She got out of the car and realized how tired she was. The single flight of stairs up to the second floor seemed to be a Herculean task. She finally got to the landing, walked to her door, and looked down to put the key in the deadbolt.
The door was open a crack.
She gasped.
The door flung open.
Rob Stotsky came at her with a black flannel scarf.
Fenway tried to scream but the scarf—her scarf—covered her mouth. Her keys fell from her hand. In a quick, fluid movement, Stotsky grabbed the ends of the scarf behind her head and tightened, gagging her. He swung her around into the apartment by her head, and slammed the door shut.
Fenway tried screaming again, but the scarf covered most of the sound. Stotsky tied the scarf tight around her head, and, using the scarf for leverage, pushed her down onto her knees. Her purse fell to the floor. One of her heels came off. Then he pushed her down onto the floor on her stomach, her head turned to the side, the scarf pushed up almost over her nose. Her dress slid up to the tops of her thighs, and she briefly thought of the Russian Lit professor again.
“Oh, Fenway,” he growled. “If only you had just let me leave.”
Stotsky put a knee on the small of her back. Her breath went out of her.
“I was about to empty my bank account. I had my train ticket. I would have been in Tijuana by midnight, and you would have never seen me again.”
Fenway struggled but couldn’t move.
“But you had to mess everything up for me, didn’t you? Putting a stop on my cards. Putting that officer at the train station.”
She could barely breathe.
“And I saw how you took down that crazy guy in the church,” he hissed in her ear. “I’m not going to underestimate you like he did.”
Fenway was a tall woman, but Stotsky outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. She didn’t think she could take him down—not without help.
“Here’s what’s going to happen to Fenway Stevenson, the girl who killed the goose that laid the golden egg,” he murmured. “You’re going to give me your car keys. It’ll be tougher to track a car that doesn’t have plates yet. And you’re going to get in the trunk. Then we’re going to Mexico, and your father is going to wire me all the money I need. Then, and only then, will I let you go.”
Fenway saw that her high heel was right next to her right hand. She wondered if she could grab ahold of it without Stotsky noticing.
“Now, you’re not going to do anything stupid, right, Fenway? You’re probably just as useful to me dead, but if your dad insists on proof of life before sending me the money, I’d like to be able to give it to him.”
“Mm-hmm,” Fenway wheezed through the gag.
“Swear on your mother’s grave,” he sneered.
That knocked the breath out of her almost as much as his knee in her back.
“Swear it!” He pulled the scarf down.
“I swear,” she gasped.
“Where are the keys?” he said.
Fenway realized that he hadn’t seen her drop them out on the landing.
“In my purse,” she lied.
“Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t know. I dropped it.”
Stotsky grabbed a handful of her hair. “Where did you drop it, damn it?”
“When you first threw me in here. I dropped it. Maybe over by the kitchen island.”
He pulled. “There’s nothing by the kitchen island.”
“Ow—then I don’t know.”
“Tell me where you dropped your purse!” he hissed.
“I dropped my purse when you spun me around. I didn’t see where it went.”
He increased the pressure on the small of her back. “You are such a pain in my ass, Fenway.” He let go of her hair, stuffed the scarf back in her mouth, straightened up, still on top of her, and turned his head away, looking for the purse on the floor.
Something in his voice told Fenway that she would not survive the trip to Mexico. That once Stotsky had his money from her father—assuming Nathaniel Ferris would even send it—Stotsky would have far less trouble killing her and getting rid of her body than letting her go.
Fenway scooted her right hand up and laid it on top of her shoe. He didn’t notice.
“Under the kitchen table,” he sighed. The tone of his voice made her think that he saw the purse. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you. Remember, you swore you wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
Fenway was waiting for him to take his weight off her back so she could drive hard up into him and swing around with her shoe, the sharp heel out. She thought about where his head might be, and whether or not she could hit his temple.
But Stotsky was thinking ahead. He grabbed the scarf tied around her face, then picked her head up quickly and slammed it into the kitchen floor.
It surprised her, and it hurt. Her ear rang where it smashed against the floor.
Fenway thought that he was trying to briefly incapacitate her, but the floor was linoleum, not hardwood, and he banged Fenway’s ear—not her temple—against the floor. It hurt, but it didn’t knock her out; it just made her angry.
He rose to a squatting position over her and started to stand.
She pushed herself up fast. She arched her back as quickly as she could, then twisted to her left with the high heel in her right hand. Stotsky was off balance and caught himself with his left hand.
She swung the high heel hard; it caught his left cheek and it ripped a big flap of skin off as it sliced across his face.
He roared in pain.
Fenway was still underneath him, but she scrambled out from between his legs.
He grabbed at her with his right hand as he dropped to his knees and clipped her right hip as she was scrambling. His large hand was enough to knock her down, but she kicked out with her left foot—the foot still in the other high heel—and caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip. He grabbed for her ankles but missed.
She scooted back and stood up, across the kitchen.
She saw the knife block next to the microwave, out of both of their reaches. From the angle, she thought it was also out of his line of sight. She thought she might be able to go for it before he noticed what she was doing.
But he was closer than Fenway was to the microwave, and she was afraid he’d get to her before she got to the knives. Fenway’s high-heeled weapon would have to do for now.
He was still kneeling, and spat a wad of blood onto her floor. He looked angry, and his lip and cheek were bleeding pretty badly. He touched the wound on his cheek, looked at the blood on his fingers, and shook his head. “I’m still taking your car.”
She pulled off the scarf with her left hand. “But you’re not going to take me.” Fenway held the high heel as menacingly as she possibly could.
Keeping his eyes on her, he backed up to where her purse had come to rest under the kitchen table. He pulled it in front of himself and dumped everything out. He rifled through the mints and coins and hand lotion. He recoiled slightly when he touched the tampons. Fenway thought for a brief second that he might use them to soak up the blood on his face, but the look on his face was not one of resourcefulness; it was anger.
“No keys,” he growled.
Fenway went for the knife block. He hesitated, and in that second, she managed to grab the big chef’s knife—the good one her mother had bought her for her twenty-fifth birthday—and she swiped at him before he could get to the knife block.
She missed, and he jumped back.
“Get out of my house,” Fenway seethed at him.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“GET OUT!” she screamed.
And then she kept screaming. Fenway wanted everyone in the building to come. She wanted someone to call the cops.
He lunged at Fenway and she thrust the knife at him. But he dodged it, knocked it out of her hand, and it clattered to the floor.
He grabbed her wrist and spun her around, and suddenly Fenway was in a choke hold.
She couldn’t breathe. He was squeezing her neck.
She grabbed at his arm. She scratched him hard enough to draw blood.
He grimaced, but tightened his grip.
She couldn’t get air.
The door burst open.
It was Rachel.
She was holding a .22 pistol.
“Let her go.” Rachel’s voice was high-pitched and wavering.
Stotsky spun Fenway around to face her. “Rachel,” he said, “Rachel, listen to me.”
“You’re killing her. Let her go, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
“Rachel—”
“I’m not kidding, Dad. You know I’m a good shot. You trained me yourself.”
In the distance, faintly, the sound of sirens wafted up through the open door.
“After everything I’ve done for you.” Stotsky’s grip relaxed just enough so Fenway could get a shallow breath.
“You killed my husband.”
“He didn’t love you,” Stotsky spat. “He was cheating on you. You deserve so much better.”
“Maybe so, Dad, but that’s not up to you. And I can’t let you kill anyone else.”
His tone changed, like he was negotiating. “Okay, okay, I won’t. But you’ve got to let me go. I’ll go to Mexico. You won’t have to see me again. Fenway needs to tell me where her car keys are. Then I’ll leave.”
The sirens were getting closer.
“Deal, Fenway?” Rachel said.
She struggled in his grip for a second. “Fine,” Fenway choked out.
“You’ve gotta let Fenway go, Dad.”
“Tell me where the keys are, Fenway.”
She felt she didn’t have a choice. “On the landing. I dropped them on the ground as soon as you opened the door.”
“Excellent.” Stotsky started to drag Fenway out of the kitchen. He tightened his chokehold on her.
“Dad! What the hell are you doing?”
“Leaving with what I came for, Rachel. I don’t expect you to understand. I need the money that I’ve worked for all my life, and I need Fenway in order to get it.” He coughed, a wet, bloody cough. “I can make it to Mexico, and if I have Fenway, I can get everything her dad owes me.” He swung Fenway in front of him, still in the choke hold, and half-pushed, half-dragged her to the front door, toward Rachel.
The sirens were still getting louder.
“Get away from her.” Rachel tightened her two-hand grip on the .22.
Fenway locked eyes with Rachel. Rachel, barely holding onto her emotions, looked back at her. Fenway was going to do something crazy—and she thought Rachel knew it. Fenway and Stotsky were only about two feet away from the front door jamb, about five feet in front of Rachel.
“I’m sorry, Rachel, but it’s her or me. I’m going to leave, and you’re not going to stop me.”
Fenway suddenly swung her right foot up, put it against the door jamb, and pushed backward with everything she had.
Stotsky lost his balance, he let go of Fenway’s neck, and they both went down. Fenway fell half on top of him.
He quickly rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the knife on the floor. Fenway scrambled to her feet to face him. Stotsky held the knife out threateningly.
“You’re coming with me, Fenway, and I’ll cut you if I have to.”
Bang.
Fenway saw Stotsky’s right shoulder snap back. A pop of blood.
Bang.
His upper arm tensed. Another pop of blood.
He screamed and dropped the knife. It clattered away.
Fenway looked back at Rachel. She was still holding the gun with both hands. A tear was running down her cheek.
“Goddammit, Daddy!” she screamed. “Don’t make me shoot you again! Get down on the ground!”
“You shot me.” His voice was weak and incredulous.
“Get down on the ground!”
Stotsky, holding his right arm with his left, got down on his knees.
“On your stomach.”
“Rachel—”
“ON YOUR STOMACH!” she screamed.
He grimaced when he put weight on his arm, but he got on his stomach on the kitchen floor.
Rachel kept the gun trained on her father. Her hands were surprisingly still. The sirens were close now.
Fenway leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor. She looked at her hands; they were shaking much more than Rachel’s were.
The first officer on the scene was Dez, followed a couple of seconds later by Sheriff McVie, with Mark and Celeste right behind him. Fenway was still shaking; Rachel still held the gun trained on her father, who was on his stomach, bleeding from two bullet wounds in his arm, and wounds on his cheek and mouth thanks to Fenway. Mark handcuffed him.
Dez took the gun gently out of Rachel’s hand. Rachel put her head on Dez’s shoulder and Dez hugged her. Rachel started to sob; her whole body seemed to give out at once and Dez held her up, stroking the back of her head while she cried out in anguish.
McVie crouched down in front of Fenway. “Fenway, are you okay?”
She looked McVie in the face, his serious face, with his alabaster skin and his freckles.
Stay with me tonight, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
“No. I’m not okay. I’m not even close to okay.”
He nodded.
“We’re going to need you and Rachel to tell us what happened.”
“He was waiting for me when I got home,” she started. “He’s the building manager here. He obviously had a key. That didn’t even occur to me.”
“It didn’t occur to any of us.”
“Well, then, you’re pretty awful cops.”
McVie smiled. “Yeah.”
“He wanted my car because it doesn’t have plates yet. He wanted to kidnap me so my dad would wire him money in Mexico.”
McVie nodded. “If he kept off the freeway, he might have gotten to the border.”
“I don’t think he would have let me go after he got the money. I think he would have killed me.”
McVie put his hand on her shoulder. “You want to go over what happened?”
She grabbed his hand and put it against her cheek.
“Fenway?”
“Give me a few minutes.”
Rachel was talking, trying to catch her breath. Dez was still holding her.
“…so after I got the take-out,” Rachel said, between sobs, “I got to the apartment complex, and as soon as I opened the car door, I heard Fenway scream. Get out. Get out. She was screaming it over and over. And I left the food in the car, and grabbed the gun from the glove compartment, and just ran upstairs. Fenway’s keys were outside the door, and there were noises and yelling inside, and I just pushed the door open and pointed the gun at him.”
“Come on.” McVie squeezed Fenway’s hand. “We should move to another room. I can’t have you hearing this before I take your statement.”
He led her into her bedroom and shut the door.
She sat on the bed.
“I’m just taking your statement,” he said, gently but with conviction.
“I know.”
And she told him everything.
Chapter Twenty-Six
McVie took Fenway’s statement and left her bedroom. Mark came in and asked how she was doing. She nodded, not looking directly at him. He put his hand on her shoulder; she grabbed it and held on for a minute. He squeezed back before letting go and quietly leaving the room.
Dez found Stotsky’s “go bag” behind the chair in the living room. It had a fake passport, and about five hundred dollars in cash. There were a couple of changes of clothes too.
The police stayed for just over an hour. Rachel went down with the police, and came back with the two orders of penne arrabiata from her car.
Rachel and Fenway didn’t eat the penne that night. Their stomachs were all knotted up. Neither of them wanted to be alone. Rachel cried a few more times. They talked about Dylan. They talked about what Rachel could
do about the logistics of his memorial, his burial; letting his parents be involved. They talked about Amy and Dylan’s affair. They talked about what he ever saw in her, and Fenway let Rachel insult Amy and call her old. Rachel cried some more.
At about eleven-thirty, Rachel helped Fenway clean the blood off the kitchen floor. They talked a little more. Fenway told Rachel to see a therapist, and she nodded. Exhaustion was taking over, and Rachel wound up crashing on the sofa. The pasta stayed in the fridge.
Fenway got a blanket and put it over Rachel. She started to walk away, but then stepped back and tucked the blanket gently in under the sofa cushions. She watched Rachel sleep for a minute, then went to her room.
Fenway slept through some very disturbing dreams, but didn’t wake up until almost noon. She woke up disoriented and saw that Rachel had left a note saying that she had gone home to call her mother-in-law and figure out how to deal with Dylan’s death.
Fenway decided to go for a walk. She grabbed some water, and put her trail running shoes on, which felt like heaven after spending the day before in the high heels—those beautiful, sexy, life-saving heels.
She walked down past the complex to the dead end, to the short, white, wooden fence with the reflectors. She turned on the well-worn dirt path and walked out into the trees. Past the first grove of trees, she got to the small clearing, and then she walked to the second grove of trees. She heard a sound that wasn’t quite a rustling; it sounded like rapid but muted clicking. She looked up into the trees and there were thousands upon thousands of monarch butterflies. They were on their way north, and the trees were so full of orange that it looked like autumn.
Fenway watched the butterflies for about ten minutes, then she walked through that second grove of trees, up the grassy area, and she sat at the short drop off, looking out over the sandy beach and the Pacific a few hundred feet beyond.
She thought of her mother’s painting and promised herself that she would go to Seattle and get it out of storage the first chance she got. She thought she might put it on the wall across from her bed, so that it would be the first thing she saw every day.
Fenway stopped at the Coffee Bean on the way back. She had already ordered her latte when she saw Sheriff McVie and his wife—Craig and Amy. They were sitting down together; Amy was leaning forward, elbows on the table; Craig was leaning back, frowning; his arms were folded. Craig saw her and immediately brightened as he waved her over. Fenway wanted to pretend that she didn’t see them, but it was obvious she had. She said hi, and she smiled and told them she had just gone on a walk down to the ocean, and it cleared her head, and yes, it was a little weird still being in the apartment where it all happened, but she thought she was doing okay.
The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 31