Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

“Sometimes, woman… ,” he growled. He sucked in a breath and pulled me for a squeeze. A kiss on the forehead. And he was gone.

  Smiling, I put my fingers to my brow. A quick peck from Royal was as intimate, as sensual, as a full-blown smooch with another guy.

  I followed the overgrown verge to keep to the left side of the lane. I couldn’t see the opposite side with the fog so thick. I peered ahead, squinting, trying to see Johnny. Would not do to walk through him.

  Cloudy smudges in a gray blanket, the first cottage’s exterior lights barely penetrated the fog. The next two sent out fuzzy beams from the windows. Johnny’s old home sat in its own patch of shadow. I shivered and hugged my arms to my sides. God, this stuff was horrible.

  Johnny looked like a ghost sitting there. I mean the flimsy type you see on TV shows and movies. He watched me coming. I lifted my hand to wave a hello.

  “Look out,” he said.

  The Elemental’s shriek pierced my head; so strident, so powerful, I knew it was close.

  A figure solidified in the fog, a small person wearing a hoodie, the hood low over their forehead, right hand pointed at me. I couldn’t see their face.

  Only a second to realize what that hand held, to hear the pop from a silenced handgun, to be knocked halfway around as the bullet punched in my left arm. I went down, thwacking the side of my head on the ground.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I woke face-down on a cold, hard, uneven surface, arms strained out ahead of me. It felt as if they were being pulled from the sockets. I groggily raised my head and agony shot through my cranium, so I let it rest on my arm till the pain eased to a steady pounding.

  Thank the Lord Royal was not with me. Gelpha are fast, but can they outrun bullets? I wouldn’t want to bet Royal’s life on it.

  I risked looking up again. Ow!

  Handcuffs fastened my wrists to a pipe which ran down a wall and jointed to another running horizontally a few inches from the floor. With a groan, I rolled my head on my right shoulder so I could see to my left.

  A room. Brick walls and floor. Old brick. The air tasted stale and smelled of dust. Broken bricks, pieces of wood and torn newspaper made a pile in the corner. Another groan as I rolled my head in the other direction. A big, black, unlit furnace squatted next to a water heater. Dust everywhere, and what could be mouse droppings much too near my face.

  How long? Royal’s not back or he would have found me. He can sense me if I am not too far away. So, less than four hours.

  Sure, Tiff, you can take care of yourself. Royal would never let me forget this.

  I pulled, hunching my body, trying to bring my legs up under my stomach and get in a kneeling position, and yelled aloud. My shoulder hurt like hell! With a groan, I dropped my cheek on my good arm.

  A man, or a woman? I didn’t get a good look, but the posture … a man, I decided.

  Dim light from a single bulb burned at the end of a long cord in the middle of the room. He had left the light on. A small kindness? Sympathy? Could I use that? More likely he wanted to see inside the moment he opened the door. Windowless, the place would be pitch black without the bulb and someone could grab him as he reached inside for the light switch.

  What did he think I was, Superwoman, who could snap a set of steel handcuffs? At least they were cuffs, not those plastic restraints which don’t let you even twitch your wrist.

  Blood soaked my sleeve from shoulder to elbow, but the fabric had stiffened and almost dried. I bit my lip and flexed my arm - it hurt, but didn’t feel like anything in there was broken. From the pressure on my scalp and throbbing in my head, I had a nasty goose egg behind my left ear.

  With a lot of groaning and cussing, I got on my knees and shuffled to the wall.

  “Poor dear,” a feminine voice said.

  I tried to look back and ended half-slumped against the wall, which put my wounded arm at an awkward angle.

  They sat on a large object behind me and to the right, a sandy-haired man and a woman, side by side, the man nearest to me. Partly hidden by his bulk, only a fraction of her was visible, the line of her back, a fall of tousled red hair. Rope tied his hands behind his back and no doubt hers also.

  No mistaking them. Paul and Sylvia Norton.

  I blinked, wishing I could wipe my crusty eyes. The couple sat on a stone sarcophagus.

  Sitting on that cold, unyielding surface for so long had become agony. No relief from the pain in every part of their bodies. Terrified, knowing he stood behind them, wondering what he would do next. A soft rustling sound; something came over his head, then hers, obscuring their sight. A hand holding it tightly to each neck. They gulped in huge breaths of air tasting of plastic. Only a minute before the air went and the plastic bags flattened over their faces, their noses, their mouths… .

  I drew in great gulps of air myself. I’ve met victims of asphyxiation, but not by this method. The Nortons suffocated before their bodies were found in Scotland. The murderer must have used a plastic bag in each hand, because they died seconds apart, their memories of death merging, overlapping, so distinguishing which came from Paul and which from Sylvia was difficult.

  One killer, or two? One man could do it. Slip the bags over their heads, a hand on each bag to twist the slack and hold it tight at their napes. Weak from hunger and pain, with their hands tied behind their backs, one strong man could do it, no matter how they tried to struggle. A strong man like Darnel Fowler.

  Legs outstretched, he sat on the floor. A plastic bag came over his head, hands twisted it around his neck. Terrified, he held his breath and wrenched his upper body over, but the person behind pulled him back. He kicked frantically, struggling for all he was worth, but was powerless in his killer’s grasp. He couldn’t help himself; panicking, he pulled in air, until the bag sucked at his face and he could breathe no more.

  Holy Moses! There was another dead person in the room.

  A wave of dizziness sent my senses spinning. Head bowed, I tried to breathe, air rasping in my throat. Three deaths in as many minutes - it was too much. I heard words gasp from my mouth and realized I was praying.

  But I recovered; I always do. I shifted to see the rest of the room. Two more large sarcophagi occupied it. Boxes and things I couldn’t identify sat in several niches in the walls. A mess of wood from broken crates, piles of ragged material - old clothing? Three wide, deep stone steps led up to a blackened wood door.

  I winced as my arm throbbed all the way down to the wrist. A small wet circle appeared on the patch of drying blood. Movement had started the wound bleeding again.

  I squinted at the two people, as if it would help me see them better.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  Silence, then Sylvia asked, “Is she talking to us?”

  Paul replied, “She can’t be.”

  “Paul Norton, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Peter Cooper down here,” another voice called out.

  I spotted a pair of trouser-clad legs ending in polished black shoes which stuck out from behind the sarcophagus.

  “And I’m Sylvia,” she said. “Now that’s a turn up for the books, someone who can talk to us. Can you see us?”

  “Yes. Where are we?”

  “Beneath Saint Thomas.”

  “This is a crypt?”

  “Crypt cum furnace room now,” Paul said.

  “You’re from America,” from Sylvia.

  “Yes, I’m from America.” I groaned as I levered myself higher.

  “Nice is it, America?”

  “Yup, pretty nice.” I’ll give them this, Brits seemed to take being dead stoically. Must be the stiff upper lip thing.

  “We were going to America, weren’t we, Paul.”

  “That we were,” Paul agreed. “We were excited.”

  “Not that anything was arranged, but in his letter Uncle Scott said he wanted us to visit.” Sylvia sighed. “Oh well, can’t win ‘em all, can we, love.”

  Uncle Scott? I shifted on my knees, which wer
e starting to hurt. “You knew Scott Norton?”

  “Not really. We didn’t meet. Just the one letter from him.”

  “Scott hired me to find them,” said Peter Cooper.

  Scott hired Cooper? Why didn’t he tell Patty? “Scott’s wife hired me and my partner for the same reason.”

  “Probably when I went missing,” from Peter.

  “No.” I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts together. “She didn’t mention you, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Now that is strange, although I dealt only with Mr. Norton. Perhaps she didn’t know of our arrangement.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Strange? Definitely. Seemed like Scott wasn’t completely honest with Patty. How come? Did he have a reason to keep her out of the loop?

  “Did Scott know you found them?”

  “No,” Cooper said. “I only had his mobile number, but he didn’t answer. I left a few messages, and sent emails. His home number was not listed. After almost a week I decided to call his attorneys. I went to the office to find their number on the contract, but they were waiting for me.”

  “Never mind about that,” Sylvia said. “She needs to escape before Pickins comes back.”

  “Special Constable Pickins?”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Someone shot me. I passed out.” I frowned. “Special Constable Pickins?” I repeated inanely, picturing the short, skinny guy.

  Sylvia made an exasperated noise. “Yes, the same. Now stop talking and get to work on that pipe. Pickins likes to play. You don’t want him playing with you.”

  And they were here for weeks, under everyone’s nose, while Pickins played with them. I shuddered.

  Cuffed to a pipe, how was I supposed to escape?

  “Those pipes are old and almost rusted through under the paint,” Paul said as if reading my mind. His gaze went to the pipes across the ceiling. “Which is why they installed new plumbing last year.”

  Specks of rust had come through the paint where one pipe joined the other. I slid the cuffs down and gave a tentative yank. It was enough to bring tears as pain blossomed in my arm.

  “Go on. Try!” Sylvia urged. “I wouldn’t want what happened to me to happen to you.”

  “I don’t think I could watch that again,” Paul said in a low voice.

  Shit shit shit! Tears of pain and frustration welled in my eyes. Oh, dear God. I ground my teeth and yanked again, and felt movement. Through my tears, I saw a brown hairline crack circling the pipe.

  I wriggled onto my butt, planted the soles of my feet flat on the wall, and pulled. Okay. This is it, no stopping.

  Easier thought than done. The pain in my arm was horrible. I kept pulling, pushing with my legs as hard as I could, muttering and cursing, and suddenly went sideways as one side of the pipe crumbled.

  I had to rest.

  Panting, I ducked my head to wipe tears and sweat off my face on the cuff of my sleeve. My gasps turned to rapid breathing, then slowed. “Why did Pickins kill you?”

  “Not Pickins,” Cooper said. “As Mrs. Norton said, Pickins likes to play. Killing us too soon would spoil his fun. He would rather have kept us alive longer.”

  “Then who?”

  No answer. A sudden prickle down my spine warned me.

  They glowed, the same white light which bathed Brenda as she passed over. The fear had gone from their faces. Peter Cooper stood behind Sylvia and Paul. The glow from all three illuminated the small room like concentrated light. They smiled at me.

  No! “Wait! Don’t go! Who killed you? Tell me who killed you?”

  They gently disintegrated before my eyes, but Sylvia’s voice whispered through the small room. “Goodbye.”

  I sagged over my thighs. Whoever killed Paul and Sylvia Norton, and Peter Cooper, had just died.

  Feeling very much alone, I swallowed a sob and let my head sag so my chin rested on my breastbone. I had to get out, and fast, but my arm hurt so much.

  Head still down, I gave one almighty yank.

  The handcuffs broke through the pipe. I tumbled backward. I would have cracked the back of my head on the brick floor had I not tucked my chin in my neck. Lucky old me.

  I lay there for a time, knowing I should move, unable to.

  I rolled onto my stomach, braced on my elbows and peered at the cuffs. From rolling, I knew Pickins had cleaned out my pockets. Not a thing in there to pick open the cuffs. Could there be an thin nail or piece of wire down here?

  I struggled to my knees, my feet, stood up slowly and hung there, swaying a little. When I thought I could move without hitting the floor again, I went around the room. Plenty of broken pieces of wood, but no nails in them. There were, of course, screws in the furnace and water heater, but they would not work on the cuffs even if I could get one out. I went up the steps to the door.

  An unlocked door was too much to hope for.

  I looked back to where I’d lain. The dim light made the edges and corners of the room shadowy. I looked up.

  Oh shit. Don’t even think about it, Tiff.

  I don’t see another option, Tiff. Do you?

  Probably won’t work.

  Don’t be such a negative bitch.

  I staggered down the steps, over to the wall, and made a pile of small pieces of wood and torn clothing. In the dim light and with luck, it would look as if I crouched against the wall with my back to the room. Then I returned to the door.

  I jumped off the top step and grabbed for the pipe. I missed.

  My second attempt, I got one hand on the pipe, fell, caught my heel on the step and pitched forward. My belly hit the floor. I lay there gasping a good long time, scared to death the door behind me would open.

  Then I got up, went up those steps, leaped into thin air and got both hands on that damn pipe. Do you know how badly a bullet wound hurts? Now imagine using that arm to pull the weight of your entire body up to the ceiling. I did a chin-up to get me higher, swung up my legs and managed to hook one ankle over another pipe which ran horizontal four feet away. After some maneuvering, I ended up with my hands joined round one pipe, my bent knees over the other, my toes pressed in the ceiling to brace myself.

  There I was, plastered to the ceiling just like Spidey. I prayed the pipes would not come away from the ceiling and I prayed my body could tolerate what I put it through.

  And then I waited.

  I heard whistling and recognized the tune: Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide. Got nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.

  Think again, Mister.

  A key turned in the lock, the door creaked open and he stepped inside. I barely breathed. He grinned at the bundle in the corner, then chuckled.

  Come on. One more step.

  He turned around to shut and lock the door. Inches below me, how could he not hear my breathing? How could he not sense me above him?

  Come on, you bastard.

  He took the step.

  I let go of the pipe and swung down behind him, twisting my torso to loop my arms around his neck. Hanging by my knees, toes burrowed in the old ceiling, I jerked my right arm to get the crook against his windpipe. I grabbed my right wrist with my left hand and pulled, making my arm a vice around his neck.

  It took a while. Put enough pressure on the carotid artery and a man will be out in ten seconds, but it was a long ten seconds. He grabbed my wrist first, then gashed my skin with his fingernails as panic set in. I yelled, and squeezed as tightly as I could. He kicked around some and took his feet off the floor, giving me his whole weight, which only made things worse for him as well as me. He writhed and kicked and tore at my arm, and I held on.

  His feet dropped to the floor. His arms went limp, his body dragged me down. I squeezed.

  When I was sure, I let him go. He fell hard, tumbled down the steps and sprawled on the floor face down.

  I felt light-headed as I hung there with fresh blood soaking my sleeve. I let myself down, which is harder than it sounds. My legs had gone to sleep and b
oth arms hurt worse than I can describe.

  My legs gave out as I hit the step, but I managed to fall across it width-ways and not roll off. Everything went black.

  I came awake lying on my side, ankles hanging over the edge of the step. I’d fainted, or knocked myself out. At least I was unconscious as circulation returned to numb limbs; I didn’t have to go through that agony. Pickins still sprawled on the floor below me. I thought of what he would have done if he recovered consciousness before I did.

  I got to my feet and reeled down the steps in a stagger, dropped to my knees beside him, felt for a pulse in his neck, and sat back on my shins. He was alive, but I would not have been too upset to find him dead. I should have known he was not, else his shade would be in the crypt.

  The dizziness got worse. I went through Pickins’ pockets and found the key to the cuffs. Opening cuffs is not easy when you’re the person wearing them and you hurt in every part of your body, when weakness threatens to overcome you. I managed to pull his arms behind his back, cuff him and put the key in my pocket. He had a Sig P220 Combat .45 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. I took it, but left the silencer.

  After scrabbling around on the floor, I found the door key near the wall. With it in one hand, the gun in the other, I went up the steps, opened the door and stepped out into night thick with fog. I expected to come up inside the church, but the door sat under a small porch on the back side. I pushed it shut, locked it and slipped the key in my pocket.

  The single lamp in front of the church shed enough light to illuminate my surroundings. Set on a high pole and brighter than standard, its light bathed the church and graveyard, penetrating the fog, making it a mustard-yellow haze. I stood among old stone markers, trying to orient myself. I didn’t want to trip over a low slab. When my night-sight kicked in, I walked around the side of the church and through Darnel Fowler.

  I veered and my injured shoulder hit the wall. Goddamn it! Turning, I slumped on the wall.

  Fowler stood at the corner wearing a look of astonishment. I would be astonished too if I had a messy crater where my left eye should be.

  “Pickins?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”