Chapter 32
Marit lifted the wet sash from her injured wrists to dab at the cuts on her ankles. Drops of blood mingled with the water that dripped onto the exorbitantly priced silk jumpsuit she was wearing. Under normal circumstances, she would have been horrified. Now she glanced at the stains numbly.
Kyle Adams had done this to her. And he’d likely planned to do far worse once the show was over. The show. She gasped. It was the first time she’d thought of it since hearing Lars’s voice on the other side of the closet door.
“Isabelle! We have to stop the show. Adams has made replicas of Ralph’s designs and plans to use them in his finale.”
“I know,” Isabelle said grimly. “I spotted them when we were looking for you.”
Marit set one hand on the floor to push herself to her feet. Pain radiated upward from her wrists, and her arm trembled. She rotated slightly, attempting to distribute her weight more evenly. “We have to get in there.”
“We have to do a couple other things first,” Isabelle said, reaching down to help her up.
“We don’t have time.”
“I bought us a little time. I hid the copied gowns Adams was planning to put in his finale. He’s going to be frantic, trying to find them before the show ends.” Isabelle helped her stumble to her feet. “And taking care of you needs to be our priority right now. First, we have to make sure you can stand alone, and second, we need to put Band-Aids on the worst of your cuts.”
“I don’t care how much blood gets on Adams’s outfit,” Marit said, leaning against the wall while she gave her throbbing ankles time to adjust to her upright position.
“Neither do I.” Cautiously, Isabelle released her hold on Marit’s arm and stepped back. “But everyone backstage will, and you’ll be mobbed by well-meaning assistants if you reappear bleeding like that.”
Which would make accessing the runway entrance and the general manager all but impossible. The words went unspoken, but Marit knew she couldn’t risk drawing the attention of Adams before she spoke to someone in authority over running the show.
“My left wrist is the worst,” Marit said. “Maybe I can cover that with the sash.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I have a whole box of bandages in my purse.” She glanced up and down the empty hall. “If you think you’ll be okay for a minute, I’ll run and grab them.”
“I’ll be fine.” She took a small step away from the wall. Already, the unsteadiness in her legs was improving. “Go now. We have to be getting close to the finale.”
Isabelle didn’t hesitate. She ran across the hall and disappeared between the gap in the partition.
Marit released a tight breath and took another small step. The movement pulled at the damaged skin on her right ankle, but she resisted the urge to limp. If she was going to stop the show, she was going to have to ignore the pain.
Staying close to the wall, she managed another three steps, then she retraced them back to the cupboard entrance. She picked up the wet sash that she’d left on the floor and wiped a fresh trickle of blood off her left arm. Hurried footsteps sounded behind her.
“That was fast.” Marit turned around.
“Not fast enough, apparently.” Adams drew his gun from his pocket. “How did your friend unlock the door? And where did you hide the clothes?”
Marit dropped the sash to the floor. The trembling returned to her limbs, but she refused to allow Adams to see it. She also wasn’t going to tell him how she’d escaped. If he knew that three people—maybe more, if Cole and Lars had spoken with security by now—knew exactly where she was and what he’d done, there was no accounting for what he might do now.
She leaned against the wall, grateful for its stability. “I don’t know the answers to either of those questions.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled.
“I’m not lying.”
He took another menacing step toward her, and for a fleeting moment, Marit considered backing into the closet and closing the door between them. It wouldn’t stop Adams for long, but it might buy her friends time to get back.
“I’m only going to ask you this one more time.” Adams’s eyes flashed, and he raised his gun a little higher. “Where did you put the clothes?”
Get out of the line of fire. Stay out of the line of fire . Unbidden, Cole’s instructions flashed into her mind. Marit had truly hoped she would never again face a weapon, but Cole had told her what she needed to do. She pressed her hand against the wall. She didn’t feel ready. The closet would be easier. Unfortunately, it would also trap her completely. She couldn’t risk having Adams do to her what he’d done to James.
Her heart racing, she took a step toward Adams. “The only clothes I know anything about are the ones I’m wearing.”
“Where are the blue, silver, and gold gowns?” he hissed. “When the pink trouser suit didn’t come out on schedule, I knew exactly who to blame. But you’re not going to prevent me from showing those gowns.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have three seconds to tell me where they are.”
Pushing herself into motion, Marit struck her right hand out, grabbing at Adams’s wrist with as much force as she could muster.
Shock flashed across his face. His grip loosened, and the gun went flying out of his hand.
***
Isabelle stepped into the hall at the same moment a gun skidded across the floor and thudded against the wall. It came to a stop midway between where Adams and Marit stood and where Isabelle had entered.
Isabelle’s shock at finding him here, armed and away from the stage, mirrored the expression on Adams’s face.
Marit and Adams scrambled toward the gun as Isabelle rushed forward. Adams was faster.
He leaned down to retrieve the weapon when Isabelle was still two steps away.
“Watch out!” Marit cried.
Clearly determined to keep the pistol out of Adams’s possession, Marit thrust both arms out to keep him from reaching the gun. She succeeded in pushing him off-balance, and Isabelle kicked her leg out, her stiletto heel clipping his arm.
The force of impact knocked him back another step and prevented him from retrieving the gun that was currently between his feet.
He reached down again, but this time, Isabelle was close enough to use her hands. She took a quick step forward and thrust her arm out, the heel of her hand striking Adams in the chin.
His head jolted back; the force of the open-palm strike sent him stumbling once more but not enough to give Isabelle or Marit the space needed to grab the weapon without risking a kick to the head.
Adams recovered more quickly than Isabelle had expected, and fury flashed in his eyes. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I’ll kill you both.”
“Just like you killed Brinton James?” Isabelle asked.
Adams’s only response was to dive for his weapon. Before he could reach it, Isabelle kicked it and sent it sliding out of reach.
“Marit, grab the gun!”
Marit hobbled toward it, but again, Adams was faster. He rushed forward, leaned down to pick it up, and Isabelle launched herself at him, grabbing Adams from behind.
He straightened, pistol in hand, and turned quickly, Isabelle now clinging to his back.
“Marit, get down!”
Marit darted into the closet an instant before a gunshot sparked through the air. The bullet thudded into the doorframe right beside where Marit had been standing only a second earlier.
Isabelle hooked her arm around Adams’s throat, pressing on his windpipe with the crook of her elbow.
Adams turned in a circle, reaching back with his free hand to grab at Isabelle. When his efforts proved unsuccessful, he swiveled and rammed Isabelle into the wall.
Pain shot through her shoulder, which had absorbed most of the impact, and a moan escaped her.
Isabelle’s hold loosened, and Adams broke free. He whirled, aiming his gun at the same time Marit burst back out of the closet wielding a broom.
Marit swung the broom at Adams’s legs. Wood cracked against his knee.
Adams cried out.
Isabelle pushed his arm to the side, taking herself out of the line of fire. She used her free hand to twist his wrist backward. The pistol discharged again, the bullet shattering the tile and sending bits of porcelain flying into the air.
Isabelle used her weight and all her strength to slam Adams’s arm against the wall.
He grunted in pain, but the gun remained firmly in his grip.
Marit swung the broom again, this time at Adams’s back. Clearly stunned, Adams’s fingers opened. The gun dropped onto his shoe, then tumbled back to the floor.
Isabelle kicked it, sending it toward Marit.
Adams turned to chase after the gun, but Isabelle blocked his path. Before he could take more than a step, Marit scooped up the weapon and aimed it at him.
“Stop right there!” Marit demanded, her voice trembling slightly.
Adams stopped, his hands out to his sides. He looked at Marit, glanced at Isabelle, and then faced Marit once more.
Desperation flashed in his eyes, the kind that warned Isabelle that he wasn’t going to simply surrender.
Frantic for anything she could use as a weapon, she reached down and slid a high heel off one of her feet. She hurled the shoe at Adams’s head at the same time he rushed toward Marit.
He must have seen it coming, because he ducked, but the distraction was enough for Isabelle to close the distance between them.
The curtains opened, and Cole rushed in, his gun drawn. Before he could act, Isabelle struck her hand out again, palm first. The blow landed on Adams’s chin, and his head jerked back.
An instant later, Marit slammed the gun, butt first, against his head.
Adams moaned in pain and crumpled to the floor.
“Don’t move!” Cole aimed his weapon at Adams, but this time, Adams didn’t attempt to rise. Cole glanced at Isabelle. “Are you all right?”
“Other than my blister ripping open again, I’m fine.”
Two police officers entered the hall. Lars followed.
“That’s him.” Cole pointed at Adams. “He’s the one behind the Molenaar theft.”
“And a kidnapping,” Marit added. In an instant, Lars was at her side, his arms wrapping firmly around her.
“Cuff him,” the older of the two men ordered.
The younger one hauled Adams to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“This is his weapon.” Marit handed the pistol to the officer closest to her.
Cole nodded his approval. “If we’re right about him, the ballistics will match the gun that killed James and Bernard.”
“We’ll run the tests,” the older officer said.
“Thank you, Capitaine Dupont and Brigadier Blanchet.” Cole holstered his weapon and moved to Isabelle’s side.
“We need to take your statements,” Brigadier Blanchet said. “Would you prefer to do that here or at the station?”
“Here,” Isabelle said without hesitation.
“We’ll take care of that as soon as we secure the prisoner,” Capitaine Dupont said.
“Thanks,” Cole said. “And please keep me in the loop.”
“We’ll call you when the ballistic reports come back.”
“ Merci .”
The officers escorted their prisoner away.
Taking advantage of Cole’s nearness, Isabelle put her arm around his waist, grateful when he drew her closer. “Thank goodness that’s over.”
“Not quite.” Marit shot her a look of determination. “There’s one more thing we need to do.” She turned to Lars. “You should go back into the photographers’ area. You won’t want to miss this.”
Lars loosened his hold on her enough to see her face. “Miss what?”
Marit glanced at Isabelle briefly before she said, “It’s time for everyone out there to know the truth.”