“Bob, are you okay? I need your help.”
“I can’t get past the locked door.”
“Use power tools. The basement’s full of them.”
“Trying. But—”
The phone went dead. She called back.
“Every time I plug in a power saw, it shuts off seconds after I turn it on. Same with my cell phone. I call you but it disconnects as soon as—”
Dead again.
Emily was laughing hysterically.
It only took Debbie a moment to make the connection.
Helen.
Emily said she could lock and unlock doors. And turn things on and off. Debbie’s mind was whirling faster. Emily, in all her arrogance, had given away too many clues as to how they operated. The cats had to be close by, or able to look at what they influenced.
This was all a trick.
She had wondered if Emily would try to use a diversion. Orchestrate something so obvious, Debbie wouldn’t see, or pay any attention if she did.
And here it was. Emily drew Debbie and her shotgun away from Bob. Helen had to be in the kitchen where she could see the front and basement doors. The other cats also there, planning on killing Bob.
Debbie turned and sprinted toward the kitchen. On the other side of the table she heard the pitter patter of pawed feet scattering across the wooden floor. She jumped onto and rolled across the table and landed on the other side, catching the sneaky conspirators by surprise.
She swept the shotgun around and saw three cats run off. Chloe and Esther disappeared around the table. Helen was not so fortunate. Debbie squeezed the trigger. An incredibly loud boom and a vicious kickback, and the hellcat was blasted into bloody pieces.
Debbie landed on her butt but quickly recovered.
Bob was shouting at her. “What’s going on? Did you get one?”
“Helen. I just blasted Helen. That leaves four more. Hold on, honey. I’ll get you out.”
“Mrs. Stevens. What’s going on here? Did you just shoot that in the house?”
A familiar voice emerged from behind. Raymond Hettinger. The bulky summer help stumbled into the kitchen from the backdoor. He had to steady himself as he rubbed his forehead. Dried blood covered the left side of his head, neck, and shoulder.
Debbie ran to and helped steady him. “Raymond. Thank God you’re alive. What happened?”
“Your grandmother asked me to go the pharmacy and pick up a prescription. When I came back, I saw her lying on the floor. The cats were gathered around her. I think they were mourning her. I bent over to see if she was alive or dead.
“There was a small frying pan on the floor. Somehow, and I know this sounds crazy, but it lifted by itself and floated in the air, then hit me in the head. I stumbled out the back door. That’s the last I remember. I think American Ghost Stories was right. This place is haunted. There has to be a poltergeist in here.”
Debbie, still holding the shotgun, grabbed Raymond by the chin with her free hand and pulled him in. “Those cats gathered around my grandmother, they’re possessed and spawned from the pits of hell. They killed her.”
Raymond gave a look of disbelief. “Those cute furry little cats I play with all the time?”
He looked down on the shotgun Debbie gripped, down at Erma, then back to Debbie. Raymond broke free of Debbie’s grip and put a little space between them.
“Raymond, you have to trust me. There’s no time to explain. Bob is locked in the basement. There’s no way to unlock it.”
Bob continued to pound and hit the door. “Is that Raymond I hear?”
“It’s me, Mr. Stevens. I’m here to help.”
Raymond reached for the knob, placed his right foot on the wall, and pulled. Nothing. The six foot four handy man couldn’t get the door to budge. Bob was still pounding with his one good hand.
“We’ve got to get him out,” Debbie said.
A disheveled look came across Raymond’s face. He paused, then said, “An ax. There’s one in the shed. I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”
Debbie knew the scene looked far too suspicious. But she had to get Bob out. Together, they would try to explain what happened. Raymond rushed back into the kitchen with the ax poised over his shoulder.
He stumbled forward, still reeling from being hit in the head with a cast iron skillet. “The Brady’s house next door is totally on fire. I hear lots of sirens. Must be the Fire Department.”
Although disoriented, he looked coherent enough to do the job. “Stand back, Mr. Stevens.”
Raymond, not taking his eyes off Debbie and her shotgun, took a violent swing. He was right handed, but swung from his left side. Debbie knew this was so he didn’t turn his back to her.
The ax dug deep into the door. He had to fight to pull it out.
“A few more whacks and I’ll have you out, Mr. Stevens.”
Behind her, metallic clinking and clanging filled the air. Debbie turned to see a dozen knives from one of her cutlery sets leave their wooden holders and hover, suspended in air. The blue-and-white-steel forged Japanese Chubo kitchen knives looked as menacing as weaponized drones.
Debbie knew what would happen. She opened her mouth and inhaled. But before she could speak, the knives shot across the kitchen. They found their mark. Every one embedded deep into Raymond. Most were in his back. A steak knife found its mark in his neck. Two went into his left thigh. One dug deep into his right shoulder.
Raymond froze, then fell forward. His head bashed against the floor and the ax fell harmlessly beside him. Raymond didn’t move. Behind Debbie, Emily and Chloe sat. They raised their paws and clapped in a high five, then ran off in separate directions.
There were more sirens. But these did not stop at their neighbors. They were passing the Brady farmhouse and nearing Murcat Manor.
Chapter 59 A Jinx is a Jinx
Debbie was flabbergasted. How could this happen. The cats found one more person to kill. Grandma. Grandpa. Now big strapping Raymond Hettinger lay dead on her kitchen floor. She shuddered, aghast at the sight of him. No way could anyone survive an onslaught like that.
There’s nothing I can do for Raymond. Get it together, girl. Let’s go.
Back to Bob. He’s still pounding on the basement door. If she didn’t get him and herself out, she was sure, Emily would bring today’s body count to five—including hers and Bob’s. As Debbie picked up the ax, what looked like a liquid stream of fire glided past her. It hit the doorknob, spread across the six solid oak door panels, then jumped to the walls. The flames crawled like advancing demons to the ceiling.
Rebecca.
“Hey,” Bob’s muffled voice made its way through the door. “I smell the smoke from the other side. And the knob is blistering hot.”
“It’s Rebecca. She set the door on fire.”
“You need to get me out. Now. Otherwise, Deb,” he sighed in resignation. “Save yourself.”
On the wall was a fire extinguisher. She pulled it from its holder and aimed at the door. A few moments later the fire was out, although smoke and discharge from the extinguisher filled the kitchen. The fire alarms blared, their high-pitched beeps only multiplying the tension.
Debbie took a few more whacks with the ax, focusing on the door knob and lock. She wasn’t strong enough to break it. On the counter was a stack of dish towels. She wrapped her hand with one and tried to turn the red hot knob.
“It won’t work,” the deadpanned voice said.
Emily again.
“The only one who can undo a jinx is the one who performed it. And you just blasted Helen into a million pieces.”
Debbie looked around. Again, there was no way to tell which direction the voice was coming from. But she knew the cats were close and watching her. They were not going to miss this, the climatic conclusion of their sixth life.
“But you can. You said you have all their powers.”
“Doesn’t work that way.” Emily’s tone was harsh and acrid. “I mimic my follower’s powers, but
only as long as they’re alive. They reside with me for a few minutes after they die. I can feel Helen’s power slipping away as we speak.
“And you do realize, don’t you, that your fingerprints are all over those knives that are plunged into poor dead Raymond’s back? Your fate is sealed in a one-way package to prison, should we decide to let you live.”
“Please. I beg of you. You’ve killed enough people. You don’t need us.”
“You’re right. I don’t need you. But this is what we do. This is what we’ve done for our previous five lives.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to you. To your sister. But that’s in the past. You can’t go back and change it.”
“I know that—you think I don’t know that?” Emily was now in a full rage. “But I can seek out revenge the only way I know how. The only way the rest of us know. And thanks to you and Boring Bob, our sixth life has been the best ever. I take a bow and thank you both.”
“Oh, screw this. Bob, step away from the door. I’m blasting it into smithereens.”
A moment later Bob’s faint voice could be heard. “I’m safe. Blast away.”
Debbie felt the gun getting hot in her hands. “What the hell?”
She stared, dumbfounded, at the end of the barrel bending sideways. Then the screws holding the trigger undid themselves and the device came apart in her hand.
“Give it up. We’ve had five lives, spread over four hundred years, of doing this. There’s nothing you can do. Admit it.”
She’s right, Debbie knew in her sunken heart. But she still had to fight. The Mossberg 500 was useless as a shotgun. But she could still swing it like a baseball bat. And she still had the ax.
Debbie prepared to attack but, before she could do anything, the back door opened. Through the smoke and fog a shadow appeared.
“Drop the shotgun, Mrs. Stevens.”
Shit. Darrowby.
Chapter 60 Blazing Inferno
Debbie went stiff as a board. Her breathing was stifled, erratic. What else could go wrong? Take a deep breath, she told herself. Darrowby won’t hesitate to shoot.
Through the haze-filled kitchen the distinct outline of a man stood on the other side of the large oak table. He had a handgun pointed at her chest.
“I was already on my way here when those kids your psychotic husband tried to blow away called us. Thank the good Lord above they all escaped this house of horrors. Now drop the shotgun. Or I swear to God I’ll drop you.”
Debbie’s mind was in a 100 meter dash-to-the-death-line. Bob in the basement. Three dead people in the house. Four cats still loose. Darrowby ready to shoot. What to do?
“Don’t tempt me,” Darrowby shouted, his voice monotone with a pause between each word. “Drop. The. Gun.”
“Listen to me. My husband Bob, he’s trapped in the basement. You have to help me get him out.”
“This is your last warning. Five. Four. Three—”
A blow hit her right arm. Her left wrist was grabbed by a meaty hand and thrust behind her back. The ruined shotgun fell to the floor.
“Don’t make any stupid moves,” Kowalski shouted in her ear.
“Hold her there, partner. Pin her to the floor. I’ll secure the rest of the house.”
A minute later Darrowby reappeared. Kowalski pulled Debbie to her feet.
“Debbie Eileen Stevens. You’re under arrest for the murder of Ross Dempsey. Your very own grandfather. With a bowling ball, no less. So whatsamattah, huh? Run out of guests to kill? Kowalski? Cuff this cold blooded killer.”
Debbie was fast afoot and twisted free, evading Kowalski’s lurch at her with the handcuffs. Darrowby, ignoring her pathetic attempts at dodging the inevitable, walked sure footed around the table. He tripped. Debbie knew on what. Or rather, whom.
“Is that your hired help, Raymond Hettinger?”
Darrowby shone his flashlight through the smoky air on the corpse. The detective looked like a ghost through the haze, but his image became clearer as he approached. Debbie now had both arms pinned against her back. Darrowby brushed past her, then stopped short at the front of the basement door.
“Holy shit sweet mother of mercy. Another dead person.”
Darrowby pulled the table cloth off Erma’s head and nudged the grey skinned head with his foot. The head turned and expressionless eyes stared up at him through her burned and scarred face.
Debbie struggled against Kowalski’s steely grip. “It’s not what you think.”
“Both your grandparents. And your hired help. What’d you do to your grandmother, light her face on fire? My God, you really are sick. You know that?”
Darrowby coughed from the smoke, pulled out a hankie, and covered his nose and mouth. He pointed toward the basement door.
“Bob’s down there? Why? Is he hiding from me? Is he armed?”
Debbie looked up at Darrowby, appearing in control and as dapper as ever. She was powerless under Kowalski’s restraint to do anything. Darrowby looked down on her and cracked a grin. God, how she despised this arrogant bastard.
“No. That’s not it. He’s trapped in the basement.”
“Trapped? Trapped, as in you locked him down there? Planning to let him burn with the house? What happened here? The basement door and the walls around it are charred. I can add pyromaniac to your resume of violent crimes.”
“What? No, you stupid baboon. The cats—”
Debbie caught herself.
Darrowby stuffed his hankie into his pocket and stepped toward her. “Ah. The cats. Translation, you’re the cats. You killed all the guests here. You’re Rebecca, who starts fires, including burning down the Allen’s house with them in it.”
“What are you talking about? I never burned down a house.”
“Don’t play stupid. Patrick and Marian Allen. Young couple from Battle Creek. Stayed here the first week you were opened. You gave them one of your cats. Rebecca. Ring a bell?”
“I remember them. But, I didn’t know they died.”
Darrowby raised an eye. “Sure about that?” He brought his face close to hers. “Know what I think? You went to their house in the middle of the night to take back your cat. Then, you set fire to their home, killing them in the process.”
Rebecca. That damned cat Bob gave them torched their house and murdered them before finding her way back to Murcat Manor.
Debbie continued to struggle. She planted her feet and bent forward, trying to wriggle free. But Kowalski was too strong. He easily pulled her off balance, taking away any leverage she could muster.
Debbie looked out the kitchen window. Across the field, her neighbor’s house was fully consumed in flames. She wondered if the Bradys were able to escape the inferno. Hell, no. Rebecca would have seen to that.
Now, Rebecca was running loose in Murcat Manor. She had to get free and kill her. Debbie glanced into the living room. Where were the remaining cats?
A flare flashed in the living room, followed a split-second later by an awful explosion. A ball of blistering heat billowed over Debbie. She was blown against the brick wall, then slumped to the floor. The entire living room was ablaze. Moments later, the fire sucked the oxygen out of the kitchen and fed the inferno.
Debbie was on the floor gasping for air—Darrowby was quick to his feet. Kowalski crawled to Debbie and seized her again.
“Brilliant.”
Emily again. This time she was ecstatic, her words laced with laughing madness.
“Why didn’t I think of this before? Combine Esther and Rebecca’s powers of fire and explosions. I mean, did you see that? Wow! Most of your living room and half the upstairs are gone.”
Debbie knew Emily was completely demented. But she wasn’t stupid. Emily needed to kill her and Bob, and now Darrowby and Kowalski, yet leave a way to escape. There was only one way out. The back door.
Darrowby tried unsuccessfully to unlock the basement door. He bent over, seized Erma by the wrists, and gave a few determined pulls.
“Kowalski, I nee
d help. I can’t get the old bag out. She’s really stuck.”
Darrowby took control of Debbie. Kowalski grabbed Erma by the arm pits while sticking his foot against the bottom of the door. After a few heaves she came loose. He let her body fall into a crumpled heap in the corner of the kitchen.
“Good job. Here’s Mrs. Stevens. Now to take care of Bob once and for all. He’s not leaving here. I’ll make sure of that.”
Darrowby shoved Debbie into Kowalski, who spun her around and secured her wrists together behind her back. He snatched his handcuffs and slapped one side shut on her left wrist.
Debbie lost it. She became a fury of arms and legs—head butting, scratching, clawing and biting.
“Bob. It’s a trick.”
Kowalski’s hand covered her mouth. She had to watch as Darrowby tried to open the door, but couldn’t unlock it. He picked up the ax lying next to Raymond and heaved a mighty swing. A hole opened.
A few more swings and the hole enlarged, but not big enough for a person to step through. Darrowby kicked at the wood around the opening and broke off large sections. Much of the door now was scattered in chunks on the floor.
Darrowby motioned through the gaping hole. “Mr. Stevens. Hurry up. This place is coming down. I’ve got to get you out of here.”
Debbie planted one foot and gave a reverse kick to Kowalski’s shin. But his hand remained over her mouth. All she could do was give off audible grunts. Debbie watched with angst as Bob ran up the stairs. Darrowby reached his hand out to him.
“Detective,” Bob said. “I never thought I’d be happy to see you. But thanks.”
Darrowby slammed his fist just below Bob’s sternum and knocked him half way down the stairs.
“Whaddaya think I’m stupid? That ass-hat attorney Wilson will find some frickin’ loophole and allow you and your murderous wife to walk. And make me look like public idiot number one. Can’t take that chance. No way, Mr. Stevens. You’re gonna pay for your sins. Tonight. Right now. Just wanted to say it to your face and remember your expression.”
Debbie strained but was helpless as Bob lurched up the stairs and tried to swoop past Darrowby. But with a broken arm, there was not much he could do. A furious kick to Bob’s chest sent him tumbling butt first down the stairs.
Salem's Daughters Page 36
