Blake Pierce - Kate Wise - 5 - If She Fled

by Blake Pierce

  DeMarco, the hinges popped off and clattered to the ground, barely audible

  over the commotion the door made as it flew inward.

  Kate was glad DeMarco had done it. Kate herself had been on the verge of

  wanting to do the exact same thing at the front door.

  Kate fell in behind DeMarco and they entered the house. Right away, Kate

  took in the smells of old wood, some sort of polish or enamel, and an overall

  workshop sort of smell. The back door opened up onto a sparse kitchen that

  held a strong odor of black coffee—barely noticeable over the smell of wood

  and polish.

  They exited the kitchen and entered a hallway that seemed to extend most

  of the length of the house. They passed by a small bedroom on the right,

  which DeMarco split off into. Kate fell in behind, saw the room was small

  and unoccupied, and continued down the hall. A doorway appeared on her

  right, partially open. She peered into the crack between the wall and the

  frame. A wooden staircase led down into a dark area. The woodshop smell

  seemed to come from the darkness below. Kate hit the light switch on the

  wall just inside the doorway and peered down the stairway. A dingy

  basement floor waited at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I think I’ve found the workshop,” Kate called out.

  “Kate…”

  Kate paused and watched DeMarco come out of the bedroom. She held

  something in her hand that made no sense at first. But then it registered and it

  felt like ice forming in Kate’s veins.

  DeMarco was holding a decapitated Barbie doll. Its entire nude body was

  wrapped in old piano string.

  “Jesus…” Kate whispered.

  As DeMarco neared her and they looked down into the basement, they

  both drew their weapons.

  “If anyone is home, I need you to come out and make yourself known,”

  Kate said. But her voice had fallen on enough empty homes in the past for

  her to know they were alone in the house. Still, it made it no easier to

  descend the basement stairs without knowing what awaited them below.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Kate took a moment to take it all in. She found

  herself standing in front of a makeshift aisle that ran between two rows of

  junked pianos. It reminded her of those shows like American Pickers where

  people scavenged old sheds and houses for hidden treasures. Kate didn’t

  know enough about pianos to know if any of these gutted pianos were

  treasures or not, but it was certainly interesting.

  And a little creepy, if she was being honest.

  “What the hell is all of this?” DeMarco asked as they made their way

  down the little aisle.

  “His projects, I suppose. If he was tuning pianos, maybe he’s reclaiming

  them, too. Sort of like Barry Turner.”

  “Maybe he’s been collecting piano wire for them…”

  Kate had been thinking the same thing but the idea of speaking it out loud

  had seemed almost like a bad omen. Still, she sauntered forward, her eyes on

  the piano at the end of the row on her left. The top was opened and covered

  by a tarp. It seemed to be the only one of the piano bodies that had been

  touched as of late.

  When she reached out for the tarp to pull it back, her mind’s eye pulled up

  several terrible images, preparing itself for the worst. When she saw nothing

  but piano wire and small fragments of dust inside, she was shocked.

  DeMarco fell in beside her and when she did, Kate started to understand

  what she was seeing. She hoped to God she was jumping to conclusions but

  something inside of her—a part of her that had seen the worst in people,

  sometimes down to what she would call absolute evil—knew better.

  The piano was missing many strings. She recalled from her brief

  introduction to the piano as a child that a piano had eighty-eight keys and

  more than two hundred strings inside. While this piano was far away from

  having all of its strings, the number she saw was alarming.

  Not because of the number…but because each wire installed inside the

  body of it contained a single strand of hair.

  “Twenty-three,” DeMarco said.

  “What?”

  “Twenty-three strings.”

  “You see the hairs?”

  “I wish I didn’t. Do you think they’re all from the three women in

  Frankfield?”

  “I hope that’s the case,” Kate said. “My fear is that each hair is from a

  different victim.”

  “But…twenty-three…”

  The idea hung in the air like some poisonous chemical, making it hard to

  move. Kate backed away slowly, getting her speed and breath bit by bit with

  each step. By the time she got to the stairs, she was nearly running.

  “Where are you going?” DeMarco called, still frozen by the piano and its

  secrets.

  “We have to figure out where he is.”

  “How?”

  But Kate was already up the stairs and barely heard the question. She

  dashed into the bedroom DeMarco had already checked but found it useless

  —though there was another wired Barbie in the floor. When she ran out of

  the room and toward what she assumed would be the living room area, she

  nearly collided with DeMarco as she came out of the basement.

  Twenty-three, Kate thought as she hurried into the living room. Twenty-three strings, twenty-three hairs…God, please don’t let my hunch be right…

  please…

  She entered the living room and found it oddly neat. There was a single

  recliner and a loveseat, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV sitting on a low

  entertainment center. There was an address book on the coffee table, and a

  wireless landline phone sitting on a small end table by the love seat.

  Kate scooped up the address book, knocking off a few magazines in the

  process— Guitar Magazine, Orchestral, Entertainment Weekly. She thumbed

  through the address book, stopping at the H section. Little jolts of electricity

  coursed through her when she saw listings for Hopkins, Karen and Hix,

  Marjorie. Their addressee were written beneath the names in a very neat

  handwriting. There were two more names on the H pages but they were not

  local. One was from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Another was from

  Engle, Ohio.

  “Oh my God,” Kate said, as she started to understand that perhaps she had

  been right.

  Twenty-three …

  She handed DeMarco the book, letting her come to her own conclusions.

  When she did, a folded piece of notebook paper partially slid out of the back

  cover. Kate took it, unfolded it, and saw several names. Three were familiar:

  Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, Meredith Lowell.

  They were all crossed out. Above their names, two others were crossed out

  in harsh red marks.

  The next name on the list was Anna Forester. Her number was beside it.

  Kate wasted no time. She pulled out her cell phone and called the number.

  Even as the phone started to ring, her gut tightened as she was somehow certain no one would answer. And then another number started barreling

  through her head, one that made her feel sick.

  Twenty-four…

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Anna Forester was folding her husband’s jeans when it occurred to he
r

  that in about a week or so, her daughter would be folding little onesies. Anna

  could barely remember what it was like to wash those tiny little baby clothes

  and part of her badly missed it. She decided right then and there that she was

  going to be one of those grandmothers who spoiled the absolute hell out of

  her grandchildren.

  As she set the jeans on her husband’s pile of clothes and reached for one

  of her blouses, the piano tuner spoke up from the other room. Anna supposed

  it was her fault; she had been overly chatty at first and now he seemed to not

  want to shut up.

  “They got any names picked out for your grandchild?”

  “None yet,” she answered, having to raise her voice to a near shout to be

  heard from the laundry room. She had no idea why, but there was something

  off-putting about the fact that he was yelling at her from elsewhere in the

  house, even if it was to ask random questions. It almost seemed as if he was

  trying to make sure he always knew where she was.

  “A boy or girl?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes, now good and tired of having this conversation in a

  borderline shouting match. “They want to be surprised!”

  “Aww, that’s nice,” he responded.

  Was it just her imagination, or did he sound closer now? She cocked her

  head, curious and a little upset. Was he seriously moving through her house?

  Was he some sort of thief? Was he some sort of—

  Her thought was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Her ring tone

  was the little catchy scale in Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” a reminder

  not to get pissed off when unexpected phone calls interrupted her day.

  She reached for her back pocket as she stepped out of the laundry room.

  As she entered the kitchen, she pulled the phone from her pocket and was

  very confused for a moment. This made no sense. The name on the caller ID

  was something she had put in just a few days ago. It read: Piano Tuner Guy.

  “Umm…” she said into the kitchen.

  She was weirded out to the point of being a little scared. Was he actually

  calling from inside the house? She could hear him moving around in the office, probably thinking of some other question to ask. Instead of walking

  out to see what was going on, she remained in the kitchen and answered the

  call. As she did, some primal part of her brain kicked in and she reached for

  the laundry room door handle.

  She answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Anna Forester?” a woman asked. She sounded hurried and a little

  frightened.

  “Y…Yes. Who is this?” Fear clutched at her heart until she found it hard

  to breathe. Something was very wrong; it was a realization that started to

  settle in on her like drying cement.

  “I need you to remain calm as I reveal this information to you and as I ask

  you some questions. I’m Kate Wise, an FBI agent here in Frankfield. With a

  simple yes or no, I need you to tell me if there is currently a man in your

  home that is there to tune a piano.”

  The dread tightened around her heart and she felt the need to scream. She

  fought it back, though, and let out a croaky-sounding “Yes.”

  “Are you in the same room with him?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Get somewhere where you can close a door between the two of

  you.”

  “What is—”

  “Just do as I say. I’ll tell you what I can as you move.”

  “Okay…”

  But just as she said that, the tuner appeared in the entryway to the kitchen.

  It was almost as if he knew the phone call was about him. He regarded her

  with a bit if suspicion, no doubt alerted by the look of terror on her face. He

  took a single step into the kitchen, the stern look on his face an indication that he knew something was up. He held a single length of piano wire in his

  hands, holding it like a piece of rope he was about to tie into a knot.

  “Get into another room and close the door,” the agent said in her ear,

  though her voice sounded as if it was a million miles away.

  Anna realized then that no matter which way she went, the tuner could

  easily cut her off. The kitchen island sat in the center of the room, the only

  thing between them. If she went to the left, toward the laundry room, he

  could easily cut her off. If she ran to the right, there was the hallway and

  three rooms to choose from: the master bedroom, the powder room, and the guest room.

  “Are you okay?” the agent asked in her ear.

  “No.” It came out shaky. As if she were a wounded lamb, the tuner took

  another step forward. The smile on his face spoke of his intentions and

  suddenly, Anna wondered if she would ever get to meet her grandchild at all.

  Knowing that she had to move quickly, she started left, acting as if she

  was heading for the laundry room. The tuner bit hard and started in that

  direction, too. When she saw him moving, Anna reversed direction and

  headed to the right. She sprinted out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She

  heard the tuner let out a curse behind her and then the sound of him slamming

  into the kitchen island as he quickly changed course.

  “Ms. Forester, are you okay?”

  “He’s coming after me,” she squeaked, headed for the bedroom.

  “Okay, you close the door and lock it. I’m on my way. Maybe two or three

  minutes. If you can—”

  That was the last thing Anna heard. As she entered the bedroom and

  turned to shut the door, the piano tuner was there. He reached out and

  grabbed her by the shoulder. Anna reached out to slap his hand away but he

  blocked it easily. He frowned a bit as he darted out his right hand in an

  inexperienced punch. It caught her in the jaw and Anne’s head rocked back.

  As it did, the man reached out and grabbed her hair. He pulled her to him

  with such force that her feet came off of the ground. Her scalp felt like

  someone had set it on fire.

  She screamed, dropping the phone to the floor. She watched it dumbly, as

  if through someone else’s eyes, while the piano tuner wrenched her around

  and trapped her neck in the crook of his arm. She fought against it and, for

  just a moment, thought she had managed to free herself.

  But the pressure of his arm was replaced by something else—some thinner

  pressure that seemed to lightly sink into her flesh. She tried to scream but

  found that she could not get much of anything through her throat—just a little

  squeak of terror.

  She started to choke right there in the doorway of her bedroom. She felt

  him trying to pull her back slightly, pulling her feet off of the floor. She knew

  if he succeeded, that was the end of it. She’d be dead. She flailed, feeling the

  wire around her neck tighten. She did her best to stay calm, but dread was

  flooding her mind. Somewhere in the flood there was the smallest little speck of reason, and it told her that she had only one chance to escape this. He was

  pulling slightly up still, but not back. The tuner seemed perfectly fine to strangle her right there in her doorway.

  And that was the single mistake he had made. Anna, still flailing, kicked

  her right foot out and found the doorframe. She then kicked away from it,

  putting every bit
of strength she had into it. It wasn’t very hard, but it was

  enough to cause the tuner to lose his balance just slightly. As he tried to

  compensate, Anna brought her knees up, allowing her weight to sag down.

  For just an instant, the tightness around her throat was immense but the tactic

  caught the tuner off guard. This displaced weight caused him to stumble

  forward. As he did, he lost his grip on her.

  Anna knew she should probably lash out or attack or something…but the

  call from the FBI agent had clued her in to how dangerous this man could be

  —as if his attempt to strangle her just now had not been enough. So the

  moment Anna was free, she ran.

  She darted toward the kitchen, intending to hit the back door, go down the

  back porch steps and to her neighbor’s house. Her phone was on the floor in

  the bedroom and while they did have a gun in the house, it was in a safe in the top of her closet—directly behind the would-be killer.

  So she ran for the kitchen. She made it three strides down the hallway

  before she felt his weight slam into her back. Anna went sailing forward,

  catching herself on the island in the kitchen. Pinned between the tuner and

  the island, she felt an explosion of pain radiate through her chest. Undaunted,

  she grabbed for the drawer to her right, over the ledge of the island’s counter.

  In doing so, she knocked the cup of coffee she had been drinking from the

  island. It shattered on the floor, and lukewarm coffee soaked her left pants

  leg.

  She had struck the island so hard that the tuner had bounced slightly off of

  her, equally jarred by the impact. This allowed her a split second to reach into

  the drawer she had managed to open, looking for the butcher’s knife. In the

  back of her head, she reminded herself that the stupid thing was dull; it was a

  complaint she made every time she used it, hoping her husband would show

  some initiative and sharpen it.

  But as her hand fell on the handle, she figured it she stabbed hard enough,

  it would surely sink in. All she had to do was—

  He grabbed the arm reaching for the knife and twisted it hard. She tried to wrench it away but he pulled her to him. As she slammed into his chest and

  he tried to wrap an arm around her again, she desperately threw her right

  hand out, clenched in a small fist. It landed right across his brow, not hard,