A Killer Christmas

by Cherry Adair

  "You won’t get away with this. The place is crawling with cops and the FBI," she whispered through dry lips. Where were they? Dead? He wore an FBI jacket. . .

  Her brain was completely blank with terror made worse by the smell.

  The familiar, sickening, gut-wrenching smell of fresh blood.

  "Not really," Treadwell smiled, using the blade of the knife in his other hand to point at something across the room.

  She did not want to look. Bile rose in the back of her throat. It took several eternities for Kendall to force her eyes to shift from the faint glimmer of steel to the dark shape almost lost in the darkness on the floor. "You killed them."

  JoeJoeJoe. Acidic bile rose in her throat as she watched him, waiting for an opening to get away. She couldn't think of Joe laying out in the snow, bleeding. Injured. Dead.

  "Oops. My bad. Not my best masterpiece." He waved to indicate the blood splattered wall. "Yet. You’ll change that." He shoved her away from him. "Go on. Go. Run. Don’t make this easy for me, baby."

  He slammed his fist into her shoulder when she remained paralyzed. She staggered back a step. His closed fists weren’t meaty or large. She’d been mesmerized, in a horrific way, by his hands before. They were narrow and pale, with fingers like a piano player. Or a scalpel-wielding lunatic.

  "Go on. Run like the wind, pretty girl. Let old Dwight have a little fun to make up for all the aggravation you caused him."

  She was already walking carefully backwards, and his next shoulder slam made her totter. Her hip hit the center island with a dull thud. She fumbled to insert her hand into her coat pocket as she righted herself. It crossed her numb mind for all of a nanosecond that she should keep him talking until she could get her gun from her pocket.

  Think! Think! Talk! Treadwell likes to talk, to taunt. If he’s talking, he isn’t killing me.

  Now It’s the Most Wonderful Time Of The Year was playing. The situation was surreal. God. If he’d killed the cops, and an FBI agent, what about Joe? The image of Joe’s body out there in the snow made her sick to her stomach. Kendall swallowed with difficulty as her icy fingers closed around the handle of the LadySmith. She whipped out the .22. The air smelled sweet, unpleasantly so. Nausea rose in her throat at the sickening reek of death.

  "There’ll be more cops," she told him, arms extended. Keeping her voice steady she clicked off the safety. "They won’t stop until they catch you and put you back in your cage."

  He smiled, not acknowledging the small gun in her hand. "Maybe. But I’ll kill you first, pretty girl. I’ll just kill you dead fir—"

  Kendall pulled the trigger.

  Pop.

  The shot made no impact. He didn’t fall back or so much flinch, making her doubt she’d hit him at all.

  "Bulletproof vest, baby doll. That FBI guy was very accommodating."

  "They already have a massive manhunt out looking for you. Your face has been plastered on every TV across the country. You're even more famous now, Dwight. What will they do to you when they find out you killed one of their own? They know everything about you, everyone you know and love. There won't be a place you can run, not a place where you can hide. You already have a target on your back. Now they'll smell the blood in the water. You're a dead man."

  She backed up inch by inch. Keep him talking. Get inside the safe room.

  "Like I give a flying fuck?" he laughed, eyes mad as he jabbed the scalpel in her general direction. "You put me in a fucking cage you goddamn bitch."

  Everything moved in slow motion as though she were under water, yet images bombarded her. The familiar, sickening glint of the scalpel, the older cop dead at her feet in a dark, slick pool of blood.

  The flickering lanterns on the center island cast dancing demonic shadows on Treadwell’s face as he kept coming, his expression feral, not slowed in the least by the shot. The knife, small and lethal, slick and already stained with blood.

  Pop.

  With a howl of pain, he staggered back clutching his ear with his free hand. Blood trickled between his fingers, and his eyes went black with rage. He kept coming. "I’m gonna peel your skin off your body real slow, bitch. Run if you can."

  Damn it. She hadn’t hit him where it would stop him. God, it barely slowed him down, and he kept coming like a psychotic Frankenstein. Backing away, she felt a total sense of unreality as she fired again. This time she got him in the leg.

  Not bad. Except that she’d been aiming for his groin, but he was moving like a drunk, and her aim while not wild, wasn't on target. He yelped in outrage, but other than putting a hitch in his step, the wound didn’t stop him.

  He flung himself at her, knocking her flat on her back. The gun went skittering across the floor as the back of her head bounced on the unforgiving tile. Kendall saw black snow.

  Nononono.

  Do not pass out.

  You've got this. Don't freak. Breathe.

  She'd been trained for this. Trained hard. She was good. Strong. Smart. She knew how to shoot. She'd been taught to protect herself with whatever was at hand. And if there was nothing, she'd improvise.

  The scalpel flashed an inch above her nose as he teased her with it. The scar on her throat throbbed.

  Treadwell lay half across her body, pushing her hips down with his chest. She used the heel of her hand to slam up into his chin. His teeth snapped as his head jerked back, and he gave a howl of surprise.

  Kendall rolled/scurried, crab-like out of the way. Scrambling to regain her footing, she braced a hand on the cabinets of the island, then stomped him in the balls with her entire weight.

  His shriek was high and piercing.

  While he gagged and clutched his groin, she ran. Around the island, toward the safe room.

  Treadwell lunged, grabbing the back of her coat, trying to pull her down. But he did so doubled over with pain, crying and choking. His free hand swung the sharp scalpel in a blind arc.

  Grabbing up one of the heavy baking sheets off the counter with both hands, Kendall lifted it high as she swung around, bringing it down with all her strength on his arm. Cookies flew in every direction. Not releasing the scalpel, he fell to one knee screaming obscenities and threats.

  She swung again. This time slamming him across the nose with the metal sheet. He howled with rage, lunging blindly, catching her around the back of her knees with both arms in a weird bear hug. Blood streamed from a deep cut above his eye, already swelling shut.

  Blood and snot poured from his nose in a bubbly mess. He swiped the back of his hand across his face, eyes murderous as he lunged to his feet.

  Kendall slammed the cookie sheet down again. The edge caught his temple and his eyes rolled back. The sheet flew out of her hands to clatter on the tile floor nearby.

  Staggering to her feet with more haste than speed, she knew adrenalin alone was blocking any pain she might be feeling. From experience she knew that wouldn't last. She didn't slow down.

  A passing glance at the debris-strewn floor indicated no freaking sign of her gun.

  So be it. The safe room was filled with guns and just ten feet away.

  Treadwell was still gagging and sobbing, half curled over, but he hadn't passed out, and damn if that scalpel wasn't still clutched in the white grip of his bloody fingers. He was between her and the saferoom.

  She ran. Around the island, around the bodies of the men blocking the way into the great room, around scattered plastic tubs of Christmas ornaments and garlands. Jumped the hurdle of a box filled with artificial snow. Crunchy, glittering shaved styrofoam spread out to mingle with the congealing pools of blood at her feet.

  Knee high boots, meant for strolling in snow, weren’t conducive to running. She felt as though she was moving in slow mo. The open doorway seemed to be getting farther away instead of closer. Her foot twisted as she stepped on something hard. Her LadySmith.

  With ice cold fingers she scooped it up as she moved, then clutched it tightly and shoved it into her coat pocket. It was all she h
ad, and she was damned if he'd make her drop it again.

  Hurryhurryhurry.

  Her head jerked back, and her feet lost purchase as Treadwell grabbed her by her hair, slamming his knee into the small of her back. The impact made bile rise in her throat. He dragged her backwards by the convenient handle she'd made of her upswept hair.

  With a scream of blind rage, she wrenched away, feeling the pain as a chunk of her hair was left clutched in his fingers. She ran flat out into the entry hall with a view of the great room's half decorated tree. Joyous Christmas music still played on the portable radio. The room smelled of cinnamon, cookies and blood.

  Her feet felt ridiculously clumsy in the heavy snow boots as she bolted for the stairs. Safe room. Master bedroom. Go go go.

  She only noticed a man’s body seconds before she stumbled over him in the entry hall.

  Oh, God damn it. It was that sweet kid Sonny, his eyes wide, a gaping hole in his temple where Treadwell had stabbed him.

  She jumped at the last fraction of a second, then almost tripped over an askew area rug. Blood made the floor slick, but she skated until she found her balance, lunging for the massive wrought iron handle on the front door. If the door was locked she was screwed. Her fingers tightened around the grip of the small gun.

  She screamed as his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her toward him. She kicked backwards, sending him into the slippery pool of blood. Losing his footing, he almost took her with him, but Kendall risked a few bald spots by jerking her hair out of his grip again. He went careening into the opposite wall with an inhuman scream of rage.

  The heavy door swung open, letting in a blast of frigid air. Without looking back, she darted outside. The icy air stole her breath. The sky had lightened to a dark pewter. The landscape before her looked like a Currier and Ives painting rendered in black and white. An enormous snowplow loomed in the front yard. Were the keys in it? Did she have time to look? How fast did the damn thing go? Fast enough to outrun Treadwell? She couldn’t chance taking the time to find out.

  She looked around frantically. Where to hide? Where the hell to hide? The son of a bitch was like the Energizer Bunny. He wouldn’t stop. Not while he still had a breath in his body.

  Chest heaving, she gulped glacial, painful air, hard and fast. Half a mile away were the empty cottages, and/or trees behind which she could hide. She hauled ass across the wide porch knowing he was right behind her.

  A flash of silver arced down to her left. She tried to dodge. But his knife ripped through her left sleeve. No pain. Just an ice-cold jolt as the blade sliced through fabric and down to skin. But it would hurt later. God would it hurt later when adrenaline and fear weren’t anesthetizing her.

  Run. Run. Run.

  He tackled her from behind, taking her down. Her head slammed on the wood floor of the porch, hitting hard, but she tucked and rolled as she’d been taught, managing to stagger back to her feet before he could grab hold of her again. She turned to race down the five steps leaning away from the house.

  He grabbed her arm, swinging her into a support column with teeth-jarring impact. Lights, garland and faux candied fruit bounced down the steps. He pulled her up by her collar, then clamped her throat in a one-handed vise.

  "Stupid. Stupid, bitch!" his voice, as always, was chillingly calm. Which made it more frightening and ominous than if he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs. "You ruined it. You ruined it all."

  He smashed the hilt of the knife into her cheekbone. She screamed with the blinding, white hot pain. Brilliant dots danced in her vision as she struggled to stay conscious. It was a losing battle. There was a fuzzy buzz in her ears, then she slipped into silence.

  Minutes, hours, days later, Kendall came to in a rush of cold, and bone-deep terror.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Treadwell had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  Déjà vu.

  They weren’t in the front yard. Her hair hung over her face, and she surreptitiously parted the strands. She couldn’t see the house. Or the snow plow. Or Joe.

  Joe.

  Her arm was on fire. The pain intense. Nausea choked her. She heard nothing over the blood pounding in her ears, although the trees must be rustling in the wind, and his boots surely must be making a rhythmic sound as he trudged through the virgin snow.

  The wind whipped her hair silently about her head as she hung there like a bat, upside down, almost blinded by the dancing, swirling red strands and the blood rushing to her brain. She forced herself to remain limp. But it wasn’t easy. Every fight and flight instinct screamed at her to do something. She wanted to ask him about Joe but didn’t dare. She focused on that for a second, reasoning that if Treadwell had killed Joe, he’d have told her as much. She’d learned that about him during her captivity. Treadwell liked to regale her with the gory details of past trophies.

  She knew she just had to hang on long enough for Joe to realize that Treadwell had her. Just long enough for him to find her. Please God make it soon. Oh, God. Please. . . Her arm wasn’t totally useless. She might not be able to move it, but hot red blood dripped freely from her fingertips onto the pure white snow.

  She was leaving a trail of blood in Treadwell’s footprints. She could only pray that he didn’t look back. That Joe was still alive and able to follow them.

  She swallowed convulsively, a blend of bile and terror. She didn’t want him to know she was conscious. She could. . . Would- As soon as-

  She ruined the element of surprise by puking down his back.

  "Jesus! You fucking bitch!" Treadwell growled, flinging her off his shoulder so she landed face first in the snow.

  He hauled her to her feet, but she wrenched out of his hold, almost dislocating her shoulder in the process.

  Run. Run. Run.

  She felt as if she was looking through the bottom of a thick glass. Tree branches slapped at her, though she’d stopped feeling pain hours ago. Clutching her bleeding arm, she ran.

  Her life depended on it.

  He grabbed her around the neck from behind. She bucked and jerked, leaning her weight to counter his, hoping to slow him down. Keeping her completely off balance, Treadwell dragged her through frozen quicksand toward the tree line. Every time she tried to pull away, he found another place to cut her. Her bright yellow coat was trailing ribbons of fabric. Many of them now tinged red. Kicking and biting. Screaming hoarsely as he took her deeper and deeper into the isolated landscape farther and farther away from the house.

  She saw a snowmobile up ahead between the dark skeletons of the trees, black against the brilliance of the snow.

  No! Nonononono!

  "This has been fun, Kendall." He spun around, grabbing her by the throat, squeezing hard enough for brilliant stars to explode before her eyes. "But you’re boring me now. Time to say buh-bye."

  Her weight was balanced against his chest and he used his knee as a wedge between her legs, freeing his hand to grab her hair at the scalp as he brought the knife to her throat.

  Paralyzed, Kendall stared at the knife inches from her face. "Not again. Damn you, not again."

  Despite the pain in her scalp where he’d fisted her long hair, she wrenched her arm up, the small gun clutched in her bloody hand.

  Two bullets left.

  Make. Them. Count.

  She pointed the barrel over her left shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  ELEVEN

  Joe pushed through the snow, following the blood trail deeper across the vast expanse of snow-covered south paddock toward a small wooded area.

  KendallKendallKendall. An insistent mantra in his brain.

  Fear was a new experience for him. But it was real and physical. He’d heard her cries on the way back from the disabled chopper. Heard them, and knew immediately that Treadwell had her. And if Treadwell had her, the men he’d assigned to protect her were dead. Ah, Jesus.

  Every breath was an effort in the icy air, his heart pounded with helpless frustration at his slow prog
ress in the fresh, calf-deep snow.

  Uncharacteristically bloodthirsty images kept flipping through his mind as he ran, weapon drawn in his gloveless hand. He’d learned some interesting techniques with a knife himself over the years. He relished demonstrating his skill to Treadwell. Let the psycho feel the terror of finding himself on the other end of a knife wielded by a madman.

  A madman who’d been trained in the art of knife fighting, and was fucking used to fighting dirty.

  The frigid wind whipped Joe’s hair about his face and bat-winged his coat about his body as he ran. Kendall’s cries, echoing in the isolation of the remote area, pierced him to the heart.

  She was alive. At least he had that to hold onto.

  He doubled his effort to reach her as fast as humanly possible as powder skipped and danced across the surface of the drifting snow trying to obliterate Treadwell’s footsteps and the obscene splatters of bright blood.

  He felt the beat of chopper blades overhead before he heard them. Three coming in fast, spotlights strafing the snow-covered landscape. The cavalry after all. Snow whipped up, blinding him. Damn it to hell- He pointed in the direction of the tree line. Not that they would be able to land here. The terrain was hilly, and there were just too many damn trees. The three beams of light rose, then moved off, taking their lights with them.

  Kendall cried out again.

  "I’m coming, sweetheart, hold on! I’m coming!" Correcting slightly to the west, he battled across the snow drifts, chest heaving, thighs burning with each high step into the drifts.

  He was close. Two hundred yards and closing.

  Go. Go. Go.

  They were twined as closely as lovers, two indistinguishable silhouettes against the stark whiteness of the snow.

  Faster. Faster.

  A gunshot cracked through the predawn quiet. Joe’s heart jerked in response. Kendall. . .