The Long Way Home (26 page)

Only this wasn’t a movie. It was real. It was Beth. And I needed to get to her.

Beth stood listening. Finally, I couldn’t take the tension anymore.

“Beth!” I said in a hoarse whisper. “Shut the door. Lock the door. Call the police. Dial 911.”

A horn blared loudly. I looked to the windshield just in time to see I had let the BMW drift across the center line. A pair of headlights was lancing toward me. I wrestled the wheel to the right, wrestled the car to the right, back into my lane, out of the headlights’ path. The oncoming car raced by me.

Now there was a traffic light up ahead. It turned from green to yellow as I approached. I jammed my foot down on the gas and sped through it.

Finally I had a chance to glance over at the laptop again. There was Beth. She hadn’t heard me. She had crept out through the doorway into the upstairs hall, walking softly. I could tell by her posture she was listening, listening to see if anyone had come into the house.

“Beth!” I said. “Get back in your room. Lock the door.”

But even as I spoke, I heard it. Even there, in the car, the sound reached me through the computer’s speakers.

A floorboard creaked in Beth’s house. Someone was coming up the stairs.

Watching the busy road ahead, grabbing looks at the monitor, I saw Beth freeze in her tracks in the upstairs hallway. I saw her turn back to look at her bedroom door, to look at her computer, to look at me. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Beth!” I whispered harshly. “Get back!”

I gestured to her—to the computer. I waved frantically to get her to come back into the room.

Finally, she moved. Hurrying on tiptoe, she dashed back down the hall, back into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly. There was a little twist knob, a bolt lock. She turned it. It wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, but it might slow them down. Sherman had told me they didn’t want to make any noise. They wanted to come and go quietly—come and kill her quietly and go. I didn’t think they would just blast through the lock with a gunshot.

At least, I hoped they wouldn’t.

I saw Beth standing in the center of the room. I started to speak, to tell her again to dial the police. But before I could, she flipped open the phone. Dialed 911.

She called for help. So did I: I prayed desperately as I peered through the windshield, working the steering wheel, forcing the car to weave left around a slow-moving van, then back quickly into the right lane to avoid a car that had paused for a left turn at an intersection. I prayed:
Not her, Lord. Me. Not her.

“Police?” I could hear over the laptop speaker how shaky Beth’s voice was, how scared she was. Well, I was scared too. I was only a couple of minutes away, but it felt like a million miles. I felt completely helpless to reach her. I heard her say, “My name is Beth Summers. I live at 45 Madison. There’s someone in my house. Please send help. What? No. Someone in my house. Please, please . . .” She was close to tears.

And then she cried out.

I looked over at the laptop and saw the phone fall from her hand. Now I heard what she heard: a sound at the door. Trembling, Beth turned slowly to face it. The sound came again. A soft rattle. Glancing from the road in front of me to the laptop on the seat beside me, I saw the doorknob start to turn slowly, this way and that. Staring, terrified, Beth stumbled back a step.

It was hard to tear my eyes away, but I had to. I had to face front again. There was my next turn up ahead. I was almost there. It was a left turn and I was in the right lane. There was traffic to the side of me and traffic coming toward me. Somehow I had to get around all of it.

I twisted the steering wheel hard. The BMW squealed. The Volkswagen beside me screeched and skidded. An oncoming Cadillac sent up a blast of its horn. I cut recklessly across the lanes and shot off Morgan onto Belmont, a smaller, darker side street.

I stepped on the gas and raced into shadows. Madison— Beth’s street—was only four blocks ahead.

Now I could spare a glance back at the laptop. Beth still stood frozen where she was, still staring at the door.

The knob was turning faster now, harder. The door started to rattle.

“Beth,” I said.

My voice startled her. She spun toward me in terror.

“The window!” I said. “Can you get out the window?”

She shook her head frantically. “Too high. I’ll break my leg. They’ll catch me.”

She jumped as a loud bang came through the door. They were going to kick it in.

“A weapon, Beth. Find a weapon. A baseball bat. A hockey stick.”

“I don’t have any . . .”

“A shoe. A high-heeled shoe. Anything. Hold them off. I’m almost there.”

Beth cried out in fear again as, again, the killers kicked the door.

“A weapon!” I said.

But I had to face forward, had to steer the car as it raced through the darkness under a canopy of trees.

There was Washington Street up ahead. Madison Street was next.

“Oh please!” I whispered—and pressed down on the gas, pushing the car at speed through the empty intersection.

There was another bang against Beth’s door just as I glanced back at the monitor. I saw the door jolt in its frame. It was breaking. They were getting through.

But now, Beth forced herself out of her frozen terror. She rushed to the closet. She shoved aside some clothes. She reached in deeper and when she came out, I saw she had an iron in her hand—a regular old iron for pressing clothes.

“Oh yes!” I said.

Beth was slender. She wasn’t athletic. She wasn’t strong. But an iron—that’ll stop a man. And I was almost there.

“Get to where the door opens,” I said. “Get to where they’ll come through. Swing for the head the second you see them. Don’t hesitate.”

Beth was so scared now she was crying, trembling, sobbing. But she found the courage to do what I said. She moved to the door just as the killers kicked it again. She flinched at the sound, but all the same, she positioned herself at the place where the door would open. She gripped the handle of the iron with one hand and gripped her wrist with the other, holding the iron down low at her side, ready to swing.

And just then, before I could see what happened next, I reached the house.

I hit the Beamer’s brakes hard, turned the wheel hard, and the car swerved to the curb and screeched to a halt.

The next second, I was out the door, running like a madman up the path to Beth’s front door.

The killers had left the door unlatched, but it wouldn’t have mattered. If it had been locked, I’d’ve smashed right through.

Now I was in the house. I was bounding up the stairs, two at a time. I was in the upstairs hallway . . .

And there was another loud bang, a rending crash. I crested the stairs just in time to see the killers break through Beth’s door.

There were two of them. Big men dressed in black. The one who’d kicked the door in rushed through before I could get there. The other was already crowding in behind him.

I heard Beth scream—and I saw her as she stepped into the doorway, as she swung the iron at the lead man with all the strength she had.

The blow hit the killer smack in the side of the head. His mouth flew open. He toppled to the floor, falling forward with his own onrushing force.

But the second killer didn’t hesitate. He had Beth in an instant. He grabbed her arm, twisted it, forcing her to drop the iron. With the other hand he slapped her hard across the face, once and then again.

I was running toward him down the hall. I saw him shift his grip to grab Beth by the front of her sweater. I saw his other hand go to his waist. It all happened so fast, while Beth was still dazed by his blows.

The killer’s hand came up in the air. I saw the knife raised above Beth’s face.

A sound came out of me then—a sound I’d never heard myself make before. It wasn’t a karate kee-yai or a shout or a scream or anything like that. It was a wild, enormous, guttural roar of pure animal fury.

Before the killer struck, I had him. I grabbed him by the belt and by the collar. I’d heard stories like this—stories about someone who became so desperate or so angry or so afraid, they did something superhuman: lifted a bus to save a child or outraced an avalanche or something amazing like that.

I tore the killer off Beth by main strength and hoisted him in the air—hoisted him clear above my head as if he were nothing more than a stuffed dummy.

Roaring, I threw him, just that easily. I hurled him headlong down the hall.

The killer’s body went spinning through the air. He landed with a thud that shook the floor, just a few yards away from me. The jar of the fall made him lose his hold on the knife, but he quickly grabbed it again. He scrambled to his feet right away.

But not fast enough. Not fast enough by a long shot.

I was already there. I don’t even remember moving. It was that quick. I was there in front of him.

He slashed at me with the knife, backhand. I dodged away. The blade went past. I stepped in quickly and blocked his arm as it came swinging back toward me. At the same time, I punched him in the throat. His eyes bulged. His tongue came out. He gagged. I grabbed his wrist—the hand holding the knife. I twisted it around and brought my arm down on his elbow as hard as I could. The killer’s arm broke with a loud, sickening snap. He let out a single strangled scream and dropped to the floor, unconscious.

His knife lay beside him, just beyond his fingertips. I swept it up. I dropped to one knee. I grabbed the unconscious man by the shirtfront, hauled him up off the floor. I raised the knife over my head, ready to plunge it into his body as he lay there helpless.

Oh, and I wanted to do it too. I have to be honest. I really did want to. I was thinking about the way he’d slapped Beth, the way he’d grabbed her and was going to kill her. The rage was inside me, filling me, pushing me, as if I were a puppet being worked by a giant hand.

But I wasn’t a puppet. I had a choice. Sensei Mike wasn’t there to stop me anymore, but he was there, and God was there, and I had a choice.

My hand, holding the knife, trembled in the air, but I didn’t bring it down. I wouldn’t bring it down.

I let out a noise of frustration and threw the knife down the hall. I released my hold on the unconscious killer and let him fall with a thud to the floor.

The whole thing took a second, maybe two. Then I was on my feet, rushing back to Beth where she slumped against the doorframe. She was holding her jaw where the killer had slapped her, blinking hard, trying to fight her way out of her daze.

I glanced down at the floor, at the first killer, the one she’d hit with the iron. He was out cold. I smiled. Nice one, Beth.

I took her gently by the shoulders, lifted her away from the doorframe.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

And now—again—I heard the sirens.

CHAPTER THIRTY
Into the Night

I took Beth by the hand and led her around the fallen body of the killer, led her to the stairs and down to the front door.

“You’re hurt,” I heard her say softly behind me.

I glanced at my arm. She was right. The killer had cut me when he slashed with the knife. There was blood soaking through the sleeve of my fleece.

“It’ll be okay,” I told her.

We pushed out into the fresh air of the autumn night. The sirens sounded louder outside. They were close, though I still couldn’t see the lights.

I turned to face Beth, holding her hand. She lifted her face to me. Her eyes were clear now, clear and soft and kind. She was the Beth I knew.

“I have to go,” I told her.

“Don’t,” she said. “You can’t. You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”

She gripped my hand tighter and took my other hand too. I raised her hands to my lips and kissed them.

“I have to. The police. You hear them?” The sirens grew louder in the night. I looked into her eyes. “Tell them, Beth. Tell them it was Sherman. Tell them he’s the one who killed Alex, who sent these men. Tell them to go to the Ghost Mansion. I left him there. Tell them what happened tonight.”

“Stay, Charlie. You can tell them yourself. They’ll believe you now. They have to.”

“I can’t. It’ll be his word against mine—and I’m a convicted killer. I can’t take the chance they’ll arrest me again. There’s something I have to do. Someone I have to find.”

“No. No. You’re hurt . . .”

“Beth . . .”

“Please,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so scared for you. Every day. I’m so scared. Don’t go.”

I wrapped my arms around her. I held her close to me. I pressed the side of my face against hers and felt her tears on my cheek. I heard the sirens grow louder and louder. Would they ever stop? Would they ever stop chasing me?

I whispered quickly into Beth’s ear, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I have to do this. I have to go. I think I know who I am now. I think I was sent to do something, something important. I have to find the man who sent me. I have to do what he sent me to do.”

“Why?” she burst out angrily. She was crying hard now. “Why does it have to be you, Charlie? Why do you have to leave me again? Why do you have to fight? Why do you have to be hunted and hated and shot at and hurt? Why can’t it be someone else?”

For another moment, I held her as close as I could. I tried to keep the feel of her in my mind and the smell of her and the sound of her voice so I could remember it all in the days to come when I was alone.

“Why does it have to be you?” she said again.

“Because,” I told her, “I’m the good guys.”

But now, the red glow of the police cars’ lights shone on the canopy of trees down the street. The headlights of the cruisers appeared, racing toward us.

Using all my willpower, I pushed Beth away, letting only my hands linger on her shoulders. I looked down into her eyes.

“Thank you,” I said. “Tell Josh and Rick and Miler— tell them I said thank you.”

She nodded. I could see it was hard for her, but she did. “I will,” she whispered. And then she forced herself to say, “You’d better hurry.”

“I don’t want to let you go.”