by Gayle Wilson
She hesitated, unable to decide if it would be better to go out into the foyer to confront Tate there or stay where she was. Even if she somehow managed to get past him and escape out the front door, he'd come after her. If she screamed for help, would anyone in this neighborhood get up and come outside in response to her cries? Would they even bother to call the police?
At least here there was a door between them. Some kind of barrier.
One to which he has the key.
Somewhere to hide.
Empty! Rooms with no furniture in them to offer the possibility of concealment.
Something to use as a weapon against him.
Something? When every item that would normally be in a home had been packed and moved with the Ingersolls? There would be no wooden block of butcher knives in the kitchen. No shears. No ice pick.
But the officers assigned as workmen had left things here, she realized. Like the drop cloths she and Mac had used last night.
The sound of a key being inserted in the lock made the decision for her. If she were going to find something that could be used as a weapon, it would be here rather than in the foyer.
Twenty-Nine
Acting instinctively, Sarah avoided the exposed kitchen, running for the back of the apartment instead. The room Dwight had shared with his grandmother was the first she came to in the short, dark hall.
She ran past it, heading for the smaller room, the one Mrs. Ingersoll had used. Maybe there would be a privacy lock on its door. Something—anything—that might give her a few more seconds. Then she stopped, so suddenly her bare feet skidded over the wooden floor.
As she'd passed Dwight's bedroom, her brain had subliminally recorded the existence of another stack of drop cloths, similar to the ones Mac had piled together in the living room. And beyond them, some unidentifiable shape had been silhouetted against the light seeping into the room from the single window.
She reversed directions, sliding into the larger of the two bedrooms just as the front door opened, the creak seeming to echo throughout the empty apartment. She closed the bedroom door, which she discovered had no privacy lock, probably because of the mental condition of Dwight's grandmother.
In the dimness, she frantically pushed aside the drop cloths to get to whatever else the cops had left here. Since all the work on this apartment was bogus, everything the department brought in and out during the last three weeks would have been for show. Despite the fact that they were part of the deception, however, the tools themselves had been real.
A wooden carry-all she discovered partially hidden under the plastic yielded a hammer. She laid it out as she continued to search for something that wouldn't require her to match Tate's longer reach in order to use it against him.
Physically, she was no match for the bastard. Mentally...
Still sorting through the tools, she remembered those long, sleepless nights before she'd gone to the courthouse. Nights when she'd imagined killing him. Had dreamed about it. A hundred times in her mind she'd visualized his head exploding as the bullets she'd fired from Dan's gun impacted.
Tate was nothing more than an animal. A vicious, brutal coward who had murdered more than a dozen children. But he'd never been driven to kill any of them as strongly as she'd felt compelled to try to put an end to his existence.
She moved away from the carry-all, having exhausted its possibilities. In the darkness, her fingers brailled a band saw. Although she was familiar with its operation from the years she'd worked with Dan to build up his father's business, she couldn't imagine how she might use this to kill Tate.
Air sobbing in and out of her lungs, she crawled over to the next object, carrying the hammer with her. Despite the noise she herself was making moving over the plastic sheets, she imagined she could hear Tate moving around the apartment, a soft scuffling sound that came from beyond the bedroom door.
She tried to control her breathing as she ran her fingers over the remaining objects. As she touched the last of them, her heart began to race.
She knew instantly what she'd found. More importantly, she knew how to use it.
Discarding the hammer, she examined the nail gun by touch, familiarizing herself with the model. Which, to her relief, was very much like the one she'd used during those long summers when she'd worked shoulder to shoulder with Dan.
And then, on top of that realization came another. Tate was outside the bedroom door.
She didn't know why she was so sure. She couldn't see him. She hadn't heard anything outside clearly enough to be this certain. All the same, she knew he was there.
Maybe the evil that emanated from him was that strong. Because she also knew the second his hand closed around the knob.
The door opened, the squeak of its hinges subtle in the darkness. She laid her finger over the trigger. And for the first time she realized that, since it had never really been intended for use within these walls, her weapon might not be loaded.
It was too late to look for anything else. Like that morning on the courthouse steps, all that was left for her was to act. Shoot. Don't talk.
A shape, far less distinct than those that had attracted her attention here, was coming toward her. His progress across the room seemed incredibly quick. The distance between them had been cut in half by the time she got her weapon into position.
Although she couldn't be certain what would happen when she pulled the trigger, she aimed at the widest part of her attacker's body. She placed one finger against the guard, an awkward positioning, but one which would have the same effect on the firing mechanism as if she were pressing the gun against a board.
Lesson learned from her last, failed attempt, she didn't open her mouth, allowing her finger to squeeze the trigger instead. For some reason she would never understand and could not possibly have explained, whoever had left the nail gun here had taken time to insert a coil of nails.
She could feel the small percussion as they were fired. The rushing figure now seemed to loom above her, but she continued to apply a steady pressure against the trigger.
She had no idea how rapidly or how powerfully this model was capable of spitting out missiles, considering her misuse of its design. All she knew was that Tate's forward progress suddenly faltered.
He changed directions, staggering against the wall. Encouraged, she continued to fire, refusing to think about what the nails could do to flesh and bone.
Nor could she think about Danny. Not even about Mac.
She had to finish this first. Only when it was over—
She jerked her mind away from that thought. She couldn't afford to think about anything beyond what she was doing—directing the hail of missiles that followed the man who now careened from one side of the room to the other as she targeted him.
Suddenly the gun went quiet. For a second or two she continued to press the trigger, but nothing happened.
The coil of nails had been used up. And unless she wanted to search through the items she'd scattered around in her haste to find this one...
As she waited, the silence in the room was almost complete. She could hear her own breathing.
And then, when she held her breath, she could hear Tate's. Ragged. Almost gasping.
She kept her empty weapon pointed at her son's murderer as he leaned against the wall. In the few minutes it had taken her to find and then empty the nail gun, the bedroom had grown lighter. She could see her son's murderer more clearly now.
After a long time he put his right hand flat against the wall. As if that effort were far more exhausting than he'd expected. Tate seemed to rest a moment, gathering strength, before he straightened his elbow, pushing himself upright.
Black splotches covered the front of the white coverall. His body had even left a smear of darkness on the pale wall. Still, he managed one swaying step and then another.
Despite his injuries, he was coming for her. Sarah lifted her eyes from his blood-soaked clothing to focus on his face.
Contorte
d by pain and effort, his features bore little resemblance to those of the man she'd accosted on the courthouse steps. Only one thing seemed the same. His unwavering determination to claim another victim.
Not me, you bastard. You've taken enough from me. More than enough. And now, when I've finally found something to make life worth living again...
She blocked that unwanted admission. She didn't know if Mac were dead or alive. All she knew was that she was. And that she wouldn't allow Tate to steal her life from her. too. Not if she had to finish him off with her bare hands.
She laid the nail gun down and scrambled to her feet. The growing light from the window behind her revealed the hammer she'd found first lying in front of her.
Her eyes never left the man who continued his staggering progress toward her, one hand over the spreading red stain on his torso, the other clutching the knife he might have used to butcher her son. As she watched his approach, she raised the hammer, prepared to fight him to the death.
Suddenly Tate stopped, gripping the blood-soaked fabric that covered his chest. His mouth opened, so that for a heartbeat she thought he was going to say something to her.
Shoot. Don't talk.
Instead, he leaned forward, a froth of bloody fluid pouring from his mouth. She backed away, her gaze automatically lowering to watch as it splattered over the white drop cloths at her feet.
When she lifted her eyes again, Tate was in the process of falling forward. He made no attempt to break his fall, hitting the floor face-first. The knife he'd held landed near her feet.
Hammer raised, she waited, expecting him to move again. To get up. To do something.
Unable to believe it was finally over, she edged around him, avoiding both the blood and the weapon he might have used on Danny.
And on Mac? Had he used that same knife to kill Mac?
The question mattered far more to her than whether or not Tate was dead. If he wasn't, he soon would be. Either here and now or by the State's command. And either way...
That wasn't nearly as important as getting to Mac.
She had tried so hard not to care. To keep him as well as the feelings he evoked at a distance. She had never wanted to love him because she knew what happened to everything she'd ever loved in her life.
Please, God, don't take Mac, too, she prayed as she ran through the echoing rooms of the empty apartment.
Please, dear God, don't take it all away from me again.
Thirty
There was no good reason for Tate to have left Mac alive. As she ran. Sarah couldn't think of a single scenario that would make that action plausible. And no reason to hope Tate had done anything other than what he'd done in every other situation in his entire life: destroy whatever lay in his path.
Yet she still ran. She threw open the front entrance to the building, letting the door bang back against the brick facade.
The tiny apron of winter-dead grass that served as the complex's landscaping lay empty before her. As did the sidewalk and the street. If Mac were out here somewhere—
"Mac?" And then louder. "Mac? Answer me."
Her breath caught on a sob, but her eyes were dry. Her tears had been used up during the past three years so that now, in this final betrayal, there were none left.
She had known that if she loved him, this would happen. Yet once again she'd fallen victim to the hope that it would be different. That this time—
She stopped at the end of the walkway, the emptiness of the street a reflection of her own. "Mac?"
The wind carried the sound of his name away as soon as she uttered it. She turned her head, looking at the vacant lot next door. Would Tate have dragged him there? Would he have taken time?
The word reverberated. How much time had elapsed since Mac walked outside?
Her eyes went back to the utility truck. A carpenter's carry-all sat on the sidewalk beside the left rear wheel. Between that and the tire, as if it might have been dropped in the killer's rush to get inside, lay a spill of white.
Drop cloth, she realized as she drew closer to the vehicle. One exactly like those inside.
Most of it lay in the gutter, trailing under the truck, but part of it had caught under the toolbox. Only when it fluttered in the next cold draught did she grasp the significance of that. The wooden carry-all had been placed on top of the plastic to hold it in place.
She dragged the toolbox off and onto the grass. Then she knelt beside the drop sheet.
Even this close, it was difficult to tell that the cloth hid something because its plastic, stiffened by the freezing temperature, was bunched against the tire. From the vantage point of a passing car, it would have been impossible.
Hands trembling, she reached out and lifted the edge of the sheet. Beneath it. Mac lay on his side, his back to her, his body curved into a near-fetal position.
"Mac." She whispered his name because it was obvious he wouldn't answer.
She pushed the drop cloth further back, stretching forward so she could see his face. In the pale winter sunlight it looked gray and lifeless.
The hair at his temple was matted with blood. It had run down into his ear and then onto his neck, pooling finally on the pavement.
She touched his head, her first instinct to succor him. Then, steeling herself, she put her fingers under his jawline, feeling for a pulse.
After a moment she closed her eyes, her body sagging in relief. Beneath the sticky warmth of the blood on his neck, she could feel a heartbeat. In her admitted inexperience, it seemed strong and steady.
Mac was alive. And it was up to her to keep him that way.
She began to search his clothing for his cell, gingerly at first and then with a greater urgency. She found it in his shirt pocket.
Hands shaking, this time in haste, she slipped the phone out and opened the case. She punched in 9-1-1 with her thumb, her other hand resting on Mac's hair.
"Just a few more minutes, baby," she whispered as she listened to the rings. "Just hold on and somebody will be here. Just a few more minutes, I promise you."
"I realize this is probably not the best time..." Captain Morel lifted his brows questioningly.
Why not? Sarah acknowledged. The sooner she gave them what they wanted to know, the sooner she could get back to the only thing that was important. Besides, answering Morel's questions might help occupy the endless hours while Mac underwent the surgery necessary to repair the damage Tate had inflicted.
She gestured toward the plastic-covered couch opposite her chair. Mac's boss glanced at Sonny Cochran, who'd been hovering beside his elbow, before they both awkwardly sat down on it. For a long time neither of them spoke.
Into that uncomfortable silence Sarah finally asked the question she'd wondered about since she'd had time to think of anything other than making sure Mac survived. Now that was out of her hands. And beyond her control.
"Is he dead?"
Morel's mouth opened and then closed. Then he glanced at Sonny, who shrugged.
"You didn't know?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't have asked."
"Believe me. Mrs. Patterson. Tate is dead."
She nodded. One less thing to think about. Maybe, given the situation, that wasn't necessarily a good thing.
"Can you tell us what happened?"
She considered lying to him. Not because she cared what Morel thought about her. but because she wasn't sure how the truth would affect Mac.
Still, coming up with a plausible explanation for why she had been in the downstairs apartment was something she hadn't had time to think about. Besides, what possible difference could any of that make now?
"I couldn't sleep, so I'd gone downstairs some time before dawn. I don't know... maybe three o'clock. Maybe a little later. Mac didn't want me to stay, but I begged him to let me. I just didn't want to be upstairs alone."
As she said the words, she wondered if she'd had some premonition of what Tate was planning. Just as she had known he was outside the apartment door—h
ad sensed his evil—had she known he was going to choose that night, after all the other nights they'd waited on him, to come?
"Something woke Mac at daylight. He thought it was the workmen. He didn't want them to come in and find me in the apartment, so he went outside to meet them. He told me to give him a couple of minutes and then to go upstairs, but...when I opened the door of the apartment, someone was coming in the entrance to the complex."
She stopped, realizing how near a thing that had been. And Tate had already made sure Mac wouldn't be able to help her.
"I thought it was Mac, but when he didn't say anything, I looked out the peephole. The foyer was empty. I thought it might have been some of the other officers." She stopped, shaking her head at the memory. "I waited a little while for them to come into the apartment, wondering why Mac hadn't stopped them outside. And then...then I knew who was out there."
"You knew it was Tate?"
"If it had been Mac, he would have said something. And he would never have let the others come in with me there without giving me some warning, so... I knew it had to be Tate. And I knew he'd have Mac's key. I thought about trying to get out of the building past him, but..." She shook her head again, thinking about that choice, too. "I decided to try to find something in the apartment to use against him."
Those minutes of terror while she had looked replayed in her memory. And when she'd found her weapon...
"At first the only thing I could find was a hammer, but then I uncovered a nail gun somebody had left. If it was loaded. I knew it would be more effective. That it would take away his physical advantage."
"I'd say highly effective." For the first time. Morel smiled at her.
"When did you learn how to use a nail gun?" Sonny asked.
"My husband owned a construction business. Ex-husband," she amended, remembering that Mac didn't like it when she referred to Dan as her husband. "Danny and I helped out when we could."