He went past me again, a little closer, waving the flashlight, thinking, talking.
"We need them now because they have the commitment and the guns, but as soon as we have this country in flames…"
He turned. He paced back. Closer. Close enough.
"… we'll be able to establish a new…"
I tripped him.
It was a dangerous move, but it was the best I could do. With that gun of his waving around, I knew I might catch a bullet, but I also knew he'd kill me eventually anyway.
So I took my chance. I snapped one leg out in front of me. I shot the foot behind his ankle. I brought the other leg back fast and pistoned it out again in a kick to his knee.
The swift pincer move knocked his leg out from under him. The flashlight beam shot into the air as Sherman tumbled over. He went down to the floor. He dropped the light-but not the gun.
I sat forward fast and struck at Sherman's gun hand. At the same moment, he fired.
The blast of the gun was deafening. The flashlight rolled back and forth. The light and shadows expanded and contracted around us, giving the room a bizarre funhouse atmosphere. For a moment, I wasn't sure whether I'd been shot or not.
But no, the bullet had gone wild as the edge of my hand hit Sherman's wrist.
I grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Pressed on his arm, forcing it to the floor, making him cry out in pain.
"Drop it!" I shouted.
He wouldn't. I increased the pressure. His hand finally opened. The gun fell to the floor with a rattling thud.
I shoved Sherman's arm away and snapped up the gun and turned it on him. I scrambled to my feet.
Sherman sat up, rubbing his wrist where I'd twisted it.
The flashlight rolled slowly to a stop, the beam lying across the dusty floor.
Holding the gun on Sherman, I knelt down beside him. I forced my hand into the pocket of his pants and found his car keys. I took them and stood up again out of his reach.
All the while, Sherman stared at me, rubbing his wrist.
"I'm taking you to the police," I said. "You're going to tell them the truth about Alex."
For another second, Sherman stared. Then, slowly, he broke out into a grin. He laughed. The sound sent a chill through me.
"What's so funny?" I said.
"How dumb do you think I am?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you really think I'd come here alone without some backup, without some insurance?"
I tried to answer his smile with one of my own. "You're alone, all right," I said. But a little sick sensation of doubt rose up in the back of my throat. "There's no one else in this house."
"Oh, you're right about that, Charlie. I couldn't bring anyone with me, because I wasn't sure what you might say. But I know what a dangerous guy you are. I wouldn't just walk in here without a plan B."
He worked his way to his feet.
I gestured at him with the gun. "Take it easy. I'll shoot if I have to."
"You're not gonna shoot, Charlie. In fact, you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do." Smiling, Sherman held his hand out. "And I'm telling you to give me the gun." He saw the doubt in my eyes. His smile got even bigger. And he said, "Give me the gun, Charlie-or Beth dies."
Rage flashed through me like a flame. Before I even knew what I was doing, I grabbed Sherman by the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the wall. I stuck the gun into his face.
"What are you talking about? Where is she?" I pressed the gun hard into his cheek, my finger tightening on the trigger. My voice came out hoarse and ferocious through my gritted teeth. "Is Beth in danger? Tell me! Tell me! You think I won't kill you? Don't be stupid. I'll kill you, all right. Where is she?"
He still managed to smile, even with the gun barrel digging into him. "Oh, she's fine, Charlie. She's sitting at home. She's doing her homework. Her parents are out for the evening. She's all by herself, working at the computer in her bedroom upstairs. And in approximately five minutes, if my people don't hear from me, they're going to pay her a little visit. They'll come in oh-so-quietly, Charlie. She won't even know they're there. And they'll kill her quietly, too, a knife to the throat. Cutting deep so she can't cry out. She'll bleed to death on the floor without a sound. No one'll even know it happened until her parents get home and find her."
I was so angry I wanted to kill him then and there. So angry I could barely speak, but I managed it. "You're going to call them. Your people. You're going to phone them now and call them off."
Sherman laughed. "Am I? Or am I going to call them and say a code word that starts them going. How will you know, Charlie? How will you know?"
When he saw that I had no answer, he gave another hard chuckle.
"Face it, Charlie. You're tougher than I am, but I'm a lot smarter than you. You have no choice. It's you or Beth. Give me back the gun."
To be honest, I don't know what I would've done if I'd been thinking clearly. Maybe I just would've surrendered to save Beth. Maybe that's what I should've done. But my fury against this man-this man who had murdered my friend-this man who had stolen my life from me-who was threatening to kill Beth-that fury roared through me hotter than ever, and I hit him. Without even thinking, I drew back the gun and smashed the butt of it into the side of his head.
I was still gripping his shirtfront in my other hand and I felt him become a dead weight as he lost consciousness. I let him go. He dropped to the floor.
For a moment, I stared at him where he lay. As my mind cleared, I realized what I'd done. Now he couldn't make the call, couldn't pull off his goons. They would break into Beth's house in five minutes and kill her.
Frantically, I looked around the room. I had to think, I had to think. In the outglow of the flashlight, I saw the laptop on the floor. I saw the cell phone. I grabbed them.
I would need them if I was going to save Beth's life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Five Minutes Sherman's car was parked just down the path from the house. I saw it in the early moonlight: a sleek, silver BMW.
I rushed to it, stumbling sloppily over the pebbles and loose dirt under my shoes. I jumped behind the wheel, tossing the laptop onto the passenger seat beside me. I flipped the laptop open and brought it out of sleep mode. While it woke up, I jammed the car key into the ignition and started the engine.
There was so much I needed to do, and it all had to be done at once. I needed to get to Beth's house to protect her. That was the first thing because I wasn't far and I could probably get to her before the police. But I needed to call the police too. And even before that, I needed to warn Beth, to tell her to get out of the house before Sherman's killers came for her.
I tapped the webcam icon on the laptop and brought Beth's computer up onto the screen.
I flipped the car into gear and stepped down on the gas.
I felt the tires spit pebbles out behind me. Then the rubber gripped the dirt and the Beamer shot forward. The car bounced and bounded toward the mansion's gate.
I glanced over at the laptop. She had her camera on. I saw the webcam image of Beth's room on the monitor. I could see her bed against one wall with big pillows and a stuffed alligator on it. I could see her closet at the head of the bed, the door open, clothes hanging inside. I could see her dresser against the other wall under a bulletin board crowded over every inch with snapshots. I could see the door with a cross to one side of it and a poster of a window with a green field outside on the other.
But Beth herself was not in sight.
The BMW sped through the dark along the dirt path, shuddering and skidding. The headlights speared the deep shadows under the trees. I went for the cell phone in my fleece pocket. Held it to me, snapped it open with my thumb. Driving clumsily with one hand, I had to struggle to keep the car from veering to the left or right, from smashing into the trunk of one of the trees along the path.
Josh had programmed all my friends' numbers into the phone. I pressed 1 with my thumb. I d
ialed Beth.
As I waited for the phone to ring, I saw the iron gate up ahead that led out to the public road. Luckily, Sherman had left the gate open. I held the wheel firmly with one hand, guiding the car over the rough path, aiming it for the open gate.
The phone rang in my ear-and at the same time, the car went through the gate, bouncing out onto the bad road beyond. The car wiggled under me, trying to skid on the broken macadam. I wrestled it straight with my one hand, holding the phone to my ear with the other.
The phone rang again-and then I heard Beth's singing ring tone come echoing back to me over the laptop's speaker. I glanced at the monitor. I couldn't see it, but her phone was in her room somewhere, the sound of it coming over the microphone in her computer as it rang.
But where was Beth?
The phone rang again. There was no sign of her. I remembered Sherman's sneering threat.
They'll kill her quietly, too, a knife to the throat. Cutting deep so she can't cry out. She'll bleed to death on the floor without a sound.
Horrible images came into my mind. Maybe I was too late. Maybe Sherman's thugs had already come into the house and…
I took my eyes off the road, glanced at the computer again-and now I saw Beth's door start to open. I glanced from the monitor to the windshield and back again. And then I saw Beth herself step into the room.
I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She looked all right, perfectly fine, good, wearing jeans and a sweater, calm, relaxed. They hadn't gotten to her.
As I glanced over again, I saw her find her ringing cell phone lying on the bed. She looked at the number on the readout and picked it up.
"Charlie?"
"Come to the computer, Beth. Talk to me through there."
"What's wrong?"
"Do it."
I snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into my pocket. Now I could drive with both hands and talk to her through the computer.
I felt the road grow more solid under me as I drove quickly through a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of town.
"Charlie?"
Beth's voice sounded small and tinny now as she spoke to me through the computer.
I glanced over at her. Her face loomed large as she stared through the monitor at me.
"Beth, listen to me. It was Sherman. Sherman killed Alex."
"Mr. Sherman?"
"He's sent people to your house."
"What? I don't understand. Why…?"
"To hurt you. To kill you, Beth. You need to get out- and then you need to call the police. But get out first -now-carefully-make sure no one's waiting for you. Get out and call the police. Don't ask questions. Just do it."
"All right, all right."
I came to a stop sign. I wanted to rush through it, but I was afraid of the police. If they pulled me over, I would never get to her. By the time I convinced them Beth was in danger, it might be too late.
I slowed the car just enough, then stepped on the gas again, coming around the corner onto Morgan Drive, a large boulevard with four lanes of two-way traffic. There weren't many cars out tonight, but there was a steady flow in both directions. I had to keep a careful eye on the road.
I kept stealing glances over at the laptop. There was Beth. She was moving toward the door. I urged her on in my mind: Get out of there. Get out.
But then she stopped. I saw her freeze, tense, one hand uplifted. She had left the bedroom door open when she came in. Now she was staring through it, out into the hall, out to the top of the stairs just visible on the computer monitor.
"Beth…" I said.
At the sound of my voice, she glanced back at the computer, back at me. She put her finger to her lips. Her voice came softly through the computer.
"Ssh. I think someone's in the house."
"Are you sure?" I said, trying to keep my voice down. I hated to think that her time had run out, that she couldn't get away.
She shook her head quickly. She wasn't sure. Putting her finger to her lips again, she moved to the door to listen better.
I drove quickly down the boulevard, weaving through the traffic, glancing over at the scene on the computer. It was like watching a horror movie, like watching the suspenseful scene where the heroine is caught in the house with the killer. I felt that afraid, that helpless to do anything about what was happening onscreen.
Only this wasn't a movie. It was real. It was Beth. And I needed to get to her.
Beth stood listening. Finally, I couldn't take the tension anymore.
"Beth!" I said in a hoarse whisper. "Shut the door. Lock the door. Call the police. Dial 911."
A horn blared loudly. I looked to the windshield just in time to see I had let the BMW drift across the center line. A pair of headlights was lancing toward me. I wrestled the wheel to the right, wrestled the car to the right, back into my lane, out of the headlights' path. The oncoming car raced by me.
Now there was a traffic light up ahead. It turned from green to yellow as I approached. I jammed my foot down on the gas and sped through it.
Finally I had a chance to glance over at the laptop again. There was Beth. She hadn't heard me. She had crept out through the doorway into the upstairs hall, walking softly. I could tell by her posture she was listening, listening to see if anyone had come into the house.
"Beth!" I said. "Get back in your room. Lock the door."
But even as I spoke, I heard it. Even there, in the car, the sound reached me through the computer's speakers.
A floorboard creaked in Beth's house. Someone was coming up the stairs.
Watching the busy road ahead, grabbing looks at the monitor, I saw Beth freeze in her tracks in the upstairs hallway. I saw her turn back to look at her bedroom door, to look at her computer, to look at me. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with fear.
"Beth!" I whispered harshly. "Get back!"
I gestured to her-to the computer. I waved frantically to get her to come back into the room.
Finally, she moved. Hurrying on tiptoe, she dashed back down the hall, back into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly. There was a little twist knob, a bolt lock. She turned it. It wouldn't keep anyone out for long, but it might slow them down. Sherman had told me they didn't want to make any noise. They wanted to come and go quietly-come and kill her quietly and go. I didn't think they would just blast through the lock with a gunshot.
At least, I hoped they wouldn't.
I saw Beth standing in the center of the room. I started to speak, to tell her again to dial the police. But before I could, she flipped open the phone. Dialed 911.
She called for help. So did I: I prayed desperately as I peered through the windshield, working the steering wheel, forcing the car to weave left around a slow-moving van, then back quickly into the right lane to avoid a car that had paused for a left turn at an intersection. I prayed: Not her, Lord. Me. Not her.
"Police?" I could hear over the laptop speaker how shaky Beth's voice was, how scared she was. Well, I was scared too. I was only a couple of minutes away, but it felt like a million miles. I felt completely helpless to reach her. I heard her say, "My name is Beth Summers. I live at 45 Madison. There's someone in my house. Please send help. What? No. Someone in my house. Please, please…" She was close to tears.
And then she cried out.
I looked over at the laptop and saw the phone fall from her hand. Now I heard what she heard: a sound at the door. Trembling, Beth turned slowly to face it. The sound came again. A soft rattle. Glancing from the road in front of me to the laptop on the seat beside me, I saw the doorknob start to turn slowly, this way and that. Staring, terrified, Beth stumbled back a step.
It was hard to tear my eyes away, but I had to. I had to face front again. There was my next turn up ahead. I was almost there. It was a left turn and I was in the right lane. There was traffic to the side of me and traffic coming toward me. Somehow I had to get around all of it.
I twisted the steering wheel hard. The BMW squealed. The Volkswage
n beside me screeched and skidded. An oncoming Cadillac sent up a blast of its horn. I cut recklessly across the lanes and shot off Morgan onto Belmont, a smaller, darker side street.
I stepped on the gas and raced into shadows. Madison- Beth's street-was only four blocks ahead.
Now I could spare a glance back at the laptop. Beth still stood frozen where she was, still staring at the door.
The knob was turning faster now, harder. The door started to rattle.
"Beth," I said.
My voice startled her. She spun toward me in terror.
"The window!" I said. "Can you get out the window?"
She shook her head frantically. "Too high. I'll break my leg. They'll catch me."
She jumped as a loud bang came through the door. They were going to kick it in.
"A weapon, Beth. Find a weapon. A baseball bat. A hockey stick."
"I don't have any…"
"A shoe. A high-heeled shoe. Anything. Hold them off. I'm almost there."
Beth cried out in fear again as, again, the killers kicked the door.
"A weapon!" I said.
But I had to face forward, had to steer the car as it raced through the darkness under a canopy of trees.
There was Washington Street up ahead. Madison Street was next.
"Oh please!" I whispered-and pressed down on the gas, pushing the car at speed through the empty intersection.
There was another bang against Beth's door just as I glanced back at the monitor. I saw the door jolt in its frame. It was breaking. They were getting through.
But now, Beth forced herself out of her frozen terror. She rushed to the closet. She shoved aside some clothes. She reached in deeper and when she came out, I saw she had an iron in her hand-a regular old iron for pressing clothes.
"Oh yes!" I said.
Beth was slender. She wasn't athletic. She wasn't strong. But an iron-that'll stop a man. And I was almost there.
"Get to where the door opens," I said. "Get to where they'll come through. Swing for the head the second you see them. Don't hesitate."
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