Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

Donald glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “Do you trust your husband?”

“He’s my husband.”

“I don’t know how much he tells you—”

“We’re partners, Donald. I make deposits for him.”

“Okay, then,” Donald said, slipping into his smarmy business manner. “You know we’ll lose our purchase option if we don’t make the second payment on the Martin property. And we’ve got a couple of contractors breathing down our necks for some major past dues. I know this has been devastating, but I’d hate to see Jacob lose everything his father worked for.”

Renee stared at Donald, whose eyes were watery and narrow. “He’ll come through. He’s a Wells.”

“I know, ‘A Wells never fails,’ but—”

He glanced at the door again, went silently past Renee and closed it. Then he faced her, wearing what she imagined was the same grave expression he used when pleading for a zoning variance before a municipal planning board. “I’ve been worried about him. Ever since Christine died, maybe even before that, he was taking too many chances, overreaching and gambling. The real estate market’s way too soft for the moves he was making, especially in commercial development. I don’t know how much he told you, but when he went into his funk after Christine died, the company nearly collapsed.”

All she had done, all the sacrifices she’d made, were for Jacob Wells and their future together. This wasn’t the plan. She’d been bailing a leaky boat and hadn’t known it. As with the Titanic, there hadn’t been enough life preservers to go around.

“It’s not that bad,” she said. “We were doing fine. There was plenty of money.”

“Borrowed money. He was getting big loans to buy up land and inflating the values on all the appraisals. It’s fairly common practice, but it’s like juggling live hand grenades. One or two you can handle, but five or six and one’s bound to go off sooner or later.”

“How much does he owe?”

“A million three.”

She looked at the aquarium. A large fish with an extravagant top fin darted toward the ceramic sunken ship, chasing away a school of blue and silver fish. The soft bubbling of the aerator and the hum of the fluorescent lights were the only sounds in the room.

“You didn’t know,” Donald said.

She fought an urge to go to the shelves and arrange the loose papers into neat stacks. Donald put a hand out as if he were going to touch her shoulder then changed his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About Mattie. About your house. Nobody deserves such bad luck.”

She wished she had a better confessor. A Catholic priest hidden away in a dark booth, or a shrink whose breath smelled of exotic beer and goat cheese. But she was going to shatter right there in front of Mr. Smooth himself, an acquaintance, someone who knew only the wrong half of the story.

“He put too much pressure on himself,” Renee said. “Jacob always wanted to make his father proud. Part of him wants to outdo Warren Wells, but in this town he never had a chance.”

She’d brought him here. She’d seen through his street-poet act at college and she’d known all about his wealth before the second date, though she pretended otherwise. The Wells family turmoil aroused little interest, and she was happy to let him enjoy his secrecy. She cared about the future, not the past. But she’d assumed the past involved silly prom dates and inattentive parents, not intensive therapy for a dissociative disorder.

“You want to sit down?” Donald waved toward the brown sofa.

Renee couldn’t bear the thought of sitting where Donald and Staci might have wallowed in vapid passion. “What about last year? How bad was it?”

He held his finger and thumb about an inch apart. “I was this close to looking for some more investors to save our asses. But Jacob wouldn’t hear of it. Said we’d get a break, something would come through soon.”

“And it did.”

“Like I said, the insurance from the fire—hey, I’m sorry, I’m an insensitive bastard. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m getting over it,” she said. Donald had never lost a child. He wouldn’t know that you never got over it.

“The million can get us through the short run, but he’s taken too many chances. God, I can’t believe he didn’t tell you all this.”

“That Wells pride. He wouldn’t borrow a water hose if his pants were on fire.”

“Personally, I was ready to declare bankruptcy, start over in something with a future, like maybe pharmaceutical sales. But Jake just kept telling me the market would turn and we’d be okay, we just needed to hold out until we got a break.”

“And he got a big insurance payoff just in the nick of time.”

“That’s why I asked if you’d made the deposit. I figured you’d at least have the check for the house. And, knowing Jake’s business habits, I’ll bet he had the family insured to the eyeballs.”

“Mattie’s only been dead three months.” The fish turned into bright blurred streaks in her vision.

“The Christine money?”

None of his business. “That was my baby girl, Donald.”

“Sure, but the living have got to keep living, right? That’s what Old Man Wells said and Jacob’s got so much of that blood in him, I forget he’s human sometimes. I figured he’d be throwing himself into his work, getting the ball rolling again. Dealing with it his way.”

“His way. What the hell do you know about ‘his way’?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Renee. You can’t bring Mattie and Christine back no matter how much you hate me. Right now you ought to be worried about bringing Jake back.”

She wanted to slap Donald, take out her anger and frustration. But Donald was right. Jacob was the real target, as elusive as any prey, his survival instinct intact. Her bait of the marriage counselor hadn’t worked.

The electronic rattle of the phone interrupted them. Jeffrey’s voice came over the intercom: “Mr. Meekins, line three. It sounds like Mr. Wells. He asked for Mrs. Wells.”

How had he known she was there? Was he watching her?

“Hello?” Donald cradled the phone between his head and shoulder and nodded to Renee. “Listen, Jake, where are you? Things are going to hell in a handbasket here—”

He held up his hand as if warding off a tirade from the other end of the line. “Okay, here she is. But I need to talk to you after you’re done with her.”

Renee took the phone from Donald and squeezed it against her ear as if by force of pressure she could bring Jacob to her. “Jake?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“The place I said I’d never go.”

“Come see me.”

“I already did.”

“What’s wrong?”

Jacob’s phrasing was strange, slightly slurred, his voice made thin by the compression of the phone line. Just like the phone call about the package. “Well, let me add it up,” he said. “You cremated my daughter while I was drugged to hell in a hospital bed. You moved out and set up your own little nest before I had a chance to make things right. And now you’re conspiring with my business partner while I’m here trying to pull everything together.”

Her rib cage muscles clamped tight around her heart. “Jake?”

“I saw the way he looked at you. Like a wolf at a pork chop. And you—well, we know how you are.”

Donald hovered close, wiggling his finger as if he wanted to listen. Renee raised her elbow to keep him away.

“We need to talk.” Her throat was tight, as if someone had shoved a large, dry stone down her windpipe.

“There ain’t nothing left to talk about.”

“We’ve got to fix this. I know you’re hurting over Mattie, but so am I. We need each other. That’s the only way we can make it. And I know about—”

“All you need is Donnie Boy.”

The tears broke forth, hot as blood on her cheeks. “Jake, you’re talking crazy.”

She immediately regretted using that word. Dr. Rheinsfeldt had explained that dissociative conditions came in several forms, and Jacob had exhibited some of the milder symptoms. Fugue states and amnesia didn’t sound so mild to Renee, but at least he hadn’t lost his identity or descended into any of the other horrible conditions Rheinsfeldt had described.