* * *
Lisa e-mailed her children, surfed the net, and in between kept checking her mailbox for a reply from Eric Grant. Overcome with worry over Naomi's safety, imagination running away with her, she dialed the cell phone number. But the phone just rang and rang.
* * *
Crouched down low behind the sofa, her heart drummed so hard in her ears she was sure he must hear it, even over the sound of her own voice issuing from the studio. Her own ears were trained on his footsteps, slow and measured, crossing the kitchen floor. She heard the floor squeak where it always did when you stepped on that particular spot by the table. The voice behind the studio door drew him closer.
She was startled at the suddenly ringing of a phone in the kitchen, a different ring from her house phone and she realized it was the cell phone Lisa gave her. The footsteps went silent. The phone kept ringing, a muffled sound.
Naomi did not move. She did not breathe. The phone was in her purse on the kitchen table. She'd forgotten it. A good thing, considering. It finally stopped ringing and seconds later the house phone rang. It rang four times and stopped.
The footsteps resumed in the ensuing silence, became muted as he stepped onto the living room carpet. She stilled the need to exhale the breath that rushed up from her lungs, let it out slowly, silently through her nostrils. Only when she was reasonably certain his attention would be on the studio door, did she dare a peek around the corner of the sofa.
Good. His back was to her. He was staring at the studio door, head tilted to one side, listening, as she'd prayed he would be.
He wore a long, black trench coat, dark clothes to evade watchful eyes, to meld in with the night. But she could see him clearly in the lamplight. He filled the room with his presence, this man who had raped and beaten a school girl and left her to die by the side of the road. Marcus Leeland. Standing not four feet away from her. She could smell him: the faint hint of turpentine, cigarettes and something raw and terrifying that defied naming.
He was the boy whose photo she'd looked at in the yearbook. He had grown into this twisted version of a man. Or maybe the beast had already been in him, waiting to surface.
The darkness of his soul showed in his face; she'd seen it as she stood next to him in the auto body shop today. But maybe she only saw it because she knew about the monster that lived behind the mask. Others would see him differently, perceive him differently. But then there were those who saw him as she did, who knew first-hand what he was and had chosen not to come forward for their own reasons. As Norman Banks had not come forward. And when he did, he had died for his brief show of courage.
Now, as she watched him reach into his coat pocket and bring out a length of cord, wind either end once around each of his black-gloved hands, her reflections fled. Between his hands, the cord was taut. She saw the tension in his neck muscles. He was standing very still, intent on the rise and fall of her voice behind the closed door. Hunkered down behind the sofa, she continued to watch him, her heart thudding against her chest wall.
Like staring into an abyss. She had read somewhere that when you looked into the abyss, the abyss also looked into you.
As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, he turned suddenly, and Naomi withdrew her head like a turtle drawing back into its shell, ducking down, trying to make herself one with the floor, blood roaring in her ears, breath trapped in her throat. Had he seen her?
She closed her hand over the handle of the butcher's knife she'd placed there earlier. Plan 'B', so to speak.
Chapter Forty-Three
For the past three hours, Eldon Carpenter had sat in his car dutifully watching Naomi Waters' house, a favour to his good friend, Frank Llewellyn. Elizabeth Avenue was dark, lit dimly by sparsely placed streetlights, and a few lights from rooms in houses set back off the road. There was lots of grass and trees; it was a nice street named for the Queen of England. Not as grand as it used to be though, according to his dad when he was alive.
Now and then one more light would blink out in one of the houses, as whoever lived there packed it in for the night. Earlier the sky was bright with stars, but it had clouded over, the stars winking out like the lights in the houses along the street. A dreary night, quiet, quieter than Eldon liked. It was the best part of his job as a bouncer: noise, music, people. Like a big family. Occasionally, one of the family went awry, and Eldon took care of it. He rarely had to get rough to make himself understood.
Surveillance was not something Eldon particularly enjoyed, but he had promised Frank, and it wouldn't have occurred to him to say no. In fact, he was grateful to a chance to do whatever he could to repay Frank for all he had done for him. But for Frank, I'd be rotting in jail right now, he told himself, so never mind if his eyes were burning for hunting out shadows darker than the night, and that his back hurt from sitting, (no one knew about his chronic back problems, bad for his image) he was glad to do it. But he hadn't seen anyone hanging around, just the lady herself pulling into the drive a while ago. If he needed to be more accurate, under an hour, give or take.
As Eldon readjusted his position behind the wheel to ease the ache and stiffness in his lower back, he started at a knock on the window. Jerking his head around, he blinked into a bright beam of light. Then the light moved and he saw the cop behind it, looking in at him. He took the glare off his face and trained it over the interior of the car, right hand close to his revolver, but not on it. Eldon pressed the window button and the window slid open. The hand was on the gun now.
"Yes, officer?"
The cop was young, almost baby-faced, but he had wary eyes. Eldon sensed he'd be real quick with that gun. A hot dog. Or maybe he was just nervous. Eldon sometimes forgot how intimidating his size and hit-man look could be.
"Can I see your license and registration, please?"
Eldon produced them. "Any problem, sir?" he asked in his most obliging tone of voice.
The cop wasn't charmed. "We got a call from a neighbour that you've been parked down here for the last couple of hours. Someone suspicious, they said. Big guy! Scary. You scary, big fella?" He aimed the light down on the registration.
"No, sir." Eldon swallowed. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his side.
"So what you are doing here? You waitin' for someone?
"No, sir. Just keeping an eye on a house for a friend. His niece lives there and he's worried about her. Says someone's stalking her."
"That wouldn't be you, huh."
"Me? Oh, no sir. Just helpin' out a friend." He wanted to give Frank's name, but Frank told him this had to be kept quiet, so he couldn't tell the cop who his friend was.
"You a private dick?"
"No. Just like I said, a friend." The brass buttons on the dark uniform gleamed in at him like bared teeth.
"You just sit tight…." he shone the beam of the flashlight on the registration again, "… Eldon. I'll be right back."
Eldon knew he was going to check out the car, see if it was stolen. Just being questioned by a cop was enough to make his mouth dry, make him sweat, even though he hadn't done anything illegal, or even thought of it. The cop returned a minute later, handed him back his registration and license. The tension had gone out of him, but his expression didn't change. "You're scarier than you let on, Eldon. I hear you killed a guy in a bar brawl some years back."
"Self-defense, sir. I got off."
"Yeah. So I heard. Well, you move along now. Can't park here, makes people nervous."
Eldon didn't argue.
* * *
Any other time, Eric Grant would have been at his computer, hooked up to the internet, and clicked on Lisa's email right away. But tonight, his regular workday over, he was working on his novel-in-progress, sitting up in the bed, fully dressed, typing on his notepad, which was not much bigger than a good sized book, and which he used solely for his novel. In the background, B.B. King played killing blues on his Gibson Guitar, Lucille. Sharing his talent. Living out his dream.
Writing novels
had been Eric's dream since he was a kid. But bills had to be paid, and novels didn't necessarily get published, and if they did, didn't earn enough to pay the rent. He liked being a reporter, and he thought he was pretty good at it, but it wasn't his passion.
His articles on the Middle East were brought out in book form, and had garnered some attention, made it possible to get the memoir published. Now that that was out of his system, he was back to reporter-at-large, Joe Harron, his alter-ego. He had a track record now. That should mean something. At least get the novel a serious read.
He knew the business of reporting like John Grisham knew law. And Tess Gerritsen knew medicine. There was no doubt in his mind it was his ability to escape into imaginary worlds, his own and those of others, whose books he devoured, that helped him survive those years in Greyland's.
Later, he would curse himself for missing Lisa Boyce's email, but the laptop was in his den, turned off.
He would wonder later why he hadn't sensed that Naomi's life was in immediate ddanger, considering how often he thought of her in the run of a day. Unless you wanted to count the fact that his mind couldn't focus on Joe's exploits tonight. Reporter Joe Harron wasn't talking to him. He clicked on save and exited the program, closed the cover. He'd take a walk and come back to it.
Chapter Forty-Four
Naomi's cheek was pressed against the fringed edge of rug behind the sofa, so that she could feel its every knot and weave digging into her flesh. Even through the olive-green fabric and construction material of the sofa, she could feel the full force of those cold, merciless eyes on her.
Eyes Mary Rose had looked into at much closer range, his face being the last one on earth that she saw. The thought sent a surge of fury through her, refocusing her mind to the task at hand. He had not seen her. Thank God. She remained still and hidden. What was he doing?
Please, Lord, be with me. Just a few more minutes?
The sofa stood on six inches of Queen Anne curved legs, enough space to allow her to see his feet, and know when they moved. She'd always liked these sofa-legs because she could get underneath with the vacuum cleaner. There were clearly better reasons she would not have thought of before tonight. He can't see you through the sofa, she told herself. But she still waited to be proven wrong. Her panic was crediting him with supernatural powers he didn't have. Yet he seemed invincible, something you couldn't stop, a supernatural entity.
A soft voice spoke inside her mind. He's not, 'Ntus. He's not.
The voice calmed her. Her own voice continued to read from behind the studio door.
From the vantage point behind the sofa, she could see a good wedge of the lower part of the living room: oak-stained baseboard, soft-green leaf-patterned wallpaper, the legs of the telephone table, all cast in faint lamp light. She could see his feet, see that he was wearing dark gym shoes. They were pointing away from her, toward the studio.
In some small compartment of her brain, a silly, baseless thought had lodged that because she was his biological child, he wouldn't, in the final moment, be able to bring himself to hurt her. Or maybe it had just been a subconscious hope she wasn't even aware of. Whatever, she was wrong. Dead wrong. One end of the cord he held was briefly revealed to her, then drawn up into his hands. She could feel his anticipation of the moment when he would tighten the cord around her neck until he choked the life from her. She envisioned her dead self, eyes bulging, tongue protruding as she lay dead on the floor of her tiny recording studio.
Not if I can help it.
She heard the knob on the studio door turn, the door open. Though she knew he had entered the computer room, his stealth was such that she did not hear his footfall.
Her terror was replaced by steely resolve. She grew quiet within herself.
Not yet. Not yet. Wait. Alert as a greyhound awaiting the gunshot, every nerve and muscle in her body taut as a guy-wire. As soon as that inner door opens and he sees I'm not in there, that it's a recording he's listening to….
She crept out from behind the sofa, staying well down, trying not to breathe, ready to spring forward. She could see him now, see the black-gloved hand turning the knob on the inner door, saw the door open a mere crack. NOW!
The symbolic gunshot fired, and before the door could open further and expose her ruse, Naomi dove for the office door, shut it and slammed the bolt home, locking him in, striking her elbow on the door frame in the process, but barely feeling the pain.
With the soundproof door open, her voice, reading from one of the books she'd narrated, had lost its muffled quality and now its clarity competed with her harsh breathing, the blood thundering in her ears as she stood in almost disbelief that her plan had actually worked.
But for her voice, there was no other sound coming from inside the studio. She picked up the remote and pressed the off button. She stopped telling her story. Like placing a period at the end of a sentence.
The silence complete, Naomi got slowly to her feet. He knows I've tricked him and he's trying to figure out how that happened. What to do. She could hear him breathing in there, or maybe it was herself she was hearing. Why was she standing here? Galvanized to action, she rushed to the phone and dialed 911.
In the same instant she heard a loud thud against the door that made her jump inside her skin. In a fury, he had thrown himself bodily at the door. She said a silent prayer of thanks when the old oak door held solid and tried not to let her knees give way.
She was on the phone with the 911 operator when she was interrupted by an explosion of glass. She stopped in mid-sentence and turned in the direction of the explosion. Realizing what had happened, her stomach sank. Oh, hell.
The nasal-sounding woman on the phone assured her that a car was on the way. Sounding puzzled, she said, "You say you've got him locked in a room?"
"Not anymore," she replied. "I'm pretty sure he just jumped out the window." If someone had told her anyone could have gone through those heavy wood shutters, she would not have believed them.
Naomi hurried to the living room window, stretching the telephone cord to its full length and moved the curtain aside; for a brief instant she saw him in silhouette, crouching like an animal, dark against a lighter sky, a thing that had, in her imagination, the ability to change into either man or beast.
And then he disappeared from view.
* * *
The distance from the window to the ground was a good ten feet, and Marcus Leeland landed with a hard jolt to his entire body. Pain exploded in his ankle like a flash fire. He hesitated a moment, then scurried crab-like around the side of the building and on behind the house, back the way he had come. His ankle throbbed, and he was bleeding from numerous cuts on his hands and face. Shards of glass and splinters had embedded themselves in his flesh. The one just under his left eye stung like hell, but there was no time now to stop and pull it out. Scrambling through the overgrown field, stumbling over bush and rocks and other debris, he made for his van which was parked in a well of dark shadow at the end of the street.
He cursed her as he ran, his breath laboured and raspy. The field seemed to stretch a mile before him. The dark coat he wore slowed him down more, like he was dragging it through deep water. But he knew there was stuff in his pockets, receipts, maybe with his name, so he couldn't slough the coat off like so much snake skin, he thought, totally missing the irony of his own simile.
He covered only half the field, and sounded like a horse with heaves. His lungs were on fire. He could hear the distant wail of police sirens, and picked up speed, mindless of the stitch in his side. This goddamn running was not like weight-training. He was in no shape for running. She'll pay for this, he told himself as the sirens grew louder. She'll just be so damn sorry she thought she could outsmart Mac Leeland.
But she did outsmart me, dammit. She did. And knowing this enraged him all the more. The sirens were silent now. The cops were at her house. She would give them his name. But it was only her word against his. Mistaken identity. He continued to run
, gasping, panting, groaning with the stabbing pain in his ankle, as his thoughts chased themselves like rats on a treadmill. With everything that was hurting, it was the sliver of glass under his eye that made his stop long enough to draw it out. Blood flowed down his cheek; he wiped at it with the back of his hand. His heart pounded with exertion.
At the sight of a black and white slowly cruising by, his anger turned to icy fear and he shrank against the side of a building. They drove on past, their lights missing him. His heart pulsed in his throat.
They would be circling the block, cruising every street he might have taken in his getaway.
Suddenly hearing footsteps running across the field toward him, he took off. He thought about the whore he had killed. He'd made sure he didn't leave any DNA behind, he wasn't a fool.
No. She wasn't his problem. The half-breed was his fucking problem.
Chapter Forty-Five
The siren was cut off mid-wail amidst the squeal of brakes. Within minutes two more cruisers pulled up behind the first one, all parked at odd angles out on the street, policeman pouring out with guns drawn like cops in a TV crime show. Naomi ran down to meet them, fully aware now of the throbbing of her elbow where she'd knocked it against the door frame.
"He jumped out the studio window." She gestured to the smashed window, the shutters that hung broken and splintered against the house. A tall, mustached policeman aimed his flashlight where she was pointing. "I saw him go around the back," she said, "I'm almost sure he took off across the back field."
Second later, flashlights in hand, half a dozen cops took off in pursuit. "We'll get him, Ma'am," the mustached policeman said. "You go on back inside now and lock your doors. Detective Henderson will stay with you." With that, he took off in a run after the others.
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 20