Deadly Visions (Nightmare Hall) (13 page)

The calendar page had come from the art building. But the art department had many, many students. Any one of them could be determined, for whatever reason, to keep Rachel from living.

If only Milo had seen his attacker’s face before he went spiraling down those metal stairs.

The first thing Rachel did when she returned to her room was go to her dresser to retrieve the calendar page. No point in bothering with the watercolor. The police would never see what she saw in that painting. But the painted message on the calendar page was clear enough. That, combined with Milo’s testimony when the police talked to him, should convince the authorities that she was in danger.

It wasn’t her job to say from whom. It was their job to figure that out. All she had to do was get them to listen to her.

She yanked open the top dresser drawer, where Bibi had said she would put the two items, and reached inside.

They weren’t there.

There was only a jumble of socks and headbands and T-shirts and scarves and panty hose and belts.

And although Rachel burrowed deep into the drawer with shaking fingers, tossing items this way and that, there was no sign of the threatening note or the pastel watercolor.

They were gone.

She wouldn’t be going to the police for help, after all. Not without any proof.

Shoulders slumped, she slowly closed the drawer. She was turning away from the dresser, disappointment etched across her face, when she heard a sound outside her door. It wasn’t the ordinary, everyday sound of footsteps announcing someone’s arrival. This sound was softer, almost furtive, the whispering footsteps of someone who preferred
not
to be announced.

The doorknob turned.

Rachel dove into the closet and hid behind the wall of hangered clothes.

She couldn’t see, but she could hear. The door opened. Someone came in, very quietly. Walked into the middle of the room. Rachel wanted fiercely to push the clothes aside and peer out, but she was terrified that she’d be seen. Her heart was thudding so loudly in her chest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the intruder had heard it.

She stood in the darkness of the closet, her breath coming in short, panicky little gasps.

What would she do if the stealthy footsteps began approaching the closet? There was no back door, no way out. She would be trapped.

Afraid her erratic breathing was making too much noise in the silent room, Rachel tried to hold her breath. But all that did was make her dizzy.

No footsteps approached her hiding place. After what seemed like hours, she heard movement toward the door. But even after it had opened and closed, Rachel stayed in the closet, afraid it was a trick, afraid he hadn’t actually left but was trying to make her think that he had.

It wasn’t until her head felt as if she might explode with curiosity that she tentatively pushed the two dresses aside and peered out into the room. It
looked
empty, and she heard no sound beyond her own breathing.

Still, she came out from behind the clothes very slowly, as quietly as possible. And it wasn’t until she peeked around the edge of the folding door and saw for herself that the room was completely empty, that she allowed herself a gigantic sigh of relief.

She raced over to the door and locked it.

The telephone rang.

Rachel stared at it as if she expected it to leap off the table and attack her.

It rang again, and a third time.

She answered it.

Aidan’s voice said angrily, “I thought you were going to call us to come pick you up at the hospital. I called there, and they said you’d left. You came home by yourself? Why?”

Because right now, I don’t know who I can trust, Rachel answered silently. “I caught a cab,” she said. “It seemed faster than waiting for someone to drive in from campus. And I know you guys are busy, cleaning up over there.”

“Not that busy. I sent Samantha to find you. She there yet?”

If he wasn’t “that busy,” why hadn’t he come himself instead of sending Sam? “No. Haven’t seen her.”

“I want you to come over here. To the art building. Bibi’s here, with Rudy, so I know you’re alone. That’s not a good idea, Rachel. Wait there for Sam, and then the two of you come back here. You’ll be safe here, with us.”

So he really did believe that the flowerpot hadn’t taken a header off the terrace on its own. It was true, she would be safer at the art building, surrounded by friends.

But she wasn’t going to sit around waiting for Sam.

Rachel quickly changed from her dirt-spattered jeans and sweatshirt into clean clothes, and left the room. Instead of taking the elevator, which suddenly seemed a perfect place to become trapped, she decided to take the fire stairs.

No one was in the hall when she pulled the heavy door open, no one behind her when she started down the stairs, her sneakers making little plopping sounds as she descended from one step to the next. The lighting was dim, the stairway cool, the silence comforting because it meant that she was alone. Safely alone.

She had just reached the sixth-floor landing, two floors down, when she heard the first sound. A door opening, somewhere above her. Not far, perhaps two floors up. Someone else had decided against the elevator. Using the stairs for exercise?

Maybe. Rachel continued her descent. The stitches on her anklebone pulled as she stepped down, but the wound itself was still numb from the local anesthetic she’d been given.

Only a second or two later, something struck her about the footsteps above her. They were muffled, much quieter than her own. Like the footsteps that had approached her room. Furtive. Stealthy. Footsteps that didn’t want to be heard.

Rachel stopped, lifted her head, looked up. She could see nothing on the landings above her. But when she stopped, the footsteps stopped, too.

Testing, she ran down half a dozen more steps, her ears straining for sound.

The footsteps ran, too.

She stopped again.

They stopped.

No question now. The runner above her knew she was in the stairwell. Had probably seen her from one of the higher landings. Didn’t want her to know he was there. And intended to catch up with her.

She had to get off this staircase.

She was on the fifth-floor landing. She whirled, reached out for a doorknob on the heavy metal door, grasped it. It didn’t turn. Didn’t move.

Locked.

Rachel turned and raced down the stairs to the fourth floor. If the anesthetic injected into her ankle wore off, she was going to be in big trouble. She heard the footsteps racing downward, toward her. Tried the door at the fourth floor.

Locked.

What good was a fire door if it was kept locked?

You can open it from the
inside,
she told herself, in case of fire, but it’s locked on the outside for security.

Great.

The footsteps above her increased their speed, uncaring now if they were heard.

Giving up on the door and any hope of leaving the staircase before she reached the ground floor, Rachel increased her own speed, propelling herself down the stairs as if the heat from a roaring inferno was searing her heels.

B
Y THE TIME RACHEL
reached the fire door to the lobby, she was drenched in a cold sweat. Her knees were weak from racing down the stairs. And still the footsteps above her persisted, slap, slap, slapping down the stone steps in determined pursuit.

But the lobby door wouldn’t be,
couldn’t be,
locked. People coming from the basement cafeteria often came up this way and entered the building through this door.

Gasping with relief, Rachel’s fingers closed around the metal doorknob.

It turned.

The door opened a crack. And stopped.

Rachel pushed on it, hard.

It wouldn’t give.

The door was open only a crack, and although Rachel threw her entire weight against it, it would open no further.

Something was in its way. Something heavy. Something that weighed a lot more than Rachel Seaver.

The footsteps above her had stopped when she did. Gambling that they wouldn’t start moving again until she moved, Rachel peered through the opening in the door. Boxes. Stacks of them. She could see tan cardboard boxes, piled high directly in front of the door.

Rachel almost screamed in fury. Who would be stupid enough to bar a fire door?

It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. There had been a delivery to Lester. Supplies of some kind, maybe cleaning supplies or pots and pans for the cafeteria. Whoever had accepted the delivery had carelessly stacked the boxes off to one side, probably not even noticing the fire door was blocked.

The footsteps above her, impatient with the wait, began again on their own. Her pursuer couldn’t know the lobby door was barred. He was probably afraid she’d left the staircase, just as she’d intended to. Now he was rushing down to see if his quarry had escaped.

Giving up on the lobby door, Rachel whirled and ran again.

Down still more steps, only one flight this time, to the basement. The only area of the basement she knew well was the cafeteria. Exhaustion and fear had disoriented her and she couldn’t remember, as she yanked open the unlocked door and burst into the long, dimly lit hallway, which way she should go. Which way … which way? Which way is the cafeteria? she screamed silently, knowing that if she chose incorrectly, she could find herself lost, perhaps trapped, in the basement labyrinth of twisted, turning hallways, boiler and utility rooms, supply and maintenance closets.

There wasn’t time to think about it.

Rachel turned to her right and broke into a run. Please let this be the right way, she prayed. Please!

She didn’t know whether or not her prayer had been answered until she saw, just ahead of her, another door, this one with a glass window. Could be the door to the outside, could be another locked fire door, in which case she’d be trapped, or it could be the door to the cafeteria, which would mean people and safety.

Although she heard no racing footsteps behind her, she prayed fervently, Please, please let it be the cafeteria. Please don’t let it be another locked door. I’m so tired, and my ankle hurts. I can’t run anymore. Please make it the cafeteria this time, okay?

She knew her prayer had been answered even before she opened the door, when she glanced hurriedly through the upper glass and saw people sitting at the long, narrow tables eating.

Rachel sagged against the door. She’d made it. She’d be safe in the cafeteria.

Her pursuer must have sensed that, because the sound of footsteps behind her had ended.

Rachel pulled the door open and slipped inside.

She knew she looked like a crazy person—her eyes wide with fear, her breath coming hard and fast, her gait unsteady.

Trying to ignore stares from some of the people she passed, Rachel headed for the main door just as Sam, Paloma, and Joseph entered and looked around the room, their eyes searching. When they saw Rachel, they headed straight for her.

“Where on earth have you been?” Paloma cried as they reached Rachel. “Aidan sent us to get you, and we’ve been looking all over for you. We were frantic. Sam went to your room, but you weren’t there and you hadn’t left a note or anything. Rachel, you look terrible!”

Rachel unearthed a tissue from her jeans pocket and swiped at her brow. “You were in my room?” she said to Sam. “When?”

“A few minutes ago. I went in quiet as a mouse because Aidan said you might be sleeping. Rachel, you really should keep your door locked, especially now. I mean, if you really think that someone is after you …”

“Did you take the stairs?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Did you take the stairs to get down here just now?”

“Rachel, why would any sane person walk down eight flights of stairs when there’s an elevator?”

Sam went on about the foolishness of taking stairs instead of the elevator, but Rachel was no longer listening. That had been Sam in her room? Sam, coming in quietly for fear of waking Rachel? Her movements across the carpet hadn’t been furtive, after all, but
considerate?

I hid in the closet from Sam, she thought in disgust. If I hadn’t been so paranoid, I could have just walked to the art building with Sam, and never had to go near the fire stairs.

The thought brought tears of frustration to her eyes. How was she supposed to know who to trust? She hadn’t learned anything in college so far that had taught her how to behave when she was being terrorized.

They should have a course like that, she thought angrily.

“The calendar page is gone,” she told them as they left the cafeteria. “Someone took it. Bibi put it in the top dresser drawer, and now it’s gone. I was going to take it to the police now that Milo can tell them he was attacked, but it’s gone.”

Paloma stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide. “Milo’s conscious?”

Rachel nodded. “So I guess he’s going to be okay. He’ll tell the police that he was pushed. Just like what I saw in the still life.”

“You saw someone being pushed down a fire escape?” Joseph asked.

“Not exactly. It wasn’t that clear, not then.” She quickly related her nightmare to them. Paloma was horrified, and Sam kept shaking her head. Joseph said nothing.

“It wasn’t until I had the dream that I knew Milo had been pushed,” Rachel concluded. “Although I think I would have suspected, because by then, I knew that Ted had been attacked on the riverbank.”

Rachel felt Sam’s eyes on her as they left Lester and headed across campus to the art building. When she turned to look, she saw doubt in them. “You don’t believe me?”

“Well, it’s just too weird, Rachel. I mean, I’m into all that stuff, you know, dreams and ESP. But I’ve never heard about anyone like you. Seeing things in paintings that aren’t even there? And having dreams about things that haven’t happened yet? That’s wild.”

Paloma was impressed. “You should write a book about it or something, go on talk shows. You could become really famous and make lots of money.”

“I’m not a freak, Paloma,” Rachel said sharply. “I didn’t even know I could do this until now. And frankly, I don’t see it as a good thing. It certainly hasn’t done
me
any good.” It upset her to talk about it. To change the subject, she said casually, “Listen, those smocks you all wear in art, the ones with your names in them? Does anyone have more than one?”