St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

without heat.
    And the phone was still ringing.
    “Quintrell ranch house,” she said, remembering. “Light switch by the door. Telephone in the hall. Incoming calls only. Wouldn’t want the maids or guests to take advantage, would we?”
    She kicked off the heavy covers and reached the door in two strides. The bare tile floor was icy against her feet. The light switch didn’t work.
    “Hell,” she said, smacking the wall with her fist.
    The light flickered on, all forty watts of it.
    The phone kept ringing.
    She dragged a chair away from the door—no lock, no key, and she was damned if she was going to sleep in an unlocked room after the rat. She yanked the door open and stumbled into the hall. Like everything else, the hall was cold. The phone was even colder.
    “Hello?” Carly said automatically.
    Silence.
    Breathing.
    A woman’s scream that climbed and climbed, breaking into sobs, pleas, then a shriek driven by unimaginable pain.
    Carly was too shocked to move. “Where are you? Who are you? Let me help!”
    The scream fragmented into sobs.
    Silence.
    And a voice whispering, “Get out of Taos or you’ll be the one screaming.”
    The receiver slid from Carly’s numb fingers. Sickness turned in her stomach. She leaned against the wall and tried to slow the terrified beating of her heart.

QUINTRELL RANCH
TUESDAY MORNING
16
    JOSH QUINTRELL HUNG UP THE PHONE AND RUBBED HIS FOREHEAD .
    “Headache, darling?” Anne asked.
    He looked up from his desk. His wife, as always, was a walking definition of wealth and breeding. At the moment she was dressed “casually” in supple leather jeans and handmade Ruidoso boots, five-hundred-dollar designer shirt, and discreet Tiffany jewelry at ears and wrists and throat. A four-carat diamond flashed against her simple gold wedding band. If there had been a photographer around, the diamond would have been in a locked case and the gold band would have sent its own quiet message to the voters who cared enough to look: despite family wealth and the fame of high political office, Josh and Anne were real people.
    “He wants me to step up the amount of time I’m on the road,” Josh said.
    Anne knew that “he” had to be Mark Rubin, Josh’s campaign manager and the one man Josh took orders from.
    “Isn’t it a bit soon after the funeral?” she asked.
    “That’s what I said. He said that voters have a short attention span. I’ve been out of circulation too much. I need to be on some front pages and be featured in some six o’clock news leads.”
    “We can be packed and gone by afternoon.”
    “What about Andy?”
    She hesitated. A line of tension appeared between her beautifully shaped eyebrows. “He’ll go with us. He thought about what you said and decided rehab was best for everyone.”
    “Translation: He put the bite on you and you turned him down.”
    She nodded jerkily. “I still think…”
    He bit back a twist of anger and said, “Yes?”
    “I…” Slowly she shook her head. “I wish there was another way.”
    “Can you think of anything we haven’t tried?” His voice was patient despite the frustration that gnawed a hole in his gut every time he thought of his spoiled son screwing up a lifetime of work. Two lifetimes, if you counted the Senator. “We’ve done shrinks, meds, military schools, soft-love schools, tough-love schools, guilt trips, shouting matches, and New Age fuzzy-wuzzy. Nothing has done any good. The older he gets, the more he reminds me of Liza. Wild, careless, dangerous. Hell-bound and willing to take everyone along.”
    Tears glistened. Anne didn’t argue.
    “I know it’s old-fashioned,” Josh said slowly, “but I think there’s some bad seed in the Quintrell line. Sure as hell there are some kinks. The Senator knew what he was doing when he cut Liza loose. She would have ruined his public life.”
    “Are you,” she swallowed, “thinking of legally severing ties between us and our son? Of disowning him the way the Senator disowned Liza? At least he—he gave her money sometimes. Didn’t he?”
    Josh ignored the hopeful question. “I’m praying Andy will get his act together. I’m hoping you’ll help him by letting him go. He’ll never stand on his own as long as you’re busy giving him money and propping him up behind my back.”
    Anne flushed. “I’ve only done that—”
    “Every damn time he got close to hitting bottom,” Josh cut in coldly. “Every damn time he would have had to suck it up and grow