A Novel Way to Die (23 page)

Darla did her best not to flinch as he lightly caught her arm and escorted her. She
hadn’t realized before how strong his grip was. She remembered, too, how he’d talked
about playing baseball in high school, and later in college. It occurred to her now
that there couldn’t be much difference between swinging a bat and swinging a crowbar.

Quit thinking about it, and just get the hell out of here
, she told herself.

Once she was out the door and out of his sight, she’d do the high-school-athlete thing
herself and break a few cross-country records on her way back to the store.
Anything after that was Reese’s problem. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Barry
reached for the doorknob, and the familiar earsplitting shriek of rusted hinges rang
out.

Except that he hadn’t yet turned the knob, and the shriek wasn’t from the hinges.

“Hamlet!” she cried, abruptly forgetting that she was trying to make good an escape.
“That was my cat. He’s in here somewhere, and he sounds like he’s hurt. Hamlet!”

Had she tried to describe the sound, it would be the piercing cry of a screaming baby
overlaid by the nerve-tingling scrape of chalk on a board. It sounded angry . . .
and frightened. Pulling away from Barry’s grasp, she ran to where the foyer and narrow
hall met, frantically listening for another feline screech. “Hamlet, where are you?”

“Me-ooooooooow!”

“There,” she cried, pointing to the closed basement door. “He’s down there.”

“Darla, no! Don’t go down there!”

His expression anxious, Barry raced toward her, but she had already jerked open the
door and was rushing down the steps. The faint light from the corner was enough to
guide her down and bright enough to show her that Barry had left his big flashlight
on and sitting on the bottom step. She grabbed it, shouting, “Hamlet, where are you?”

“Me-ooooooooow!”

The sound was coming from the boiler area. She moved forward, swiftly picking her
way through a path of disassembled boiler parts, and shined the light in that direction,
aware of Barry’s heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs after her. Hamlet screeched
again, sounding this time more demanding than frightened, as if he’d been waiting
impatiently for her to find him.

“Hamlet, I’m coming! What’s wrong?” she called as she reached the unlit boiler and
shined her light behind it.

Her beam illuminated a pair of golden green eyes that seemed to be floating well above
the height of an average cat. Moving closer, she saw in relief the familiar silhouette
of Hamlet, apparently unharmed. He’d stopped his unearthly crying, but as Darla watched
he began pawing at something beneath him. She aimed the flashlight beam lower and
then bit back a scream at what she saw.

Hamlet stood balanced atop what appeared at first glance to be a roll of black sheeting,
rather like the plastic she’d seen outside in the roll-away container. But this bundle
had been tied at intervals, giving it an unsettlingly familiar shape. As her beam
swept farther out, Darla could see where someone had pried up the century-old brick
flooring next to it and had been digging in the damp soil. A shovel had been thrust
into the small pile of dirt that had already accumulated, as if the digger had stopped
in his task but intended to return.

And then she noticed something else. At the spot where Hamlet had been pawing, what
appeared to be a hank of long blond hair snaked out from the end of the bundle.

Oh my God
, Darla thought.
I’ve found Tera!

TWENTY-ONE

“I TOLD YOU TO STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT, DARLA.”

Barry’s voice was almost in her ear, startling her so that she jumped and dropped
the flashlight. The long silver cylinder rolled lazily across the brick floor, its
white beam rising and falling against the far wall. Unhurried, Barry went to retrieve
it and then turned and shined the light in her direction.

“It’s not what you think, Darla,” he said in an oddly conversational tone. “Well,
actually, I suppose it is. And I guess your next logical conclusion would be that
I must have killed Curt, too.”

That conclusion James and Robert had already reached. With an effort, Darla tore her
gaze from tail of blond hair, which looked almost white beneath the flashlight beam,
grateful that the rest of Tera was hidden away beneath the black plastic.

“That’s why my manager called me,” she replied in a voiced that sounded strangely
detached, even to her own ears. “He and Robert already figured it out. If I’m not
back at the bookstore in a few minutes, they’ll be coming here for me . . . after
they call the police, of course.”

“Really?”

Now, Darla heard a note of amusement in Barry’s flat tone.

“Last I knew, Curt’s murder was pretty much solved. The police already have their
man . . . or, rather, woman. So what proof are your friends going to bring to them
to show that I had anything to do with all this?” he demanded with a gesture that
encompassed the basement.

Iron.

Hamlet for a witness.

Not enough to exactly hold up in court without her testimony as to what she’d seen
and heard.
Darla gave another reflexive glance at the wrapped body lying beside what was obviously
meant to be grave, and then drew a deep breath. If she couldn’t get out of that basement,
chances were Barry would soon be digging a second hole alongside the first.

“It doesn’t matter,” she bluffed. “The point is, they know.”

This time, Barry laughed aloud.

“Good try, Darla, but what you’re saying is that your friends don’t have squat. Add
that to the fact I have no apparent motive for either of the killings, and the police
have zero evidence to pin on me. Of course, now there’s you”—he paused and shrugged—“but
I think I can solve that little problem.”

“Please, Barry, don’t do this,” she choked out, putting out a hand in a reflexive
attempt to ward him off. “Everyone knows I’m here. It-it won’t gain you anything.”

“Did I ever tell you that besides pitching for my high school team, I was captain
of the debate team for three years?” he asked in a conversational tone, as if she
hadn’t spoken. “I always did have a knack for bringing people around to my point of
view.”

With those words he started toward her.

For a terrible instant, Darla’s only thought was that this was like every lame cliché
in every bad movie she’d ever seen: the soon-to-be murder victim just standing by
helplessly while her would-be killer advanced on her.
Go, go, go!
the voice in her head screamed, but her legs would not respond. She was paralyzed,
caught in a waking nightmare, and unable to flee her pursuer. Being “frozen in fear”
really wasn’t just a casual expression, but a cold reality. And it seemed that she
was having the very bad misfortune to learn this firsthand.

“Me-ooooooooow!”

The high-pitched shriek, like the battle cry of some demon feline, abruptly shattered
the wall of fear surrounding her. Darla turned to run, but not before she saw Hamlet
launch himself from his post atop the plastic-wrapped body. Claws fully extended,
he flew right into Barry’s face.

The man screamed in pain and shouted a stream of obscenities as he attempted to dislodge
the cat from his upper body. Darla didn’t wait to see what happened next. Adrenaline
coursing through her, she sprang toward the stairs.

Fast as she ran, however, Barry was quicker. He’d managed to dislodge the attacking
feline and had rushed after her, catching her arm before she could take the first
step. His fingers bit through her coat sleeve, holding her in a grip from which she
could not break free.

“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he gritted out, his face inches from
hers, flashlight clenched in his free hand like a club.

She could see blood freely welling in the trio of claw marks that ran down one side
of his neck. Hamlet had done some damage, she saw in terrified satisfaction. But what
had happened to the brave feline?

She found out an instant later when Barry gave another shout and let go of her arm.
This time, Hamlet had gone into stealth mode, silently leaping up and sinking his
formidable fangs into the man’s shoulder. But Barry was wearing a jacket, and in a
swift move the man slipped out of the coat and flung it to one side, taking Hamlet
with it. Cat and jacket rolled across brick and plywood as the feline attempted to
detach his claws from the fabric. An instant later he was free, and like a small black
panther came charging forward yet again.

This time, however, Barry was prepared for him. With a growl of his own he flung the
flashlight with unerring aim in Hamlet’s direction. Darla screamed a warning, but
it was too late. She heard a soft
thud
, and the cat dropped like a stone.

“Guess I still have the old pitching arm,” Barry said, grim satisfaction in his tone
as he strode over to where the still black form lay sprawled on the brick.

Dead?

Darla stared in shock, unable to believe that the valiant feline had not risen for
another attack. But Hamlet didn’t move, not even when Barry picked him up by the scruff
of the neck and carried the cat’s limp body to the boiler. To Darla’s horror, he yanked
open the firebox and tossed Hamlet inside, then slammed the rusty iron door shut.

“I don’t think you’ll be trying that trick again,” he said with a humorless laugh.
“Now, Darla, where were we?”

Where Darla was, was halfway up the stairs. Gasping for breath, she shoved through
the basement door and shut it behind her, then made a beeline for the front door.
She twisted the ornate knob and yanked, but the door remained stubbornly closed.

“No, no, no!” she shrieked. How could the door suddenly be stuck like that? It had
opened fine just a few minutes before.

Locked!

Barry must have taken a moment to lock the front door before following her down to
the basement. Almost sobbing now, she flipped the latch and gasped in relief when
the knob turned freely. She was almost home free. All she had to do was reach the
street. But barely had she dragged the reluctant door a few inches open when it slammed
shut again.

“You’re worse than that damn cat of yours, the way you just won’t quit!”

Arms on either side of her, Barry held her pinned against the door, his breath now
coming in angry, ragged gasps.

“You know, I felt kind of bad about this at first,” he went on in the same outraged
voice. “I really liked you . . . not like that bitch Tera. But now, you’ve really
pissed me off. I think I’m going to enjoy getting rid of you after all!”

Later on, Darla realized that this should have been her moment of greatest terror.
Instead, something had kick-started her redhead’s temper into overdrive, enveloping
her in white-hot fury, the likes of which she’d never before felt. Maybe it was hearing
Barry’s total disregard for his victims, or his casual assumption that he would kill
her, too. Or maybe it was just recalling how he had tossed away the fearless Hamlet
like so much garbage. Whatever the cause, she knew with sudden certainty that she
wasn’t going down without a fight.

And with that flash of emotion came something just as useful: the memory of Robert’s
eager comment from the previous day.
Those fancy chopstick things in her hair? Those would make, like, really sick weapons,
just like in the movies
.

With a scream of pure fury, Darla smashed her foot onto Barry’s sneakered instep;
then, as he stumbled back in pain, she snatched the hair sticks from her bun and stabbed
him.

Had this been one of Robert’s movies, each carved stick would have plunged with painful
accuracy deep into Barry’s chest, immediately taking him out like a staked vampire.
The reality was that he easily blocked the first attempt, catching her wrist in his
hand and squeezing it so tightly that her makeshift weapon dropped from her suddenly
nerveless fingers. Her second attack was more successful, with the hair stick driving
a good inch into his bicep. If far from fatal, the effort was enough to gain her a
momentary advantage.

Barry gave a wordless, agonized shout and promptly released her. And in that instant
while he was yanking the stick from his injured arm, she was free again and running,
her red hair sailing about her shoulders.

Her options for what to do next had long since flashed through her mind, the first
two already considered and dismissed in the space of a heartbeat. Her first escape
route was the front door, but Barry—though momentarily distracted by the pain of her
attack—still blocked that way. The rear door was of no use, for the stack of lumber
she’d seen on her last visit still blocked that exit. Her last chance at escape, then,
was through one of the unboarded windows on an upper floor.

Which was how she came to be halfway up the stairs when Barry recouped from his shock
and turned to pursue her.

Holes in the floor, watch out for holes in the floor!

Remembering from last time that portions of the subfloor had been sawed through, Darla
dodged the first hole she encountered, only to stumble into the sawhorse barricade
surrounding the next one. She flung herself to one side and narrowly avoided dropping
through the woman-sized gap, though the sound of something clattering past the sawhorses
and landing on the floor below told her how close she’d come to disaster.

Scrambling to her feet again, she ignored her bruised elbows and knees and barreled
up the second flight of stairs. Now, her breath was coming in strangled gasps, while
sweat born of fear trickled from her armpits and down her forehead. Swiping her tangled
hair from her face, she ignored the missing handrails and spindles that under other
circumstances would have slowed her progress as she struggled with acrophobia. The
familiar fear of falling had nothing on her newfound fear of being caught by a murderer!

Once on the third floor, she bypassed the first room and ducked into the second, praying
that she had guessed correctly. Rushing to the window, she saw directly below what
she was looking for: the construction Dumpster. Jumping into it would be risky, potentially
even deadly—sharp wood and rough plasterboard outweighed soft insulation—but it was
a chance she had to take. Catching hold of the window frame, she struggled for a few
precious seconds with the sash.

Painted shut
,
she realized in true panic when the window, despite her best efforts, refused to budge.
She swung around, wildly looking for something to break the glass. She was running
out of options, and, like poor Hamlet, chances were she wouldn’t be able to manage
a second attack on Barry.

Barry!

He stood in the doorway now, blocking her only way out again and looking strangely
unhurried as he watched her frantic struggle. The upper portion of one denim shirt
sleeve was bloody, and his mouth turned down in a pained grimace, but otherwise he
appeared unhampered by her previous attack. It was like smacking a grizzly on the
nose, she realized with a return of her earlier hopelessness. She might have pissed
him off, or even hurt him a little, but no way was that going to stop him.

Her heart beating so loudly she knew he must hear it, Darla looked again for something
to break the windowpane, or failing that, something with which she could defend herself.
But the room was empty of all but a few metal paint buckets and rolls of paper tape
and duct tape.

Think of Curt . . . of Tera . . . of Hamlet.

But that first wave of adrenaline that had crashed through her veins had retreated
just as quickly, leaving her sapped of energy. Try as she might, Darla could not summon
back what had felt for those few moments like supernatural fury.

Barry must have seen the sudden despair in her expression, for he gave her a cold
smile. “Looks like you made a little tactical error. What’s the expression, Darla . . .
trapped like a rat? Or maybe a cat?”

She took an uncertain step back.
Think!
There had to be another clever trick she could try, even something as simple as . . .

The phone!
Frantically, she reached into her coat pocket, searching for her cell. It would take
an instant to dial 9-1-1, and surely she could shout her location into it before Barry
tried to wrestle it away. But where was it?

“Looking for this?” he asked and held out the missing cell.

Belatedly, she recalled the clatter when she’d stumbled and nearly gone through the
hole in the second floor. The sound she’d heard must have been her phone slipping
out of her pocket and tumbling through the gap. Now, as she watched in dismay, he
let the phone drop to the floor and deliberately crushed it beneath his heel.