The shot knocked loose a chunk of dirt a yard from my right hand. No marksman, but we had no cover.
Trapped.
I crouched low in the pit, keeping my hand on Lucy’s back. Her mouth was open but her breathing was silent.
No sounds. I raised my head for a peek.
The man put the gun back to Nova’s head and prodded her with one knee. The two of them slow-danced around the pond till they got within fifteen feet of us.
Her left cheek was scraped raw and her left eye was swelling. I ducked and peeked, ducked and peeked. Finally seeing his face.
His right hand gripped her narrow waist. Manicured nails. The jeans were pressed. His sweatshirt said Sausalito. He looked like an executive hanging loose.
Exactly what he was.
Christopher Graydon-Jones.
“You’ve made some nice progress,” he said. “Pity we don’t have more spades. Well, get to work. We’ll need it a good deal deeper to fit all of you. Go on, will you?”
“She’s still his daughter,” I said. “When he called you, he didn’t expect you to kill her.”
“No, I suppose not.” He gave a split-second smile that raised one corner of his mouth. “Actually, he had this tart call, and look what happened to her. Expectations are so seldom met.”
Nova moved, and he kneed her hard in the back.
“True,” I said. “You wanted to be a sculptor.”
His lips drew back and he did something with his free hand that made Nova cry out.
“Though there is a continuity,” I said. “Molding form, shaping limbs. Big-time power needs—that’s what got you into trouble with Karen, isn’t it?”
He dug his fingers into Nova’s middle. She gasped and shivered and a wet stain spread at her groin.
“Please,” she said.
“Start digging or I’ll kill this bit of fuzz right now and make you chop up her body with the dull edge of that spade.”
I picked up the shovel. He backed out of swinging range.
Nova was nearly limp, straining his grip. Aiming the gun at Lucy, he shoved down on Nova’s shoulder, forcing her to her knees, then prone, her face in the dirt. She ate some, gagged, managed to turn her head to the side.
Graydon-Jones put his foot on her spine. Trophy hunter.
But his eyes were jumpy.
“Come, come, faster, faster, or I’ll have to finish both these tarts.”
I jammed the shovel in the clay. Pulling it out was like towing a barge. My whole upper body felt encased in concrete. The lace pattern through the willows was pewter-colored now. I managed to dig.
He said, “Not that it matters, but I didn’t get into trouble with Karen. Karen did it to herself.”
“Drugs?” I said, stopping.
“Don’t slack off—yes, yes, drugs, what else, don’t you watch your public-service commercials? I wasn’t even the one to give them to her.”
“Who was?” The shovel hit the ground again. I pretended to dig deep but got only a few grains of soil on my blade. He was too far away to notice, his gaze leveling off at my elbows. If I stroked rapidly and grunted a lot, that might pass for a while.
“Who gave her the drugs?” I said, faking another hard chop. “App?”
No answer. One of his big hands caressed Nova’s rear.
“You were just along for the party?”
I saw Lucy from a corner of my eye. Sitting, knees up. Frozen. Powerless again.
“Yes, a party. There was no crime,” said Graydon-Jones. “She was the life of it. Coming on to all of us, crawling up in our laps, telling us she was going to be a film star and live in Beverly Hills.”
“What kind of drugs did App give her?”
“What’s the difference: grass, hash, quaaludes. It was the ’ludes that got to her. No tolerance. Out like a light.”
He looked down at Nova, then his gaze shifted to Lucy.
“What are you staring at? Make yourself useful. Dig with your hands—go on.”
Lucy got down on all fours and began scooping up clay.
I said, “Two parties, then. Friday night and Saturday.”
He blinked with surprise. Covered it with a laugh.