Violet Dawn

by Collins, Brandilyn

  Rachel Brandt

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Finally — the mailbox Leslie had been looking for. Number 3692. She slowed Sarah’s Accord and turned left into the gravel driveway. Please, please, Paige, talk to me.

  Leslie pulled up and stopped about fifteen feet from the garage. As she turned off the engine, her cell phone rang. Impatiently she checked the ID. Some long-distance number — Atlanta? Her heart performed a double beat as she shoved the phone to her ear. “Leslie Brymes.”

  “Ms. Brymes, this is Gretchen Versloos from CNN. We’re working on getting some camera equipment out there to Kan-ner Lake to cover the Edna San case, and we’d like to talk to you about being interviewed for a news show tomorrow.”

  Excitement ping-ponged through Leslie. She flapped a hand to expel some of her energy, then struggled to keep her voice level. “That’s certainly a possibility. What would be involved?”

  Gretchen Ver — whatever her name was — yakked away, detailing time, setup, possibilities for cancellations, yada, yada. Leslie drank in the words, even as her antsiness grew. What if Paige was watching through a window, wondering who on earth she was talking to so long?

  The car interior was roasting. Leslie opened the door.

  Gretchen V. wanted her to take some information down. Leslie scrambled for her steno pad and pen on the passenger seat.“Okay, I’m ready.”

  Names and phone numbers followed. Leslie scratched ink across the paper. “All right. Fine. Thanks so much.” She tossed an anxious look toward the little house. Paige must have heard her drive up. She would have some explaining to do. “Is that all?”

  She shouldn’t have asked. Questions followed. What did she know about the case? Any new developments? Like they were going to milk her for all she was worth right here and now. What would be left for tomorrow?

  As with the Alison person at FOX, Leslie turned aside the queries. She knew she had them hooked. “Look,” she finally said, “I’m onto something big here and I really need to go. Can we talk later?”

  By the time she snapped the phone shut, she was doubly sweaty from sitting for ten minutes in the hot car. She tossed the cell on the passenger seat with a huff. “Reporters,” she grumbled as her feet hit the driveway with a crunch.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Paige huddled in the far corner of the backyard, just before the drop-off down the hill. Black Mamba pressed close, gripping her arm. In his other hand was the trowel — the same one she’d used the night before to pry loose the anchor. “It’s here.” She pointed to a patch of grass.

  He narrowed his eyes at it, tracking the barely visible lines where she had cut through the lawn and lifted the grass away like a piece of sod. He sniffed. Thrust the trowel into her hand.“Dig it up.”

  Paige got down on her knees, aware of him behind her. Wondering if a killing blow would land upon her head at any moment.But then, that wouldn’t be a slow death, would it?

  Her arms shook as she used the edge of the trowel to pierce the grass. The smell of dirt assailed her nostrils, slamming her thoughts back to the shivery crawl space. As she worked, her fingers turned brown, earth lodging underneath her fingernails. The grass broke away. Paige dug through the soil.

  Black Mamba yanked her hair. Pain shot through her scalp and she gasped.

  “How much is in there? You couldn’t have spent it all, from the looks of this place.”

  Paige longed to press a palm against her scalp, rub away the tenderness. Instead she hurried her digging, dirt chunks flying.“Seventy thousand.”

  He pulled, keeping the pressure on her hair. Hot needles pricked her flesh. “What did you do with the rest of it?”

  Paige’s eyes watered. She blinked hard. “I spent it coming across the country. And I bought a used car. And some furniture and clothes.”

  He made a sound in his throat. “This all of it?”

  Her mind flashed to the extra five thousand hidden under her mattress — budgeted help with rent for one year. “Yes. I buried it so I wouldn’t use it easily.”

  Mamba laughed. “I applaud your frugality.”

  Clunk. The trowel hit metal. Paige hadn’t buried her treasure very deep. She dug in silence, teeth gritted against the pain in her head. An eternity later she set down the trowel and sank her hands into the square hole. She wrapped her fingers around the waterproof box, lifted it, and laid it upon the grass.

  “Look at this mess you’ve made.” Mamba eyed the hole with disdain. “Now fix it.”

  As Paige pieced the ground back together, he picked up the metal container, opened it. Withdrew a dingy purse, boxy and painted with pink poodles. He opened it and pulled out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills, flipping through them with a smirk.

  “Good.” He stuffed the money back into the purse. Reached down and hauled Paige to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  He pushed her across the yard, Paige stumbling on legs of water. Up the deck and into the kitchen. “Pick up a chair and bring it with you.” He shoved Paige toward the table. Her thoughts tumbled and twirled, even now looking for a chance to run. Some way to save herself.

  “You hear me?” Mamba threw the purse on the counter. In one fluid motion he jerked her to his chest again, shoved a hand against her voice box. Pain gripped her, deep and throbbing. She struggled for air, guttural sounds spitting from her mouth.

  Abruptly he let go. Paige slumped toward the floor, heaving in oxygen. He grabbed her by the hair. “That was a sneak preview. Now pick up the chair.”

  Weak and shuddering, Paige lifted it.

  Mamba opened the door to the garage, gestured with his chin. “Take it out there. Put it down in the middle of the floor.”

  She did as she was told.

  He stepped into the garage and closed the door. “Sit down.”

  Paige fell into the chair, tears filling her eyes. She bent over, hugging herself against the terror. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll go away from here and no one will ever find me. You can have your money.”

  He moved out of sight. She heard the sound of the metal cabinet opening. Items being moved. What was he going to do to her?

  Panic surged up her spine.

  Paige sprang to her feet and raced for the back door.

  Mamba caught her with superhuman quickness. His arms locked her in a vise and picked her off the floor. She struggled and kicked, desperate to hurt him, to free herself, to live. He hauled her toward a wall, forced her down to the cement, onto her stomach. Straddled her legs and grasped both arms, twisting them up and back until her shoulders wrenched against their sockets.

  Paige screamed.

  Mamba pulled harder. “You going to do what I say?”

  Tears blinded her eyes. She could hardly breathe. “Y – yes!”

  He let her arms go.

  Paige’s hands smacked to the cement. Sobbing, she scooted away from him and rolled to her side, curling into a ball.

  “Fine. You just lie there.” He returned to the cabinet.

  She brought both fists to her mouth, groaning at the throb of her shoulders. Her eyes clenched shut. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know. What could she do to save herself anyway?

  Mamba slithered about for what seemed an eternity, barely making a sound. Paige cringed on the hard, cool floor and prayed.

  “All right. Get up.”

  Quivering, Paige forced her eyes open. Carefully turned her head and looked up.

  A slipknotted noose hung low from one of the rafters, brushing the back of the kitchen chair.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Leslie reached out to slam the Accord’s door shut — and heard a scream.

  She froze.

  Her frightened glances flew in all directions. What was that?

  Where had it come from? The garage?

  She cocked her head, listening.

  More sounds. Vague, muffled. The quiet drone of a man’s voice, so low she wasn’t sure she heard it at all.

  Should she investigate? Leslie glanced at her f
eet. The gravel driveway wasn’t exactly made for sneaking around.

  She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. Then leaned inside the car to retrieve her phone. She slid it into her jeans pocket. Leaving the car door open, she crept toward the garage, carefully placing each foot.

  As she drew near, she heard nothing more. Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Leslie looked toward a front window. If Paige Williams saw her skulking around like this, the girl just might find her own ride back to town.

  She reached the garage door, barely daring to breathe. Listed to one side, pressing her ear against the wood.

  Noises. Faint ones. Somebody moving around.

  Well, so? Maybe Paige was cleaning in the garage and a mouse ran over her foot.

  But Paige Williams had just sent two nosey policemen out the door. She was supposedly scared to death and waiting to be picked up to see her defense attorney. What would she be doing in the garage when her car wasn’t even there?

  Leslie’s mind raced over possibilities. Removing evidence . . .Hiding something . . .

  This had to be checked out. She pulled in a silent breath.

  Maybe the garage had a side window.

  With furtive steps she moved toward the corner.

  “All right. Get up.”

  Leslie tensed. A man’s voice, cutting and cruel. No way had she imagined that.

  Something was happening here. Something . . . not good.

  Random thoughts spritzed through her brain. She was a reporter; she had to get the story . . . The man inside — where had he come from? . . . S-Man’s crazy warning — “Be very careful . . .” Her camera — it lay in the car.

  Leslie’s pulse shifted into overdrive. She hit the edge of the gravel, heart pummeling her ribs, and stepped off into quieting grass.

  Toward the rear of the garage she spotted a window. Dampened sounds of movement and voices emanated from the wall.

  Leslie drew a staccato breath and ventured down the side of the house.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Paige’s disbelieving eyes fixated on the rope.

  Above the noose, tied perpendicular to the rope, was the broom she’d used to clean away evidence that morning. It hung like an uneven balance, weighted toward its bristle end. The free end of the rope ran across two ceiling rafters, then down to the floor. It was tied off to a leg of the metal cabinet in the corner.

  Black Mamba approached, looking down on her with glittering eyes. He held out his hand.

  “Please,” Paige whispered.

  He smiled. “I like it when they beg.”

  Paige’s limbs flushed with weakness, nausea swelling in her stomach. Something in the very pit of her being crumbled and scattered away like dry leaves in the wind. Why did her life have to end like this? After the abuse and longing. The struggling and will to survive against the odds. All for nothing.

  Mamba leaned over, both palms out. “There is nowhere for you to go.” His voice was bitingly calm. “Nothing you can do to save yourself. But know you will die famous. As the investigation uncovers more and more, everyone will hear your story. How you stole the identity of a Kansas baby who died at birth, and obtained a Social Security number for it. How you wound up in Kanner Lake, then killed Edna San for no more reason than revenge over an argument. How you, abused as a child, lonely and guilt-ridden, hung yourself when you knew you would be caught.” He sighed with satisfaction. “See how perfectly these pieces fit together?”

  He smiled again, as if reveling in his brilliance.

  Abruptly he reached down and yanked her arms, streaking her shoulders with renewed pain. Paige cried out. Before she knew it, she was on her feet.

  Sudden, gripping panic overwhelmed her once more. Her muscles firmed. One leg lashed out, aiming for Mamba’s groin.

  He jerked aside. Her foot met air.

  Her knee snapped, weakened. Paige staggered backward. Mamba slapped both arms around her waist and hoisted her off her feet. She struggled to break free. He rotated and shoved her onto the chair. It slid backward, its legs scraping the floor.

  The low noose jostled against her head. Paige flinched from it, arms punching wildly, legs churning. Mamba grabbed her throat and hung on, reaching for the noose with his other hand. She bucked and jerked, whipped her head from side to side, cries bursting from her mouth. Mamba held on tighter.

  The noose slipped around her head. He grabbed both sides of the broom as if it were a barbell, yanked it up, cutting off her air. She gurgled, hands flying to the rope, scrabbling, scrabbling to loosen it.

  Mamba raised the broom higher, increasing the pressure. Suddenly he let go. Disappeared behind her.

  In the second of relief Paige sucked in oxygen.

  Without warning the rope tightened again. Paige could hear the rope grinding against the rafters above her as Mamba pulled.

  “Better stand up.”

  He pulled more, and Paige scrambled to her feet to loosen the noose, then up on the chair. The broom above her head teetered and knocked against her shoulder. She sucked in hungry breaths, the rope sliding across rafters until the noose tightened once more. It tugged at her body, separating her feet from the chair. Pain shot through her throat.

  She lifted into space.

  Paige struggled against death. The pressure on her throat was going to snap her neck in two. She flailed, desperately seeking ground. Odd sounds like the lurching scrape of rock over metal sputtered from her mouth. Dots coruscated in her eyes.

  “Reach for the broom!” Mamba snapped.

  The broom! Up flew her arms, seeking the wood. Her right hand found it, dragged that end down, tipping the other side from her reach. Her left fingers thrashed air.

  “Even it out or you’ll strangle.”

  Just as she started to lose consciousness, understanding trickled into Paige’s brain. She thrust up the right side of the broom, caught the left side. With both arms she lifted herself toward the handle in a trembling pull-up.

  The slipknot loosed around her neck.

  Paige clung to the broom and stuttered in air. Her chest heaved, her throat grating. The world narrowed into a tunnel, reduced to the drag of oxygen into her lungs. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  Slivers of pain punched into her injured shoulders. Her arms weakened. She couldn’t hold herself up very long.

  Noises behind her. Paige lifted higher. She sensed Mamba tying off the extra rope to the leg of the metal cabinet. He would leave her to her fate, pulling up, strangling, pulling up, strangling — the slow death he’d promised. Her gaze rolled downward. She hung about a foot off the chair.

  Mamba slipped into her vision and picked up the chair, moved it away.

  “Now.” He posed before her, tongue flickering out to touch his lip. “How long do you suppose it will take you to die?”

  SIXTY-NINE

  Leslie reached the window, heart filling her throat. As she’d slipped down the side of the garage, she heard sudden movement. Bodies thumping, a woman crying out. Sounded like a fight. Paige was in serious trouble.

  Flattening her stomach against the garage, Leslie gripped the window frame with her left hand for steadiness. Slowly she leaned over until one eye peered through the glass.

  The sights hit her like bolts of lightning. A man fighting with Paige. Her whipping body. A noose hanging from the rafters.

  Leslie jerked back, nerves scalding. Denials and stunning reality trounced her brain until she could barely reason. For a moment she could only hang there, pressed and shivering against the wood, her feet motionless, hands cupping her mouth.

  A new sound, like chair legs shoved across a floor.

  She peeked inside again.

  From a chair beneath the noose, Paige battled for her life. The man slipped the deadly loop over her head, pulled on a broom tied above to tighten it.

  Leslie shrank away from the window, air hiccupping from her throat. Paige was going to die before her eyes. And she would die too, if the man spotted her. Hung from the ceiling,
her lungs bursting for air . . .

  God, what am I supposed to do?

  Leslie turned and ran.

  Down the side of the garage back toward the road, arms flapping. At the end of the garage, she avoided the noisy driveway, flying over the grass until she pulled up even with the Accord.

  Chest heaving, she yanked her cell phone from her pocket and pried it open. Punched three numbers with shaking fingers.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “I — ” The raw whisper snagged on her tongue. “This is Leslie Brymes. I’m at thirty-six ninety-two Lakeshore. A woman’s being killed. She’s about to be hung .” Tears flooded Leslie’s eyes, and her throat clogged up. She bent over the phone, explanations tumbling. “I just looked through the garage window and saw it. There’s a man and he’s fighting with her. Her name’s Paige Williams, and the police were just here. Call Chief Edwards at the Kanner Lake station — he’ll tell you. I think this has to do with Edna San, and I don’t know who the man is, but he’s killing her, and they have to get here right now!”

  “Okay, ma’am, we’ll put out the call. You just stay on the phone so we — ”

  “I can’t stay on the phone; I have to do omething!” A sob tore from Leslie’s mouth. “We don’t have time, don’t you understand? There’s no time. She’ll be dead before anyone arrives, and I’m the only one here!”

  “Ma’am, if you’ll just calm — ”

  A weak cry filtered from the garage. The desperation in that sound hurled a sudden, fierce anger through Leslie’s veins.

  She flung down the phone and raced over the gravel toward the Accord.

  SEVENTY

  Paige’s arms and shoulders blazed. She raked in gulping breaths, even as her fingers loosened from the broom handle.

  God, please, if You’re real, give me strength.

  Mamba moved around her in a slow, wide circle, arms crossed and a cruel smile playing at his mouth. “If you had died tonight in your jail cell, it would have gone quickly. This is your pay for playing me.”