When Death Draws Near

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When Death Draws Near Page 23

by Carrie Stuart Parks


  I swung the ax again, splitting the rope.

  He dropped.

  I slammed the trapdoor shut.

  Bam, bam, bam! Bullets split the floorboards. I jumped away from the hail of shots and leaned against the wall. A second barrage of fire came from the cellar, blowing holes through the floor.

  Gauging the distance I’d have to cover, I did some quick calculations. About twelve feet. Five or so jumps, assuming my sprained ankle would hold.

  A lot of bullets.

  I tossed the ax to my right. It smashed into the floor and skidded. Immediately the floorboards around it erupted in gunshot. A pause while he reloaded.

  I ran.

  Bullet holes punctuated my path to the door. I didn’t stop until I crossed onto the porch. I caught myself on the railing and held on, afraid if I let go I’d not be able to stand again. My ears continued to ring from the sound of gunfire.

  Now I just had to drive over to the Campbells’ Halloween party and pick up Aynslee. Just as soon as my legs and hands stopped quivering.

  All my things were missing, including my purse. Without a driver’s license, I’d have to be careful not to get pulled over.

  Devin’s muted screams came from the cellar.

  “See how you like being in a hole in the ground.” My voice shook.

  What had he told the others about my whereabouts? Had I solved all my problems by putting him out of business? Did he have allies?

  I thought about the two men in Halloween costumes who commented on my appearance earlier in the evening. A costume at a costume party. My long skirt and blouse still hung over the chair where I’d left them. Snatching them up, I wrinkled my nose at the still-strong horse and campfire smell, then turned and hobbled across the porch and down the stairs. I already looked like Octavia Hatcher, with shredded nails and a broken hand. If anyone sees me at the party, hopefully they’ll think I’m wearing a costume with stage makeup, and not in need of serious medical attention.

  Pulling on the stinky long skirt and ugly blouse, I continued to shiver in the chilly night air, all my injuries protesting the movement. Clouds moved in, blanketing the night sky, and the only illumination was from a few stars. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. The Stygian night was dense with unseen eyes and malevolent forces. Halloween night.

  Devin’s car blocked the driveway. I opened the door and the dome light came on, but no keys conveniently dangled from the ignition.

  If he escaped, his car was far too handy. I looked around the yard, straining my eyes in the dark.

  A snake coiled by the front steps.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I GASPED. IT TOOK ME A MOMENT TO PROCESS that the snake wasn’t moving. I wiped the sweat off my face, then limped over to the coiled garden hose. Once I turned the hose on, I dragged it to the car, unscrewed the gas cap, and shoved in the hose.

  I found my way to Ruby and Elijah’s car and started it. Putting the car into gear, I turned around, heading toward Pikeville. Driving with one hand wasn’t hard, but using my left foot on the brake and accelerator was. Total exhaustion threatened to take over, and I had to use every ounce of energy to focus and drive. And to pray no police officer pulled me over.

  Most of the houses I passed had turned off their porch lights, and many were dark. The trick-or-treaters were long since finished going door to door. The car’s digital clock showed 11:15.

  Maybe crashing the Halloween party to rescue a daughter who didn’t know she needed rescuing wasn’t a great idea. I could call the state police.

  Yeah, right. I could hear that conversation.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hi, I just caught Devin, a murderer and probably the Hillbilly Rapist and—”

  “That person is dead. Shot by police.”

  “No. Not really. I mean, he’s actually in the cellar, well, make that the snake room—”

  “Where is this . . . snake room?”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know the address. He’s shooting holes up through the floor, but to him it would be the ceiling—”

  “Someone is shooting a gun?”

  “Well, yes, but he’s not the problem, at least not right now because he can’t get out. It’s my daughter, who’s attending a Halloween party, but she thinks it’s just a party—”

  No, it would take too much time to convince someone that I wasn’t a nutjob.

  I could call Blake. I wanted, needed to hear his voice. He would have delivered Sarah to the hospital by now and she would be getting treatment. Maybe he could get away and help us. I’d just have to apologize for stealing his horse and putting his family and friends into mortal danger. And indirectly killing his cousins, Ruby and Elijah.

  Ruby and Elijah were both dead because of their religious practices. As were a bunch of other folks. Everyone who’d been identified as belonging to that church had been systematically killed by Devin, starting with his own father.

  If Blake hadn’t found my sketches, all of the serpent handlers would be identified and murdered.

  I tried not to go through a series of what-ifs on the way to the party.

  A patrol car came toward me, driving slowly.

  Here’s your chance to get help, get someone to go in with you and get Aynslee. And what? I had no identification. I looked like the walking dead. And this officer could work for Clay.

  I waited until the car was closer, then leaned forward and looked down as if adjusting something on the dashboard. From this angle I couldn’t see the driver.

  As soon as the patrol car drove by, I checked the rearview mirror. No lights or siren.

  I found the correct street and turned, then coasted slowly past the Campbell house. Cars lined the street and all the windows glowed with light. Rock-and-roll music pounded the air. A fake cemetery, complete with a skeleton crawling out of the ground, decorated the front yard. It reminded me of Octavia Hatcher and my own clambering from the bowels of the earth.

  I shivered, then turned the car heater up.

  The pavement ended at a cul-de-sac. The parking for the Campbell party had spilled up the street, and I didn’t spot any open spaces. Taking a chance that the owner wasn’t going out this late, I turned off the headlights and coasted into the driveway of the neighboring Tudor house.

  I got out of the car, locked it, and stumbled up the street.

  The wind stirring the leaves sounded like voices whispering around me. My footsteps echoed off the trees pressing in and surrounding the glowing Campbell house. The scent of caramel and popcorn reminded me I hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.

  Devin was contained, but did he have allies? Should I march into the party and look for Aynslee?

  Trust no one.

  Ducking slightly and keeping the parked cars between the well-lit house and myself, I aimed for the large rocks that I remembered marked the path through the grounds. I walked past the rocks twice before finally locating them. Under the trees, the track was almost invisible. I moved ahead slowly, feeling for the stone walkway with each step. Up ahead, the trail had tiny solar spotlights illuminating the trees and casting a dappled light on the gazebo to my right.

  A soft cough came from the gazebo.

  I froze.

  A man muttered something, and a woman replied.

  I remained stationary, still hidden by the dense foliage.

  The murmured conversation continued along with shuffling sounds.

  Licking my dry lips, I continued forward as quickly as I dared, listening for partygoers out for a late-night stroll. Finding the patio leading to Arless’s office, I waited, hidden, to be sure it was empty. I doubted Aynslee would be in Arless’s private office, but I could get into the house more easily, or at least more unnoticed. Light glowed through the closed French doors, and I could see no movement inside.

  Creeping across the patio, I reached the multipaned doors. They were locked.

  My shoulders slumped and eyes blurred. I wanted to just sit down and give
in to a good old-fashioned meltdown. Why can’t anything be easy? Just once, God, couldn’t You cut me some slack?

  God didn’t answer. And the door remained locked.

  Straightening, I pictured the interior layout. I knew of four entrances to the house. The garage door was the farthest from me. The front door was out. That left the patio where I’d had lunch the first day I’d stayed here.

  Climbing up the path until I reached the corner of the house, I paused and visualized the next section of the trail. The window to the room I’d stayed in would be coming up on my left. The landscaping would give way to the patio. If I were very, very lucky, everyone would have moved into the den for late-night drinks.

  My teeth chattered in the cold, damp air and my hand pounded with each beat of my heart. Maybe I could wait until morning and just boldly go to the Campbell house and ask for my daughter. Ha. That’s the pain and cold talking.

  What if Devin got out? Morning would be too late. How many people were dead because of that horrible man? My own life was almost forfeited, and Aynslee’s fate would be unimaginable.

  I moved forward, rounding the corner. Voices, laughter, and music greeted me.

  My heart sank. Going slower as the foliage thinned near the patio, I halted by a large maple tree.

  Skull-shaped, LED string lights dangled over the inebriated crowd. Witches, devils, ghosts, and superheroes, all wearing Venetian masks, clustered around propane patio heaters. A woman in a much-abbreviated nurse’s outfit wobbled over to a man in a Grim Reaper costume, knocked against him, and sloshed his drink. Several characters broke into drunken laughter. Mrs. Fields, dressed like a maid and carrying a serving tray, poked through the crowd, making sure everyone’s drinks were replenished. A white hankie poked from her sleeve, and she paused by the door to dab her eyes.

  Blanche, dressed in a burgundy-and-gold Renaissance dress, joined a group of partygoers standing by the doors. A gangster handed her a folded check. She smiled, peeked at the amount, then kissed him on the cheek. He said something to her and she shrugged and shook her head. No sign of Aynslee, or at least someone Aynslee’s size.

  I’d forgotten this was more than a party. This was Arless’s political fund-raiser. No wonder the alcohol flowed freely.

  I’d never be able to sneak in unnoticed.

  Turning, I started down the path to the street, but stopped outside the window to my old room. I’d opened it when I first arrived, then closed it without locking it. Maybe no one had checked.

  Reaching over with my good hand, I gave the sash a tug.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Saaay, missy, you mushh be Octavia.”

  I spun around.

  A drunken cowboy tottered closer from the direction of the patio. His breath could have locked up a Breathalyzer.

  “Yeah, sure. How’d you guess?” I sidled away from him.

  “Your hands. Look like they clawed out of the ground. Great job, but . . .” He wagged a finger at me. “But you took off your mask. You’re not schupposed to do that till midnight.” He pulled off the black-and-red mask he wore and slipped it over my head, then rested his clammy hand on my shoulder.

  I wanted to slap it off and run, but he could raise an alarm and bring attention to my presence. “Well now—”

  “That’s better.” He let go of my shoulder and took my arm in a surprisingly tight grip. “Let’s go join the party.” He pulled me toward the patio.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I DUCKED MY HEAD AS WE APPROACHED THE raucous crowd, risking quick glances to see if anyone recognized me. I gathered a few curious looks, but most were making the most of the free booze. Still no Aynslee.

  The cowboy let go of my arm long enough to grab up a drink on a nearby table. I used the moment to slide through the crowd to the door and into the house.

  The living room had directional lighting behind spiky artificial plants, casting eerie, stippled light. I remained motionless, staring at each costumed body, searching for Aynslee’s tiny frame. She wasn’t here.

  Pressing against the wall in the shadows, I sidled toward the hall, my leg muscles tightening, ready to bolt should anyone look my way.

  Fake spiderwebs draped the plants and waved with the movement of air and people, and fat plastic spiders clung to a few of the larger webs.

  A decayed ghoul with glowing eyes spewed fog from its open mouth. Guests appeared to glide on legless bodies as they floated through the low-lying fog swirling around the floor. Boisterous conversations rose over the blaring sound system as the theme from Ghost Busters ended to be replaced by Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

  Blanche drifted out of the side of the room, moving in my direction.

  Shrinking farther into the shadows, I glanced from side to side, searching for a better hiding place. She was coming directly toward me but was looking over her shoulder. All she had to do was turn her head and she’d see me.

  A heavyset man dressed in a Greek toga passed by, aiming toward the hall. Darting from my hiding spot, I stuck my arm into his and gave a quick squeeze.

  He jerked his head and looked at me, then leered. “Why not? The bedrooms are this way.”

  Smiling back through gritted teeth, I used his body to shield me from the rest of the room. My skin crawled at the coarse, matted hair on his sweaty arm. I peeked around him, checking one last time for Aynslee.

  A jolt raced through me.

  Clay, dressed as Sherlock Holmes with a deerstalker hat and pipe, was talking with a lady dressed as Wonder Woman. Standing nearby in a semicircle were Wellington and Arless. The men leaned forward in intense conversation. Occasionally one of them would glance around.

  Devin was free.

  Where’s Aynslee?

  When we reached the hall, I raced away before Toga man had a chance to react.

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s to be,” he said. “Ready or not, here I come.” He lumbered after me.

  I limped as fast as I could to the short hallway leading to the stairs going down. I hadn’t been to the lower floor and prayed that I wouldn’t get lost.

  The stairs emptied into a game room with foosball and pool tables. Which way? I needed help. A phone. Hallways led in both directions. I dashed left, dodged into the first room I came to, and locked the door. The lights were off. Leaning against the door, I waited until my eyes adjusted to the inky blackness. The light fragrance of vanilla perfumed the air.

  Nothing changed. The room remained totally dark.

  The doorknob rattled behind me. “Found ya! Okay, open up and see what I have for you.”

  Slinking about in the dark was ridiculous. He already knew where I was. I flipped on the light.

  A bathroom. No windows, but a door on the left.

  I hobbled over, glancing in the mirror as I passed.

  A character from Night of the Living Dead stared back.

  I started to scream but slapped my hand over my mouth to hold it in. Dirt coated my skin, broken only by tear streaks. The clothing was equally filthy. My short blonde hair stood out in brown, spiky disarray, and the red-and-black mask over my eyes added a garish, almost demonic look. My shattered hand was a purple, swollen claw, and the nails of my other hand ended in shredded, bloody tips.

  Toga man had really bad taste in women.

  Cautiously opening the door on the left, I peeked in. Arless’s office. There had to be a phone in here. One call for help and I could leave by the patio doors. Aynslee could be on the other side of the house. The partner desk had a framed photo of Arless, Blanche, and a prominent political figure as well as a few files under a map of Kentucky. I stared at the small array. Of course! How stupid I was to have missed it!

  Clay’s office was a cheap imitation of Arless’s setup.

  Opening the top drawer, I found a tray holding neatly separated office items: paper clips, pencils, and rubber bands. More elusive memories floated to the surface.

  I turned to the bookshelves but stopped short and stared at the wal
l. Professionally framed photographs covered almost every inch, many of them signed. Most were of Blanche, or Arless and Blanche, with A-list actors, politicians, even a former president. Some were formally posed, but many of them were casual: on what must be Arless’s sailboat, skiing, in front of a private jet. A potpourri of the rich, powerful, and famous.

  This was Devin’s world.

  When they find him, do you really think anyone is going to take the word of a broke forensic artist from Montana over the word of these people?

  They might, if all the evidence isn’t destroyed.

  I tried to shrug off the weight that settled on my shoulders. I would never win a head-on confrontation. I could only slow him down. For now.

  The bookshelves opened, revealing not a secret room as I’d believed, but the work area of the office: phone, fax machine, oversize copier, file cabinets, shipping supplies, and a worktable. Phone.

  Walking forward, I snatched it up and turned.

  Toga man blocked the exit.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “WELL, WELL, WELL.” HE SWAYED IN THE OPENING, reeking of alcohol and failed deodorant.

  “You know I was just kidding.” I licked my dry lips. “My . . . my husband’s upstairs. I need to get back to him or he’ll get nervous. He is very jealous and has a terrible temper.”

  “You’re a tease. And you know what happens to a tease.” He smirked.

  I prepared to slam my foot into his crotch.

  He moved faster than I believed possible for a man so big and drunk, wrapping his arms around me in a foul, sweaty embrace. My broken hand was caught between us and crushed against his chest.

  The agony shot through me. I couldn’t breathe. My vision narrowed as blackness rolled into my brain. My legs buckled.

  He pinched my jaw and tilted it upward, licking his wet, rubbery lips.

  I clenched my teeth. My first kiss since my divorce is not going to be by a man in a dress.

  I slammed my knee up between his legs.

  He let go with an oof and bent forward.

  Bringing the palm of my hand upward, I smashed it under his chin. Blood appeared on his lips as he bit his tongue. He dropped to the floor and writhed.

 

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