Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  “Let us in, Mrs. H!”

  I went to the windows, the only way out. An outside ledge circled the house, but it was only a few inches wide. Not enough to stand on. I looked down. How far was it? I tried to do the math. The front steps were about six feet high, making the first floor six feet off the ground. The ceilings were, what, twelve feet high? And the ceiling itself might be a foot thick. And the windowsill was two, maybe three feet off the floor. So what was that? Twenty-one feet? Twenty-two? Why was I bothering to calculate—the height made no difference. I had to jump anyway.

  Katie was counting again. One. I unlocked a window. Two. I pushed it open. Three. Even though I expected it, the slam jolted me. I thrust myself at the screen and it fell away, made a small thud on the path below.

  I checked the door. The hinges had loosened, and the lock wouldn’t withstand another ramming. I eyed the windowsill. Doubted that, with my sliced thigh, I’d be agile enough to climb onto it on the first try. Or that I’d survive the jump without breaking my legs.

  I hesitated, looked back just in time to hear a crash and see the door break free. It came down awkwardly, slowly like a falling leaf, and landed not with a bang, but a crunch. Katie stood in the open frame. For a moment, we locked eyes. Hers were, as usual, smiling. She didn’t look away when she said, “Go.”

  Maggie and Trish burst into the room, Katie behind them, pulling Ty with her unbroken hand.

  In a heartbeat, I was crouched on the windowsill. I didn’t remember jumping or climbing onto it, but I must have, because, damn, I was there.

  “Jump,” I told myself. But I didn’t.

  I glanced down. The ground looked far away, certainly more than twenty-one feet. Not that I knew what twenty-one feet looked like. Still, I didn’t move.

  Behind me, Maggie and Trish stumbled over the fallen door.

  “Ouch—my ankle. Dammit, Maggie! Watch out.”

  “Me? You watch out!”

  “Shit, look—”

  “Fuck, she’s jumping!”

  I had no time. In a heartbeat, they’d be on me. I closed my eyes, held my breath.

  Didn’t jump.

  “Hup. Force out.” I heard the words clearly.

  It was Shane. We were on the platform together. “Hup!” he repeated. “Force out!”

  “Hup,” I said aloud.

  But I didn’t jump. Might have if I’d had a trapeze.

  “Got her?”

  “Yup.” The voice was too close to my ear.

  I held onto the window frame, wobbled to my feet.

  “Push her!”

  A breeze threatened to blow me off the sill. My head pulsed. The house shimmied. “Force out,” I heard. Was I still talking out loud? “Now,” the voice commanded.

  I obeyed, sort of. Not jumping into the air, but edging off the windowsill, sidestepping onto the narrow concrete ledge. Barely balancing, clawing at bricks, twisting my feet. Not looking down.

  Behind me, Maggie and Trish called my name.

  The world swirled and blurred.

  Maggie’s head poked out the window. “I’m gonna get you, Mrs. H,” she cooed.

  An arm extended, a hand reached for me. I inched further away. Thought of circus school. If only we’d gone back and finished our lesson, maybe I’d have gone on and learned tightrope walking.

  Maggie climbed onto the windowsill, reached for me again. I looked back. Her hand was maybe an inch from my leg.

  “I’ve got her,” she panted.

  She did? How was she going to close the gap? Was she going to follow me onto the ledge?

  “Keep moving,” the voice told me. Seriously? I didn’t dare. Any movement at all might destroy my tentative balance.

  “Trish, grab my legs,” Maggie said. She knelt on the windowsill, reaching for my leg with her left hand, clutching the knife in her right.

  I skittered sideways, barely eluding her. The muscle in my slashed thigh threatened to cave, but I kept inching away from the window, and Maggie kept easing further out onto the sill.

  “Don’t look at her,” the voice told me. Was that my voice? It sounded deeper, more like a man’s—was it Shane’s? Or damn, Charlie’s again? Why did I continue to conjure him up? I needed to let him go, stop depending on a dead man. Good God, what was I doing? I needed to focus. But a thousand fragmented thoughts stampeded through my mind, kicking up dust clouds.

  “Focus,” the voice repeated. “Look ahead at where you’re going, not back at where you’ve been.”

  Really? The voice was a philosopher? No matter, the advice was good. Slowly, I turned my head away from Maggie and her flailing and looked ahead.

  That’s when I saw the tree.

  The old oak at the corner of the house. The one that dropped tons of acorns and shed truckloads of damned leaves every fall. The one whose branches had been trimmed because they’d grown too close to the house.

  The one that might save me now.

  “Can you get her?” Trish called.

  “Almost. Hang onto me.”

  If I made it all the way to the tree, I could leap for one of those branches and climb down. Or swing like on a trapeze. “Keep going,” the voice said.

  “Just another inch and—”

  “No, wait—Maggie!”

  Maggie’s fingers brushed my leg. I heard a thud. Slowly looked. Maggie lay facedown on the ground. She didn’t move.

  Nothing moved, not even the breeze. For a moment the world was silent. Then Trish began to scream.

  How come Maggie wasn’t moving? Was a drop of twenty-ish feet enough to kill someone? Maybe she’d hit her head, gotten knocked out?

  My legs felt rubbery, refusing to support me, and I held my breath, tried not to fall.

  “Maggie!” Trish called.

  Maggie didn’t respond.

  Trish climbed onto the windowsill as if it were easy, smooth as a cat. Coming after me.

  Somewhere nearby, Ty shouted, “Katie, don’t!”

  Time to move. I looked back at the tree, took cautious steps sideways with my back to the bricks. Estimated the distance to the branches. Held my breath. Glanced back at Trish.

  She was moving fast, seemed undaunted by the height or the narrow width of the ledge. Her steps were long, quick. In seconds, she’d have me.

  I hustled, hurried, almost hopped along the wall, hurrying to the corner of the house. I was just steps from the tree. Trish barreled into my peripheral vision. She was close enough to touch me, not quite close enough to knock me down. But I wasn’t going to think about Trish. I was going to think about trapeze. About swinging safely to the ground.

  “You got nowhere to go, Mrs. H,” Trish breathed. “You’re at the end of the wall.”

  I looked at the tree. Selected a branch.

  “I got you!” she growled, lunging.

  But she was too late. “Hup!” I cried, and I forced out, flying to my branch, taking hold. It was more flexible than I’d expected. It sagged under my weight, didn’t support me, and I dropped fast, gripping it, aware that I’d made a mistake. The branch wasn’t breaking my fall; it was falling with me. I was going to hit the ground hard, breaking my legs while gripping a flaccid limb. But a moment before impact, the branch stopped yielding. It jerked to a stop like a bungee cord, and I clung to it, dangling a few feet from the ground, swaying in the breeze.

  A voice—was it Shane’s?—yelled, “Bravo!” and someone clapped with enthusiasm.

  I let go of the branch, landed on my feet, and remained on them despite the excruciating pain that reverberated through my thigh.

  Above me, the tree rustled. I looked up. Trish stooped on a branch, stepped to another, climbing down. I had to hurry, keep moving. I could make it to the neighbor’s. Or flag down a car. I spun around the corner of the house.

  And ran smack into Katie.

  She was still clapping, but stopped to position her knife at my neck. “Amazing, Mrs. H. You were like Tarzan—or his ape. What was the ape’s name again?” She looked
at Ty.

  Ty was beside her, dazed, his hands bound with torn cloth. An ugly wound on his head. “Cheetah,” he mumbled.

  “Right. Cheetah.” She waved the knife, pointing the way. “Let’s go.”

  Ty stumbled and I limped. Katie led us to Maggie.

  “Maggie?” She nudged her with her foot.

  Maggie didn’t respond.

  “Shit. She’s still out. Roll her over, Ty.”

  Maggie didn’t make a sound. Ty, hands tied, rolled her onto her back, and we saw the surprise in her wide-open eyes, the blood stains on her clothing, and the handle of the knife protruding from her belly. She’d been holding it when she fell.

  Katie stared at the body.

  Run, I told myself. Take off while Katie’s still stunned. She’d come after me, but Ty might intervene and slow her down. Could I count on Ty?

  “Damn.” Katie turned in a circle, repeating the word. She slapped her forehead. “Damn.” She looked up at the tree, where Trish perched on a branch, watching.

  “Oh, God,” Trish called. “She’s dead?”

  Katie nodded, nostrils flaring. She took a breath. Steeled her jaw. “This is Mrs. H’s fault.” She turned to me. “If you hadn’t made her chase you out the window, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Her eyes glowed, and she hunkered, her knife ready to strike. I stepped back. She stepped forward. We moved that way together, in a grotesque cha cha, until Ty grabbed her from behind.

  “This stops now, Katie.”

  She whirled, swinging the blade at him. I lunged, grabbing her arm, blunting her blow. Ty lifted his wrists, lowered his bound arms around her, and she sagged, cursing, in his grasp. For a moment, still reeling, I thought we’d won. Maggie was dead, Trish was up a tree, and Ty had Katie. But I was wrong. Ty didn’t have Katie; it was the reverse. Cradling her broken hand, she threw her weight and knocked him off balance, shoved him to the ground. They tumbled near the tree, rolling and grunting. Katie’s uninjured arm was pinned, but still holding the knife.

  I hobbled over to help, not a clue what I was going to do. Grab her wrist? Step on her broken hand? Something. In my haste, I forgot about Trish and, as I passed the tree, a dark shadow swallowed me. The impact of her crashing onto me sent us flying to the ground. We hit hard, Trish on my back, panting hard. I arched my back to knock her off of me, but she grabbed my waist and held on. I spun around, faced empty eyes and bared teeth. I lay back, took a breath, then slammed my forehead against hers. Felt a blinding crack as if I’d cleaved my skull in half. I braced myself for a punch, even a bite. But Trish did neither. Her grip slackened, releasing me, and I struggled to my feet. Too fast. I teetered, unsteady, and stepped back, taking the weight off my bloodied injured thigh. Trish got up, too, and for a moment we stood facing each other. Then, she opened her mouth and came at me, roaring. I spun around and sprinted. Heard Ty yelling, maybe saying, “Look out”? I looked back, glimpsed Trish closing in, and flew forward. No, not forward. Down. My foot was caught and I stumbled. Saw grass, the stone walkway, a bloody shirt and knife handle. I flung my arms out to break my fall, and landed on top of Maggie.

  Once again, Trish was on me. I wriggled, sandwiched between a dead woman and a fiend. Trish took hold of my throat and squeezed. I tried to pull her hands away, loosen her fingers, scratch them, but they wouldn’t relent. My face got hot, wounded cheek ballooned, eyes popped, tongue swelled. I heard the ocean roaring. I thrashed, I kicked. I realized I had no chance. She had me. I was going to die. I craved air. Any kind of air—cold, hot, damp, stinking, polluted—it didn’t matter. Just air. How long was it going to last, this pain and craving? Would I lose consciousness or agonize until the end? Charlie appeared, dim and distant, and I ached, remembering when I could open my lungs and feel air rush in without effort or thought. My strength was gone. I stopped struggling, let my hands fall limply beside me.

  And found the handle of Maggie’s knife.

  My mind was dark, shut down. But some primitive part of my brain must have functioned well enough to signal a survival response, sending a message to my fingers.

  And, even in their weakened state, they must have responded, closing around the hilt and tugging.

  Later, I remembered the shuddering of Trish’s body. The release of her hold on my throat. The heaviness of her collapse, her dead weight crushing my chest.

  I remembered gasping, coughing, struggling to breathe. The raw pain of my throat, and brutal stiffness of my neck. The endless time pressed beneath her, her hair falling across my face, her breasts smashing mine. And the relief when finally I managed to slither out from under her.

  I remembered looking up to see Ty’s bludgeoned face and, once I was able to sit up, seeing Trish’s body, the knife handle protruding from her back.

  I crawled to Ty. He couldn’t get up to help me. He was a mess, his hands tied, eye blackened, forehead cut, lips split, and besides, he was sitting on Katie, holding her down.

  I flopped beside him on the grass, used the knife to untie his wrists. I couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. We stayed together near the oak tree, wounded and dazed and ignoring Katie’s pleas and promises, her apologies, her threats.

  The street seemed weirdly quiet. Cars drove past but didn’t stop. I had no sense of time, though. Maybe an hour or maybe just seconds passed before a jogger noticed us and stopped, running in place. Staring at us.

  Ty let out a single delighted, “Ha!”

  “Christ. What the hell?” The jogger stopped running.

  I tried but couldn’t answer.

  Katie lifted her head, whimpering. “Please. Help me!” She made herself sound frail.

  “What happened here?” The man scowled at Ty.

  He stepped closer, scanning the lawn.

  “Please,” Katie wailed.

  “Shut up,” Ty told her.

  Katie began to cry as the man moved across the grass. He stopped when he saw Maggie and Trish. Must have thought that all three were victims, that Ty and I had assaulted them.

  “Jesus.” The jogger’s mouth opened. He stood motionless.

  “Help me,” Katie begged. “They killed my friends!”

  “She’s lying,” Ty spoke over her. “Can you—”

  “And they’re going to kill me!”

  “—call for help?”

  “No! Get him off me!” Katie squealed. “Please!”

  The jogger backed away and stood near the curb, cell phone in hand, punching in numbers. Eyeing us. Reciting my address, describing mayhem.

  A woman whose face looked familiar walked by with a Sheltie leashed to her stroller. She stopped near my front path, looking at me, at Ty sitting on Katie. The color drained from her face. I heard her ask the jogger what had happened.

  He said he didn’t know. He thought it must be a domestic thing, but it was bad.

  Her hand went to her mouth, and she rushed off. I recognized the dog, thought the woman’s name might be Pam, that she might have lived on the corner. Maybe Pam reached into her pocket for her phone. Maybe she called the cops.

  Cars drove by without stopping. Time passed.

  The jogger didn’t force Ty to move, didn’t rescue Katie. He just waited near the curb, watching the street for police while Katie pleaded and lied, and Ty told her she was full of shit. Then, boom, the street swarmed with cops, ambulances, news teams, spectators. EMTs lifted me onto a stretcher. I wanted to tell them about Jerry but couldn’t talk. When they wheeled me to an ambulance, cops were putting crime scene tape up around the house, blocking off the For Sale sign with its bright yellow button that said SOLD.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The floral arrangement was too big for either the nightstand or the windowsill. Bursting with white and yellow roses, daisies, some exotic orange-colored tropical blooms, unfamiliar purple flowers, and lots of what I thought was called baby’s breath, it sat on a chair, taller and wider than Becky, who was sitting next to it. Jen fiddled with the flowers, picking at the petals. “The c
hrysanthemums got crushed. After what we paid, it’s a sin.”

  “Let them be.” Becky frowned. “They’ll look like plucked chickens.”

  “I’m just pruning. Dead petals are depressing.”

  “So are bald-headed stems.”

  They went on, bickering.

  Susan sat on the side of my bed, reading the message I’d typed on my laptop. “Thanks for bringing this.”

  “I figured you’d want to communicate.” She squeezed my hand.

  Trish had all but crushed my windpipe, and the doctors had said I shouldn’t even try to talk for at least a few days. I also had a concussion, a broken cheekbone, and a huge bandage around my thigh.

  Susan watched me, frowning.

  “What?” I typed.

  “Nothing. Just … I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” Her eyes shifted while she answered, hiding something.

  “That’s not it. Tell me.” What could it be? Was Ty dead? Had they found another corpse?

  “You scared me, that’s all. You look like you’ve been through hell.”

  Oh. I hadn’t thought about how I looked. I’d had been consumed by how I felt. “Mirror,” I wrote.

  “No.” Susan set her jaw.

  Oh God. Was it that bad? “Yes,” I wrote. “I want to see.”

  “Wait until the swelling goes down.”

  Really? I started to swing my legs to get out of bed, but a surge of pain reminded me that my postsurgical bandaged thigh was supposed to remain immobile. Besides, there was a camera in my laptop. I could turn it on, see myself. I changed the screen, searched the desktop icons.

  “You are so stubborn.” Susan handed me a small mirror from her purse. “Okay, have it your way.”

  “WTF, Susan? Are you fucking nuts?” Jen swept across the room, diving for the mirror. “Why are you giving her a mirror?” She tried to grab it.

  I shoved it under my blanket.

  “She wants to look at herself.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Jen said. “Trust me.”

  “It’s up to her,” Becky said. “But, Elle, I think you should wait.”