Friend Me (34 page)

She was still in the window, looking his way.

He swung the car door open. The brilliance of the car's interior lights startled him. He jumped out, slammed the door, and looked back toward the window.

No one was there. If she'd had any question about whether or not it was him, then she didn't any longer. What was she
thinking? Did she think he was here because he loved her, wanted her?

He patted the cell phone in his pocket for reassurance. That was his only link to the rest of the world. And what was he worried about? If anyone in the world was safe, then surely it was him. Hadn't she told him she loved him?

He walked across the street. The honey-colored light from the old streetlamp casting a long, dull shadow in front of him. Thirty more feet would take him to the door.

They were adults, right? He could sit down with her and tell her that it wasn't going to work, that he loved his wife, and that was all there was to it. They could walk away amicably, couldn't they?

The acid taste of fear filled his mouth. Why lie to himself? The woman had killed two times that he knew of and had tried to kill Rachel. No, it wouldn't be that easy. But it was time to be a man, time to put an end to the danger he had brought into his home.

He walked up the short steps, the walkway, onto the porch. No sound came from inside the house.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, but as soon as he touched it, the door swung open an inch. Light from the entryway flooded onto his shoes, up into his face, momentarily blinding him. He stepped back, but the door didn't move any more.

Tentatively, he pushed it farther with the tips of his fingers. It swung noiselessly open, wide enough to admit him.

Was she there? Was she still inside?

He bent forward, slipped his head inside the house. “Melissa?”

The pain erupted in his head with the brightness of a thousand exploding suns. The last thing he saw as the blackness enfolded him was a woman's hands, reaching down to pull him roughly inside.

•  •  •

MELISSA PUSHED THE DOOR
open and stepped into the short hallway that led to the dining room.

The sound of someone running upstairs. She heard a door slam shut somewhere in the house.

So she knows I'm here
.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

She turned into the dining room. Newspaper clippings and notepads were spread out across the table. What? The
Blairsville Voice
?

Sounds came from upstairs. Panicky, crying sounds. She smiled to herself. She would soon take care of that, but not right now.

One clipping showed a picture of Tony and Rose Montalvo. With the scissors she'd carried in, she clipped away at the article until it fell like confetti to the floor. There weren't very many. It wouldn't take long. Rachel wasn't going anywhere.

Above her the sounds continued. That was good. As long as she knew where Rachel was, the house was hers. Why hadn't she heard the children yet? No matter, she would find them soon.

Melissa sat down at the table and worked through the papers.
Snip snip
. They were all going away.

All going away. Uncle Tony. Daddy. Mommy. Already all gray in their pictures. I must fix the things upstairs
.

Snip, snip.

She looked at the scissors. They were not gray at all. They were shiny, new-looking. Why did her arm look so gray? She pressed the tip of the scissors into her skin, watching with detached interest as the bright red blood ran back toward her elbow.

I don't want to go away. I have to save myself for Scott. He'll thank me. He said I would be enough, and I'll prove it. He'll love me even more
.

She turned toward the stairs.

•  •  •

TEARS BLINDED RACHEL'S EYES
. She sat on the floor, back pressed against the bedroom door. Why was she having so much trouble with the cell phone? Her hands shook, fingers numb. She couldn't dial the number.

“Hello? Anyone here?” The voice lifted itself serpentlike from her kitchen. Not Scott. It was a woman's voice.

Lord Jesus, help me! She's here
.

There, she had dialed Scott's number. She held the phone to her ear and listened. The soft
burr-burr
of the ring came back.

Answer the phone, Scott
.

“This is Scott. Sorry, I'm not here. Please leave . . .”

No, no. Not your voice mail. Scott, answer the phone. You said you'd be there
.

Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps.

She dialed again. Same result. Call 911! Her fingers stabbed at the pad as she heard the sound on the stairs. Footfalls, coming her way.

She misdialed. Tried again.

“Rachel? Are you in there?” Melissa was on the other side of the door.

Rachel's back was still against the door frame. The realization of her vulnerability came like a thunderclap. Standing, she spun away and stood up.

Her cell phone clattered to the floor, broke into three pieces as it bounced on the unforgiving hardwood surface. The battery spun like a top, coming to rest partially under the door.

She reached down to retrieve the battery.

It slid away under the door, pulled away by an unseen hand.

“You won't need that, Rachel.” The doorknob clicked back and forth.

“Go away. Leave us alone!”

“Al . . . most . . .” The kick came from the outside, bent the bedroom door in from the bottom. The frame by the doorknob splintered. “. . . done!”

With a crash, the door flew open. Rachel threw herself against it. Her shoulder flared in pain, but the door closed, though there was no lock now to hold it shut.

More pressure from outside forced the door open again, barely enough to admit a hand.

The hand was streaked with fresh, red blood. Droplets ran off the bottom of the hand onto the floor. The rest of the arm snaked its way through the opening.

“I'm coming in, Rachel.”

Turning, Rachel grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open as fast as she could.

Melissa flew past, the force of her push on the door propelling her across the room. Her face was a mottled mask of horror. Metal flashed in Melissa's hand as she rolled onto the floor, coming to rest against the side of the bed.

The red eyes that looked back at Rachel were filled with loathing. Blood was smeared on the bedspread where the face had struck.

Rachel bolted out the door, down the stairs.

The other woman scrambled to her feet, muttering curses. “You stupid cow. Just stand still and let me finish this.”

The kitchen. Get a knife
.

She ran into the kitchen, slipping as she went. There was blood on the floor. Melissa's blood?

Oh, please don't let it be Scott's blood
.

On the counter sat a wooden block holding the set of knives Scott had given her for her birthday. She pulled out the largest one and turned toward the loud noises coming from the staircase. There was no time to get outside. She would have to fight, defend herself the best she could.

The garage
.

She could get out through the garage door. Lock the entry door, buy some time, get outside. She ran down the hallway as Melissa came crashing down the stairs behind her. Not daring to look back, she slammed the entry door and locked it.

She slapped at the button to open the garage door. Her fingers found wires instead, ripped from the Sheetrock wall. As she turned to face the other wall with its high window, the door exploded behind her.

All Good Things

P
ain swirled in black clouds through Scott's head. His skull felt like it was the size of a watermelon.

Where am I?
Something was ringing, buzzing.

He opened his eyes.
Melissa's house
. He shook his head to clear it. It didn't work.

He struggled to his feet, looked around. No one in sight.

What had happened? He took the cell phone out of his pocket.

Missed Call

Rachel!

He pulled the door open, ran outside to the garage, pushed open the entry door.

Empty. Melissa was gone.

The phone was still in his hand. He dialed Rachel's number. Weakness washed over him as he listened to the call ring, ring, ring . . . and then go to voice mail.

The car was still in the street. He dove into the front seat and flew down the road. A glance at the cell phone display told him he had been out at least twenty minutes. What could have happened in twenty minutes? More than he wanted to imagine.

He thumbed 911 on the phone.

“This is nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

He gave the operator his name and address. “Please send police and EMTs. I think someone's trying to kill my wife.”

He dropped the phone onto the seat next to him, concentrated on the road.

He pressed down hard on the accelerator pedal. Streets and stoplights flashed by. He had to get home.

•  •  •

WOOD SPLINTERED
from the trim as Melissa burst through the entry door. Her face was smeared with blood, eyes wide with pain. Her breath came in great, raw gasps as the broken door slapped back against the Sheetrock wall of the garage.

“You, you!” she sobbed, as she crashed into Rachel, knocking her back toward the water heater.

Melissa's arms were streaked with dark blood as she shoved Rachel backward with both hands.

Rachel threw up her arms in defense, tried to grab something, anything, to keep from falling. Her hand slipped against the smear that was Melissa's face, one eye filled with blood. The spittle on the woman's teeth glistened as she drew back her lips in feral fury.

Boards stacked against the wall clattered down as Rachel fell backward against the tank, the wood striking her head, then rasping across her face. Her eye caught the flash of the scissors
in Melissa's raised fist, then she felt a stabbing pain in her left shoulder. Something warm ran down her chest, her arm.

Was this the end? Is this how it will be?

Then the other woman was on top of her, a plank of wood between them. Rachel couldn't see anything. The crushing weight of her assailant drove all the breath out of her.

“Now . . . now.” The coarse, agonized voice filled the garage as consciousness fled and everything went dark.

•  •  •

THE TAURUS SLID
and skidded as it careened into the yard. The garage door stood open, revealing two cars in the driveway. Melissa's Audi and . . . whose?

In the side yard, barely illuminated by the light from the garage, Scott saw a woman's body lying on the grass. As he opened the car door another woman crossed his field of vision, coming from the garage.

Not Rachel.

She lugged the five-gallon can of gasoline he kept inside, stumbling as she drove herself onward to the yard.

“No! Stop!” he called, but she had already reached the body on the lawn.

He leaped from the car, foot slipping on the damp grass. He went down on one elbow. “Stop, don't do it!” She glanced up at him, her face shadowed by the corner of the house, as she shook the last drops from the gasoline can on top of the prone body.

He struggled to his feet, ran toward the women.

Whoompf!

The force of the gasoline igniting knocked him backward.
He looked up, shaded his eyes from the brilliant light of the blaze.

Both women were wrapped in blue flame, one standing, kneeling, then falling on top of the one on the ground, as the flames leaped high into the dark night sky.

The sound from the conflagration reached his ears—popping, hissing. The body on top heaved once, then lay still in the all-consuming fire.

Rachel. I was too late for you
. Tears filled his eyes as the agony of his heart wrenched his chest.

Cars stopped on the road. A man stood with his door open, talking on a cell phone.

Movement from the garage caught his eye.

Pulling himself to his feet, he leaned against the car and stared, unbelieving.

Rachel stumbled from the garage, her left side wet with blood. She ran toward Scott, met him, collapsed into his arms. “Oh, Scott.”

He turned toward the flaming pyre in the yard, the pair of heaped bodies in the midst. “But I thought . . .”

She followed his gaze. “Rose . . . it was Rose Montalvo,” she whispered. “She hated her . . . followed us . . . Melissa tried to kill me . . .” She went limp.

He caught her, lowered her to the grass, cradled her head in his lap. He put his hand on her neck, relieved as he felt the strong pulse. Then he pulled back her collar and saw the wound on her shoulder. There was a puncture by the shoulder joint, oozing blood. He tore off some of the fabric, rolled it into a ball, and applied pressure. She was going to be all right.

Her body began to tremble. He pulled her closer to him.
Crackling, popping sounds were coming from the glowing flames as they began to die down.

Headlights flashed across the yard as more cars stopped on the road. He rocked Rachel back and forth, glad to feel her shaking subsiding.

A man in a business suit bent down by him, holding his cell phone in his hand. “Mister? Are you okay? I called nine-one-one.”

Scott nodded, and pulled Rachel up close to his chest. He felt her breath against his hand, the strong beat of her heart against his arm.

It had been Rose Montalvo at Melissa's house. Rose came here, found Melissa, and killed her. All so hard to believe, even though he had seen it with his own eyes.

“Yes, we're going to be okay.”

Opportunity

D
an Hammersmith leaned back in his chair. Sunlight slanted in through the corner window behind him, accenting the deep lines on his face.