SUSPENSE THRILLERS-A Boxed Set

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  Behind her a crystal lamp fell. Helen’s head swiveled to see her attacker crossing the room. One side of his face was bloodied. He was clawing his way toward her, spilling the Chinese vase of flowers, the garrote swinging wildly from one hand.

  The stairs, the upstairs! Lock him out!

  She was on the seventh step when his hand snaked through the spokes of the banister and caught her ankle.

  She went down to her knees painfully, hearing a snap, feeling the surge of pain travel up her calf to her thigh. She twisted away from him, kicked with her other foot, and got free. She crawled up one step, got to her feet, steeling herself against the pain from her cracked kneecap, and half hopped, half crawled to the second floor.

  Four bedrooms, two baths, dressing rooms, closets, a balcony. She had no time to devise a plan. She fell into a hall closet and managed to shut the door just as he was about to clear the stairway. She held her breath, hands tight over her mouth, eyes wide open in the dark. She was surrounded by their tennis rackets, jogging shoes, and scuba-diving gear.

  She heard his footsteps pound past her hiding place. She waited, feeling faint from the pain in her knee.

  Blood from her hands trickled down her arms. Her heart beat so rapidly she could not catch her breath. The fear of dying thumped through her thoughts like a monster rampaging through a small village. Her fear was Frankenstein and the town was her brain. Footfalls echoed inside the dark confinement of the musty closet until Helen thought he would burst through the plaster and wood. She whimpered inside like a small child waiting to be punished. Let me out! Let me out of here! Oh God, I can’t stand to be locked in here waiting for him!

  When the claustrophobia was too much, Helen ripped open the closet door.

  She blinked. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and she saw nothing, no one. She let out her breath and heard something crash downstairs.

  Limping and crying silently from the pain and fear, she started for her bedroom. In some small kernel of her soul she knew she would not give up, would never give up without using all her resources to outwit him.

  At her bedroom door she saw the whole room. It looked empty, but was it? Had the crash downstairs come from his plundering the rooms for her or had it been mere accident--- book, a vase, a statue tumbling on its own?

  She moved as quietly as possible across the room, all the while watching the closet door, the bathroom full of shadows, the rose-patterned drapes on each side of the French doors leading to the balcony. At any moment she anticipated the pounce of her attacker. She stared ahead of her bravely, holding her body erect even though her knee throbbed relentlessly. She was past the bed, past the extravagant dresser with its tremendous array of cosmetics. She had the doorknobs of the double French doors in her hands.

  Outside was sunlight, her garden, the unplanted roses. Freedom waited at the bottom of the drop to the terrace floor. She had to do it. She had to make the effort. She would not give her life willingly to a madman. She knew who he was. She had known it in the garden when she saw the wire and understood how the wire was used. He was in all the newspapers and on the television newscasts. He had killed a little boy and two women. He had taken two of the heads and now he wanted hers, but she would not make it easy for him!

  At the white balcony railing she leaned out into the air and felt a soft breeze caress her wet cheeks. She glanced behind her then peered over the drop. He was nowhere in sight. Quickly now, she told herself, hoisting her good leg over the railing to stand on the narrow ledge. Quickly and be done with it before he comes.

  Her weight dragged her earthward. She hung from the rail by her hands. She chanced a last look at the terrace that seemed to be so far down. You’re going to break your legs on the bricks, she thought. You’re going to have to crawl out the gate.

  Panic began to invade her mind, making her not want to let go. Because...was it worth it? Would it save her? She did not want to find herself shattered and helpless on the cold, unyielding bricks below.

  She looked up above her, and for an instant she thought the man’s hands clutching her hands belonged to her husband, who had come to save her at last. Then she realized the truth.

  "No!" she screamed, falling, twisting.

  The pain on impact was too much. She could see nothing but a black, starry void. She instinctively began to grope her way across the smooth squares of brick to where she thought the gate must be. Her vision slowly returned, and with it came the reality of her situation. For the first time she felt as if she was not going to make it. Both her legs were bent at ludicrous angles, and she could see her left anklebone protruding through the skin like a piece of splintered wood. Blood was splattered all over her pale green skirt. She turned her head and looked to the balcony. He was not there. She looked through the French doors into the kitchen. He was not there either.

  Helen crawled, breathing laboriously, grunting at each half foot she took.

  Finally, after an eternity, she was at the gate, close enough to touch the gray planks. She was sobbing and weakly calling for someone to help her, to rescue her. The gate would not move. She gazed without comprehension at the latch. She reached out one scraped and bleeding arm, but there was so far to go, so much she had to do, and no one to help her. She couldn't reach the latch, oh God, she couldn't get to it.

  "Please," she cried, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "Please, someone..."

  She felt his presence behind her. Frantically she clawed at the gate until her fingernails tore away from the skin. His knees were pressing against her back, and she could feel the warmth from his body burning into her. His hands were oddly gentle on her shoulders as if to calm her. Still she clawed and pushed and heaved against the locked gate, desperate to be away from his touch.

  The wire descended. Helen saw it, the entire length of it held rigidly before her eyes, the handles squeezed tightly in his hands. She reached for it to stay her death sentence, murmuring, "Wait...wait...please."

  Helen McCombie’s death was not swift or neat. She used her body as a weapon. Her hips bucked, her feet slid up, and she kicked out at him with one broken ankle, her hands beat at him. Finally, her valiant fight ended with her life’s blood spurting against the traitorous closed garden gate.

  Chapter 21

  AT FIVE-THIRTY on the afternoon of Helen McCombie’s death, Sam received a call from Garbo.

  "I just wrapped up the on-the-scene investigation of the fourth one, Sam. I knew you’d want to know."

  Sam pressed the phone close to his ear and turned away from the window. "Tell me about it."

  "Middle-aged woman, wife of a doctor, resident of River Oaks..." Sam let out a gasp. Garbo swallowed and continued the rundown on the fourth victim.

  "She was found in a rose bed, but it’s pretty obvious she died on the back patio near a gate and was transported--and laid out carefully--in the roses. Sam, this one’s different. She wasn’t taken by total surprise. She fought for her life. As far as we can make out, the struggle started in the backyard and moved into the house. She was alone, the telephone lines were cut, and there was a trail of blood. She fled from room to room and finally upstairs."

  “How did she get past him down to the patio?" Sam asked.

  "She dropped from a balcony."

  "Christ." Sam shuddered at what the woman had gone through.

  "It broke both her legs and her right ankle. From there she dragged herself to the gate, but she never got it open."

  "Any evidence left behind?"

  "A footprint in the garden," Garbo continued. "Blood samples are being tested now to see if he left any behind, and I think from the physical evidence of the battle that took place he didn’t get away from this woman without some scars. We’ve got hair samples too. Have to check it against the husband and the victim. The autopsy’s underway so I’ll know more later."

  "Fingerprints?" Sam asked hopefully.

  "It doesn’t look good. We’re still working on it. I doubt we’ll get that kind of
break."

  "Witnesses? Neighbors?"

  "We’re canvassing. Dr. McCombie found her and called us at four. River Oaks’ security didn’t see a thing although they went past the house twice during the estimated time of the murder."

  Sam closed his eyes and asked the question he was almost afraid to ask. "Did he take her head?"

  "Yeah."

  Sam slumped to the bed. He ran one hand over his bald pate, then knuckled the stubble of his cheek.

  Garbo cleared his throat and said, "Any luck with your list of Vietnam vets?"

  "No. What about the others?"

  "Couple of possibles. One’s a mental, in and out of Austin State. The other went into gory detail about a girl in a village over there like he was offering us a fairytale. The rest seem to be okay so far."

  "Maybe you’ll get a witness," Sam said. "We’ve got to get something.”

  "I know we do, Sam, it’s my ass in a sling here. He’s just so goddamn slippery. He’s not giving us any constants. No special time of day or month or interval between killings. No special victim. We can’t connect anything. By this time next month we may be locking up my own mother and I’ll be relieved--you know that? I’d settle for almost anything about now."

  "I want to go over there and check it out. Can you clear it for me?”

  "Sure, Sam, you can have the run of the goddamned place. The doc moved in with a sister across town. When do you want to go?”

  Sam stared through the window to the gathering twilight outside. "Tomorrow, sometime tomorrow."

  "Right. And Sam?"

  "What?"

  "I want you to know that I don’t care about getting the honor on this one," Garbo said. "If you crack it, if you come up with something, you get the credit. I don’t want any more stripes anyway. I’d just like to keep what I’ve got."

  "There won’t be any honor." Sam felt his old friend despair settle over his shoulders. "He’s slipped four over on us. He’s been playing us all the way down the line. I don’t want glory, Garbo. I only want satisfaction."

  After cradling the receiver, Sam stood and crossed to the window. Satisfaction, he repeated to himself.

  Was that it? He knew it was not as sweet as revenge. Revenge was done with passion, and Sam was too methodical and painstaking to waste his time on mindless passion. Satisfaction meant meeting the blind lady of justice and righting the scales.

  Let Jack DeShane wish for revenge and Garbo Kranz collect the kudos for apprehending the killer. All Sam Bartholomew wanted was one last victory over the jungle.

  Sam watched Maggie park her car in front of the house. She looked to his window, waved, came up the walk with a smile on her face. Sam dropped the curtain into place and opened the drawer of his bedside table. Before Maggie opened his bedroom door, he swigged three fierce gulps of Old Kentucky. He did not bother to hide the bottle. He saw her smile turn to a frown of disappointment.

  "What’s wrong?" she asked immediately, shrugging out of her tan gabardine coat and coming to him.

  He put the bottle to his lips and downed another swallow. He held out the quart and, looking at it, shook his head sadly.

  "I’ve got to make a trip to the liquor store. I’m about out."

  "Is it the killer?" Maggie reached for the bottle but failed to be quick enough for Sam.

  "Number four," he admitted bitterly. "A woman in River Oaks."

  Maggie whistled softly. She moved closer and leaned her head on his chest. "Sam, drinking won’t help."

  "I never noticed sobriety doing a hell of a lot for me." He put his arm around her shoulders. "Don’t worry about me, Maggie. Let me do this."

  She melted. Hard lines vanished from her face. She could not manage a smile, but the judgment left her eyes as she sat down on Sam’s bed to watch him grab a jacket and put on shoes. "Then I’ll get drunk with you," she said. "I’ll accompany you into misery."

  "Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to get drunk."

  He had the jacket zipped, his shoes tied, and was feeling in his back pocket for his wallet.

  "Yes, you are," Maggie said softly.

  "All right, so I am. That doesn’t mean you have to. It’s not a good habit to get into, and it doesn’t solve a damn thing, you’re right about that. But I want it tonight, and I’m going to get it." He started for the door. "And I’m going to get pissant drunk--all on my own. "

  "No, you’re not."

  Sam hesitated at the door, looking at her, amazed at the determination in her voice.

  "You’ll get sick," he warned.

  "I don’t care.”

  "You’ll miss work tomorrow," Sam pointed out.

  "It doesn’t matter." Maggie looked deep into his eyes.

  "You’ll turn into a bum like me."

  She smiled and lay back on the bed.

  "I’ll be back in fifteen minutes," he said. "Get two jelly glasses and take off your shoes. It’s going to be one helluva long night.”

  Maggie rested until she heard the front door click shut, then she rose from Sam’s bed and went to the kitchen for the glasses.

  Sam walked the five blocks to the National Liquor Store. The day had been unusually warm, and the evening was fresh with a hint of rain on the way. Sam unzipped his jacket and sucked in the air as deeply as he could.

  Inside the liquor store he carried four quarts of Old Kentucky bourbon to the counter.

  "Gonna throw a party, Sam?" the owner asked. He and Sam were on friendly terms since Sam’s official retirement. Once a week Sam bought a quart from the store owner. Four quarts was a break in the routine.

  "In a manner of speaking," Sam replied, taking the money from his wallet.

  On the way home Sam contemplated telling Jack DeShane about the fourth victim. It did not take him long to decide against it. Jack would find out about it soon enough. Besides, he was losing weight and looking haggard from his nightly forays into the streets. So far he had questioned half of the street population in the impoverished Heights area and every prostitute he could catch along Main Street and Telephone Road. It took outstanding stamina and more than a little courage to venture into those places alone and without the security of a squad car. Sam did not try to dissuade his young friend. He recognized Jack’s obsession as an attempt to deal with his terrible loss. Besides, he might get lucky--find someone who knew or suspected something and was willing to talk. The department did not have the manpower to cover what Jack had taken upon himself.

  In the upstairs’ bedroom Sam found Maggie waiting for him. She stood over a TV tray arranging two glasses, a bucket of ice, and two plates of cheese, summer sausage, and bacon crackers. She wore a filmy pink negligee that left nothing to the imagination and soft pink nylon slippers that Sam had given her for Christmas. She looked like bubble-gum ice cream, cool and tasty.

  "It took you longer than fifteen minutes," she said, raising one eyebrow in a way that Sam found incredibly seductive. "You like?" She swirled around so that the gossamer material billowed away from her body.

  Sam did not move, entranced by a montage of breasts, voluptuous hips, and firm, long legs.

  "You’re the best-looking woman in Houston, Maggie, I swear to God."

  A triumphant sparkle lit up Maggie’s eyes. Despite her age and the unnatural blue wash on her hair, there was still one man in the world she could bewitch totally. "Well, don’t just stand there with your tongue hanging out, Sam Bartholomew! Break open a bottle and let’s get on with the misery."

  Sam set the liquor on the floor, removed his jacket, untied his shoes, and turned to Maggie with a devilish grin. "I don’t think we’re going to need the booze for a while," he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her near.

  Maggie nibbled at his ear and stroked the back of his neck. She gave him a lingering kiss. "Honey, we may never need it."

  Chapter 22

  "HE JUST DON'T NEVER GIVE UP," Betty Lawrence mumbled at a sofa pillow as she plumped it between firm hands. "He’s just trying to kill hissel
f. Lotta good that’ll do, but will he listen to reason, will he listen to me? ’Course not, he don’t listen to nobody and he just don’t never give up."

  "Who’re you fussing at, Mrs. Lawrence?"

  Jack DeShane crossed the living room on his way to the hall coat closet. He was tired and it showed. He moved slowly and his eyes were gray shadows.

  "I’m talking to nobody ’cause nobody don’t listen to me no way." She gave another pillow a furious swat, then pressed it into a corner of the sofa with a cluck of her tongue.

  "Are you mad at me or what?" Jack asked, coming back to where she towered over the sofa, scowling.

  "Mad? Why would I be mad? I can’t tell you what to do. When I try, you don’t listen to me. If you want to kill yourself, how am I gonna stop you?" She glared at him with smoldering brown eyes that dared him to argue with her.

  "Look, I’m too tired tonight for this." He tentatively touched his scar with a forefinger. "You know I’ve got to go out nights and try to find out something. You know if I don’t do it no one will."

  "What’s the police for then? They’s the ones supposed to be investigating this awful thing. You keep staying up all night, down in those bad places where they knife people for looking at a crack in the sidewalk, and something’s gonna happen, mark my words. You’re making yourself sick, but there you go." She raised her voice when he turned his back toward the hallway. "Out the door and it already ten o’clock at night!"

  “I have to," he said quietly. "You know I have to."

  Jack closed the door without looking at Mrs. Lawrence again. On the porch he paused and felt his pocket for his cigarettes. Dammit, why could she not understand? She was right. He was running himself into the ground. Sure, he knew it. But Willie’s murderer was out there. Maybe walking the streets, his collar turned up, the garrote in his pants, a plan in his mind. And he could not be invisible. He had a family or a wife or a girl. He had neighbors or drinking partners or a landlord. He took taxicabs and he ate in diners and he bought newspapers. He did not live in a vacuum. He was a part of the city, and someone, somewhere, knew him, maybe even suspected him. It was the thinnest of threads, but the night people, the people living on the edge of society, were the ones most likely to know something. They had to be asked.