Death's Door (9 page)

Herculeah put the phone back in its cradle as carefully as if the phone were in working order. With a feeling of doom, she glanced around the shop.

She was torn between leaving immediately and getting the money for Uncle Neiman. She wanted to do what was most safe but she didn't know what that was. Or was anything safe?

If the gunman had cut the wires, he was outside somewhere. If she rushed out—

But he hadn't seen her come in. That meant he was out front. So maybe ...

She had made no decision, but she found she was moving toward the rare books. It was if she were sleepwalking and didn't have control over her actions. Her heart had begun to pound. Her throat was dry.

She felt in her pocket. The key was there. Her fingers curled around it. She drew it out. With her fingers, she found the keyhole. She got the key in on the third try. She unlocked the door.

Herculeah found she couldn't remember Uncle Neiman's instructions. Where were the books she was supposed to move? The top shelf—she remembered that much. Right or left?

She took off the books on the right. She set them on the floor. Rising, she felt the space against the wall. There was no combination lock.

Her hands had begun to tremble. She reached up and took down the books on the left. There it was. She was aware that she was moving faster than she had ever moved in her life. Everything was speeded up, as if to keep time with her racing heart.

She took a deep breath. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to the lock.

Now for the combination. At least that was etched in her mind: fourteen, left, fifteen, right, twice around to seven. There was a satisfying click that told her the safe was open.

At that moment she heard something that turned her blood cold. Ice water rushed through her veins.

There were footsteps on the porch.

There was a stealth about these footprints that told Herculeah whoever was coming to the door had no business there. Her heart was pounding in her ears now.

Again she was torn with indecision. She glanced at the door, gauging the distance. Did she have time to run past the door and get to the alley before whoever it was came in? Maybe she only had time to hide behind the counter. Or maybe she—

She had no time at all. There was a sharp, metallic click at the front door's lock—a knife, Herculeah thought—and the entrance to Death's Door swung open.

Herculeah flattened herself against the wall. She pulled back into the shadows.

She heard someone step inside. She heard the door close. It happened in a matter of seconds.

She heard the sound of something heavy being put on the floor—a suitcase maybe.

She heard a faint hissing sound, as if the man—she knew it was a man—were inhaling through his front teeth. It was a sound of satisfaction as if he found himself where he most wanted to be, about to do something he had looked forward to. Now Herculeah's heart was pounding so hard she wondered that he couldn't hear it.

He came forward a few steps and stopped. He was a big man—she could tell that from his footsteps—and yet he moved with the certainty of an animal. Herculeah could tell his position from the creaking of the floorboards. He took another step.

She knew he was standing in the entranceway now, probably looking from room to room, making a decision.

Let him go into the dining room, she pleaded, willing it to happen with all her might. Then let him go up the steps to Uncle Neiman's apartment.

She sent the message again and again. Go into the dining room. Go up the stairs.

Because, Herculeah thought with faint hope, if he went up the stairs, she would have a chance to get to the door. All she needed was a chance. She was as fast as any man—even one who moved like an animal.

But if he came in this room, she thought, and she felt unaccustomed tears sting her eyes, she would not have any chance at all.

There was a silence. The gunman didn't move, just stood there, feeling the air, listening. Herculeah held her breath. She closed her eyes. She now had to breath through her mouth.

Please go in the other room, she pleaded. Turn right. Turn right. Don‘t—

She didn't get to finish. She heard the gunman step into the room where she stood against the wall. Her eyelids flew open.

Her knees had begun to tremble.

He took one step, another. He was coming closer. It was as if he were a hunter stalking a helpless creature, and even though he didn't know exactly where his prey hid, he had plenty of time to find out.

Herculeah could smell him now—cigarette smoke and sweat. In the light from the street, his right hand came into view—a hand as big as a ham. And in it was a gun, a silencer on the end.

If he comes on this side of the stacks, he'll see me, she thought. She resumed her mental pleading. Go between the stacks. Between the stacks. Between—

This time it worked.

The man stepped between the bookcases, and she could see his silhouette through the gaps in the books. He was huge—massive shoulders, arms bulging against the sleeves of his jacket. She held her breath as he made his way through the room.

He paused as if looking for a book, though Herculeah knew he was not. Perhaps he had heard her. Perhaps he was one of those people who can sense another's presence. Perhaps he had the animal ability to smell a victim's fear. There was plenty of that.

All at once she remembered something Uncle Neiman had said—something about a stack of books falling on him. He had thought it was one of the attempts on his life.

So these stacks could be pushed over, if someone had the strength.

Herculeah drew in a deep silent breath. I have the strength, she told herself. I have to have it.

With that thought, she could feel it building in her like a force of nature, something that could not be held back.

The gunman was directly across from her now. She dared not move. She'd have to take two steps to get to the bookcase and that might be all the warning the man would need.

He drew air in between his teeth. There was that hissing sound, deadly as a snake's.

At that moment, the man leaned down, peered through the books, and his terrible hooded eyes looked directly at Herculeah. The eyes were red and seemed to be lit from within like something at Hal loween.

“You,” he said.

He exhaled and Herculeah smelled the fetid breath of death.

“Albert, come away from the window.”

“I can't.”

“Albert, that's not doing any good. You aren't helping Herculeah by standing at the window. Come and watch TV.”

“And will that help her? My watching TV?”

His mother sighed. “I can't do anything with you when you're like this.”

“Then don't try. Leave me alone.”

His mother came and stood beside him. Meat stiffened, warning her not to pat him. She didn't. She put her hand back in her apron pocket.

“Where could he have taken her?” Meat said. “You ought to know. He's your brother.”

“I have no idea. My own brother is a complete stranger to me. It's probably as well we don't watch TV. Neiman could be on the news.”

“Could they have gone back to the bookstore, do you think?”

She shook her head. “That's where the trouble started. The gunman knows about the bookstore.”

“Do you think I should go across the street and at least tell Mrs. Jones about it?”

“They're smart people. By now they know more about Neiman than we do.”

“Well, I'm going to go over there anyway.”

“Albert—”

“I'm going!”

Meat had been wanting to do this for hours, but he hadn't thought of a good enough excuse.

He ran out the front door and across the street. He took the stairs to the Jones house by twos. This was the fastest Meat had ever gone up stairs in his life.

Mrs. Jones must have seen him coming, because she opened the door before he had a chance to ring the bell.

“You've heard something?”

Her face, pale with concern, lit up with quick hope. She put one hand over her heart.

Meat shook his head and watched her hope die. He wished he hadn't come.

“No, no, Mrs. Jones. I'm sorry. I wish I had heard something.”

“Where are they? Where are they?”

“That's what mom and I were talking about. That's why I came over. Uncle Neiman has a bookstore, but Mom doesn't think they went back there.”

“.Chico knows about that. He has a squad car driving past regularly, but there hasn't been any sign of them. Where could they be, Meat? What kind of man is your uncle?”

“He was just a nice man who brought me books,” Meat said. “Always Hardy Boys.”

He remembered that those books always made him wish someone would write a series about the Unhardy Boys. He had considered writing the books himself, but he had never got any further than naming them Meat and Pete.

He shook off the thought. Mrs. Jones wouldn't be interested in his mystery series when her only child was missing.

He said carefully, “I guess Uncle Neiman's a desperate man.” She waited, knowing there was more. “I think he went to the school to get me to help him get out of town. I wasn't there so he took Herculeah. My guess is that's what she's doing—helping him get away.”

“Neither of them can drive—he because of his eyes and Herculeah—well, she's driven from here to the corner a time or two, but she's certainly not capable of driving in traffic.”

“Have they checked the bus stations? The train stations?”

“Yes. And every policeman in the city has his picture—your mother found it for us—a description of what he was wearing and a picture of Herculeah and what she's wearing. As soon as there's any news, Chico's going to call me. I've got to stay by the phone.”

“Will you let me know?”

“Yes.”

She closed the door in his face, and he remained on the steps for a moment, unwilling to give up this small contact with his friend.

He heard Mrs. Jones sag against the front door, as if she didn't have the strength to get back to the phone. She asked again, “Where can they be?”

Herculeah ducked down. She could no longer see those terrible eyes, but it was as if their viciousness was burned into her brain.

She knew that he was waiting for her to move. If she went right, he would too. Left, and he would be waiting at that end of the bookcase.

Well, she thought, her move might surprise him. She stepped forward with a cry of fright and power worthy of a samurai. Arms outstretched, head down, she took one more step and pushed with all her strength.

The bookcase resisted. It was heavier than Herculeah had thought. For one split second, it didn't move at all, and then it rocked slightly forward and back. A few books tumbled to the floor. Then Herculeah put her shoulder to it, and with a groan, it toppled. There was an oath of surprise from the gunman as the avalanche of books fell from the shelves, burying him.

In the silence that followed, Herculeah took off for the dining room. By the time she got to the entrance hall, she was running full out.

She tripped over the gunman's satchel and fell forward. She yelped with surprise.

She scrambled to her feet. Behind her, in the living room were sounds of the gunman struggling to get out from under the books.

She ran through the dining room. Behind her was a sound—a soft pop as if a balloon were exploding. She heard a thud on the bookshelf as she passed—a bullet. He was firing from the floor. He wasn't on his feet yet but he soon would be.

She cut into the kitchen. She remembered the chair she had stumbled over, remembered the fallen books. She couldn't see them but she vaulted over them as if she were a hurdler.

In the living room more books were being thrown aside. The man was scrambling to his feet. He fell heavily—the boards of the house shook. He got up again.

Now she heard his footsteps. The man was moving fast. He was in the entrance now. Somehow he had survived the books, thrown them off. He had his gun. He had used it and would use it again.

Herculeah reached the back door. Her hands were trembling violently, but she managed to throw the bolt and open the lock.

The man was at the door of the kitchen now. He started forward. He lost his footing on the fallen books, stumbled over the fallen chair, and fell with a curse.

Herculeah hurled herself out the door and slammed it shut behind her. Maybe the gunman would have trouble with the lock, and that would give her a few extra seconds. She knew she needed all the time she could get.

Glass shattered behind her. The gunman was at the door. He was going to fire.

She zigzagged down the alley in short desperate strides. The cat darted out of her way, cringing in fear.

She looked up. She could see Uncle Neiman there, the car parked right at the entrance.

She opened the door and threw herself into the right seat.

“Get out of here,” she gasped. “He's coming.” She grabbed his arm as if to shake him into action. “Get out of here!”

She glanced back. The gunman was in the alley.

“Drive!”

Uncle Neiman caught her fear. He tried to turn on the ignition and found it was already on. He released the brake. He threw the car in gear and stepped on the gas in one motion. The car shot forward.