Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  “My dear,” Gladstone said, turning to Jennifer. “If you’ll just tape them together for me?”

  Eyes wide, she took the tape he handed her. A moment later, I heard a ripping sound as she pulled the tape from the roll. I moved my hands so they were a couple of inches apart, hoping that would allow me to wriggle out of it.

  The doorbell rang upstairs. Hope flared in me. Was it John? My van was still at the base of the hill; he’d have to know I was there.

  “Quickly,” he said, and I felt the tape pulling at the skin of my wrists as she wrapped my hands three times.

  “Is that enough?” she asked.

  “It will do for now,” Gladstone said. “And put a piece over her mouth.”

  “Her mouth?” To her credit, she sounded horrified.

  “So she doesn’t make noise. I don’t want her alerting our guest.”

  Another rip, and a claustrophobic feeling as the tape covered my mouth. The doorbell rang again, and he hurried up the steps. The light bulb blinked off, the door slammed shut, and the dead bolt made a sick thud as he slammed it home.

  _____

  “Why did he turn off the light?” Jennifer’s voice quavered. “I can’t read if he turned off the light.”

  I would have responded, but she’d taped my mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry about the tape, by the way,” she said.

  I made something of a soothing sound—or at least I tried to—and prayed she would shut up so I could listen. As I craned my head to listen, I worked at the tape around my wrists. There were definitely voices upstairs. I could hear Gladstone’s stentorious baritone, and then a lighter, familiar, female voice. But whose was it?

  “I had no idea he was such a terrible man,” Jennifer rambled on, “or I never would have agreed to play the part. I can’t believe he murdered that artist. I can’t wait until I’m out of here and back to New York.”

  As if she’d ever leave this house alive, I thought. As if I’d ever leave this house alive. I strained again, trying to hear who was upstairs. Whoever it was had made it into the house; the voices were getting louder.

  “I simply must speak to her,” I heard from somewhere above, and recognized the voice instantly. Catherine. “Her niece has taken a turn for the worse.”

  Gwen. I felt a sharp pang of fear for my niece. Was she going to be okay?

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where she is,” Gladstone lied.

  “But her van is here,” Catherine said. “Where else would she be?”

  “I do not know, Madam. Now, I’m afraid I have a conference call coming up, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Where’s Ms. Torrone?”

  “She is unavailable at the moment. And not taking visitors.”

  “I was here just the other day,” Catherine said. “She never leaves this house without you.”

  “She is indisposed,” Gladstone repeated, a hint of steel in his voice. “I will thank you to depart, or I will have to call the police.”

  “My son is the police, thank you very much,” she retorted. “And I will take my leave.” There was a pause, and then she said, “Natalie was here. She left her cookies.”

  I felt my entire body tense. Would he shove her down in the cellar with us? Would my rash action result in yet another death? “Perhaps she left them with Ms. Torrone.”

  “Why don’t we ask her, then?” Catherine said. Leave! I thought. Go tell John I was here!

  Catherine might not have picked up on my thoughts, but it sounded like Gladstone did. “I wish you a very good afternoon, Madam.”

  “But …”

  “Good bye.”

  I let out my breath as I heard the front door shut. The good news was, Catherine knew I had at least been here, and knew my van was here—but had left without being added to our little menagerie in the cellar. The bad news was, the pressure was now on Gladstone to get rid of us before the police came knocking at his door.

  It was no surprise at all when Gladstone’s footsteps grew louder, sounding as if they were stopped at the cellar door. I sucked in my breath—as best I could, with duct tape covering my mouth—and braced for the sound of the dead bolt sliding back, but it didn’t come.

  “Mort!” Jennifer’s voice was high and scared. “Can you turn on the light?”

  “Turn it on yourself,” he barked, and then tramped away again. I heard the front door close a moment later; he must be going down to deal with the van. Which meant if I was lucky, I had at least a few minutes to figure out what to do.

  I began working at the tape on my hands. If nothing else, Catherine’s arrival had come at a good time; it had distracted Gladstone from checking Jennifer’s tape job. As she fumbled up the stairs and flipped the switch, lighting the naked bulb, I twisted my hands, sucking in my breath as it ripped the hair off the backs of my wrists. By the time she made it to the bottom of the stairs, I was missing a good bit of skin, but one of my hands was free.

  I reached up and ripped the tape from my mouth, sucking in a big breath of cold, musty air.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting out of your tape job,” I said.

  “But you’re not supposed to be free,” she said. I could see the whites all around her irises; she was terrified.

  As was I, but I didn’t let myself think about it. “He’s planning on killing both of us anyway,” I said, in the same tone of voice I usually used to tell John what I’d planned for dinner. “If both of us are free, we have a fighting chance of getting out of here alive.”

  She hugged herself. “Do you really think he’s going to kill us?”

  After hearing what her employer had told me just fifteen minutes ago, it boggled the mind that she had to ask—I didn’t bother answering. As Jennifer wrung her hands, I headed up the stairs and tested the door, even though I was sure I’d heard the dead bolt. Sure enough, it was locked, and the solid wood didn’t budge when I gave it an experimental thrust with my shoulder. I hurried back down the stairs. “Are there any windows in here?” I hadn’t seen any daylight when the light was off, but it was always possible.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never been down here before.”

  I searched the tops of the walls, but the rock went all the way up, except for one slit the approximate size of a mail slot. So much for the window exit. If we were going to get out, it would have to be through the door. I peered into the gloomy corners of the basement. If only there were a sledgehammer, or a pick axe, somewhere buried in the clutter. “We have to break through the door,” I told Jennifer. “Help me look for something big and heavy—an axe would be good, but even a two-by-four might help us ram through the door.”

  “Okay,” she said, and dutifully began picking through the piles of debris scattered around the basement.

  There was a pile of old plywood in one corner, along with the remains of an old wood stove and an ancient mop that looked like it had had a major hair loss problem. I picked it up, wondering if I could use it as a battering ram—or at least a weapon—and set it near the steps as I continued to search.

  I glanced over at Jennifer, who was peering into the corner farthest from the stairs. “See anything useful?” I asked, trying to be encouraging.

  “A bunch of old Reader’s Digest magazines—they’re kind of moldy, though.” She poked at the stack with a sneakered foot.

  “Keep looking,” I ordered.

  We spent the next ten minutes—precious minutes, I knew, as I listened for the sound of Gladstone returning—searching the basement, but finished with nothing more than an over-the-hill mop and a small box of mason jars containing a black substance. I took a couple of cracks at the door with the mop, but it barely dented the wood.

  “Looks like it’s time to come up with Plan B,” I said, sinking down on the step.

  “Okay,” she said. “What would that look like?”

  “Putting him out of commission,” I said.

  “But he’s got a gun!”
<
br />   “That’s the hitch.” I picked up one of the dusty jars and held it up to the light. “What do you think is in here?” I wondered. Out of curiosity, I unscrewed the lid—which was a bit of a challenge, as it had corroded over the years—and took a sniff. “Blueberries,” I said. “In a liquid. Still smells surprisingly berrylike. I wonder how long it’s been here?”

  “Not much help against a gun, is it?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. It was not looking encouraging; although at least it sounded now as if she was on board with the plan. “I wish we could take out one of the steps, so he would stumble or something on the way down.” Unfortunately, unless a saw magically appeared or I figured out how to gnaw through it with my teeth, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “We could always blow out the light bulb,” she said. “Then attack him.”

  “Good idea,” I said, surprised.

  “The problem is, how would we know where he was to attack him? There would only be light at the top of the stairs; by the time he got down, we couldn’t be sure to hit him in the right spot.”

  My spirits sank as fast as they’d risen. “You’re right. If we whack him, we’d better get him the first time.

  “Wait,” I said, looking at the jar in my hand. I swirled the contents around. “I have an idea.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS A LONG, tense wait as we crouched at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Gladstone to arrive. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, I heard the front door open and close. Jennifer and I exchanged glances, and I stood up and took my position near the bottom of the steps. The tape was affixed over my mouth, and my hands were behind my back—but clenched in my fists was the mop.

  The footsteps moved around for a few minutes before drawing close to the door upstairs. I heard the chunk of the lock being pulled back. The door swung open, and I said a small prayer and glanced at Jennifer with what I hoped was a look of encouragement.

  He stood, framed in the doorway, surveying us in the cellar. “You did well,” he said, acknowledging the tape that appeared to be still plastered over my mouth. I stared at her, hoping her resolve wouldn’t falter, and was relieved to see her give me a quick nod. He descended the stairs, the ancient wood creaking under his bulk. He had changed out of his smoking jacket and was now dressed in slacks and a winter coat, I noticed, but the gun was still in his hand. Did the coat mean he was planning on taking us outside? It didn’t matter, I reminded myself. If all went well, he wouldn’t be taking us anywhere.

  He got to the bottom step and looked at me, gun trained on me. I stared at him, waiting for him to drop the gun for a moment; it was too risky to do anything with it pointed directly at me. I choked up on the mop behind my back, trying to figure out a way to distract him. Unfortunately, with my mouth taped shut, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. He turned to Jennifer. “I’m surprised you didn’t …”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Jennifer was in motion, slinging a jar full of berries in his face. No! I thought as an explosion went off in his hand. I lurched instinctively to one side. There was a stinging sensation on my leg, but I barely registered it as I swung the mop around, connecting with Gladstone’s chest.

  His face was coated in a dark purple fluid, the blueberries sticking to him like dark blemishes. He was swiping at his eyes with his free hand as I hit him, and he let out a grunt. I pulled back to hit him again, and realized my mistake. I should have gone for the gun.

  “Stop,” he ordered me. And since his finger was on the trigger, I did.

  He took a wheezy breath—the mop had made a bit of an impact, evidently—and ordered me to drop the mop. I did.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Jennifer,” he said, waving her over to stand next to me. “I’m afraid I’ll have to consider our agreement void.”

  “But …”

  I ripped the duct tape off my mouth. “He was going to kill you anyway,” I reminded her.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. Jennifer blanched.

  “Did you do the same thing last time?” I asked. “With your first artist? Did you get a decoy and finish her off?”

  “It really doesn’t matter at this point, does it?” he asked. Despite the assured tone of voice, his eyes darted around nervously. “Now, let’s go, before your fiancé’s mother decides to come back.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “For a ride,” he said. “Get going.” I took a step toward the stairs, but he stopped me. “Jennifer first, then you.”

  We filed upstairs, my stomach clenched tight with dread. Could I shut the door behind me and lock him in the cellar? As if reading my thoughts, he pushed the gun muzzle into my back, ending all speculation in that direction. I caught a whiff of blueberries, and thought how incongruous it was that the air smelled like a grandmother’s kitchen, but I was facing an open grave.

  As was Jennifer, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Poor girl. What would her family think? They wouldn’t ever know what had happened to their daughter, I realized. She would just disappear.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  He herded us toward the side door off the kitchen. I scanned the countertops and table for anything I could grab, but there was nothing—and I wouldn’t have had a chance to grab something if there was.

  “Open it,” he ordered Jennifer, who turned the knob with a shaking hand.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Down to the dock,” he said.

  I searched the water for a boat to flag as I picked my way down the shoveled walkway to the small dock off the back. With a sinking heart, I saw that the skiff Eleazer had brought over was moored there. It was the second time someone had tried to drown me from a dinghy, I thought as my foot slid on a patch of ice. If history insisted on repeating itself, I wished it would rerun the more pleasant aspects of life, instead of the parts where people were trying to tie bricks to me and toss me overboard.

  I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if my van was still at the base of the driveway, but Gladstone jammed the gun harder into me and pushed me forward. A blast of cold air made me shiver, and I stumbled slightly as I made my way down to the water’s edge, making the wound in my leg sting. The gun wavered, but only for a moment. Ahead of me, Jennifer was hugging herself as she picked her way down to the water. I could hear her sobbing, and resolved to do anything I could to save her. And me.

  But what?

  All too soon, we were at the dock.

  “Get in,” Gladstone said gruffly. Jennifer went first, letting out a small scream as she almost capsized the dinghy. I hesitated, trying to come up with a plan B. “You too,” he said, giving me a shove that sent me reeling forward. I fell hard onto the bench seat, and a sharp pain bloomed in my hip. I reached down to steady myself, and my hand closed on an oar.

  I didn’t let it go.

  Gladstone managed to train the gun on me as he clambered onto the bench seat at the back of the boat. We were still tied up, though. How was he going to manage that?

  “Untie the ropes,” he barked at me as he sat with one hand on the rudder. Well, that explained that. I let go of the oar and unlooped the rope from the cleats on the dock. The motor roared to life as I released the second knot, and I felt my stomach drop as he gunned the motor and we pushed away from the dock.

  I sat back down and let my hand fall back to the oar. It was my only weapon. Would I find an opportunity to use it?

  Not likely, I thought. Jennifer and I were positioned in front of Gladstone in the boat, with him in the back, one hand on the rudder and the other on the gun—which was still pointed directly at me. I knew Eleazer had just repaired the motor, so it should work like a charm.

  The wind sliced through my coat and the storm-whipped waves made the small boat slam down on the water again and again as I scanned the horizon, hoping to see someone I could flag down. It was late in the day, though; all the lobstermen were miles off shore, checking their traps, and there w
eren’t a lot of pleasure boats out in December. As I watched the little strip of land that was Cranberry Island recede into the distance, my hopes began to sputter. Was it really going to end here, on the cold water of the Gulf of Maine? My inn, my future with John, my life … was this the final chapter? For me—and for the young woman on the bench seat behind me, who was sobbing quietly, her cries stolen by the wind?

  As I stared at the black barrel of the gun and came to terms with my fate, there was a sputtering sound. Gladstone swore, and my heart leapt as the engine gave one last guttural sound and died.

  He pulled the starter cord, yanking at it again and again. It almost took on the third pull, but died into nothingness. We were adrift.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you know anything about boat engines?”

  I shook my head, still staring at the gun, my hand resting on the oar. Surely he’d have to put it down to check the engine—or at least turn it away from me.

  “Go to the end of the boat,” he barked. “Next to Jennifer.” He trained the gun on me as I followed his instructions, sitting next to Jennifer’s slender, shaking body. The oar was still in reach, and my hand sought it as he turned to look at the motor, pulling back the casing and peering at it. The gun was still pointed in my direction, but instead of aiming at my head, it was directed at my left arm. I spread my jacket over my hand as I lifted the oar, praying he wouldn’t turn around, and slid it up over the bench seat. He glanced back at me, then swore again and turned to the motor. He tried to pull it out of the water with one hand, but was forced to use both. He still held the gun in his hand as he yanked at the engine cord, but it wasn’t pointed at me—it was aimed at the bottom of the boat.

  Adrenaline pulsed through me. I gripped the oar and pulled it up, leaping toward the front of the boat at the same time. Gladstone’s head swiveled around as I brought the heavy wood around toward his head. As the oar made contact with his temple, the gun came up and went off with a deafening explosion.

  His body went limp, sagging like a rag doll, and he slumped toward the side of the boat. I reached for the gun as it clattered from his hand, but it hit the edge of the boat and went over, vanishing into the leaden water.