Demon on a Distant Shore (28 page)

“Those pipes are old and almost rusted through under the paint,” Paul said as if reading my mind. His gaze went to the pipes across the ceiling. “Which is why they installed new plumbing last year.”

Specks of rust had come through the paint where one pipe joined the other. I slid the cuffs down and gave a tentative yank. It was enough to bring tears as pain blossomed in my arm.

“Go on. Try!” Sylvia urged. “I wouldn’t want what happened to me to happen to you.”

“I don’t think I could watch that again,” Paul said in a low voice.

Shit shit shit!
Tears of pain and frustration welled in my eyes.
Oh, dear God
. I ground my teeth and yanked again, and felt movement. Through my tears, I saw a brown hairline crack circling the pipe.

I wriggled onto my butt, planted the soles of my feet flat on the wall, and pulled.
Okay. This is it, no stopping.

Easier thought than done. The pain in my arm was horrible. I kept pulling, pushing with my legs as hard as I could, muttering and cursing, and suddenly went sideways as one side of the pipe crumbled.

I had to rest.

Panting, I ducked my head to wipe tears and sweat off my face on the cuff of my sleeve. My gasps turned to rapid breathing, then slowed. “Why did Pickins kill you?”

“Not Pickins,” Cooper said. “As Mrs. Norton said, Pickins likes to play. Killing us too soon would spoil his fun. He would rather have kept us alive longer.”

“Then who?”

No answer. A sudden prickle down my spine warned me.

They glowed, the same white light which bathed Brenda as she passed over. The fear had gone from their faces. Peter Cooper stood behind Sylvia and Paul. The glow from all three illuminated the small room like concentrated light. They smiled at me.

No!
“Wait! Don’t go! Who killed you? Tell me who killed you?”

They gently disintegrated before my eyes, but Sylvia’s voice whispered through the small room. “Good-bye.”

I sagged over my thighs. Whoever killed Paul and Sylvia Norton, and Peter Cooper, had just died.

Feeling very much alone, I swallowed a sob and let my head sag so my chin rested on my breastbone. I had to get out, and fast, but my arm hurt so much.

Head still down, I gave one almighty
yank.

The handcuffs broke through the pipe. I tumbled backward. I would have cracked the back of my head on the brick floor had I not tucked my chin in my neck. Lucky old me.

I lay there for a time, knowing I should move, unable to.

I rolled onto my stomach, braced on my elbows and peered at the cuffs. From rolling, I knew Pickins had cleaned out my pockets. Not a thing in there to pick open the cuffs. Could there be an thin nail or piece of wire down here?

I struggled to my knees, my feet, stood up slowly and hung there, swaying a little. When I thought I could move without hitting the floor again, I went around the room. Plenty of broken pieces of wood, but no nails in them. There were, of course, screws in the furnace and water heater, but they would not work on the cuffs even if I could get one out. I went up the steps to the door.

An unlocked door was too much to hope for.

I looked back to where I’d lain. The dim light made the edges and corners of the room shadowy. I looked up.

Oh shit. Don’t even think about it, Tiff.

I don’t see another option, Tiff. Do you?

Probably won’t work.

Don’t be such a negative bitch.

I staggered down the steps, over to the wall, and made a pile of small pieces of wood and torn clothing. In the dim light and with luck, it would look as if I crouched against the wall with my back to the room. Then I returned to the door.

I jumped off the top step and grabbed for the pipe. I missed.

My second attempt, I got one hand on the pipe, fell, caught my heel on the step and pitched forward. My belly hit the floor. I lay there gasping a good long time, scared to death the door behind me would open.

Then I got up, went up those steps, leaped into thin air and got both hands on that damn pipe. Do you know how badly a bullet wound hurts? Now imagine using that arm to pull the weight of your entire body up to the ceiling. I did a chin-up to get me higher, swung up my legs and managed to hook one ankle over another pipe which ran horizontal four feet away. After some maneuvering, I ended up with my hands joined round one pipe, my bent knees over the other, my toes pressed in the ceiling to brace myself.

There I was, plastered to the ceiling just like Spidey. I prayed the pipes would not come away from the ceiling and I prayed my body could tolerate what I put it through.

And then I waited.

I heard whistling and recognized the tune:
Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide. Got nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.

Think again, Mister.

A key turned in the lock, the door creaked open and he stepped inside. I barely breathed. He grinned at the bundle in the corner, then chuckled.

Come on. One more step.

He turned around to shut and lock the door. Inches below me, how could he not hear my breathing? How could he not sense me above him?

Come on, you bastard.

He took the step.

I let go of the pipe and swung down behind him, twisting my torso to loop my arms around his neck. Hanging by my knees, toes burrowed in the old ceiling, I jerked my right arm to get the crook against his windpipe. I grabbed my right wrist with my left hand and pulled, making my arm a vice around his neck.

It took a while. Put enough pressure on the carotid artery and a man will be out in ten seconds, but it was a long ten seconds. He grabbed my wrist first, then gashed my skin with his fingernails as panic set in. I yelled, and squeezed as tightly as I could. He kicked around some and took his feet off the floor, giving me his whole weight, which only made things worse for him as well as me. He writhed and kicked and tore at my arm, and I held on.

His feet dropped to the floor. His arms went limp, his body dragged me down. I squeezed.

When I was sure, I let him go. He fell hard, tumbled down the steps and sprawled on the floor face down.

I felt light-headed as I hung there with fresh blood soaking my sleeve. I let myself down, which is harder than it sounds. My legs had gone to sleep and both arms hurt worse than I can describe.

My legs gave out as I hit the step, but I managed to fall across it width-ways and not roll off. Everything went black.

I came awake lying on my side, ankles hanging over the edge of the step. I’d fainted, or knocked myself out. At least I was unconscious as circulation returned to numb limbs; I didn’t have to go through that agony. Pickins still sprawled on the floor below me. I thought of what he would have done if he recovered consciousness before I did.

I got to my feet and reeled down the steps in a stagger, dropped to my knees beside him, felt for a pulse in his neck, and sat back on my shins. He was alive, but I would not have been too upset to find him dead. I should have known he was not, else his shade would be in the crypt.

The dizziness got worse. I went through Pickins’ pockets and found the key to the cuffs. Opening cuffs is not easy when you’re the person wearing them and you hurt in every part of your body, when weakness threatens to overcome you. I managed to pull his arms behind his back, cuff him and put the key in my pocket. He had a Sig P220 Combat .45 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. I took it, but left the silencer.

After scrabbling around on the floor, I found the door key near the wall. With it in one hand, the gun in the other, I went up the steps, opened the door and stepped out into night thick with fog. I expected to come up inside the church, but the door sat under a small porch on the back side. I pushed it shut, locked it and slipped the key in my pocket.

The single lamp in front of the church shed enough light to illuminate my surroundings. Set on a high pole and brighter than standard, its light bathed the church and graveyard, penetrating the fog, making it a mustard-yellow haze. I stood among old stone markers, trying to orient myself. I didn’t want to trip over a low slab. When my night-sight kicked in, I walked around the side of the church and through Darnel Fowler.

I veered and my injured shoulder hit the wall.
Goddamn it!
Turning, I slumped on the wall.

Fowler stood at the corner wearing a look of astonishment. I would be astonished too if I had a messy crater where my left eye should be.

“Pickins?” I asked.

“How did you know?”

I peeled away from the wall, leaving a dark stain on old, pale stone. “Lucky guess. Why did he shoot you?”

He turned away and said firmly. “I’ll say no more.”

“Why ever not?” He knew the more information the police had, the easier it would be to get a conviction.

“I have family.” He stuck out his arm. “Look.”

I could just make out a turquoise and brown shape huddled between two tall stones. “What is it?”

Fowler dropped his arm. “I think it’s me.”

I peered at the bundle; a face in profile limned by the church’s light. I nodded sagely. “I think you’re right.”

“I don’t understand, not quite. I think I know, but. . . .”

I turned away. “You’ll figure it out.”

“But. . . .” his voice came plaintively from behind.

I went over the grass and through the gate. A small panel truck waited on the far side of the lane, rear door rolled up, ramp down. Pickins killed Fowler and came in to kill me. Then he would cart our bodies away.

I slogged along in the darkness and clammy weight of the fog, past the diffused light from cottage windows, feeling so
cold
, and heavy, as if weights were fastened to my ankles. No Johnny. He’s gone on his way. Poor kid. Poor, poor kid. A sob burst from me.

A man-shape loomed in front of me. I brought the gun up.

My mouth felt full of damp paper towel, the cheap cardboardy kind. I worked up saliva.

“There-there, dear. You’re safe now,” Carrie said.

Her hand passed over my hair like a gentle breeze. Impossible.  You can’t feel a shade, not even if you walk through one.
Must be my imagination.

My eyelids were sewn together.
What the
. . .
?
I cranked my eyebrows up as high as I could which lifted my lids a mere crack.

White light.

I waited a few seconds and tried again. Easier this time, and the light no longer seared.

I lay on a bed, elevated from the waist up. I had no problem identifying a hospital cubicle. The sheet under my butt - naked where the flannelette gown gaped open - felt worn, with the hard slipperiness of plastic beneath. Big fluorescent lights on the ceiling. A ticking noise interspersed with tiny beeps from equipment monitoring my condition. The back of my right hand ached from the IV needle.

Royal sat on a hard-backed chair beside me, bent over with elbows on knees, hands clasped, his forehead resting on them.

“Hi there?” I croaked.