Nowhere to Hide (34 page)

Now Myra remembered the secret.

~ * ~

Carl was on the phone with Mike when Myra
came
flying down the stairs, dressing on the run, hair dripping.

"I heard him killing Jeannie," she cried, bursting into the room. "I heard her struggles. I was hiding behind the stairs in the cellar." The words rushed from her, tumbling over one another. "He didn’t see me. But I recognized him. It was Miss Baddie’s nephew, Alvin. All the girls talked about how creepy he was, hanging around outside the fence all the time. When he was gone, I slipped back up the stairs. I couldn’t look at her. I knew she was dead. She didn’t run away like they said. I blocked it all out—all these years. That’s where Ellen is, Carl. I know it. That’s where he’s got her."

"Where, Myra, what are you—?"

"The home, Goddamnit, Carl," she screamed in frustration.
"The Evansdale Home for Girls."

"Hey, take it easy, honey. What makes you think—?"

"Hurry!
We have to hurry! Tell Mike! They’re burning it down this morning!" She was putting on her coat, getting into her boots. "What time is it?"

Carl glanced bewilderedly at his watch. "Quarter to nine."

"Oh, my God, the fire is set for nine o’clock."

Before Carl could utter another word, she was out the door.

Seconds later, the door burst open again.
"The third floor, Carl.
Tell him there’s a false wall on the third floor!"

But Mike had already hung up.

Fifty-five

Ellen could hear faint shouts, people calling to one another. She had ceased her struggle, begun to pray. At the faint smell of smoke, her eyes opened. It was 8:50 a.m. The fire had started.
No! It’s not time.

Had he set the clock slow?

How long did it take to burn to death?
Maybe she would be overcome with smoke first and wouldn’t feel the fire.

Yes, please God—that wouldn’t be so bad. Let me be already dead when the flames find me.

She closed her eyes, and began again to pray.

~ * ~

Outside, a small crowd had gathered on the scene. Across the road, along the shoulder, a line of cars stretched back maybe a quarter of a mile. Though most of Evansdale residents knew of the scheduled burning of the Home, had noted exactly when it would happen, a few, like Myra, had a special interest in its demise.

"Oughta go up like a tinderbox," one of those women in the crowd said now, with a bitter note of glee. "Gonna be some fireworks.
Should have brought the camera."

The fire was already in progress when Mike’s cruiser screeched to a stop. Flinging the door open, he leaped out. Before anyone could stop him, he’d grabbed up an air-pack from the back of the nearest fire truck. Ignoring the angry shouts of the fireman behind him, he raced into the building.

The boards had been ripped off the doors and lower windows and arranged on paper close to the cellar walls at strategic points. Most of the fire, thank God, was still contained in that area, but it was spreading fast.

"Ellen," he called out, strapping on the apparatus. He made a quick search
. She’s not here. They would have found her.
After peering inside an old vegetable bin, he bounded the stairs to the first floor, his steps echoing through the empty building. He searched the rooms, flinging doors open, calling out her name.

He bounded for the second floor. Was Myra wrong? Was it only wishful thinking that Ellen was here?

He ran through the rooms. Not here. The smoke was getting thicker, pouring up the stairs. He clamped on the mask, took a few gulps of oxygen while making his way to the top floor.

He checked the rooms on either side of the hallway.
Not there.
Then he saw the door just past the stairs. He opened it.
Smoke rushed in, too thick to see through, now.
He felt for her in the closet, felt behind the single coat that still hung there.

Bright orange flames were licking around the door casing at the bottom of the stairs. He could feel their heat. He stood helplessly, fighting panic. "Ellen!" he bellowed. He coughed and gasped for breath as the smoke seared his lungs. "If you’re here, please answer me. Ellen!"

He clamped the mask back over his face as the flames raced up the stairs toward him.

~ * ~

Outside, a murmur of awe and fear rose up from the crowd as a lower window popped, then another. Flames leaped out, the old wood crackling and snapping like the sound of paper being crumpled. The acrid smell of smoke was strong in the air.

Myra stared up at a third floor window
. She’s behind the wall, Mike
.
Oh, please let him find her. Let them both get out safe.

Jeannie had told her about the wall, had said she was writing in her diary when she heard someone laugh. Later, she found the tiny hole and peered through...

~ * ~

"Ellen!" Mike called. The fire was traveling faster than he’d anticipated. The flames were getting closer. His hands tingled. The hair stirred on his head.
I have to get out of here. I have to go now. Ellen’s not here. Myra was wrong.

Thump!

At first he thought he’d imagined the sound. He listened. It came again, louder this time.

THUMP
!

~ * ~

Ellen had managed to maneuver herself into a position where she could hit her feet against the wall. Hearing Mike’s voice had given her back the will to fight, to survive. She kicked at the wall. Feeble kicks, the best she could do. The heat was rising up through the floorboards. She was lathered in perspiration. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were already on fire. She pressed her face into the blankets.

She could feel herself slipping.
Sinking.
No! Not now. Hang on.
At last, she worked the gag free, spat it out. "Mi-ke—"

Ellen! My God she’s behind the wall.
There had to be a way in there, but he’d never find it in this
smoke,
and with the fire so close.

Taking a backward step, he drove his foot against the wall.
Nothing.
Again.
Harder.
On the third try, his foot broke through. Wood splintered. Two more solid
kicks,
and he’d made a hole big enough to begin feverishly tearing with his bare hands at the chunks of plaster, the laths, oblivious to the punier fire of jagged wood and nails.

Though it seemed forever, it was mere seconds from the moment he had heard her scream until he was climbing through the opening and scooping her limp body up in his arms. Through a hell of blinding, choking smoke, he staggered with her to the window at the end of the hallway and placed her on the floor. No time to give her air or untie her. The flames were at his back.

He tried to raise the window. It wouldn’t give.
We’re not going to make it.
He thumped the heels of his hands against the frame.
Tried again.
The window shot up. Cold air rushed into his lungs.

The firemen were below, holding the net. People were screaming up at him, motioning him to jump.

Quickly, he gathered Ellen up again, and without letting himself think, he tossed her out the window.

When he saw her land safely, he climbed over the sill and jumped.

As he hit the net, a loud cheer went up in the crowd.

~ * ~

It had been too many years, and Myra had not recognized the tall man in the plaid jacket, his cap pulled low, standing at the edge of the crowd. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Now, he took them out and began to move slowly away.

Ellen and Mike lay side by side on the ground, the medics working over them. Ellen had regained consciousness. Seeing the plaid jacket, she pushed the mask from her face, pointed a trembling hand. "It’s him," she said in a weak, raspy voice. "It’s him."

He’d seen her look in his direction, saw her hand go out, but before anyone could react, he broke from the crowd. To the horror of those watching, he rushed inside the burning building, choosing a fiery death over captivity.

A stunned silence ensued as flames shot high, as an explosion of sparks gave the promised show of fireworks. Within minutes, the building was a towering furnace, collapsing in on itself with a shuddering groan.

Mike, black with soot, his hands blistered and raw, eyebrows singed, rode with Ellen to the hospital. She had slipped into unconsciousness after her tormentor had run into the building.

As the fire completed its destruction, the ambulance wailed through the streets of Evansdale, while behind them a great, eerie glow lit the morning sky.

~ * ~

For one brief moment, Alvin imagined he saw his Aunt Mattie’s face emerge from the wall of flames—elongated, melting, hollow-eyed. And then her gnarled, fire-drenched hands were reaching out for him.

"Welcome to hell, boy!" she hissed.

He screamed.
And screamed.

~ * ~

Later that day, police searched the house and found the stash of souvenirs which would tie Alvin in with several unsolved murders. They found the files marked "inactive". They also found Aunt Mattie. An autopsy would later confirm she died of starvation.

Jeannie Perry’s remains were never found.

Fifty-six

It was the early afternoon of her third day in the hospital. Ellen was propped up in bed watching the news on the 12-inch television. She still hurt everywhere, her throat was raw, her face battered, including a hairline fracture to her cheekbone.

But the doctor assured her the bone would knit nicely on its own. The bruises would fade. Soon she would be as good as new.
Maybe physically.
But she knew it would be a long time before she slept in a room without a light on.

After listening to a little of the commentary about her ordeal, about Alvin Raynes, alias Bishop, she snapped the set off and wondered what sort of childhood could produce such an evil monster.

She’d believed him when he said nothing happened when his mother took him to her bed. His words had held a ring of truth. But she knew there were more subtle forms of seduction. Had he wanted his mother sexually? Had shame and confusion planted the seed of hatred that would soon include all women?

No. That explanation was too pat, too easy. She knew plenty of people who survived horrible childhoods—Myra, for instance, even herself and Gail—and managed to grow up into decent human beings.

All thoughts of Alvin Raynes slipped away at the sight of Mike standing in the doorway, holding a vase of pink roses, so many they nearly obscured his face. She knew he’d been here before, but she’d been pretty well out of it, and the memory had a dream-like quality.

"Hi," he said, looking at her with something close to reverence. "Do you know
,
you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen?"

Her heart was doing a fluttery little dance in her breast. "Then you must have been holed up somewhere for a very long time," she joked, in a voice still raspy, still not her own. "The roses are gorgeous. Thank you." She took in the blue sweater beneath the open overcoat, the gray slacks. The neat way they fit. He was even more handsome than she remembered.
Had she thought of him as handsome? Yes.
She just didn’t know it then.

"You’re welcome." He set the roses on her night table, drew up a chair to her bedside. "How are you feeling?"

He smelled nice, of shaving lotion and winter. "I’ve been better, but they tell me I’ll live."

"Oh, I brought you some cigarettes," he said, taking the pack from his pocket. "I think this is your brand."