by Diane Hoh
Even if I could get up enough nerve to do that, she thought, dizzy just from looking out the window, I’d still have to climb down the rungs to get to the ground.
No. Impossible.
“Hey, Maxie,” an unfamiliar, masculine-sounding voice called, “any bugs in there? You got creepy-crawlies I can zap with my miracle insecticide?”
The fake exterminator.
“You know, this stuff kills more than bugs,” the voice tormented from beyond Maxie’s door. “Maxie? You still in there?” A hand rattled the doorknob, lightly at first, then more violently. “Take me no more than two minutes to get this stupid door open, you hear me?” The voice was angry now, but it still didn’t sound like Erica’s voice. Maybe she’d used so many different voices, she’d forgotten how her own sounded.
The doorknob rattled again.
Two minutes …
Maxie threw one leg over the windowsill, then the other, until she was sitting on the sill. Then she turned around carefully, facing the window, placed her hands on the sill, and lowered her body toward the platform.
There were several horrible seconds when her feet touched nothing but air and she was sure she was going to completely miss the platform and fall to her death. But then the toes of her left foot touched wood, and slowly, carefully, she stretched her legs, wincing as the bad ankle protested. Stretching, stretching, her fingers aching, her arms shrieking in pain …her right foot touched the platform, and her hands let go of the sill.
The platform jiggled slightly as she landed, falling into a semicrouch, clutching one of the white pipelike metal supports with both hands.
The worst part was still ahead of her. She crouched there, holding on, as long as she dared. But she knew that she had to get to the ground before her pursuer realized that she was no longer in her room.
She stood up shakily and reached out with both hands to the nearest scaffold support.
I can’t do this, she thought with certainty as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.
You have no choice, her brain ordered. Go! Now!
Maxie went.
Slowly, hand over hand, down the white pole, gripping it with her legs, like a fireman sliding down a pole to a fire. She did not look down. She prayed the whole way down, and prayed harder each time she came to a place where the rungs criss-crossed each other, forming an “X” that she had to climb around before she could continue sliding.
It was a harrowing descent, made worse by the sensation of minutes ticking away rapidly. How much time did she have before Erica got the door to her room open and realized that her quarry had made its escape?
Halfway down the scaffolding, Maxie glanced toward the garage and its apartment, sitting off to the left and behind the house. Tuttle’s truck was there. If she could just make it to the ground, she’d go get him, make him call for help …
If I can just get to the ground, Maxie prayed …
Her hands were wet with sweat, her legs aching from gripping the pole, her shins stinging from rubbing against the cold white metal.
Not much further … almost there …
Tuttle might not be home. He could have gone out with friends. Did he have friends? No, he couldn’t have friends, because he had to be home. He had to help her.
There …just below her … the blessed,’ wonderful, beautiful ground! A foot more, that was all, just twelve little inches and she’d be there …
She dropped the last few inches, favoring her bad ankle so that she stood slightly tilted, leaning gratefully against the thick metal pipe of the scaffolding frame as she caught her breath.
The voice came out of the darkness, destroying every last shred of her relief at finally being back on the ground.
“Hi, there, Maxie! Nice trip down?”
The figure all in white stood before her, and although it was still wearing the stiff white mask, Maxie could feel its slow, easy, triumphant smile.
Chapter 21
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Maxie screamed, her voice shaking. “Leave me alone!”
“Hey, what’s goin’ on out there?” Tom Tuttle’s voice called from the garage. Maxie heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading down from the garage apartment.’
She heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. The gardener was coming to her rescue. Suddenly, Tuttle didn’t seem quite so creepy. If he got her out of this, she would never say anything bad about the gardener again.
“Here, Tuttle!” she cried, “over here, by the side door to the utility room.”
Her white-uniformed attacker darted backwards, into the shadows. But Maxie could still hear ragged breathing, coming from the bushes.
“Over there!” she shouted, pointing, as Tuttle arrived, muttering under his breath. “By those bushes.”
Tuttle turned in the direction she was pointing.
The board came out of nowhere. Thick and solid, it slammed into the side of Tuttle’s head, knocking him off his feet and sideways. He grunted with surprise as he flew out and then down, slamming into the ground with a fleshy-sounding thump. His head bounced once when it hit. Tuttle let out a distressed little sigh as his eyes closed and his body came to rest on the lawn.
Maxie watched the whole thing with horrified eyes, letting out a shrill scream when the board slammed into Tuttle. Then shock rendered her silent.
When the gardener was completely still, she whispered, “Why did you do that? I think you’ve … you’ve killed him.”
“The old coot isn’t dead.” Turtle’s attacker emerged from the bushes. “Only the good die young.” Maxie’s left wrist was suddenly encircled with one of the painter’s white-gloved hands, while the other hand bent to wrap itself around the gardener’s overalls. Then a door was opened and both victims were dragged into the utility room, where Tuttle was deposited in a heap and Maxie was tossed into a corner, near the washing machine.
It was dark inside, the air heavy with the smell of paint. Maxie sat huddled against one wall, her arms around her knees. Her heart was pounding so loudly, she half-expected Erica to shout, “Stop that infernal noise!”
“For your information,” she was told, the voice muffled behind the mask, “the door is locked. You’d never get it unlocked before I caught up with you. And I would be very, very angry that you’d tried to leave me. So forget about getting out of here. It’s not going to happen.”
“You can’t keep me here.” The defiance in her voice was forced. She was terrified. She couldn’t see, but could feel, Tuttle lying so still; so crumpled up, like a pile of painters’ rags.
“Guess again. I can do anything I want. And what I want is for this place to go up in smoke. So that’s exactly what’s going to happen. And you with it, Maximilia.”
Maxie’s defiance deserted her. Up in smoke? Fire?
“Let there be light,” the voice that didn’t sound like Erica’s said, chuckling. “Can’t work in the dark.” There was the click of a switch, and the darkness evaporated, replaced by a garish yellow glow from an overhead bulb.
“So,” the voice said, “how do you like your new accommodations? It really doesn’t matter if they’re not to your liking, because these are temporary lodgings. Believe me, they’re very temporary.”
Maxie’s eyes went to Tom Tuttle’s limp body. Although she willed him to wake up and help her, his eyes remained closed and not a muscle moved. Even if he did wake up, she knew he wouldn’t be in any shape to fight.
Humming softly, the white-clothed figure picked up two of the huge white paint containers lined up against the wall and moved to the oversized white hot water heater.
Maxie watched fearfully as Erica crawled behind it.
What was happening?
Whatever it was, she was suddenly sharply aware that the tall, fat, hot water heater stood between her and Erica. Shielding her from view. Any move she made now couldn’t possibly be seen from behind that tank. The door was on the painter’s side, so Maxie couldn’t very well get out, but …
Her heart leaped. If she
approached from the left side, very quietly …
What she needed was a weapon of some kind, a board, a tool …
Her eyes searched the utility room. There were tools. But they were on a shelving unit directly behind the painter’s head. Would she have time to grab one before she was noticed?
It was worth a try.
The thought of slamming Erica on the head with a wrench or hammer made her physically ill. She wasn’t at all sure she could do it. Maybe there was some other way.
What other way? The outside door was locked, the door to the house too close to her captor.
She had never hurt anyone physically in her entire life. But she had no choice now. All it would take was a light blow, enough to stun, to give her time to run into the house, unlock a door and call for help.
Before the house went up in flames fueled by paint fumes.
Stiffening her spine, Maxie took a deep breath, slid out of her loafers, and tiptoed quickly and quietly across the cement floor. She couldn’t be seen, she knew that. But she also knew that at any second, that white-capped head could lift, see that she was no longer in that same spot, and Erica could jump up to grab her. With fury. At any second …
She was only inches from her destination. Her eyes were fixated on Erica’s legs, sticking out from behind the hot water heater to make sure they didn’t suddenly move. So she failed to see a painter’s round green spray bottle lying on the floor. One socked foot nudged it and sent it and its green plastic tubing spinning into the wall with a loud scuttling sound.
Maxie gasped, her heart stopped, but her feet kept moving even as Erica’s legs jerked in response.
Maxie rounded the hot water heater. She never took her eyes off her target for a second as she sent her arm on a search of the shelves, blindly, desperately, seeking a tool, a shovel, a weapon of some kind. Anything …
She wasn’t close enough. Her fingers curled around nothing but air.
Erica, alerted by the noise the paint sprayer had made, stood up.
Turned around.
Saw her.
Brown eyes blazed with fury. “I knew I should have creamed you the way I did Tuttle, you witch! I figured, since you couldn’t get out of here, I’d let you watch what I was doing. Gave me a kick, having you watch. My mistake … ”
There was no time for Maxie to turn and run. There was only enough time to realize, with a paralyzing sense of shock, that the eyes blazing anger and hatred at her were brown.
The figure lunged at her, forcing her up against the wall, hands at her throat.
Erica’s eyes were blue.
The figure pushed her closer to the shelves.
Oh, Erica, Maxie thought, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I should have known it wasn’t you.
Choking, gagging, she sent her hand on another search. This time, her fingers closed around something metal, something hard … lifted it … sent it down upon the white-capped skull…
But at the last minute, her attacker saw it coming and moved, receiving only a glancing blow to the temple. It was enough to force her cruel hands away from Maxie’s throat, but not enough to knock out the attacker.
Shattered by the lost opportunity, knowing she wouldn’t get another chance, Maxie thought grimly, Okay, then, and reached out with her free hand to rip the stiff white painter’s mask free.
And gasped in disbelief.
Chapter 22
“CANDIE?” MAXIE WAS SO stunned, she offered no resistance when Candie reached out and shoved her to the floor. She sat with her back against the wall, looking up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “But … I thought you were Erica,” Maxie whispered.
“Well I’m not, am I? I’m Allison Barre’s baby daughter, Candace. The one she never had time for.” Candie’s voice was laced with bitterness.
“It was you all the time? You were the woman in the caterer’s uniform? You were the doctor, the exterminator, Tia Maria?”
Candie, the white cap still covering her auburn waves, leaned against the hot water heater. “My, you’ve got a mind like a steel trap. Not that it’s going to do you any good, being so smart.” She folded her white-shirted arms over her chest and smiled down at Maxie. “Still, you are going to go out in a blaze of glory. You interrupted me just now, but when I’ve finished what I started, you and this horrible old house are going to go up in flames like Fourth of July fireworks.”
“This horrible old house?” Maxie stared up at her. “I thought you loved this place. You said you did.”
Candie shrugged. “So I lied. Sue me.” Then rage filled her face and she bared her teeth. “I hate this place! I always have. I only came here to do what I promised myself I’d do when I was ten years old and she drove my father’ away. A year later, my brother couldn’t take it anymore, and he left, too. They left me there alone. With her.”
Maxie’s ankle throbbed and in an unconscious effort to relieve the pain, she changed its position. As she did so, it bumped gently up against the paint sprayer she had accidentally kicked earlier. “Her? Your mother?”
Candie sneered. “Some mother she was. Allison Barre, the toast of Omega Phi Delta, secretary, then vice president, and then, at long last, president. She never got over it. Never stopped talking about it, never stopped wanting it back, never loved anything as much as she did those four years. Not my father, not my brother, not me. Especially not me.”
The plastic paint sprayer had a fat, clear hose attached to its nozzle. Maxie followed the hose with her eyes as she listened to Candie. The hose trailed across the floor of the utility room and stretched its way to one of the squat, fat white plastic containers of paint.
Candie turned and began marching back and forth beside the hot water heater, swinging her arms as she walked. “We could have had such a great family. My father adored her. He couldn’t believe he’d won the prize of Salem University. They were married right after her graduation. She wanted to stay here, settle down in Twin Falls, didn’t want to leave the university. But my father had a job in Philadelphia, so they had to go. He told me when he left us that she’d never forgiven him for taking her away from here. He was right. She never had.”
Maxie lifted her left leg, hooked her foot over the spray bottle and slid it back toward her, hoping Candie wouldn’t notice, praying it wouldn’t scrape against the floor tiles. It didn’t. When it was close enough and Candie’s back was turned momentarily, she reached out, grabbed the bottle and hid it behind her.
How did the spray bottle work?
“She was still in the sorority, of course,” Candie raved on, stomping back and forth, back and forth, swinging her arms. “It’s for life ,remember? She told you all that the day of the tea. She’d been telling me that every single day of my life. Once a sister, always a sister,’ and nobody believed that more than she did. I don’t think she ever thought of anything else.”
Maxie kept one hand behind her, her fingers exploring the sprayer, searching for the right knob or lever that would suck the paint up into the hose and send it on its way, out through the round nozzle. But she kept her eyes on Candie every second.
“She was never home. And when she was, she was on the phone — with one of her ‘sisters.’ She never even came to any of my plays in high school, she was so busy with her stupid sorority activities. And the whole time, the whole time I was growing up, she made it so clear,” there were tears in Candie’s angry voice now, “that she would have done anything, anything, including trading in her family, to be back here at Omega house, reliving those four glorious years.”
There, a small round knob … Maxie turned it slowly, carefully, and watched with a pounding pulse as the clear hose began to fill with thick white paint. The spray bottle would fill quickly.
Candie whirled to face Maxie, her cheeks red with rage. For one terrible second, Maxie was certain Candie would notice the clear plastic hose turning white with goo.
But Candie was too caught up in her rage to notice anything. “She didn’t want to be with us!�
�� she cried. “She wanted to be back here! In this house … this horrible, terrible house that I hate more than anything!”
“It isn’t Omega Phi’s fault, or the fault of anyone in the house now,” Maxie said. After a moment, she added, “You stole your own ring, didn’t you? And sent it back by messenger. After you’d taken Erica’s jewelry box. Why did you send them back?”
“Oh, that was just the beginning,” Candie said smugly. “Just a message. To let everyone in the house know that something was going on. That’s all that was.”
“You wanted us to think it was Graham,” Maxie realized. “I almost did. But when I asked him tonight at the party where you were, he said ‘How should I know?’ That’s not what you’d say if you were fixated on someone, is it? I didn’t get it then, but he wasn’t calling you and sending you flowers and writing you notes, was he, Candie? You made all of that up. He just sees you as a friend, that’s all. And you deliberately started that argument with him on campus that day because you knew I’d be along any minute, to meet you for lunch. You knew I’d think he was bothering you.”
Candie just smiled smugly and nodded. Maxie went on, “You sprayed insecticide on the plates, didn’t you? That’s how you knew what happened and let it slip when you were pretending to be Tia Maria. Did you tell me on purpose, or was it an accident?”
“Careless of me,” Candie said, beginning to stride back and forth again. “I forgot that I’d already told you guys my mother didn’t know anything about what was going on.”
“But … but you got sick, too, that night.” Maxie wrapped her fingers tightly around the jar, still hidden behind her. If she didn’t have her thumb on the right knob …
“Oh, I most certainly did not! I told you, my mother missed some great performances when she skipped my plays. I’m quite an accomplished actress, Maxie. I wasn’t sick at all. I’m not stupid enough to spray my own plate with insecticide. Anyway,” Candie added casually, “it was Mildred’s fault. I was planning on spraying the pot of spaghetti, in which case the police would have found the insecticide. I hadn’t thought of that. But when I saw all the plates, so neatly set around the table, and knew they’d be washed after dinner, well, it just made sense to use them instead. Mildred shouldn’t have set the table so early.”
