In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (34 page)

In between it all was a high-pitched
whimpering. The screams, however, were now gone.

She shouldered the door in an attempt to
break it loose, managing to do little more than send a sharp pain
running down her arm and across her back. Rocking backward with
everything she could muster, she tried pulling at the door again,
but it remained steadfastly in place and the knob still wouldn’t
budge.

Stepping back, she braced herself and cocked
her knee, driving her foot against the wooden barrier. There was a
hard, hollow thump, but no movement at all, save for the jarring
vibrations radiating into her joints. She threw another violent
kick but met with the same result.

Panting hard, in a last ditch effort she
backed up against the opposite wall and brought her sidearm to bear
on the jamb where the handset met the frame. Just as she was about
to squeeze the trigger, she heard a small shuffle then a quiet
thump.

It was a different noise than before—measured
and deliberate.

She relaxed her finger and listened.

The noises repeated in tandem. This time the
shuffle was followed first by a light but still sharp thunk, then
by a quieter and softer thump.

A pause; then they came again…

Another pause, and then shuffle, thunk, thump
yet again… Moving audibly closer with each repetition.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Constance glanced quickly to the right and
then slid her back along the wall until she hit the casing around a
doorframe. Taking a quick step to the right and then back, she
moved into the empty doorway that was diagonally opposite of the
basement entryway itself. The basement door should swing out and to
her left. Whenever it finally opened, whoever was coming up the
stairs would be standing directly in her line of fire.

The slow shuffle continued, followed by the
sharp thunk and soft thump. Occasionally the odd rhythm was joined
by the barest of a creak from the wooden stairs. Each time, the
noises sounded closer, until finally they came to a halt
immediately on the opposite side of the basement door. Constance
watched on in the darkness, waiting.

Eventually, a slow click and scrape sounded
as the old doorknob began to turn.

“FEDERAL AGENT!” She called out, her voice
loud but still hoarse and rough. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS
BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!”

Constance kept her focus straight ahead,
looking into the shadows with both eyes targeting down the sights
of the Sig Sauer as she held it stiff-armed before her. The latch
completely released with a languid pop, and she detected movement
as the door itself slowly parted from the jamb.

A wisp of air, colder than the already frigid
house, brushed against her cheek, startling in its intensity.
Steeling herself, she sucked in a deep breath and repeated her
previous instruction. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR
HEAD!”

With a long, low creak, the door pivoted open
on its hinges. She sucked in another breath and held it,
visualizing in her mind the top of the stairwell as it had been
when she had ascended it earlier. Leveling her arms in a
straight-on isosceles stance, she targeted at a point where she
estimated an average-sized man’s chest would be as he came up and
through the opening.

Her aim was far too high.

As the door swung wide, she found herself
staring at the dark silhouette of a much smaller figure. In fact,
it seemed to be the size of a small child. Moving her weapon down
and training it on the shadow she barked, “FEDERAL OFFICER! DON’T
MOVE!”

The silhouette seemed to obey, remaining
frozen in place. Leaving the Sig aimed squarely at the figure,
Constance dug her left hand quickly into her pocket, withdrew the
still burning flashlight and pointed it at the lower portion of the
doorway.

Staring back at her, unblinking in the
blue-white brilliance, was a freckle-faced girl of around
ten-years-old. Her mop of chestnut hair was tangled and matted. She
was smeared with filth, and obvious tracks could be seen where
tears had once streamed down her cheeks, but had now gone dry. What
she could see of the rest of the child’s bare skin was splattered
with blood, bruises, open wounds, and festering cigarette burns.
She was partially clad in the ripped shreds of a plaid school
uniform.

Constance slowly lowered her weapon as she
stared in disbelief, remembering Sheriff Carmichael’s description
of Merrie Frances Callahan when he had discovered her on Christmas
morning, 1975.

“Merrie?” she whispered.

The little girl continued staring back at
her, glassy-eyed and silent. In a very real sense, it seemed that
she wasn’t looking at Mandalay as much as she was looking through
her. The child swiveled her head slowly from side to side, as if
lost and searching for her bearings.

After a moment, in a weak, flat voice she
simply said, “I lost one of my shoes.”

Constance looked down and noticed that the
girl’s left foot was securely buckled into a patent-leather Mary
Jane, but her right was completely bare. The pronouncement the girl
had made didn’t seem as though it was directed at anyone. It was
more like something said by a person suffering from traumatic
shock. An overstatement of the obvious made for no other reason
than the fact that it was something to focus upon.

Mandalay blinked hard then looked into the
little girl’s face and whispered once again. “Merrie Callahan?”

The girl turned away from her without another
word and shuffled slowly up the corridor. Constance stood
dumbfounded for a moment as the utter insanity of what she was
seeing seeped into her overtired brain.

Mandalay hesitated, following the child with
only the flashlight and her eyes as her own state of shock washed
over her. She watched silently as the girl turned the corner and
disappeared through the archway into the front room.

C
HAPTER
26

HOLSTERING
her sidearm and latching
the thumb break, Constance stepped into the hallway and followed
after the girl. She pressed forward quickly, moving on automatic
pilot as she jogged to her left and hooked through the archway. She
played the beam of the flashlight around the room, but the child
was nowhere to be seen. Directly ahead, the front door of the house
was halfway open, allowing more light from the streetlamps to spill
inward through the wide crack and mix with the beam of her
flashlight.

Constance rushed to the door and pulled it
wide. Beyond the opening was the front porch, and beyond that the
yard. Near the center of that frozen expanse, the child was
trudging forward through the snow, zombie-like but with what seemed
a determined purpose.

Constance stepped quickly through the doorway
and across the porch. Stumbling in her haste, she tripped her way
down the snow-covered front steps, pitching forward in a clumsy
fall. As she grasped for the railing to regain her balance, the
small flashlight sprang from her hand and tumbled end-over-end
through the air. When it came down several feet away, it
disappeared into the mantle of white and created a muted glow just
inches beneath the surface.

Pulling herself up, Mandalay regained her
footing and jumped forward, abandoning the flashlight and taking
the last two stairs as one. Then she began making her way through
the snow-covered yard, chasing after the child.

“Merrie!” she called to her again, increasing
her stride to catch up. When she closed the short distance and came
upon the girl, she reached out toward her shoulder.

As her fingers fell the last few inches
toward the child, the sound of crunching snow filled her ears,
underscoring a shouting male voice. All Constance managed to make
out was the word, “NO!”

She was blindsided from the right by what
felt like a linebacker slamming into her; and he was moving at as
much of a dead run as the thick blanket of white covering the yard
would allow. Pain shot through her bruised side as a thick arm
roughly hooked about her waist. There was a hard jerk on impact,
her head snapped to one side, and she felt herself spinning, which
caused her hand to whip back and away from the still moving girl. A
split second later all manner of balance had instantly disappeared,
and Constance was briefly airborne. Falling hard, she tumbled to
the left with a sharp yelp, hitting the ground, but not before
landing on top of whoever had just tackled her. She tried to roll
away but felt the arm pull tighter, squeezing around her waist like
a vise as he yanked her back.

She was pitched onto her back, still
partially atop her attacker, the wind knocked from her lungs. She
gasped for a breath as his other arm came around just beneath her
ribcage, but over the top of her own left forearm, trapping it
securely against her side. She felt his hand groping across her
stomach, trying to get a hold on her right arm as well. She
immediately pulled it away, but for a moment his fingers hooked
into her coat sleeve and clenched.

She yanked hard in a desperate tug of war.
Fortunately, given the awkward angle at which she was being
restrained, she still had enough leverage, so that with a second
sharp jerk she was able to break free and pull it out of reach.

The man was trying to talk to
her—half-spoken, unintelligible words coming out between panting
breaths, but she wasn’t paying attention. Right now she had no
interest in hearing his threats; she just needed to get away from
him before he could inflict serious damage.

Out of trained reflex, she threw her free arm
forward and brought it back down at a sharp angle, summoning all of
the strength she could muster out of her shoulder as she rotated it
back. Pulling straight in with her forearm she cocked her elbow and
drove it hard into her attacker’s stomach. She felt a fleeting
moment of satisfaction when a deep, guttural huff exploded into the
night immediately behind her right ear. She instantly twisted to
the left as his hold on her loosened, but it still wasn’t enough
for her to escape.

He pulled her back, pawing at the folds of
her coat as he renewed his grip. For the barest of an instant, a
stab of panic skewered Constance’s racing heart. If he managed to
get his hand on her weapon, she was in trouble. Close quarters
hand-to-hand combat wasn’t a problem for her; she knew exactly how
to disarm and take down almost any opponent—as long as she was on
her feet.

Therein was her weakness.

Once she hit the ground, the game changed
drastically, and not in her favor. It was almost like being a
turtle that had flipped over onto its back with no way to right
itself. She was petite and lacked the upper body strength of a man.
That made her susceptible and put her in serious jeopardy. In a
prone position like this, a larger opponent—especially a man—would
have a weight and strength advantage that was much harder to
overcome. In some cases, maybe damn near impossible. As tight as
this particular man’s hold seemed to be, her odds were starting to
look grim.

She bit back the sudden fear before it could
run rampant and take over. She couldn’t afford to give in to it,
because once she did, that meant she had lost the fight, and in her
mind that wasn’t an option. While he obviously had strength on his
side at the moment, she still had some things going for her. For
one, he didn’t have the weight advantage—yet. Right now, he was
down, and she was on top of him, which put her in a better than
average position under the circumstances. Plus, they were wrestling
in deep enough snow to slow him a bit and restrict his movement.
While balance and agility were no longer her great equalizers, she
knew she had to use whatever openings she could find. One of those
just happened to be that her attacker had an intrinsic
vulnerability she could exploit, and she was already planning to go
after it with extreme prejudice.

Twisting to the left she shot her arm out
again and curved her back as much as the Kevlar vest would allow,
hunching forward as she brought the heel of her fist rocketing down
for a groin shot. He must have seen it coming, because she felt her
hand connect, but it impacted with a solid thud, far more like a
full on blow to his thigh instead of the tender area she had
targeted. He still yelped but held firm.

He began kicking and twisting after the first
blow, fully recognizing her plan of attack. He rocked to the right,
then rolled hard, trying to push her over and pin her down.

She couldn’t allow that to happen, or the
fight would be over with her as the loser.

Scissoring her legs and bending her left
knee, she dug her foot into the snow and locked it there, pushing
back against him as hard as she could, stopping his roll in its
tracks. With a quick swivel, she brought her other leg up, over,
and down in between his, hooking it over the top of his left knee.
Digging the heel of her foot into the snow pack, she rocked
forward, bending her chin to her chest and tensing her neck as she
grimaced. With a quick thrust she arched her body while throwing
her head back, intent on slamming the back of it into his nose. It
was a maneuver of last resort, but she was running out of
options.

She figured he saw the head butt coming,
because she felt him trying to twist. He managed to turn enough to
save his nose; however, he was unable to keep her skull from
popping hard against his jaw, right at the corner of his chin and
mouth.

The strike was solid enough to send a jarring
pain through Constance’s own head, but she was expecting as much
and had braced for it. Judging from the sound, he had taken the
worst of the strike and was hopefully stunned. With that—and the
fact that she had his leg pinned, which left his crotch fully
exposed—she would be back in the game.