by Mollie Hunt
My heart gave a jolt and I jerked into action. With two long strides, I was in the living room; another three and I’d made it to the bedroom, the dead end of the small house. I flung the door shut, cursed when I found it didn’t have a latch, then braced my weight against it, the flat, greasy plywood hard at my back. I looked around for something to barricade the door. Aside from the flimsy futon, I was out of luck.
Footsteps crossed the living room, disturbingly unhurried, then silence. I gauged she must be right outside, but the quiet continued so long I began to wonder.
Without warning, Tulsa hit full force. The door slammed into me as she lunged again and again. Each impact wrenched against my shoulders, pounding like fists into my back and impacting my sprained wrist until I was dizzy with pain. She was younger and stronger, her lesser weight turning out to be pure muscle. I felt like a child playing with the big kids. No way was I going to win this battle.
I calculated her next assault and flung myself to the side just as she struck. Tulsa came crashing through like a human battering ram. Skidding across the bare floor, she lost her balance. I made to bolt, but I had underestimated her resilience. Swiveling like a cheetah on a deer, she grabbed me and we both went down.
I struggled but she pulled me back. I slapped her full in the face but that just made her madder. Her grip tightened on my forearm and she wrenched so hard I thought she’d dislocated my shoulder. I screamed; she snarled. I glared into her ash-gray eyes and snarled back.
I clenched to hit her again but this time she twisted away and I punched floor sending a new shockwave of agony searing through me. Before I could pull it together, she seized me by the throat and held on like a hawk, talon nails digging into the soft flesh of my neck. I managed to pry her hand away but not before I’d begun to feel lightheaded. In that moment, she flipped me onto my back and it was all over.
I was supine and she was on top of me, my arms pinned under her knobby knees. I screamed as she manhandled my sprain. For a moment she paused, studying me like moth in a specimen jar. The thick, industrial-sized zip ties were still in her left hand. She dropped them beside her, saving one out which she put between her teeth like a new-age pirate. Gathering my wrists as easily as a bouquet of daisies, she wrapped the tie around them, squeezed the pointed end through the slot, and pulled it tight. I screamed again.
Shifting her weight, she spun on her knee and I was suddenly looking at her back. She grabbed another tie from the pile and I felt it slip like a skinny plastic python around my ankles. She’d trussed me faster than a cowboy at a rodeo, and I felt every bit the cow.
The weight let up, leaving me free to flop around like a beached fish. Tulsa sprung to her feet and stood over me. I noticed with odd satisfaction that she had a run in her tights.
“Lynley, you disappoint me,” she tsked. “I thought you, of all people, would be more of a challenge.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, still testing my bonds to no avail.
She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a sitting position. “I’m sorry too,” she lamented, crouching to my level. “Since you will be my last.”
“I don’t suppose I can talk you out of it.”
She straightened, then smiled sweetly, her red-gold curls haloing her pretty face, suggestive of a demonic angel. “Not a chance.”
She gave me a little pat on the head, making me feel even more helpless than I already was, and left the room. Her footfalls retreated and I assumed she was back in the kitchen, pulling murder weapons out of her evil bag of tricks.
I tried to think. I had surprisingly little mobility for just the two bonds. Cautiously I attempted to stand up and made it to my feet, only to rock like a pillar in an earthquake and fall face first on the bed. Righting myself, I tried again, this time paying more attention to my balance. It worked. I was standing!
The euphoria of my accomplishment didn’t last, because now what? I endeavored a tentative hop and gasped as the hard plastic zip ties cut into my flesh. In spite of the pain, or maybe because of it, I took another hop and a tiny shuffle. I was going to get to that door if it killed me! I was dead anyway if I didn’t.
Suddenly the room swayed and I found myself on the ground once more. This time I missed the bed and hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. There would be bruises. My resolve wavered but only for a moment.
Okay, maybe standing wasn’t the way to go. Maybe there was a better way for a one-legged, one-armed creature to ambulate. Instinctively I turned onto my back. That was it! Scooching along on my spine, pushing with my legs, I made it to my goal in no time. I reached for the knob but it was too high. Squirming to my knees, I reached again.
The footsteps were returning, clip-clopping back my way. As my hands brushed the door knob, I felt it turn from the other side. I was too late. Every muscle in my body tensed. My mind went blank, and I found myself cowering like a frightened puppy.
Sure enough, she held a syringe in her right hand, point still neatly covered. She wore surgical gloves but I didn’t think it was for my protection; more likely to shield her from any blood-borne pathogens I might inadvertently fling her way while she was injecting me. Or maybe she didn’t want to leave fingerprints. Did it really matter?
“Wait!” I sputtered.
Much to my surprise, she waited.
“Well, what is it?” she pressed when I didn’t answer right away. “Don’t tell me you’re going to plead for your life?”
“Uh, no, of course not,” I mumbled, having been about to do just that. “But please, could I write a note to my family? I’ll even make it look like a suicide note so you’ll be off the hook.” Unsure where that came from, I decided to run with it. “Yeah, a suicide note. Everyone knows I’ve been depressed lately. But I could at least tell them I loved them one more time.”
She deliberated, then gave a nod. “It can’t hurt, I suppose. The police know the other overdoses weren’t self-inflicted—drat their forensics anyway!—but a suicide note might make them think again.”
She left the room, returning momentarily with a yellow lined note pad and a pen. Placing them carefully on the wide windowsill along with the syringe of my death, she pulled me upright. She paused for a moment, then slipped strong hands under my armpits and plopped me onto the wooden chair. She retrieved the pen and paper which she dropped in my lap and the syringe which she uncapped and held menacingly close.
“Don’t think I’m going to untie your hands,” she grimaced.
“But I can’t write like this.”
She shrugged. “Then don’t. I’m not in love with the idea anyway. I doubt the police will believe it wasn’t coerced. And besides, it’s time for my getaway.”
Clumsily I took up the pen, clicked the nib out, and began to write.
Dear Loved Ones... Tears sprang to my eyes and fell on the paper, making big dark blotches. How could I say goodbye?
Out of the blue, there was a knock on the front door. Tulsa froze, her feathery brows knit.
“Help!” I screeched at the top of my lungs, pen and pad skittering to the floor. “Help me! Get the police! Call 911!”
Tulsa was on me like an attack cat. She had the syringe front and center, and I felt the point of the needle prick my neck. “Shut up if you want to live a second longer,” she hissed hot breath in my ear.
Though I knew in my rational mind it was pointless, that she would kill me sooner or later no matter what I did, I went rigid. My screams froze in my throat. My awareness constricted to one thing only, the needle throbbing against my carotid artery.
Silently we waited in our awkward embrace. The knocking came again, more insistent this time. A glimmer of hope rose in me; maybe whoever it was had heard my cries. Maybe today wasn’t such a good day to die after all.
“Open up, Lynley. I know you’re in there,” came a familiar voice accompanied by urgent banging and rattling of the doorknob. “Lynley!” she called again, and I placed it. Kelley Moro. It made sense; if anyone could seek o
ut Tulsa’s lair, it would be the inquisitive newshound. I didn’t dare to reply but knew this could be the break I’d been praying for.
“Crap,” cursed Tulsa. “Who is that?”
“It’s Kelley, a friend. She knows we’re here. If you don’t let me answer, she’ll go and get help.”
“No, she won’t,” Tulsa said as she deftly recapped the syringe and returned it to the sill. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her dress with a primness I thought uncalled-for and headed toward the door.
As she left the bedroom, she turned back to me. “You keep your mouth shut.”
I nodded with absolutely no intention of doing anything she said.
Tulsa moved out of my line of sight and I heard the front door creek open. When she next spoke, I couldn’t believe it was the same woman who had just threatened my life.
“Help!” she cried. “Help me! She’s been hurt! Quick! Before that man comes back!”
“Who? Who’s hurt?” Kelley exclaimed. “Is Lynley Cannon here? I thought I heard someone shouting.”
“Oh, yes!” Tulsa sobbed, and I had to admit, she sounded utterly distraught. “Thank goodness you came. I didn’t know what to do. Quickly! She’s in here.”
The door slammed closed and two sets of footfalls approached, Tulsa’s Danskos accompanied by the click of clogs. Tulsa was pulling that same old freaked out routine; it had worked on me and it looked like it was working on Kelley.
“Kelley, no!” I yelled, but instead of warning her off, it only made her quicken her steps. She rushed into the room and to my side.
“Lynley!” she cried, still not registering that if Tulsa had wanted to help me, she could easily have unbound me herself. “Oh, girl, what have they done to you?”
“Tulsaisthekiller!” I hissed.
“What?”
“Tulsa Thorpe—the woman who let you in—she’s the killer!” I repeated. “She’s going to kill me too.”
Kelley wasn’t tracking and I knew we didn’t have much time. Clip-clop, Tulsa’s steps were coming closer. “Untie me, quick!” I began, then my eyes moved beyond the newswoman. Kelley caught the shift and began to turn.
“Look out!” I cried, but it was too late. Tulsa had something in her hand. As she brought it smashing down on the younger woman’s head, I recognized the Hello Kitty thermos bottle.
* * *
The thermos had done the job. Kelley was out cold on the floor, blood running crimson against the blonde of her hair. I knew she wasn’t dead; her breath came in gasps and moans. Tulsa was gone. The place was quiet as a crypt.
I had no idea how much time had passed since Tulsa brought me there. The light from the one tall window was changing, dimming into gloom, but whether from the lateness of the hour or the onset of a rainstorm, I had no way of knowing. The only thing I could see was a broken-down fence covered with a crop of dying morning glory, its yellowing leaves wet with last night’s downpour.
“Kelley,” I whispered, prodding the woman with my toe for the umpteenth time.
Kelley moaned and squirmed, then tried to sit up. Tulsa had given her a zip tie job the twin to mine, and the first attempt landed her sprawling on the futon bed.
“Shoot!” she aptly exclaimed.
“Shhh!” I hissed back. “Be quiet.”
I’ll give Kelley points for smarts. She instantly recognized the danger, making up for the previous lapse that had landed her where she was now. I could see her senses heighten, her muscles brace, her eyes widen as she surveyed her surroundings without turning her head. Then slowly, she pulled herself upright. She tested her bonds, listened to the silence, studied each corner of the room with her gaze finally coming to rest on me. She had done it all without a sound.
“Where is she?” she mouthed.
I shook my head. “Don’t know. I didn’t hear her leave but it’s been a while.”
“What do we do now?”
I smiled wanly. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t suppose anyone knows you’re here.”
“No. It was a whim. I saw you get into that odd gold car as I was cutting through the neighborhood coming back from New Seasons. I’m not sure why I decided to follow. The driver was so erratic, it just didn’t feel right. I knew something was wrong, but I never guessed you’d been kidnapped by our serial killer. Who is she anyway?”
“Tulsa Thorpe, Simon Bird’s assistant from the Cloverleaf Sanctuary.
“I’ve never heard of her. Was she a suspect?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her since I left the island. She seemed like such a nice young girl. A little shy, but sweet. And very helpful to Simon. So I thought,” I added, more confused than ever.
“Do you have any idea why she’s doing it?”
“Not a flipping clue.”
Chapter 33
A cat's field of vision does not cover the area right under its nose.
I felt more than heard her presence. Kelley and I both looked up at the same time as she loomed in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at us.
For a moment we gaped back like children caught doing something naughty, then Kelley cleared her throat, giving the girl the dirtiest of looks.
“So Tulsa Thorpe,” she began in what I thought was a very haughty tone considering she was addressing the person who held her life in her hands. “I don’t know who you are but this behavior is unacceptable. Undo us right now. Let us go, and we promise not to tell what you’ve done.”
What was Kelley thinking? The old Jedi mind trick? These aren’t the droids you’re looking for... But Star Wars is just a movie, and apparently Tulsa had seen it because she began to laugh.
“In your dreams, lady.”
Then she sobered. Crossing to the window, she lowered the dingy, translucent pull shade, plunging the room into shadowy dim. Retracing her steps, she flicked on the light. With a sharp sizzle, a fluorescent bulb zapped to life above us, casting its blue-green glow. I knew it was the nature of its spectrum, but the unhealthy color was more ominous than the gloom. Tulsa didn’t seem to care for it either. She eyed the offensive fixture and frowned.
“I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be to get home to my island,” she remarked. “But first things first I suppose.”
Reaching into her dress pocket, she pulled out a syringe. Glancing at the windowsill, I saw this was a second dose.
Kelley cringed. “Whoa! Wait!”
“Why should I?” Tulsa replied, but she held off.
“Um, because…” Kelley stuttered. “Because I’m a journalist and I want to know your story. If you murdered all those people, you must have something to say. Wouldn’t you like us to hear your side?”
Tulsa scrutinized the reporter, then looked at me. “Is that true?”
I nodded.
“And how are you going to write a story if you’re dead?”
“You could let me go. Please, Tulsa? I’ve been following the reports from the beginning. The murders on Clover Island, then the two here in town? It’s been three months and the cops don’t even have a suspect. This was obviously a detailed and well-thought-out plan, but I still don’t get the objective. Won’t you at least tell us why you did it?”
Tulsa deliberated. I could see she savored the flattery. Smiling, she looked at the syringe, twirled it in her gloved hand, then turned a glassy gaze on Kelley. “No.”
Dang! That Murder She Wrote stuff wasn’t working. Still I could have sworn I saw her waver. She wanted to tell. They all want to tell.
“Oh, Kelley. Detailed?” I said suddenly, my voice dripping with contempt. “Well-thought-out? Come on. Tulsa was just winging it. She had no plan. She’s just a psychopath who got a taste for killing.”
“Really?” Kelley replied, taking up the banter. “You think so? I could have sworn there was something to it. The purple notes? The associations with Simon Bird? That can’t be random.”
“Theatrics and dumb luck. Nothing more.” I turned to Tulsa whose grip had noticeably tightened on the syrin
ge. “Am I right? Wasn’t this whole thing a childish bid for attention by a spoiled little girl?”
“You know nothing!” she bristled. “I’m not a little girl, and believe me, I’ve never been spoiled in my life. That’s not how I was raised. I’ve had to fight like a tiger every inch of the way.”
Her face, so smooth with youth, paled into polished stone, and I knew I’d hit a nerve.
“Really? A fighter? That surprises me. You seemed so sweet and carefree when I met you on the island.”
“An act. All part of the plan.” She paused. “And there was a plan. A grand design. I knew what I was doing every step of the way.”
Kelley and I looked at each other and then back at her. We were trying to gauge how much more we could get away with, but Tulsa took it as a sign of doubt.
“Idiots.” She muttered under her breath. “How could you possibly understand?”
“Try me,” I dared.
A strange look stole into her gray eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was loathing, remorse, or maybe she just had to go to the bathroom. “What have you got to lose?” I added quickly, hoping her moment of admission hadn’t passed.
For a few heartbeats, she was quiet, then she leaned wearily against the wall. “Okay, Lynley. I’ll give you and your reporter friend your story. What would you like to know? Where I grew up? What high school I went to? Which comic book superhero do I think can defeat Superman?”
I wasn’t ready for that but knew I’d better move fast before she withdrew her offer. “Why did you kill all those people?”
Tulsa began twirling the syringe again. “You don’t mess around, do you, lady? Straight to the point with the why? Why oh why? How much do you want to hear, because it’s not a simple answer. I’m not a serial killer, if that’s what you think,” she added sharply. “I get no pleasure from the act of snuffing out life. But they had to go. Just as you have to go. It’s all part of the deal.”