Casey admired the maple trees along the boulevard. “I like all the trees. Lots of green.”
“My whole life’s been spent around trees. We used to own a peach orchard in Summerland. Mildred made the best preserves in the country. She won plenty of ribbons.”
Once they reached Harold’s building, he fumbled with his keys for long seconds before inserting one into the lock. Casey attempted to hold the door open for him but Harold insisted on holding it for her. Stepping into the blissfully cool lobby, Casey listened to the door click shut. She stuffed her hat and sunglasses into her canvas bag. Harold led her through the lobby, turned left, and started down the corridor. He stopped to greet an elderly woman pushing a cart on wheels.
“Hello, Mr. Knox,” she said.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fisher,” he replied. “Off to do some shopping?”
“Just picking up a few things from the deli. I don’t want to cook on a day like this.”
“Good idea. Right now, I’m going to make my friend Casey a cup of tea. I just hope Mildred won’t be jealous.”
The woman gave Casey a knowing smile. “Enjoy your day,” Mrs. Fisher said, and continued into the lobby.
At the end of the carpeted corridor, Harold wavered slightly as he opened the door. “After you, young lady.”
“Thanks.” Casey kicked off her sandals and entered the short hallway.
The air smelled like lavender. She’d only taken three steps when Harold cried out. The door smacked him in the face and he recoiled backward. A tall, large man in a black ski mask stood on the threshold. Before Casey could react, the man shut the door and said, “Knock knock.”
TEN
The man dragged Harold toward Casey. She stepped backward, blood pounding in her ears and the adrenalin soaring until she bumped against a chair. She turned and bolted for the sliding glass door at the end of the room. A loud thump and moan came from behind. Footsteps drew closer. Oh god!
Dropping her bag, Casey released the latch and pulled. The door wouldn’t move. She glimpsed the lock at the bottom just as she was yanked backward by her hair. Pain flared over her head. Her eyes watered. Casey tried to grab the hand gripping her hair but failed. He spun her around. A blow to her face sent Casey reeling onto the glass coffee table. She started to sit up. The intruder struck her again, then shoved her to the floor. Casey’s head smacked the hardwood. A boot pressed down on her ribs. She gasped. Tears poured from her stinging eyes.
“Move and I’ll cut your throat,” he said.
Casey froze. The tears kept her from seeing much, yet she could feel the rage emanating from this man. He raised his arm and she caught the glint of a blade.
“Gimme your phone, bitch.” He turned to Harold. “Yours too, old timer.”
Struggling to breathe, Casey reached in the pocket of her capris. He grabbed the phone from her, lifted his boot off her chest, and stomped the device into pieces. Casey wiped her eyes. The toes of his boots were scuffed and dusty, his black cargo pants dirty.
The intruder approached Harold, still on the floor, trying to prop himself up on his elbow, his expression dazed, his glasses askew. A large red splotch marred his forehead.
“Where’s your fucking cellphone?”
“Don’t have one,” Harold murmured, adjusting his glasses. “Phone’s there.” His shaky hand pointed to the cordless phone on the table next to the chair.
The intruder yanked the cord from the wall and tossed the phone in front of the door. “Now give me that pack.”
“What?”
Casey wiped her eyes and noticed the latex gloves. No rings beneath them. No visible tattoos. The home invaders never struck in daylight. Was he one of them or was this someone else?
“I want that wad of bills!”
How did he know what Harold was carrying? Casey tried to think. She hadn’t seen anyone as large as this man at the rec center. Damn it, how had she missed the tail? No one had followed them inside the building. She thought she’d been careful. How had he gotten in?
Harold fumbled with the zipper.
“Hurry up!”
His shaking hands couldn’t get the zipper to work.
“I can help him,” Casey said.
“I said stay put.” He pointed the knife at her. “And shut up!”
“I can’t get it,” Harold mumbled.
The intruder reached down, readying the knife.
Casey gasped. Harold whimpered. “No! . . . Please.”
The knife sliced through the strap. The man yanked the fanny pack from him, opened the zipper, and grabbed the folded bills. Grinning, he pocketed them along with the coins. “Now, how about that gold ring on your finger, Pops?”
The gang always went after cash and jewelry. This menace had to be one of them. But why attack now?
“I’ve had this nearly seventy years,” Harold mumbled.
“Don’t give a shit.” The man turned to Casey. “I’ll take that sparkly diamond ring too.”
Nausea roiled through Casey’s stomach. She had no choice. She pulled on the ring, but her fingers were swollen from the heat. She twisted and tugged.
“Hurry up!”
“Don’t hurt her,” Harold pleaded, pushing himself backward until his back was against the sofa.
“Shut it!” The knife slashed the air. “What’s in your bag?” He upended Casey’s canvas bag and dumped the contents onto the floor. Out of her coin purse, he pulled a ten dollar bill and coins. “Pathetic. I want that ring!”
Casey tried to moisten the ring with her saliva but her mouth was too dry. Her stomach roiled. Her lower back was covered in sweat.
“Hurry up!” The man moved closer.
“My knuckles are swollen. If I could get cold water or butter.”
“Fuck that. I’ve got something that’ll snip your finger right off.”
Reaching into a pocket, the menace exchanged the knife for a bolt cutter. Oh dear god. This had to be the freak who’d killed Elsie Englehart. He bent down only inches from her face. Casey shuddered beneath eyes so light that they almost looked silver.
“Wanna see what this baby can do?”
“No! It’s moving. I can just pull—”
“On second thought.” The man grabbed Casey’s hand. “Let’s not risk ruining the ring.”
He yanked and twisted her finger until she screamed. As the ring came off, pain exploded through her hand. Bile rose up her throat. Casey squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to look at her damaged finger. Quick, shallow breaths barely kept the nausea from erupting.
“You got other jewelry hidden away, old man?”
“Mildred will get mad.”
“Your wife?” He looked at the bedroom. “Is she here?”
“She’s always here.”
“Come out, old lady!” the intruder shouted, marching to the bedroom.
He returned seconds later. “Where is she?”
“She’s dead,” Casey said. “Harold believes her ghost is here.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“No.”
“Dead wives don’t bother me as much as live ones.”
“Harold’s pretty far gone,” Casey said, wincing. “Probably doesn’t remember what jewelry his wife owned.”
The intruder pocketed the bolt cutters. “If either of you move, you’re dead.” He disappeared into the bedroom.
Objects crashed to the floor.
Harold slowly shook his head. “Mildred won’t want him taking her emerald earrings.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Mildred, I need you.” A tear slid down his cheek.
The intruder reappeared, holding a small a key. “What does this open?”
Harold squinted at the key. His face paled. “The safe.”
“Where is it?”
He hesitated. “The closet.”
“Don’t screw with me, old man. I looked in there.”
Harold closed his eyes a moment. “The bottom of the laundry hamper.”
“You mean I gotta go thro
ugh your smelly shit to find it?”
Casey noted the man’s broad shoulders and long limbs. Far too large to fight.
“There’d better be something good in there.” He turned to Casey. “Don’t even think about escaping.”
She wouldn’t leave Harold. Even if she managed to get away, the intruder would take his revenge out on him. Perspiring and shivering, Casey took a deep, calming breath. She had to find a way to get help.
Harold’s face suddenly twisted and he squeezed his eyes shut. The poor man moaned in agony.
“Harold?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?” Why was he pressing his index finger against his chest? “Is it your heart?”
Harold slipped his finger under the collar and lifted a cord hanging around his neck. A white, rectangular device with a blue button emerged from under his shirt. Was that a medical alarm?
“Harold, are you calling for help?”
He barely nodded as his shaky finger pressed the button once again before he keeled over.
Oh! Casey scuttled over and slipped the alarm under his shirt. “He mustn’t see it.”
Alert systems came with a base unit for two-way communication. Where was the unit? She scanned the room. Even if Harold didn’t respond, help would be dispatched. But would they arrive in time?
“What’s that sound?” the intruder demanded from the bedroom.
Oh god. The unit was probably in there.
He reappeared and glared at Casey. “I told you to stay put!”
“He’s going into cardiac arrest!”
A kick to her already sore ribs sent her flying backward. The air left her lungs.
“What are you up to, old man?”
Out the corner of her eye, Casey saw Harold pressing on his chest again. His face had grown ashen.
“H-help,” he stammered.
The intruder bent over and pulled out the alarm. “Shit!” He struck Harold, then grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. “Gimme that goddamn ring! I got your stash but I deserve more for my time and trouble, and I ain’t got all day, thanks to you!”
Casey pushed herself backward along the hardwood floor until she bumped against a wall. Her ribs burned. It hurt to breathe.
“For the last time, hand over that goddamn ring or I’ll cut your fingers off!”
Through the wall, Casey heard a TV. Beside her, a cane was propped next to the bookcase.
“Mildred!” Harold pleaded. “Help us!”
Casey grabbed the cane and banged on the wall, trying to shout but the pain was too intense.
The intruder spun around. “You’re dead, bitch!”
She kept banging. As he started for her, rage filled those silver eyes. Casey gripped the cane with both hands and prepared to swing.
ELEVEN
“It’s all right,” the stranger said. “You’re in the hospital. You’ll be fine.”
Casey emerged from the darkness. Slowly. Painfully. She tried to open her eyes. Couldn’t. Her head pounded unbearably and she flinched. More pain. Fire on her left shoulder, down her arm. She moaned. And why did her face ache so much?
“Lie still,” the voice said. “You’re safe now.”
Safe? From what? Casey heard blips. Regular, persistent. More pain blocked the sound.
“Hurts.”
“I’ll give you something.”
Again, Casey tried to force her eyes open. Just a fraction. The light was dim, the woman before her blurry. Did that woman say she was in a hospital? Why? What had happened?
“Close your eyes,” the woman said. “You’ll feel better shortly.”
She was right. The pain began to recede. This warm blanket was so comfy. The blackness swept her questions away.
. . .
A warm hand stroked Casey’s head. It felt familiar, masculine yet gentle. Casey’s mouth twitched. Her face still hurt. Every part of her body ached.
“I think she’s waking up,” a man said.
She recognized that voice. Casey managed to squint at the shadowy figure by her bed.
“Casey? It’s me, hon.”
“Lou?” Her own scratchy voice felt weak.
“Yes.”
At last, someone she knew. Casey started to lift her head, but the pounding was so severe that she collapsed back on the pillow. Someone was beside him. Someone smaller.
“Hi, Casey.”
Casey forced her eyes open a little wider. “Summer?”
“Yeah. How are you feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“You’ll be okay.” Lou kissed her forehead.
The worry on Lou’s face alarmed her. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“What?” She tried to lift her head again, but couldn’t. “What happened?”
Lou didn’t answer. Somewhere in her thoughts, a dark, frightening figure hovered. She pushed it away, took a deep breath, and gasped from the pain.
“Try to relax,” Lou said, stroking her hair.
When she could talk again, she said, “How did I get here?”
“By ambulance.” Lou paused. “You were unconscious when they found you.”
“They?” She sensed his hesitancy. “Where was I?”
He glanced at Summer and said, “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you need to rest.”
An image emerged from the darkness. Someone in black in a bright room. A man. Her brain was too groggy to make sense of it. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing that can’t heal,” Lou replied.
“Tell me. Please?”
“You’ve got two cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, cuts and bruises on your face and body, a concussion, and a broken finger. They operated on your shoulder.”
“But the doctor said you can come home soon,” Summer said.
Casey saw her pensive smile buried in anxiety. “Was I hit by a car?” She caught the wary exchange between Lou and Summer. “I need to know.”
Lou gripped her hand harder. “You were attacked.”
A man in a black ski mask stepped forward from the murky part of her memory. The intruder. Bolt cutters. A knife blade. Terror. “I swung something at him.” She remembered kicking and screaming, and banging against a wall. Did her head hurt because she’d smacked it?
“We shouldn’t talk about it now,” Lou said. “You look sleepy.”
But she needed to know more. “Where did it happen?”
“In a condo.”
“Whose?”
“Casey, listen,” Lou said. “I promise we’ll talk more tomorrow. You really need to sleep now.”
Too tired to argue, she let the blackness take control.
. . .
“She looks like hell.”
Casey knew that voice, but from where? Her face twitched, eyelids flickered. Every movement brought pain. She was exhausted by the helplessness of life in a hospital.
“Wouldn’t you if you’d had the crap beaten out of you?” a woman replied. “Hey there. Are you awake?”
Marie Crenshaw. Coworker. Royal pain in the butt sometimes. Casey opened her eyes and found herself staring at Marie and a gawking Philippe Beauchamp. Daylight poured in from the window to her right, so bright that she had to look away.
“It could have been worse,” Philippe remarked.
“What are you doing here?” Casey mumbled.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Marie said, glaring at Philippe.
“I wanted to see how you were doing,” he replied.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” Marie answered. “You’ve been out of it for four days.”
It felt much longer. Despite the pain, Casey had grown restless. Yesterday, she’d made an attempt to get up and walk to the bathroom. Her entire body had throbbed in protest, but she’d managed with the help of her IV pole and a nurse.
“Do you want me to raise the bed?” Marie asked.
“No.”
“How did you manage a private room?” Philippe
asked.
“No idea.” But she was grateful.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Marie said. “It must have been terrifying.”
It was. She had remembered more. The cane she’d struck the intruder with. How he’d wrestled it from her, losing his knife, resorting to fists. She’d used her feet, kicking him in the groin. He’d howled.
“Have you given the cops a description of the assailant?” Marie asked.
“No, I’ve been doped up. There’s not much of a description anyway. The freak wore a ski mask. I think he’s part of the home-invasion gang.” Their solemn faces made Casey uneasy. “What have you heard?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about it,” Philippe said with a hint of smugness.
Marie crossed her arms and gave him one of her what-a-moron looks before answering. “You were escorting a senior home. It happened in his condo.”
“Harold Knox.” This morning, she remembered his name, walking him home, the door banging open. “Is he okay?”
“In critical condition.”
“God.” She recalled the poor man sitting on the floor, pressing that alarm around his neck.
“Stan’s pissed with the cops for not getting there sooner,” Philippe said. “The guy got away.”
“He took your ring, didn’t he?” Marie looked at Casey’s bandaged finger. “Broke your finger?”
“Yes.” A memory she wished had stayed buried.
“Stan says he’ll drop by soon, but personally I think he’s totally freaked out by all this,” Marie said. “He’s been edgy.”
“Snapping at everyone,” Philippe added. “He looks miserable.”
Casey hoped Stan would visit. If there was more to learn, she’d rather hear it from him. Besides, this discussion was already wearing her out.
“Badly dislocated shoulders take a long time to heal,” Philippe went on. “Your arm will be in a sling for weeks and you could have months of rehab. Looks like you’ll be away the rest of the summer and into September, what with the wedding and all.”
The wedding. She’d forgotten. Lou had visited yesterday and said something about their plans. She couldn’t remember what, though.
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it,” Marie said to Philippe.
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