Thriller (10 page)

you get that original evacuation notice?”

“We got it, but this place was built in the mid-1800s. It’s

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weathered many a storm. The evacuation wasn’t mandatory for

residents—only visitors.” She was pleased to hear a sudden burst

of static and she leaped to her feet. “The radio! I don’t know why,

my batteries are new, but I wasn’t getting anything on it. And the

cell phones right now are a total joke.” She offered him a rueful

smile and went running through the hall for the kitchen, at the

back of the house.

“ …be on the lookout…extremely dangerous…”

She nearly skidded to a stop as she heard the words come from

the radio on the dining table.

“…serial killer…”

Like a stick figure, she moved over to the table, staring at the

radio. It had gone to static again. She picked it up and shook it,

feeling dizzy, ill.

“…suspected to be running south, into the keys…”

“Turn it off!”

Beth looked up. Her guest had followed her from the living

room to the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, hands tightly gripping the wood frame as he stared at her. His eyes were wild, redrimmed…

Like they had appeared when she’d first seen his face in the window.

And there
was
a serial killer loose in the keys….

Mrs. Peterson was trussed up like a fresh kill, wrists and ankles bound, a gag around her mouth. There was no blood, and

though her linen pants and shirt were muddied and soaked,

there were no signs of violence on her. Keith checked for any sign

of life. Her body was so cold.

But she was alive. He felt a faint pulse and snapped open the

blade on the Swiss Army knife attached to his key chain. He cut

the tight gag from her mouth and then the ropes binding her.

He didn’t know if she had broken bones or internal injuries.

She could wind up with pneumonia or worse, but this wasn’t the

kind of situation that left him much choice. He hoisted her fragile body from the trunk and returned to the car, staggering

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against the wind. He shouted for Joe Peterson to help, but there

was no response. He managed to wrench open the rear door of

the vehicle on his own.

Cocoa yapped.

Keith swore.

“Dammit! Why didn’t you
help?
” he demanded of his passen ger, depositing his human burden as best he could.

There was no answer, other than Cocoa’s excited woofs.

His passenger had disappeared.

“You’re right!” Beth managed to say, forcing her frozen mind into

action. “The storm is rough enough. Let’s not listen to bad news!”

She turned the radio off.

“Hey, I have a Sterno pot, if you’re hungry. I can whip up something.”

He shook his head, not moving, staring at her with his redrimmed eyes.
You’ve been through worse than this! she reminded

herself.

Worse?

Yes! When she had met Keith, when there had been a skull in the

sand, when she had become far too curious…

Toughen up! she chastised herself. You’ve come through before!

“I think I’ll make myself something.”
Stay calm. Appear con-

fident.
How did one deal with a serial killer? She tried to remember all the sage things that had been said, recommendations

from the psychiatrists who had spent endless hours talking with

killers that had been incarcerated.
Talk. Yes. Just keep talking
….

Then she remembered her husband’s own words of caution.

If you ever pull out a gun, intend to use it. If you find that you have

to shoot, shoot to kill.

She didn’t have a gun.

But then again, there was another question.

What if he wasn’t the serial killer? Just because she had found

herself alone with this man and heard that there was a killer on

the loose, did that mean this man was the one?

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Weapon! She needed some kind of weapon.

And would it be the same?
If you ever pull out a gun, intend to

use it.
Would that work with, if you ever pull out a frying pan,

intend to use it?

She reached into one of the shelves for a can of Sterno and

matches, trying to pretend the man who now looked like a psycho and stood in the door frame—still just staring at her—wasn’t

doing so. She forced herself to hum as she lit the Sterno, and then

reached for the frying pan. She held it as she rummaged through

the cabinet.

Then she felt him coming nearer…

Her back was to him, he was making no sound. The air around

her seemed to be the only hint of his stealth.

She pretended to keep staring at the objects in the cabinet.

She turned.

God!

He was next to her, before her, staring at her, starting to smile…

She swung the frying pan around with all of her might. She

caught him on the side of his skull, and the pan seemed to reverberate in her hands. He was still there, still standing, just staring at her.

And then…

He reached out.

She screamed as his hands fell upon her shoulders.

The flooding had grown worse. Still, Keith had no choice but

to trust in his knowledge of the area and his instincts. He took

the turn-off, then said a silent prayer of relief as the tires found

the gravel and rock of his driveway.

The man calling himself Joe Peterson was missing. He had run

from the car. Leaving his aunt. There was only one house in the

area—his. And Beth was in it.

Something streaked out of the windblown brush and pines

that lined the drive.

Someone
ahead of him, making his way to the house.

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* * *

Mark Egan’s hands fell upon Beth’s shoulders. His eyes met hers.

They held a dazed and questioning look.

He sank slowly to the floor in front of her, trying to catch hold

of her to prevent his fall. She stepped back, then turned to flee.

His hand, his grip still incredibly strong, wound around her

ankle. She fell, stunned. She still had her frying pan.

Never pull out a frying pan unless you intend to use it!

She raised it to strike again. She didn’t need to. The vise of his

fingers around her ankle eased. She scurried to the far side of the

kitchen floor, staring at him. Was he dead? She inched ever so

slightly closer on her knees, frying pan raised to strike.

He didn’t move.

She remained still, desperately thinking. She loathed a movie

wherein the victim had the attacker down—then just ran, eschewing the idea that a killer might rise again. She lifted the pan

to strike again, then gritted her teeth in agony.

What if she was wrong? What if he was just a drugged-out

musician?

She looked around the kitchen, desperate to find something. She

saw what she needed. A bottom cabinet was just slightly ajar. She

saw an extension cord. The good thing about spending her life

around the water and boats was that she could tie one sturdy knot.

She scrambled for the extension cord and turned back to tie

up her victim. To her astonishment, he had risen.

He was staring at her again.

His eyes were no longer dazed.

They were deadly.

The elements were still raging. The area in front of the house

looked like a lake. Keith knew if he left the old lady in the car, he

might well be signing her death certificate. He fought the temptation to leave her, to rush out in a panic, thinking only of his wife.

The dog was yapping.

“Cocoa, if you don’t shut up…!” Keith warned.

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To his astonishment, the Yorkie sat still, staring at him gravely.

Keith opened the door, reached into the back, picked up his

human burden. Cocoa barked once—just reminding Keith he

was there. “Come on, then!” he said, and Cocoa jumped up,

landing on the old woman’s stomach. Keith hurried toward the

house.
Was the man in the trailer really just the old woman’s

nephew—who had run because of him? Or was he a killer? What

if he were in the house, if he had come upon Beth…?

Keith made his way to the front door.

Run
. There was no other option.

The rear door was at the back of the kitchen. She ran; he was

right behind her.

When she opened the door, the wind rushed in with a rage.

She had been ready. He hadn’t. The door slammed shut in his face.

Beth ran out into the storm.

Keith burst into the house, Mrs. Peterson in his arms, Cocoa

on top of her.

“Beth?”

To his astonishment, a man staggered out of the kitchen.

Wearing his clothes. The fellow stared at him like an escapee

from the nearest mental institute.

He was unarmed.

Keith quickly strode to the sofa to deposit Mrs. Peterson.

Cocoa stayed on her stomach—growling.

Keith pulled his gun from his waistband.

“Whoa!” the man said.

“Where’s my wife?” Keith barked.

“She hit me with a frying pan and ran out!” the man said. “Oh

my God, I’ve been rescued by loonies!” he wailed. “She hits

me—now you’re going to
shoot
me?”

“Who the hell are you?” Keith barked.

“Mark Egan.” He sighed, rubbing his hand. “I’m a musician.

What is the matter with you people?”

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Holding his gun on the intruder, loath to take his eyes from

him, Keith draped a throw, tossed on the back of the rocker, over

Mrs. Peterson. “Get in there,” he ordered, indicating the guest

room. “Now!”

“I’m going!” the man said, lifting a hand. He sidled against the

wall, heading for the room. The lantern caused ominous shadows to invade the house.

“You know, you’re crazy,” he said softly. “You’re both crazy!”

“If you’ve hurt her, I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”

“She attacked me!” the fellow protested.

“Get in there!”

It was then they both heard the scream, long and sharp, ris ing above the lashing sound of wind and rain.

The shed had seemed to offer the only escape from the violent elements, and she could arm herself there. Their shed held

scuba equipment; she could grab a diving knife.

She couldn’t get the door to open at first because of the wind.

At last, it gave.

An ebony darkness greeted her.

She slipped inside, reaching in her pocket for the matches with

which she had lit the Sterno. Her hands were shaking, wet and cold.

Her first attempt was futile. She was wet; she had to stop dripping on the matches.

At last, she got a match lit.

There, in the brief illumination of flame, was a face.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Flesh pasty white.

Hand gripping a diver’s knife.

“Don’t scream!” she heard.

Too late.

She screamed.

Keith sped out of the house.

He was forced to pause, slightly disoriented. The wind and rain

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were loud, skewing sounds around him. Then he realized that

the scream had to have come from the shed, and he raced in that

direction, his gun drawn. He wrenched the door open.

There was darkness within.

“Beth!”

“Put the gun down!” came a throaty, masculine reply.

Beth appeared. Soaked, hair plastered around her beautiful

face. There was a man behind her. The fellow who had claimed

to be Joe Peterson. He had a knife, and it was against Beth’s

throat as he emerged.

“Put the gun down!” Peterson raged again.

“Let go of my wife,” Keith commanded, forcing himself to

be calm.

“You’ll kill me. He’s not sane at all, did you know that?” the

man demanded of Beth.

She stared hard at Keith, eyes wide on his. He frowned. She

seemed to be trying to tell him she was all right. Insane, yes, it

was all insane, there was a knife against her throat.

“We’re all getting soaked out here. Let’s go back to the house.

Keith, did you know we had another visitor?” she asked, as if

there wasn’t honed steel pressing her flesh.

“I’ve seen him.”

“Where’s Mrs. Peterson?” she asked.

“He tried to kill her—stuffed her into the trunk of her car,”

Keith said. “She’s on our sofa now. And, uh, your guest is in the

house. I imagine.”

“I did not try to kill Aunt Dot! You had to be the one!” Peterson protested, the knife twitching in his hand.

“Let’s get to the house,” Beth said again. “Mr. Peterson, I’ll

walk ahead of you, and Keith will walk ahead of us.”

Keith frowned fiercely at her.

“Yeah, all right, go!” Peterson said.

Keith started forward uneasily. There was one man in the

house, and another behind him with a knife to Beth’s throat.

There was no doubt one of them was a murderer.

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He entered the house. The door had been left open. Rain had

blown in.

He was followed by Beth.

And the man with the knife.

Mrs. Peterson remained as a lump on the sofa; nothing more

than a dark blob in the shadows. Cocoa, however, was no longer

with her. He had run to the far side of the room, and wasn’t even

yapping. He hugged the wall, near the guest-room door, whining pathetically as they entered.

“There was another fellow with us, too, a musician. Plays for

a group called Ultra C,” Beth said to Peterson. She swallowed