In a stunned fog, she heard Kristy scream. The back of her head felt as if it had been split in two, the air had been knocked out of her. She could only gasp for air.
Corde cursed and grabbed her around the throat. She tried to bring the mace canister up again for another shot, but the full weight of his body bore down on her arm; her fingers felt dead.
Regina forgot the pain. Her already starving lungs ached with the unbearable pressure at her throat. His face pressed in on her, so close that she smelled his sour breath, felt the spray of spittle as he continued to call her foul names, saw the dried blood in one nostril. His eyes bulged maniacally and she could see the watery eyelids beneath the upper lashes. She blinked, looked up in time to see Kristy lunge at the madman choking her.
Kristy wrapped a hand across his face, fingers finding strongholds in eye sockets as she pulled hard, her other hand tangled in the sparse strands of hair that covered his bald pate.
Regina watched as Corde worked the pistol out of his waistband and brought it up to Kristy’s face, and then she closed her eyes and prayed that she would die before she heard the explosion.
CHAPTER 33
Through nearly soundproof walls, John heard a muffled scream. He thrust his hand back into the first pigeonhole, his pulse racing out of control. It has to be here, a switch or lever to trigger the door opening device, It has to be here!
And then he felt something. A seam at the top of the cylinder. He pushed upward; then, with a fingernail he tried to pry it open. At last he discovered it was a sliding panel and he pushed it to one side. Inside he felt a switch. He flipped it.
A portion of the wine rack swung toward him. John squeezed the handle of the monkey wrench and charged through the door. What he saw made him both sick and furious. Regina was on the floor, Corde straddling her, his hand around her throat, her eyes wide and staring, Kristy had fallen on Corde, her hands around his face and in his hair, trying to pull the man off her mother.
John saw the gun come up and he wasted no more time. He hurled himself the few yards, his body glancing off Kristy, knocking her out of the way, to come down on Corde’s back. But before he could bring the wrench up to swing at Corde, the gun exploded in his ear. White pain, like a cannonball through his brain, nearly blinded him.
His arms felt heavy, like lead appendages, and useless. All he could think about as he teetered on the edge of consciousness, was that he had failed her. He had again failed the woman he loved, and this time they would both die.
He sank to the floor on his knees. Corde jumped to his feet brandishing the pistol. He waved it toward Kristy and Regina, who were huddled together. Regina had a hand to her throat; she was purple and coughing, but alive.
Corde turned to John, the muzzle of the gun pointed at his face.
John steeled himself for the fatal round.
“You’ve a hard head, Mr. Davie. The next bullet will not bounce off your thick skull, I can guarantee that.”
John reached up and touched his bleeding forehead. He felt ragged flesh just above his left brow—a two-inch furrow where the bullet had traveled briefly before angling off and away.
“Do you plan to kill yourself along with the three of us?” John was surprised by the echo quality of his own voice.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because the cops know all about you. A SWAT team is upstairs now, surrounding the house.”
“You’re hallucinating, Davie. There is no reason for the police to suspect me. None whatsoever. It’s you who are the suspect, then and now. Oh, the two of you thought you were so clever, coming here yesterday to steal something for your psychic friend. She saw my face, did she? Too bad she didn’t see my razor.” He chuckled dryly. “But I digress. You, Davie, came to my home to splash my wife. When she saw you, you had to kill her. Then you lured Mrs. Van Raven and her daughter to my home and killed them as well. Shot them with your own gun.” He indicated the gun in his hand. “When you realized you couldn’t get out alive, you turned the gun on yourself.”
“What’s my motive?” John asked, stalling for time.
“What difference does it make? Your motive shall remain yet another unsolved mystery. The world is filled with crazies. I ought to know, Davie. They come before me every day in the courtroom.” He laughed out loud at that.
“Look outside,” John said.
“Shut up,” Corde snapped. “You interrupted something between me and these two lovely ladies. I should like to get back to it before I call in the police. Now stand up.”
John struggled to his feet.
Corde moved around to the side of John, positioning himself so he could see each person in the room. “Open your mouth, Mr. Davie. Let’s make this clean and sure. I trust you wouldn’t want me to slip, making you something less than human, dependent on others for your care.”
“Fuck you,” John said between clenched teeth.
“Well, then, in that case, che sera sera.” He lifted the muzzle to John’s head.
Regina cried out and came to her feet, rushing into John’s arms. He held her tight.
“How touching. I’m tempted to hold off on your execution, Davie, and let you watch this woman who obviously loves you tend to my needs.” He kicked the black lacy undergarments to Regina. “But, unfortunately, I can’t take a chance that you’ll find a way to spoil my fun.”
The gun came up again, its cold muzzle against John’s temple.
The scream pierced his already throbbing head like a lightning bolt. Was that Regina screaming? He looked down at her. Though her eyes were open wide, her mouth was not. The shrill scream came from behind him. From the depths of his groggy brain, John realized there was a fifth presence in the room; its shriek froze the blood in his veins. He watched Corde turn sharply, the gun in his hand pulling away from John’s head, faltering somewhat, before pointing toward the banshee that was flying through the doorway from the dark basement.
The gun fired.
The screaming thing faltered and fell to one kneee. Then it rebounded and something sparkled in its hands as it again came straight for Corde.
John watched, mesmerized, as the hands drew upward in a tossing motion, and a clear fluid sailed through the air in what seemed like slow motion. It arched, catching the light in a prism of color, then, before Corde could get off another round, the liquid dashed him squarely in the face.
Corde clawed at his face, stumbled about, the gun firing randomly. John grabbed his arm and tried to wrench the gun away, but Corde, swinging wildly, managed to pull back. He somehow found the door and, his moans rising to screams, fled into the dark interior.
Regina rushed back into his arms, clinging to him. John held her tight for an instant. “Are you okay?”
She ignored his question. “You’ve been shot.”
“It’s not serious.”
Kristy joined them. The three stood hugging each other. Then, by unspoken agreement, John and Regina converged on the apparition in black, who at that moment was leaning against the desk, clutching a bloody midsection.
“Corinne,” John said softly, “Oh, Jesus, Corinne.” He gently folded her in his arms.
Another shot rang out upstairs.
John supported Corinne’s body as it sank to the floor. He held her hand. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head. He could hear footsteps thundering down the stairs. “Hang on, Cory. Help is coming now.”
Corinne smiled, turning the scarred side of her face away in what John sensed was a longtime habit.
She squeezed his hand, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She smiled again and rolled her head, as though what she had to say was of little or no importance.
She died as the police and paramedics entered the room.
Epilogue
At the Meadowvale Inn, Regina and John sat close together in a booth in the Oak Room. Regina stared at the red mark on John’s forehead made by the bullet. After two weeks, it was nearly healed, though still vivid. It wou
ld no doubt leave a dandy scar.
Her mind flashed back to that rainy afternoon in the Corde basement. Three people had died that day. All killed by the same hand. Amelia, Corinne, and the judge. With acid eating into his face and the police surrounding the house, Matthew Corde had put the gun to his eye and pulled the trigger.
Tammy Kowalski had been buried the day before, and ironically, the funeral for Corinne Odett took place the same day as the double service of Amelia and Matthew Corde. There was no service for Pandora Cudahay.
“I’m glad you don’t have to go back to the city for the show tomorrow,” John said.
“All done,” Regina said. “That’s the advantage of prerecorded programs.”
“Thought you preferred them live?”
She laughed. “That was when I didn’t know what I was doing. Actually, it was Max’s idea. Donna isn’t crazy about live shows and as long as she’s the star, we’ll do it her way.”
“Have you decided to be her co-host?”
Regina nodded. “She insists she won’t go on unless I’m with her.”
“When is she returning?”
“Anytime. Max wants her back on the air as soon as the doctor gives her the thumbs up.”
“She turned out to be a pretty tough cookie.”
Regina stared across the restaurant. “It’s hard to believe that Donna and I are the only ones left. Five finalists, two survivors.”
John squeezed her hand. “It’s over, honey.”
“Yes.”
“Speaking of finalists, did Kristy have any regrets about dropping out of the model contest?”
Regina shook her head. “None. Especially since Sonya didn’t make the last cut. They were a team, like Donna and me.”
They ate in silence for several minutes.
“How’s the new book coming,” she asked.
“Two chapters this week. I think I’ve finally broken through the writer’s block. The galleys for False Lead came today. I’m going to be pretty busy for a while.”
Regina looked into his eyes, then quickly looked away. She nodded, sipped her wine.
After dinner they returned to room 142, the same room they had shared before. The fire blazed and the love songs were soft, nostalgic. The champagne John had ordered sat chilling in a bucket on the table.
Regina stared solemnly into the orange-white flames. John came up behind her and handed her a glass of champagne. Deja vu. She smiled, took it.
He lowered himself into the wingback chair and gently pulled her down into his lap.
“This is nice,” John said, his voice husky. “Did I mention that I love you?”
She swallowed, slowly shaking her head.
“I love you,” he said softly.
Her eyes misted with tears, happy tears. Until he actually said them, she didn’t realize how much she had wanted to hear those words.
“I’ve wanted to say that for ... well —damnit, I was afraid to say it,” he went on. “I thought if I said it out loud, you’d be taken from me.”
“I’m tougher than you think.”
“Too tough to love an amateur detective?”
“I owe that amateur detective my life. I love amateur detectives, I love authors, and I love part-time bartenders who wear leather bomber jackets and are hooked on pistachio nuts—the red dye ...” she kissed his stained fingers, then his lips, “... turns me on.”
“What are you trying to say?” he coaxed.
“That ... I love you, John.”
He tightened his hold on her. She snuggled deeper into his arms, sighing.
“Everything in this room is exactly the same except for the rose petals.”
“I suppose they’re reserved for the bridal treatment,” she said.
“Umm,” he kissed her ear lobe. “I miss the rose petals.”
“I miss them too.”
The conversation was left unfinished, but the notion, like the heavy fragrance of the absent rose petals, filled the room.
About the Author NightWriter--Dark and deadly nights. . .
Carol lives with her husband Bob and their psycho cat in Sparks, Nevada. She is the author of six suspense novels: NIGHT STALKER, NIGHT PREY, NIGHT PASSAGE, NIGHT GAME, NIGHT WIDOW and NIGHT HUNTER (formerly titled, Skin Deep).
Carol enjoys hearing from readers—visit her at:
website http://imagerystudios.com/carol
Blogsite: http://caroldavisluce.com/
Tweeter: http://twitter.com/#!/CarolDavisLuce
Buy her books at:
Amazon.com
Barnes & Noble
BONUS
SHORT STORY
SHATTERED CRYSTAL
A gunshot shattered the quiet. The report made me flinch despite the fact I'm a cop accustomed to such sounds and that I knew what was coming. I glanced at the clock on the stove. Eighteen after. Sitting at my kitchen table cluttered with breakfast remnants of cereal, Pop tarts, spilled milk and the uneaten crusts of warmed-over pizza, I closed my eyes again and listened to the ensuing silence, absently crushing cornflakes beneath my fingertips. A second gunshot exploded. I looked at the clock. Six minutes had passed. Exactly two and one half minutes later the cassette clicked off. An image of Trudy Moore flickered across my mind. Trudy in the beginning and Trudy near the end.
Over the years in my police work I had tried hard to stay uninvolved personally, but sometimes it just couldn't be helped. This case had been one of those fraught with disappointment and frustration, impeded by the very system meant to remedy it.
It began for me on a blustery day in November in the cramped detective division of the Spring Valley Police Department where I serve as the department's first and only female detective.
"Detective Winick?"
I looked up from the bottom drawer of my desk where I had just stashed an assortment of commandeered Halloween candy that my seven-year-old nephew, Billy, had collected trick-or-treating the night before. I recognized the woman standing at my desk. It wasn't the first time she'd been in this department. In fact, I'd seen her at least three times in the past, working with two other detectives; first with Sal, then Chester, but that had been months ago.
The change in the woman was shocking. I recalled a rather plain, but robust-looking young woman with a straight, confident posture wearing a tidy waitress uniform. She didn't look so robust now. With dark smudges under her eyes, lipstick chewed away from dry lips and the shine gone from hair that was limp and beginning to show gray, she slouched with what I could only describe as obvious despair. Her uniform had lost it starch and fit a little looser. There was no doubt about it; this woman's appearance had gradually gone downhill with each visit to the station.
"I'm Trudy Moore. Detective Bernstein said you were probably the one who could best help me."
"Oh yeah. Why is that?"
She shrugged. "Maybe 'cause you're a woman."
That sent red lights flashing in my head. "Have a seat, Mrs. Moore." I let go of the candy and reluctantly closed the drawer. She sank into a chair. Behind her at the double glass doors I saw Sal and Chester approaching, laughing and talking, about to enter when Chester glanced our way then pulled on Sal's arm. Sal looked, his smile instantly changing to a grimace as they both executed a quick about-face and retreated. So that was it. Mrs. Moore was a pass along. First Sal, then Chester, and now me. She was no doubt the station kook. What was it? Voices in her head? Little people on her heels? The neighbor's barking dog?
With head bowed, fingers picking at something that looked like spaghetti sauce on her uniform, she said, "He's beginning to really scare me."
"Who?"
"It's all on report. I told Detectives Parker and Bernstein all about it. They took reports."
"Why don't we just start fresh. From the beginning, okay?"
She nodded, sighed with resignation. "I know there's no anti-stalker law in this state, but I--"
"We're working on it."
“Isn't there something you people can do anywa
y?"
"Why don't you tell me about it. First," I said, readying my note pad, "give me a little background on you, if you will."
She nodded again, swallowed, and began. She was thirty-one, divorced three years and had a daughter, five. She worked as a waitress in a coffee shop in the mall, but she was going to quit because of him. Before the waitress job she was a teller at a bank, a ticket seller at the Cinema 8, and a clerk at the Stop n' Go, all jobs she'd had to quit because of this weirdo.
"Pestering you, huh?"
"Without let up. Since April Fool's Day."
"Go on." "I get a new job and he finds out where and suddenly there he is, hanging around and grinning that creepy grin."
"He an old boyfriend of yours?"
"Absolutely not!"
She told me that this man turned up one day at the convenience store where she worked, the one under the overpass, and pretty soon he was there every day, hanging around, drinking coffee and watching.
"Watching?"
"Me. Watching me."
"Go on."
Intimidated by this, Trudy quit and went to work for the movie theater. She felt a measure of safety inside the ticket booth, but when he started showing up there she left and went on to the bank. At least they had a security guard. But after only two weeks she was fired because she made too many mistakes, so unnerved by his vigil on the bus bench across the street--the bus would come and go and still he sat there staring at her through the tinted glass of the bank's drive-up window. Her latest job at the cafe had brought him inside again. He'd come full circle. He was back to sipping coffee and watching her, except now he was calling her at home on her unlisted number.
Night Hunter Page 38
