by Ali Brandon
“What are you talking about, Mark?” she demanded. “I never played against you.”
“You did, too, little Ms. Pettibooks123. I saw your game open on your store computer once, and I sent you a request to play. We chatted and everything, lots of times. You know me. I’m Fightingwords.”
Darla sucked in a quick breath, feeling as if she’d just walked into a sparring partner’s punch. Never would she have guessed that her unknown opponent was actually Mark. She’d had fun playing against him, had exchanged funny little messages with him. Then a second punch followed in swift succession as she abruptly recalled Hamlet’s foray across her keyboard a couple of days earlier.
It hadn’t been Jan that the cat had tried to spell out to her. The word he’d left in the rack for her to see had been words . . . as in the username, Fightingwords.
Hamlet had been trying to tell her that Mark Poole was the one who had murdered Master Tomlinson!
Once again, she felt herself swaying, but this time the darkness had no part in that unsettling sensation. But she didn’t have time for further reaction, for Mark was saying, “And now that you know what’s going on, I have to do something about it.”
“I don’t know anything!” she lied, even as she was certain her insistence would do no good. For some reason, he thought she knew what he’d done, even though she hadn’t made the connection until this very moment. But her racing thoughts were momentarily derailed when her extended hands contacted something hard.
Cautiously, she ran her fingers against the rough surface. Concrete brick, not metal. She’d found the wall. Now, where was the blasted door?
“You might as well make yourself comfy,” she heard his voice again, this time much closer and seemingly to her right. Taking a more aggressive tack in her blind search, she scooted sideways in quick little steps, fingers searching. She heard him add, “I’ll be back after my match, and then we’ll figure out the best way to do it,” just as her hands connected with a large expanse of painted metal.
She’d found the door! And there was the knob. Gripping it, Darla positioned her shoulder against the door, gave the knob a twist, and shoved.
It didn’t budge.
Frantic now, she rattled the knob. And then she heard another snigger, and the faint mocking jingle of a key ring as he said, “Guess I forgot to tell you that I locked you in, and you need a key to get out. See you later. Don’t let the creepy crawlers get you.”
Fear and fury gripped her, sending her heart racing even faster as she pounded on the door. “This is kidnapping,” she screamed back at him. “If you don’t let me out this instant, I’m calling the cops.”
He didn’t answer, and she realized he must have gone for good this time. Even so, she kept pounding on the door, shouting a few expletives for good measure. Finally, breathless and hands bruised, she turned, her back against the unyielding door. And then she remembered what she’d just threatened to do.
“Call the cops,” she repeated, slapping at the waistband of her gi trousers.
She almost sobbed in relief as she felt the familiar slim rectangular shape and realized that she still had her cell phone with her. She pulled it free and, fumbling a moment in the darkness, pressed the “On” button.
A sudden haze of white illumination almost blinded her. Checking the icon, she saw she had at least half a charge. Good. She swiped past the wallpaper photo of Hamlet and, pulling up her contact list, quickly pressed Reese’s number.
She realized after a moment of no ring tone that the call hadn’t gone through. Fingers shaking, she tried again, only to get dead silence once more. Puzzled, she checked the screen to see her signal strength. Where there should have been five bars showing—or, at least, two or three—there were none. Whether it was the room’s block concrete construction, or else all the electrical equipment, bottom line was that she had no phone reception at all.
Which meant she was trapped, and with no way to let anyone know where she was.
She tamped down another moment of panic. Maybe a text would go through even if a call wouldn’t. Quickly, she started typing.
Need help, no joke. Mark Poole crazy, killed Master T., holding me hostage in electric room behind gymnasium. She hesitated and then added, Hamlet missing 2.
She clicked on both Reese and Robert’s names; then, hoping for a bit of divine intervention, she pressed the “Send” key.
The message went!
Or did it? Either way, her absence would eventually be noticed. Reese would wonder when she didn’t join him to watch Robert’s sparring. He probably wouldn’t worry, though, until more time had passed, and she still hadn’t returned.
She pictured him finding her empty gear bag in the bleachers, knew he’d correctly guess that the cat had escaped again, and that she’d gone in search of him. He would also see that her phone and wallet were not in the bag. No doubt he would try to call her, and maybe then he’d see the text. But if the message never reached him, if he never got an answer when he called her, what then? Where would he and Robert even begin to look for her and Hamlet?
Knees suddenly weak, she slid down the length of the door until she landed with a plop on the cold concrete floor. The metal door was equally chilly through the thin cotton of her uniform jacket, and she began to shiver. It was apparent now that Mark had deliberately led her away from the competition floor and taken her here into the recesses of the gymnasium. He’d said from the start that he didn’t believe her cat explanation, and she realized that likely was the truth. But why had Mark done this to her? What made him think she was onto him?
And, more important, what was going to happen when he came back?
“He’s going to find an empty room, that’s what,” she said aloud with more determination than she really felt.
The light on her phone dimmed, leaving her in darkness once more. Hurriedly, she pressed the key again. Though the phone’s glow did little to dispel the overall darkness, it still gave off a light substantial enough for her to see a couple of feet in front of her. Almost as good as a flashlight, she told herself, taking a bit of comfort in the illumination. She might not be able to call anyone, but at least she wouldn’t be totally in the dark as long as she still had battery power.
Rallying, she got to her feet again.
First things first, she told herself. Just because there had been a light switch in the corridor didn’t mean there wasn’t a second switch inside the room. Mark wouldn’t know she had her cell on her, and thus would be counting on her to be stymied by the dark. If she could shed some literal light on the subject, she’d have a better chance of figuring a way out of her trap.
Using her phone as a makeshift torch, she methodically scanned the area around the doorway. She didn’t see another switch, just more metal conduits and panels. And her phone light bounced off any number of red or yellow signs bearing such warnings as Danger and High Voltage along with trusty pictorials of electrical bolts. Not the safest place to be wandering in the dark.
And then, beneath the constant electric hum, she heard something else behind her . . . a soft scrape, as if something was moving stealthily about near the generator.
She froze. Watch out for the creepy crawlers, Mark had snidely warned her. She had assumed the words were a juvenile attempt to frighten her, but maybe he hadn’t been joking. Rats, giant cockroaches, snakes . . . ghosts. She shivered a little at that last possibility, though the other three were distinctly unpleasant, too.
Steeling herself, she whipped about and pointed her phone in the direction of the sound, using its light to search the shadows. Too high, she realized and lowered her arm. And then she gasped when a pair of unblinking green eyes reflected back at her.
“Hamlet?”
The cat gave a little meowrmph by way of answer and trotted to her. With a cry of relief, Darla dropped to her knees and gathered him in her arms, laughing a lit
tle as she heard his rumble of a purr.
“You little so-and-so, why did you run off like that?” she scolded him. “Oh, never mind, I’m sure you had a reason, but now I’m the one in trouble. I was stupid enough to think that our creepoid friend Mark Poole was trying to help me find you. Instead, he’s pulling some sort of Silence of the Lambs thing on me, locking me in here in the dark. We’ve got to get out of here, before he comes back.”
Hamlet gave a sharp meow and struggled free of her grasp. But instead of running off again, he gave another meow, this one even more insistent, and then trotted a few steps into the shadows.
“What, you want me to follow you?” Suddenly, Darla realized that if Hamlet was in the electrical room with her, there was obviously another way out besides the now-locked door by which she’d entered. Mark had talked about a second door. Maybe he hadn’t been lying about that part.
“All right, let’s go,” she urged the cat. “I’m right behind you.”
Hamlet took off at a trot again, his sleek black fur blending so closely with the shadows that she could barely make him out. He whipped around the generator, and Darla did the same, hoping there were no low-lying pipes to conk her in the head. The room was far larger than she’d initially guessed. In fact, as she made her way farther in, she could see a shadowed area to her left that appeared to be a connecting room.
And in front of her lay the Holy Grail: a reflective sign marked Exit attached to another door.
“Thank goodness,” she whooshed out and rushed toward it. Now, she could hear the cheers drifting from the tournament floor again, sounding muffled but definitely nearby. Maybe she was under the bleachers, after all! But, of course, when she tried the doorknob it rattled uselessly under her grasp.
Locked.
Trying not to give in to despair, she held up her phone to get a better look. One difference she immediately noted was that this door was wood. Even better, the knob appeared to be a simple keyed style, and not a deadbolt as on the corridor door. She recalled how Hal had easily kicked open his father’s office door a few days earlier. She might not be a black belt, but she had a mean front kick all the same. All she had to do was position herself properly and do the movie cop thing, and she’d be free.
“Stand back, Hamlet,” she told him, shining her makeshift flashlight around to make sure he wasn’t somewhere he’d be stepped on.
To her surprise, she found him staring with cat-like intensity into the room beside them. His concentration on that opening gave her pause. Maybe somewhere in that space was where he’d found his way in, and he stubbornly wanted to exit the very same way.
“Okay, we’ll try it your way,” she told him, “but I doubt someone my size could squeeze through wherever you found an opening.”
Raising the phone lantern-style again, she made her cautious way into the room. From what little she could see, the space had been designated as a storage area. Movable racks of folding chairs and stacks of collapsible tables had been stashed there, leaving a single narrow aisle along one side. At the end of the room, she could see light seeping in from a knee-high gap.
Maybe this was what she’d seen when she had first tried to crawl under the bleachers, she realized as she headed toward the light.
Hamlet had padded into the room along with her. Now, she almost tripped over him as he halted right in front of her and started sniffing one of the chair racks.
“No time for that, Hamlet,” she sternly told him. “We need to get out of here before Mark comes back with lotion or something.”
But when she bent to pick him up, he hissed. Then, to Darla’s even greater surprise, he began pawing at the metal tubing as if trying to move the rack. Something back there had piqued his feline interest, and he wasn’t leaving until he got a better look at it. Sighing, she shoved her phone back into her waistband.
“Fine, you’ve got two seconds. If there’s a rat back there, you’re going to be in my bad book even though you did rescue me. Now, scoot, and let me see what you’ve found.”
Though the rack was heavy, she was able to roll it a few feet, enough so that she’d be able to see behind it. Steeling herself for mouse guts or giant leaping spiders, Darla gingerly leaned forward to take a look.
The first thing she spied, however, was a leopard-print pump. Puzzled, she leaned closer. And then, with a reflexive shriek, she jumped back.
For the leopard-print pump was connected to a woman’s long, pale leg . . . a leg that belonged to none other than Grace Valentine.
TWENTY-THREE
NOT ANOTHER ONE, WAS DARLA’S FIRST FRANTIC THOUGHT.
Try as she might, however, she couldn’t pull her gaze away from the leopard-print shoe, and the woman attached to it.
Grace lay on her side, knees slightly bent, as if she’d simply settled down for a quick nap. Save for her flashy heels, the outfit was—for Grace—almost conservative. In the low light, Darla could see she was wearing a tight black leather skirt topped by a ruffled white blouse that had come untucked on one side. How the woman had come to be hidden behind a stack of metal chairs, Darla could not guess.
All she knew was that it was no accident.
Then she shuddered. Maybe Mark had pulled his Silence of the Lambs routine on Grace, too . . . except that Grace hadn’t managed to get away before the final scene. And this must have been what Mark had feared that Darla had seen while searching under the bleachers.
Yeee-ow!
Hamlet’s sudden, ear-raking cry was like a dash of water to her face. Darla shook herself. What if Grace was simply unconscious? Why was she staring down at the woman as if she were nothing more than a mannequin, instead of trying to help her?
“Grace!” Seizing the chair rack again, Darla yanked the heavy fixture back so that there was room now for her to squeeze behind it. “Grace!” she cried again, dropping to her knees beside the woman and shaking her by the shoulder. “It’s me, Darla. Can you hear me?”
When she got no response, Darla carefully rolled the woman onto her back and laid her ear against Grace’s ruffled bust. Her chest didn’t seem to be moving, but Darla thought she heard a faint heartbeat. Grace was alive, but perhaps just barely.
Snatching her phone from her waistband again, Darla jumped to her feet and pressed the “On” button. The battery icon had dropped to just a sliver, she saw in dismay. But maybe now, away from the electrical interference, she could get a signal and make a final call. She held her breath and waited. And then, three full bars appeared on the tiny screen.
Almost sobbing in relief, she hit redial. She heard the sound of the call connecting, and then heard the words she’d been praying for.
“Where in the hell are you, Red?” Reese demanded over the echoing sound of the cheering spectators. “I just got this crazy text, and—”
“I’m here,” she cut him short, half-yelling so that he could be sure to hear her. “I’m somewhere behind the bleachers near where we were sitting, I think. Quick, call an ambulance!”
“An ambulance?” The outraged tone became clipped, professional. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Not me, Grace Valentine. Hamlet and I found her. I’m not sure what happened, but she’s in pretty bad shape.”
She heard a quick, muffled conversation on his end, and then he was back on the line almost instantly. “Ambulance is being called, and we’ve got a doctor—hell, two or three of them—in the house. Can you find your way back to the floor so you can guide us to where she is?”
“Yes . . . I mean, I guess so, but I don’t know if I should leave her. She’s not breathing right.”
“Then stay on the line and try to guide us your way.”
“Okay, but I’m about to run out of—”
The call dropped, abruptly leaving her talking to herself.
“Battery,” she finished in dismay, pulling the phone from her ear and watch
ing its small screen go black. Apparently using the cell as a flashlight had drained the battery faster than she’d expected. Sticking the phone back in her waistband, she leaned over Grace again. The woman was looking even worse now.
“Help! 9-1-1!” Darla frantically screamed, hoping against hope that she might be heard over the din of the competition. If she’d been directly under the seats, chances were her plan would have worked. As it was, a wall separated her from the main gymnasium. With the crowd and the acoustics being what they were, it would be only by the purest chance if someone heard her cries.
She dropped to her knees again beside Grace. There wasn’t time to wait on a doctor or an ambulance, wasn’t even time to try to crawl her way out through the gap she’d seen a few minutes ago to find help. She had to start artificial respiration on the woman, and now, and pray that Reese found her.
“Can’t . . . breathe.”
The words were so faint that Darla almost didn’t hear them, but then she saw Grace stir, eyelids fluttering.
“Grace, it’s Darla. What happened?” she demanded, clutching the woman’s hand. “Where are you hurt?”
“Shot . . . me.”
“Someone shot you?” Darla asked in astonishment. Then, with a gasp, she added, “Do you mean Mark?”
Eyes still closed, Grace mouthed the word, Yes. Frantic, Darla searched the woman’s body for a wound, but found nothing worse than dirt and grease marring the white blouse.
“Grace, are you sure? I don’t see any blood. Where did he shoot you?”
Weakly, Grace raised a shaking hand, fingers clenched as if she held an invisible pencil. “Shot,” she whispered again and pressed her fingers to the crook of her opposite elbow before letting her arm fall onto her chest.
It took an instant for the pantomime to register. “Shot? You mean, he gave you a shot of something?”
Then realization dawned, and everything began to fall into place. Darla had heard and seen enough. Botox would explain why Grace couldn’t breathe. The toxin would have paralyzed her chest muscles, just as it had with Master Tomlinson. The fact that Grace was still alive, when a much larger man had died, perhaps meant her dose had been far smaller. Maybe she still had a chance, but surely there was no time to spare. She didn’t have time to worry about motives and explanations. For the moment, all that mattered was keeping Grace alive.
