Nowhere to Hide (33 page)

Flicking off the flashlight, he brought his eye to the hole. He scanned the room. The "Suffer the Little Children" picture still hung on the wall, crookedly now.

At first, he’d thought the dark form huddled in the far corner of the room was no more than shadow—until the shadow moved.

Slowly, the smile returned.

Oh, this was good.
Very good.
Excitement rippled through him. It had been so long since he had played this game.

So very long.

~ * ~

What was he doing in there? Ellen wondered. He should be rushing down the stairs after her by now. At that moment, she heard the closet door creak open, heard his footsteps out in the hallway.
Oh, please, go down the stairs. Let him go down the stairs
.

But he didn’t. His footsteps were coming toward the room—slowly—coming closer.

Hugging her knees tight to her body, she pressed herself deeper into the corner, ceased to breathe.

Please, someone help me. Oh, God, please
.

Someone did try to help you, Ellen. Someone tried but you wouldn’t let them. You thought you could handle this all by yourself, just like you always think you can do everything by yourself.

And suddenly there was no more time for self-chastisement, or anything else. He was filling the doorway, grinning in at her helplessness. He stepped into the room.

"You were a bad girl, Ellen," he said. "And now you have to be punished."

She knew an instant of raw terror, and then, as though some greater force had intervened, all fear left her, replaced with a feeling of uncanny calm.

He was walking toward her, in no hurry, savoring the moment.

"You murdered my sister, you bastard," she said, positioning herself for maximum leverage. She had nothing to lose. She was going to die anyway.
Might as well get a little satisfaction.

"Yes. And now it’s your turn. When do I start paying, Ellen?" he mocked. "Remember, you said I was going to pay? I was asleep and your voice woke me. That was how I knew you were a witch. And then you said it again on television. I was in a bar. You were looking straight at me. I knew you could see me. So—when do I start paying, Ellen?"

Come a little closer, you crazy piece of slime, and you’ll find out. She planted her palms firmly on the floor on either side of her. Come on.
Just a little closer.

He closed the gap between them. He was towering above her, now. His fingers curved, moving toward her. "When do I pay, Ell—?"

Right now, you bastard!
Summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, she brought her legs up with the precision of a Parisian dancer, her feet smashing into his groin.

For a split second, nothing happened. It was like watching a freeze-frame on film. And then his mouth opened like an impaled fish trying to scream, and he dropped to his knees in front of her, clutching himself.

Ellen scrambled past him, but before she could get to her feet, his hand shot out and clamped around her ankle. She tried frantically to kick it away, but his fingers only gripped her ankle tighter. And then her free ankle was trapped in his other hand and she could do nothing. His strength was born of madness, and Ellen had used up what little strength she’d had left.

He held her like that for several minutes, neither of them moving, his breathing raspy in the silence, chorusing with her own. Finally, he recovered enough to draw himself up. Yanking her onto her back, his hands went immediately for her throat, his rigid thumbs pressing into the soft part, squeezing the breath from her. The face above her was distorted with rage.

"I’ll come back," she managed to choke out, desperately trying to pry his thumbs away. "You know I have powers."

The ploy came out of nowhere. For a brief, horrifying moment she didn’t think it was going to work. Then she felt him hesitate, felt his fingers loosen on her throat.

He drew back.

She sensed his fear, seized on it. "I’ll haunt you," she whispered hoarsely. "I’ll haunt you till the day you die. And you’ll die screaming."

He looked long at her. Then, without a word, he rose to his feet. His movements were stiff, and she knew he was still in some pain, but she was helpless to take advantage of it. The next thing she knew, she was being dragged feet first from the room out into the hallway, her head striking the door casing, on through to the closet. Here he dropped her legs just long enough to open the door, and in the space of a breath she was back behind the wall and he was snapping her hands behind her, tying them roughly, hurting her.

Next her ankles.

Finally, she couldn’t move.

"Oh, no, please," she cried as she tasted what had to be a filthy scrub rag, but her plea was cut short as he jammed it into her mouth. She gagged. Tried to work it out with her tongue, but couldn’t.

"There," he said, clearly satisfied with his work. He was standing over her, breathing hard. "You won’t escape this time. You’ll die like you were meant to—in hell. The flames will make sure you won’t be coming back."

He left her then, to return maybe ten minutes later. "Here. I’ve brought you a present. He shone the flashlight on the small, rectangular clock before setting it on the floor where she could see the green, glowing numbers. It was 12:45 a.m.

"I don’t mind if you take it with you," he jeered. "The radio doesn’t work anymore, anyway. The fire is set for nine in the morning. I thought you might enjoy the countdown. In the meantime," he said, covering her with the blankets, tucking them in around her, "we don’t want you to freeze to death in here, do we?"

This time he didn’t return.

For a long time, Ellen lay awake in the darkness, tears glistening in the glow of the clock. From time to time, she would try to work the gag loose with her tongue, but this only resulted in making her stomach heave, though she did manage every so often to shift her position a little, to work her hands and feet enough to keep the blood circulating.

I should have let him kill me. All I’ve done is
postpone
the inevitable. I’m sorry, Mike. I’m such a fool.
She envisioned his face, those warm, sensitive eyes,
the
smile that made him seem younger. She felt the sweetness of his lips on hers.
So much there.
Sadness, humor, an innate sense of justice—qualities she would have enjoyed exploring further. She would have liked to meet Angela.

So many things she wanted to do, now that it was too late. Open a private practice. Be a better friend to Myra.
Dear Myra—I’ve failed you. I’ve failed Gail, too. Now that monster will be free to go on raping and murdering other innocent women.

Through the long agonizing hours, sometimes Ellen was awake, sometimes she dozed fitfully. When she was awake she watched the numbers on the clock change, and listened to her own measured breathing. When she slept, she dreamed.

In one dream a little boy was sitting at her kitchen table, sobbing hysterically, while beside him, her hand resting on his blond head, a woman kept saying over and over, "He doesn’t sleep or eat. Can you help him? Can you help him?"

In another dream, Gail was standing on a stage in front of a microphone, wearing a skimpy green jacket, her hands drawn up inside the sleeves. She was singing, but no sound was coming out. Her face was contorted in panic. Ellen tried to comfort her, to tell her it was all right, but she kept backing away, and then she was flying backward through space, growing smaller and smaller until at last she was no more than a tiny doll-like figure at the end of a long tunnel. Ellen could hear her faint shout, "Is anybody here?"

I’m here. Wait, Gail. I’m here.

"Hello?"

Ellen opened her eyes. She looked in terror at the new numbers on the clock. 8:31 a.m.

It was morning. Nearly time.

"Anybody here?"
came
the voice again.

Not Gail.
A stranger’s voice.
It must be a fireman. He’s come to check out the building, make sure no one is trapped inside before they start the fire. Hope soared in her. She could hear him walking, could feel the slight vibration of his boots on the floor, just outside the wall.
Just a few feet from her.

I’m here!
Behind the wall.
Oh, help me, help me, please.
The screams were inside her head. Like in her dream of Gail, no sound came. Again, she tried to work the soggy rag from her mouth, but it was no use. She struggled against the ropes binding her hands, uncaring that they were cutting into her flesh. She was beyond pain.

His footsteps were fading. She could hear him leaving the room, going back down the stairs.
No! Oh, don’t leave me here to die. Please!

When she could hear him no more, a black shroud of despair settled over her.

Silent tears fell.

Fifty-three

Alvin started at a loud pounding on the back door. He’d been finishing off a beer, was just about to leave to watch the show. He knew a moment of panic until he looked out the window and saw the fireman’s uniform. No sweat.

He opened the door, smiling pleasantly.

"Morning," the kid said. "You seem to be the only neighbor around here. Just wanted to inform you the old Evansdale Home’s going up in a few minutes. We didn’t want anyone to be alarmed at the sight of the flames."

"I did know about it, but thanks, anyway. I’m Al Bishop. It’s a good thing you’re doing. Kids could get trapped in there, set the place ablaze with cigarettes or whatever the hell they’re smoking these days."

"Yeah.
You’ve been in there yourself, huh, Al? I followed your footsteps over here. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known anyone lived around here."

"My aunt ran the home for years," Alvin said easily, closing the door and walking back with him. "I was just checking to see if there was anything left in there belonging to her."

As they trod across the snowy field, the fireman kept a breathable distance between them.
The guy smelled. Damn near as bad as the house he lived in.

Fifty-four

Myra was soaking in the tub, her eyes closed when Carl called through the door. "The lieutenant called last night while you were asleep. He wanted to know if either Gail or Ellen ever spent any time in foster homes when they were kids. I knew you did, but didn’t think that had any bearing."

Why would he want to know that? Why in hell weren’t they out there looking for her?
"No," she said. "I don’t think so."

Hearing Carl’s receding footsteps, Myra slid deeper into the warm, sudsy water until it lapped at her chin. Just the echo of her migraine remained. She closed her eyes again.
She’s not dead. I know she’s not. I can feel her helplessness. She’s in a dark place...

Dark place...

She was suddenly back in the home, descending the steep, narrow stairs leading into the cellar, one hand on the rough, splintery railing, the other holding the basket the older girl had thrust at her as she pushed her toward the door. "It’s your turn to bring up the potatoes for dinner, lard-ass, scaredy-cat," she brayed, "so just do it."

She hated going down to the cellar. It was so spooky down there. There was a lot of old junk—stuffed chairs, lamps—covered with dust-laden sheets. Sometimes she imagined something moving under one of the sheets.

Dirty, yellow light came from a naked bulb hanging on a string from the ceiling beam, casting pools of light everywhere.

I had just stepped onto the floor, was about to go to the potato bin when I heard something—noises, like a baby kitten mewling, coming from the far end of the room, over by the boiler. I was frightened. I ducked behind the stairs, hid there, crouched down low…

"Don’t, oh, please, don’t…"

Jeannie.

Do something! Scream! Help her, Myra.
But she couldn’t. She was too afraid. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he would hear it. After a few minutes, it got quiet.
So very quiet.
The man stood up and turned around.