

Grace switched off the television.

Detective Connors might have kind eyes, but he's my enemy.

She mustn't forget it.

THAT AFTERNOON, GRACE WALKED INTO TOWN. It was all she could do to stop her teeth from chattering, knowing that her face was all over the news, that at any moment, someone might recognize her and turn her in to the authorities. But she couldn't hide out at the motel forever. She needed supplies, and she needed to get out of Richardsville. Karen and Cora had both warned her of the dangers of staying in one place too long. It was all she could do to stop her teeth from chattering, knowing that her face was all over the news, that at any moment, someone might recognize her and turn her in to the authorities. But she couldn't hide out at the motel forever. She needed supplies, and she needed to get out of Richardsville. Karen and Cora had both warned her of the dangers of staying in one place too long.

With the van driver's bulky jacket pulled tightly around her, Grace kept her head down as she walked the aisles of a Walmart. At the checkout, her heart was pounding so violently she thought she might faint. Happily the sullen teenager manning the register seemed more interested in the chip on one of her acrylic nails than in the nervous customer or her purchases.

"Eighty-eight dollazs yer total; cash 'r credit?"

"Cash."

"Thangshaveaniceday."

The girl didn't even look up.

By the time Grace returned to her room at the Up All Night, it was almost four P.M. P.M. Locking the door, she emptied her Walmart bags onto the bed: hair dye, scissors, makeup, disinfectant, underwear, a three-pack of Haines T-s.h.i.+rts, jeans, a beanie hat, and a gray carry-all gym bag. Locking the door, she emptied her Walmart bags onto the bed: hair dye, scissors, makeup, disinfectant, underwear, a three-pack of Haines T-s.h.i.+rts, jeans, a beanie hat, and a gray carry-all gym bag.

She got to work.

THE OLD MAN AT THE RECEPTION desk studied the picture in his newspaper. His eyes weren't what they used to be. desk studied the picture in his newspaper. His eyes weren't what they used to be.

Could it be?

This girl's nose was different. And the hair. Still, there was definitely a resemblance. And she had had arrived in the middle of the night, with no suitcase. He looked at the paper again. The cop on the TV said to report anything suspicious, no matter how trivial. arrived in the middle of the night, with no suitcase. He looked at the paper again. The cop on the TV said to report anything suspicious, no matter how trivial.

The old man picked up the phone.

GRACE LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE cracked bathroom mirror. Except it wasn't herself. It was someone else, the first of her four new ident.i.ties. cracked bathroom mirror. Except it wasn't herself. It was someone else, the first of her four new ident.i.ties. Lizzie Woolley. Lizzie Woolley.

h.e.l.lo, Lizzie. Lizzie.

Carefully cleaning up all traces of dye and picking every lock of severed hair off the floor, Grace dropped them into the empty Walmart bag along with the discarded bottle of Nice 'n Easy and her old clothes, tied the bag by the handles and stuffed it into her carry-all. She dressed quickly. The clean clothes felt wonderful. For a moment Grace thought back to her old life and smiled. She could never have imagined back then that the day would come when a pair of Walmart jeans would feel like the last word in luxury! She'd already spent two-thirds of the cash Karen and Cora had given her. Pretty soon she would have to make e-mail contact with Karen's mysterious "friend" and ask for more. Cora had a.s.sured her that getting cash from Western Union was anonymous and easy. All you had to do was show up at one of their hundreds of thousands of locations, show your (fake) ID and take the money. "It's how every illegal immigrant in this country makes rent, honey. It's their business not to ask questions." Even so, Grace hoped she wouldn't have to do it too often.

She'd checked the bus timetable earlier. The next bus to the city left at 6:15 P.M. P.M.

Plenty of time.

THE OLD MAN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR.

No answer. Officer McInley, Richardsville's finest-Richardsville's only- only-looked p.i.s.sed. "I thought you said she was definitely here?"

Officer McInley knew the minute Old Man Murdoch called that it'd be some stupid-a.s.s wild-goose chase. Grace Brookstein, staying at the Up All Night? Yeah, right. She was probably sharing a room with Kermit the Frog and Herman Munster. Everyone in Richardsville knew that Murdoch had lost his marbles years ago.

"She's here, all right? Saw her come in wi' my own two eyes and she ain't come out again. Muz be sleepin'."

Unhooking the master key from his belt loop, the old man unlocked the door.

"Miss?"

The room was empty. Not just empty but pristine. The bed was made, the surfaces wiped clean. It looked as if no one had stayed there in weeks.

Officer McInley rolled his eyes.

"She wuz here, I tell ya! Last two nights. I swear to G.o.d. Musta 'scaped out the winda."

"Uh-huh." On a flying monkey On a flying monkey. "Well, if you see her again, you be sure and let us know."

SEVENTEEN.

MARIA P PRESTON FLOATED INTO THE SIXTH-FLOOR Caprice restaurant in Hong Kong's Four Seasons Hotel. In a chiffon caftan, dripping in newly bought pearls from the Guangzhou City jewelry district, she waved the newspaper excitedly at her husband. Caprice restaurant in Hong Kong's Four Seasons Hotel. In a chiffon caftan, dripping in newly bought pearls from the Guangzhou City jewelry district, she waved the newspaper excitedly at her husband.

"Have you seen this, Andy?"

"Seen what, my love?"

"Grace Brookstein's escaped from prison!"

Andrew Preston went white. "Escaped? What do you mean she's escaped? That's not possible." s.n.a.t.c.hing the paper, he read the front-page story.

A major police operation was under way last night in New York after convicted con artist Grace Brookstein apparently broke out of a maximum-security facility in Westchester County. Brookstein, one of the most notorious women in America, is believed to have stolen upward of $70 billion in a conspiracy masterminded by her late husband, Leonard...

"Can you believe it?" Maria giggled as she poured herself a large gla.s.s of fresh orange juice. "Escaped from jail. It's like something out of It's like something out of Desperate Housewives Desperate Housewives. Next thing you know she'll wake up in the shower with amnesia and the last twenty years will never have happened! Do you think they'll catch her?"

Andrew was too stunned to speak. This was a disaster. A catastrophe. Just when he thought the whole nightmare was behind him, Grace had to pull a stunt like this and reopen old wounds. Maria seemed to think it was some sort of joke. But then why wouldn't she? She had no idea of the stress he'd been under. As long as she had money to spend-this trip to Hong Kong alone had cost over $40,000, not including the astronomical sums Maria had "saved" on pearl jewelry-she was happy. What was it to her if Andrew hadn't slept properly in over a year? If he lay in their bed in the $12,000-a-night presidential suite overlooking Victoria Harbor and Kowloon Bay, bent double with stomach cramps and crippling migraines, haunted by nightmares involving Lenny Brookstein and the scarred, terrifying face of a man named Donald Anthony Le Bron? Had it not been for Maria, he would never have done what he did. Never have betrayed a friend, never have become a thief, never have had cause to a.s.sociate with the likes of Le Bron. And yet he couldn't tell her. He just couldn't.

Most distressing of all was the alopecia. Since last Christmas, Andrew's hair had started falling out in clumps, like a dog with mange. He panicked. I'm falling to pieces. Literally. It's the beginning of the end. I'm falling to pieces. Literally. It's the beginning of the end.

Thank G.o.d it was John Merrivale who had to deal with the FBI day in, day out, and not him. The stress would have finished him off. Andrew could hear John's voice in his head now, repeating the mantra: "Just stick to the story and you'll be f-fine. We both will." "Just stick to the story and you'll be f-fine. We both will."

So far, they had. But Grace's escape could change everything.

"Andy, are you listening to me? I said, do you think they'll catch her?"

"Yes. I'm sure they'll catch her." They have to. They have to.

"What will happen to her then, do you think?"

"I don't know. They'll take her back to jail, I suppose."

Andrew thought about Grace Brookstein, the sweet, naive child he'd known for all those years. Poor Grace. She was the only truly innocent victim in all of this. Unfortunately, that was what happened to pure little lambs. They got slaughtered.

Maria sipped her orange juice contentedly. "Don't look so miserable, Andy. Anyone would think it was you the police were after. Now give me back the newspaper, would you? There's a gorgeous Balenciaga dress in the fas.h.i.+on pages. I'm thinking of having it copied."

JACK W WARNER SAW THE NEWS ON TELEVISION. He was in a bar with Fred Farrell, his campaign manager, discussing his reelection strategy. When he saw Grace's face on the TV screen, he choked on his pistachios. He was in a bar with Fred Farrell, his campaign manager, discussing his reelection strategy. When he saw Grace's face on the TV screen, he choked on his pistachios.

"Holy mother of G.o.d. Can you believe this?"

Fred Farrell couldn't. People didn't break out of places like Bedford Hills. Not in real life. Especially not pet.i.te, blond trophy wives like Grace Brookstein.

"You'll have to make a statement."

Fred Farrell's brilliant political mind was already whirring. This was not a good time for the Quorum scandal to come back and haunt them. Grace would probably be caught within a few hours, but the renewed media interest in the Brookstein case could last for months. Jack must not be dragged into it.

"I'll write you something. In the meantime, go home and lay low."

Jack Warner went home. During the hour-long drive to Westchester, he composed his thoughts. Fred Farrell didn't know the half of it. He knew about the gambling debts, and Lenny Brookstein's refusal to pay them. But Jack Warner had other skeletons in his closet besides gambling. Explosive secrets that could destroy him and put an end to all his political hopes.

Lenny knew the truth. But Lenny's dead, burning in h.e.l.l, where he belongs.

The question was, had he taken his knowledge with him to his watery grave? Or had he shared what he knew with his beloved wife? While Grace was safely under lock and key, it didn't matter. But now she was out, running for her life. A loose cannon, with nothing to lose.

I can't let that b.i.t.c.h destroy me. I won't.

Honor ran out to the driveway to meet him. Her eyes were red and swollen. It was obvious she'd been crying. "Oh, Jack! Have you seen the news?"

"Of course I've seen it." He bundled her indoors. The press could show up at any minute. "For G.o.d's sake, pull yourself together. Why are you crying?"

Honor didn't know. She'd always envied Grace. Resented her. Hated her even. At the same time, her baby sister's conviction troubled her. Grace was no more capable of perpetrating a sophisticated fraud than she was of changing a tire or filling out a tax return. Honor knew that better than anyone. I should have spoken up for her in court. Or at least visited her in prison. But I didn't. I did what Jack told me to. I always do what Jack tells me to.

"They said on the news that someone might shoot her. That she's in more danger from the public than she is from the police."

"So?" Jack wasn't interested in Grace's problems. He was interested in his own. "Fred's writing me a statement. Until then, I want you and the kids to stay in the house. Don't talk to anyone about Grace. Do you understand?"

Honor nodded.