In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

by M. R. Sellars

  “Dammit!” she muttered. Maybe in her haste she hadn’t fully keyed up the radio. She shot a rapid glance over her shoulder at the device lying on the floor, but there was no time to turn around for it and call them again. A weaker, but still audible, gurgling half-scream came up from the floorboards beneath her feet, and it was followed by a sickening, wet sounding thump.

  There was another soggy thump and then the ping of metal against concrete.

  She needed to get to the basement right now.

  Since she was wearing her vest, she prayed that if a deputy or the sheriff came through the door unexpectedly and fired without warning at whatever they saw moving, they’d stick to their training and go for center mass… Or preferably miss her entirely.

  Taking the chance, she advanced quickly. In a half-dozen long steps, she moved down the hallway toward the basement door, crossed in front of it, then turned and reached for the doorknob with her left hand while keeping her Sig Sauer poised in firing position with her right. Grasping the round, brass handle with her fingers and thumb while palming the flashlight, she twisted.

  It didn’t budge.

  She rapidly stuffed the still-illuminated flashlight into her pocket, wrapped her hand fully back around the doorknob, gripping as tightly as she could, and tried again to twist it in either direction. It remained frozen and unyielding.

  She suddenly recalled the last time she had been at the butcher shop while they were cutting meat on a block behind the counter and the sound of the cleaver hacking against flesh and bone. Then she remembered the metallic ping she’d created earlier, each time she had hammered the tire iron against concrete. Now, beyond the door, continuing at random intervals, she could hear the dull echoes of a hauntingly similar sickly thump and ping, and she found herself wanting to vomit.

  In between it all was a high-pitched whimpering. The screams, however, were now gone.

  She shouldered the door in an attempt to break it loose, managing to do little more than send a sharp pain running down her arm and across her back. Rocking backward with everything she could muster, she tried pulling at the door again, but it remained steadfastly in place and the knob still wouldn’t budge.

  Stepping back, she braced herself and cocked her knee, driving her foot against the wooden barrier. There was a hard, hollow thump, but no movement at all, save for the jarring vibrations radiating into her joints. She threw another violent kick but met with the same result.

  Panting hard, in a last ditch effort she backed up against the opposite wall and brought her sidearm to bear on the jamb where the handset met the frame. Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, she heard a small shuffle then a quiet thump.

  It was a different noise than before—measured and deliberate.

  She relaxed her finger and listened.

  The noises repeated in tandem. This time the shuffle was followed first by a light but still sharp thunk, then by a quieter and softer thump.

  A pause; then they came again…

  Another pause, and then shuffle, thunk, thump yet again… Moving audibly closer with each repetition.

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  Constance glanced quickly to the right and then slid her back along the wall until she hit the casing around a doorframe. Taking a quick step to the right and then back, she moved into the empty doorway that was diagonally opposite of the basement entryway itself. The basement door should swing out and to her left. Whenever it finally opened, whoever was coming up the stairs would be standing directly in her line of fire.

  The slow shuffle continued, followed by the sharp thunk and soft thump. Occasionally the odd rhythm was joined by the barest of a creak from the wooden stairs. Each time, the noises sounded closer, until finally they came to a halt immediately on the opposite side of the basement door. Constance watched on in the darkness, waiting.

  Eventually, a slow click and scrape sounded as the old doorknob began to turn.

  “FEDERAL AGENT!” She called out, her voice loud but still hoarse and rough. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!”

  Constance kept her focus straight ahead, looking into the shadows with both eyes targeting down the sights of the Sig Sauer as she held it stiff-armed before her. The latch completely released with a languid pop, and she detected movement as the door itself slowly parted from the jamb.

  A wisp of air, colder than the already frigid house, brushed against her cheek, startling in its intensity. Steeling herself, she sucked in a deep breath and repeated her previous instruction. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!”

  With a long, low creak, the door pivoted open on its hinges. She sucked in another breath and held it, visualizing in her mind the top of the stairwell as it had been when she had ascended it earlier. Leveling her arms in a straight-on isosceles stance, she targeted at a point where she estimated an average-sized man’s chest would be as he came up and through the opening.

  Her aim was far too high.

  As the door swung wide, she found herself staring at the dark silhouette of a much smaller figure. In fact, it seemed to be the size of a small child. Moving her weapon down and training it on the shadow she barked, “FEDERAL OFFICER! DON’T MOVE!”

  The silhouette seemed to obey, remaining frozen in place. Leaving the Sig aimed squarely at the figure, Constance dug her left hand quickly into her pocket, withdrew the still burning flashlight and pointed it at the lower portion of the doorway.

  Staring back at her, unblinking in the blue-white brilliance, was a freckle-faced girl of around ten-years-old. Her mop of chestnut hair was tangled and matted. She was smeared with filth, and obvious tracks could be seen where tears had once streamed down her cheeks, but had now gone dry. What she could see of the rest of the child’s bare skin was splattered with blood, bruises, open wounds, and festering cigarette burns. She was partially clad in the ripped shreds of a plaid school uniform.

  Constance slowly lowered her weapon as she stared in disbelief, remembering Sheriff Carmichael’s description of Merrie Frances Callahan when he had discovered her on Christmas morning, 1975.

  “Merrie?” she whispered.

  The little girl continued staring back at her, glassy-eyed and silent. In a very real sense, it seemed that she wasn’t looking at Mandalay as much as she was looking through her. The child swiveled her head slowly from side to side, as if lost and searching for her bearings.

  After a moment, in a weak, flat voice she simply said, “I lost one of my shoes.”

  Constance looked down and noticed that the girl’s left foot was securely buckled into a patent-leather Mary Jane, but her right was completely bare. The pronouncement the girl had made didn’t seem as though it was directed at anyone. It was more like something said by a person suffering from traumatic shock. An overstatement of the obvious made for no other reason than the fact that it was something to focus upon.

  Mandalay blinked hard then looked into the little girl’s face and whispered once again. “Merrie Callahan?”

  The girl turned away from her without another word and shuffled slowly up the corridor. Constance stood dumbfounded for a moment as the utter insanity of what she was seeing seeped into her overtired brain.

  Mandalay hesitated, following the child with only the flashlight and her eyes as her own state of shock washed over her. She watched silently as the girl turned the corner and disappeared through the archway into the front room.

  CHAPTER 26

  HOLSTERING her sidearm and latching the thumb break, Constance stepped into the hallway and followed after the girl. She pressed forward quickly, moving on automatic pilot as she jogged to her left and hooked through the archway. She played the beam of the flashlight around the room, but the child was nowhere to be seen. Directly ahead, the front door of the house was halfway open, allowing more light from the streetlamps to spill inward through the wide crack and mix with the beam of her flashlight.

  Constance rushed to the door and pulled
it wide. Beyond the opening was the front porch, and beyond that the yard. Near the center of that frozen expanse, the child was trudging forward through the snow, zombie-like but with what seemed a determined purpose.

  Constance stepped quickly through the doorway and across the porch. Stumbling in her haste, she tripped her way down the snow-covered front steps, pitching forward in a clumsy fall. As she grasped for the railing to regain her balance, the small flashlight sprang from her hand and tumbled end-over-end through the air. When it came down several feet away, it disappeared into the mantle of white and created a muted glow just inches beneath the surface.

  Pulling herself up, Mandalay regained her footing and jumped forward, abandoning the flashlight and taking the last two stairs as one. Then she began making her way through the snow-covered yard, chasing after the child.

  “Merrie!” she called to her again, increasing her stride to catch up. When she closed the short distance and came upon the girl, she reached out toward her shoulder.

  As her fingers fell the last few inches toward the child, the sound of crunching snow filled her ears, underscoring a shouting male voice. All Constance managed to make out was the word, “NO!”

  She was blindsided from the right by what felt like a linebacker slamming into her; and he was moving at as much of a dead run as the thick blanket of white covering the yard would allow. Pain shot through her bruised side as a thick arm roughly hooked about her waist. There was a hard jerk on impact, her head snapped to one side, and she felt herself spinning, which caused her hand to whip back and away from the still moving girl. A split second later all manner of balance had instantly disappeared, and Constance was briefly airborne. Falling hard, she tumbled to the left with a sharp yelp, hitting the ground, but not before landing on top of whoever had just tackled her. She tried to roll away but felt the arm pull tighter, squeezing around her waist like a vise as he yanked her back.

  She was pitched onto her back, still partially atop her attacker, the wind knocked from her lungs. She gasped for a breath as his other arm came around just beneath her ribcage, but over the top of her own left forearm, trapping it securely against her side. She felt his hand groping across her stomach, trying to get a hold on her right arm as well. She immediately pulled it away, but for a moment his fingers hooked into her coat sleeve and clenched.

  She yanked hard in a desperate tug of war. Fortunately, given the awkward angle at which she was being restrained, she still had enough leverage, so that with a second sharp jerk she was able to break free and pull it out of reach.

  The man was trying to talk to her—half-spoken, unintelligible words coming out between panting breaths, but she wasn’t paying attention. Right now she had no interest in hearing his threats; she just needed to get away from him before he could inflict serious damage.

  Out of trained reflex, she threw her free arm forward and brought it back down at a sharp angle, summoning all of the strength she could muster out of her shoulder as she rotated it back. Pulling straight in with her forearm she cocked her elbow and drove it hard into her attacker’s stomach. She felt a fleeting moment of satisfaction when a deep, guttural huff exploded into the night immediately behind her right ear. She instantly twisted to the left as his hold on her loosened, but it still wasn’t enough for her to escape.

  He pulled her back, pawing at the folds of her coat as he renewed his grip. For the barest of an instant, a stab of panic skewered Constance’s racing heart. If he managed to get his hand on her weapon, she was in trouble. Close quarters hand-to-hand combat wasn’t a problem for her; she knew exactly how to disarm and take down almost any opponent—as long as she was on her feet.

  Therein was her weakness.

  Once she hit the ground, the game changed drastically, and not in her favor. It was almost like being a turtle that had flipped over onto its back with no way to right itself. She was petite and lacked the upper body strength of a man. That made her susceptible and put her in serious jeopardy. In a prone position like this, a larger opponent—especially a man—would have a weight and strength advantage that was much harder to overcome. In some cases, maybe damn near impossible. As tight as this particular man’s hold seemed to be, her odds were starting to look grim.

  She bit back the sudden fear before it could run rampant and take over. She couldn’t afford to give in to it, because once she did, that meant she had lost the fight, and in her mind that wasn’t an option. While he obviously had strength on his side at the moment, she still had some things going for her. For one, he didn’t have the weight advantage—yet. Right now, he was down, and she was on top of him, which put her in a better than average position under the circumstances. Plus, they were wrestling in deep enough snow to slow him a bit and restrict his movement. While balance and agility were no longer her great equalizers, she knew she had to use whatever openings she could find. One of those just happened to be that her attacker had an intrinsic vulnerability she could exploit, and she was already planning to go after it with extreme prejudice.

  Twisting to the left she shot her arm out again and curved her back as much as the Kevlar vest would allow, hunching forward as she brought the heel of her fist rocketing down for a groin shot. He must have seen it coming, because she felt her hand connect, but it impacted with a solid thud, far more like a full on blow to his thigh instead of the tender area she had targeted. He still yelped but held firm.

  He began kicking and twisting after the first blow, fully recognizing her plan of attack. He rocked to the right, then rolled hard, trying to push her over and pin her down.

  She couldn’t allow that to happen, or the fight would be over with her as the loser.

  Scissoring her legs and bending her left knee, she dug her foot into the snow and locked it there, pushing back against him as hard as she could, stopping his roll in its tracks. With a quick swivel, she brought her other leg up, over, and down in between his, hooking it over the top of his left knee. Digging the heel of her foot into the snow pack, she rocked forward, bending her chin to her chest and tensing her neck as she grimaced. With a quick thrust she arched her body while throwing her head back, intent on slamming the back of it into his nose. It was a maneuver of last resort, but she was running out of options.

  She figured he saw the head butt coming, because she felt him trying to twist. He managed to turn enough to save his nose; however, he was unable to keep her skull from popping hard against his jaw, right at the corner of his chin and mouth.

  The strike was solid enough to send a jarring pain through Constance’s own head, but she was expecting as much and had braced for it. Judging from the sound, he had taken the worst of the strike and was hopefully stunned. With that—and the fact that she had his leg pinned, which left his crotch fully exposed—she would be back in the game.

  Wasting no time, she quickly raised her free arm and drove her fist downward again. He tried to swivel himself and bring up his other leg to block; however, he was a half-beat behind her rhythm. Her blow glanced from his upper thigh but continued its trajectory. Although with far less force than she intended, this time she hit squarely on her mark.

  Even with having been momentarily impeded, the strike still had the desired effect. A pained howl roared out behind her head, and the constricting arm broke away from her waist.

  His other arm was still up around her midsection, looser than before, but still pinning her left arm to her side. Bending her right elbow, she cocked her arm in and immediately reached for his hand as it momentarily unclenched. Grabbing the first two fingers she could seize, she rotated her shoulder upward, unlocking her left knee and rolling to the side. The pair of digits bent backward, eliciting a sharp yelp from her attacker, and he released his grip.

  Finally free, Constance continued pitching quickly to the left, rolling as best she could through the snow. Twisting her body away from her attacker, she lunged forward; scrambling away and up to her knees, she spun around. He was still down, but she didn’t bother weighi
ng the options of a knee drop to the chest or a throat strike. She simply drew her arm back beneath her coat and wrapped her cold-numbed bare hand around the grip of her weapon.

  Throughout the entire skirmish the man had been yelling something at her. Now, more words spilled out of his mouth.

  “…SKIP! IT’S SKIP!” the sheriff’s pained and near breathless voice rang in her ears as she came up to her feet with the pistol in hand. The words were punctuated by a tight cough that blended into a groan.

  “DAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” she shouted, stepping back so that she was well out of his reach in case he decided to lunge at her. Assuming a tight stance, she took square aim.

  Ben’s recent words raced through her mind—Don’t turn your back on ‘im, okay? She couldn’t help thinking that she obviously should have paid that advice much more heed.

  “Put that damn…thing away…before…someone gets…shot!” Skip panted back at her while struggling to pull himself to his feet.

  “STAY DOWN!” Constance shouted.

  He continued to right himself.

  “DAMMIT SKIP, STAY DOWN!”

  He was already on his feet but bent over with his hands on his knees, sucking in labored breaths as he wheezed. “Calm down…” he huffed out between gasps. “Just…calm down…”

  “GODDAMMIT, SKIP! DON’T MOVE! STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!”

  “Okay… Okay…” he replied.

  “PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND LOCK YOUR FINGERS TOGETHER! NOW!”

  With a pained wince Skip complied. He was standing up, not quite doubled over as before, but apparently still in a good bit of pain from the punch to the family jewels. A dark swath of blood smeared his face and chin where her head butt had caused him to bite through his lip.

  “Will you just calm down…and put the gun away, Constance?” he groaned, still huffing and puffing but starting to regain his breath. He worked his mouth for a moment, then sputtered as he spat blood out onto the snow.