“You have Marlette’s notebook?” I asked breathlessly, feeling as though I’d been punched in the stomach.
Flipping the pages irreverently, he let loose a haughty snort. “Of course. Luella took the original manuscript from Jude’s file cabinet, and I put that fat stack of pages through a shredder at the copy center. Bye-bye, evidence. And as far as Luella’s insurance? I’m not worried about some supposed photocopy. I certainly made sure that she could never breathe a word about it to anyone. Ever.” He wiggled his long fingers. In the shadows, they resembled the spindly legs of a tarantula. “After I got rid of both the original manuscript and Luella, I came back here to search for any other incriminating tidbits, and I found this.”
“Why did you keep it?” My eyes darted to the book. “Why not destroy it, too?”
He stroked the red cover affectionately. “The bum outlined a sequel. The Babylonian Society. I can hire a ghostwriter. Despite what you may think, this isn’t over for me. This is just the beginning. Too bad you won’t be around to see me living the life of a rich and famous author.”
I shook my head incredulously. “You’re going to get caught.”
“The cops don’t have enough on me. So they find my prints at Luella’s place. So I admit that I was her lover. That’s as far as it will go. If anything, keeping me in jail for a few days will make me more of a media draw.” He grinned greedily. “More press means more sales. More money for me. I am never going to be poor again. This is the end of shithole apartments and rusted-out cars. The end of cheap clothes and crappy food. It’s my turn. I’ve waited long enough for this break.”
Carson’s eyes had filmed over with a temporary madness, and I dared to look at the doorway to see if I could get by him and outside before he surfaced from his trancelike state. The moment I tensed my body to spring forward, he blinked and pointed at me with his index finger.
“Tsk, tsk. Naughty Lila. No running, no screaming.” His gaze bore into me, and his right hand sank into his pants pocket and drew forth a loaded syringe. Tossing the notebook aside, he held up the needle. The last rays of the sinking sun caught the splinter of steel, and it winked like Christmas tinsel.
This image sent my thoughts careening into the past, and a dozen Christmases flickered in my memory. Trey in footed pajamas, Trey dumping out his filled stocking onto the living room rug, Trey sipping hot chocolate as I read him ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, Trey singing carols in the school choir, his rosebud mouth forming a perfect O, Trey barreling into my arms to thank me for the remote control dump truck he had wanted so badly.
These memories fueled my courage. “You’re not going to take me down with bee venom, Carson. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve loaded into your little syringe, because you’re not creative enough to think up an original murder weapon.”
Carson’s features twisted with fury, and then he abruptly laughed again. “Who needs to be original? I don’t want to make a mess, and Luella proved how easy it is to kill someone with this stuff. She was more than willing to bump off that old piece of human trash.” His smile turned into a leer. “And then you had to stick your nose where it didn’t belong. You!” He spat the word. “A pathetic, middle-aged intern. A nobody.” His speech slowed to a crawl. “You ruined everything.”
“But I’m not allergic. It won’t kill me.” I clung to the hope that this would stop him, or at least give him doubts.
His eyes flashed. “You don’t have to be allergic. Ever heard of mass envenomation?” He tapped the syringe. “This contains the equivalent of a thousand bee stings and can easily kill a healthy human. You’ll die of renal failure.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Such a terrible way to go.”
His mercurial shifts of emotion revealed a person the likes of which I’d never known. In the shadows multiplying inside the cabin, Carson seemed less and less of a human being. His nonchalance when referring to his plans to plunge a hypodermic into my neck lent him an alien crookedness. He had turned into a nightmare creature with a dark face and angular limbs. And what could I do against him? Stall for time. For what, I didn’t know, but it was an instinctual defense. I was the cornered rabbit, trying to distract the cat before it could spring.
And then, without a whisper of warning, he lunged.
I reacted instantly, swinging the walking stick in a powerful arc toward Carson’s head. He dodged, nimble as a boxer, and my blow connected with his shoulder instead.
He grunted in pain and hesitated, allowing me the opportunity to hit him again. This time, he stepped away from the stick, but the knob came down hard on his wrist, and in a spasm of agony, Carson dropped the needle.
Seeing it skate across the floor, I knew this might be the only chance I’d have to escape, so I jumped over his crunched-up form and moved to break into a run.