Walking After Midnight (16 page)

„See? It wasn’t so stupid of me to tell them.“

She addressed that remark, adrip with a pathetic bravado, to Frankenstein, who glowered at her and growled, „Don’t be a damned fool.“

At least he wasn’t stupid, her monster.

Hands grasped her upper arms, and Summer was hauled to her feet.

„No point in taking him. We can just waste him here.“

The comment, made by thug number two, was low-voiced, but Summer heard it. She made no pretense that she hadn’t.

„You promised to let us go if I showed you! Steve too!“

„Sure, sweetheart, sure we’ll let you go. Both of you. Soon as we get our van back. Shut up, you lughead.“ This was hissed at thug number two. Thug number three, the speaker, wrapped a hard hand around Summer’s upper arm and propelled her toward the stairs.

„Bring him,“ he ordered, glancing over his shoulder.

„But…“

„She might be lying. She might not remember. Whatever. We don’t want to burn any bridges until we’re sure.“

So the thugs weren’t as stupid as all that. Summer’s spirits, which had started to rise, sank again. But at least she’d bought them some time.

Summer was just starting to climb the stairs when she heard it: the click, click, click, of someone, or something, in heels or taps or some other odd kind of footgear, walking across the kitchen linoleum toward the basement door.

Arnold?

The cavalry?

Betty Kern?

Almost without realizing it, Summer stopped climbing and held her breath. Behind her, the thugs and Frankenstein stopped too.

Everyone froze, listening.

15

The hand clamped over Summer’s mouth. She was dragged backward down the stairs, then set on her feet again. The five of them, thugs and victims, clustered in a tight little group at the base of the steps, craning their necks in a futile attempt to peer into the darkness beyond the sliver of light cast by the barely ajar basement door.

A pistol pressed hard against Summer’s temple. The third thug’s hand still squashed her mouth. It tasted strongly of beer. Summer loathed beer. Under less dire circumstances she would have gagged.

Frankenstein faced her, a pistol held to his head, too, compliments of the second thug. The concrete floor felt hard and cold beneath Summer’s one bare foot. The mouth of the pistol felt colder against her temple.

„Check it out,“ the third thug muttered to the first.

Summer and Frankenstein exchanged tense glances. The first thug cautiously crept upward toward the door. He kept his back pressed to the concrete wall of the stairwell. His pistol was drawn and ready.

The curious clicking footsteps stopped.

Summer realized she was holding her breath.

The first thug reached the top of the stairs and listened hard. Silence.

Summer dared to hope. In her imagination, a whole squad of friendly policemen was crouched in her kitchen, ready to spring to the rescue.

Policemen in high heels or tap shoes? She didn’t think so.

Okay, then, Arnold.

The notion of the Terminator in pumps was almost enough to make her smile even under the circumstances.

She would settle for Betty Kern. Heck, at this point she would settle for anyone she could get.

The first thug glanced down at them. Summer’s captor removed his hand from her mouth to make a violent shooing gesture. The first thug visibly swallowed, then reached out and swung the basement door wide. Summer licked her dry lips and waited.

Nothing happened.

A moment later the clicking started up again. The first thug hugged the wall, his pistol extended at arm’s length, aimed at whoever appeared.

Summer stopped breathing.

Suddenly an eight-inch-tall mop of fawn-colored fur moved into the pool of light, and clicked to the edge of the stairs. Bulging chocolate eyes focused on Summer.

„Muffy!“ she moaned.

The tiny pink-satin bow that adorned the top of the Pekingese’s head quivered. Other than that, and the liquid eyes, the dog looked like a mobile hairball. If she noticed anyone besides Summer, she gave no sign of it. Instead she started down the stairs, hopping delicately from step to step, completely ignoring the gunman she bypassed.

„It’s just a goddamned dog!“

Grand Champion Margie’s Miss Muffet, now retired from the ring, was not
just
a dog. She was Summer’s mother’s cherished darling, and the winner of more ring-wars than Mike Tyson. For the last ten years, everywhere that Margaret McAfee had gone, Muffy had gone too, by plane, train, automobile, and cruise ship. The only reason Muffy was not at that moment in California with her mistress visiting Summer’s sister Sandra was that one of Sandra’s boys had recently developed a violent allergy to doggy hair. Or so Sandra said.

Summer had been elected to baby-sit. Er, doggy-sit. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Sis.

She could almost see her older sister grinning at her. Muffy was not exactly a popular houseguest. She had other unfortunate habits besides shedding.

„That pooch sure scared the crap out of Charlie!“ The goons’ tension dissolved in a burst of jocularity at their point man’s expense.

„What kinda pussy are you, Charlie?“

„Pussy’s the word, all right. Me-ow. Scared of a little
doggy“

„Shut up, you morons!“ Charlie was not amused. He scowled as he descended from the top of the stairs in Muffy’s wake.

„Come here, pup, pup, pup, pup!“ The thug guarding Frankenstein snapped his fingers at Muffy. She went right to his feet. Summer could have strangled her with her hair bow as she submitted with regal dignity to having her ears scratched. She might have been more forgiving if the thug had not kept his gun pressed into the base of Frankenstein’s spine the whole time.

„Nice doggy,“ the goon crooned.

Damned useless animal. Why couldn’t she have been a Doberman?

„Let’s go.“ The third thug turned businesslike again. The second thug straightened up from petting Muffy. Charlie paused two steps from the bottom of the stairs.

„Move, you.“ The third thug prodded Summer with his pistol. Hopelessly, Summer started to obey.

„Shit!“ the second thug shrieked. Summer jumped a foot straight up in the air. She was not the only one, but she was the only one whose expression was not murderous when she landed.

„Damned dog pissed on my foot!“

Summer glanced down. Everyone glanced down. The hems of the second thug’s gray slacks were damp. A puddle spread rapidly around his Florsheimed foot. Dignity unimpaired, Muffy was already hopping back up the stairs.

Urinating on anyone she disliked was one of Muffy’s unfortunate habits.

Thugs one and three guffawed. Summer smiled. All hell broke loose.

Charlie went sailing through the air, courtesy of Frankenstein’s hands in his belt. He flew with a flailing bellow, and missed Summer by millimeters as he crash-landed. The other two thugs were not so fortunate. Charlie mowed them down like bowling pins.

„Run!“ Frankenstein bellowed. No gentleman he, he had already leaped over Muffy and was halfway up the stairs. The thugs cursed and scrambled to regain their feet and their guns.

Summer sprang after him. She paused only to scoop up Muffy – she really couldn’t leave her mother’s precious darling to the mercy of a trio of murderers. A pistol went off as she swooped, sounding like an explosion in such cramped quarters. Something smacked into the wall just above her bent head, sending out a shower of what felt like sand. A bullet! If she hadn’t bent to retrieve Muffy, she would have been hit!

With Muffy tucked beneath her arm, Summer leaped up the remaining two stairs and dived through that doorway like a quarterback sneaking a keeper over the goal line.

The thugs were already barreling up the stairs.

Summer’s head crashed into the wall opposite the basement door. She saw stars as she ended up sprawled on her stomach. Muffy squirmed out from beneath her and licked her face. Ungratefully, Summer swatted her away.

The basement door crashed shut. Frankenstein pushed the button that locked the knob. The bad guys were locked in the basement! They were saved, saved, saved!

„Cheap-ass lock,“ Frankenstein grunted as the knob began to rattle. For added security, he snatched a chair from the trio that still remained with the kitchen set and wedged it beneath the knob.

Summer scrambled to her feet and stared at the door with a pounding heart. The air was thick with muffled curses and threats as the thugs lunged against it from the other side. Watching the thin panel quake beneath their determined assault, Summer began to revise her initial jubilation.

They weren’t saved yet.

„You got a gun in the house?“

„No.“ Summer was a staunch advocate of gun control. Besides, they scared her.

„Figures.“

„We could call the cops…“

„Who the hell do you think’s in the basement? Come on, let’s go!“ Tearing at the duct tape around his wrists with his teeth, Frankenstein bolted toward the nearest door. It led to the garage.

A fierce banging rattled the basement door. With a single longing glance at her kitchen phone – it had been programmed to dial 911 at the touch of a single button – she snatched up Muffy and fled after him.

He had to use his foot to shove aside something that blocked the door. A dark, motionless form, sprawled on the white linoleum.

Betty Kern, Summer discovered as she raced after him. Dead, without a doubt. Beside the body lay the mahogany box that contained the silver her mother had given her for her wedding. Forks, knives, and spoons were scattered across the floor.

So much for help from that direction.

When Summer appeared at the top of the shallow flight of steps, Frankenstein had already found and pushed the button that opened the automatic door. Dawn’s gray light spread across the garage as he ducked beneath the rising panel. There was a car in the garage – and it was not hers.

The car was a late-model navy Lincoln Continental. Summer knew Lincoln Continentals. Her mother had one, though hers was bright yellow.

The racket from the kitchen – muffled thuds and curses – told her that the thugs were still locked in the basement. This would take a few minutes – did she dare take the time?

The thought of the ancient Chevy being pursued by this sleek baby decided her. She
would
take the time.

All but dropping Muffy, who grunted her indignation as she landed on all dainty fours with rather more force than usual, Summer ran to the car, released the catch, and raised the hood. It took only seconds to rip out the spark plug wires.

A gunshot followed by the sound of splintering wood was her signal that time had run out. Clearly they had decided to shoot their way free. Summer hit the button that operated the garage door and sprinted beneath it as it started to close. Muffy ran at her heels, and Summer scooped her up again. As she gained the street she looked this way and that, but Frankenstein was nowhere in sight.

He had probably abandoned her and Muffy to their fate. The no-good son of a…

Still she ran down the street. Dead center, toward where they had left the running car.

Without warning the Chevy careened around the corner and roared toward her. Low and black and bewinged, it gave new meaning to her mental image of something that moved like a bat out of hell. Mindful of Frankenstein’s warning that he couldn’t see to drive, Summer leaped for the edge of the road just as the car’s breaks squealed. The Chevy came to a rocking halt about five feet beyond where she had just stood.

Yet another way she might have died on this nightmarish night.

The passenger door opened. „Jesus, Rosencrans, what took you so long?“

Explanations and recriminations could wait. Clutching Muffy to her bosom, Summer flung herself inside.

She didn’t even have time to close the door before Frankenstein stomped on the gas. Flung back against the seat, Summer clawed at the vinyl for purchase and prayed she would not be thrown out onto the pavement. Muffy, no fool, crawled under the seat.

„Shut the door!“ Frankenstein roared.

Summer shot him a killing glare. Clinging to the seat back for all she was worth, she dropped a handful of spark plug wires that she didn’t remember hanging on to in the first place and reached for the wildly flapping door. Her perch was precarious at best, and if he went round a bend – but she caught the handle and slammed the door shut.

For a moment she felt as limp as a cooked noodle.

Summer slumped in the seat, her head down, her hands curled in her lap. She noted with a flicker of chagrin that her hands were black with grease. How the mighty are fallen, she mourned on behalf of her once much-praised fingers.

They were roaring past her house just as the thugs burst through the front door. The three charged out onto the front lawn and watched wild-eyed as the Chevy tore past.

At the sight of them Frankenstein must have put the pedal all the way to the floor, because the Chevy peeled rubber like a good fifties car should. They raced to the end of the street, and took the corner on two wheels.