Chapter Six
The front door’s groan induced grotesque images of entrails strewn on the floor and her heart being cut from her chest. The wad of acid bolting up her throat burned her mouth, but she didn’t make a sound. Fuck, I’m dead meat. Taking the box and tucking it under her arm, she looked around. No place to hide.
The room contained no closet and the desk might be the first place he sat. As the cliché reverberated in her mind, she darted behind the heavy fall of red velvet curtains and prayed for a bit of luck. If he went to bed, maybe she could sneak out. Why is he home so early?
A loud crash followed by his thunderous expletives defied her hopes of survival. It sounded like glass breaking—in the kitchen. Oh shit, my wet footprints.
“Where are you, bitch? I know it’s you! I had a nice chat with Pauly.”
The voice bellowed threats that curdled the acid in her stomach. A wave of nausea followed by lightheadedness warned of the likelihood of fainting. Meanwhile, the curtains probably shook in time with her frame.
“If you come out now, I’ll make it quick and relatively painless. If I have to hunt you down, I’ll keep you in the basement for weeks.”
Tears coursed down her cheeks, flashbacks of Frannie’s warning to keep her nose clean bringing a fresh flood of guilt.
The office door opened. He grunted in satisfaction. “Ah, so you thought you could hide? You’ll never be a good burglar.”
Stark terror paralyzed her, choking her thoughts as she imagined him jamming a knife deep in her belly, slicing through each organ and pulling out her intestines before shock delivered oblivion.
Booted footsteps sounded louder with each heartbeat.
“You forgot to dry your shoes, bitch. Looks like we’ll do this my way. Not that it was ever a choice.”
A vicious yank tore the curtains from the wall to expose her hiding place. The look of glee on his face would be imprinted in her mind for the rest of her very short life.
“I figured you’d try something like this. Think you’re a clever one, do you?”
The thrust of his meaty fist restored her ability to move. She dodged the brunt of the blow in sidestepping as pain exploded in her shoulder and spun her ninety degrees. He’d never stop until she was dead. Using the only thing available, she slammed the metal box against his head, the loud thunk satisfying but temporary.
Terror bred speed as she raced for the door. Out of the office, she turned toward the front of the house, the closer exit. If she got to the street, surely her screams and Hoover barking would bring out the neighbors. Even if he followed, she was faster. Haste and terror disrupted her equilibrium, causing her to grasp the stair-rail spindles in her bid to remain upright. From behind, he growled as his heavy steps pounded forward.
The locked front door foiled her speedy escape. Shit, should’ve gone out the back. Sensing him directly behind, she turned, avoiding his next swing but felt the breeze of its passing. She screamed.
Outside, Hoover barked.
Ducking under his outstretched arms, she sidestepped. He still blocked her path to the back door, but the stairway to her right offered another option. She raced up the steps two at a time.
“Ha. I’ve got you now, twat. Wanna know what kind of fun we’re gonna have?”
At the top of the stairs, one door stood ajar to her left. The wide hall contained three doors to her right. She bolted toward the last of the three. Hoover’s waiting by the hedge on this side of the house. The home from hell with a wraparound porch. A halting breath came after dashing through the doorway at the end of the hall and slamming the weak barrier shut. Turning on the light, she found what she’d prayed to see. She’d never appreciated gaudy, old furniture so much.
After tossing her blanket over her shoulder then tucking the box under her arm, she made good use of the wooden, slat-back chair. It made a perfect wedge after kicking the edge of the rug up. With its slide into place came a beefy fist slamming against the other side of the door that shook it in its frame.
Dry heaves signaled the beginning of a panic attack. Numbers. Recite odd, non-sequential numbers. A trick she’d learned long ago staved off the blackness encroaching on her vision’s periphery.
Behind her, two windows led to the porch roof. Fumbling steps, impaired by the maniac pounding on the door, closed the distance to freedom.
Shoving at each window in turn with all her strength, she discovered them painted shut. Of course. Plan B.
A heavy thud from behind her snapped her gaze over her shoulder. It sounded as though he rammed the door with his shoulder. With his considerable bulk, it won’t last long. The wooden chair shook under the attack.
The window pane shattered with the strike of her stolen box but left jagged edges she didn’t have time to clear. Laying her blanket over the sill, she lifted one leg out and ducked her head under the meeting rail.
The deep, intermittent scrape of wood on wood signaled the chair’s begrudging slide and urged her to hurry. The bastard had opened the door enough to reach inside, trying to maneuver the chair out of the way.
“Get back here, bitch!”
“Not fucking likely, asshole.” Meant as a retort, her whisper probably didn’t reach his ears.
In her haste to hop out and over the sharp edges, she stumbled then gasped as pain sliced through her hand from a protruding glass shard. Shit. More DNA left behind. That was something she’d have to sort out later. Sudden quiet from behind made her pause. A glance over her shoulder, she expected to see him filling the doorway, but it wasn’t open enough for him to pass.
Below, Hoover barked.
Fickle nature hampered her sight with thickening cloud cover and increasing wind while a slight drizzle had slickened the metal roofing. She landed on her ass with her feet sprawling for traction. The inevitable glide toward the edge was something she should’ve predicted considering the way her misbegotten endeavor had progressed. She couldn’t determine the drop to the ground until she was in freefall, not that she had a choice in the matter. Her personal descent into hell was quiet and riddled with a lifetime’s worth of what ifs.
Contact corresponded with a painful thud followed by an instinctive roll to her feet. Ambient light gilded the metal box several feet away, still locked. A quick retrieval saw it held football style while her blanket remained impaled on the window shard above.
Hell. It wasn’t as if he’d call the cops.
“Hoover?” Where is she?
Barking from the front of the house indicated her dog held the killer at bay while the screen door clearly granted access to his vulgar threats.
“Fucking dog, I’ll kill you, too.”
The door slammed. No doubt, the hunter retraced his steps to retrieve a gun.
“Hoover, come.” Testing her ankles, nothing felt broken or strained. By the time she’d reached the hedge, Hoover nudged her leg.
The distant rumble of thunder coincided with fat raindrops sluicing down her cheeks and gluing hair to her face and neck. Heavier rain would decrease visibility and help conceal her escape by washing away footprints, but thick grass made balance treacherous.
Hoover followed her through the prickly evergreen wall which snagged the backpack in the process. She prayed the hedge’s density and flexible branches would disguise her exit. If not, she’d have to rely on greater speed. If she headed toward the back, she’d have a straighter shot home while avoiding streetlights.
The neighbor’s lot boasted a larger two-story house with glass making up most of the back first floor and light pouring through several of the windows. Lights came on upstairs, but she didn’t stop or consider asking for help. Otis would either shoot them all or call on the neighbor to help track her.
Breath sawed in and out of her lungs, now on fire, the fine trail of vapor barely visible. Shaking legs negated good balance, but the adrenaline rush kept her moving. The box clutched tight in her hand repeatedly slipped, kept in her grip only by sheer dint of will and perhaps the prayer
she offered for a safe return home. Hoover, as if sensing her panic, whined and then romped forward as if to say, “Stop dawdling.”
Large trees shaded the neighbor’s extensive yard, their thick, tentacled shadows grasping for the thieves. Staying close to the hedge, the duo made their way to the back to find that no fence waited to curtail their desperate flight. No heavy breathing or footfalls denoted the predator bearing down on them. No spray of lead or beam of light cut them. She prayed he couldn’t detect which direction they’d gone, though tracking skills probably weren't his long suit.
At the back of the yard, they navigated their way down a small ravine filled with thick roots, tall grass, and a fallen tree sporting many broken limbs protruding at odd angles. Using a large branch to aid in climbing up the other side proved a mistake as it broke off and she tumbled backward. Mud, leaves, and unknown vermin now coated her wet clothes.
Nausea and fear strangled her voice to a whisper as she crawled up the slope on hands and knees. “Home, Hoover. Take us home.” With panic attached to her spine, she didn’t trust her intuition to find a different course. A canine’s natural instincts always proved better. The general direction felt right, even if it wasn’t a crow’s path traveled.
Cutting right, they raced across another yard before darting between two houses. Even if he guessed which direction they’d initially gone, he wouldn’t be able to see them now. Yet, she didn’t ease her pace. Across well-tended yards, circumventing fences, and utilizing side streets, she listened for telltale signs of pursuit.
No hint of Otis.
With Hoover guiding the way, they made good time despite the heavier rainfall that now drenched her clothes and plastered her braid against her body. Occasional lightning speared the horizon, whether in defiance or aiding her mission, she could no longer determine. Several times, she slipped and face-planted in dirt or grass to leave her wet, filthy, and cold.
The small river winding its way behind the warehouse district provided another insulating layer between them and anyone who tried to follow, yet instead of crossing the bridge, Lexi urged Hoover into the water’s edge and slogged through the last half-mile in hopes of foiling possible trackers. “I doubt the prick knows anyone with a Search and Rescue dog, but in case he does hire someone, they won’t be able to track us.”
Shivering and clumsy from the cold soaking into her frame, Lexi concentrated on maintaining balance while listening to her teeth chattering. Rocks and other debris meant difficult footing, but the end result was worth the risk of injury. All the while, she expected to hear the dire threats or feel a heavy hand shoving her face down into the water.
With nearly frozen fingers, she finally struggled up the narrow bank. Her sneakers squished with every freezing step.
When at last they wound their way among the familiar storage buildings, she allowed herself to believe they might reach home in one piece. The pessimist in her expected to see the monster leaning against her door, but her Machiavellian imagination proved more prolific than reality’s determination to see her fail. No one waited.
When the steel bar fell into place behind her, she leaned against the door and slid to the concrete, the metal box falling onto its side. For long minutes, Hoover licked her face and nuzzled her neck.
“We made it, girl.” After her heart rate and breathing had come under control, she hugged her protector, thanking whatever force had set Hoover’s path on a collision course with a young, desperate teen.
Toweling her canine friend dry and making a nest of blankets on her bed gave Lexi time to consider all that had happened before a hot shower allowed time to sort her options. Timing would prove critical in that she’d just backed a wild animal into a corner. Making a wrong move would be deadly. He couldn’t get to Charlie, and none of the girls had ever wanted to know where she lived, for her own protection. Yet he wouldn’t believe their denials, preferring to torture them just the same. Would he kill his girls with such damning material in the wind?
Twenty minutes under the hot water spray stopped the constant shivering and relaxed her tense muscles enough that she felt as normal as she suspected she’d get. Outside the shower, Hoover waited patiently by the door as if knowing she needed the dog’s presence.
Damn, I’m lucky.
Once dry and garbed in jeans and a turtleneck, it was time to set her plan in motion. Back to the metal box. Collecting it, she padded to the kitchen then started some hot tea.
To be in the safe, the contents must have held tremendous importance. A snug clip holding the lid in place snapped open with a flick of her thumb. Bright pendant lighting illuminated the bulk of the contents after removing the ledger. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills had slid from side to side with each step during her bid for freedom. Taped together, they’d add up to thousands of dollars earned through a painful line of work. It was time for redistribution.
As she removed the bundles, shock stole her breath. Underneath was an assortment of jewelry in various states of disrepair. To the side, one necklace, a small mother-of-pearl nestled in the eye of a silver tiger, its giant paw raised in warning. Charlie had worn the same necklace since childhood. Various rings and other souvenirs were scattered in the box, bringing to mind the thug’s words. “I’ve been playing with girls around the city for years.”
“Time for some cyber-snooping.”
A few keystrokes on her computer gained her entrance into a fresh horror—a twisted collection of private photos and videos stored on her mark’s computer. He’d filmed his deadly playtime. She barely made it to the trashcan after discerning the files’ homemade origin and recognizing one of the landmarks as local.
With the ledger containing an accounting of the stable’s earnings, the balance of her findings held enough evidence to tie Otis to his illegal gains and Charlie’s attempted murder. If the rest of the jewelry came from other murder victims, the killer should never see the light of day again. All she needed was to get this into Ethan McAllister’s hands. If it convinced him to raid the house tonight, perhaps he’d find further evidence. The next steps required careful maneuvering: removing the cash, wiping her fingerprints from the box’s exterior and ledger, and persuading the detective to move fast. As much as she’d have rather waited until daylight, she had no choice but to immediately set her plan in motion.
Ethan’s address, found during her earlier snooping, was about an hour’s ride by bicycle even if she took the most direct route that included a short ride on a main thoroughfare. Since the roads traveled would lead away from the city streets and because time was critical, she had little choice but to strap the box to her bike and go.
“C’mon, Hoover, it’s time we take a ride.” It was a fairly long trek, but Hoover was accustomed to that degree of exercise, and she’d take it slowly. There was no way in hell she’d travel without her dog after what she’d survived.
Outside, the skies were clearing as she secured the box to her bike. Though rarely did they go out at night, the sooner the police arrested the butcher, the sooner her friends would be safe. It was worth the trip.
The stiff breeze would dry things up by morning after the rain had washed the streets temporarily clean. She welcomed the fresh, earthy smell as Hoover trotted beside her bike along back roads containing little traffic.
The lifestyle she’d chosen and the need to remain off the pimp’s radar negated the option of owning a vehicle, which would’ve provided too many opportunities for tracking. In the back of her mind, fear of running into him had influenced her decisions since first hitting the streets and thrived until it had overseen her actions. After the police nailed his ass, she’d inherit the freedom to expand her life and maybe buy a car. The thought had merit.
Tender Echoes Page 7
