12
Rose’s scream sounded like someone had just scared the crap out of her. But I couldn’t be certain, given her earlier mental state. I hit a T in the hallway. Right or left? I couldn’t see a thing either way. Another scream. But this one was choked off—as if someone did it for her.
The echo of her voice seemed to come from both directions. I chose left and quickly started losing my balance, raised my arms until my fingers slid across the stone. Where was the sconce lighting? Had someone turned out the lights?
“Rose?” I called out, still feeling my way down the hall. I paused for a moment, trying to get my bearings on where the sound had originated.
Then I walked straight into a wall. I released a muted grunt, reached up to my forehead, and felt blood. I saw a soft light off to my left, and I headed in that direction.
“Rose, are you okay?”
I could hear voices behind me. “Can’t see a damn thing. Get me a flashlight.” It was Stan and someone else. The Father possibly. I stopped moving again, squinted, listening for something up ahead.
“Rose, it’s Ivy. Did something happen?” I held my breath, waiting and hoping for a response. Nothing. So I shuffled forward, the path still dimly lit. I began to wonder if the overwhelming anxiety of seeing the dead girls in the sanctuary had caused her to have a heart attack, maybe a stroke. That would explain why she wasn’t responding. She could be lying unconscious in some hidden alcove in this two-hundred-year-old building that had the dampness of an ancient Egyptian catacomb. Yes, I realized the irony in comparing a Christian house of worship with that of a crypt, where sacrifices were usually kept inside the tombs of ancient kings.
“Rose, please let me know where you are,” I said. “I want to help you.”
More muffled voices behind me. I flipped around, but saw only darkness. Who’d turned off the lights? Hell, as old as this place was, they were probably off more than they were on.
I shuffled forward, but stopped suddenly when I heard a groan.
“Rose?” A chill crawled up my spine until I felt a tingle near the tiny hairs at the base of my skull.
The next few seconds came at me in slow motion, as if I had all kinds of opportunity to change the course of action. I froze amidst the flurry of incoming motion in the dim light. I first saw a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. The meaty paw took hold of my shirt, jerked me inside a room. A hot, wet breath in my face sickened me. I bumped into something. A high-pitched whimper. I reached out, tried to focus. I felt a curly mop of hair. It had to be Rose. Her body trembled with fear.
“Rose—” My words were cut off as the huge hand encircled my neck, choking off my air passage. I dug my nails into the man’s arm. I could feel ligaments on his forearm, taut like steel wire. I caught a quick glimpse of him; he had to be a foot taller than my five-six frame. Just as he threw me backward, my thumb was sliced open. He’d been holding a knife of some kind. I hit the floor, landing on my elbow and shoulder. The jolt of pain only momentarily stole the pain away from my finger. The cut was deep, and I wondered if I’d severed an artery.
“Don’t hurt her. She did nothing to you.” It was Rose, her voice cracking yet defiant. I pushed up to my knees, saw the silhouette of the man or beast—some might say a manster.
“Shut up, Rose.”
He knows Rose, dammit! Who the hell is this guy? There was no time for questions. He had a knife—he’d probably killed the girls in the sanctuary. That thought sent a surge rushing through my bloodstream. I leaped out of my stance, keeping my center of gravity low, and rammed my shoulder into the crook just behind his knee. He barked, then teetered backward, almost tumbling on top of me. I could see Rose slip away from his grip. “Get out of here, Rose.”
She screamed and took off for the door. Just as quickly, the man regained his balance. “Come here, dammit!” he growled. He swiped at her with his free hand, grabbing her hair. She squealed, lost her footing, and dropped to the floor.
The glint of a swinging knife snagged my gaze. I just reacted, not thinking. Balling my hands together, I thrust myself upward, ramming my fists-of-a-club right into his testicles. He doubled over, screaming at a soprano level.
“Get out of here, Rose. Now!”
She scooted out on all fours.
I tried to make my way around the wounded beast, but he was so large it seemed like I was circling a domed stadium. I hopped over his leg, but before my foot hit the stone surface, he swung the knife at my shin. He miscalculated the speed of my leg, and the knife clipped my shoe, then sliced into the side of my leg. But it also knocked me off balance, and I dropped to the floor. In that extra moment on the floor, he used his foot to slam the door shut just as male voices descended down the hallway. I grabbed at my leg, writhing in pain as he got to his feet and wiped sweat from his brow. He smiled a crooked smile, and I saw more gaps than teeth.
“Enough games. It’s time to play out my dreams again.” Spit sprayed on top of me.
I covered my head.
13
His dreams. What did he mean by that?
The man dead-bolted the door, then turned and stood over me, huffing out breaths like a panting, wild animal. Two slices of lights from behind me, a covered window I assumed, put the man in full view. Slowly lifting my sights off his ski-size work boots, I noticed a slight paunch in his midsection, but his shoulders were as wide as the door, each arm the size of my leg. He had a patchy beard and a buzz cut.
“Emmitt, open up the door right now, do you hear me?” It was Father Vargas. There was pounding on the door.
Emmitt? The caretaker? Emmitt didn’t move. His breathing cadence stayed at the same rapid pace. He acted as if he hadn’t heard a word from the other side of the door.
Then I saw his eyes. They were liquid glass, some type of pale taupe color from best I could tell. I actually wondered if he was on something. He had that dazed look, as if he wasn’t completely there. He flipped the handle of the long-bladed knife in his fingers.
More pounding at the door. “Emmitt, this is the police. Detective Radowski.”
I coughed out a breath, then felt the sting of a thousand bees in the cut in my leg. It made my thumb wound feel like a paper cut. Blood seeped through the hole in my jeans. I squeezed the area above and below the gash, anything to reduce the level of pain.
“Open this door, Emmitt, and let Ivy go. Then we can talk about what you want to do with your life. You have friends. We can all help you get better.”
Seconds ticked by, but Emmitt didn’t move. He just stared down at me, his heavy breaths morphing into a high-pitched wheeze.
Suddenly, he lifted a boot, stepped over me, and walked to a table with a large book on it. He spread his arms, leaned over, and began to read…or chant, actually. I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I turned back to the door, contemplating if I had enough time to make a break for it. Or even just unlock the door. Once unlocked, Stan would barge in, gun drawn. I would be safe.
I looked down at my leg. Blood covered my hands. I questioned how fast I could move. This might be a one-shot chance. If I didn’t get the door unlocked, then Emmitt would stab me to death. Just like he’d done with the girls.
I nudged myself closer to the door, my eyes fixed on the caretaker. I repeated the same process three more times. On each surge, my heart thumped so loudly I thought he might hear it, flip around, and end my life with one swing of his arm.
I’d moved about a foot altogether. It might take another four feet to get me close enough to where I could lunge for the door before he’d have a chance to reach me. But I couldn’t be certain.
“Emmitt, if you don’t open the door, we’ll have to force our way in,” Father Vargas said, his voice stern. “Do you hear me, Emmitt?”
Again, no response from Emmitt, who appeared to still be reading the book. I wanted to call out, to yell at Stan to shoot the lock off the door. But would it work? This wasn’t some Hollywood stunt. A lot could go wrong. “Forgive me, Lord, for I h
ave sinned.”
Emmitt’s voice was suddenly distinct. I didn’t breathe; I didn’t swallow. I’d turned into stone, nothing more than a statue.
He flipped around and faced me, although his eyes seemed to be staring straight ahead. I followed his gaze to the door. There was a cross etched into the wood. I turned back to Emmitt. He mumbled something else and crossed himself. Then, he pulled out a necklace from under his shirt and kissed a cross.
I forced out a quiet breath and tried to think. Something was about to go down. I was the only other person in the room. I doubted he was ready to pull up a chair, kick back, and share everything that was on his mind. My pulse began to race, although I somehow still sat motionless. I wasn’t sure what to do. What was my best chance at survival? Try to wait him out, hope that whatever drug he was on might finally subside and he’d start thinking normally? Or make a run for the door? I realized the latter option was even more far-fetched than before, as he was now facing me.
My eyes shifted to the knife again. He was rotating the handle forward and backward in his fingers. They were thick, but surprisingly nimble. The knife appeared to be an extension of his arm, as if he could effortlessly carve an intricate sketch. Had he fought in a war, been a chef? He used a knife like a painter used a brush.
Then the knife flipping stopped. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I could see the ropes in his neck go taut, as if he were about to burst out of his stance and slice me into a hundred pieces. Fighting back would be useless.
I had no choice. I had to run. I jumped out of my stance—the gash in my leg sent an electric jolt of pain into my brain, but I ignored it. I reached the door in no time, grabbed the lock, and began to twist.
A roar from behind me. I cried out loud as my fingers fumbled with the lock—to no avail. He thrust his arm forward, the knife going right for my head. I jerked backward, and the blade jabbed into the door. I’d somehow escaped certain death.
With my entire body trembling, I reached for the lock again, but I was so jittery, I couldn’t maintain a grip. Then his body slammed me into the door. Air poured out of my lungs, his jagged teeth up against my neck.
I was as sure as dead.
14
Emmitt’s snarled grill was just an inch from my face. Waves of his rank breath seemed to invade my pores and it was everything I could do not to spit in his face, just so he would turn his head. Of course I didn’t dare move. The shouts from the other side of the door—Stan, Father Vargas, maybe some others—became muffled and far away as I was forced to come to terms with my impending demise.
My breathing was shallow, and my brain begged for more oxygen as I tried hard to appear like an inanimate object, hoping Emmitt would somehow dismiss me as a chair or a lamp. He gave me a thousand-yard stare, and I wondered if he really saw me at all. Was he hallucinating?
The next thing I knew, he wrapped his paws around my shoulders and squeezed so tightly I thought he might crush some bones. Then I was airborne—actually, he lifted me up like I was in some type of couple’s ice skating event. I yelped while bracing myself for the inevitable toss across the room, which would not involve a pirouette or graceful landing. This guy meant to do harm. Major harm.
But why me?
“Emmitt,” I said through gritted teeth as he held me above his head. “Why do you want to hurt me?”
The question threw him off. He grunted and then lowered me to the floor, in front of a wooden chair. “Sit,” he ordered. I did just that. He walked to the door, pulled out the knife, then turned back around. His face was again full of seething anger. I noticed his hand gripping the knife with purpose. He began to walk my way, raising his arm above his head.
“No, Emmitt, you don’t want to do that,” I said, covering my head—which I knew would do no good. My voice was eerily calm. Why I was having a conversation with this monster was beyond me, but it was the only thing I had left. He walked past me to the table and thrust his arm downward. The blade plunged deep into the book—it looked like an oversized Bible. He screamed at the top of his lungs, spinning around, clawing at his head and then his eyes.
“Why me, God? Why me?” he cried out.
There was a lot of shuffling and noise from the hallway. I heard only spotty words. “Lost.” “Mental.” “Crazy.” “Death.”
What were they thinking was going on in here? I had no idea. I had to focus on Emmitt and get him to calm down, join me on Planet Earth.
“Emmitt, please let me help.”
“Shut the hell up,” he barked.
He cried out again, then turned and swept his arm across the table, sending the Bible, a number of candles, and the knife flying against the wall.
“Emmitt, have you harmed Ivy?” Father Vargas yelled. “If you have, I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?”
Emmitt roared like a wild bear, ran to the door, and pounded it with his fists until he drew blood. “Shut up. Every one of you. I can’t keep on hiding this. I have to let it all out.”
Hiding what? Let what out? I had no idea what he was talking about, but my mind tried to find the reason behind this insanity. Was he in the process of releasing the demons that had led him to kill those two girls?
“Emmitt, we can help you,” Father Vargas said. “Just let us in.”
“No. Go away and leave me be.”
“Emmitt, you know we can’t do that. You have an innocent person in there with you. I’m assuming you haven’t hurt her.”
He looked back at me, as if he were noticing me for the first time.
“Emmitt, answer me!” Father Vargas sounded furious, the extreme opposite of his stoic demeanor thus far.
“If you don’t open the door now, Emmitt,” Stan said, “we will be forced to break down the door and subdue you by any means necessary.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Emmitt screamed and turned in my direction. He lifted the chair, with me still in it, and then smacked it off the stone floor. My teeth rattled, but I was expecting much worse. It should have been much worse. I looked up at him, and he was staring at me. A strange sensation washed over me. I felt like he had suddenly connected with me and didn’t want to hurt me. Not yet anyway. Crazy, right? “If you bust down that door,” Emmitt said, his eyes still on me, “you’ll leave me with no choice.”
“What are you saying, Emmitt?” Father Vargas said.
“I’m saying you need to leave me alone. Go away. Leave me be.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Stan said. “Either you come out, or we’re going in.”
“And I’m saying if you come in, I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to end my own life.”
Tears sprung to life, and I brought a hand to my face, but Emmitt put a finger to his lips. He was telling me to be quiet.
I heard more muffled voices, but nothing discernible. Emmitt scratched the back of his head as his eyes wandered a bit, then stopped at a point on the floor. Crap. He was staring at the knife over in the corner. I had to get his mind off the knife.
“Emmitt, do you know who I am, and what I do for a living?”
“Uh…no. Well, I heard them say your name is Ivy.”
His eyes were stuck on the knife.
“That’s right. I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under different circumstances.”
“Yeah. Well, I fucked up, right?”
“Hey, I’ve made a few mistakes in my life. Who hasn’t?”
He turned his head ever so slightly, but he kept his gaze on the knife. “You haven’t made the kind of mistakes I’ve made.” His head dipped to his chin.
My ECHO instincts then came to the forefront. I wanted to confirm that he was the person who’d killed the girls. Where did he find them? Why did he choose them? This might be our best chance, our only chance to find out the truth before he lawyered up. Or before he ended his life. Maybe mine too.
I took in a breath and prepared to share one of my deepest secrets with a man I hardly knew. “Emmitt, if I tell you a secret, will you
promise to keep it between us?”
He turned and looked at me. “Pfft. Don’t tell me, you once stole a pack of gum from the grocery store.”
“I wish that was it.”
He did a double take on me.
“I once killed a man.”
He didn’t blink. He studied me, probably wondering if I was full of shit.
“You think I’m lying? I’m not. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I had enough rage in me that I wanted him dead.”
“Why did you kill him? How did he die?”
“He fell down some stairs. He’d tried to rape me, and I was escaping.”
Emmitt’s eyes became moist.
“Why are you crying?” I almost wished I had my phone on me, so I could record his confession right here and now. We’d have all the evidence to lock him up and keep him from harming anyone else.
“I have all of these crazy thoughts.” His voice was cracking, and he wiped tears off his face.
“What kind of thoughts?”
“I can’t say.” He released a deep breath.
“Emmitt, there’s nothing wrong with having a thought. No one is a hundred percent pure. Not me, not Detective Radowski. Not even Father Vargas.”
I could hear more voices in the hallway. More people had shown up. A second later, “Emmitt, you need to open the door.”
“Go away,” he said.
“We’ll give you thirty seconds. If you haven’t opened the door, we’re coming in, regardless of how we get in. Do you understand, Emmitt?”
He splayed his arms and looked at me, his eyes pleading for a reprieve.
“Stan, this is Ivy. I’m fine. He hasn’t hurt me.”
“Ivy, thank God you’re okay.” He paused a moment. “Ivy, if he’s about to hurt you or even worse, just say the word. We’ll storm the room and you’ll be safe.”
“Seriously, Stan. I’m okay. Just give us a couple of minutes.”
Emmitt shook his head, then whispered to me, “I can’t get arrested, Ivy. My family won’t be able to deal with it.”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 57