A Novel Way to Die

TWENTY-ONE





“I TOLD YOU TO STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT, DARLA.”

Barry’s voice was almost in her ear, startling her so that she jumped and dropped the flashlight. The long silver cylinder rolled lazily across the brick floor, its white beam rising and falling against the far wall. Unhurried, Barry went to retrieve it and then turned and shined the light in her direction.

“It’s not what you think, Darla,” he said in an oddly conversational tone. “Well, actually, I suppose it is. And I guess your next logical conclusion would be that I must have killed Curt, too.”

That conclusion James and Robert had already reached. With an effort, Darla tore her gaze from tail of blond hair, which looked almost white beneath the flashlight beam, grateful that the rest of Tera was hidden away beneath the black plastic.

“That’s why my manager called me,” she replied in a voiced that sounded strangely detached, even to her own ears. “He and Robert already figured it out. If I’m not back at the bookstore in a few minutes, they’ll be coming here for me . . . after they call the police, of course.”

“Really?”

Now, Darla heard a note of amusement in Barry’s flat tone.

“Last I knew, Curt’s murder was pretty much solved. The police already have their man . . . or, rather, woman. So what proof are your friends going to bring to them to show that I had anything to do with all this?” he demanded with a gesture that encompassed the basement.

Iron.

Hamlet for a witness.

Not enough to exactly hold up in court without her testimony as to what she’d seen and heard. Darla gave another reflexive glance at the wrapped body lying beside what was obviously meant to be grave, and then drew a deep breath. If she couldn’t get out of that basement, chances were Barry would soon be digging a second hole alongside the first.

“It doesn’t matter,” she bluffed. “The point is, they know.”

This time, Barry laughed aloud.

“Good try, Darla, but what you’re saying is that your friends don’t have squat. Add that to the fact I have no apparent motive for either of the killings, and the police have zero evidence to pin on me. Of course, now there’s you”—he paused and shrugged—“but I think I can solve that little problem.”

“Please, Barry, don’t do this,” she choked out, putting out a hand in a reflexive attempt to ward him off. “Everyone knows I’m here. It-it won’t gain you anything.”

“Did I ever tell you that besides pitching for my high school team, I was captain of the debate team for three years?” he asked in a conversational tone, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I always did have a knack for bringing people around to my point of view.”

With those words he started toward her.

For a terrible instant, Darla’s only thought was that this was like every lame cliché in every bad movie she’d ever seen: the soon-to-be murder victim just standing by helplessly while her would-be killer advanced on her. Go, go, go! the voice in her head screamed, but her legs would not respond. She was paralyzed, caught in a waking nightmare, and unable to flee her pursuer. Being “frozen in fear” really wasn’t just a casual expression, but a cold reality. And it seemed that she was having the very bad misfortune to learn this firsthand.

“Me-ooooooooow!”

The high-pitched shriek, like the battle cry of some demon feline, abruptly shattered the wall of fear surrounding her. Darla turned to run, but not before she saw Hamlet launch himself from his post atop the plastic-wrapped body. Claws fully extended, he flew right into Barry’s face.

The man screamed in pain and shouted a stream of obscenities as he attempted to dislodge the cat from his upper body. Darla didn’t wait to see what happened next. Adrenaline coursing through her, she sprang toward the stairs.

Fast as she ran, however, Barry was quicker. He’d managed to dislodge the attacking feline and had rushed after her, catching her arm before she could take the first step. His fingers bit through her coat sleeve, holding her in a grip from which she could not break free.

“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he gritted out, his face inches from hers, flashlight clenched in his free hand like a club.

She could see blood freely welling in the trio of claw marks that ran down one side of his neck. Hamlet had done some damage, she saw in terrified satisfaction. But what had happened to the brave feline?

She found out an instant later when Barry gave another shout and let go of her arm. This time, Hamlet had gone into stealth mode, silently leaping up and sinking his formidable fangs into the man’s shoulder. But Barry was wearing a jacket, and in a swift move the man slipped out of the coat and flung it to one side, taking Hamlet with it. Cat and jacket rolled across brick and plywood as the feline attempted to detach his claws from the fabric. An instant later he was free, and like a small black panther came charging forward yet again.

This time, however, Barry was prepared for him. With a growl of his own he flung the flashlight with unerring aim in Hamlet’s direction. Darla screamed a warning, but it was too late. She heard a soft thud, and the cat dropped like a stone.

“Guess I still have the old pitching arm,” Barry said, grim satisfaction in his tone as he strode over to where the still black form lay sprawled on the brick.

Dead?

Darla stared in shock, unable to believe that the valiant feline had not risen for another attack. But Hamlet didn’t move, not even when Barry picked him up by the scruff of the neck and carried the cat’s limp body to the boiler. To Darla’s horror, he yanked open the firebox and tossed Hamlet inside, then slammed the rusty iron door shut.

“I don’t think you’ll be trying that trick again,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Now, Darla, where were we?”

Where Darla was, was halfway up the stairs. Gasping for breath, she shoved through the basement door and shut it behind her, then made a beeline for the front door. She twisted the ornate knob and yanked, but the door remained stubbornly closed.

“No, no, no!” she shrieked. How could the door suddenly be stuck like that? It had opened fine just a few minutes before.

Locked!

Barry must have taken a moment to lock the front door before following her down to the basement. Almost sobbing now, she flipped the latch and gasped in relief when the knob turned freely. She was almost home free. All she had to do was reach the street. But barely had she dragged the reluctant door a few inches open when it slammed shut again.

“You’re worse than that damn cat of yours, the way you just won’t quit!”

Arms on either side of her, Barry held her pinned against the door, his breath now coming in angry, ragged gasps.

“You know, I felt kind of bad about this at first,” he went on in the same outraged voice. “I really liked you . . . not like that bitch Tera. But now, you’ve really pissed me off. I think I’m going to enjoy getting rid of you after all!”

Later on, Darla realized that this should have been her moment of greatest terror. Instead, something had kick-started her redhead’s temper into overdrive, enveloping her in white-hot fury, the likes of which she’d never before felt. Maybe it was hearing Barry’s total disregard for his victims, or his casual assumption that he would kill her, too. Or maybe it was just recalling how he had tossed away the fearless Hamlet like so much garbage. Whatever the cause, she knew with sudden certainty that she wasn’t going down without a fight.

And with that flash of emotion came something just as useful: the memory of Robert’s eager comment from the previous day. Those fancy chopstick things in her hair? Those would make, like, really sick weapons, just like in the movies.

With a scream of pure fury, Darla smashed her foot onto Barry’s sneakered instep; then, as he stumbled back in pain, she snatched the hair sticks from her bun and stabbed him.

Had this been one of Robert’s movies, each carved stick would have plunged with painful accuracy deep into Barry’s chest, immediately taking him out like a staked vampire. The reality was that he easily blocked the first attempt, catching her wrist in his hand and squeezing it so tightly that her makeshift weapon dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Her second attack was more successful, with the hair stick driving a good inch into his bicep. If far from fatal, the effort was enough to gain her a momentary advantage.

Barry gave a wordless, agonized shout and promptly released her. And in that instant while he was yanking the stick from his injured arm, she was free again and running, her red hair sailing about her shoulders.

Her options for what to do next had long since flashed through her mind, the first two already considered and dismissed in the space of a heartbeat. Her first escape route was the front door, but Barry—though momentarily distracted by the pain of her attack—still blocked that way. The rear door was of no use, for the stack of lumber she’d seen on her last visit still blocked that exit. Her last chance at escape, then, was through one of the unboarded windows on an upper floor.

Which was how she came to be halfway up the stairs when Barry recouped from his shock and turned to pursue her.

Holes in the floor, watch out for holes in the floor!

Remembering from last time that portions of the subfloor had been sawed through, Darla dodged the first hole she encountered, only to stumble into the sawhorse barricade surrounding the next one. She flung herself to one side and narrowly avoided dropping through the woman-sized gap, though the sound of something clattering past the sawhorses and landing on the floor below told her how close she’d come to disaster.

Scrambling to her feet again, she ignored her bruised elbows and knees and barreled up the second flight of stairs. Now, her breath was coming in strangled gasps, while sweat born of fear trickled from her armpits and down her forehead. Swiping her tangled hair from her face, she ignored the missing handrails and spindles that under other circumstances would have slowed her progress as she struggled with acrophobia. The familiar fear of falling had nothing on her newfound fear of being caught by a murderer!

Once on the third floor, she bypassed the first room and ducked into the second, praying that she had guessed correctly. Rushing to the window, she saw directly below what she was looking for: the construction Dumpster. Jumping into it would be risky, potentially even deadly—sharp wood and rough plasterboard outweighed soft insulation—but it was a chance she had to take. Catching hold of the window frame, she struggled for a few precious seconds with the sash.

Painted shut, she realized in true panic when the window, despite her best efforts, refused to budge. She swung around, wildly looking for something to break the glass. She was running out of options, and, like poor Hamlet, chances were she wouldn’t be able to manage a second attack on Barry.

Barry!

He stood in the doorway now, blocking her only way out again and looking strangely unhurried as he watched her frantic struggle. The upper portion of one denim shirt sleeve was bloody, and his mouth turned down in a pained grimace, but otherwise he appeared unhampered by her previous attack. It was like smacking a grizzly on the nose, she realized with a return of her earlier hopelessness. She might have pissed him off, or even hurt him a little, but no way was that going to stop him.

Her heart beating so loudly she knew he must hear it, Darla looked again for something to break the windowpane, or failing that, something with which she could defend herself. But the room was empty of all but a few metal paint buckets and rolls of paper tape and duct tape.

Think of Curt . . . of Tera . . . of Hamlet.

But that first wave of adrenaline that had crashed through her veins had retreated just as quickly, leaving her sapped of energy. Try as she might, Darla could not summon back what had felt for those few moments like supernatural fury.

Barry must have seen the sudden despair in her expression, for he gave her a cold smile. “Looks like you made a little tactical error. What’s the expression, Darla . . . trapped like a rat? Or maybe a cat?”

She took an uncertain step back. Think! There had to be another clever trick she could try, even something as simple as . . .

The phone! Frantically, she reached into her coat pocket, searching for her cell. It would take an instant to dial 9-1-1, and surely she could shout her location into it before Barry tried to wrestle it away. But where was it?

“Looking for this?” he asked and held out the missing cell.

Belatedly, she recalled the clatter when she’d stumbled and nearly gone through the hole in the second floor. The sound she’d heard must have been her phone slipping out of her pocket and tumbling through the gap. Now, as she watched in dismay, he let the phone drop to the floor and deliberately crushed it beneath his heel.

“Don’t want to make that same mistake twice,” he said with a cold smile. He bent to scoop the shattered phone into one of the empty metal paint cans and then replaced the lid, pounding it tightly shut again with his fist.

“So, as you were saying, you were here, and then you left. And when someone asks what happened after that?” He trailed off on a mock-questioning note and shrugged. “Sorry, Darla, but it’s not like I’m your boyfriend. No one expects me to keep track of your whereabouts.

“And here’s something you probably don’t know,” he went on as she struggled not to break down into desperate sobs. “I overheard Tera telling Curt that her mother had bought a gun. Your detective friend must have figured that out for him to arrest her. Apparently, Hilda had plenty of opportunity and a whole boatload of motive. Hell, if I’d been a little more patient, I could have let her to do the job for me.”

“B-but, he is—was—your friend.” Keep him talking. Buy some time. “Why would you kill him?”

“Let’s just say that my old buddy Curt found out that my relationship with the building inspector’s office was a bit more . . . involved . . . than he thought. Toby and I had a few profitable little projects going on the side that didn’t include him. Curt wanted a cut, and after all the work I’d put in, I wasn’t inclined to share. Things got out of hand after that.”

“But why bring me here so I could find Curt’s body?” she pressed him. “Why not bury him in the basement, too?”

“Because it was a hell of a lot easier to have him found murdered with you to back up my story than to try to hide the body.”

Barry gave his head a disgusted shake.

“Unfortunately, that kind of plan only works well once. Oh, and thanks for the tip about Bill Ferguson. If the police decide they don’t have enough evidence against Hilda, I’ll be sure to tell your detective friend that I overheard Bill threaten Curt more than once. With any luck, maybe we can pin your disappearance on him, too.”

With that, he made a show of glancing at his watch and added, “Like you said before, daylight’s burning, so why don’t we get this over with? Remember, I’ve got a funeral to go to in Connecticut.”

Once again, he advanced on her with grim purpose. Limbs quivering, Darla stubbornly began moving in a circle away from him while trying to avoid yet another hole cut through the subflooring. She vowed as she did so that first thing tomorrow—if she made it to tomorrow—she was signing up for self-defense classes. But for now, her only strategy was to keep the man from backing her into a corner. Pinned against the wall, she would be helpless. If she could keep on moving, just like in a chess game, she might still be able to slip past him and avoid a fatal checkmate.

Barry, however, knew what she was doing.

“You’re not going to win this one, Darla, I promise you. The harder you keep fighting, the worse it’s going to be for you—”

He broke off with a curse to dodge the roll of duct tape she had snatched from the floor and flung at him. The tape merely bounced off him, but she didn’t care. She took her chance and dashed toward the door. He made a grab for her arm and caught her coat sleeve, but an instant later she had pulled the same trick he’d done with Hamlet and shrugged out of her coat, free again. She was almost to the door, and out of arm’s reach now.

All except for her hair.

As she flew by him, Barry snagged his fingers in the long locks and jerked, stopping her short with a painful snap of her head that made her stumble against the doorjamb. He jerked her again, and this time her temple smacked squarely against wood. Momentarily stunned, she almost fell.

And then she was choking, her fingers helplessly scrabbling at the hands that were wrapped around her throat, cutting off any hope of screaming, any chance of breathing. Barry had won, just as he’d promised. Before the day’s end she would be joining the luckless Tera in a shallow hole that would be covered again by bricks and plywood.

Unless James managed to convince the police that Barry had something to do with her disappearance, then that would be the end of it. Once Reese and his people searched the basement and found nothing, Barry would be free to plaster over the basement door as planned, guaranteeing that no one would find them, or discover Hamlet’s battered body stuffed away in the ancient boiler. Barry would finish his remodel and sell the place to someone else . . . someone who would not know that a man had once been murdered within those damp subterranean walls, and would never guess that two women had followed him there in death.

But as she teetered on the last edge of unconsciousness, accepting her fate, the pressure abruptly released, and she dropped to the ground.