Crimson Eve

by Brandilyn Collins

  She could see nothing, could only listen to the sounds of two killers mere feet away. They’d moved into the bedroom, one behind the other. This she knew by the sounds of footsteps following shuffling footsteps, the lineup of breathing.

  Please, Carla, be gone!

  The men approached the bathroom door. They wouldn’t see her from its threshold. Not unless they checked around the bed or moved to look out the back window . . .

  One set of footsteps hit tile. Crossed the floor.

  Leslie held her breath.

  A string of curses erupted from the bathroom. “They’ve gone out the window.”

  Air hissed from the other man’s throat. “That’s your fault, Jilke. I told you we should have come in from opposite ends of the house.”

  Paul Jilke? He was here?

  “Shut up and move.”

  The footsteps hurried away. Out of the bedroom, up the hall. Leslie pictured the men trotting through the kitchen as fast as they could in the dark, into the backyard. Was Tanya still lying on the floor in front of the sink? Was she dead?

  Where was Carla?

  Leslie rolled out from underneath the cover.

  For a minute she lay there, breathing hard. Willing her heart to calm. She raised her head, tilted an ear toward the bathroom, listening for sounds outside the window.

  Nothing.

  Could she even hear backyard sounds from here? If they found Carla and pumped a silenced bullet in her heart, how would Leslie know?

  She pushed to her knees and swayed. Shook her head and began to crawl toward the door. She wouldn’t get up for fear they’d somehow spot her shadowed form through the window.

  Out from the blackness beneath the bedspread, Leslie could now see better in the darkness. She scrambled across the room to the threshold. Stopped. Leaned out toward the hall, straining to hear the tiniest sound. All was quiet. She swallowed. Once she started up that hall, if the men returned, she would be caught.

  What choice did she have?

  At least they’d already checked the house. Maybe if she heard them coming she could slip into another room, and they wouldn’t think to look for her.

  Leslie crawled into the hall, then staggered to her feet. Stooped over, she moved swiftly toward the kitchen.

  At the corner of the entryway, a shape appeared on the floor. Leslie slid to a stop, legs shaking. She steadied herself against the wall, peering at the object. Rectangular. Upright.

  Carla’s suitcase.

  Her feet moved on. At the entryway tile, she bent over and crabbed her way forward, down, down the long length of the eating counter. She could feel cool air coming from the open back door. At the end of the counter she hesitated, heart pounding. What if one of the men waited for her around the corner? Inches away. Gun barrel ready and aimed at her face.

  Help me, Jesus. Please, keep me alive.

  She leaned out, peered with one eye around the corner. Saw only the kitchen table against the right wall, the back door hanging open.

  Leslie shuffled into the kitchen.

  On the floor by the sink she spied a form. Still, crumpled. Tanya.

  Leslie’s mind replayed the second of bullet impact, Tanya’s head jerking. She’d never had a chance. If Leslie had been in the kitchen at that moment, she’d be dead now too.

  She veered right, scrambled toward the table. Every second counted. She was an open target in the middle of the floor. She reached the table, banged into a chair. Its legs stuttered across linoleum — as loud as an avalanche.

  Leslie stilled, air backed up in her throat. Listening. When she heard nothing she half rose, threw her hand across the table, and grabbed her purse. Sank to the floor.

  Her pulse ground in one long, continuous beat as she scrambled around the counter. There, back against the wall, knees up, she dug feverishly in her purse, seeking the phone. Her fingers closed around it, pulled it out.

  Her head swiveled toward the table. She should put the purse back. What if they returned and noticed it was gone?

  Clutching the purse in one hand, the phone in another, she lunged across to the table, jammed the bag upon it, and jumped back behind the counter. She sank to her knees and crawled, phone grasped in her palm, fingers protecting it from banging the floor.

  At the entrance to the first front bedroom, Leslie veered inside. Crabbed her way around a dresser on her immediate left and hunched between it and the wall.

  Were Spokane Valley police doing drive-bys? How long since they’d been around? They’d see the house in darkness . . .

  She held her phone low and flipped it open, blocking its light as much as possible with her hand. She started to press 911, but hit 51 instead, the auto dial for Chief Edwards. He answered on the first ring.

  “Leslie! Where have you been, I’ve called twice!”

  “Send cars.” Her faint whisper wobbled. “They’re here — two men. Tanya’s dead.”

  Chief’s shock vibrated through the line. “Where are you?”

  “In the house. Carla got away through a window. They’ve gone after her.”

  “Stay with me.” Chief had recovered his terse, professional tone. “I’ll radio.”

  Leslie waited.

  Had the men found Carla? Was she dead? Leslie leaned her head against the wall. Would they come back here and kill her too?

  A sickening reality kicked her in the gut. Bryson Hanley could actually get away with everything he’d done. With all three of them dead, no one would be left to tell.

  “Leslie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re on their way. Running code. Sit tight and stay on the phone.”

  Running code. With lights and sirens blaring. What if Jilke and Thornby heard them coming and slipped away?

  “Chief, I need to tell you — ”

  A shuffle filtered from the hallway. Leslie’s head jerked up. She lowered the phone, snapped it closed, every muscle in her body twisting into a knot.

  A figure moved into the room.

  EIGHTY

  Carla hit the ground with her head and right shoulder, and rolled. For a second — too long, too long! — she lay there, breathless. The muscles she’d landed on cramped in pain. An energy beyond herself forced her to her knees. She cast wild looks left, right. Where to go? The men could be right behind her. No time to run across the open backyard and jump the fence, especially with her ankle. No time even to reach the neighbor’s back door.

  She veered left. Her ankle screamed in agony, but she paid it no heed. She headed toward the back corner of the house and stumbled around it to the side yard. There she stopped, pressing her back against the wood. Listening over the rattle of her heartbeat.

  A man’s curses spewed through the bathroom window.

  Jilke!

  Carla hadn’t heard the hated voice in years, but she’d never forget the sound. Paul Jilke was here. With Thornby.

  Her knees buckled. She caught herself halfway down, forced her body to straighten. Every fiber in her body vibrated with fear — and rage. This was the man who had signed her death warrant. The man who would do anything to protect Bryson Hanley.

  No more sound from the window. The men must know she’d escaped. They’d come after her. The two of them could go in different directions.

  Where was Leslie? Had she called 911?

  They’d killed her; Carla knew it. Either that or wounded her badly. Carla couldn’t leave her friend. She couldn’t. It was her fault Leslie was hurt. Hadn’t Thornby warned her? What had she done?

  Hurried footsteps sounded from the back of the house on the far side. The men were coming out the kitchen door.

  Carla hobbled toward the front yard. Her thoughts spun. Where to go? Too many streetlights; she could be spotted on the sidewalk. One bullet, and she’d be gone.

  Tanya’s pickup truck at the curb. Should she hide behind it?

  Then what? She’d be trapped.

  At the front corner, she ducked left, hunching down, limping along the hous
e. Past the garage, around the porch, by the living room windows. At the next corner, left again, down the side yard. Any minute now her left leg was going to give way.

  She reached the back corner and slid to a stop, pulse throbbing in her throat. Cocked her head.

  No sound of the men.

  Were they back there, waiting?

  This was it. Either she would die in the next moment, or she would go the only place where she could hide — back inside that house of death. They wouldn’t think to look for her there. She could get to a phone. She could get to Leslie.

  Rebecca — if I’m killed, and you ever learn the truth, I hope somehow you’ll know how much I loved you.

  Carla leaned forward, weight on her right foot. Closer to the corner . . . closer . . . her body shaking, her mind already visualizing the pointed gun. She peered around the house.

  She made out the vague shape of a man running through the neighbor’s backyard, his back to her. Where was the second?

  No time — go!

  She slipped around the corner of the house, fully exposed should the man whirl around. Stumbled to the back patio and inside the open door. Carla dropped to her knees on the linoleum.

  So dark — her eyes had gotten used to the streetlights out front. She blinked, trying to assimilate. Ahead would be the living room, to her right, the kitchen sink and cabinets. There would be no outlet there. Just a peninsula floor with cabinets and walls on three sides.

  But there will be a phone on the counter. And knives.

  She crawled right.

  Her shoulder brushed the cabinets, making a shooshing noise. She inched left, away from the wood. Where were the knives? She’d have to get up, risk being seen through a win —

  Her palm hit something. An arm?

  She jerked back, ice in her veins. Motionless, one hand in the air. Her legs shook. Was it Thornby, taunting her?

  The person didn’t move. Carla squinted in the darkness, the outline of a form taking shape. Crumpled. Not moving.

  Tanya.

  With trembling fingers, Carla reached out, felt her limb, a shoulder. She touched hair, the side of Tanya’s head. A crusted hole.

  Carla’s stomach roiled. She pulled in one deep breath. Another. Then forced herself to crawl around the body. Trying to force her mind from Tanya, who had given her life to finally speak the truth. Tanya Evans — her daughter’s friend.

  Rebecca would mourn.

  Tears filled Carla’s eyes. She swiped them away. No time to think; she had to see, had to find a knife.

  Beyond the sink lay a distance of all cabinets, no back window. There was a window behind her, near the table, but Carla had no choice. She pushed to her feet, peering at the countertop, frowning as her eyes and hands worked together to discover its contents. She saw/felt a toaster, blender. Coffee maker, a large fluted bowl. Where was the phone? A small plant, another bowl with fruit.

  There — a telephone.

  Soundlessly, Carla removed the receiver. Heard nothing. She punched buttons and waited, then punched more. Still dead.

  No dial tone.

  Slowly, she replaced the receiver.

  No phone. The thought sank in. Leslie had never called the police. She wouldn’t have been able to reach her cell before the men ran into that master suite.

  Where was her cell? It was now Carla’s only hope.

  Her distracted gaze fell upon a rectangular shape and stopped. Wooden knife block.

  Carla reached out, ran her fingers over the handles, searching for — what? The biggest? Smallest? The reality of using a knife rammed her. Could she really stab someone? What if she dropped the knife, and he stabbed her?

  She pushed the thoughts aside, forced her concentration on the girth of the knife handles. She pulled one halfway out. It felt too light, too small. Carla thought of Rebecca, of Tanya, dead —where was Leslie? — and knew she wanted the biggest knife in the block. She tried another, a third, and heard the firm swish of a French chef’s blade.

  She slid it all the way out, grasped the handle with both hands.

  Now to find Leslie’s cell phone. And Leslie.

  Muted footfalls sounded outside the open door. Someone hurrying across the brick patio. Headed inside.

  Carla did the only thing she could do. Laid the knife on the counter, jumped to the right — and threw her body on top of Tanya’s.

  A man stepped into the house.

  Carla held her breath.

  Beneath her she could feel the warmth of Tanya’s body. Cheek to cheek, temple to temple. Life pressing death. Carla felt a strand of Tanya’s hair against her skin. The ragged circle of the bullet hole against her own head.

  Horror surged through her. She jerked in reflex, had to force herself to stay down. Crazy as it was, she visualized the bullet drilling backwards into her own brain.

  God, I’m not ready to die!

  The man moved across the side of the kitchen, the silhouette of a gun before him. Carla knew her vision was more adjusted to the inside blackness than his, could only hope he would not veer her way. She rolled her eyes up, toward the man’s face — and saw Jilke’s aged but recognizable profile.

  His head never turned. He moved toward the living room, then swerved right. Carla stayed still as he passed the long eating counter. If he looked her way, if he took the time to peer into darkness . . .

  Jilke’s footsteps hit tile, then softened. He was heading down the hall.

  Leslie.

  Carla lifted her head from Tanya’s, listening.

  Seconds ticked by.

  Jilke’s voice rolled into her ears.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  A long-barreled gun pointed down at Leslie’s face.

  “Don’t you know how bright that phone’s light is in the dark —even through curtains?”

  Leslie’s world ground to a stop. She stared at the man’s dark figure, mind frozen.

  “Who did you call?”

  Was this Jilke? Thornby?

  As if it mattered.

  She pressed her fingers into the carpet. “I just . . . I . . .”

  “Who did you call?”

  “The police.”

  The man seethed. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the anger. It was live and sizzling.

  “What do you know about Carla Radling?” He moved closer, the weapon not two feet away.

  She swallowed. What did she know? What did that matter? “She told me everything.”

  “Who have you told?”

  Understanding seeped in. The cell phone may have led this man to her, but it was also saving her life — for the moment. He needed to contain the information. As soon as he learned she’d told no one, she would be dead.

  Leslie forced venom into her voice. “Five friends. In five different countries.”

  He slammed her head with the side of his gun. Pain tore through her brain. Leslie’s body swayed left. She slumped against the wall, dazed.

  The man leaned over her. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

  Leslie couldn’t move, the smell of her own sweat-sticky fear filling her nostrils. How long since Chief Edwards radioed in the call? Two minutes? Three?

  She blinked blurry eyes up toward the man — and saw him split in two. One figure in front, one behind. The one in back clutched something long and flat in both hands, raised it — and plunged it high in the first one’s back.

  Carla.

  A scream gurgled from the man’s throat. He jerked up straight, both hands flying out. His fingers uncurled from the gun. It dangled . . . dropped to the floor. He staggered back two steps, then found his footing, as if fury itself drove strength into his limbs. He swiveled toward Carla. Leslie could see an outline of a huge knife protruding from beneath his left shoulder blade. It hadn’t gone in very far. Not a wound to kill, only drive him like a maddened beast.

  Leslie pushed away from the wall, threw her hand around the man’s lower leg and yanked with all her might. He crashed headlong toward the floor. Car
la screamed and jumped out of his way.

  Where was the gun? Leslie searched the carpet in vain. The man’s foot twitched. He was already rising. As he pulled forward to kneel, the gun appeared beneath his leg. Leslie grabbed for it.

  The weapon felt hard and warm in her hand.

  The man lunged for Carla. Leslie raised the gun, trying to aim, but she didn’t dare pull the trigger for fear of hitting Carla. He rammed Carla’s body, shoved her against the wall, fingers circling her throat. The frantic movement of his shoulder muscles loosened the huge knife. It worked its way out and fell to the carpet. He felt it with his foot, back-kicked hard. It tumbled across the floor and under the bed.

  Leslie’s hand cramped around the gun. If she shot, wouldn’t the bullet go through the man into Carla?

  Choking sounds spilled from Carla’s lips. Fury shot through Leslie. She pushed to her feet and launched herself across the room and into the man, hitting his back right shoulder at an angle. He stumbled to his left, away from Carla. She slipped to the floor, wheezing in air.

  Leslie raised the gun and fired.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried to pull the trigger again.

  Something was blocking it. A safety? What, where?

  Her trembling right hand struggled to keep aim at the man while her left fingers explored the gun. The barrel, underneath the trigger, around the handle. What was she supposed to do?

  The man rose up, a monster in the darkness, his shape outlined against the dim spill of streetlight through the bedroom’s curtains. Leslie backed up, still fumbling with the gun. Carla hacked and coughed, struggling to get on her knees, crawl toward Leslie and the door.

  Leslie felt something on the bottom of the gun handle. A piece that moved.

  Hard, running footsteps filtered from up the hall. Reflex whipped Leslie’s body around, jerked her finger on the trigger.

  Phwfat. The gun fired through empty threshold, hitting the hallway wall. Her arm recoiled.

  The footsteps halted.

  “No!” Carla cried.

  Leslie spun around as the man and Carla collided. Carla swung madly with both fists, the man trying to pin her arms, two desperate silhouettes in a fight to the death.