SUSPENSE THRILLERS-A Boxed Set (20 page)

She was mad with fear, insane with the prospect of her death. Her mouth opened, her head lurched into the cold, wet material, and pure instinct made her bite his chest with a fury she never knew she had.

He screamed in agony. He released her wrist and the trowel fell to the ground. His hands, the wire hooked into his fingers, covered her buried head and forced her away. With a horrible sucking sound Helen’s teeth were torn from his chest and she pushed at him, upsetting his balance so that he hit the tree.

Again she ran. Through the roses, unmindful of tears and scrapes, through the open beautiful lawn. From the corner of her eye she saw him gaining, running to her left, going for the gate, to block her escape. She went through the open doorway of the house. There was no time to bar the doors. She flew through the kitchen, down the two steps to the den, and had the telephone receiver off the hook while still in flight.

Frantically she put it against her ear and heard--nothing.

"You!"
she screamed at him as he came down the steps to her. "Get away! Get away from me!"

She tried to reach the front door, but he was too close. She opened the door into the library, trying to keep her mind calm enough to remember what rooms had openings out of them so that she would not be trapped.

Blood dripped from her thorn wounds onto the pearly white carpet, spotting her trail. She grabbed an onyx horse head and flung it at him as he came into the library. She heard it miss, hitting the wall as she collided with the shut door of a bathroom. Quickly she fumbled with the brass knob, slipped inside, and slammed it behind her. She pushed the lock button, smiling as his fist banged on the other side. She slipped out the other door of the bathroom into the hall, rushing for the living room and freedom.

Behind her a crystal lamp fell. Helen’s head swiveled to see her attacker crossing the room. One side of his face was bloodied. He was clawing his way toward her, spilling the Chinese vase of flowers, the garrote swinging wildly from one hand.

The stairs, the upstairs! Lock him out!

She was on the seventh step when his hand snaked through the spokes of the banister and caught her ankle.

She went down to her knees painfully, hearing a snap, feeling the surge of pain travel up her calf to her thigh. She twisted away from him, kicked with her other foot, and got free. She crawled up one step, got to her feet, steeling herself against the pain from her cracked kneecap, and half hopped, half crawled to the second floor.

Four bedrooms, two baths, dressing rooms, closets, a balcony. She had no time to devise a plan. She fell into a hall closet and managed to shut the door just as he was about to clear the stairway. She held her breath, hands tight over her mouth, eyes wide open in the dark. She was surrounded by their tennis rackets, jogging shoes, and scuba-diving gear.

She heard his footsteps pound past her hiding place. She waited, feeling faint from the pain in her knee.

Blood from her hands trickled down her arms. Her heart beat so rapidly she could not catch her breath. The fear of dying thumped through her thoughts like a monster rampaging through a small village. Her fear was Frankenstein and the town was her brain. Footfalls echoed inside the dark confinement of the musty closet until Helen thought he would burst through the plaster and wood. She whimpered inside like a small child waiting to be punished
. Let me out! Let me out of here! Oh God, I can’t stand to be locked in here waiting for him!

When the claustrophobia was too much, Helen ripped open the closet door.

She blinked. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and she saw nothing, no one. She let out her breath and heard something crash downstairs.

Limping and crying silently from the pain and fear, she started for her bedroom. In some small kernel of her soul she knew she would not give up, would never give up without using all her resources to outwit him.

At her bedroom door she saw the whole room. It looked empty, but was it? Had the crash downstairs come from his plundering the rooms for her or had it been mere accident--- book, a vase, a statue tumbling on its own?

She moved as quietly as possible across the room, all the while watching the closet door, the bathroom full of shadows, the rose-patterned drapes on each side of the French doors leading to the balcony. At any moment she anticipated the pounce of her attacker. She stared ahead of her bravely, holding her body erect even though her knee throbbed relentlessly. She was past the bed, past the extravagant dresser with its tremendous array of cosmetics. She had the doorknobs of the double French doors in her hands.

Outside was sunlight, her garden, the unplanted roses. Freedom waited at the bottom of the drop to the terrace floor. She had to do it. She had to make the effort. She would not give her life willingly to a madman. She knew who he was. She had known it in the garden when she saw the wire and understood how the wire was used. He was in all the newspapers and on the television newscasts. He had killed a little boy and two women. He had taken two of the heads and now he wanted hers, but she would not make it easy for him!

At the white balcony railing she leaned out into the air and felt a soft breeze caress her wet cheeks. She glanced behind her then peered over the drop. He was nowhere in sight.
Quickly now
, she told herself, hoisting her good leg over the railing to stand on the narrow ledge.
Quickly and be done with it before he comes.

Her weight dragged her earthward. She hung from the rail by her hands. She chanced a last look at the terrace that seemed to be so far down.
You’re going to break your legs on the bricks,
she thought.
You’re going to have to crawl out the gate.

Panic began to invade her mind, making her not want to let go. Because...was it worth it? Would it save her? She did not want to find herself shattered and helpless on the cold, unyielding bricks below.

She looked up above her, and for an instant she thought the man’s hands clutching her hands belonged to her husband, who had come to save her at last. Then she realized the truth.

"No!" she screamed, falling, twisting.

The pain on impact was too much. She could see nothing but a black, starry void. She instinctively began to grope her way across the smooth squares of brick to where she thought the gate must be. Her vision slowly returned, and with it came the reality of her situation. For the first time she felt as if she was not going to make it. Both her legs were bent at ludicrous angles, and she could see her left anklebone protruding through the skin like a piece of splintered wood. Blood was splattered all over her pale green skirt. She turned her head and looked to the balcony. He was not there. She looked through the French doors into the kitchen. He was not there either.

Helen crawled, breathing laboriously, grunting at each half foot she took.

Finally, after an eternity, she was at the gate, close enough to touch the gray planks. She was sobbing and weakly calling for someone to help her, to rescue her. The gate would not move. She gazed without comprehension at the latch. She reached out one scraped and bleeding arm, but there was so far to go, so much she had to do, and no one to help her. She couldn't reach the latch, oh God, she couldn't get to it.

"Please," she cried, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "Please, someone..."

She felt his presence behind her. Frantically she clawed at the gate until her fingernails tore away from the skin. His knees were pressing against her back, and she could feel the warmth from his body burning into her. His hands were oddly gentle on her shoulders as if to calm her. Still she clawed and pushed and heaved against the locked gate, desperate to be away from his touch.

The wire descended. Helen saw it, the entire length of it held rigidly before her eyes, the handles squeezed tightly in his hands. She reached for it to stay her death sentence, murmuring, "Wait...wait...please."

Helen McCombie’s death was not swift or neat. She used her body as a weapon. Her hips bucked, her feet slid up, and she kicked out at him with one broken ankle, her hands beat at him. Finally, her valiant fight ended with her life’s blood spurting against the traitorous closed garden gate.

AT FIVE-THIRTY on the afternoon of Helen McCombie’s death, Sam received a call from Garbo.

"I just wrapped up the on-the-scene investigation of the fourth one, Sam. I knew you’d want to know."

Sam pressed the phone close to his ear and turned away from the window. "Tell me about it."

"Middle-aged woman, wife of a doctor, resident of River Oaks..." Sam let out a gasp. Garbo swallowed and continued the rundown on the fourth victim.

"She was found in a rose bed, but it’s pretty obvious she died on the back patio near a gate and was transported--and laid out carefully--in the roses. Sam, this one’s different. She wasn’t taken by total surprise. She fought for her life. As far as we can make out, the struggle started in the backyard and moved into the house. She was alone, the telephone lines were cut, and there was a trail of blood. She fled from room to room and finally upstairs."

“How did she get past him down to the patio?" Sam asked.

"She dropped from a balcony."

"Christ." Sam shuddered at what the woman had gone through.

"It broke both her legs and her right ankle. From there she dragged herself to the gate, but she never got it open."

"Any evidence left behind?"

"A footprint in the garden," Garbo continued. "Blood samples are being tested now to see if he left any behind, and I think from the physical evidence of the battle that took place he didn’t get away from this woman without some scars. We’ve got hair samples too. Have to check it against the husband and the victim. The autopsy’s underway so I’ll know more later."

"Fingerprints?" Sam asked hopefully.

"It doesn’t look good. We’re still working on it. I doubt we’ll get that kind of break."

"Witnesses? Neighbors?"

"We’re canvassing. Dr. McCombie found her and called us at four. River Oaks’ security didn’t see a thing although they went past the house twice during the estimated time of the murder."

Sam closed his eyes and asked the question he was almost afraid to ask. "Did he take her head?"

"Yeah."

Sam slumped to the bed. He ran one hand over his bald pate, then knuckled the stubble of his cheek.

Garbo cleared his throat and said, "Any luck with your list of Vietnam vets?"

"No. What about the others?"

"Couple of possibles. One’s a mental, in and out of Austin State. The other went into gory detail about a girl in a village over there like he was offering us a fairytale. The rest seem to be okay so far."

"Maybe you’ll get a witness," Sam said. "We’ve got to get something.”

"I know we do, Sam, it’s my ass in a sling here. He’s just so goddamn slippery. He’s not giving us any constants. No special time of day or month or interval between killings. No special victim. We can’t connect anything. By this time next month we may be locking up my own mother and I’ll be relieved--you know that? I’d settle for almost anything about now."

"I want to go over there and check it out. Can you clear it for me?”

"Sure, Sam, you can have the run of the goddamned place. The doc moved in with a sister across town. When do you want to go?”

Sam stared through the window to the gathering twilight outside. "Tomorrow, sometime tomorrow."

"Right. And Sam?"

"What?"

"I want you to know that I don’t care about getting the honor on this one," Garbo said. "If you crack it, if you come up with something, you get the credit. I don’t want any more stripes anyway. I’d just like to keep what I’ve got."

"There won’t be any honor." Sam felt his old friend despair settle over his shoulders. "He’s slipped four over on us. He’s been playing us all the way down the line. I don’t want glory, Garbo. I only want satisfaction."

After cradling the receiver, Sam stood and crossed to the window. Satisfaction, he repeated to himself.

Was that it? He knew it was not as sweet as revenge. Revenge was done with passion, and Sam was too methodical and painstaking to waste his time on mindless passion. Satisfaction meant meeting the blind lady of justice and righting the scales.

Let Jack DeShane wish for revenge and Garbo Kranz collect the kudos for apprehending the killer. All Sam Bartholomew wanted was one last victory over the jungle.

Sam watched Maggie park her car in front of the house. She looked to his window, waved, came up the walk with a smile on her face. Sam dropped the curtain into place and opened the drawer of his bedside table. Before Maggie opened his bedroom door, he swigged three fierce gulps of Old Kentucky. He did not bother to hide the bottle. He saw her smile turn to a frown of disappointment.

"What’s wrong?" she asked immediately, shrugging out of her tan gabardine coat and coming to him.

He put the bottle to his lips and downed another swallow. He held out the quart and, looking at it, shook his head sadly.

"I’ve got to make a trip to the liquor store. I’m about out."

"Is it the killer?" Maggie reached for the bottle but failed to be quick enough for Sam.

"Number four," he admitted bitterly. "A woman in River Oaks."

Maggie whistled softly. She moved closer and leaned her head on his chest. "Sam, drinking won’t help."

"I never noticed sobriety doing a hell of a lot for me." He put his arm around her shoulders. "Don’t worry about me, Maggie. Let me do this."

She melted. Hard lines vanished from her face. She could not manage a smile, but the judgment left her eyes as she sat down on Sam’s bed to watch him grab a jacket and put on shoes. "Then I’ll get drunk with you," she said. "I’ll accompany you into misery."

"Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to get drunk."

He had the jacket zipped, his shoes tied, and was feeling in his back pocket for his wallet.

"Yes, you are," Maggie said softly.

"All right, so I am. That doesn’t mean you have to. It’s not a good habit to get into, and it doesn’t solve a damn thing, you’re right about that. But I want it tonight, and I’m going to get it." He started for the door. "And I’m going to get pissant drunk--all on my own. "