Live Ringer

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  “It wouldn’t be for long,” he said, ignoring her question. “I could stay here—”

  “No.”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “Or at the hotel and—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant no, I’m not going.”

  His face darkened. “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t accomplish anything. If I’m the target, the killer could find me in Miami as easily as here, and—”

  “I have security.”

  She ignored him, “And if I’m not, there’s no point in running away.”

  “It’s not running.”

  “It is.”

  Marc was wrestling with something, probably the urge to throttle her. Her chin lifted an inch. That seemed to bring him to a decision. “Then, I’m moving in here.”

  Allie didn’t like his tone. It sounded entirely too reminiscent of Garrison and Joe, but she wouldn’t mind having a bit of protection. Except… “Sheryl and Joe are in and out of here all the time.”

  “I’ll stay out of sight during daylight hours like I’ve been doing. They won’t know I’m here.” Good point. He’d spent the last two nights on the couch without discovery. The way things were heating up, surely, it wouldn’t be long before it came to a boil.

  Marc must have taken her silence as consent. “I’m going back to the hotel and check out. That way, if anyone is paying attention, he’ll think I’ve gone. Since you won’t take yourself out of danger, it might be the only advantage we have. I’ll bring my things here.”

  “All right.”

  His face visibly relaxed. “I won’t be gone long. I have a bad feeling about what happened last night. I think you were the target, and I don’t think that’ll be the last attempt.”

  “Why would I be the target?”

  “Because you seem to have stirred up one hell of a hornet’s nest.”

  She must have looked as stubborn as she felt because he said, “Look at the facts, Allie. You’ve been virtually threatened by everyone involved—”

  “Not Joe.”

  Marc closed his eyes and opened them again. “Except Odum. Cornelius showed up here at your door. Now, the sheriff, and he sounded ready to run you out of town on a rail.”

  “Rupert Cornelius called. He didn’t come… .” Her voice trailed off at the look Marc gave her. She chewed her lip, but it didn’t help.

  “Don’t open the door for anyone but me,” Marc said. “Not for Joe. Not for Sheryl. Not anyone but me.”

  “I could go with you.”

  He thought about it. “You’ll probably be safer here.”

  He was right. A person sitting in a car made an easy target. In the house, they’d at least have to get past the locks, and she had Lou’s gun, for whatever that was worth. Allie locked the door behind him, then went around and checked the locks on the back door and all the windows, closing all the curtains. It didn’t make her feel any safer. She retrieved the gun from the bedside table where Marc put it and brought it back into the living room, setting it on the coffee table. That didn’t help much, either. Her mind spun with all the things she’d found out, but she felt no closer to understanding what was going on than before.

  She paced the threadbare carpet. Living room door to dining room to kitchen and back. Maybe she should get a larger house, so she could pace more effectively. Her cell phone rang, taking a few years off her life. She snatched it up, hoping it was Marc. “Hello?” Silence.

  “Hello,” she said again. Silence.

  Oh, God, now what? It rang again, and the sound so terrified her that she dropped it on the floor. She scrambled to pick it up and pushed the talk button. Nothing. She crept back into the living room. It was so quiet she could hear the clock ticking. Or maybe it was her heartbeat. If this kept up, the killer could let nature take its course. She couldn’t live through much more of this.

  It seemed like hours before she heard a footstep on the front porch. She saw Marc’s outline through the jalousie door and, fingers trembling, unlocked the door, flinging it open before he even had a chance to knock. “What took you—”

  It wasn’t Marc. It was Rupert Cornelius, and he had a gun pointed at her chest.

  Chapter 22

  “Back up,” he said.

  She took a step backward, her eyes on the gun.

  “More.”

  She complied.

  He stepped inside and closed the door, motioning her backward. He looked around the room, his eyes coming to rest on Lou’s gun on the coffee table. He looked at her and smiled. “Were you expecting someone?” When she didn’t answer, he picked it up and checked to see if it was loaded, then held it loosely in his other hand. “Perfect. I’ve got his to use on you. Of course, you tried to defend yourself with your gun.”

  “How did you get Marc’s gun?” She couldn’t believe she had the presence of mind to speak. She was terrified, the kind of terror that formed sweat in a dozen spots all over your body. She shook so badly that she didn’t know how her legs held her up.

  He ignored that. “When they get the ballistics on the gun used on Odum, it will all come together. Tidy, don’t you think?”

  “You shot Joe?”

  His smile widened.

  “Why?”

  “All these questions. Maybe you would have made a decent reporter after all. Now, we’ll never know. Too bad.” He shook his head. “As for your question, why do you think I aimed at Odum?”

  “Me?” Her voice came out a squeak.

  He smiled again. “Almost got you too. If you hadn’t leaned down—why did you lean down, anyway?”

  Allie barely heard the question. “Then, shooting Joe was an accident.”

  “Shooting Odum would not be in my best interests,” he said with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, “while shooting you would solve a multitude of problems.”

  “Don’t you want to strangle me like the others?” Where did that come from?

  He reached out and lightly caressed her neck. She flinched from his hand, as if it were a hissing snake. “I would enjoy it more than you know, but you made that impossible. It’s too soon for another strangling. You have to pace these things, you know. Alter your methodology. Otherwise, the authorities might make a connection.”

  “They made the connection, anyway.”

  “To your boyfriend, not to me.”

  The house phone rang. The answering machine clicked on, but no one spoke. A minute later, her cell phone rang again. Allie kept glancing at the door. Where were her police shadows when she needed them? Where was Marc?

  He gave a soft laugh. “Don’t hold your breath, little Allison Grainger. Your boyfriend won’t save you.”

  She fell back a step. “What did you do to him?”

  An expression of distaste crossed his face. “I didn’t shoot him, more’s the pity. Can’t have too many shootings happening at the same time, either. No, I disabled his vehicle.” He shook his shoulders. “He’ll know it was done on purpose. He’ll be frantic. Especially when he can’t reach you by phone,” he added, casting a glance in the direction of the kitchen. “That’ll make him careless.” He smiled. “We want him to be careless.”

  His sick logic finally registered. “You’re going to make it look like he shot me.”

  “Like you shot each other. Clever, don’t you think?” He leaned comfortably against the wall next to the door. “Everyone knows he stalked you. His fingerprints are all over your house. Once the police find all those newspaper clippings in his room—”

  “How did you—”

  He waved her question away. “I have someone in housekeeping. To keep things tidy, he’ll shoot you with his own gun.” He waved the gun in the air. “It will be enough. They want an excuse to blame him. I think of this as a public service,” he said with a chuckle. “Like the newspaper. Give them what they want. And by the way,” he said, touching her face with the gun. “I’ll write you a lovely obit. It’s what I do best.” His face hardened. “You should read the one I wrote
for my bitch of a stepmother..”

  Allie shuddered. Could he get away with shooting her? There were neighbors on both sides and across the street. “Someone will hear the gunshots,” she said aloud.

  “My dear, give me some credit. I’ve done my homework. I know your schedule and theirs. Right now, they’re all at work. All except that busybody down the street, and she left an hour ago. Once she left, I followed your boyfriend back to his hotel. He never looked behind him.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s resourceful, though. He should be along shortly.” The thought that he had been watching made her flesh crawl.

  “They won’t find your bodies until tonight. I’ll make it easy for them. I’ll leave the front door ajar. Someone’s bound to investigate.”

  They turned at a sound of a car door slamming. Rupert turned back to Allie, his eyes twin slivers of ice. “I hoped to have you finished before he got back. No matter,” he said more to himself than to her. They heard the scrape of a shoe on the front porch. “Show time,” he whispered.

  Allie saw the shape through the jalousies and knew who it was. She yelled, “Joe, no!”

  The front door slammed open, and Joe stood in the doorway, gun drawn and aimed at Cornelius.

  Cornelius held his gun steadily on Allie. “Bad timing, Odum.”

  Joe stared at the man, his bandaged face a mask of hate. “It was you,” he said. “All of them.”

  “Of course, I killed them, you simpleton,” Rupert said. “What, did you think I’d stop with dear step-mama?”

  Allie gasped. “You knew he killed his stepmother?”

  “Of course, he knew,” Rupert said, “and I paid him quite handsomely to keep it to himself.” He looked at Joe. “But you were too stupid to put it together about the others. It took this slut here to figure it out.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” Joe growled.

  Rupert made a tsk-tsk sound. “You’ll do what I tell you, or your parents will find out what their little boy has come to. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Joe looked at him. Then, at Allie. Then, he spun back to Rupert, and two shots rang out in the small room. Rupert fired an instant before Joe. Joe crashed back against the wall, as the bullet struck him in the chest. His gun fell out of his hand.

  Joe’s bullet hit Cornelius in the shoulder, and blood dripped down his arm. As he turned his gun back on Allie, she heard a feral cry from the front porch, and Marc launched himself through the doorway at Cornelius. He went down under Marc, dropping the gun.

  Cornelius wrenched a hand away and groped for the gun. Allie kicked it away. He grabbed her ankle. She could feel his fingernails digging into her flesh, as she went down on them. Cornelius shoved her off and struck Marc in the head. Then, he grabbed the gun and ran for the back door. It took him a second to unlock it, giving Marc enough time to get to his feet. Marc grabbed Joe’s gun and aimed it, but Rupert vanished from sight. Marc raced out the door behind him.

  Allie scrambled to her feet. She couldn’t think. She was still floundering when Sheryl ran into the room and fell on her knees beside Joe, already reaching for the radio on her belt.

  Allie rushed out the back door and down the beach after them. When she neared the jetty, she saw the two men struggling on the rocks. She heard a gunshot. Then, another. Both men fell into the water.

  “No!”

  She started running. As she neared the channel, she saw one man climb back up on the jetty. For a moment, he stood on the rocks outlined against the sky, and she froze. She couldn’t tell which of them it was. She could see the gun in his hand. She stood in the middle of the beach. There was nowhere to hide. Sirens screamed in the distance, growing closer. She watched the man on the rocks and waited. Then, he shook his head and jumped to the sand, and she knew.

  Chapter 23

  She ran, tripping and falling twice before she reached him. She searched his body frantically, looking for blood, finding none. He dragged her to him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “It’s over.”

  The sirens were closer. Joe. She turned and raced back toward the house with Marc close behind.

  They had Joe on a stretcher. A paramedic administered CPR, as the stretcher moved toward the ambulance. Sheryl clung to the stretcher, barking orders at everyone in sight. Allie would have gone after her, but an officer held Marc and her at gunpoint. She didn’t blame them, but she felt helpless, as she watched Sheryl climb in the ambulance and pull the doors closed.

  It took a while to sort it all out. Cord Arbutten arrived, still in civilian clothes. She told him everything. Or almost everything. She told him that Rupert Cornelius was holding her at gunpoint when Joe arrived. That Rupert confessed to having his mother killed and killing the other women. She told him Rupert shot Joe. That’s when she broke down. The sheriff still wore his cop face, but he reached over and patted her shoulder. The gesture was no less heartfelt because it was awkward. Marc picked up the story there.

  It took them no time to fish Rupert Cornelius out of the channel. Amazingly, he still clutched Marc’s gun in his hand. They confiscated it along with part of her wall when they dug the bullet out, and they took Joe’s and Lou’s guns as well.

  Once the sheriff left, the remaining officers paid little attention to Allie and Marc. They allowed Allie to shower and change. Allie locked the bathroom door, not wanting to talk to Marc. If she could think of a way to pull it off, she would drive herself to the hospital. The minute the thought formed, she cursed herself. The man saved her life, for God’s sake, and all she could think about was how to get away from him. But she couldn’t tell him about Joe.

  Joe knew. The words kept spiraling through her mind like a snatch of some long forgotten song. Joe knew, and he covered it up. Tears mixed with soapy shower water and ran freely down her face. He knew, and he was blackmailing Rupert Cornelius. He hadn’t killed anyone himself, but he knew!

  Marc drove them to the hospital in Allie’s car. Allie stared out the window the whole way, and Marc, to his credit, gave her space.

  They found Sheryl in the emergency room waiting area, a soda can clutched in her hand. It seemed that even her privileged status didn’t get her into the inner sanctum for this one. Sheryl didn’t notice Allie until she sat down and gripped her free hand. Marc sat on her other side.

  Sheryl looked at her, eyes swimming with tears. Allie saw her swallow a couple of times before she could speak. “I went out to get us some lunch. I told him I’d bring him Wendy’s. He left before I got back.” Her lip trembled, then stilled. “I knew where he’d gone. He was crazy with worry last night. If he hadn’t been drugged half to death, he would have driven to your house. He knew something would happen. He kept saying that something would happen.”

  They all looked up, as the sheriff strode into the waiting room. Sheryl started to her feet. At a look from him, she sank back down. He gave Marc and Allie only a glance before he disappeared through the double doors. None of them said a word or even breathed deeply until he returned ten minutes later. Sheryl stood, as he approached them. “He’s alive,” he told Sheryl.

  His words tore a sob from her, and he put his arm awkwardly around her shoulders, as she fought for control. After a minute, she shook herself. “OK. I’m OK.”

  The sheriff looked relieved. “They’re taking him into surgery. They said about two to three hours. They need blood. I’ll put out the call.”

  “We need to tell his parents,” Sheryl said.

  “I’m on my way to get them now.” With that, he was gone.

  Sheryl stood for several minutes, as if she expected him to return. Then, she sank back down in the chair, a marionette with her strings cut.

  Marc and Allie got to their feet. “I can give,” she said.

  “Me too,” Marc echoed.

  Sheryl looked up. “O-negative?”

  They sank back into their chairs.

  Sheryl shook her head. “They won’t take mine. Too soon.” She gave them what m
ight have passed for a watery smile. They sat in the waiting room for three hours watching a steady stream of people, some in uniform, some not, walk through the room to the information desk. They heard the name “Joe Odum” over and over. One by one, those people disappeared through the double doors; one by one, they returned, rolling down their sleeves. Who would have thought that so many people were O-negative?

  A little after noon, the double doors opened to reveal a man in scrubs. He looked around the room, spotted their little group, and headed their way. They all stood.

  “Barring complications, he’ll make it,” the doctor said, as he reached them.

  Allie heard the can crack in Sheryl’s hand. Sheryl didn’t notice, nor did she speak. Allie imagined she couldn’t.

  “When can we see him?” Allie asked.

  The doctor spoke primarily to Sheryl, maybe because she wore a uniform, maybe because she was covered—again—with Joe’s blood. Now, he looked at Allie and Marc. “Are you family?”

  “Close enough,” Sheryl said, coming out of her daze. She looked at the crushed can in her hand and seemed surprised to find Coke leaking out between her fingers and on to the floor. She set the can on a table and wiped her hand on her uniform. “Is he in ICU? Can I see him?

  “Yes and no,” the doctor answered, his attention back on Sheryl. “He’ll be in ICU for a while. He’s on a ventilator, and we don’t want him breathing on his own for a while. No one can see him.”

  He started to walk away, and Sheryl gripped his arm. Allie flinched. She knew what Sheryl’s grip felt like. “Give me five minutes. I want to look at him.” Her voice sent chills along Allie’s spine. It wasn’t a question.

  The doctor must have had courage in spades, because he almost held fast. In the end, he gave in. “I’ll be with you every minute,” he said, his words an unveiled threat. They disappeared.

  Allie looked at Marc. “We’ll wait for her.” He nodded.

  They turned, as the automatic doors whished open. The sheriff ushered two elderly people into the room. Allie barely recognized Joe’s parents. They’d aged badly. Joe’s mother—Allie never knew her as anything but Mrs. Odum—was in a wheelchair. Allie knew she was only a few years older than her aunt, sixty at most, but she looked closer to seventy. Her thin housedress hung on her thin frame. Draped around her shoulders was an oversized sweater, probably an old one of her husband’s. Howard Odum, Allie remembered, and he looked nearly as thin as his wife did. She remembered him as a big man like his son and handsome in a rugged, earthy sort of way. Now, he stooped as if his upper torso was too heavy for his spine to support. His skin color resembled the paste they used to make in elementary school with flour and water—a flat gray. Allie could see no energy, no life to him; she remembered Joe telling her he had cancer. From what Allie could see, he seemed to be in the later stages.