CHAPTER 27
Geena was growing more kittenish by the minute
and had engaged Alonzo, the bartender, in their conversation.
Harrison just needed to put in a little more time before he could
ease away. If he was lucky, Geena would scarcely notice in her
pursuit of the definitely interested bartender or the guy in the
back corner, wearing a cap.
Alonzo, though, was ahead in the “get
Geena race.” He was one of those guys who threw a bar towel over
his shoulder and made the move look like a come-on. Geena wasn’t
immune and turned a cold shoulder to Harrison after she’d decreed
him interested in someone else.
Harrison could probably leave now, he
reasoned, but a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t want to
lose Geena as a source or a friend; timing was
everything.
Alonzo had just learned Geena worked
for the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, however, and it was
almost a deal breaker.
“Goddamn sheriff’s D arrested me once,”
he revealed, his amiable expression fleeing as if it had been
ordered to leave. “Thought I was in a gang.” He shook his head.
“Fuckers. That Clausen . . .”
Harrison’s ears perked up. “Guy doesn’t
like me much, either.”
“Clausen?” Alonzo shot him a look.
“Why? What’d you do?”
“Made the department look bad.”
Harrison shrugged. “Luckily, Geena doesn’t hold it against
me.”
“Fred Clausen is a one-note act,” Geena
said, waving a hand in that “let me tell you, even though I’m
drunk” kind of way. “He likes who he likes, and he doggedly goes
after stuff, I’ll give ’im that. But he doesn’t really look at
every side, y’know?”
“I know,” Harrison agreed.
“But to say you were in a gang . . . ?”
Geena slowly shook her head from side to side, struggling a bit as
she focused on Alonzo.
“I knew guys from the Seaside area,”
the bartender allowed. “Weren’t exactly a gang, but they were
trouble. It wasn’t even Clausen’s case, though. Way outside of
Tillamook County, but he knew I knew ’em, and they were involved in
some kind of brawl. I ended up getting thrown in the department’s
jail. Took a while to sort it out.”
“I hope you’re not gonna hold that
against me,” Geena said. “I just work there.”
“I won’t hold it against
you.”
There was a long look between them, and
Harrison, seeing his opening, slid off his bar stool and stretched,
just to make it look good. “I think I’d better get
going.”
“The hell with that,” Geena told
him.
“You and Alonzo can sort out the
world’s problems without me.” He leaned in to give her a friendly
pat on the shoulder, but she grabbed him and pulled him
close.
“One more drink,” she
said.
He laughed. “Gotta go.”
“I might need a designator driver . . .
designated driver.”
“You might,” he agreed, but he was
still determined to split.
“One more,” she said. “Then I’m done. I
promise.”
Harrison glanced at Alonzo, who said,
“I can’t help you. I’m here till one thirty. I’m off tomorrow,
though.” He gazed meaningfully at Geena.
But Geena had switched from Alonzo back
to Harrison. “Please?”
“Make it a quick one, Geena.” With an
inward sigh, he perched back on his bar stool.
Laura realized she was being an
idiot.
There was no reason to stay in the
kitchen, as if she were afraid to go through the rest of the house.
It wasn’t even that big a place. Two bedrooms and a bath on the
main level with the kitchen and living room.
No big deal.
But her skin prickled despite her big
talk to herself.
There was a basement to the place, and
just thinking of that dark, unfinished area sent a shiver
scampering up her spine. Fortunately, the only access to the
basement was by an outside stairwell. No way to get in here from
the basement unless you went outside first.
She was nuts to be so worried. Why
now?
Nervously, she glanced at her cell
phone and wished Harrison would call her back. Fingering the
keypad, she almost dialed him a second time. Thought better of
it.
The old clock mounted over the arch to
the living room counted off the seconds.
Maybe she should leave. Just go out for
a while. She wasn’t due at work until tomorrow afternoon, so there
was no reason to stay here. Despite her earlier bravado, the night
was getting to her and she felt as if unseen eyes could watch her
through the windows.
Telling herself to just get on with her
life and quit being a scared little ninny, she forced herself to
walk toward the living room. She hit the lights in the short
hallway and flooded the room with illumination. Leaving them on,
she walked to the bathroom, then peeked into each bedroom, her
pulse accelerating each time.
She thought she heard the softest of
sounds. . . . Someone breathing? A stifled sigh? The hairs at the
back of her neck lifted. Oh, dear God.
She stared at the closet in her
bedroom. Closed tight. The doors latched. She should just open them
and . . .
Again she heard an almost inaudible
sound. . . . A hiss?
Her heart slammed inside her chest, and
she backed up, one hand on the wall, fingers sliding along the
textured surface. The creaky floorboard in the hall groaned against
her weight, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
This is
ridiculous! But she couldn’t convince herself to let out her
breath.
She needed a weapon.
If only for her own peace of
mind.
She stepped back to the kitchen and
reached for a knife from the rack but stopped, her hand poised over
the hilts.
One knife was missing.
An empty slot in the magnetic
holder.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
The blood in her veins
froze.
She whipped around, breath coming fast.
Ears straining. Muscles poised.
He was here!
Where?
She nearly screamed.
Clamped her jaw shut.
Her phone was still in her hand; she’d
taken it with her like a security blanket. Now she gave it a
glance. Nine-one-one. She should call 911!
Except. . .
Was a knife
missing?
Had there been a space on the end of
the rack already . . . maybe . . . ?
Her heartbeat out of control, she
glanced at the sink, where the dishes were piled. No butcher knife
visible. She felt faint. Close to collapse.
What was wrong with her? Was it really
all in her head?
The door to the basement was by the
back steps, set into a bump-out from the house and facing the steps
and driveway at a right angle. She walked to the kitchen back door.
Its window was a black square into the night. She peered out
cautiously. She could just make out the basement door, about ten
feet away. It was closed. Locked. Accessible only by a steep
concrete staircase that led to an equally concrete area with posts
supporting the back of the house above and very little
headroom.
She was safe inside.
Still . . .
In her mind’s eye, she saw him, the
hatred twisting his handsome features, the carnage of dead bodies,
mutilated . . . the joy he found in the slaughter. Oh, dear God,
she’d unleashed the monster. No, Laura, you didn’t unleash him. He
escaped . . . remember?
Oh, she remembered. And she recalled
distinctly how she’d taunted him, challenged him.
Just like when they were
children.
She pulled a utility knife with a
five-inch blade off the rack, then stood silently, counting her
racing heartbeats.
You’re doing this to
yourself! Pull yourself together, Laura. Don’t freak. Do not
freak!
She drew in a long, calming breath, her
heart slowing a bit, her skin relaxing over her muscles. After a
few moments in the blazingly bright kitchen, her ears registering
the silence of the house, she thought very clearly, very
condemningly: Now what? Television? A book? No
way.
Slowly, she sat down once more at the
table, the café chair squeaking protestingly beneath her weight.
She set her cell phone onto the tabletop and looked at the knife in
her right hand.
“Get a grip!” she said in a harsh
whisper.
She thought about putting the knife
back. Almost did. But didn’t.
Couldn’t.
A moment passed.
The clock ticked loudly, and in an
instant, she felt him. Heard him. Warning bells clanged through her mind, and
her gaze jerked to the back window.
Justice Turnbull was standing right
outside.
Staring at her through the glass with
his damning pale eyes.
The butcher knife clenched in his right
hand.
Harrison gazed down at the illuminated
screen of his phone. Laura had tried to call him. Didn’t look like
she’d left a message, but he checked his voice mail, anyway,
thinking about the time. She’d phoned about thirty minutes earlier,
probably when she was getting off work or maybe even walking
through her bungalow’s door.
Geena had slowed down on the alcohol,
but she was feeling no pain. “Okay, who is she?” she asked with a
theatrical sigh. “Come on. You’re seeing one some . . . someone . .
. or something. . . .” She laughed and shook her head. “Whew. I’m
close to really, really wasted. You could get lucky, if you
tried.”
Harrison wondered if he should call
Laura back. Was it urgent? Was she in trouble? More than likely she
was just checking in. They’d gotten to that place in their
“relationship” already. But she’d contacted Justice, mentally, if
that was even possible, and he kinda half thought, believed, it was
. . . maybe . . . whatever, the guy was a psycho and he could be
tracking her, ’cause that was what he did.
Alonzo, the bartender, was hanging
back, assessing whether to throw his hat in the ring with Geena or
if she was just playing a game and using him as a pawn. Harrison
read the guy’s mind; he’d been there before. Maybe that was what
Laura’s thing was with Justice, a kind of understanding rather than
actual mind reading, or in her case, mind talking. Maybe it was a
whole load of bullshit, but it hardly mattered because Justice was
a dangerous threat, and that was what counted.
“I gotta call somebody back,” he
said.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Geena looked over
at Alonzo and nodded. “Told ya,” she said to the room at
large.
Ignoring her, Harrison held the cell
phone tight to his ear.
The phone buzzed on the table at the
same moment Laura opened her mouth to shriek. The ring caught her
attention, and she glanced away for a split second. One
nanomoment.
When Laura looked back at the window,
Justice had disappeared.
As if she’d conjured him up, as if her
fear had created his image.
Crash!!!
Glass splintered. Shards flew into the
room. Spraying in an earsplitting explosion. She threw her hands up
to protect her face and saw his arm snake through the broken pane,
fingers scrabbling for the back door handle.
“No!”
Grabbing the knife, she flung herself
toward the door. The phone rang on and on, but she couldn’t stop.
She jabbed the sharp blade into the back of Justice’s hand, and he
snarled in pain.
Oh, God, oh,
God! She stabbed his hand for all she was worth, pulling the
bloody blade out and slamming it back. She caught the fleshy part
beneath his little finger before he yanked it free with a howl of
pain and fury. Blood splattered over her, over the floor, into the
shimmering glass upon the floor.
She screamed and turned to the phone,
flinging herself to the table.
Bam!
Wood splintered in the
door.
Grabbing her phone, she hit the
CALL button, and ran through the house. She
tried to dial, but her hand was slippery with blood, his blood. She lost the cell in her fumbling grasp as
she slid around the corner toward the front door.
“God . . . damn . . . damn!” she cried.
She couldn’t lose the phone, not now!
Crrrraaack!
The back door gave way as she threw
herself onto the floor and snatched up the phone again. “My God . .
. oh, my God . . .” She scrambled to her feet, heard him tear at
the back door as she reached the front. She yanked
hard.
It didn’t move. Locked tight. “Hell!”
Frantically, her heart racing, she turned the lock. Pulled on the
knob again.
The door opened, and she flung herself
onto the porch.
She ran across the wet boards, only to
slip crazily on the wooden steps. Sliding, half falling. Banging
her knee, she caught herself on the railing. “Help!” she cried
frantically. “Help me!” But she saw no lights shining in
neighboring windows, just the sheer darkness of the foggy night.
“Oh, God, please!”
“Sisssterrr . .
.”
His voice. Not in her head this time.
His real voice. Slithery. Cold. Scraping her spine.
She screamed and glanced at her
phone.
Her finger touched the green button.
Harrison was the last call. The top of her menu list. Wildly, she
hit his number, sliding down the last step on legs that were
water.
She managed to stay on her feet and
ran. Jerkily. Along the gravel path at the bottom of the front
stairs. It twisted through overgrown shrubbery ahead, disappearing
into the gloom. “Help!” she cried.
Think, Laura, think!
Outwit him. Run to a neighbor’s!
He was close behind her. His breathing
loud and labored.
“Witch!” he rasped. “You called me! You
called me!”
Oh, no! He was
too close. She ran blindly, her feet slipping, her hands in front
of her, one clutching the phone, the other protecting her from the
branches and fronds that slapped at her face while berry vines
swiped at her ankles. Still she ran. Answer,
she thought. For God’s sake, Harrison, answer your
phone!!!
“I’m here!” Justice taunted. Too close.
She was breathing hard, cutting through the brush, heading for the
main road.
She felt his breath. Hot.
Fetid.
Oh, God, he was barely a step behind
her.
She threw herself forward,
stumbling.
One huge hand snagged in her
hair.
Snapped her head back.
She screamed. The pad of his finger
slid down her nape and spine.
She leapt forward, frantic to get away
from him. Scorched by his touch. Branded.
Her stomach lurched and the phone
jangled in her hand.
Too late!
She hit a button.
“Lorelei?”
Harrison’s voice called to her. Tinny.
Distant. From the speaker in her phone.
“He’s here!” she shrieked and felt the
monster’s hand clamp over the back of her neck, only to slide away.
“Oh, God!” She stumbled over a root or bump or something unseen in
the dark. She pitched forward and the ground shifted, gave way. The
end of the property. Where it dropped to the highway.
Behind her. Breathing hard. He was
right there!
“I will kill you and your filthy
incubus!” he roared.
Without a thought to the consequences,
Laura leapt from her hands and knees, forward.
Into nothingness.
The phone fell from her
fingers.
And she tumbled into
darkness.