Brink of Death

by Brandilyn Collins

  God give me wings!

  I turned away, ready to bolt from the kitchen and up the stairs. But an unseen hand seemed to push my focus back to Tip. The gun. I should take it, just in case he woke too soon.

  The weapon’s shape was barely visible through Tip’s T-shirt. Half of it lay underneath his heavy body. I would need to raise his shirt, perhaps move him a little, to slide out the gun. At the mere thought of touching him, my mind flashed a scene of

  Tip waking, his beefy hand jerking up to catch my wrist, pull me down, down…

  “No.” The word formed on my lips. I could do this. I would do this. For my sake, and for Tommy’s, and for Crystal’s and Barry Draye’s—and most of all for Lisa and Dave and Erin.

  Tip’s head lay close but I could not bring myself to approach it. Summoning energy to my tremulous legs, I inched away from the table. Around the stove island opposite where Tip lay. Down around the back corner and up toward his feet. There I stalled, my courage draining away. One quick move of his foot, one savage kick, and I would go down.

  What if he was ready for this? What if he heard my every move and lay waiting to strike?

  I pulled my top lip between my teeth. My fingers clung to the tile of the island, my knuckles turning white. Tip did not move.

  Two shuffled steps to the right, giving ample room between me and his body. My back to the cabinets, eyes never leaving Tip, I eased sideways until I was even with the gun.

  His right hand lay so close to his waist. He could grab me so easily when I stooped down, reached for the weapon…

  My heart pounded like a jackhammer. I could hear the blood whooshing through my ears.

  My cell phone rang. A muffled sound emanating from the depths of my purse, flowing downstairs and into my being.

  Summoning me. My body jerked, wanting to run and answer it. Pleading to use the excuse to get away from the murderous beast at my feet. Maybe it was Chetterling. He could have Atherton cops here within minutes.

  But what if Tip woke before they came? When I was still upstairs, gathering my purse and Tommy? We would be trapped.

  My jaw hung open as I forced myself into a slow bend, my mouth dry. Incoming air felt like fragments of glass across my tongue. I bent over farther, making no sound, reaching out my right hand. Bending…reaching…My arm shook so badly, I did not think I could control it. How would I ever operate my fingers efficiently enough to get the gun?

  The fabric of Tip’s shirt was a hair’s breadth away. An internal warning screamed that the mere touching of it would spring him into action like some evil jack-in-the-box. I hesitated, my hand hovering, quaking. Through sheer determination, a will outside myself, I grasped the hem of his T-shirt and began to lift.

  He did not move.

  Pain vibrated through my back. I was bent at an odd angle, my body as tense as a coiled spring. But I would not bend my knees. I would not place myself that close to the floor.

  The shirt rose above the top of his back pocket. Up to his waistband. My fingers clenched the fabric as if glued to it. My calf muscles began to twitch. I could not hold this position much longer.

  I pulled farther. The barest patch of skin appeared above Tip’s jeans. And a glimpse of black metal.

  The shirt stopped. I could tug it no more without pushing against Tip’s body to relieve the weight. For that I would need my left hand. My thigh and back muscles screamed. I couldn’t stay bent long enough to do that, nor could I gather enough strength at this angle.

  I would have to crouch beside him.

  My feet shuffled closer to Tip. Slowly my knees folded until I sat on my haunches. If he were to snatch at me now, I would not get away.

  I lay the back of my left hand against the cool floor and slid it toward Tip’s waist. My hand came to rest against his body.

  Okay, Annie, here goes. One. Two. Three!

  In one motion I thrust my hand beneath him, heaved at the dead weight, and jerked up his shirt with my right hand.

  The handle of the gun lay exposed. I grabbed it and tore it away from Tip with such force that I fell backward, banging down hard against the floor. Panic-stricken, I crabbed away from the hands that could grasp for me at any moment.

  They didn’t move.

  I pushed to my feet and, with a final glance at Tip’s silent form, turned and ran from the kitchen.

  Again I miscalculated the doorjamb, ramming into it with my right shoulder. Shock waves jolted down my arm. My fingers sprang open and the gun rattled to the floor. I reared back, afraid it would go off. Then I lunged to pick it up.

  I sprinted out of the kitchen, down the hall, skidded left and across the foyer. My fingers wrapped around the curled end of the banister, whipping my body around and onto the stairs. I took the steps two at a time, clutching the gun with all my might. At the top of the stairs I ignored my purse, heading first for the boy. Crystal’s still foot came into view as I ran toward the nursery. I froze in the doorway, my eyes sweeping the room.

  Tommy wasn’t there.

  Had he crawled back into his crib, seeking comfort in his blankets? Toddlers could do that—climb right over the bars.

  I jumped over Crystal’s body and hurried to the bed.

  Nothing.

  “Ah!” I backed up, then ran around Crystal and out of the room. Farther down the hall the door to what looked like the master bedroom stood ajar. Had it been open before? I plunged into it, knocking it back. It hit the wall with a bang. Panting, I pulled to a halt in the middle of the room. My gaze lurched across the carpet, the furniture, the king-size bed. Empty.

  “Tommy, where are you? Please come out!”

  Silence.

  Think, think, Annie.

  He would be hiding. That’s what a frightened toddler would do. Where? Under the bed? In the closet?

  I ran around the bed. Nothing there. Falling to my knees, I raked back the covers and checked underneath. A pair of shoes. A small tote bag. No boy.

  “Tommy!”

  On my feet again, heading toward the closet. Yanking open the door to a large walk-in. Multiple shoe racks, all full.

  Edgar’s clothes on one side, Crystal’s on the other. Tommy was nowhere to be seen.

  Gun still in hand, I ran. Into the dressing area, the bathroom. Relief flooded me at the sight of a small shadow behind the shower curtain. I stopped, willing myself to slow, take this easy. I could not frighten him any more.

  I pushed back the curtain. Tommy huddled against the back corner of the tub.

  “Come on, honey, let’s go. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “No! I want my mommy!” He wilted away from me, head down.

  I reached out. “Come on, now. We’ve got to hurry. I promise, someone will be here to help your mom.”

  “No.”

  He would not move. I begged and pleaded. He only pressed himself harder against the white porcelain. I would have to step inside and lift him. But that was impossible with one hand. What would I do with the gun? I looked down my body, knowing I would have to shove it into my pants, just as Tip had done. What if it went off? Had he put the safety on?

  Why hadn’t I learned more about guns?

  Lifting my shirt, I slid the gun into my waistband, at the small of my back, then stepped one foot into the tub. I grabbed Tommy and hoisted him. He wriggled and fought but I clung on for dear life.

  With his hot body pressed against my chest, I stumbled out of the bathroom…through the master suite…down the hall toward the stairs. My purse lay like a golden prize upon the carpet, ready for me to snatch it up. I reached it, gasping for air, started to bend over to retrieve it. The minute I let go of Tommy with one hand, he squirmed out of my grasp and slid to my feet.

  “No, Tommy, don’t!” I jammed my purse on my shoulder and grabbed for him just as he started to dart away. He fought like a tiger, hitting, kicking.

  My cell phone rang. No way could I answer it.

  I swiveled toward the stairway. So close now. I needed to
get down it, through the front door, and into my car.

  Tip hunched at the bottom of the stairs.

  Waiting for me.

  Blood oozed from his battered cheek and down onto his collarbone. One of his hands pressed into the wall for support. The other gripped the banister. He lurched there, weakened but clearly determined. I would not get by him.

  “Come on,” he mocked through clenched teeth. “You got no way out.” He managed a gruesome grin. “Did you really think you’d get out of this alive?”

  All energy drained from my body. My arms loosened and Tommy slipped to the carpet. Bawling for his mama, he crawled away.

  I backed from the stairs, breathing hard. My brain scrambled for ideas but none came. Even the projector in my head had fallen silent.

  “Come on, Annie,” Tip taunted. “Nnno waaay to go but dowwnnn.”

  I shifted and metal pressed against my skin.

  The gun.

  Like someone else’s appendage, my right arm reached behind me, and my hand extracted the weapon. I brought it around and raised it, the barrel wavering before me. My shaking fingers could not hold it still. My left hand came up to clutch its other side. Willing, willing my arms into steadiness, I stepped forward and aimed the gun down at Tip’s muscular chest.

  His lip curled. “You’ll never do it, Annie. You don’t even know how to shoot the thing. Probably never held a gun in your life.”

  No answer would form. I clung to the metal…and breathed.

  “Besides, there’s no bullets in it.” He pushed himself up one stair. “You think I’d tote it around loaded, so I could shoot my own foot?” A second step slid beneath him. “You’d better run. It’s your last chance. I’m gonna reach you in a minute—and then what will you do?”

  Was he bluffing about the bullets? I could turn and run.

  I should. Anything to delay his approach. Maybe I could find something else to hit him with. I had hurt him badly the first time, hadn’t I? He lurched and winced as he took the fourth and fifth stair.

  “You’re making me real mad, Annie.” He climbed the sixth step. “Real mad. It’s only gonna go worse for you when I get there.”

  “Mama!” Tommy’s sudden cry tore through my ears.

  Involuntarily I turned my head toward the sound. Feet pounded in front of me and I wrenched my gaze back. Tip had mounted three more stairs. He hulked scant feet away, a mere two steps between us.

  “No!” I shuffled backward.

  He drew his tongue across his lips. “You wouldn’t kill me, Annie, even if you had bullets. I’m the only one who knows the truth. You think you’ve got everything figured out, but you’re wrong. With me dead, how would you ever know who really killed that neighbor of yours? How would you ever feel safe in your house again?”

  He lifted his foot and climbed a stair.

  “Stop!” I adjusted my aim toward his heart.

  He held up both hands. “You can’t do it, Annie. You can’t.”

  Could I? If I didn’t shoot, he would kill Tommy and me both. If I tried and failed…he would still kill us. What did I have to—He pulled himself up the last stair.

  “No, please!” I wilted back against the wall.

  My finger jerked.

  And squeezed the trigger.

  Crack!

  The bullet rent the air, slamming into Tip’s chest. His black expression flattened into one of utter shock. His hands flew up, his body jerking like a yanked puppet.

  I pulled the trigger again. Tip’s neck tore away, blood spurting on his shirt, his face, the wall. He collapsed and fell backward heavily, tumbling, shaking the staircase. At the last step his head twisted sideways, his body flipping over and skidding across the hardwood floor.

  He crunched into the wall, convulsed, and lay still.

  I stared in total disbelief, unable to move.

  Time blurred into one frantic series of events. I remember throwing down the gun. Somehow I managed to race back into the nursery, pluck Tommy from his dead mother’s body, clutch him as I lowered my trembling legs down the stairs. Miraculously, my purse still hung from my shoulder, and I could only pray that my keys had not fallen out. We clomped across the foyer, well away from Tip’s still form. I threw open the front entrance, clattered down the steps and front walk. Ran around my car, opened the door, and shoved Tommy across the console. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I hit the button to lock the doors.

  Less than a minute later my car screeched to a halt outside the Atherton Police Station. I scooped up Tommy and flung myself inside the building, still clinging to the boy as if Tip would rise from the dead any minute and snatch at our throats with bloodied hands. “Help! Help!” My screams bounced off the walls of the station like ricocheting bullets.

  Three officers sprang to our aid at once. Just in time.

  Instant shaking overtook my limbs until I could not hold up myself, much less Tommy. One of the men caught the boy as he slid from my arms. I sank to the floor in swallowing darkness.

  Chapter 43

  A slight jostle, the feel of the Grove Landing runway beneath our wheels. Jenna had executed a perfect landing. The mid-morning air felt stifling hot. I popped open my window as soon as the plane turned onto the taxiway, sending a furnace-like wind around our bodies.

  “Good job, Sis,” I said into the mouthpiece of my headphone. “As always.”

  “Thanks.” Jenna shot me a meaningful look. “Goodness knows, somebody had to get you home safe. No thanks to your crazy self.” She pushed the button to talk to other pilots in the area on the 122.8 frequency. “Six-eight-four-Mike-Charlie leaving the active. Grove Landing.”

  I made no comment. Jenna still hadn’t forgiven me for venturing into the Sybees’ house alone. Not that I could blame her. “Even I wouldn’t have done that!” she’d spouted Saturday upon arriving with Chetterling and a wide-eyed Stephen at the Atherton Police Station.

  Maybe not. But she wasn’t a mother. To her credit, she’d hugged me first, ignoring the smears of blood, little-boy mucus, and sweat on my shirt. She’d clung to me like she never wanted to let go. Even my belligerent son wrapped his arms around me for a brief moment, whispering into my neck that he was glad I was okay.

  “Yeah, Mom.” Kelly’s voice came from the plane’s backseat. “Crazy is right.”

  Stephen just grunted.

  “Okay, Jenna—” I nodded—”and everybody else. For the millionth time, I hear you.”

  The forensics book lay in my lap. I’d picked it up as soon as we took off from the Bay Area and had closed it only moments ago as we began our descent. I had moved on to new chapters, fascinated to read more about the techniques of aging the faces of victims or suspects who’d been missing for years. I also read a chapter on ethical conduct for forensic artists. One of the author’s points hit me right between the eyes: never, never interfere in an investigation.

  Oops.

  “Fine, but I’m going to keep reminding you,” Jenna retorted, her feet working the pedals to steer the plane.

  “No doubt.”

  In a flicker, her expression morphed to the one I knew so well—that I-told-you-so firming of her mouth, the slight raising of her right eyebrow. “Else you might get too big a head. ‘Never seen a composite so right-on.’” Jenna perfectly mimicked Chetterling. She ran her tongue over her teeth. “And you refused to believe you’d done it at all.”

  “Okay, okay.” I raised both hands. “You’re right about that, too. You’re right about everything. Happy now?”

  Despite my tone, I found myself looking out my window, feigning keen interest. I could not keep the satisfaction from my face and did not care to display it to my ever triumphant sister. She’d quoted the detective correctly. When the police searched the home of John Berengeti—Tip’s real name—they found the multiple-layered silicon mask of the Face in his dresser drawer. It proved an exact replica of my drawing.

  Beside it lay the blond wig. A pair of bright-blue contacts were in his medicine
cabinet.

  Also now in Chetterling’s possession were a pair of Berengeti’s shoes, which the detective believed would match the footprint taken from the Willits’ back deck. And a long-sleeved black shirt with the high probability of yielding fibers like those found underneath Lisa’s fingernails.

  Jenna guided the plane off the taxiway and down the wide Grove Landing streets, turning onto Barrister Court. At first sight of my father’s house, I felt tears sting my eyes.

  Never had it looked so much like home.

  I climbed out of the plane and unlocked the front door.

  The high-pitched whine of our burglar alarm keened through the great room. Mouthing a prayer of gratitude for our safe return, I punched in our code on the kitchen keypad and shut it off.

  By the time I opened the hangar door, Kelly had already slipped from the plane and into the arms of a waiting Erin.

  They stood on the Willits’ front walk, rocking back and forth.

  My heart wrenched at the sight. As Jenna cut the plane engine and slid off her earphones, I saw Dave emerge from his front door. I took a deep breath. Oh boy. No time to even prepare myself. But there could be no pretending that I hadn’t seen him. I lifted a limp hand and waved. He waved back. Then started down his steps.

  Jenna stepped onto the pavement. Stephen perched on the edge of his seat in the back, impatient for my sister to move her seat forward so he could get out.

  “Hurry up, it’s hot in here,” he complained.

  “Do you need me to help push the plane back, Jenna?”

  My sister gave me another look. She’d been doing that a lot lately. “You know I don’t need your help. Go talk to him, Annie. No excuse for delay with me.”

  I nodded.

  God, are you there? Would you mind helping me with this, too?

  Cutting across the street, I aimed myself toward the girls.

  This would not be easy. Erin and Dave both knew the whole story now. Chetterling told them before night fell on Saturday. But Dave and I hadn’t talked yet. When I asked Chetterling about his conversation with Dave, the detective assured me Dave wasn’t angry. “Blame you?” Chetterling had repeated in surprise. “After everything you did? How could anyone possibly blame you?”