A stocky red-head with a sympathetic smile came forward and shook her hand. "Hi, Naomi. I'm Karen Henderson. We talked on the phone. 911 gave us a brief rundown on how he happened to be locked in your room, but she was a little rattled in her explanation, to put it mildly. You can fill me in a little more inside."
"What happened, Miss Waters?" an elderly voice called out from at the back of a gathering crowd. "Are you all right?
Naomi turned, and spotted the petite woman wearing a coat over her robe. A neighbour who knew her name. She looked vaguely familiar. "I'm fine, thanks," Naomi said. "An intruder. He broke into my house."
"Don't worry, Miss Waters," a man called to her. "The cops'll get 'em." Mr. Burgess, she remembered. A retired bookkeeper.
Good, caring people. The concern she heard in their voices made her feel cared for. Not everyone was here out of morbid curiosity. She'd lived here all her life, and only now did it occur to her that she knew very few of her neighbours. A few names came to mind, but she knew little about them. Mom knew them all. They'd sent food and flowers and come to her funeral. Most, if not all, had read Naomi's story in the paper.
Detective Henderson was putting on a pot of coffee. She seemed comfortable in the kitchen, even one not her own. Naomi went to the window and opened it a crack, watching the circles of light darting across the field like giant fireflies, away from her. It was too dark to see what was happening, but she could hear the excited shouts of men as they closed in on their quarry. And she heard when they took him down. The shouts grew louder, threatening. Then quieted.
"Standing in an open window isn't the best idea in the world," Detective Henderson said behind her. The coffee had started to perk, filling the kitchen with its normal, comforting aroma. "But it sounds like they've got their man, so you're probably safe."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Naomi closed the window. Tears spilled down her face. They had him. Thank you. Her purse was still sitting on the kitchen table, with Lisa's phone inside. She stuffed the purse in a cabinet, behind a box of bran flakes, for something to do. She was shaking, trying not to.
Both women went into the living room to await the detective's knock on the door. While they waited, Detective Henderson told her that a police cruiser had been a block away when she made the 911 call, which was why they were so quick getting here.
Even from here, Naomi could still hear the excited murmur of the crowd outside. Looking out the front window, she glimpsed the cuffed man being put into the back of the cruiser. Marcus Leeland was a big man and looked even bigger from here. He must have discarded the trench coat.
The dome lights pulsed rhythmically, splashing the crowd and the street in bloody colour before it pulled away.
Even though she'd been expecting the knock at the door, she jumped when she heard it. "Police. Detective Mott." Calm now, no urgency in his voice.
Officer Henderson opened the door to him. His face was flushed with the recent excitement. "You're safe now, Miss Waters, the detective said, "He won't be bothering you or anyone else for awhile."
Relieved beyond measure, she thanked the officers profusely. She was still thanking them when a wave of weakness swept over her, turning her legs to water. "I'm sorry," she said, sagging into a chair by the fireplace. "I'm feeling a little dizzy."
"Here, this'll help," Detective Henderson said seconds later, handing her a steaming mug of coffee. "You've had quite an ordeal."
She gave one to Detective Mott, and sipped her own as the two began to ask more questions. Detective Glen Mott took notes.
Naomi explained her plan to them, showed them how it had worked. They went into the studio, looked at the broken window, Detective Henderson grinning. "Like a rat in a trap," she laughed.
The two women returned to the living room, leaving the lead detective still checking things out.
"Damn dangerous, what you did, Naomi, but ballsy, I gotta admit, "Detective Henderson said. "Very cool." She laughed.
From the studio, Glen Mott called out that she was lucky; she should have let the police handle it.
"I tried," she called back. "No one would take me seriously." That wasn't entirely true. Sergeant Nelson had believed her.
The redhead nodded. "You want to phone someone to come and stay with you tonight?"
"No, I'll be fine now."
Detective Mott called out, "You'll need to board up this window until you can get it repaired. "Hey, we've got some blood here, on the sill. I'll call forensics to collect a sample. Can't hurt to have hard evidence."
Better than saliva off a coffee cup, she thought. It didn't matter. Her plan had worked. Maybe not exactly according to plan, but well enough. Marcus Leeland was in custody. It was over. The tears had dried, and she'd stopped trembling. Detective Mott was right: she'd been lucky. It could have turned out a lot differently.
Standing in the open doorway, she watched as the last cruiser pulled away, taking the detectives with them. No pulsing lights now, no squeal of tires.
The crowd had pretty much dispersed. The excitement, the threat, was over. She tacked cardboard over the broken window and re-bolted the door; it would do until tomorrow.
Tomorrow. The neighbours would talk about this over breakfast, at work. They would read about a killer's capture in the paper, watch it on TV. Eric Grant might even write a follow up story. His piece in the Tribune had begun all this; why not?
She stood in the doorway for another few seconds. The last of the stragglers had gone, leaving the street dark and silent. Naomi went inside and locked the door. Now that she was alone, she sank down on the sofa and dissolved into a fresh bucket of tears.
When she was cried out, she went into the kitchen and drained the last of the coffee Karen Henderson had made into her cup and heated it up in the microwave. Not much chance she'd be sleeping tonight. She thought about phoning Lisa with the good news, but decided it could wait until morning. She wondered if Debbie Banks was back home. It would be a small bit of closure for her. And maybe for Marie Davis' family, too. She hoped so.
Naomi turned around and saw a skittish Molly standing near the door leading into the kitchen, hackles slightly raised, wary. "It's over, Molly. He's behind bars."
Naomi scooped her up in her arms and stroked her soft, silky fur until she settled down. But she didn't purr and her ears twitched nervously, the end of her tail flicking back and forth. It had been a traumatic night for both of them.
As if to punctuate the thought, the phone rang, and Molly sprang from her arms, landing the full length of the floor, leaving a deep scratch on the back of her hand in the process. Beads of blood bubbled up as Naomi picked up the receiver, the scratch just now beginning to sting in earnest. She blew on it. "Hello."
Molly's nerves were as raw as her own. Reporters already? she thought. But it was Frank calling her. "Naomi, I just heard. Are you okay?" She was glad to hear from him. But rather than feeling jubilant, she felt only relief.
"I am now. Now that they've got him in custody."
"That's why I'm calling. They don't have him. There's been a terrible mistake."
She heard her own nervous laugh. "No, no you're wrong, Frank. I saw them take him away in handcuffs. He…."
"That wasn't Leeland."
She felt the blood drain from her body, as if someone had actually attached a hose to her and siphoned it out. "What?" she whispered.
"I'm sorry. I was worried about you and I hired a friend of mine to keep an eye on the house."
The dark blue car she passed, parked across the street flashed in her mind. She'd thought it might be Leeland.
"He saw the guy come crashing through your window and took off after him through the back lot."
"You hired someone?" she said stupidly, as the full implication of what he was telling her began to sink in.
"He a bouncer and sometime bodyguard, name of Eldon Carpenter. Good guy. I knew you'd resent the interference, but Lili would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. I'd never forgive
myself. Naomi…."
"How do you know this, Frank? That the man they caught is this Eldon Carpenter?" Her mind was spinning. How could this be? Please let Frank be wrong.
"He just phoned me from the jail. I'm on my way there now to get him released. I wanted to call you first. Lock your doors, honey. He's still out there."
Chapter Forty-Six
A numbing coldness spread through her as if she'd just been plunged into ice water. Stunned, she could only stand there, unable to think clearly. Then, as the full impact of his words hit, she dropped the receiver into the cradle and bolted for the kitchen to wedge the chair back under the doorknob as she'd done in those first days.
But it was too late. She hadn't quite reached the door when she saw the knob turn.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lisa sat up late, drinking coffee and thinking about Naomi, and wondering why she'd not heard from Eric Grant. And then she turned on the local news and saw that a man had broken into a house on Elizabeth Avenue and was in police custody.
Marcus Leeland, she thought. Thank God. Naomi's plan had worked. She smiled to herself, teary with relief. She wanted to call her but she was probably sleeping by now, exhausted. She'd call in the morning.
* * *
Retired Sergeant Graham Nelson was listening to his police-band radio when the call came in about an intruder at 233 Elizabeth Avenue. Apparently, the resident of the home had him trapped in one of the rooms and he jumped out of the window, but they ran him down. There were a few chuckles amidst the crackling, broken up by static. They'd nailed the son-of-a-bitch and that was what really mattered. He could stop worrying about Naomi Waters.
He was watching CNN when the phone rang. It was Eric Grant, looking for details and Graham's were sparse, except that it was pretty clear they'd got the guy. Eric had dropped by earlier to see him. Graham was always glad to see the reporter, he was good company, and it was clear he was pretty gone on Naomi Waters, despite having seen her only a couple of times.
"I got an email from Lisa Boyce," he said, "formerly Lisa Cameron…."
"…the school friend Mary Rose was visiting that night." Graham filled in.
"Yeah, she's pretty worried about Naomi. I could call her, her phone number is in the book," Eric said, "But it's pretty late. Especially considering the crisis is over. I replied to her email."
They talked a few minutes longer then bid each other a good night. But something didn't quite sit right with the retired policeman. For nearly thirty years the guy evades capture, and suddenly it's all wrapped up, tied with a bow? Well, okay, it happened from time to time. But it was rare. Rarer than rare.
"God Nelse, you still up?" Angie said, crossing from the bedroom to the bathroom, which was off the hallway. She wore striped pajamas and a ponytail, and looked twelve. And she was telling him what time to go to bed.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Terror-stricken, Naomi watched as the door slowly opened. A cool draft brushed her ankles, freezing her in place, drowning her in panic. He's here. Her legs had liquefied and she knew if she tried to run, she would fall.
And then he was standing in her doorway, filling it, his face bloodied and contorted with controlled rage. His smile was the smile of a demon. "Hello, little girl."
He does have supernatural powers, she thought. I was wrong to doubt it. Otherwise, how could be he here now? Why wasn't he in jail?
It was a good plan. It worked; I locked him in. But he was here now. He's an evil entity no one can stop. No, no, Naomi, the voice in her head argued. He's clever, is all. He's had years of practice.
Savouring her terror, her shock at seeing him, he made no move toward her.
Stay calm. Think. The stairs were behind her. Her knees would not betray her. She needed to get him talking. Get him off-guard. Maybe there was a chance.
"The cops know who you are, Marcus. They know you killed Mary Rose." In spite of her constricted vocal chords, her voice was surprisingly even, strong.
"Marcus," he said with a smirk. "No one calls me that anymore. My mother was in some dumb Shakespeare play in school and liked the name, so she saddled me with it. You can call me Mac. For as long as you're going to be around. No, they don't know I killed Mary Rose. They only know what you told them. And if you're not here…."
"They know you killed Marie Davis, too. And your old friend, Norman Banks. You slit his throat. What kind of a man—"
He took a step toward her, cutting off her words. She backed up. She didn't stumble. Almost.
"They got nothin'," he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his face. Broken glass gleamed in his hair, and his hands were bleeding. She could smell the sourness off him, the blood.
"You're the only one giving me trouble, Missy. The only one who can tie me to anything. But that's just about to end."
He took another step, and the floor creaked the way it always did when you stepped on that spot. The sound acted as a spur to Naomi and she whirled round and raced toward the stairs. He lunged after her. His hand caught the back of her shirt, and for one heart-stopping second she was sure he was going to pull her backwards, but she managed to grab hold of the railing and yank herself free of him. She flew up stairs, taking them two at a time.
Behind her, he yelled, "It won't do you any good to run. You can't get away."
She could hear his footsteps on the stairs behind her, soft and terrifying. But there was a hesitation in his step thump … drop … thump … drop. He was limping. Enough to slow him down. Otherwise, he'd have had her. He must have done himself some injury when he jumped out that window, aside from the cuts and bruises.
She was on the landing now, heart racing, her hand slippery on the rail. Behind her, his step was faltering, pained, his own breathing harsh. Like something dead brought back to life, impossible to stop. Coming after her. Not satisfied until she was beneath the ground too. She looked over her shoulder, unable not to.
"You know you brought this on yourself, don't you," he called up to her. "I gave you a chance to save yourself, but you couldn't leave it alone. Think you're pretty clever, don't you, showing up at my work. Laughing at me. Playing your games. Baiting me. Well, here I am, little girl, your catch of the day."
Spittle had formed at the corner of his mouth and his laugh was a mad sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. As she ran toward her room, his words followed after her.
"You should never have been born. You were a mistake. My mistake because I didn't make sure the bitch was dead. And now you have to disappear forever."
Before ducking into her bedroom, she took a last look behind her, just long enough to see his enormous shadow climbing the staircase wall, and then she was inside her room, slamming and bolting her door. But she knew it wouldn't keep him out, not for long. She sprinted across the room to the dresser. She would use it to bar the door. But could she move it by herself? It was antique, a heavy old thing, but she'd always loved it. Her mother used to help her to move it when it came time for a thorough cleaning, or to paint the walls. But adrenalin born of terror coursed through her body, giving her strength to do what she needed to do.
She quickly took everything from the top of the dresser and she set them on the floor. She jerked the dresser out from the wall, first one side and then the other. Inch by inch. Behind her, the doorknob rattled violently in its casing, travelling along her nerve endings.
Having pushed the dresser a good foot out from the wall, now she around ran to the other side, pushing and straining with everything in her. It moved. Then moved again. At last it was out far enough so that she could get behind it. Putting all her weight into it, she shoved as hard as she could, praying the dresser would keep moving, at the same time terrified it would topple over, crash to the floor and break into pieces.
He was pounding so hard on the door it appeared in her mind to bulge in its casing, causing the very walls in the room to vibrate. She took her hands from the dresser and clamped
them over her ears to shut out the madness.
The doorknob blurred through her tears as it twisted back and forth, rattling wildly, with the mindless rage of some kind of poltergeist.
She was doing it again. Crediting him with supernatural powers, when in reality he was just a man, albeit a sick, vile man. She swiped at her tears with her shirt cuff, pushing again at the mountainous dresser in front of her. Finally, it moved almost smoothly across the hardwood floor. Keeping her feet solidly under her, she willed the thing to keep going. At one point, when she was nearly at the door, it simply stopped, and all her straining and grunting couldn't jar it another inch. Her arms and shoulders ached with the effort of pushing. There must be a bump in the floor, she thought, and went back to moving it little by little, first on one side, then the other. It worked. Once more, the dresser began to slide across the floor.
Ignoring the throbbing ache in her arms and shoulders, and the insane pounding on the door, using every ounce of muscle and will she possessed, she gave a final push. Finally, bathed in a lather of perspiration, breathless, mouth and throat dry as sandpaper, she had barricaded the door.
She heard him give a frustrated thump against it as if he knew, could see through the door, and Naomi took a couple of backward steps on trembling legs and sagged down on the bed. She could see herself in the vanity mirror. Her hair had come out of its coil and lay like a warm, wet washcloth on the nape of her neck. Her shirt was glued to her body. Through dry lips, she called out, "I'm phoning the police."
He laughed. "I've been in your room, remember? Remember poor kitty?" he mocked. "You don't have a phone in there. And we both heard your cell phone ringing. It was in your purse, in the kitchen. You don't have it. Good try.
"Just plug this into any electrical outlet," Lisa had said. "It'll stay charged. Keep it close to you."
She envisioned her purse with the cell phone inside, stuffed behind the cereal in the cupboard. How could she have been so stupid? But she hadn't thought she would need the phone. She'd believed they had him.
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 21
