Riley’s group finished searching the Rupert property which was bordered by a hedge, separating it from the Krueger’s next door. Skillet leaped across the grassy drainage ditch and disappeared into the next yard. Riley tried to follow him over, but her shoes slipped on the wet grass and she went down hard, with a little cry.
Both Nate and Teren rushed to her aid from across the street.
“I gotcha,” Nate said, pulling her to her feet.
Teren crossed to her other side and put a supportive hand under her elbow. “You okay?” he asked.
“She’s okay,” said Nate. Riley thought his confident tone was meant to minimize her embarrassment and move them past the moment, but Teren took exception to it.
“I think Riley can speak for herself.”
“No doubt. I’m just—”
“She might have twisted an ankle or, worse yet, a wrist. You don’t—”
Riley shook them both off of her. “I’m fine.”
Skillet stepped in and linked arms with Riley on one side and Marie on the other.
“Ladies,” he said, “let’s continue our search and let these two fight it out amongst themselves.”
A sullen tension hung in the air as they moved off.
“How about that attack on Jess last night?” Skillet said, steering them to another subject.
“It was frightening. Jess is pretty shook up.”
“I’m glad she got cut.” Marie lifted her chin and shot Riley a challenging look. “She deserves a good scare and a small portion of the pain she deals out.”
“That’s harsh, Marie.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a husband at stake. You’ve seen her operate. She’s poison.”
Riley clamped her lips shut and Skillet spoke up.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“I hate her. Fine by me if he’d killed her.”
Riley listened to the venomous intensity in her voice. “Please stop, Marie.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started. Do you have any idea what it’s like to work hard to make a family and then have it all go up in smoke? Do you—”
Riley gasped, shocked at the woman’s complete lack of tact. Skillet raised a hand as if to smack her.
“Shut the hell up,” he said.
Marie fell silent, her fists clenched at her sides, her eyes hot and narrowed, an indication of the fury and indignation still cooking inside her. She turned on her heel and stalked off into the trees.
“About time someone took out the garbage,” Skillet said.
It had grown very still. They were in a cul-de-sac of unoccupied houses, surrounded by woodland. Nate’s group had finished and moved on to the next block.
“We shouldn’t have let her go off by herself,” Riley said. “There’s still a killer out there.”
“No killer in his right mind would attack that woman now. She’d make him eat his knife.”
“I think it’s pretty clear the killer hasn’t been in his right mind for quite some time.”
“Good point.”
A cool breeze rushed through the pines, making them whisper and sending a chill down Riley’s spine. She looked at Skillet. He wore his bedroom eyes and a smile came and went on his lips, like the flicker of a candle.
She realized they were alone.
CHAPTER 62
MYRNA FELT LIKE SHE’D BEEN eating sand. Her mouth was dry, her skin was coated with a layer of gritty dust from sprawling on the dirty floor. For ages, she’d been too scared to move, had lain on the floor, swimming in and out of consciousness. But now she had to acknowledge that dehydration would do the killer’s work for him if she didn’t get some fluids in her soon.
She’d lost blood from the head wound, but it had clotted into a filthy mat on the side of her head. She raised herself to a kneeling position, feeling in the dark for a handhold. Her head reeled and a wave of nausea squeezed her stomach. She vomited. When the spasm passed, she steadied herself and drew a deep breath, listening for sounds of movement outside her hiding place, the creak of a floorboard or tap of a shoe that might indicate a presence. It was silent. Grunting with effort, she pulled herself up and clung to the wall until the dizziness passed.
She winced at the squeal the door made as she pushed it open. Stepping into the children’s playroom, her feet found the clutter of stuffed animals tossed there by the killer. They plagued her as she plodded across to the kitchen and she fought to keep panic from taking hold. She sagged in the doorway, a tremulous mass of nerves, and knew she needed help. She had to get to Dr. Deb, but now, just getting to the kitchen sink seemed a task beyond doing.
She used a wooden chair for support, pushing it ahead a few inches and then catching up to it, and that worked fine except it sent out a screech with each push, as if voicing the screams she kept inside. After an eternity of push and shuffle, the sink was in reach and she worked the faucet, scooping handfuls of water into her mouth and over her blood-encrusted face and hair.
Thirst sated, she looked with longing at the chair. Its seat pulled her like a magnet, but she understood that if she sat now, that’s where they’d find her, frozen and defeated. Were they looking for her? They would know she held a vital piece of information. They might have been in the house while she was unconscious. She imagined the detective had divided the neighbors into search teams and she calculated her odds at about ten to one that if she ventured forth, the good guys would find her before the killer did.
Fair enough. The chair was too unwieldy for the journey she had to make. She cast her eyes around the kitchen and drew the broom from its nook beside the refrigerator. It would have to do for a cane. She turned it bristle-side up and used it to make her way to the front door, slipping once or twice on the smooth tiles.
At the door, she paused to catch her breath and plan her next move. The door had a small window, a square of cloudy yellow glass held closed with a simple peg latch. When the girls were small, they pretended the house was a castle and they’d climb on a stool and peep through the tiny window in the large, wooden door. She remembered how they’d deepen their voices, imitating authoritative command and shout, ’Hark, who goes there?’ and then ruin the effect by giggling.
A pang of sorrow shot through her. Harp was gone and oh, how she missed him. The girls would be devastated when she told them and she strengthened at the thought. She must be the one to tell them. To hear it from a stranger would be worse, would mean both parents dead. She must survive this ordeal. She must come through for the girls.
Easing open the little window, she peered out at the vista it afforded. By the light, Myrna judged it to be near noon and as her eyes adjusted to the glare, she caught the movement of figures in the distance. She squinted, refocusing, and realized she was looking straight out, at the killer.
She backed away from the window, pushing it shut with a shaking hand. Bracing herself in the corner behind the door, she stood and waited, violent tremors racking her body. One minute passed, then two. She drew in several long, deep breaths, calming herself, her eyes glued to the little window in the door, telling herself it would not move.
But as she watched, a hand pushed it inward. A voice spoke her name.
CHAPTER 63
RILEY CLIMBED THE FRONT STEPS of Myrna’s porch and saw that the little window in the door was open a crack. They’d searched the house last night, and again first thing this morning. It seemed the most likely place for Myrna to take refuge and someone had broken one of the window panes in the back door to gain entry to the house. It might have been Myrna without her house key, or it might have been the killer. Either way, their searching yielded zip.
But the little window had been latched, she was sure of it. Pushing at the yellow glass, she called Myrna’s name. From behind the door, she heard a gasp and a sob, followed by the sound of wood on wood, and the door knob turned, breaking the lock so that Riley was able to push the door fully open. Myrna stood, bent at the waist and clinging to an upended broomstick
with both hands, an ugly, crusted wound on her head. Her quivering was ferocious enough to set the straws of the broom vibrating and she was sinking slowly to the floor. Riley shouted and rushed forward to ease her down.
“That man,” said Myrna, her voice a harsh rasp. She pointed out the door. “Oh, not him.”
Riley twisted around to see Nate bounding up the porch steps, followed by Teren and Cappy. “Which man?” she asked Myrna, but the woman only stared, wrapped in fear, unable to speak.
Skillet came through the back door, approaching from the hallway. “You found her,” he said.
Myrna’s eyes rolled and she thrashed her head from side to side. She jerked in a final spasm of terror and went limp in Riley’s arms.
“We’ve got to get her to the doctor,” Nate said.
“It might be better to bring Deb here,” Teren said. “I can stay with her while you run for the doc.”
Nate shook his head. “Riley, find a sturdy blanket. Quickly.”
She tore up the staircase with a sense of deja vu. Would she be forever raiding linen closets at Nate’s command? The first door she reached was a bedroom. She ripped the comforter off the bed and returned to Myrna’s side.
“That’ll do,” Nate said, fashioning a makeshift stretcher. He and Cappy carried Myrna back to the clubhouse and Riley followed with Teren. Skillet, the fastest of them, ran ahead to prepare the way.
When they arrived, Dr. Deb met them at the door and motioned them through to the dining room where she’d requisitioned a table. Mrs. Dawson stood in as her assistant as she examined Myrna and washed and dressed the head wound. Nate pulled Riley aside.
“I’m going to set up a cot in the club treasurer’s office. We’ll put Myrna in there, behind a locked door, and set a watch over her, two guards at a time so that she is never left alone with any one person. Will you and Frank take the first watch?”
Riley nodded and started off to look for Frank, but Nate caught her arm and pulled her close. He held her for a moment and Riley felt the warmth of him, sensed there was a lot that he wanted to say. But when he spoke, he said only one thing.
“When she regains consciousness, we need a name.”
CHAPTER 64
THE KILLER WATCHED THEM TRANSPORT the Mayhew woman into the Treasurer’s office. He saw Riley follow, carrying a blanket and pillow, her lovely face pinched with worry. She and Frank Newcombe would stand guard, and after their turn, another team would take over. There was no way he could get to Myrna now and once she woke up, she’d point him out.
He had to see to it that she never woke up.
His Adidas cross-trainers were wet and muddy. He left the dining room and walked to the door of the lobby, squelching with each step. His feet were cold and he felt a blister forming under his left big toe. It was time to change shoes.
He let himself out the door and walked down the street and around the corner to his house. He paused on the front porch to pull off the wet shoes and socks, leaving them to dry beside the welcome mat. After entering the house, he went to the garage for a flashlight and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom where he shined the beam around the walk-in closet.
A false wall in the closet hid the space where he kept his duffel and accoutrements. He ignored it. He wouldn’t be needing those things for Myrna. The situation called for different methods, more like what he’d done with Amanda Horton.
His shoe shelf was neatly ordered with footwear housed in the original boxes. A shoe-shine kit rested next to a case of accessories—pads, inserts, replacement parts. A narrow, three-tiered chest of drawers held an assortment of socks. The illumination from the flashlight was just adequate for him to see his way, and he wedged it between two stacks of sweaters on an upper shelf and pulled a pair of loafers from their box, slipping them on.
The left shoe was missing a tassel.
He froze, focusing hard on his recent activities. Where had he lost the tassel? At the Ferguson’s? He recalled how Rico had made a feeble grab for his foot. At the time, he’d double-checked to ensure that his feet were well covered, protected by the elasticized booties. He judged that the tassel could have fallen off at any number of locations, and had it been dislodged at the Ferguson residence, it would have been contained by the protective cover and disposed of with the rest of it. The killer mulled through it again and gave a nod, dismissing his anxieties over the tassel.
He had more immediate concerns. He switched his clothing needs to automatic pilot and focused his brain on his plans for Myrna.
CHAPTER 65
RICK SCANNED THE SHELVES OF the supply shed, picking out the items Bobbi wanted. He was high on a ladder, pulling down blankets, when the lights flickered and went out. Electricity to the property had been intermittent all day, but sunlight filtered in through dust-streaked windows, sufficient for him to finish his task. He climbed down the ladder, shouldered the pack, and returned to the house, threading his way through the wandering sheep, avoiding the llamas.
As he entered the room, Bobbi pulled off her headset. “I managed to get through, but the FAA denied every flight plan I submitted. The second the mountain erupted, they put up a TFR—that’s a Temporary Flight Restriction—covering a hundred nautical miles. The air is choked with rescue operations and they want all civilians grounded. Conditions are hazardous and communication is a hellish mess.”
She let out a long yawn, stretching her arms to the ceiling. “I even called an old buddy in the Flight Service Station in Seattle to get us cleared in as an emergency supply ship, with no joy. I pulled every string I had, but no one wants to sign off on this.”
Bobbi slouched in the chair, closed her eyes, and rubbed her palms in a circular motion against her temples. Rick felt a pang. The lady didn’t need him to complicate her life, but she’d put out the welcome mat and now that he had his foot in the door, he might as well cross the threshold. They’d stayed up late into the night, considering contingencies and writing up plans. He’d grabbed a few winks on the couch.
“Outline our options, then,” he challenged.
She opened one eye and gave him a look, letting it drop shut again. “You’re an officer of the law,” she reminded. “We’re out of legal alternatives.”
“Humor me. Field me a less-than-legal alternative.”
Bobbi bit her lip and looked away. A minute ticked by.
“I know you’re cooking up something,” Rick prompted. “What is it?”
“We could do a scud run.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means we’d have to go NOE, flying Nap Of the Earth, the entire time. Staying under the main volcano plume cloud in Golf air space, flying at treetop level, making sure to stay out of SeaTac’s radar. And heaven help us if we punch in.”
“Punch in?”
“The helicopter’s not equipped with IFR, so if I inadvertently go to instrument meteorological conditions, we’ll have to radio in to SeaTac so they can vector us back to VMC.”
“I didn’t follow all of that. Just bottom-line it for me.”
“Best case—provided we can make radio contact—I lose my license. Worst case, we die.”
“Okay,” Rick said, “other than death and illegality, any other drawbacks I should know about?”
“Flying Golf is actually legal, under certain conditions.”
Bobbi paused, then blew out a breath that ruffled her blonde bangs. “But none of those conditions apply in our situation,” she admitted. “It’s damn deadly and difficult. Are you ready to risk your life to get that information to your partner? Wait a day or two and you can probably reach him by phone.”
Rick winced. “There’s more to this than I can tell you, but I promise you innocent lives are at stake. I can’t just sit tight, but I see no reason for you to put yourself in danger. I’ll find another way.”
“You don’t think I care about innocent lives? Besides, I’ve got a helicopter to demolish and I can’t think of a better way to do it.”
“Have you done this scudding before?”
“Scud running, sure. In Afghanistan, it’s the only way to fly. We do this and I promise it’s the coolest flight you’ll ever take, with the seat cushion sucked so far up your butt you’ll need a crowbar to pull it out when we’re done. Of course, here, the hazards are a bit different.”
“What kind of hazards are we talking about?”
“We need visibility and that, as you’ve observed, is less than optimal. We’ll be flying low where there are lots of obstacles. The biggest problem will be trying not to floss our teeth with a big old set of Alphas.”
“In plain English that means…?”
“Staying out of the power lines. We’ll have to rely on daylight, as the wires are near impossible to spot in the dark. There are TV and radio towers taller than a thousand feet with guy wires that stick out about 800 feet on each side, creating an invisible net in the sky.”
“At least no one will be gunning for us.”
“A point in our favor, but these towers are unsightly, so a lot of effort goes into making them blend into the environment. Easier on the eyes, but cold comfort if you smack into one at eighty knots.”
“You’re just full of comforting thoughts.”
“Hey, you asked the question. With Rainier knocking out the juice, the tower lighting systems are likely to be down, making them more difficult to spot. And to cap it off, cell phone towers are deliberately constructed to be just under the height for reporting and marking on aeronautical maps, so the sectionals will be of limited use in that regard.”
“Sectionals are maps?” Rick asked.
“Correct.”
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 18
