“I don’t. I’m comfortable here.”
So am I, thought LaDonna, realizing he’d read that thought.
She lost track of time, but spent a couple of hours in some kind of limbo, not painting, not thinking, just being. Finally she put her brushes, her tubes of paint away. Closed the box. Debated taking the whale painting to show Roddy. For some reason, she didn’t want to share it yet. She left everything behind and climbed the stairs reluctantly. She hated to leave the soft quiet space, the cocoon where she felt accepted, fulfilled by her work, comfortable with him.
She stood in the glow of the street lamps and looked both ways. Walking by Varsity Pond frightened her. The path was tainted by images she didn’t want to play through her mind. Going straight down the hill was shorter but the sidewalk entered a stretch of dark woods for about forty feet until it came out on College.
Don’t think about it, she commanded her mind. Just hurry home. She turned left and hurried downhill.
Pines sighed in a soft breeze. She was surrounded by the smell of long, wet needles and cones that squirrels had nibbled into shreds, hunting the seeds.
He jumped her about the time she had relaxed and stopped worrying. Arms squeezed her from behind, steel bands that cut into her rib cage and forced air from her lungs. She had no voice to scream.
Struggling, she turned and twisted, kicked backwards with little force. He laughed, the sound low in her ear, his breath warm on her neck.
“Let me go!” she managed to say. Keep your wits, she told herself. He has to loosen his hold.
He picked her up, half carried, half dragged her into the deeper shadows. A soft carpet of pine needles muted her stomping and kicking.
The wet, slick ground cover helped her at last. She sagged, made her body dead weight in his arms. He slipped, and she took immediate advantage. Swinging around, kicking him as he fell, she half ran, half crawled until she could get to her feet. By then she had reached the sidewalk.
Confused, thinking only of escaping, she dashed back uphill onto the campus, heading for lights.
He was not that easily discouraged. In seconds, she heard his feet thudding on the concrete behind her. Lungs aching, she doubled her efforts, gasping for air as she ran. Her mouth dried, which kept her from calling out. All she could manage was the panting and sucking of cool, moist air.
She had dropped the key to the art building into her jacket pocket earlier when she had let herself inside. Jamming her fist into the gaping denim flap, she grasped the slender metal. Her fingers closed over it, lifted it out, made sure the point was forward.
Throwing herself against the door, she slipped the key into the lock, twisted. She willed the lock not to stick, then flung the door wide. He grabbed it before she could turn and slam it shut.
Down the hall she raced. She banged the basement door open, thundered down the stairs, praying she wouldn’t fall. She crossed the darkened gallery room and fled out the other door, knowing she had a tiny advantage here. She knew where she was.
She stopped running, quieting her steps. She knew he had followed her, but now he felt his way. Both of them were blanketed by darkness.
The air in the tunnel was stale, musty, but she sucked it in gratefully, and as quietly as possible. Slowly, slowly, she let the air fill her lungs, breathed it out even more slowly so no sound carried back to him.
Her arms held stiffly in front of her, she continued walking, moving as quickly as she dared. If she ran into something, he’d hear her. Follow her more easily. At this moment she had the advantage, since she knew they were in the tunnels. She knew the tunnel opened to rooms, to other buildings. If she could find one of those buildings, she could enter another building on campus, leave it and find help. A big if, since doors would probably be locked, and she would have no idea where she was. Also she would have to feel along the wall for an opening, taking precious time to search.
For a few seconds she considered pressing her back to one wall, staying there, letting him walk past her. Would that work? Or would he reach out and touch her, looking for a wall himself. Stopping was too risky. Stay ahead of him. That was the best plan. Worry about where she’d come out later.
Would he continue to follow her? Maybe he had already gone back. She stopped, listened. The softest of echoes reached her ears. Footsteps, tentative, shuffling. Not too close. Not far enough away. He was coming. Slowly. He was searching every bit of the space, looking for her.
Cobwebs brushed her outstretched fingers, sticky, soft. She jerked her hands back. Turned slightly. Cobwebs would be in a corner, wouldn’t they? Would a tunnel have a corner? Okay, cobwebs would be closer to a wall. She wanted to stay in the center of the huge metal tubes.
Soon, walking in the darkness, she became confused, disoriented. She stumbled, caught herself before she fell, but gasped, and knew he would have heard the soft thud. She listened. Heard a soft thudding echo behind her. Of course he hadn’t given up. He had her trapped. He would think.
The air got colder. Fear returned. She shivered. Goose bumps popped up on her arms. The chill ran up and down her back, into her spine. She reached up. Cold air entered the tunnel from a vent above her on the left wall. Only a vent. Not an exit.
She hurried on into warm, velvet blackness. Soon she wanted to stop, to curl up, to huddle as small as possible and hope he walked by. She was losing hope that she could get away from him. Sooner or later, she’d come to a dead end. Then he’d catch up to her. Finally she remembered. Mr. Sable. Where was he? Why wasn’t he down here? Why didn’t he help her?
Help me. Where are you? I need help. Please, oh, please come. Come and help me.
seventeen
“I’M HERE. AHEAD of you.”
“Oh, thank God. I need help. Will you help me?”
“Of course I will. Come. Follow me.”
She could not see him, but, as always, she sensed his presence. She followed, and with his lead, they moved quickly.
In no time at all they reached his studio, turning left off the tunnel. She smelled the paint, the turpentine, mixed with the dust. Now could she hide? Would her pursuer pass right by the doorway and lose her?
“Mr. Sable?” she whispered. He’d know what to do. “Mr. Sable!” He was gone. She was alone again. Why had he left her?
Without thinking, she swung around. Her hand slammed against an easel, knocking it sideways. Wooden boards crashed to the floor, causing what was probably a pile of paintings to slide and tumble down at the same time. She couldn’t have made more noise if she had tried.
Despair gripped her. She tried to swallow her sobs as she slid down the wall behind her and crumpled to the floor.
“LaDonna?” He called her name. He knew her. The whisper, low and hoarse, sounded familiar, but she didn’t recognize it. It did sound like the same whisper from the bridge, though. That night—the night Minette Waterson was killed. This was Minette’s killer. Katherine’s killer. Her killer.
She bit her lip, sucked in a scream, holding her breath.
“I know you’re in here. Give up. I have you now.”
His foot slid into her body, curled against the wall. Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet. His laughter was low, taunting.
“This place is even better than the music room. You can scream, shout all you like. No one will ever hear you, LaDonna.”
“Stop it. Who are you? Leave me alone.” LaDonna pounded her fists on his chest. She pulled and tugged to get away but his hands were like vice grips on her arms. All the while she struggled she kept thinking, who, who is this. His voice was almost level with her. Johnny was tall. His voice would come from higher up. Not Johnny—not Johnny—not Johnny. How could she have suspected him? Oh, thank God it wasn’t Johnny.
She tried relaxing again. The move had worked before. He only tightened his hold on her.
“Such a talented artist,” he whispered, spinning her around, catching both wrists in his one hand, long fingers biting into her flesh, keeping her prisoner.<
br />
Something cold pressed against her throat. She stopped struggling immediately, froze, her head held stiffly back. She didn’t have to see the knife blade to know what was against her neck. One slash from him and she was dead, her life blood pooling on the floor of the studio like crimson oils in a swirl of anger and death.
“Why?” she whispered. Stall him. Get him to talk. “Why do you need to kill me? Who are you? Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, LaDonna. You don’t understand.”
He was forgetting to whisper. His voice—that voice—it was—it was—
Suddenly, as if moon glow entered the windows, a dim light filled the studio.
Eric, the killer was Eric. Her stomach heaved. She groaned, squeezed her eyes closed, opened them again as if he would disappear. Be someone else. Someone she had never met. Someone she had never hated, then had started to know just today.
“Eric. You? How could you do this?”
His face twisted and he laughed at her. “How could I not? A student shouldn’t have more talent than her teacher. Even her student teacher. Talent is given out so unfairly. Katherine had no time for me. She kept saying her music came first. And Minette, dear Minette. She hated me. Said I had no talent. You hated me at first, didn’t you? And I was torn towards admiring you and hating you, LaDonna. Hate won. I’m sorry. I—I—”
Eric stared at something, someone behind her. The hatred that contorted his face changed, melted into intense fear.
“No, no. You—you can’t—I—”
Before LaDonna could turn around, darkness filled the room again. She heard a soft thud, a groan from the man in front of her. She sensed, rather than saw, that he had fallen to the floor.
An image of the room burned in her mind. Before it could vanish, she stepped around the body on the floor and reached for the cord hanging from the light in the middle of the room.
When the light came on, she spun around to see who else was there. No one.
Grabbing a piece of rope that had held several canvases together, hoping it wasn’t rotten with age, she rolled Eric onto his stomach, pulled his limp arms together, wrapped the rope around both of his hands. Knotting the soft rope securely around his hands, crying all the while, she found another piece and tied his ankles together.
She blanked her mind, tying the rope without thinking. She wanted the killer to be someone she didn’t know. How could envy of someone’s talent twist itself into such hatred, enough anger to kill? She drew deep breaths, stopped the hysteria starting to surface now that Eric was tied.
Eric groaned. Was he waking up? La Donna knew she had to get help before he gained consciousness. She didn’t want to deal with this any more by herself.
She turned and fled, savoring the warm darkness of the tunnel, feeling safe there. Hurrying, feeling him lead her towards greater safety.
eighteen
LADONNA SLIPPED OUT of the art building, wondering where the nearest phone was. She was frantically trying to remember when someone called her name.
“LaDonna, ready to go home?” Johnny Blair bounced up to meet her. His dark frown was gone. Confessing he loved her had done wonders for his mood.
“Johnny, oh, Johnny.” She fell into his arms.
“Hey, I thought we were going to stay cool. You missed me, huh?”
“Johnny. The man. I have the man. The murderer. Tied up in the basement.”
Johnny stared at her, struck dumb by her announcement, certainly not what he expected her to say to him.
“A phone, I need a phone. I—I can’t remember—”
He grabbed her hand and together they ran to the entrance of Old Main. LaDonna let Johnny dial 911 while she thought of what to say. “I have the campus killer,” she blurted out.
Johnny grabbed the receiver. He was in control.
“We’ll meet you in front of Old Main.”
Everything that had happened hit LaDonna. She huddled in Johnny’s arms, shivering, crying, while he dialed campus security.
“Oh, Johnny, it’s Eric Hunter.” LaDonna needed to talk before the police arrived.
“Eric? Are you sure? Why would Eric kill anyone?”
“I’m sure. He tried to kill me. He said he was envious of my—our talent. All those women’s talents. Katherine. Minette. He knew them all.”
“That doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to kill.” Johnny kept looking for the police. Two cars pulled up in front of Old Main and screeched to a halt.
“Are you the woman who called?” one officer asked LaDonna.
She nodded and motioned for them to follow her. Grabbing Johnny’s hand, she ran.
Letting them into the art building with her key, she led Johnny and four policemen into the bowels of the old building. Johnny paused for just seconds to look at her new painting, but she tugged on his hand.
“Do you have flashlights?” she asked the officers.
They nodded, took them out and flashed powerful beams into the tunnel behind the basement door. For the first time LaDonna saw the labyrinth she had traveled over and over. It amazed her that she had avoided all the wires, cables, and pipes.
I would have been more frightened if I could have seen this place, she thought, practically running now.
She had to concentrate to make the right turns. Any number of tunnels ran off the main one, leaving her in awe and fear at how lost she could have gotten had she not had help to come in here.
“How did you find this place?” asked Johnny, his voice filled with the same awe that LaDonna felt now that she could see the passageways.
“Never mind.” Who was going to believe her if she said she had help, a companion?
To her relief, Eric still lay on the floor in Mr. Sable’s studio. He was conscious and had rubbed his wrists raw trying to escape before she returned.
Two policemen set him on his feet rather roughly. Eric stared at her. The hatred, the pure evil in his twisted face, in his eyes, caused her to take a step back from him. She bumped into Johnny, who circled her with both arms, pulling her shoulders to his chest.
“He attacked me as I left the campus tonight,” LaDonna told her story. “I got away and he followed me here.” She felt as if this Eric before her was someone she had never known.
“Why did you come in here?” one officer asked, his voice unbelieving. “How did you find your way?”
“I—I was desperate.” She wasn’t going to tell the truth—not yet anyway. “I knew the tunnels were underneath the campus. My—my father works in maintenance.” There, that was a good explanation.
“Everyone knows there are tunnels under the campus,” Johnny said, holding LaDonna tighter. Was he remembering the times she had confided in him, when she first met Mr. Sable and the other day?
“I’ve found an address here.” One of the policemen had gone through Eric’s pockets.
“He said he had an aunt living in Bellponte.” LaDonna repeated what Eric had told her.
One of the policemen had been looking at the paintings hung on the walls of the dusty studio room. He reached out.
“Don’t touch them!” LaDonna surprised herself at the fierceness in her voice. “I—I mean, they need to be recovered, brought out of here and cleaned.”
Eric had been watching, looking around himself. He seemed to have changed, his shoulders slumped, his face more like the sullen Eric she had seen many times. “I wondered where they were,” he said, so quiet she might have been the only one who heard him.
“You know this artist?” LaDonna asked him.
He gave her a angry glance, then tightened his mouth as if to say, I never spoke.
“Officer Simms,” LaDonna said, “are you going to check on that address tonight? Can I go with you to meet Eric’s aunt?”
The policemen looked at each other. Simms made the decision. “I don’t know how you got away from and caught this man, Miss Martindale, but we owe you. You can come.”
LaDonna led the way back out of the tunnels
to her basement. Then she stepped back and looked around the dark gallery where she had worked all spring. He was not here now. And somehow she knew he would never be back. She felt a terrible loss and pushed back the empty feeling around her heart. She hurried to follow the two policemen who walked on either side of Eric.
LaDonna grasped Johnny’s hand and dared anyone to say he had to stay behind. They got into the back seat of the second patrol car. One car—the one with Eric in it—headed for the police station. Their car turned south, then west and finally pulled up in front of a tiny house on Bluebell Street. Another, unmarked car waited for them. The man who got out introduced himself as Detective McPhearson, in charge of the campus murder investigation.
To LaDonna’s surprise, considering the time of night, one light burned in the front of the house.
“Mrs. Flores?” Officer Simms spoke through the small crack of open doorway. “I’m Officer Simms from the Bellponte Police. We need to ask you a couple of questions about someone we understand may be your nephew.”
LaDonna, from behind the two officers, could hear Mrs. Flores sigh. “What has he done now? I told him to leave me alone.”
“Could we come in?” Officer Simms asked.
Mrs. Flores reluctantly held open the door and stepped back. She seemed surprised to see LaDonna and Johnny follow the two police officers and the Detective who had met them at the Flores residence.
Detective McPhearson took over the inquiry. “Mrs. Flores, I understand you have a nephew named”—he looked at his notes—”Eric Hunter.”
“He said he was my nephew.” Mrs. Flores, a tiny woman with a neat bun at the back of her neck, must have been in her early eighties, but her brown eyes were sharp, her stance said, no foolishness, and the look on her face was one of resignation.
“Does anyone live here with you?” Detective McPhearson asked. Maybe he felt she might need some support on hearing about Eric’s problems.
“I live alone by choice, Detective. Eric came to Bellponte last fall, claiming to be my nephew. He wanted to live here but I said no. He was rude and I didn’t like him. One doesn’t always have to like relatives, you know. I assume he is my sister’s second daughter’s child, and if so, he’s been in trouble off and on all his life, so speak out. I won’t be surprised at anything you have to tell me. Is he hurt?”
The Gallery Page 10
