A Stranger at the Door

by Pinter, Jason

  Tony led them through the jungle of twisted metal, cracked plastic, and swollen wood. Rachel wondered how many small feet had once climbed up the jungle gym. How many little hands had gripped the chains with wide smiles as parents pushed them on the swings. And how many people had had to turn a blind eye to allow such a joyous place to decay.

  “Where is Peter?” Evie said. She grabbed Tony’s shoulder and spun him around. The boy stumbled backward, his heel catching on the rusted bottom of a spring rider in the shape of a seahorse, its once-yellow paint spoiled to a dark orange. Rachel managed to grab the boy before he fell.

  “Take it easy,” Rachel said to Evie, helping Tony back up.

  “Sorry,” Evie said. “Just . . . we need to make sure he’s safe.”

  Tony glared at Evie, then said, “Come on.”

  At the far end of the playground was a wooden shack, about eight by twelve feet and surrounded by patchy grass. It was chained with a padlock. But unlike the padlock at the front gate, the thick padlock on the shack’s door looked like it could withstand a shotgun blast.

  Tony approached the door and rapped on it twice with his fist, waited three seconds, rapped twice more, waited again, then rapped four more times.

  Then he took a key chain from his pocket, selected one, and unlocked the padlock.

  As soon as he opened the door, the smell of mildew, rust, and feces wafted out of the structure. Piles of equipment were stacked haphazardly, most of it looking well beyond repair. Lawnmowers, shovels, bags of peat moss, spades, a dulled pitchfork, several rakes, and a dozen pairs of heavy-duty gloves. A shelf housed all sorts of paper goods and chemicals: towels, toilet paper, half-used cleaning solvents, and dirty rags. Rachel guessed they could get half a dozen different diseases or infections if they weren’t careful.

  “Pete?” Tony whispered.

  Rachel looked down. Evie was gripping her wrist. Hard. Rachel looked up at her. Evie’s face was etched with worry. Then they heard a sound behind the shelving.

  Rachel saw a lock of sandy-blond hair peek through the maze of boxes, followed by a pair of scared blue eyes. She heard Tony exhale in relief.

  “Dude,” Tony said. “For a second I thought you might have booked it.”

  From behind the mass of debris, Peter Lincecum stood up. Rachel could see a mess of fast-food bags, empty soda bottles, and candy-bar wrappers at his feet, as well as a soiled pillow and thin blanket. Peter limped around the boxes, heavily favoring his left leg. His clothes were dirty and damp. Rachel could see a makeshift bandage on his injured right knee, an athletic brace wrapped with surgical tape, the white strips caked with dirt.

  Rachel felt Evie’s fingernails dig into her skin.

  “Ow,” Rachel said. “What the hell?”

  Then Peter saw Rachel. His eyes went wide.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” the boy said. He stumbled backward, knocking against the far wall of the shack. Sharp tools and implements rattled around him.

  “It’s all right,” Rachel said, hands outstretched. “I’m here to help.”

  Peter didn’t look sold. Then he saw Evie, and his jaw dropped.

  “What is she doing here?”

  Evie let go of Rachel’s arm and pushed her way through the maze of detritus. She approached Peter, tentatively, a look of absolute shock on the boy’s face. Rachel looked at Tony. He appeared to be as confused as she was.

  Then, to Rachel’s surprise, Evie gathered Peter into her arms and held him, sobbing into his soiled shirt. The boy did not move, but then, slowly, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around Evie.

  Tony looked at Rachel and mouthed, “What the hell?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  Evie took Peter’s head in her hands and gently kissed his filthy forehead. A smudge of dirt remained on her lips when she let go.

  “Mom?” Peter said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mom?” Rachel and Tony said simultaneously.

  Evie said, “I’m so sorry, Peter. I’m so—”

  Then a gunshot shattered the air. Evie fell, eyes wide as her blood splashed across her son’s horrified face.

  CHAPTER 48

  Rachel did not hesitate. She just reacted. First, she slammed the door closed and then, without thinking about the various dangerous objects scattered about the room, dived forward and yanked Peter Lincecum down just as a shot exploded through the door, splintering wood and passing through the air where the boy had stood a millisecond ago.

  Randall Spivak.

  Rachel looked around, her heart pounding. The door was closed. Whoever was out there could not see inside the shack—but all he had to do was wait. Rachel heard a faint clink-clink from outside. The sound of a gun being reloaded. She cursed under her breath. She couldn’t rely on Spivak running out of ammo. Too many shots and nowhere to go.

  Rachel crawled over to Evie. She was on her back, breathing heavily. Blood was soaking through her shirt, her face already turning pale.

  “Mom?” Peter said. “Mom?”

  He touched her shirt. His hands came away covered in Evie’s blood.

  “Shh,” Rachel said to Peter. “He can’t see us. Don’t let him know where you are.”

  Peter nodded, his face white beneath the specks of red.

  “Give me your shirt,” Rachel whispered to Tony. The boy did not move. He was on the ground, knees tucked against his chin. He was shaking. Terrified. “Antonio. Shirt. Now.”

  The boy snapped to, took his shirt off, and gave it to Rachel. Rachel looked into Evie’s eyes.

  “This is going to hurt,” she said. Evie nodded, biting her lip. Rachel probed the wound. The bullet had entered Evie’s left upper back, near her shoulder. She could feel the entrance wound, slick with blood. Evie gasped as Rachel’s fingers explored.

  “There’s no exit wound,” Rachel whispered. Evie needed medical attention, immediately. The bullet had more than likely shattered Evie’s collarbone and possibly cracked her shoulder blade. But the larger issue was the damage to blood vessels in the area. Given the amount of blood, the bullet had probably clipped her subclavian artery. If there were any floating bone fragments, they could shred blood vessels with every breath she took.

  “Randall,” Evie said softly.

  Rachel nodded.

  Rachel placed Tony’s shirt on the wound and pressed. Hard. Evie let out a cry, and a moment later another gunshot rang out, this one embedding itself in a crate a foot from Evie’s face.

  “Hold it there,” Rachel whispered, placing Peter’s hand over the cloth.

  Rachel sent a text to 911 and cc’d it to John Serrano and Leslie Tally.

  Gunfire @ Sally Dubois park. Gunman psbly Randall Spivak armed/dangerous. Evie Boggs wounded. Send police/EMTs NOW.

  Then she surveyed the shack. There were a hundred things inside that she could use as a weapon—but none of them were faster than a bullet. It was possible someone had heard the gunshots and called the police, but even then it would take several minutes for them to arrive. Spivak could empty a clip indiscriminately and likely find flesh. They couldn’t take that chance.

  Rachel tapped Peter on the shoulder. He was trembling. She put her hand on his cheek. He looked at her, looked at Evie, and said, “Mom?”

  She held a finger to her lips. Mouthed the words “Can’t let them hear us.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Where’s the way out?”

  Peter looked surprised. Rachel knew the moment Tony’d unlocked the shack that there had to be a separate exit other than the front door. There was no way Tony was locking an injured boy inside without an alternate exit.

  Peter crawled to the left side of the shack, grimacing as he pushed off his bad leg. He gently moved a pair of large, damp cardboard boxes, revealing a narrow tunnel dug into a hole between the floorboards. Rachel turned on her cell phone flashlight and peered into the tunnel.

  “Where does it go?” she mouthed.

  “Outside. Under a mailbo
x.”

  “How far?”

  “Not far.”

  “Can you make it?”

  Peter nodded.

  The tunnel was wide enough for boys their size. Rachel was reasonably sure she could wriggle her way through. But then she looked back at Evie, her shirt soaked with blood, blood draining from her body. There was no way Evie could shimmy through a narrow dirt tunnel given her condition. Even if she managed to get inside, there was a very real chance she could pass out from blood loss. In which case they might all be trapped. Unarmed. They would be target practice.

  The tunnel must have been dug some time ago. She guessed that given the park’s derelict state and the faint odor of smoke and pot inside the shack, kids and junkies used it to light up. Shoot up. A minor miracle the whole structure hadn’t gone up in flames yet.

  Rachel grabbed Peter and Tony by their shirts. She mouthed, “You two. Go.”

  Peter’s eyes filled with worry. “My mom,” he said.

  Rachel gripped Peter’s shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  “If you don’t go, we all die. We help her by surviving.”

  “My leg. It hurts. I can’t.”

  “I promise you, a bullet will hurt more.”

  Peter nodded, grimly. Tony took a deep breath and slid into the tunnel. Peter crawled over to Evie and kissed her forehead.

  “I love you.”

  Just then a shot rang out, and another hole was blasted through the door.

  Evie managed to push herself off the ground. She brought Peter’s face toward hers, his face sparkling red with her blood.

  “Go,” Evie said. “I love you too.”

  Peter climbed gingerly into the mouth of the tunnel.

  “I love you,” he said again. Then he slid into the darkness.

  Evie’s face was ashen. Blood had soaked through Tony’s shirt.

  Rachel crawled to Evie. Her breathing was ragged, but her eyes raged with fire.

  Evie pointed toward the tunnel. “Go.”

  Rachel could hear Randall Spivak’s footsteps on the grass outside.

  “Go.”

  Rachel nodded. She leaned down and whispered in Evie’s ear.

  “Nobody is dying today. Not you. Not your son.”

  Then she dropped into the tunnel.

  Whoever had dug the narrow passageway hadn’t cleared all the roots and rocks. Rachel pushed her way through, feeling all sorts of detritus tearing at her clothes, her skin. She could hear the two boys ahead of her scrabbling through the dirt. Every time Peter Lincecum pushed off his injured leg, he cried out in pain. But he kept going.

  Every second mattered. Spivak couldn’t see inside the shack, but given that nobody had returned fire, he could assume they were all unarmed. Still, there were four of them. Evie and Rachel could handle themselves in a fight, and Spivak couldn’t know how badly Evie was wounded. But the cops would be coming. Spivak didn’t have all day to wait. He would have to smoke them out. Either with gunfire, or . . .

  Oh, no. Evie.

  “Hurry,” Rachel whisper-yelled to the boys. They picked up their pace. Rachel ignored the wetness on her arms and legs where rocks and roots had raked her skin.

  Then, up ahead, the boys stopped. They must have reached the end. She heard the sound of metal and Tony Vargas grunting. A moment later, both boys had disappeared. Rachel pulled herself forward and saw sunlight.

  At the end of the tunnel, she saw an exit hole and the blue metal bottom of a mailbox. A metal grate had been moved to the side. A pair of hands reached down into the darkness, and Rachel took them. Tony and Peter helped Rachel shimmy out on her back so as not to slam her head against the underside of the mailbox.

  The boys were panting and covered in dirt. Antonio looked around, terrified. Peter held his knee, his face racked with pain. They were outside the park, shielded by a row of hedges surrounding the metal fence. Rachel could still see the tops of the dilapidated swing sets. She visualized the park’s layout. They were about thirty feet from the shack, with the fence between them. The trajectory of the bullet that had hit Evie suggested Spivak was slightly northwest, but he could have moved.

  She had to go back for Evie.

  Peter limped toward the hedges. Rachel grabbed the boy and held him back.

  “Both of you, get out of here,” she said. “Find a store or a building with a doorman. Somewhere public. The cops are on their way. Just stay safe and stay together.”

  “But my mom . . . ,” Peter said.

  “I’ve got her,” Rachel said. “Now go.”

  Tony took Peter’s arm and put it around his neck for support, and they went off as fast as Peter’s injured leg could move.

  Rachel turned back to the park. Between the hedges she saw an opening through which the park grounds were visible. The door to the shack was slightly open. Somewhere inside, Evie was bleeding. She could see bullet holes in the door.

  Randall Spivak stood just a few feet from the door. He held a gun in his hand. He was being tentative, smart. He knew not to barge into the shack, gun blazing. He didn’t know what waited for him inside. But he also knew the cops were en route. His time was limited. Which is why Rachel froze with terror when she saw the lighter and a small bottle of clear liquid in his other hand. Lighter fluid. He was going to burn Evie alive.

  If there had been any doubt in Rachel’s mind that Randall Spivak had killed Matthew Linklater, it was now gone.

  Rachel crouched down, pushing through the hedge. Spivak’s back was to her. He was kneeling at the front of the shack. Rachel heard the pfft of a lighter. Within seconds, she saw black smoke wafting into the air. The shack was on fire, with Evie inside.

  Rachel hurdled the fence, landing on a spot of dry earth. Staying low, she went as quickly and quietly as she could to the nearby merry-go-round, placing her hand on a corroded metal bar. There were maybe twenty feet between her and Spivak.

  “I just want the boy,” Spivak said, his back still to Rachel. “If he comes out, I’ll let the rest of you go. If he doesn’t, by the time the ambulance gets here, you’ll look like overcooked bacon.”

  Spivak’s voice was even, unhindered. As though killing four people was merely a hitch in his day.

  “You have five seconds,” he said. “And then I’ll just let you all burn.”

  Rachel darted out from around the side of the merry-go-round. Spivak counted down. As he got to two, Rachel increased her speed, lowered her shoulder, and drove it into the soft section of Spivak’s side between his rib cage and pelvis. Rachel felt thunder crackling in her head as she lifted him off his feet.

  Spivak landed with a grunt, Rachel to his side. She quickly stood up and stomped on his wrist, hearing an audible crack as several of his carpal bones shattered. Spivak cried out and dropped the gun. Rachel kicked it away. Spivak tried to get to his feet, but Rachel drove her fist into his stomach, doubling him over and taking the breath from his body. But she was slow. Tired. The exhaustion had finally caught up to her, sapping her strength and stamina. Before she had time to react, Spivak backhanded her across the temple, and Rachel crumpled to the ground.

  Her head felt like it had been trampled by a rampaging bull. Her vision swam. Her eyes couldn’t focus. She managed to get to her knees, but Spivak kicked her in the ribs, sending her flying into a heap.

  She curled up. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Her vision was cloudy, as if she were viewing the world through gauze. Spivak brought his foot down into the center of Rachel’s back, driving her to the ground, mashing her face into the dirt and grass.

  She rolled to her side. Her ribs felt like they’d been pressed against a grill. From the prone position, Rachel could see Spivak pick up his gun.

  “No,” she said weakly. He cradled his maimed arm and looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and pity.

  “You got out,” Spivak said. “Maybe the boys did too. But someone is still in there. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come back. I’m guessing it’s our friend Ms. Boggs. I’v
e despised that cunt for years. And given what a pain in the ass you’ve been, Ms. Marin, I’m glad you get to smell her cook. And then I’m going to find those boys, and I’m going to tear them apart.”

  Rachel pressed her fist into the ground to steady herself. She took a lurching step toward Spivak and fell to a knee. She dry-heaved. Spivak watched, a thin smile spreading across his lips, like he was watching an infant trying to take its first trembling steps.

  “You don’t give up,” he said. “I could say I admire your fortitude, but I’d be lying. If you were less stubborn, you might have lived to see your family again.”

  Rachel got back to her feet. Took another step. Stumbled.

  “This is sad to watch,” Spivak said.

  The fire was rising, spreading across the walls of the shack. Rachel could not hear or see Evie and prayed the woman hadn’t already passed out.

  Spivak walked over to Rachel. He knelt down, his face level with hers.

  “Misery loves company. Why don’t you join your friend?”

  Spivak took Rachel’s wrist and began to drag her toward the shack. Rachel resisted, weakly. Spivak turned back to her and laughed. As he did, his grip relaxed ever so slightly.

  Now!

  Rachel stood up, placed her free hand atop Spivak’s head, and in one simultaneous movement, pushed down on his cranium as she brought her knee up swiftly, viciously, to connect with the front of his face. The crunch told her she’d shattered his nose and perhaps an orbital bone.

  Spivak lurched backward, blood spurting from his broken face. The gun fell from his hand, and Rachel kicked it across the park. It settled underneath a set of monkey bars that had gone green with neglect. Flames had begun to lick at the roof of the shack, smoke pouring through the cracks and crevices. She could feel the heat coming off the wood in waves.

  Evie.

  Rachel barreled forward. She threw the doors open. A burst of flame shot out at her like a tongue, and Rachel fell backward. She turned just in time to see Randall Spivak come at her, swinging a tree branch. She managed to deflect the blow with her forearm, but it knocked her off balance. Spivak swung the branch back at Rachel, flecks of blood flying off his face. But Spivak had slowed, and Rachel was able to duck, then bring her leg up and hammer Spivak between the legs.