I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller

by Rachelle Lauro

  And before I heard another sound, I frantically half-hopped, half-dragged myself out of the room, down the stairs and into the dark interior of the house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I skittered down the narrow stairwell so fast I gave myself rug burns. I rushed down the hallway straight to my room, to the closest intercom box, dragging my leg behind me, relieved to find the lights off. Dark shadows had never been so welcoming.

  I could lock myself inside my room and somehow yank the box off the wall. I just needed to depress the little red panic button. I just needed to push it once, brush my finger against its grippy red surface and this nightmare would well and truly be over.

  My door was locked. It wouldn’t budge.

  There’s an intercom in Virginia's room. I looked. A singular light shone from her room, casting a dim rectangular wedge down the dark hallway. I impelled myself onwards, gritting my teeth against the pain and the cold dread of Dillon looming behind me, despite the sweat bursting out on my skin, despite the marauders of pain attacking in collective, brute force.

  I glanced behind me, expecting to find Dillon, bounding down the hall like a hound from hell. But I saw nothing. I got to Virginia's room and rushed inside.

  I shut the door quietly behind me and locked the door. It was a true sliding deadbolt that we'd had installed on all of the inside doors. Virginia liked it because it gave the paneled door a rich look and feel. I liked it because of the solid comforting sound of a slug of metal sliding into the thick wall.

  I turned and looked around the room, hoping to find Virginia. I found only a bedside lamp toppled over, casting disjointed around the room, her unmade bed, and her expensive chenille bedding strewn across the floor in a crumpled mess.

  The bathroom was empty. I moved to the sliding sash window and latched it shut. Then I pulled the curtains closed and rifled through the bedside tables, trying to find some implement so I could pry the box off of the wall and trigger the panic button.

  The drawers were filled with junk: old photos, scrap paper, toenail clippers, and the cast off crescents of old nails. There were pens, used batteries, dirty loose pills, and a broken remote control for the air conditioning unit.

  But there at the bottom of the drawer, gleaming under a dirty pile of rubble, I spotted the back of my bejeweled cell phone case, its small blue crystals winking at me. I grabbed it and flipped it over. There lay my cell phone, screen blackened in idle repose.

  My eyes misted over with a deep resounding amazement. I held it as gently as a museum curator handling an ancient parchment. All I had to do was wake this little device from its long slumber and reach out to the real world.

  Frantically, I pushed all the buttons: the home button, the reset button, the volume button, praying for a response, feeling like a necromancer trying to raise the dead. I pressed all the buttons simultaneously and waited for what felt like seven long years before the screen shifted from dead black to dark grey—a sign of life!

  I waited some more, heart thundering so loud I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears. And then it winked alive—life!—before the screen settled back into the black abyss, leaving behind its lasting legacy: a digital image of a battery, hopelessly drained.

  I put the phone in my pocket and rifled around quickly for its charging cable, but found none. I limped to the bathroom and looked through the drawers, the cabinets, and even Virginia's closet, searching for either the charging cable or a tool so I could rip off the box.

  Nothing.

  Then something occurred to me. The sink stopper had a long metal rod, fixed with a screw. I ducked down and reached under the sink and groped around for the rod.

  Once found, I followed the length down until I found the screw—done up finger tight. After a few wiggles, it came loose. I stood and pulled the rod out.

  I limped over to the metal box, breathless with hope. In an ideal world, my little rod would have a flattened end that I could easily slip under the edge of the box and pry it off. But as I noticed long ago, I was not living in an ideal world. And this rod had a useless round, blunted end.

  I started digging into the wall anyway, burrowing the rod into the drywall and forcing a tunnel underneath the rim. I pressed the end of the rod deeper and deeper into the wall, twisting, watching the drywall give way.

  Then the rod slipped and gouged me in the palm. I hissed in pain, gathered up my shirt sleeve and stuffed it between my palm and the rod. "Almost there," I muttered to myself. "Keep going."

  Then I made a breakthrough, and the rod suddenly gave way. I wiggled it, trying to burrow out a finger sized hole.

  "Hold on, Ben," I muttered, working the hole a little larger. But it still needed more excavation. I hacked away at the top edge, bringing the rod down again and again in roughly the same spot.

  Chunks of drywall broke loose and rained down on my feet. Glorious chunks fell away from the metal box. I wiggled my finger into the hole and started yanking, but the box wouldn't budge. I could feel the hard plastic intercom box just inside. I knew the red panic button was located on the bottom right of the panel. If I could snake my finger inside the box, I could poke around until I reached the panic button, and then—

  A gun shot rang out from somewhere downstairs. The sharp report startled me into fresh rushes of panic. I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, someone running down the hallway—Dillon?—pummeling into the bedroom door and rattling it so hard it nearly jumped off the hinges.

  "Open up!" Virginia shrieked. "Oh God, please—open up!"

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Quickly I opened the door, and Virginia tumbled inside, scrambling away from the frightening figure advancing down the hallway. Dillon moved with the quick tread of a prey animal. In his right hand, he gripped the raised pistol. Then he broke into a run.

  I slammed the door shut right when he made impact. "Help me lock the door!" I screamed.

  Virginia pressed her body against the door.

  "Hold it shut!" I cried.

  I grabbed the deadbolt lever, twisting it until my knuckles turned white. The door jumped and bucked, but settled for one narrow second that allowed me to shoot the lock into position.

  Dillon banged on the door. "Virginia!" he roared. "Virginia you open up this door right now!"

  I collapsed next to my sister, panting, my left leg screaming so loudly with pain I could hardly hear.

  "Virginia you little bitch! If I have to break down this door, you and Piss Drinker aren't going to live long enough to enjoy my company!" He fired a few times. Virginia and I dove to the right until we heard the merciful click-click of his empty magazine. Tiny holes peppered the solid wood door. One bullet had hit the doorknob, but the door held tight. "Do you hear me?"

  Virginia dropped her pale face to her hands and cried. Her thin body shook. I could see her rib cage through her thin t-shirt.

  She lifted her blue pleading eyes to mine. "Maybe we should open the door," she whispered. "He'll break it down anyway. It's only a matter of time. It’s better if we don’t piss him off."

  Deafening blows rained down on the door. I looked at the door and could see the hinges lurching incrementally on the door frame. She was right. It would only be a matter of minutes before he broke down the door and came thundering through the threshold, so enraged he’d probably snap our necks with his bare hands.

  "I think he’s already pissed off," I said.

  "I’m sorry," she mumbled. "I’m so sorry for everything."

  "We don’t have time to be sorry. We only have time to save ourselves. That’s it." I placed my hand on her thin back, the ridge of her spine rising up like a chain of mountain peaks. "Ben is here. He’s outside somewhere. Dillon tried to shoot him, but I think he survived."

  She looked up at me, astonished. "Ben? As in Boyfriend Ben?"

  I nodded. "I told him everything. He tried to call the police, but . . ." I couldn’t quite impart the bad news.

  "We can go out of the window," Virginia said. "
And try the wall again. With Ben—"

  I shook my head. "Dillon messed up my ankle pretty bad. It healed up . . . sort of, but then I hurt it again. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it over the wall."

  She looked away, her eyes searching for answers. Suddenly Dillon went quiet. We were both looking at the door, eyes filled with dread, when Virginia said, "He's going around. He's going to break through the window."

  "Help me get this box off of the wall!" I cried, getting up on my feet and hopping over to the box.

  She followed, digging her fingers into the top divot, while I pulled on the lower right finger hold. All to no avail. She picked up the thin metal rod and started hacking away at the wall. Still, it wouldn't budge.

  She paused, winded, her hands bleeding. "Can you get your fingers in there?"

  I tried to burrow my finger under the rim, but couldn't get a good grip. She paused and looked around the room, searching for a better tool. "It's no use," I said. "I've looked everywhere for a screwdriver."

  She dashed over to a small decorative table she’d bought at an antique sale and grabbed its matching chair. "We don't need a screwdriver,"—she raised the chair over her head and aimed a metal leg at the top of the box—"we just need a hammer."

  And she brought the leg of the chair down with terrific finality. There was a satisfying clunk of metal meeting metal. We both leaned in to examine her handiwork and spotted a sizable dent in the top of the box. More importantly, it hung on the wall slightly askew.

  "Do it again! It's working!" I cried.

  With shaking arms, she lifted the chair over her head and brought it down again and again, whipping her back on each downward stroke, trying to get the most out of each swing.

  There were various sounds of clink-clunk-clonk, depending on how good of a connection she'd made. I watched the metal box on each downward swing, jolting incrementally, slowing jouncing the screws loose.

  “You’re almost there, Jinny!"

  She paused, breathing hard, and smiled, eyes misting over tears of hope. "It's working . . ."

  "Yes! Keep going! Keep—"

  The window shattered. A great gust of cold wind blew in, cutting us to the bone. Dillon cleared the glass shards with one efficient swipe of his arm and threw his leg over the sill. He stooped and leaned inside, grinning, as cold flurries of snow blew in around him., grinning, as cold flurries of snow blew in around him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  We had a few narrow seconds to escape, before Dillon squeezed his bulk through the window frame.

  I frantically limped over, unlocked the door, and hobbled down the hallway, totally impervious to the hot, searing pain blasting up my leg. Virginia, right behind me, slung her arm around my waist and propelled me faster.

  We clattered down the stairwell. I stifled a cry of pain at the bottom, and paused next to my office door, panting, suddenly remembering the safe room. It wasn't Kevlar reinforced. The President, for example, wouldn't be safe there, but the door was solid metal. And it featured three deadbolts that were virtually impenetrable to any crazed psychotic wielding a gun. What foresight.

  I paused, wiping fat beads of sweat from my brow, and nodded toward my office. Virginia knew instantly. She steered us inside.

  "Hey you little Piss Drinker!" Dillon called, supremely comfortable in his odds of finding us. As he made his way down the hallway, I could hear the heavy thuds of his gun whacking against the walls.

  Through the dark contours, I could see that Dillon had rearranged my furniture. My beloved mahogany desk lay on its side like a carcass, leg sticking out in rigor mortis. Everything else had been pushed against the walls.

  Dillon appeared in the threshold, grinning, clearly enjoying himself. Then he darted toward us.

  Virginia dashed to the safe room door. I followed in a shambolic run. I could feel Dillon’s feet landing on the carpet behind me. Virginia, much faster than me, made it and held the door open, desperately signaling me to hurry—hurry!—before the ship drifted too far away, before it was too late.

  Just as I reached the promised land, my leg gave out. I stumbled to the ground, groping for Virginia's outstretched arms. I lurched forward, despite Dillon’s hand around my ankle, and grasped her forearms.

  With one superhuman heave, she pulled me inside the safe room as Dillon scrabbled around for a better handhold. Then he gave a hard tug, wrenching half of my body out of the safe room. I begged Virginia, in her reduced state, to pull—pull harder!

  But despite my struggling, despite Virginia's desperate tugs, I was losing ground. I could feel the carpet burns on my hip bones as Dillon yanked me further and further away from my sister’s grasp. My ankle screamed with pain. I screamed with fear.

  I vaulted one last grip onto the threshold, hooking my hand around the metal frame. Virginia's pinioned her feet on both sides of the door frame, her hands encircling mine.

  I glanced up at Virginia, whose face had gone as white as a winter snowstorm. Her cracked lips were pulled back in a grimace. Her frail arms shook. Her weakening stamina was giving way to the more powerful and unrelenting force of Dillon. Panic bloomed in my heart. It was a losing fight.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind, cold and incongruent, blew across the room. Caught as we were in a desperate battle for life, I couldn't afford to pause and look for the source. I renewed my grip on the threshold and wriggled one leg free. I aimed for the twisted red scar on his cheek, hoping to crack the would open again and give myself one clean second to scramble inside.

  Focused on the red crescent, I hardly noticed a dark shape take form behind Dillon’s head, a dark shape that wore a puffy winter jacket. But I did notice, however, when the figure swung a log and hit Dillon squarely across his temple.

  Ben stepped into a wisp of light, his face contorted with rage, one hand wrapped around his abdomen. Virginia made one last heroic yank, sweeping me cleanly inside of the room. I turned, and in the narrow gap of the closing door, I saw Dillon reach for the gun.

  "Ben!" I cried. "Watch out!"

  And the door slammed shut.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  "Open the door!" I cried, scrabbling behind Virginia to undo the row of locks she was quickly and methodically sliding into the final locked position.

  "What are you doing!" she cried, pulling my hands away from the door. "Dillon is out there!"

  "So is Ben!"

  Virginia stopped and pressed her back against the door, eyes wide. "He'll kill us if we go out there. He will. He,"—her voice shook, her eyes filled with tears—"he’s a fucking maniac."

  I looked at her. "You don’t say."

  "I was trying to tell you before," she continued. "He killed Abbie Robertson."

  And suddenly, the floor seemed to fall out from under me. "Abbie—the writer?" I asked. "But—but didn’t she die of a drug overdose?"

  "Dillon made it look that way."

  "How do you know?" I asked, not really sure I wanted to know the details.

  Virginia looked away. "He didn’t tell me, he just—he muttered something in his sleep. I made the connection."

  A sudden chill swept over my body. This is bad. Real bad. This guy had a tried and true method of offing people. He’d been busy laying the groundwork for Virginia, and myself with the pills. Then there was the lion, ready and willing to eat all the damning evidence. He had spun his narrative; he’d put all the pieces into place. Virginia, Ben, and I sauntered right into his closing act.

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to retch. I wanted to somehow save us all, but the sheer impossibility of that happy ending dawned on me. We wouldn’t make it out of here alive. But we could sure try.

  "I need to get out. I need to help Ben." I moved towards the door, but hissed when a bright flame of pain raced up my leg. I lifted my pant leg and looked at my swelling ankle.

  "Are you okay?" Virginia asked.

  "No, I'm not." I reached down and touched my tight skin. "Payback for trying to hack off Dillon’s face."
/>   Then it was Virginia's turn to fall silent. The air was redolent with her unspoken apologies, burning regrets, and deep sorrows. If she could, she'd willingly sign up for crucifixion if it would improve matters any. But it wouldn't.

  Nothing would improve matters now, except for a miraculous, but unlikely show of police force. Police, who were currently sniffing around the warehouse district downtown, searching for a hostage situation that they would never find.

  "You’re going to get yourself killed if you go out there," Virginia said. "You can hardly walk."

  I slid down the door and sat down, praying Ben had somehow escaped. When we had the intercoms installed, it set me at ease knowing that my little red friend waited patiently within reach. But I'd never taken into consideration that a simple metal box could render the entire system pointless.

  I pressed my palms into my eye sockets. I couldn't bring myself to look at wires poking out the wall, waiting for an emergency intercom panel. The safe room had been wired up when we did the rest of the house, but due to contractor delays, we agreed to have the panel installed at a later date.

  Procrastination dug in its long talons, and soon the outstanding panel dropped down into the murky minutiae of my loathed To Do list. I'd thought of that particular item many times, always riding somewhere in the back of my mind, but I'd fall into another scene and put off for tomorrow.

  Little orphan Annie with her bright red afro and freckled cheeks had always sang cheerily in my mind when I’d looked over my list. I hummed the tune now.

  Then I groaned and put my hands down. Little orphan Annie stopped singing, because tomorrow had turned into today, and she didn't have any catchy tunes about dying at the hands of a raging psycho.