Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again

by Lutz, Lisa

  “Why did you put his trash back in his own bin? He might have seen you.”

  “Where was I supposed to put it?”

  “Uh, inside our trash bin.”

  “What if he noticed his trash was missing?” she asked.

  “Most people don’t keep a tally of their waste.”

  “They do if they’re keeping sensitive items in it that might incriminate them,” Rae replied.

  Sometimes the soundness of her logic trumps the principle behind it. I let the argument drop. The single bag that remained was a pillow of shredded papers. We spread the contents on the floor to see if there was anything that stood out. My sister and I were looking for anomalies. Most of the confetti in front of us was from plain white paper, but if we could find something different in it, then we could look for the same and match it.

  I focused on shards of laminate, thinking it might be possible to gather all the pieces of a shredded identification card. Rae noticed the distinct heading of an e-mail and tried to piece that together.

  Three hours later, I could say for certain that an identification card had been shredded, but whose ID, and whether it was a library card or a driver’s license or a frequent buyer’s club card, I could not say. Rae fared somewhat better. Shortly before she threatened suicide2 if she had to go on, she taped together the following e-mail:

  m James

  om: Alley Cat [alleycat25@

  Nora [jj2376

  ck box tomorrow. Then call

  “Mystery solved,” I said, as I lay back on the floor and shielded my eyes from the unforgiving light.

  “Four hours of my life I can’t get back,” said Rae. “What a waste of time.”

  “He’s shredding his papers and then separating them and throwing them in different trash bags.”

  “How could he know we’d do this?” asked Rae.

  “He couldn’t,” I replied. “He’s taking precautions because this has happened to him before.”

  “Now what?”

  “I have to get into that room.”

  OPERATION LOCKED DOOR

  PART-II

  Thursday, March 16

  Almost twenty-four hours later, after an uneventful night watching the Chandler residence, I was back in David’s old bedroom, keeping watch on Subject’s apartment. When Rae came home from school, she joined me. In between text-messaging her friends, she made casual conversation.

  “Are you going to sit here all night?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied. “I have a plan.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing black?” Rae asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does your plan have anything to do with the ladder that’s propped against the back fence?”

  “It might.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Subject needs to leave for me to implement my plan.”

  “I see,” Rae said. “What about the Chandler job? Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “They won’t strike until after midnight. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  Subject Exits His Apartment…2300 hrs

  I put on a black skullcap and grabbed a screwdriver from Dad’s tool kit. I put my cell on vibrate and told Rae to call if Subject returned home unexpectedly. I reminded her not to get sloppy. Rae rolled her eyes and I exited our house through the back door.

  I extended the painting ladder on the ground and propped it up against Subject’s building. It reached approximately two and a half feet below his office window. This might be a stretch, but I was feeling lucky. I climbed to the top of the ladder and then used the wall for balance as I stepped up the last few rungs, until my feet were on the second rung from the top and my hands were clutching Subject’s windowpane. I pulled the screwdriver from my back pocket and jimmied open the window.

  The office was dark inside; I held a flashlight in my mouth to get a visual on the inside. Several different kinds of printers and computers lined the walls. There was a high-volume paper shredder on the floor and two phones. Just below the window was a file cabinet. I would have to slide myself over it to gain entry. I put the flashlight back in my pocket and the screwdriver on top of the file cabinet. I stepped onto the final rung of the ladder to heave myself inside.

  My foot hit the top rung at the wrong angle and the ladder flew out from under me. My grip on the window was purely for balance. The twelve-foot drop happened in an instant.

  The wind was knocked out of me and I didn’t come around until maybe five minutes later with Rae standing over me, a look of genuine fear in her eyes.

  “Should I call 911?” Rae asked.

  “No way,” I tried to shout, but the pain dampened my voice. “I’m fine,” I said, although that fact had yet to be determined.

  Slowly getting to my feet, I happily discovered that all my limbs were still in working order. We circled the perimeter and entered the Spellman residence from the back.

  “Get rid of the ladder,” I said to Rae before we went inside.

  Rae dragged the ladder into the garage, while I checked myself for injury. There was a small cut on the side of my face, and a nasty scrape on my arm, but nothing that would require stitches. That was the good news. The bad news was that every time I took a breath it felt like I was being stabbed, not that I know what being stabbed feels like.

  “You might have a broken or cracked rib,” Rae said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I took a shot of my dad’s whiskey and tried to find a comfortable spot to lie down on the couch. There was no painless position, so I simply chose the most endurable angle.

  Approximately fifteen minutes later (the time frame, apparently, required to do ample research on rib injuries on the internet), Rae returned with a medical degree.

  “Show me where it hurts,” Rae demanded with an air of professional authority.

  I showed her.

  “Does it hurt if I touch it?”

  “Ouch!!!”

  “Yes, it hurts.” Rae jotted this down in her notes. “Does it hurt when you breathe?” Rae asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does it hurt when you cough?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t needed to cough.”

  “You don’t know how to fake-cough?”

  “I assume that it’s going to hurt if I fake-cough, so I don’t see the point.”

  “You should do it just to be sure.”

  I fake-coughed just to shut her up. “It hurts,” I said. Rae jotted that down in her notes.

  “Is your breathing rapid and shallow?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Pour me another shot of whiskey.”

  “It doesn’t say anything about drinking whiskey in my research.”

  “Does it say anything about not drinking it?”

  Rae skimmed her recently printed sheets of paper. “No.”

  I poured myself a shot, since Rae was otherwise occupied.

  “I need to check your pulse rate and see if it’s elevated,” Rae said, and then placed two fingers on my wrist and eyed her watch.

  “What’s it normally?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how am I supposed to know if it’s elevated?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it’s elevated,” I said, finishing my second shot of whiskey. Finally the pain was starting to dull.

  “Are you coughing blood?” Rae asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Would you like me to try fake-coughing up blood?”

  “You could try.”

  After forty-five minutes of Rae’s version of triage, I convinced her that I was not in serious danger and a hospital visit was not necessary. I was fairly certain said hospital visit was suggested so that she could practice driving.

  I took three Tylenol and attempted sleep. But the pain made that utterly impossible. I watched four hours of late-night television and then clocked approximately two hours of sleep right before d
awn. I awoke at seven A.M. sharp when the telephone rang.

  “Huh?” I answered.

  “Isabel,” said a stern woman’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

  I was too exhausted, weak, and in pain to argue, so I allowed Rae to drive me the two blocks to Mrs. Chandler’s residence. She was already in clean-up mode, adding the cans of Guinness to her recycling bin and sobering up her leprechauns. My Copycat Vandals had struck in the earliest hours of St. Patrick’s Day while I was in bed, writhing in pain.

  In my pajamas I got out of the car and walked across the lawn to Mrs. Chandler. Her harsh expression softened when she saw the condition I was in.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I had an accident.”

  “A car accident?”

  “No,” I said, calculating a response. See, I had to come up with a lie that my mother could not disprove if it was repeated around her.

  “I tripped and fell down a flight of stairs.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, dear.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Go home and back to bed,” she said.

  “I’ll get them the next time,” I said. “I promise.”

  HOME ALONE

  CHAPTER-4

  Friday, March 17 1800 hours

  Rae heated up a can of chicken soup for my dinner and served it to me in bed. The noodles reminded me of the leprechaun vomit and I lost my appetite.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’m feeling very hostile toward that ladder, but otherwise I’m in extreme pain.”

  “Do you need me to stay home and take care of you?” Rae asked.

  “What would you do, serve me more lukewarm soup? No, thanks.”

  “So is it all right if I go over to my friend’s house?”

  “What friend?”

  “Ashley Pierce.”

  “Your co-sleuth in the mucous case?”

  “Yep.”

  “Write down all her info and keep your cell phone on.”

  Rae scribbled on a piece of paper.

  “Is it okay if I sleep over?” she asked. “Or do you need me to come home and change your bedpan?”

  “You’re disgusting. Go to your slumber party. Have fun braiding each other’s hair.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Rae. “I’ll see you in the A.M. If you need anything, call 911.”

  Rae departed shortly after seven P.M.

  By eleven P.M., I was desperate for sleep and in unbearable pain. I raided Mom’s medicine cabinet and grabbed two Vicodin and a sleeping pill.1 I remained unconscious until three A.M., when I felt two strong hands on my shoulder.

  The room was dark, I was still drugged, and my eyes could only make out the shape of a man standing above me, roughly shaking me.

  I remember fear hitting me immediately. I awoke suddenly and gasped for breath. Then I screamed in pain and threw a punch at the unknown male in the room with me.

  The man quickly backed away and touched the side of his face.

  “That hurt, Isabel.”

  The voice sounded familiar, but that didn’t necessarily mean I was out of danger. Remember, two Vicodin and a sleeping pill, and just woken from a deep sleep?

  “I’m calling the police,” I meant to say, but it came out “Em police calling.”

  Henry Stone flicked on the light.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, still slurring my words, but now putting them in the proper order.

  “Rae phoned me about forty-five minutes ago from a party. She was barely conscious. She said she tried to call you and David but there was no answer. The call dropped before I could get an address. I’ve been calling your house and ringing the doorbell for about a half hour now.”

  “Really?”

  “What are you on, Isabel?”

  “Vicodin and sleeping pills. Singular. Just one sleeping pill.”

  “Why?”

  “I think my rib or ribs are fractured or something.”

  “Have you gone to the hospital?”

  “No doctors!!”

  “We’ll deal with this later. Do you know where Rae is?”

  “Uh, yeah. She gave me the address of her friend’s house.”

  I scanned the room and promptly found the slip of paper Rae left before she departed. Henry went to my closet and grabbed a coat and sneakers. While trying to get my arm inside the coat sleeve, I complained about the footwear option.

  “I can’t wear those shoes.”

  “What?” Stone said, annoyed. “You look like shit, Isabel. Shoes are not going to make a difference.”

  “Boy, you’re rude. I can’t wear them because I can’t tie them. I can’t reach my feet.”

  “Sit down,” Henry ordered.

  I sat down on the bed and Henry quickly put the sneakers on my feet and tied the laces.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and we got into his car and went in search of Rae.

  We arrived at the aftermath of a party. The image was not unlike the drunken leprechauns sleeping amongst their wasted beer cans. The house was partially lit and through the window one could see lifeless bodies on the floor, the couch, some slouched against the wall.

  Stone rang the doorbell at least half a dozen times and then banged on the door violently.

  “Police. Open up,” he said, and I then I remembered that he was a cop.

  Since “Police” usually works better as a wake-up call than “Anybody home?” the door was answered soon after by a grungy-looking fellow with long, sloppy hair. The stoner-dude mellow look on his face quickly shifted to fear when Henry stormed into the house and grabbed him by the collar.

  “Where’s Rae Spellman?”

  “Uh, I dunno.”

  Stone backed the sloppy kid into a corner and offered up the most intimidating glare I had ever seen. I was so accustomed to observing Stone cowed by my mother and Rae’s outrageous demands that it never occurred to me he was anything but a slightly simmering, mild-mannered inspector.

  “Think really fucking hard, because I’m not leaving until I find her.”

  “Upstairs, maybe.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

  Henry raced up the stairs. I limped after him. He began opening and closing doors, shouting out Rae’s name. Then he did the oddest thing. He picked up a half-awake kid on the floor, smacked his face lightly to wake him up, and then when the kid’s eyes opened, he said, “I’m very disappointed in you. You’ll be hearing from me again.”

  Henry let the young man drop down to the floor and continued along the hallway. There was one final room that we had not checked. Henry tried the door, but it was locked. He banged on it and shouted, “Open up,” but there was no response. Henry backed away from the door as if he was going to force it open with his shoulder.

  “Stop,” I shouted, searching through my coat pockets. “I can pick the lock.” I found a paper clip and a nail file. I had worn the same jacket the last time I went out with Subject, so I had the appropriate tools to get into that secret room. Henry paced tensely behind. Maybe it was the prescription drugs or the fact that this party scene didn’t hold a candle to some of the bashes I attended in my youth, but I wasn’t all that concerned.

  “Hurry up,” Henry said as I started working on the door.

  Two minutes later, we entered the locked room and found Rae, out cold, on the bed. Alone, thankfully. She had locked herself inside just before she passed out. I tried to wake her, but she was too groggy to walk herself to the car.

  Henry carried the mostly unconscious Rae out of the war zone. The few stragglers we managed to wake cautiously cleared out of the way.

  I buckled Rae up in the backseat and sat down next to her. Henry got into the car.

  “We’re going to the hospital.”

  “No, Henry.”

  “What if she was drugged?
” he asked.

  “I can smell the beer all over her. She’s just very drunk and passed out.”

  “Has she ever done this before?” Henry asked.

  “No,” I replied. “But it’s about time.”

  As Henry pulled his car into the driveway of 1799 Clay Street, Rae woke up and said, “I think I’m going to barf.” She vomited once on the front lawn and then raced into the bathroom off the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” I said to Henry as we stood in the foyer listening to the traveling sound of Rae’s guttural hacking in the bathroom.

  The early morning activities had distracted me from the pain. With the distraction gone, the pain returned. I grabbed my side and said, “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Isabel?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, annoyed. “All sorts of things.”

  “No, I mean your side. What did you do to yourself?”

  “Nothing.”

  Henry then lifted up my shirt. I smacked his hand away. “Stop that.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Stop trying to look at my stomach.”

  “Stop moving,” Henry said, and then he finally got a look at the black-and-blue mark on my left side.

  “You’re supposed to ask before you lift up a girl’s shirt.”

  “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

  “No doctors!!!”

  “Isabel, be reasonable.”

  “I’m not coughing blood.”

  “What?”

  “I can breathe. My pulse rate isn’t elevated. At least I don’t think it is. We looked it all up on the internet. If my ribs are fractured or bruised, they’ll heal themselves.”

  Henry leaned against the door and stared down at his feet, shaking his head. Then he took off his jacket and threw it over the couch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m staying,” Henry said, annoyed.

  “Why?”

  “Because, if I leave, it would be like abandoning two mentally challenged people in a nuclear waste dump.”

  “That’s nice, Henry. Excuse me while I attend to Vomit Girl.”

  I took the first shift with my sister, which meant sitting on the bathroom floor watching Rae heave up everything she had consumed in the previous six hours. Henry took the second shift, which involved an almost scientific replenishment of fluids, I would later discover. I slept eight hours that night out of sheer exhaustion and woke, still in pain but somewhat refreshed, at eleven A.M.