She felt a sudden blow to her ankle that hurt even through the thickness of her boot. And then she was out of the window and up on the sloping roof.
A cold breeze stung her eyes. To her right she could see the soft glow of Colorado Springs in the night sky. To her left were the Rockies, blacker than night, spotted here and there with lights, faintly outlined by a deep purple glow. Above her sat Brian, knees up, feet flat, hands palms down at his sides. He looked at her with wide, frightened eyes, and he shivered—whether from fear or cold, Sarah couldn’t tell.
She moved toward him in a crablike walk. His mouth opened, and he raised his arm and pointed. Sarah looked back and saw two hands gripping the edge of the roof. Then Christine’s face rose into view, as pale white as the moon.
“Help us!” Sarah yelled toward the street, which was hidden from view by the length of the house. “Help us! We’re on the roof!”
“Leave my son alone,” Christine said. “Give him back to me.” She pulled herself onto the roof, the knife handle protruding from the waist of her skirt.
“Turn around and climb, Brian,” Sarah said, her voice desperate, and together they scrambled up toward the peak of the roof.
We can climb down the other side, Sarah thought. I can hang from the eave and kick in a window, then we can get back in the house and run out the front door, and …
They’d reached the peak of the roof. The roofing tiles there were as dark and dry as they were on this side of the roof, the south side. But on the other side the roof was white with unmelted snow.
Sarah realized that if they tried to climb down they’d slide uncontrollably to the bottom and over the edge.
She turned and looked back.
Christine was making her way toward them—slowly, though, slipping slightly in her leather-soled shoes. When she was a dozen feet from them, she stopped and turned to rest on her hip. Sarah enjoyed one wild moment of hope, hope that Christine, for whatever reason, was unable to climb to the top. But her hope vanished when she saw Christine draw the long-bladed knife from her skirt, then turn to face them. She moved upward, more slowly now, because only one hand was free for climbing.
One hand free for climbing, Sarah thought.
She’d taken something from Brian so that both his hands would be free for climbing—the box cutter. She struggled to get it out of her pocket. Then she sat there, perched on the peak of the roof, her right arm around Brian, her left hand holding the box cutter. She held it before her, as if it were a talisman to ward off death.
And now Christine was directly below them.
“Here, Timothy,” she said, and reached for Brian’s foot.
“NO!”
Sarah lashed out with the box cutter. Its tiny, sharp blade touched Christine’s forehead, making her jerk back. A thin line appeared above her eyebrows and began to ooze shiny black droplets.
Christine’s face twisted in pain and rage. She raised up on her knees and brought the butcher knife high above her head.
Sarah let go of Brian, desperate now to save him, and threw herself at Christine just as the knife came slashing downward. Sarah drove her shoulder into Christine’s chest, knocking her over backward, feeling the knife blade nip her side. The larger woman landed flat on her back with Sarah on top. Sarah heard the knife rattle down the tiles and over the edge. And now they were both tumbling down the roof—Sarah’s fingers scraping the roofing tiles, wildly trying to stop her fall, and Christine flailing and clawing at Sarah. Sarah managed to momentarily kick free from Christine, then twisted onto her stomach, spread her arms, and dug the edges of her rubber-soled boots into the roof. Christine rolled and slid down the entire slope of the roof. When she reached the edge, her back was to the void, and she seemed to hang suspended for a moment. Her eyes were filled with hate, locked on Sarah. And then she tumbled over the edge.
Sarah lay flat on the roof and looked up at Brian, who was still perched on the peak of the roof. She held her breath and waited to hear a distant thump as Christine struck the ground.
But she heard nothing. And she realized now that Christine had gone over the edge in complete silence. She hadn’t cried out or even whimpered.
“Don’t move,” Sarah told Brian.
She edged slowly down the roof and cautiously peeked over the edge.
Christine lay in the snowy yard like a broken doll.
Sarah let out her breath in a long, slow shudder.
It’s over, she thought, thank God it’s—
And then she saw Christine move.
Sarah stared down in disbelief as Christine slowly got to her feet. She paused before straightening up and picked something off the ground—the butcher knife.
Then Sarah heard a voice below her and to her left. Another figure had entered the yard, a figure whose blond hair was visible behind her cap. Officer Pearl was crouching with her hands together and her arms extended in a “V” toward Christine. She said something that Sarah couldn’t understand.
Suddenly Christine raised the knife and lurched toward Pearl. Sarah saw the flash and heard the dull snap of Pearl’s gun.
Christine continued to stumble forward.
Pearl fired again.
Christine fell and lay still in the snow.
37
SARAH BARELY HEARD THE doorbell through the loud conversation and laughter.
“Excuse me,” she said to Jack Dahlquist. She’d been talking to her neighbor and a man named Arthur—she’d forgotten his last name—who taught math at Jefferson High. The two men had just discovered that they were both enthusiastic fly fishermen, so Sarah thought that the doorbell had come at a most opportune moment.
She set her glass of champagne on an end table and nudged her way through the crowded living room to the foyer. From here the dominant sounds came from her left: Jefferson High’s stodgy vice-principal, Ralph Anderson, banging out a Golden Oldie on the piano to accompany the singing of his wife and Denise Dahlquist and several other unidentified voices—all a bit off-key but making up for it in volume.
She opened the door to a wave of cold December air.
“Happy New Year,” Kay Nealy said. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of party left.”
Sarah held the door for them, and Rick kissed her on the cheek.
“Nice to see you again. How’s everything?”
“Everything’s great. And it’s good to see you, too.”
Sarah took their coats and squeezed both garments into the overfull hall closet.
“God, Sarah,” Kay said, reaching out to touch her neck. “Where did you get that?”
Sarah fingered her gold necklace. “Alex gave it to me for Christmas.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kay said, then jammed Rick in the side with her elbow. “He gave me a food processor.”
“Hey, it’s what you wanted, right?”
Kay rolled her eyes, making Sarah laugh.
“Which way to the bar?” Kay asked.
“Follow me.”
Sarah led them to the kitchen. It didn’t look as if it would hold another person, but Kay grabbed Rick by the hand and pulled him into the crowd. Sarah stood for a moment in the doorway. She saw Alex getting ice from the refrigerator. After he closed the door, he touched his hand to his neck, making Sarah wonder if the area around his scar was still causing him discomfort—after all, it had been little more than two weeks since his injury. She watched him until he turned her way. He saw her and smiled. She smiled back, and he blew her a kiss.
Sarah felt someone tap her on the arm—Martha Kellog, glass in hand.
“Sorry,” Sarah said, moving aside. “I guess I’m blocking the way to the bar.”
“No, I’m fine.” Martha held up her half-full glass of ginger ale. “It’s your son. He’s awake, and I think he wants you.”
“Thanks, Martha.”
“Maybe he was having a nightmare.”
“Let’s hope not,” Sarah said, and walked toward the foy
er.
Sarah had worried about Brian’s bad dreams, the ones he’d suffered for the first few nights after Christine Helstrum’s death. She’d suffered a few of her own, but they had soon faded as her life began to slowly re-form into familiar patterns. In fact, her clearest memory of the ordeal was not being chased by Christine, when her adrenaline had been flowing and her mind had been desperate for survival, but of the time immediately after the danger, when Officer Maestas had sat on the roof with her and Brian and wrapped a blanket around them and waited for the firemen to safely walk them down a ladder.
She’d also had a few nightmares about the basement. These dreams usually didn’t involve things that she’d seen but things she’d been told by Officer Pearl and others. Clothing and food scraps had been found stuffed in the furnace ducts. Apparently Christine had been living down there for many days, opening outside doors to confuse them, hiding, laughing, playing her insane game.
What was it like for her, Sarah wondered, squeezed into that furnace duct? Alone, waiting in the dark, pressed in on all sides by cold metal, smelling her own stench.
Sarah found Brian standing on the stairs in his pajamas, two steps from the bottom, looking a bit perplexed by all the commotion.
“I can’t sleep, Mom.”
“It is pretty loud, isn’t it?” She put her hand gently on his head. “Come on, I’ll read you a story.”
She took him upstairs to his room and closed the door. The sounds from below were no more than a muffled hum. She tucked Brian under the covers without disturbing Patches, who was curled up at the foot of the bed. The big cat blinked once at Sarah, then closed his sleepy green eyes. She tried to remember what he’d looked like with a long tail. It was difficult, because he seemed so normal with his furry stub.
Sarah took down the nearest book at hand from the shelf above Brian’s desk. She glanced at the cover—a boy and a girl and a dog riding a flying carpet—then sat on the edge of the bed and began reading.
She was up to page six when the door opened and Alex walked softly in.
“Our son needed to be entertained, too,” Sarah said.
Alex held his finger to his lips. “Looks like he’s had enough for tonight,” he whispered.
Only now did Sarah notice that Brian’s eyes were closed. She bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, then stood and put the book on his desk. When she turned, she saw Alex pulling the blanket up to Brian’s chin. It was a simple act, and she’d seen him do it many times before, but something about it touched her now—as if it were not just an act but a symbol. Safety and comfort, perhaps. Family.
Then she had a grim thought, one she’d had before: Christine had been partly responsible for creating this family. Her vicious acts had resulted in love. And in a way, Sarah realized, Christine’s acts had been motivated by love. She’d wanted to get back her son.
What if for some reason they’d taken away my son? Sarah thought. What would I have done to get him back? How desperately would I have tried?
Alex looked at her and frowned.
“Are you all right?” He spoke softly, careful not to wake Brian.
“Yes,” Sarah said quietly. She smiled and reached out for his hand. “Come on, our friends are waiting.”
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank both Dominick Abel for pointing the way toward this book and Susanne Kirk for helping me get there.
Special thanks to Pamela Allegretto Franz, co-owner of Custom Hair, for her patience and expertise. Any errors are, of course, mine.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Michael Allegretto
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4804-6279-3
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