by Vicki Lane
“Now!” she whispered and with a gut-wrenching leap of faith she stepped into the void, abandoning herself to fate. Leaning back, all of her weight on the hastily cobbled rope, she began, slowly, tentatively to walk herself down the back wall of the Candlestation, struggling to keep her shoes in contact with the uneven bricks.
The top of her head had just dipped below the windowsill when she heard the angry whoosh of the lighted fuel. A jet of flames shot out of the window, only inches above her head; she started, then ducked to avoid the searing heat and her running shoes slid on the wall. Instantly the flames subsided and she repositioned her feet on the crumbling bricks. Her arms were aching and her breath was coming fast but she continued her measured descent into the gloom below.
When she reached the rope’s end, she dangled there briefly. The three- or four-foot drop was nothing, but she prayed that she wouldn’t land awkwardly and sprain an ankle.
Again throwing herself on the mercy of fate, she let go and landed with a soft splat on the muddy ground. Her feet squelched in the mud and she allowed herself to go limp and roll. She lay there on her side scarcely daring to breathe. Nothing broken, nothing even twisted. Time to move!
Quickly, Elizabeth picked herself up and hurried toward the parking lot. Her arms were trembling and her heart was still pounding as she crept quietly around the corner of the vast, dark building. Just ahead, in the flooded parking lot, was her jeep. A single security light’s cold glow glittered on the water’s surface, revealing an anonymous-looking blue sedan, flanked by an old rusting pickup. The only other vehicles were Kyra’s sports car and two, almost identical white SUVs. The plate of the nearer one read “MP #1.”
I need to go for help— get to a phone. I can’t go back in there. Someone just tried to kill me. She peered through the twilight but saw no one. Pulling her car keys from her pocket, she dashed for the jeep, splashing recklessly through the shallow water and clicking the door opener as she approached. She wrenched open the door and hurled herself into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and clicked the lock. Only then did she exhale fully, sending up a general prayer of thanksgiving to Whoever might be listening.
She turned the key, exulting as the engine roared into life, slammed the gearshift to reverse, and began to back out.
Thirty seconds later the engine died. She turned the ignition switch again and again; the engine’s only response was a futile, dying uggha-uggha-uggh.
“Goddammit all to hell!” Pounding on the steering wheel did no good. She grabbed the flashlight from between the seats. For a mercy, its battery was new and the strong beam of light reassured her. She pulled the handle to pop the hood and got out of the car, first scanning the parking lot to be sure that she was still alone.
The engine looked much as it always did— mysterious. She had been hoping for some obvious sign— loosened wires, whatever. Something that would shout, “Put me back and the car will go again.”
But there was no sign and it would not go. She looked around for inspiration. The Candlestation lay at the far end of the River District, and the nearest occupied buildings were almost a mile down a dark, lonely road. Laurel had told her that the District was considered safe by day, but that few of the area’s tenants biked or walked along the roads at night. There had been incidents…. Her best hope, she decided, was to reenter the building. She needed to find a telephone.
Elizabeth started for the door at the far end of the building, hoping to avoid whoever it was that had locked her in the room and set the gasoline on fire. Kyra’s in there and her father. She studied the other cars parked by her useless jeep. The second white SUV— Buckley? Aidan? Whatever the answer, someone dangerous was in the mazelike building. If she could just go unnoticed long enough to find a telephone.
The farther door stood open and she went quietly up the steps and slipped into the building once again. This part of the Candlestation seemed in slightly better repair than the other end, but the halls were dark and nowhere could she find a switch to turn on the single bulbs placed at wide intervals on the ceiling. There were many studios— but all the doors were closed and locked. Her flashlight illuminated a poster on the wall, announcing a festival at The Wedge, complete with beer and fire dancers. The date was Friday, September 30. The party was evidently going on at that minute— accounting for the lack of people in the studios.
Cautiously, silently, she began to explore the dark, deserted hallways. Somewhere there must be a pay phone. Or had the all-but-ubiquitous cell done away with that quaint amenity?
She crept on, at every step coming closer to the room she had just escaped. Her flashlight’s beam glanced against the walls, revealing tattered notices, garish paintings, and a strange assortment of objects that had evidently been designated as art by hanging them on the wall and giving them enigmatic titles. Elizabeth tried to ignore them as she methodically tested door after door in search of an open studio with a working phone. Several doors yielded to her touch but the rooms beyond were either empty or piled with assorted objects, none of which were working telephones.
At the end of a corridor she saw a flickering orange glow. Turning off her flashlight, she advanced stealthily to find a series of rooms, all dedicated to neon art. The narrow tubes, fashioned into every imaginable shape, pulsed and flickered and hissed in the dim space. Elizabeth sidled past a pair of giant red lips that puckered and released every few seconds. Surely someone must be here, would not have gone off leaving all these electric signs humming.
She passed from one room to another, still without finding either a person or a telephone. She was about to retrace her steps when she noticed a little alcove, almost completely hidden by a folding screen.
Clad only in cut-off jeans he lay sprawled across a lumpy daybed in the center of the little space: a claustrophobic cube devoted to human genitalia expressed in neon. On the wall behind him a giant phallus rose and fell repetitively. A video camera’s glassy eye watched from a tripod— trained on Ben’s unmoving body.
For a moment Elizabeth stood frozen. The sight of her nephew’s limp form was like a blow to the stomach and she struggled to breathe. Dropping down to the bed, she put her hand to his shoulder. Warm, thank god.
A snorted breath lifted his chest. “Ben, are you all right?” She shook his shoulder violently and was infinitely relieved to see his eyes open and blearily focus on her.
“What’re you doing here?” His expression was puzzled and a bit annoyed. “Where’s Kyra?” He looked foggily around the room. “What time’s it anyway?”
He tried to stand, staggered and collapsed back onto the daybed. “Legs don’t wanna work; still sleepy. Inna minute.” And he fell into an openmouthed, snoring sleep from which no amount of desperate shaking could rouse him.
CHAPTER 36
BLOOD ROSES
(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)
DAMMIT, BEN, YOU’VE GOT TO WAKE UP. WE’VE GOT to get to a phone.” And why don’t you carry a cell phone like every other person your age? It was useless. His breathing was deep and regular but he was not responding.
At length she concluded that the only thing to do was to leave her comatose nephew and continue her search for a telephone. The community kitchen! Didn’t Kyra mention a pay phone in there?
With a last, desperate look at Ben, she headed back to the dark hallways and toward Kyra’s studio. She hurried through the winding corridors without hesitation now, guided by an urgent necessity to bring this nightmare to an end. As she passed through the strange bridgelike affair that connected the two parts of the Candlestation, she heard the low creaking and rumble of something in motion. Her flashlight illuminated the cavernous opening of the freight elevator. The platform was in descent and as it drew level with the floor, she could see something stirring in its back corner.
Kyra sat cross-legged there on the elevator’s filthy floor. Just as on the night of the fire at her house, she was rubbing her fingers obsessively, and her eyes were closed. She wore a sho
rt dress of some thin material, its moony sheen marred by ugly brownish-red smears.
Her close-cut blonde head was bent over her hands and she was whispering to herself as she rubbed the back of one finger in tiny circular movements. As Elizabeth’s eyes focused, she could see that Kyra held a reddened square of sandpaper and was erasing the tattooed rose from her finger. The backs of the other fingers were raw and oozing red.
“I have to do it or it’ll never stop.” Her green eyes opened wide and blinked in the glare of the light. “Is that you, Elizabeth? I’m sorry I locked you in; I thought you’d be safer in there— away from him. I didn’t realize that he might think it was me in there.”
Her voice was dreamy and she seemed in a trancelike state, oblivious to the scraping of the sandpaper and her gory task. When all of her fingers bore fresh wounds, she transferred her attention to the ring of rosebuds inked around her ankle. Droplets of red began to creep across the white arch of her foot as she scrubbed her skin away.
“He thought he could get rid of me with fire— but I wasn’t in there and you were.” She examined the saturated pad of sandpaper, opened it out, refolded it to an unused side, and began on another rose. “Are you a ghost, come back like she does sometimes?”
“Kyra, I saw the Entelechy piece.” Elizabeth’s voice was trembling but she forced it to harshness. “You can stop this stupid game— I don’t believe you’re crazy. I saw the sketch for the piece— a sketch you made months ago, long before Boz and your great-grandmother were dead. You planned all this; I’m not sure why. Maybe you were tired of being one of three and wanted to be the star. Maybe you—”
The motion of the sandpaper stopped. Kyra lifted her eyes to Elizabeth with a look of chilling intensity. “What would you know about it? Your ‘friend’ Phillip will believe me. You’re wrong; it’s my father who’s done these things. Reba knows. She’s been there from the beginning; she’s seen it all. Reba’s explained it to me. She told me what would happen so I could put it in my painting. And when the painting dries, it’ll all be over and I’ll be free. Reba explained it all.”
Kyra’s green eyes glowed like a cat’s in the glare of the flashlight. “He almost had me convinced that he loved me— I thought that he was only looking out for me when he had Boz killed. But now I know the truth— GeeGee told me. Rose wasn’t my mother. And now I have to take these away.”
The icy expression melted and the ethereal face of an angel gazed up at Elizabeth with pleading eyes. “He said he was my real father; he said I have a brother…but he sent the brother away and now he wants to kill me. Reba told me why. Reba knows all about it. Now he has a young wife who can give him children and he doesn’t want me because I’m soiled. If he tries to hurt me, will you stop him?” She spread her red-stained hands in appeal. “Please, Elizabeth?”
Kyra shifted her position there on the floor, revealing the ugly bulk of a pistol that had been concealed by her skirt. Following Elizabeth’s startled gaze, she glanced at the weapon.
“It was in my car. He put it there so that I’d be blamed. But he has another one; that’s why I have to get all of the roses off. Reba says that I have to stop making him angry.” She returned to her obsessive scraping— her face showing not pain, but a fierce determination— almost a manic joy.
“Kyra, what did you give Ben to make him so sleepy? Why is he back there in that awful room?”
The long lashes fluttered over the green eyes. “Ben? What awful room? Ben’s gone. I sent him to take a load of my paintings off to GeeGee’s house, where they’d be safe. I told him to stay there, away from my father.”
Kyra began to sway dreamily as she methodically moved the sandpaper against her raw and bleeding skin. “Reba says my father wants Ben dead too. And I have to take away the roses.”
The ring of wounds circling her ankle oozed red as the sodden sandpaper inched its way around. Kyra bent her head to observe the effect of her work and smiled calmly as once again she refolded the bloody pad.
This crazy routine could be just an act. I’m almost sure it is. But the gun, how do I get it away from her?
As if Elizabeth had spoken aloud, Kyra picked up the pistol and held it out, butt first. “Is this bothering you? Then you take it. But if he comes after us, you’ll have to use it.”
Elizabeth took a cautious step forward and held out her hand. With a flutter of her eyelashes and an odd little giggle, Kyra pulled back the outstretched weapon and examined it as if seeing it for the first time.
“But maybe it would be better…” The cold green eyes bored into Elizabeth as Kyra lifted her other hand and deliberately reversed the pistol— bringing the muzzle to bear on Elizabeth. “Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do.” The frail-looking young woman held the weapon in both hands, taking dead-steady aim at Elizabeth’s heart.
She’s going to kill me. Elizabeth felt a chilling weakness sweeping over her body. She tried to speak, to think, but all time seemed to have stopped as she stood there, staring at the bloodstained Kyra.
An eternity of seconds passed. Then, with a laugh like the tinkling of shattered crystal, Kyra once again reversed her hold on the pistol and once again offered it to Elizabeth— butt first.
“No, I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.” Her smile was innocent, angelic. “Here, you’d better have it.”
Utterly confused but relieved to have the weapon in her possession, Elizabeth took the heavy gun from Kyra. It felt familiar in her hand: Sam had had one like it— a .45 automatic— and had insisted that she and the girls all learn how to use it. She pulled back the slide; yes, there was a bullet in the chamber. Then she punched the button to release the clip. It contained seven bullets. She shoved the clip back into place and trained the gun on the young woman sitting there at her feet.
“Get up, Kyra. I want you to go with me to the telephone. We have to make a call.”
Kyra smiled. “Elizabeth, you silly old woman, is this a citizen’s arrest?” She rose nonetheless and started in the direction of her studio. Elizabeth followed close behind, flashlight in her left hand and gun in her right.
As they made their slow way through the dark hall, Elizabeth’s flashlight began to pick up bright blotches of the fluorescent green paint on the floor. “Stop, Kyra, I want to look at your shoes.”
At the peremptory words, Kyra stopped, shrugged, and exhibited a pristine pair of sandals. “Really, Elizabeth, I think you may be the one who’s crazy. I’ve heard that menopause can do strange things to a woman’s mind. Have you thought about trying St. John’s wort? Or Kava kava? They could help your mood swings.”
“You’re quite the authority on herbal medicine, Kyra,” Elizabeth said. “What else did you give Kimmie along with the raspberry leaf tea? Were you trying to kill her or just cause a miscarriage?” The gun was still trained on Kyra but Elizabeth was beginning to feel less sure. Who had been outside the door if it wasn’t Kyra?
A muted noise in the hall behind her caught her attention. As she swung the flashlight around to investigate, its strong beam picked up a perfect fluorescent footprint.
CHAPTER 37
ABSALOM, ABSALOM
(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)
ELIZABETH STOPPED DEAD, LISTENING INTENTLY. THE sounds that had caught her attention became footsteps— slow, cautious, pausing and then resuming, but coming nearer with each step. Kyra caught at her arm.
“You’re going to have to shoot him or he’ll kill both of us, Elizabeth.” The whisper was frantic. “Reba told me the truth. He wants to get rid of me. If I’m dead, he can blame it all on me. He’ll make it look like I shot you; he’s smart.”
The flashlight’s beam reached only partway down the long hallway, and whoever was coming toward them was still hidden in the gloom. Kyra’s whisper was urgent. “Elizabeth, you have to do it. Shoot now! Don’t let him get me! Shoot now!”
A host of possibilities and potentialities whirled in her brain while Kyra’s impassioned words filled her ears, goading
her to action. Holding the flashlight steady in her left hand, Elizabeth slowly raised her right, fighting to steady the heavy automatic.
The footsteps grew closer and Kyra’s grip tightened. “Now, do it now, before he gets here! Kill him! You have to!” Kyra’s whisper had taken on a frenzied quality and she pulled desperately at Elizabeth’s arm.
The flashlight slipped from Elizabeth’s hand, fell to the floor, and rolled, its beams dancing crazily over the walls.
“Do it! Shoot him!” Kyra shrieked.
Elizabeth stepped back, turned, and trained the pistol on Kyra.
“That’s enough of it, Kyra. It’s over.” She watched the flashlight roll and come to rest against a pair of familiar boots. “Ben, we’re over here.”
“Aunt E?” Her nephew picked up the flashlight and shone it in her direction. “Wha’s going on?” He sounded groggy and uncomprehending. He sounded drunk. “Whatcha doing with a gun anyway? Shouldn’t point guns at people, you know that. Don’t point guns ’less you ’tend to shoot: that’s the law….”
He stumbled toward them. “Kyra, where’ve you been? I was waiting—” He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall and stood there blinking in complete bewilderment. Then slowly he began to slide down the wall, his eyes closing as he came to rest on the floor. “Just ’nother quick nap.” And he was asleep once more.
There was a sudden clatter of feet ringing on metal and the loud protracted squeak of a door being thrown open, then multiple beams of light swept the hallway beyond them. Howling sirens could be heard in the distance.
In the momentary confusion Elizabeth lowered the gun. With a peal of mad laughter Kyra whirled and pelted down the dark hall away from the approaching lights.
Instantly Elizabeth was after her with a burst of speed she hadn’t known she could achieve. But the pale form flitted elusively ahead of her. Taunting snatches of laughter echoed down the corridor. “Catch me if you can, Elizabeth!”
