And then, mercifully, there’s the muffled sound of a vehicle approaching the building and jerking to a stop. It’s got to be the police. They wouldn’t use their sirens for fear of alerting the attacker.
I hear Sandra curse, probably not far from the mouth of the tunnel. Soon she’s on the move again, but this time her footsteps recede and moments later a door slams again.
Still, I wait in the dark. Finally it’s utterly silent again. With my hand grazing the wall for support, I reverse my route along the tunnel, wincing in pain. When I reach the end, I search the basement with my eyes, but there’s no sign of Sandra. A motion from on the other side of the window makes me jerk in surprise. I look up to see legs in dark pants.
“I’m down here,” I yell.
A moment later, a man, lowering himself, peers in through the window. I can barely make out his face because of the grime.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Bryn Harper. A woman attacked me.”
“We’re on our way.”
“Be careful,” I call out. “She may still be in the building.”
“Just stay where you are.”
I do, as tears of relief start to trail down my face.
Chapter 25
The footsteps recede from the window, and I wait in the dull light, counting the seconds as my heart hammers in my chest. A moment later, somewhere above me, there’s a brief rumbling sound, perhaps heavy footsteps. It might be Sandra running, trying to escape.
Minutes pass, at least ten, and each one interminable. At last, I hear a door swing open again, from somewhere off to my right, but I can’t see that far away. Beams from flashlights suddenly bounce across the basement floor. Two men in uniform emerge from the darkness, each with a flashlight in one hand and a firearm in the other.
“I’m here,” I call out.
“State your name,” a voice demands.
“I’m Bryn Harper. I’m the one who called 9–1–1.”
“Is there anyone else here?”
“No, the woman who tried to hurt me followed me down here, but she went up the stairs when she heard your car.”
They step closer, and I can make out their faces now. One’s older, at least fifty, and the other can’t be more than twenty-five.
“Okay,” the older guy says, holstering his gun. “Let’s get you out of here.”
They usher me across the basement and up a dark, musty-smelling stairwell. My ankle is practically yelping in protest, and the older cop notices that I’m dragging my right leg behind me. I explain that I injured myself trying to escape.
We emerge from the stairwell into a short corridor, and moments later we’re in the huge lobby, where only a short time ago, Sandra was determined to drive a hammer through my skull. Just being back in the space jump-starts my panic. At least the swag bags are still here, and a few of the random tools. They’ll add credence to my story.
Slowly the cops lead me down the long hallway I traveled when I first arrived, and out to the parking lot in back. The younger cop lags a little behind us, conveying info into a walkie-talkie.
There is a black police patrol car parked not far from mine, but Sandra’s car is gone. I realize in dismay that the only description I’ll be able to give of her car is that it’s a black luxury vehicle. For that matter, I don’t even know her real name.
“What about the woman who tried to kill me?” I ask the older cop. “Has she gotten away?”
“We have officers in pursuit,” he says. “Now why don’t you tell us what happened. And let’s find you a spot to sit down.”
He motions me toward an old cement bench near the door, and I lower myself gingerly, with my right leg stretched out in front of me. I glance down at my ankle. It’s so swollen and lumpy, it looks as if there’s something lodged under the skin.
The older cop—his badge reads “Garcia”—tells the younger one to call an ambulance. Then he nods, pulls a leather-bound notepad from his belt, and turns his attention back to me.
Before he can even ask a question, I start hurrying through what happened today. That a woman obsessed with my husband lured me here and tried to kill me, that she admitted in so many words that she murdered Eve Blazer and Miranda Kane, that she fled when she heard cars pull up. Garcia manages to disguise any surprise he’s experiencing, but the younger guy, who’s already called for the ambulance, looks like I’ve just announced that there are rows of alien eggs ready to hatch in the basement. I ignore him and focus all my attention on Garcia.
“You can’t let her get away,” I say, nearly pleading. “I don’t know what her real name is, but my husband will.” I provide him with Guy’s cell phone and work numbers.