21 Dares: A Florida Suspense Mystery (27 page)

“I
won’t.” Abbie got to her feet. “I won’t do it.”

“You
want to see Clinton Reed, don’t you?” He laughed at that. “Then I dare you to
look in the attic.”

Chapter 31

A
bbie walked through the hallway and stopped
under the attic scuttle. She looked up at the trap door. Gripping the pistol in
her right hand, she raised her left arm and grasped the cord. Abbie took a deep
breath. She counted in her head.
One.
Two. Three.
She pulled the cord hanging from the attic door.

The
ladder dropped. A box of clothes fell with it. The corner of the box hit Abbie
in the forehead and she fell back. She accidentally fired the pistol, blasting
a round into the opposite wall. The shot rang in her ears.

Lying
on her back with the box of clothes on her chest, Abbie closed her mouth. She
pushed the box away and stood. She raised her head, looked into the dark attic
scuttle.

“Clinton
Reed?” she said, her voice rising. “Are you up there?”

Silence.

Panic like she’d never known before welled in
her throat. She closed her eyes and fought against it. She stood there,
perfectly still, head tilted toward the attic. She opened her eyes.

“Clinton Reed?”

“Abigail?”
It was Clinton Reed’s deep, familiar voice.

“I’m
here,” she yelled. “I’m coming to get you.”

She
started up the ladder when her father called down to her. “Don’t come up here.”
Stress rose in his voice. “You hear me, Abigail?”

Abbie
paused on the ladder. “Are you okay?”

“Abigail,
I want you to turn around and get out of this house right now.”

“I’m
not leaving you.” She clenched her jaw and forced her legs still. “Are you
alone?”

“I
don’t know. I think so. My eyes are covered. I can’t see anything.”

“The
police are on their way.” Hesitating on the ladder, her legs trembled. “Just
hold on, okay? We’re going to get out of here.”

There
was a shuffle along the ceiling and her father yelled.

“Abigail,
I hear something. I think there’s someone else in here.”

Abbie
heard it too. The ceiling creaked as if someone walked across the floorboards. Clinton
Reed screamed again. “Get out of here, Abbie. Get out of this house!”

Startled,
Abbie jumped off the ladder,
then
hesitated. Her hand
automatically went up to the unicorn necklace. She gripped it and looked down
at the gun in her other hand.
Clinton Reed
needed her. He needed her. She couldn’t turn her back on him.
Thinking, she
swallowed her fear and climbed the ladder, stepped into the attic.

Her
eyes adjusted to the dark. Gradually the small attic space came into view. Dusty
support beams.
Scattered boxes.
Cobwebs.
The outline of man sitting in a chair along the back wall.
Rope bound his arms and legs to the wood. A rag wrapped around the center of
his face, covered his eyes. His left leg bled.
Bad.
Had
he been shot? Stabbed? Cut?

“Clinton Reed?”
A cry of relief broke
from her lips. “Are you okay?”

His
head turned toward the sound of her voice. “Abigail, get out of here.”

“Not
without you.”

His
arms had been cut too. Deep, angry slashes that dripped blood to the
floorboards. She made her way toward him,
then
tripped. She looked down at an old box marked “Heather’s Awards.” She pushed
away from it, in shock. Hesitating, she looked around.

Smart
phones littered the floor. There had to be four or five of them. She picked one
up with a pink cover and saw it had belonged to McKenzie. She threw it down
next to the others,
then
moved quickly to Clinton
Reed’s side.

His
head turned toward her, and she touched his cheek. She removed the blindfold.

“I
told you to get out of here,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I’m
not leaving you.” She reached down toward the ropes around his hands, securing
him to the chair. She struggled with the knot.

“Abbie.”
Clinton Reed froze, his head staring toward the far corner near the opening in
the floor. Abbie stopped tugging on the ropes. She looked into his face,
then
turned her head. Feet shuffled, but she didn’t see
anything.

Her
phone chirped, cutting the still air around her. McKenzie’s pink phone beeped
next, followed by the other phones scattered on the floor. Abbie stared at
them,
then
looked at her own phone. She’d received a
new text from Clinton Reed’s phone number.

Clicking
the icon with her thumb, she opened the new message.

Abbie
looked up from her phone and peered into the far corner of the attic.

He
stepped out of the shadows.

Wearing
a grey rubber Gareth the Ghoul mask, he stood there, frozen, like a statue. He
held a box cutter in a hand covered with a white latex glove.

“Dr.
Wachowski?” Abbie’s voice caught in her throat.

He
didn’t answer. He stepped toward her. Floorboards creaked. Tilting his masked
head, he held up the box cutter then lunged. Swooshing past Abbie, he slashed the
blade across Clinton Reed’s chest. Abbie screamed and fell backwards. Her
father slumped forward, still tied to the chair.

Abbie
cried out and leaped toward her father. He was gasping for breath. A circle of
blood expanded across his shirt. She screamed again then turned.

Gareth
the Ghoul had returned to the corner by the trap door. He stood in the shadows.
She could see his eyes through the mask. Abbie raised the pistol. She gripped
it with both hands, struggled to hold it steady.

He
stepped away from the wall. She fired.
Missed.
Wood
splintered in the slanted ceiling. He kept walking.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Abbie’s head spun.

He
came up to her.
Towered over her.
Reached
for her.

She
pressed the trigger. The gun clicked. Her fingers mashed the trigger again.
Nothing.

Gareth
raised his arm, the razor in the bloody box cutter extended. Abbie backed-up.
Her hand brushed McKenzie’s pink cell phone. Her fingers wrapped around it. She
swung it, hard, hitting him in the knee. Gareth grunted. The cell phone cracked
and fell from her hand. He fell back. His head cocked, and he raised a gloved hand
as if to hold her back.

Abbie
collapsed to her knees. Her hand swiped the edge of a box. She felt one of
Heather’s old trophies. She grasped a gold statue so the square marble base was
on top, like a hammer.

She
sprang forward, exhaling, and hit him again square across the head, striking
him with the edge of the marble base. It cut the mask. Blood gushed from a
wound on his forehead. He dropped the box cutter. She screamed.
Loud.
Primal.
Guttural.

He
stepped back as she struck again. She pushed forward, bashing him with the marble
base of the trophy. He stumbled backwards. He raised an arm to protect the side
of his head,
then
grabbed the gold statue. Abbie
yanked hard, trying to pull it away from him. He tugged,
then
took another step back.

Abbie
let go of the trophy.

Gareth
fell.
Flailed his arms.
Tumbled
through the trap door.
Abbie toppled down with him. Together, they
dropped from the attic, hitting the ladder and landing in the hallway.

Gareth
grunted, flat on his back. Abbie fell on top of him. He
lay
motionless, arms spread. Abbie shook off the pain. She got to her feet and
looked down at him. She prayed the fall broke his neck.

His
head turned. His eyes peered through the eye-holes of the grey mask. He blinked.

She
couldn’t take it anymore.

Abbie
turned, took a step. The staircase was just a few feet away. She headed for it.
He grabbed her right foot. Tripped her. She fell, knocked her chin on the floor.
Turned.
Kicked Gareth the Ghoul in
the face.
Crunching his mask with her foot.
Blood
gushed from the rip in the mask. Red dots splattered her shoe. She twisted her
body, struggled to her feet. He came up to her side.

“Where
are you going, Pretty One?” Gareth’s voice was muffled behind the mask. He
blocked the staircase. She panicked, realizing that she wouldn’t be able to run
downstairs.

“You
aren’t going
nowhere
.” He held his arms out, trapping
her.

She
watched him a second, then bolted past him toward the end of the hallway. She
ran into Clinton Reed’s old bedroom.
Slammed the door.
Turned the lock.
She could hear Gareth jiggle the
handle then beat on the door. The pounding echoed in the room.

Abbie
stared at the vibrating door. She raised a hand to her chest, reached for the
unicorn necklace. It wasn’t there. She looked down. The necklace was gone. It
must have fallen off her neck in the hallway. She couldn’t think about that
now. She’d find it later.

Behind
her, the bodies lay face up on the mattress. She ran to them, looked at McKenzie
and apologized. Then, just as quickly as she could muster, she picked up the mattress
edge. She lifted one side so the two corpses rolled onto the floor.

With
the weight gone, Abbie dragged the mattress across the room and positioned it
against the door. Gareth still pounded on the other side.
Kicked
it.
The door rattled, coming apart. She knew the mattress wouldn’t keep
him out, but it might buy her an extra second.

She
looked back into the room, then glanced at the window. It looked out over the
roof. The back porch and swimming pool were just beyond it, she remembered.
Abbie ran to the window, passing the bodies. Something grabbed her attention.
Turning her head, she looked at the two bloody corpses.

McKenzie’s
face was twisted in horror, lying against the other body. He’d killed Rocky
first. She remembered McKenzie saying that. But something wasn’t…

The
grey mask had slipped slightly upwards on the face, revealing a neck and chin
covered with a reddish-brown beard. A Pali Hawaiian sandal lopped sideways on
his bare left foot, exposing a hairy big toe.

She
knew immediately. She
knew
.

The
pounding on the door intensified. Boards smashed. The door frame rattled. She
ignored it. She had to see the body’s face. She had to know for sure. She removed
the mask.
  

Dr.
Wachowski’s dead eyes stared back at her. His throat had been slashed.

Abbie
stepped back. She looked at the door.

Gareth
was breaking through it.

Gareth the Goodhearted
Ghoul
.

Chapter 32

A
gloved hand broke through the door, knocking
the tattered mattress to the floor. Stepping on top of it, he entered the
bedroom. Abbie stared as he just stood there in the doorway, watching.

“Rocky,”
she whispered.

Standing
on top the mattress, he slipped the rubber Gareth the Ghoul mask up and over
his head to reveal his sweaty face.

 
“I just want you to understand something.” He
removed a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on his face.
Rocky Stern smiled at her. “This has nothing to do with your refusal to become
a Vitamin Ritamin independent representative.”

Abbie
stepped backwards toward the window. “I thought you were Dr. Wachowski. I
thought Dr. Wachowski was texting me the dares.”

He
shook his head. “He was, at first. Then I took over. I made the game a little
more interesting.”

“Why?
What do you want?”

“I
want justice, Abbie. That’s all I ever wanted.” He took a step forward and held
up the box cutter. With a click, the blade appeared. “So, I’ll make this quick.
It won’t be painful. Not for long.”

He
stepped off the overturned mattress and came into the center of the room.

Abbie
turned to the window and fought to raise the pane. She hit the glass.
Looked back.
Rocky moved through the room.
Came up behind her.
Gripped her by the throat and spun her
around. She looked up at him. He raised the box cutter.
Pointed
the blade toward her face.
The razor’s tip poked into her skin. He
reared his arm back, preparing to strike—then stopped.

A
hand gripped his wrist.
Kept his arm from moving.

Rocky
turned his head. Abbie glanced over his shoulder. She saw the olive green
sweater vest as Professor Cunningham shook Rocky’s arm, forcing the box cutter
from his hand.

“What
are you doing?” Rocky yelled. “You’re not the one.
You’re
not
the one
!”

He
brushed past the Professor and bent down to collect the box cutter lying on the
floor.

Professor
Cunningham stepped back, giving Abbie some space. He held a framed picture of Gareth
the Ghoul under his left arm, then held it up with both hands. It was the colorful
cartoon cel from his office, with the gray ghoul flying in a blue sky with
white clouds and a brilliant, yellow sun. His hands trembled as he gripped the
picture.

“I
know who you are, Rocky Stern. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to
hurt anyone else.”

The
Professor handed the framed picture toward Rocky. Rocky stared at it with a
puzzled expression,
then
looked over at Abbie, then
back at the Professor.

“Why
are you giving me this?” he asked.

“It
was hanging in your brother’s bar, sixteen years ago. Clinton Reed and I took
it,” the Professor said. “We were just joking around. But we stole your
brother’s picture.”

“Your brother?”
Abbie’s body stiffened
with shock. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“May
he rest in
peace!
” Rocky looked back at the Professor.
“You stole this from his bar?”

 
“Unfortunately, yes.” The Professor nodded.
“And he came looking for it.
Broke into the Reed’s home.
Murdered his oldest daughter trying to retrieve it.”

“That
was your brother?” Abbie asked again, still trying to fully understand what was
happening.

“He
died in this home,” Rocky said. “Cut down. Shot.
In cold
blood.
Murdered.”

“He
murdered my sister.” Abbie balled her fists. Her legs trembled.
“And over what?
This picture?
This cartoon?”

Rocky
leaned his head back and roared with laughter. “You think my brother gave a
rat’s ass about Gareth the Ghoul?”

“It’s
an original cel from the 1930’s cartoon series.” Professor Cunningham still
held the picture in his hands, as if waiting for Rocky to take it. “It’s even
autographed. I’m sure it’s worth a small fortune.”

“I
don’t remember it.” Rocky stared at the picture. “My brother had a tattoo on
his right arm.
But a picture in his bar?
Maybe.
He had a lot of crazy things on the walls.”

 
“It was obviously important to him. I’m sorry
we took it. Clinton and I had too much to drink that night.” The Professor
turned to Abbie. “Your father drank a lot after your mother died, and we took
it as a prank.” He turned his head back to Rocky. “We never expected your
brother to come looking for it. And it’s been hanging in my office ever since. But,
like I said—it’s probably worth a small fortune.”

“It’s
worthless.” Rocky grabbed the framed photograph from the Professor’s hands and tossed
it on the floor. He stomped on it, shattering the glass. Bending down, he
pulled the colorful cel from the shards, shook it and turned it over. A yellowing,
folded paper was attached on the back. Rocky unfolded it, revealing what
appeared to be blue prints.

“This
is what my brother was looking for that night.” Rocky held up the large prints.
He looked at the Professor then over at Abbie. “Your father and the Professor
here stole a map to Tampa First National’s electrical system.”

“I
don’t understand…” Professor Cunningham shook his head as he stared at the blue
prints. “That was in the frame? That was there all this time?”

“He
had plans to use it. Something about cut’n the system, disarm’n some alarm or
something.” There was a trace of laughter in Rocky’s voice. “I don’t know. I
don’t remember much about it. I was just his kid brother and all.”

“Interesting.”
The Professor took a
cautious step back. “I—I had no idea.”

Rocky
used the box cutter to shred the old map. “It’s kinda old now,” he said. “I’m
sure the bank has upgraded its systems by now.”
 

“Well,
I returned it to you. I apologized.” Professor Cunningham walked backwards,
closer to the bedroom door. “You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

“That’s
where you’re wrong, Professor. This has nothing to do with some old map.” Rocky
opened his hand, letting shredded paper fall to the floor like confetti. He
turned his head toward the Professor. “And you are
not
the one I want.”

In
one swift motion, he lunged forward across the room and slashed the Professor’s
throat with the box cutter. The Professor gasped as blood shot from the wound.
Abbie screamed. Professor Cunningham dropped to the floor making low gurgling
sounds. His eyes opened wide as silver dollars and he brought his hands to his
throat. His body twitched.
Kicked.
Convulsed.

It
took a minute for his body to die.

When
it finally fell still, Rocky turned back toward Abbie. He waved the bloody box
cutter as he spoke. “You were supposed to bring Officer Hicks here, not the
nutty professor.”

“O—Officer Hicks?”
Abbie repeated.
“Charlie Hicks?”

 
“You were supposed to lead him here!” He let
out a frustrated scream and kicked the Professor’s back. “You’ve ruined
everything.”

Abbie
backed away toward the window. She stared in disbelief as Rocky grabbed the Professor’s
arms and pulled his body backwards toward the bedroom door. He paused and
looked up at Abbie.

“Can
you do me a solid?” He straightened his back and stood at his full height.

“What?”
Abbie’s voice squeaked. She felt like she was in some kind of alternate
reality. Nothing made sense.

“Help
me get him back into the attic?”

Abbie
couldn’t believe what she was seeing, hearing. “What?”

“I
need to get him back up into the attic, and I need your help.”

 
“W-w-why?”
She could
actually feel her heart pounding in her chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“I
want it to look like our disgraced ex-Officer Hicks killed this guy along with
your father.”

Abbie
was speechless. “I don’t—”

“Are
you dumb or just hard of hearing?” Rocky grabbed the Professors limp arms and
shook them. “Officer Hicks shot and killed my brother. Now we’re going to make
it look like his murder spree is still going on.”

“You’re
framing him?” Abbie brought a hand to her mouth. She reached for her unicorn
pendant, forgetting she’d lost it. “Your brother broke into our home, murdered
my sister and tried to kill me. Officer Hicks was doing his job. He saved me.”

 
“Well, you heard the Professor. He and your
Dad stole my brother’s private property.” Rocky paused, as if he hadn’t
considered that. He looked down at the Professor’s body. “Guess that’s what you
call Comparative Suffering.”

“Comparative suffering?”

“Yeah.”
Rocky smirked. “I took his course too.”

“You’re
insane.”

“Hmmm,”
he said. “And you’re the one in therapy.” He dragged the Professor’s body to
the edge of the mattress in front of the door,
then
paused. “I really only wanted to hurt Charlie Hicks,” he said. “I tried before
to take him down. He wasn’t really stalking that teenage girl. And when she
turned up dead, Charlie Hicks should’ve gotten the rap. He should be rotting in
jail right now. But he got off.”

“You
framed him?”

“I
delivered justice.” Rocky’s voice turned sharp, defensive. “But when that
failed, I waited for a new opportunity to present itself.”

“McKenzie?”
she asked. He nodded and pointed to his forehead. He shot her a subtle grin.
Abbie wanted to cry. “She thought you died.”

“Yeah,
I tricked her. She saw me kill your weird therapist friend. He was wearing a
mask and she thought he was me.” He laughed and raised his head, as if
remembering the event. “It really scared the crap out of her too. You shoulda
seen it.”

“McKenzie
loved you.” Abbie looked back at the bodies on the floor. “McKenzie wanted to
marry you.”

“I
didn’t love her,” he said. “Not really. I dated her to find you. I knew you two
were friends, and she could track you down.”

“Why?”

“To set this whole thing in motion.
I knew if I could find
you, I could find Charlie Hicks.”

“That’s
why you said I was supposed to lead him here?”

“Well,
look who just showed up to the party.” He cocked his head, as if realizing he’d
just hurt her feelings. Shrugging, he folded his arms across his chest. “Look,
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. Now are you going to help me get him
in the attic or not?” Bending down, he grabbed the Professor’s arms again and
pulled the body over the mattress, then the rest of the way out of the room.
When he was in the hallway, Abbie turned back to the window. She gripped the bottom
edge of pane.
Pulled up.
Her fingers tightened. Her
arms trembled. Finally, the window popped and slid upwards. She slipped through
it and onto the roof.

The
night air was cool, and seemed to heighten her senses. Half sitting on the
rough shingles, half sliding down them, she made her way to the edge of the
roof. She could clearly see the porch and empty swimming pool in the back yard
below her. If she could maneuver to the porch, she could probably climb down.

A
voice caught her attention and Abbie looked behind her. Rocky was at the
bedroom window, his upper body leaning out.

“Hey!”
He climbed out the window. “Where are you going?”

Abbie
hesitated at the roof edge along the gutter. She looked back at Rocky as he dropped
onto his butt and slid across the shingles toward her. Abbie had no choice. Taking
a gulp of air, she jumped. She plummeted into the backyard, landing on the hard
dirt and rolled. She felt her arm snap, heard the crack.

Rocky
fell from the roof just feet from where she lay. He raised his hand, holding up
the box cutter.

“I
asked politely,” he said. “I explained what I had to do and you’re ruining
everything—on purpose.”

Abbie drew a breath, shifted around, got to
her feet. Her arm was on fire. He lunged for her, catching her. They hit the weathered
deck, smashed into the wooden step railing. The rotted wood splintered,
spilling them to the concrete. They rolled, she on top grabbing at the box
knife. His other hand caught her throat, pushed her back. She clutched his arm
as he rolled over her. He let go.
Got up.
Held the box cutter.