CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“She was wearing a navy-blue jumper
with a pink long-sleeved turtleneck,” Molly said into the
phone.
She stood at Jeff’s desk, looking out
the window at the street. She kept hoping someone would come by and
drop off Erin—or maybe Rachel would return. But Molly hadn’t seen a
single car drive by since she’d come home. All the other houses on
the cul-de-sac were empty. It was 4:25 and getting dark
out.
Erin should have been on that bus forty
minutes ago. Since then, Molly had called Chris and the moms of
several of Erin’s friends to make sure she hadn’t gone home with
someone else. Erin had hugged her good-bye this morning, but that
had been the first and only sign in a few days that her
stepdaughter didn’t absolutely loathe her.
Now, Molly wondered if Erin didn’t have
a damn good reason for hating her—and for running away this
afternoon. Perhaps Erin had been unjustly accused of destroying her
painting and that shelf full of elephants.
Erin would have had to use a stool,
chair, or stepladder to reach that putty knife on the second to top
shelf of the cabinet. And if she’d used something to boost herself
up to that shelf, why would she bother putting it back exactly
where it had been? The putty knife had been left on the floor, and
the tube of paint had been left out with the cap off. Why move the
chair, stool, or stepladder back where it belonged?
Yet Molly had found yellow paint smears
in Erin’s room and on her clothes. Had somebody set her up? Chris
wouldn’t have framed his kid sister and let her take the heat for
something he’d done. It just didn’t make sense. But the only other
people in the house had been Rachel and Trish.
If Erin had indeed been innocent of the
sabotage, then who could blame her for wanting to run away from
home—and her crazy, wicked stepmother? Maybe she was sulking in a
playground somewhere between the school and here. Molly couldn’t
help feeling conflicted about phoning the school and possibly
sending out an Amber Alert.
But Jenna Corson was out there, and in
all probability, she’d killed Erin’s parents. From Molly’s brief
conversation with Chris, it seemed he’d figured that out, too—on
his own.
So what was to keep Jenna Corson from
abducting Erin and possibly murdering her?
“She was wearing white kneesocks and
Keds saddle shoes,” Molly told the school secretary on the phone.
She paced within the small confines of Jeff’s study. “And—and she
had her hair down. She has blond hair. . . .”
“Yes, blond hair, we have that here
from the description you gave us,” the woman said. “I’m putting you
on hold for just a minute, Mrs. Dennehy, okay?”
Molly didn’t get a chance to respond
before she heard a click on the other end. It sounded more like
she’d been disconnected than put on hold, but she stayed on the
line anyway. Biting her lip, she glanced out the window
again.
The two streetlights on Willow Tree
Court had gone on. It was officially dark out. If Erin had indeed
run away, she would have headed home by now.
“Mrs. Dennehy?” It wasn’t the
secretary’s voice. “Hi, this is Shauna Farrell, the vice principal.
Your neighbor picked up Erin when the children were getting out of
school. She said you asked her to take care of Erin this
afternoon.”
“What?” Molly said, panic stricken. All
she could think of was Natalie driving off with Erin. “I—I did no
such thing. How could you just . . .” She paused and took a deep
breath. “Did you see my neighbor’s car? Was it a blue Mini
Cooper?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t see the car,
Mrs. Dennehy,” the woman answered. “But I figured it was all right,
because Erin called her Aunt Rachel, and she was holding her
hand.”
“It was Rachel?” Molly asked. She could
feel her heart still pounding.
“Yes, your neighbor, Rachel Cross,” the
vice principal said. “She is your neighbor, isn’t
she?”
“Yes,” Molly replied, still not certain
what to think. She glanced out the window at Rachel’s house and the
bare driveway. In her message, Rachel had said she would be back by
3:45, and that had been almost an hour ago.
“Mrs. Dennehy, are you still
there?”
“Ah, yes. Rachel told you that I’d
asked her to look after Erin today?”
“That’s right. She said you must have
forgotten to call the school. Erin seemed very happy to see her. In
fact, she broke away from the other children and ran over to her. .
. .”
Molly figured Erin would never do that
with Natalie. She barely knew the Nguyens’ uninvited houseguest. It
must have been Rachel. But it didn’t make sense. Molly hadn’t asked
her to look after Erin this afternoon. Or had she? Sometimes
lately, she thought she might be losing her mind.
“Mrs. Dennehy, here at the school,
we’re always very careful to look out for the children’s safety,”
the woman said.
“Yes, of course,” Molly murmured.
“There must have been some miscommunication. I’ll call Rachel right
now. Will somebody be there in case I need to get in touch with
you?”
“Yes, I’ll be here for the next hour.
In fact, I’d appreciate it if you got back to me, and let me know
that everything’s all right. And I’m sure it will be, Mrs.
Dennehy.”
“Thank you,” Molly said.
As soon as she clicked off with the
school, she called Rachel’s cell and anxiously counted the rings.
She winced when the voice mail greeting came on. “Hi, Rachel,” she
said, after the beep. “It’s Molly, and I’m wondering where you are.
Erin wasn’t on the school bus. I just got off the phone with the
school. They said you came and picked her up. To tell you the
truth, I’m kind of confused. You should have said something.
Anyway, call me as soon as you can.”
Molly hung up, and then she glanced out
the window again. Nothing. On her way to the kitchen, she turned on
the front outside lights and the hallway light. She played back
Rachel’s earlier message on the answering machine: “Don’t panic when you see my car isn’t in the driveway. You
asked me to make sure if Natalie comes back that she doesn’t leave
again. And I’ve done that. But I really need to go to the store. I
know you’ll be home soon, because Erin’s bus drops her off at a
quarter to four. I’ll be back before then, okay? I really don’t
think you’re going to see Natalie again. But you’ll see me—very
soon. . . .”
Not once did Rachel mention that she
was going to pick up Erin. If she’d impulsively decided to do that,
why wouldn’t she call her and let her know? Rachel didn’t quite
sound like herself in the message. What was so important at the
store that she couldn’t have stuck around here for another half
hour? Obviously, she hadn’t gone to the store. She’d gone to Erin’s
school.
Molly suddenly imagined Jenna/Natalie
holding a gun to Rachel’s head while she’d left that message. Had
she been waiting in Rachel’s car—with a gun aimed at her—while
Rachel picked up Erin for her? The vice principal hadn’t seen the
car, so she wouldn’t have noticed another woman waiting in there.
That crazy, raspy-voiced woman on the phone had warned Rachel that
she would be sorry she’d moved onto the block.
Molly couldn’t help picturing Rachel
lying dead in a ditch somewhere, while Jenna/Natalie drove off with
Erin.
She heard a car.
Molly ran to the front of the house and
flung open the door. She saw Rachel’s Honda Accord pull into the
driveway next door. But it looked like Rachel was alone in the car.
Molly’s heart sank. She moved toward Rachel’s
driveway.
Rachel climbed out of the front seat.
“I just listened to your message at the stoplight on Gleason
Street,” she said hurriedly. “You can relax. Erin’s fine, but I’m
not.” She pointed to her own house. “I need to hit the bathroom.
I’m peeing for two now. Go back inside and wait for me. I’ll be
right over.”
“But where’s Erin?” Molly
asked.
With her keys in her hand, Rachel
hurried to her front door. “Molly, she’s fine. She’s happy. Go back
inside before you catch your death out here. I’ll be over in five
minutes to explain everything.”
Molly watched her unlock the door, open
it, and duck inside the house. She felt the chill, and rubbed her
arms. Rachel had just said Erin was fine. She’d said it twice. But
Molly was still worried. She stood there another few moments, and
then retreated inside the house. She left the door open a crack,
went back to Jeff’s study, and stared out the window.
“Damn it,” she whispered, after waiting
nearly five more minutes. She thought about calling the school to
tell them Erin was okay, but first she wanted to hear what Rachel
had to say. Frowning, Molly glanced at her watch. It was almost
5:15, and dark as midnight out. She couldn’t believe Rachel had
picked up Erin without telling her.
Finally, she heard Rachel’s door open
and shut. She saw her neighbor cut across the driveways to the
front of the house. She’d changed into a loose-fitting, dark,
poncho-type of sweatshirt with big pockets in front. She already
looked very pregnant. Molly came around and met her in the
doorway.
“Sorry to leave you hanging,” Rachel
muttered, stepping inside. “My system’s all out of whack, because
of the baby. I know you’re upset about Erin. I couldn’t call you.
Do you have a Sprite or ginger ale or something carbonated to help
my heartburn?”
Molly closed the door after her, and
then led the way to the kitchen. “I’ve been climbing the walls with
worry for the last ninety minutes, Rachel,” she said edgily. “I
thought for sure Natalie-Jenna-Whatever-Her-Name-Is had abducted
Erin. In fact, I called the school. I was ready to call the police.
What the hell happened? I can’t believe you picked up Erin at
school without telling me. You just left me hanging. . .
.”
“Mea culpa, mea culpa,” Rachel said
with a sigh. “You’re not going to like it any better when I explain
what happened.”
Molly dug a can of 7UP out of the
refrigerator and wordlessly handed it to her.
Rachel opened the can and sipped her
soda.
“I’m waiting,” Molly said, crossing her
arms.
Rachel frowned. “Well, Erin called me
from school. Apparently one of her little friends actually has a
cell phone. I didn’t even know Erin had my number. Did you give it
to her?”
Molly shook her head.
“Well, she knows it, because she called
me and asked me to pick her up after school. She said she didn’t
want to come home. . . .” Rachel paused, and then sipped her 7UP
again. She glanced down at the kitchen floor. “Erin said it didn’t
feel right at home anymore, because her real parents weren’t here.
She said she didn’t want to see you or be around you. I’m sorry,
Molly. There’s no way to sugarcoat that.”
Molly felt like she’d just been kicked
in the stomach. She told herself those were the sentiments of an
upset and confused six-year-old. But it still hurt. She walked
around the kitchen counter and sat down at the breakfast table.
“Where is she?”
“You might not like this, either,”
Rachel warned. “Lynette’s sister, who lives near the UW Hospital,
is looking after Lynette’s kids. Erin’s with them. I dropped her
off. I figured after an hour with Carson and Dakota Hahn, you and
home will start looking pretty good to her.”
Molly knew she was expected to laugh,
but she couldn’t.
“I tried calling you as soon as I
dropped Erin off,” Rachel said. “But my cell phone started acting
up on me. I couldn’t call out, but I got your message all right.
Modern technology, you go figure. Anyway, please don’t be mad at
me, Molly. Erin made me promise I wouldn’t tell you, and this is
the first time she’s asked me for something. I didn’t want her to
think she couldn’t trust me.”
Molly frowned at her. “Well, I’m not
sure I can trust you. On top of that, you
made me look like a major idiot with the vice principal at Erin’s
school. You told her that I must have forgotten to call the school about you picking up Erin.
And there I was on the phone with them asking which neighbor picked
up my stepdaughter. God, I must have come off as a total flake.
What were you thinking?”
“I’m really sorry,” Rachel murmured,
shrugging. “I guess I shouldn’t have gotten involved. Maybe—maybe
you ought to call the school, and tell them everything’s
okay.”
Molly stood up. “Yes, we don’t want to
worry the people at Erin’s school,” she grumbled. “God, with
everything that’s been going on lately, I can’t believe you’d . .
.” She shook her head and left the room. She reminded herself that
Rachel had been a good friend to her. Without Rachel, she never
would have made it through the last week.
In Jeff’s study, she picked up the
phone and hesitated before dialing the school. “I’m done venting!”
she announced loudly. “I know you were just trying to do Erin and
me a favor. You meant well. . . .”
“I figured you couldn’t be mad at me
too long,” Rachel called. Molly could hear her filling a glass with
ice. “You need my help breaking into the Nguyens’ house
tonight.”
Molly frowned at Rachel’s light tone.
It didn’t seem right. She wanted to get inside that house to look
for clues to her husband’s murder—and the deaths of several others.
Rachel made it sound as if they were planning to pull off some kind
of high school prank.
Of course, Molly still felt confused
and a bit stung by what went on with Erin. It was hard getting past
that.
She phoned the school and got Vice
Principal Farrell on the line. She explained that Erin was fine,
and it was just a misunderstanding. “I’d asked my neighbor to pick
up Erin next Wednesday, not today,” she
said, making Rachel the flaky one.
When Molly came back to the kitchen,
she found Rachel sitting at the table with a second can of 7UP—and
a tall glass of ice—in front of the chair beside her. “I figured
you could use a drink,” she said, pouring the 7UP in the glass.
“And under the pregnant circumstances, I guess this is about as
wild as it gets for us.”
Molly worked up a smile and sat down
next to her.
“Are we all squared with Erin’s
school?” Rachel asked.
Molly nodded. “It’s all straightened
out.”
Rachel raised her can of soda to toast
her. “So—forgive me?”
Molly took the glass of 7UP and clicked
it against Rachel’s soda can. “All’s forgiven.”
Rachel sipped hers. “Well, come on,
drink up. The toast doesn’t count unless you drink,
too.”
Molly started to raise the glass to her
lips, but then she set it down again. “Oh, I almost forgot about
Chris.” She got to her feet. “I called him when Erin didn’t get off
the bus. He’s on his way here, probably going crazy with the
rush-hour traffic. He was down in Kent, chasing down a lead about
Jenna Corson.”
“Really?” Rachel murmured. “What kind
of lead?”
“I don’t know. But he put it together
himself that she’s the one behind all the horrible things that have
been going on around here lately—no coaching from me.” Molly
grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the basket in the corner
of the kitchen counter. “Do you have Lynette’s sister’s address?
I’ll tell Chris to swing by and pick up Erin.”
Rachel looked stumped for a moment.
“Oh, I—I left it in my coat in the house. I can pick her up later.
Maybe we can send Chris in an hour or so, and then we’ll use that
time to do a little breaking and entering at the
Nguyens’.”
Molly leaned back against the counter
and folded her arms. “You don’t seem to take that idea about
searching their house very seriously.”
Rachel laughed. “Are you kidding me?
I’m nervous as hell about it. In fact, sit down.” She pointed to
Molly’s glass. “Wet your whistle and tell me your
plan.”
“I need to call Chris first,” Molly
said. “He’s probably going out of his mind with worry.” Again, she
found herself retreating to Jeff’s study to use the phone—rather
than talk on the kitchen extension in front of Rachel. She dialed
Chris’s cell number.
He picked up on the second ring: “Hi,
Molly, what’s going on?”
“Erin’s okay,” she said. “She’s at
Lynette’s sister’s house—with Carson and Dakota. I guess she still
hates me and doesn’t want to be around me. So she called Rachel
from school and asked to be picked up. Rachel dropped her off at
Lynette’s sister’s place.”
There was silence on the other end.
Molly wondered if she’d lost the connection. “Chris? Are you still
there?”
“Yeah, I’m just trying to wrap my head
around that story, because it sounds pretty screwed
up.”
“Sounds screwed up to me, too, but
that’s what happened,” Molly said. “Anyway, I just wanted to let
you know that Erin’s all right. I’m here with Rachel. I’m guessing
traffic has been heinous.”
“Yeah, but I should be there soon,”
Chris said. “By the way, Molly, you slept downstairs, so you didn’t
hear it. But Erin had a nightmare last night, and she woke me up.
She was extra scared because you weren’t in your bed. She’d gone to
you first, Molly. She’s crazy about you. She was really happy when
I told her that you were staying and taking care of us. So that
story about Erin hating you? It’s bullshit.”
Dazed, Molly didn’t say anything.
Suddenly she was worried about Erin again.
“I gotta go,” she heard Chris say.
“There’s a cop one lane over, and I shouldn’t be driving and
talking on the cell at the same time. See you soon.” He clicked
off.
Molly hung up the phone, then went to
the window and stared out at the darkness. She saw part of her own
reflection in the glass—and then someone stepping up behind
her.
She swiveled around. Rachel smiled and
offered her the tall glass of 7UP. “Did you get ahold of
Chris?”
Molly nodded and took the glass. “Yes,
he’s on his way.”
“Good.” Rachel sat on the edge of
Jeff’s desk.
Molly looked down at her 7UP, but
didn’t taste it. “You know, when I first realized Erin wasn’t on
the bus, I thought Chris might have picked her up. I had this
notion that they both hated me, so he was taking his kid sister and
running away. He assured me just now that Erin likes me very much.”
Molly paused to let it sink in. “That was nice to hear, but it
doesn’t quite gel with the story you told me, does
it?”
Rachel shrugged. “Well, maybe Chris was
just trying to make you feel better, Molly.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.
Chris is a nice kid, but he’s never gone out of his way to spare my
feelings. I usually know where I stand with him.”
Rachel let out a tiny laugh. “Just like
his father.”
Molly stared at her and said
nothing.
Rachel laughed nervously, and then
flicked her hair back. “Or—so I gather, I mean, from what you’ve
told me about Jeff.”
Molly’s eyes kept searching hers. The
ice clinked in her glass, and she realized her hand was shaking.
She set the glass down on Jeff’s desk. She was thirsty, but hadn’t
even sipped any of the 7UP, because Rachel had poured it. On some
unconscious level, she knew it might make her sick—like the
peppermints and the ginger capsules Rachel had given
her.
Now she knew who had slashed a yellow
X across her painting and set it up to look
as if Erin had been the culprit.
Now she knew the woman standing in
front of her had seduced and murdered Jeff.
Molly heard a car, but she didn’t turn
to look out the window behind her. She didn’t want to turn her back
on this woman.
She listened to the car pulling into
the driveway and watched the headlight beams sweep across Jenna
Corson’s face.
Chris turned off the ignition to his
father’s Lexus. Straight ahead, in the window to his dad’s study,
he noticed Molly standing and talking to their neighbor,
Rachel.
Rachel’s story about picking up Erin at
school sounded wrong in so many ways. At the last stoplight on the
way home, Chris had tried to phone Mrs. Hahn to confirm that her
sister had Erin. But he’d gotten some weird tone pattern, and then
a recording: “The person you are trying to reach is
not accepting calls at this time. Please try your call later. . .
.” Then as the recording had lapsed into Spanish, he’d
remembered Mrs. Hahn had broken her cell phone.
Even with Mrs. Hahn’s broken phone, he
didn’t understand why his sister would call Rachel—to be taken to
Mrs. Hahn’s sister’s house. How did she even know Rachel’s number?
He sure as hell didn’t know it. If Erin wanted to be picked up, she
would have phoned him before calling the lady next door. And she
wasn’t mad at Molly anymore, so it just didn’t make any damn
sense.
He climbed out of the car and hurried
to the front door. It was strange that neither Molly nor Rachel had
come to let him in when they were only a few feet away in his dad’s
study. He had to unlock the door with his key.
As he stepped inside, Rachel turned and
smiled at him. “Well, hi, Chris.”
“Hi,” he said tentatively. Taking off
his school jacket, he hung it on the newel post at the bottom of
the stairs.
“Molly said you were in Kent, following
a lead,” she said.
Bewildered, he glanced past her—at
Molly, who stood by his dad’s desk with her arms folded. He could
feel an awful tension in that small room—as if he’d just walked in
on them at the brink of an argument.
“She wants to know if you talked to
anybody about Jenna Corson,” Molly said steadily. “She wants to
know who you talked to, and what they told you. But I have a few
questions for you, Rachel. For example, why
would Jenna Corson set fire to your toolshed and threaten you on
the phone when you had absolutely nothing to do with her husband’s
firing or his murder?”
Rachel scratched the back of her neck,
and laughed. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, Molly.
But we agreed that it’s probably because I’m your friend.
Remember?”
“It threw me off for a while, that’s
for sure,” Molly said. “I was actually worried for
you.”
“What’s going on here?” Chris murmured,
glancing back and forth at the two of them.
“I remember the first day we met,”
Molly continued. “I gave you that letter you must have addressed to
yourself and slipped in our mailbox. I told you about Lynette’s
kids throwing dirt balls at cars. The very next day, her kids got
all cut up, because someone had scattered broken glass in that
vacant lot. I always thought that was too much of a
coincidence.”
Rachel smirked a tiny bit. “You said
they’d been doing that for a while. They probably pissed off a lot
of people. It was bound to catch up with them eventually. Sounds to
me like they had it coming. ‘Time wounds all
heels,’ I like to say.”
Chris stared at their new neighbor:
light brown hair, cute face, and even with that poncho she was
wearing, he knew she had a nice body. She perfectly fit Roseann’s
description of the “hustler” who had been with his father at the
hotel on Friday, the woman who had killed him.
He remembered what Mr. Corson had said
to him on what would be the very last time they’d ever see each
other—at that running trail by Lake Union: “Your
neighbors on Willow Tree Court and the ones like them, they’ll have
to pay. . . . It reminds me of this saying my wife has. ‘Time
wounds all heels.’ ”
Stunned, Chris kept staring at
her.
With an exasperated little laugh, she
shoved her hands in the pockets of her poncho.
“You’re Mrs. Corson,” Chris heard
himself say. “You killed my parents. . . .” His fists clenched, he
took a step toward her. “Where’s Erin? She’s got nothing to do with
what happened to Mr. Corson. What the hell have you done with my
sister?”
All at once, Jenna Corson grabbed Molly
by the hair and pulled a gun from the pocket of her poncho. She
pressed the barrel to Molly’s head. Chris froze. Jenna Corson
didn’t say anything. Yet Chris knew if he took one more step toward
them, she’d shoot his stepmother in the head.
Molly shrieked and desperately tried to
push her away. But Mrs. Corson slammed the butt end of the gun
against her temple. It made a terrible, hard-thump sound, and Molly
groaned. She seemed stunned—and dazed into submission. Her eyes
rolled back as she slouched against Mr. Corson’s
widow.
“Get the blinds!” Mrs. Corson barked at
him. She nodded toward the study window. “Do it!”
Glaring at her, Chris moved to the
window and lowered the blinds. “Where’s Erin?” he asked
again.
“Your sister’s fine, Chris,” she said,
backing away and dragging Molly into the front hall. She jabbed the
gun barrel against Molly’s temple. “I’ve got Erin. She’ll be all
right. I don’t blame her for what happened to Ray. You’re the ones
who started it. That’s why I saved you two for last. . .
.”
Hesitating, Chris began to follow them
down the hall toward the family room.
She tugged at Molly’s hair, yanking her
head back. “Molly, you were under a tremendous strain. They’ll say
you snapped, poor thing.” She let out a tiny laugh. “You shot your
stepson, and then set fire to every house on the block. And then
you shot yourself. They’ll find you both in this room. Everyone
will say insanity must run in your family, Molly. They’ll say you
were unbalanced, just like your crazy, murdering brother. I paid
good money to a private detective in Chicago to find out about
Crazy Charlie. . . .”
Molly just moaned in protest. She
seemed too disoriented to struggle. Blood oozed from the corner of
her forehead where Jenna had hit her with the gun.
Jenna knocked over a standing lamp as
she backed into the family room. It hit the floor with a crash but
didn’t break. She didn’t even glance at it. She still held Molly up
by her hair. “By the way, this gun is registered in Jeff’s name.
They’ll think it was his. I got Jeff to buy it for me two months
ago. All the paperwork has his name and this address on it. I told
Jeff there were some break-ins in my neighborhood, and I needed a
gun. Wasn’t that sweet of him to make sure I was
protected?”
Standing in the hallway, uncertain what
to do, Chris heard a noise outside. It sounded like a car door
opening and closing. But Mrs. Corson didn’t seem to hear it over
Molly’s anguished moaning, which only got louder.
“After tonight, I’m going to
disappear—with Erin,” she announced. “Erin’s still innocent—and
young enough to become my own. The Dennehy family owes me a
daughter, goddamn it.” Though she had tears in her eyes, she
smiled. Her lips brushed against Molly’s ear. “I’ll leave here with
more than one child of Jeff’s. The baby I’m carrying, Molly, it’s
his. . . .”
Chris shook his head. He couldn’t
believe what she was saying.
All at once, someone rapped against the
front door.
Molly tried to scream out, but Mrs.
Corson slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Seattle Police!” the muffled voice
called from the other side of the door. The man knocked again, and
then he rang the bell. “Is anyone home?”
Wide-eyed, Mrs. Corson glared at Chris.
“Get rid of him!” she whispered, dragging Molly into the kitchen
area. She kept the gun barrel pressed against her
head.
At the front door, Chris glanced out
the peephole, and saw a cop carrying something wrapped in an old
blanket. It took Chris a moment to realize the guy was holding
Erin. Her head was pressed to the policeman’s shoulder. Chris flung
open the door.
“This little girl was locked in the
trunk of the car next door,” the cop said angrily. “Do you know
what’s going on here?”
Erin stirred and let out a feeble,
sleepy cry. A piece of duct tape dangled from her cheek. Chris
guessed the cop must have peeled it back from where it had been
covering her mouth.
“That’s my sister,” he murmured. He
opened the door wider.
The cop stepped inside and carried Erin
into the living room. Chris shot a look over his shoulder toward
the kitchen. He didn’t hear anything. He followed the policeman
into the living room. The guy was about thirty, with wavy dark
blond hair and a cleft in his chin. He carefully set Erin on her
side on the sofa, and then pulled back the blanket. Someone had
tied Erin’s feet together, and her hands were bound behind her with
rope.
“Oh, Jesus,” Chris
murmured.
“I was patrolling the neighborhood,”
the cop said. Hovering over Erin, he patted her head, and then
tugged at the rope around her wrists. It looked too taut to loosen
by hand. “I heard whimpering coming from the Honda Accord in the
driveway next door. Do you know who’s responsible for
this?”
The policeman wasn’t looking at him.
Chris had to tap him on the shoulder. The cop glanced back at him.
Chris tried to mouth the words, Get some
help.
The man squinted at him.
“What?”
Chris nodded in the direction of the
kitchen. “Get help,” he said under his breath. “We’re not alone
here. . . .”
Molly heard Chris talking to the
policeman in the living room. Chris’s voice dropped to a whisper.
She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but obviously he was
trying to tell the cop they were in trouble. Obviously, Jenna could
hear Chris whispering, too.
“What does he think he’s doing?” she
muttered. She started to drag Molly closer to the
hallway.
With all her might, Molly elbowed her
in the ribs. Jenna let out a gasp and doubled over. The gun flew
out of her hand. It toppled onto the hallway floor and slid for a
few inches across the hardwood.
Screaming, Molly pushed Jenna aside and
ran for the living room.
“What the hell’s going on?” she heard
the cop yell. He came out of the living room, drawing his gun.
“Hold it right there!”
Molly stopped in her tracks. “She was
going to kill us and take my daughter,” Molly explained, gasping
for air. She pointed back at Jenna, behind her. “She’s killed
several people—including my husband. . . .”
“It’s true,” Chris said. “She’s the one
who did this to my sister.”
Molly noticed Erin on the sofa, her
feet tied and her wrists bound behind her. “Oh, my God,” she
whispered. She started to move, but the cop was pointing the gun at
her. Molly hesitated.
Chris turned to the cop. “That’s my
stepmother, she’s okay. It’s the other one. . . .”
The cop still had the gun trained on
her—and Jenna. He nodded at Molly. “Kick that gun over
here.”
“Goddamn it,” Jenna growled. But she
stayed perfectly still.
Molly still couldn’t quite get her
breath. She felt a bit dizzy, and her heart was pounding furiously.
She obeyed the cop. The gun glided across the hardwood floor and
stopped nearly right in front of him.
Chris went to his sister on the sofa
and started to untie the rope around her wrists. Her eyes closed,
she was crying softly—almost as if she were having a
nightmare.
With a hand on her bleeding forehead,
Molly stared at the cop. He retrieved the gun, did something to the
safety, and then stuck it in his belt. He looked a bit familiar. He
nodded gratefully at her. “That’s good, ma’am.”
But he still had his gun pointed at her
and Jenna. He glanced over his shoulder at Chris. “Stop doing that.
Don’t untie her. Get away from her.”
Baffled, Chris gazed up at him. “Why?
What do you mean?”
The cop smiled a tiny bit. “Because,”
he said. “You’ll just have to tie her up again—for
me.”
That was when Molly noticed for the
first time that his blue policeman’s uniform looked shoddy and
fake. That was when she recognized the man who had carried a
screaming Dakota Hahn down the block after the children had cut
themselves. He’d obviously been hanging around the cul-de-sac,
studying the layout.
“Oh, Jesus, no,” she
whispered.
He stepped back into the living room.
“Over there with the ladies,” he told Chris, nodding toward the
hallway. He pointed the gun at Erin now.
Chris stared at him, half scared, half
defiant. He didn’t budge.
“Do as I say,” the man said patiently.
“Don’t try to do anything brave, because that’s just going to get
someone killed.”
Chris finally looped around him and
came over to Molly’s side. He held on to her arm. She could feel
his hand was shaking.
Jenna sighed. “Just because her husband
worked for a drug company, it doesn’t mean there are any drugs in
the house. You’re going to be disappointed.”
“We’ll see about that,” the man
replied, the gun still trained on Erin.
Molly said nothing. She knew he hadn’t
come there to rob them.
“You, stepmom,”
he said, nodding toward the light switch on the wall. “Is that for
the lights outside and down here in the hall?”
She nodded. “Yes, both.”
“Turn them off, please. I don’t want
anyone to see me working down here.”
Molly reached over and switched off the
lights. The upstairs hallway light and a lamp in Jeff’s study were
still on. She stood in the shadows with Chris at her side—and Jenna
Corson behind them. Molly knew he planned to turn on all the lights
in the house—once his work was done.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he said
in a calm voice. “Just do as I say, and I’ll be out of here in a
half hour. Now, I’ll need all of you upstairs. . . .”
For twenty minutes, they sat on the
floor of the upstairs hallway: he, Molly, and Mrs. Corson. Just a
few feet away, the man sat near the top of the stairs with his arm
around Erin, occasionally tickling her ear with the barrel of his
gun. She’d come out of her stupor, and seemed to realize what was
happening. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was
trembling.
For long stretches of time, no one
uttered a word. Erin whimpered behind the duct tape he’d pressed
over her mouth again. The only other sound was the tearing of
sheets. He’d had Molly pull some bedding from the linen closet, and
they’d started ripping them into wide strips for their own
restraints. Chris felt like one of those people in the horror
movies, forced to dig their own grave. He couldn’t help thinking
this was more than just a robbery.
Every few minutes, Mrs. Corson broke
the silence and tried to bargain with the bogus cop—killer to
killer. “Listen, there are four other houses on this block, all
empty, all ripe for the picking,” she’d said. “I can tell you which
houses offer the best merchandise. I don’t give a shit about these
people. You can take what you want, and do whatever you want. Just
don’t tie me up. Tie up the others. Leave them here with me, and
I’ll make sure you get away with a good haul. I’ll make sure there
are no witnesses.”
“Keep tearing those sheets, honey,”
he’d replied. “And be quiet. Otherwise, I’ll have to tape up your
mouth—like the little one here.”
That had been a few minutes ago, and
Jenna Corson hadn’t uttered a word since.
Now the man had the gun pointed at
Chris. “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he said again. “It’s up to
you to make sure no one tries anything foolish. Starting with your
houseguest here, I want you to tie up her legs at the ankles. . .
.”
With several strips of the linen in his
grasp, Chris obediently crawled over to Mrs. Corson. His hands
shook as he tied her ankles together.
“No, don’t,” she murmured under her
breath, squirming.
“Now roll her over on her stomach and
tie her hands behind her,” the man commanded. “Make it good and
tight, because I’m going to test it. Let’s see if you learned
anything in the Boy Scouts about tying knots.”
“I wasn’t in the Boy Scouts,” Chris
muttered. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man had the gun
pressed against Erin’s head once more. Chris knew his sister would
be dead if he tried to lunge at the guy.
As he turned Mrs. Corson over on her
stomach, she resisted and let out a pathetic cry. He struggled to
tie her hands together. “No, no, no, no,” she
whispered.
When he finally finished, Chris was out
of breath. He glanced up at the stranger.
“Now, it’s your stepmom’s turn,” the
man said, brushing the gun barrel against Erin’s nose. Trying to
turn her head away, she whimpered in protest.
“Tie her up the same way you did the
other one,” he said. “The quicker you do it, the quicker I’ll be
out of here, and you folks can go back to doing whatever it was you
were doing.”
Molly handed Chris some strips of linen
as he crawled over to her. She rolled over on her stomach without
any prompting. Chris tied her legs first, leaving a little slack.
If she was able to pry her shoes off, she stood a good chance of
slipping her feet out of the binds. Then he tied up her wrists.
Chris couldn’t stop trembling. He was so scared he kept thinking he
might throw up. He let out a grunt as he finished tying the
knot—acting as if it was as tight as he could make it. But the
linen restraints around her wrists were loose enough for Molly to
wriggle her hands free—with a little effort.
He glanced over at the man again, who
stood up. He held the gun down over the top of Erin’s head. He
smiled at Chris. “Okay, your turn,” he said. “Tie yourself up at
the ankles. . . .”
On the other side of Molly, Chris
started tying his own ankles with the strips of bedsheets. He
figured the man would pay particular attention to the work he did
on himself, so he made the restraints fairly tight.
When Chris looked up again, the man had
Erin wiggling facedown on the floor. “Okay, roll over on your
stomach,” he said to Chris. “Put your hands behind
you.”
Chris was obedient. He kept thinking it
was too late to take his chances and pounce on the guy. He should
have done that before his ankles were bound. But the son of a bitch
had had a gun on Erin the whole time. With the side of his face
pressed against the carpeted floor, Chris could only see him from
the waist down as he stepped over Mrs. Corson, and gave the sheets
on her wrists a tug. “Good,” he murmured. “Nice job.” Then he
tested the restraints on Molly’s wrists. “This could have been a
little tighter. . . .”
“I thought it was pretty tight.
I—”
Chris didn’t finish. He felt a powerful
blow to his side that knocked the wind out of him. He couldn’t even
cry out with pain. It took him a few moments to get a breath—and
realize the man had kicked him. Doubled up in agony, he gasped for
air. Suddenly the man was on top of him. His knee dug into Chris’s
back as he pulled his hands together and tied up his wrists with
the strips of linen. He made the restraints so tight, it almost cut
off the circulation in Chris’s hands.
He stepped over to Molly and wrapped
another linen strip around her hands. She winced as he tied up the
knot.
“Now, not a peep out of anyone,” he
announced, standing over them now. “I’m going to split you up. If
you stay quiet and do what I tell you, no one will get hurt. You,
you’re first. . . .”
Chris glanced over and watched him put
his gun in his police holster. Then he grabbed Mrs. Corson by the
shoulders. “You’re the guest,” he said, hoisting her to her feet.
“So you belong in the guest room. . . .”
“Oh, God, no, please. . . .” Jenna
Corson cried.
But he had her by the arm and led her
into the guest room. With her ankles bound, she was forced to take
tiny hops.
“Here we go, here we go,” he cooed,
holding her up. “Thattagirl . . .” Once they were inside the guest
room, he shut the door.
“Oh, Jesus, not the closet,” Mrs.
Corson cried out. “You’re him, you’re him. . . .”
Chris suddenly realized—along with Mrs.
Corson—that this man was the Cul-de-sac Killer. He heard Jenna
Corson’s muffled whimpering in the next room and wondered if the
man was stabbing her in there right now.
“Chris, listen to me,” Molly whispered.
He turned toward her so they were facing each other. He lifted his
head off the carpet. “If he puts you in your bedroom closet,
there’s a small knife in one of your brown shoes—the pair you never
wear. I left it in there a few days ago. If he sticks you and your
dad’s and my closet, I hid a knife just to the left of the
door—underneath one of my slippers. . . .”
Chris remembered seeing Molly on Friday
night with a steak knife in her hand as she’d come upstairs. That
had been the night before they’d found out his dad was dead. He’d
heard that cop tell Molly about how the Cul-de-sac Killer stashed
his victims in closets and then killed them one by
one.
Dazed, he just stared at Molly and
blinked.
“If you can cut yourself loose,” she
said, “grab your sister and get out of here. Don’t stop for me.
I’ll take care of myself. Just keep running. Don’t try going to one
of the neighbors, because no one else is home.”
Chris heard Mrs. Corson sobbing. A door
slammed shut from within the guest room—and then there was silence.
It must have been the closet door. He thought perhaps Mrs. Corson
was dead, but he heard a pounding noise—like she was kicking at the
door. It was just like the cop had said.
With a click, the guest room door
opened, and the man strode out to the hallway. “Okay, your turn,
kid,” he announced. Chris felt the killer grab him under the arms
and lift him off the floor. He caught a glimpse of Molly, who shot
him a look of encouragement and nodded.
Chris grimaced in pain as the man
pulled up his bound hands in back and pushed him toward his room.
He thought the guy was going to break both his arms. He frantically
hopped down the corridor, and it was all he could do to keep from
stumbling.
“See how you like it in here, shit
head,” the man grumbled, steering him toward the closet. “Teach you
to fuck with me.” He swung open the door, and then shoved Chris
into the closet.
Chris knocked several hangers askew.
Clothes fell on top of him and dropped to the closet floor. He
helplessly stumbled onto the floor as well. Desperately glancing
around, he caught sight of his brown shoes—just as the door slammed
shut.
Then darkness swallowed him
up.
Molly’s heart broke at the sound of
Erin’s stifled screams. The killer carried her to her bedroom.
“There, there, now, sweetie,” he murmured. “Be a good girl. . .
.”
His sweet, gentle manner was somehow
even crueler than if he’d been rough with her. At least, it felt
that way to Molly. He seemed so icy calm and deliberate. She was
terrified that he’d kill Erin before he came back for her, before
she even had a chance to help the kids escape.
Alone in the hallway, Molly rolled over
on the carpet—two complete revolutions—until she was lying at the
top of the stairs.
She could still hear Erin’s muffled
crying as the man emerged from her bedroom. Molly turned on her
side and gazed up at him. “Please, don’t hurt my little boy down in
the basement,” she whispered. “He’s only six.”
His cold eyes narrowed at her. A tiny
smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Are you trying to tell me
I missed one, stepmom?”
Molly twisted around until she was
almost sitting up. “Bobby!” she screamed. “Bobby, honey, get out of
the house! Run!”
He turned toward the stairs, his back
to her for a moment. Molly leaned back, and then she kicked the
backs of his legs with all her might.
He let out a loud yell and toppled down
several steps. But he managed to grab hold of the banister halfway
down. Wincing, he rubbed his elbow. “Goddamn bitch,” he muttered,
shaking his head.
But then after a few moments, he
chuckled and gazed up at her.
Reaching for the cuff of his navy blue
trousers, he pulled it up to reveal a leather sheath strapped to
his leg. He took a hunting knife out of that sheath.
Molly struggled to loosen the
restraints on her wrists, but she knew it was in vain.
She watched him. He seemed to stare
right into her. With the knife in his hand, he slowly came up the
stairs.
“Nice try, bitch,” Chris heard the man
growl.
He’d thought for sure Molly had kicked
him down the stairs. Her ruse had been very convincing. If Chris
hadn’t known better, he’d have thought for sure there was another
kid in the house.
Now, he heard what sounded like a slap,
and then a dull thud. Molly groaned in pain. Chris swallowed hard,
and another wave of panic swept through him. He prayed to God that
the guy hadn’t kicked her in the stomach. She was pregnant. Maybe
she would live through this, but would the baby?
For some reason, it suddenly mattered
to him very much that Molly was carrying his little brother or
sister.
For the last few minutes, he’d blindly
felt around behind his back for the shoe with the knife in it. At
last he’d found it. But it took him several contortions to angle
the knife correctly. He nicked his finger, and then the palm of his
hand, and finally his wrist. With each little slice into his flesh,
he grimaced. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The sheet strips around
his wrists became damp with his blood—and even harder to
cut.
He could hear Molly moaning in pain.
“C’mon, stepmom,” the man grunted. “It’s your turn. Something tells
me you know what’s coming up. . . .”
There was a strange shuffling sound,
which began to fade. Chris knew the killer was leading Molly to the
master bedroom—and into the closet there. He heard him chuckling,
and then silence.
Frantically, Chris kept pressing the
knife blade against the blood-soaked restraint and poking the sharp
end through the wet fabric. “Please, God,” he whispered. “C’mon. .
. .” He maneuvered the knife some more, and heard a tiny ripping
sound. Finally, he tore through the tattered restraints and rubbed
his sore wrists.
His shoulders ached, and the little
cuts on his hands stung, but Chris didn’t care. Working in the
dark, he quickly hacked through the linen strips around his ankles.
He could hear a knocking sound. It might have been Mrs. Corson
banging against the guest room closet, but he wasn’t
sure.
He struggled to his feet and opened the
closet door. It creaked on the hinges. His legs were a little
wobbly, and his side ached from when the man had kicked him.
Clutching the small steak knife, he glanced around his bedroom for
something else he could use to defend himself. He was going up
against a guy with two handguns. And if the newspaper stories were
correct, the man carried a knife, too. Most of the Cul-de-sac
Killer’s victims had been stabbed to death or
strangled.
Chris spotted his Louisville Slugger in
the corner of his bedroom. He slipped the knife in his pocket, and
then grabbed the baseball bat. He crept toward his
doorway.
Peering down the empty hall, he noticed
the light on in the master bedroom. The killer was in there with
Molly, but Chris couldn’t see them—only their shadows crawling
across the bedroom wall.
With the bat resting on his shoulder,
he quickly crept into Erin’s room. He took a deep breath, and
braced himself for what he might find behind the closed closet
door. He opened it, and let out a sigh. Curled up on the floor amid
her shoes, Erin helplessly glanced at him. She tried to talk past
the duct tape covering her mouth.
“You have to be quiet, and keep still,
okay, peanut?” Chris said, under his breath. Taking the knife from
his pocket, he cut the restraints around her ankles and wrists. The
rope Mrs. Corson had used was harder to cut than the sheets, and it
seemed to take forever. It was no help that Erin kept squirming,
and he was afraid of nicking her. All the while, he could hear Mrs.
Corson next door, banging at the closet door.
Finally, he cut through the ropes.
“Leave the tape over your mouth for now, okay?” he whispered to his
little sister. “It’ll hurt if I rip it off, and I don’t want you
crying. We have to be really quiet. Now, let me give you a
piggyback ride. C’mon, all aboard. . . .”
Erin was trembling as she grabbed him
by the shoulders and climbed on his back. Chris quietly moved to
her door and checked the empty hallway.
“I’m saving you for last, bitch,” he
heard the man say. His voice came from the master bedroom. “I want
you to know how it feels to stay in there for a while. And then I’m
going to take my sweet time with you.”
Chris crept across the hallway to the
stairs. With her arms around his neck, Erin clung so tightly she
was almost choking him. The steps creaked as he hurried down them,
but Mrs. Corson was still kicking against the closet door—and that
was louder. She started to scream and cry. At the bottom of the
stairs, Chris leaned the bat against the wall. With his free hand,
he reached inside the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the newel
post. He took out his cell phone and shoved it into his pocket with
the knife. Skulking to the front door, he opened it, then went back
and retrieved his bat.
The chilly night air felt good as he
ducked outside. He closed the door, but made sure the lock didn’t
click. He would be going back in there.
Chris carried his sister to the end of
the driveway, and then lowered her down. He glanced up at the
windows in the front of the house, but didn’t see any movement. He
squatted down again to whisper to Erin. “I want you to run to the
Hahns’. No one’s home, so you’ll have to hide in the playhouse in
their backyard. Don’t come out until you hear the police sirens,
and even then, make sure they’re here in front of the house before
you let anyone see you. Okay?”
She touched the duct tape over her
mouth, and nodded.
He gave his sister a kiss, and then
tugged at the corner of the duct tape. “If you tear this off really
fast, it might not hurt so much. But it’s still going to hurt, and
you might cry—so wait until you’re in the playhouse. Be brave.
You’re doing great so far, Erin. Now, go. . . .” He turned her
toward the Hahns’ house.
Chris watched his sister scurry toward
Courtney’s place. The empty house was dark—except for one light on
in the living-room window. He kept staring at Erin until she
disappeared in the shadows.
He took out the cell phone and dialed
9-1-1. Waiting for an answer, he turned back toward the house.
Molly and Mrs. Corson were still inside there with that maniac. He
glanced up at the second-floor window and didn’t see
anything.
Then he heard a loud, piercing
scream.
“God, no, don’t!” Jenna Corson cried
out behind the closed door of the guest room. “Please, no, wait . .
. wait . . .”
A knife clutched in her hand, Molly
paused in the hallway. Her head throbbed, and blood was smeared
around her mouth. She had a cut lip from where he’d hit
her.
While stashed in the darkened bedroom
closet, she’d managed to find the knife she’d hidden and cut
herself free. She’d heard him in the guest room, talking with Jenna
Corson. She’d been unable to make out the words, but from their
tone, it had sounded like they were having a normal
conversation.
Once Molly had crept out of the master
bedroom, the murmurings in the guest room next door had become
clearer. Jenna Corson had been talking: “. . . so actually, see,
you’re doing me a favor. Just let me take the little girl, and I’ll
go quietly. I won’t do a thing to stop you. In fact, you can take
as long as you want with the other two. I’m in no position to
contact the police—ever. Don’t you see what a wonderful opportunity
this is for you to demonstrate your power? By letting me live, you
show that you’re not a monster. You’re in total control. You’re
calling the shots. We’re a lot alike, you and me. . .
.”
Molly had checked both Chris and Erin’s
rooms and found the closets empty. She’d felt such relief, she’d
almost cried. While in Erin’s room, she’d heard the man muttering
something in response to Jenna’s proposition. For a few moments,
she’d wondered what he’d said.
But now as she stood outside the guest
room, Molly knew his answer.
She heard Jenna Corson screaming: “God,
please, no! Wait . . .”
Molly saw her chance to escape. But she
couldn’t. Despite everything Jenna had done, Molly couldn’t just
leave her there with that killer. In the next room, Jenna was
shrieking. And in all probability, the soft, punching noise was the
sound of his knife penetrating her skin.
Molly opened the door, and for a few
seconds, she was so horror-struck she couldn’t move. Only the
closet light was on, but it was enough for her discern the grisly
scene in front of her. Jenna was squirming on the floor as he
stabbed her. Her hands still tied in back of her, she writhed and
screamed. Her poncho was covered with blood. Bent over her, the
Cul-de-sac Killer was so enrapt in his work he didn’t seem to
notice the hallway light. He didn’t seem to notice someone else had
come into the room.
Molly suddenly snapped to. Rushing
toward him with the knife, she thrust it in his back—just below his
left shoulder blade. He let out a howl and twisted around so
quickly the knife handle snapped off. The blade was only halfway
inside him.
Wide-eyed, he glared at her. Dropping
his bloodstained hunting knife, he turned on Molly. All at once,
his hands were around her throat. She fought him off as best she
could. She couldn’t breathe or scream out. He almost lifted her off
her feet as he pushed against the wall. Molly struggled, clawing at
his hands and face. But he was relentless. His stranglehold only
became tighter until he was crushing her windpipe. She started to
black out.
Suddenly Chris burst into the room with
a baseball bat. The man let go of Molly and reached for his
gun.
She fell down on the floor and gasped
for air.
Chris swung the bat at him, slamming it
against his arm. Molly heard something crack. The killer let out
another howl. He swiveled around, and she glimpsed the blood on his
pale blue shirt—trailing down from the blade sticking out of his
back. His hand fumbled for the gun in his holster, but the way his
arm dangled at his side, it looked broken. He backed toward the
wall.
“Son of a bitch,” Chris cried, swinging
the bat at him again.
The killer dodged it, and fell back
against the wall. All at once, he froze. His eyes locked on Chris.
A gasp came from his open mouth—along with a little stream of
blood. He coughed, and more blood spilled over his
lips.
In the distance, Molly heard a police
siren. She was still too weak to stand and trying to get a breath.
She rubbed her sore neck.
Her attacker listed forward. She could
see the blood dripping on the wall behind him. As he turned his
back to her, she noticed the blade was completely buried beneath
his shoulder blade now. It must have been pushed in all the way
when he’d fallen against the wall.
The baseball bat still in his grasp,
Chris moved away from him.
The man braced himself against the wall
as he slowly, painfully made his way toward the door. “You’re both
dead anyway,” he wheezed, his back to them. He started to laugh,
but he choked and coughed up blood again. It spattered on the wall.
He turned slightly. With a smile on his crimsonsmeared mouth, he
reached for the switch by the door and flicked on the
light.
Then his legs seemed to give out
beneath him, and he fell over dead.
With the room lit, Molly realized what
he’d meant when he’d said, “You’re both dead
anyway.” She realized Jenna Corson wasn’t there
anymore.
Jenna had managed to slip away
unnoticed. She’d left the torn linen restraints in a tangled heap
on the bloodstained carpet. But the hunting knife the killer had
dropped was gone.
Chris shuddered as he stared down at
the corpse. “Erin’s safe,” he murmured. “Those—those sirens, I
think that’s the police on their way. I called them. Are you
okay?”
“Chris, she’s out there,” Molly
whispered with a nod toward the door. “She has his
knife.”
He glanced over at the door, then down
at the carpet. He seemed to notice the drops of blood that marked a
trail from Jenna’s shredded restraints to the guest room
doorway.
The light had been on in the hallway
earlier, but now it was off.
Molly crawled over to the dead man and
pried the gun out of his holster. As she started to get to her
feet, Chris came over and helped her up. He still held the bat in
his other hand. Outside, the sirens were getting louder, and in the
window, Molly could see the shadows of headlights and swirling red
strobes. She patted Chris on the shoulder and then started toward
the doorway.
“Jenna?” she called out, trying to keep
her voice from quivering. “The police are outside, and you’re badly
hurt. You’ll bleed to death if you don’t get some help. You can’t
possibly get away. . . .”
Before Molly realized what was
happening, Chris brushed past her and stepped out to the darkened
hall. She reached out to stop him, but it was too late. With the
bat poised on his shoulder, he moved down the hallway and then
hesitated. Molly hovered behind him.
Even with the blaring sirens, she could
hear Jenna’s labored gasps, like a death rattle. Down the shadowy
hallway, Jenna sat on the floor near the top of the stairs with her
back against the railing. She appeared half dead.
“Mrs. Corson?” Chris said with
uncertainty. “I’ve—I’ve wanted to tell you ever since Mr. Corson
died that I’m sorry. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him
and regret—what—what happened. I miss him, Mrs. Corson. I’m sorry I
ever doubted him.”
Jenna gazed at him. Her head was tipped
to one side as she struggled for a breath. Bloodstains covered the
front of her poncho, but she still clutched the killer’s hunting
knife in her hand.
“But you doubted him, too, Mrs.
Corson,” Chris continued in a shaky voice. “You left him when
things got bad. You were separated from him at the time he was
killed. I think you feel as guilty as I do—maybe even worse. I
think that’s why you killed so many people you felt had wronged
him. You needed to prove something—that you weren’t like the rest
of us. But you gave up on him, Mrs. Corson. And even with all the
people you killed or hurt—including my parents—it doesn’t change
that. You still doubted him, too.”
She raised her head slightly. Tears
welled up in her eyes. “Ray—he liked you so much,” she murmured.
“He—he used to say you were a very smart young man. And he was
right.”
Then Jenna Corson started to
cry.
Molly could hear the police at the
front door. She moved to the top of the stairs. “We’re up here,”
she called down to them. “We’re out of danger, but there’s a woman
stabbed up here. She—she’s pregnant. She needs a doctor right away.
. . .”
She saw three policemen in the foyer,
all with their guns ready. From the sound of it, there were more
outside, too. She noticed one of them mumbling into a little
microphone device on his shoulder.
She glanced over at Chris, standing
over Jenna. His head down, he leaned the baseball bat against the
wall. Molly couldn’t hear Jenna sobbing anymore. She wasn’t
moving.
Molly set the gun on the post at the
top of the stairs. “Is my little girl out there?” she called down
to them. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the cops said as
he started up the stairs.
“Erin?” she called loudly.
Past all the noise outside—the engines
purring, policemen muttering to each other, someone issuing
instructions through a haze of static on a police radio—she heard
Erin calling out. “Molly, are you okay? Is Chris
okay?”
Chris glanced over his shoulder and
gave her a sad, weary smile.
Molly sank down to the floor, and sat
on the top step. “We’re all right, honey!” she called back. She
felt her eyes tearing up as she smiled at Chris. Her voice dropped
to a whisper. “We’re going to be all right. . . .”