Nowhere to Hide
Page 23
Bright orange flames were licking around the door casing at the bottom of the stairs. He could feel their heat. He stood helplessly, fighting panic. "Ellen!" he bellowed. He coughed and gasped for breath as the smoke seared his lungs. "If you’re here, please answer me. Ellen!"
He clamped the mask back over his face as the flames raced up the stairs toward him.
~ * ~
Outside, a murmur of awe and fear rose up from the crowd as a lower window popped, then another. Flames leaped out, the old wood crackling and snapping like the sound of paper being crumpled. The acrid smell of smoke was strong in the air.
Myra stared up at a third floor window. She’s behind the wall, Mike. Oh, please let him find her. Let them both get out safe.
Jeannie had told her about the wall, had said she was writing in her diary when she heard someone laugh. Later, she found the tiny hole and peered through...
~ * ~
"Ellen!" Mike called. The fire was traveling faster than he’d anticipated. The flames were getting closer. His hands tingled. The hair stirred on his head. I have to get out of here. I have to go now. Ellen’s not here. Myra was wrong.
Thump!
At first he thought he’d imagined the sound. He listened. It came again, louder this time.
THUMP!
~ * ~
Ellen had managed to maneuver herself into a position where she could hit her feet against the wall. Hearing Mike’s voice had given her back the will to fight, to survive. She kicked at the wall. Feeble kicks, the best she could do. The heat was rising up through the floorboards. She was lathered in perspiration. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were already on fire. She pressed her face into the blankets.
She could feel herself slipping. Sinking. No! Not now. Hang on. At last, she worked the gag free, spat it out. "Mi-ke—"
Ellen! My God she’s behind the wall. There had to be a way in there, but he’d never find it in this smoke, and with the fire so close.
Taking a backward step, he drove his foot against the wall. Nothing. Again. Harder. On the third try, his foot broke through. Wood splintered. Two more solid kicks, and he’d made a hole big enough to begin feverishly tearing with his bare hands at the chunks of plaster, the laths, oblivious to the punier fire of jagged wood and nails.
Though it seemed forever, it was mere seconds from the moment he had heard her scream until he was climbing through the opening and scooping her limp body up in his arms. Through a hell of blinding, choking smoke, he staggered with her to the window at the end of the hallway and placed her on the floor. No time to give her air or untie her. The flames were at his back.
He tried to raise the window. It wouldn’t give. We’re not going to make it. He thumped the heels of his hands against the frame. Tried again. The window shot up. Cold air rushed into his lungs.
The firemen were below, holding the net. People were screaming up at him, motioning him to jump.
Quickly, he gathered Ellen up again, and without letting himself think, he tossed her out the window.
When he saw her land safely, he climbed over the sill and jumped.
As he hit the net, a loud cheer went up in the crowd.
~ * ~
It had been too many years, and Myra had not recognized the tall man in the plaid jacket, his cap pulled low, standing at the edge of the crowd. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Now, he took them out and began to move slowly away.
Ellen and Mike lay side by side on the ground, the medics working over them. Ellen had regained consciousness. Seeing the plaid jacket, she pushed the mask from her face, pointed a trembling hand. "It’s him," she said in a weak, raspy voice. "It’s him."
He’d seen her look in his direction, saw her hand go out, but before anyone could react, he broke from the crowd. To the horror of those watching, he rushed inside the burning building, choosing a fiery death over captivity.
A stunned silence ensued as flames shot high, as an explosion of sparks gave the promised show of fireworks. Within minutes, the building was a towering furnace, collapsing in on itself with a shuddering groan.
Mike, black with soot, his hands blistered and raw, eyebrows singed, rode with Ellen to the hospital. She had slipped into unconsciousness after her tormentor had run into the building.
As the fire completed its destruction, the ambulance wailed through the streets of Evansdale, while behind them a great, eerie glow lit the morning sky.
~ * ~
For one brief moment, Alvin imagined he saw his Aunt Mattie’s face emerge from the wall of flames—elongated, melting, hollow-eyed. And then her gnarled, fire-drenched hands were reaching out for him.
"Welcome to hell, boy!" she hissed.
He screamed. And screamed.
~ * ~
Later that day, police searched the house and found the stash of souvenirs which would tie Alvin in with several unsolved murders. They found the files marked "inactive". They also found Aunt Mattie. An autopsy would later confirm she died of starvation.
Jeannie Perry’s remains were never found.
Fifty-six
It was the early afternoon of her third day in the hospital. Ellen was propped up in bed watching the news on the 12-inch television. She still hurt everywhere, her throat was raw, her face battered, including a hairline fracture to her cheekbone.
But the doctor assured her the bone would knit nicely on its own. The bruises would fade. Soon she would be as good as new. Maybe physically. But she knew it would be a long time before she slept in a room without a light on.
After listening to a little of the commentary about her ordeal, about Alvin Raynes, alias Bishop, she snapped the set off and wondered what sort of childhood could produce such an evil monster.
She’d believed him when he said nothing happened when his mother took him to her bed. His words had held a ring of truth. But she knew there were more subtle forms of seduction. Had he wanted his mother sexually? Had shame and confusion planted the seed of hatred that would soon include all women?
No. That explanation was too pat, too easy. She knew plenty of people who survived horrible childhoods—Myra, for instance, even herself and Gail—and managed to grow up into decent human beings.
All thoughts of Alvin Raynes slipped away at the sight of Mike standing in the doorway, holding a vase of pink roses, so many they nearly obscured his face. She knew he’d been here before, but she’d been pretty well out of it, and the memory had a dream-like quality.
"Hi," he said, looking at her with something close to reverence. "Do you know, you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen?"
Her heart was doing a fluttery little dance in her breast. "Then you must have been holed up somewhere for a very long time," she joked, in a voice still raspy, still not her own. "The roses are gorgeous. Thank you." She took in the blue sweater beneath the open overcoat, the gray slacks. The neat way they fit. He was even more handsome than she remembered. Had she thought of him as handsome? Yes. She just didn’t know it then.
"You’re welcome." He set the roses on her night table, drew up a chair to her bedside. "How are you feeling?"
He smelled nice, of shaving lotion and winter. "I’ve been better, but they tell me I’ll live."
"Oh, I brought you some cigarettes," he said, taking the pack from his pocket. "I think this is your brand."
"Are you kidding? Do you think I would ever again willingly inhale smoke?"
He grinned, dropped them back into his pocket. "Good girl. I’ll give them to one of the guys."
"Oh, Mike, look at your poor hands. You could have been killed. I’m so sorry. I was such a fool. I should have accepted your offer of a policewoman. I should have phoned you the second I got that photograph of Gail in the—"
"Shh." He touched his fingertips to her lips. "You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters."
"You saved my life."
"As much as I’d like to take credit, it really
belongs to Myra. She told me where to find you." He related the story to her.
Poor Myra. She’d been so traumatized by her father that her young mind couldn’t cope with any more, and so she blocked the murder out.
Until Ellen needed her to remember.
She thought then of the little dog leaping at Alvin’s throat to protect her, of the knife. "I wish Sam had been as lucky," she said sadly.
"Sam? I’d say Sam was very lucky."
She looked at him, afraid to hope. "What do you mean?"
"He’ll be okay. He lost a lot of blood, and it was pretty dicey there for a while, but the vet says he’ll make it. He’s a tough little guy. Another fighter. Oh, by the way, my daughter, Angela is anxious to meet you. She thinks you’re a major celebrity."
She smiled. "I can’t wait."
"Neither can I," he said, bringing his face down to meet hers, kissing her gently, sweetly. But she could feel his restrained passion, and was pretty sure they weren’t talking about the same thing.
~ * ~
Just outside Houston, Texas, in the back room of a truck stop called Jack and Lil’s, a too-blond, slightly frowsy, middle-aged woman sat puffing on a cigarette and dabbing at her eyes as she watched the news on the black and white television.
And wondered where she went wrong.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As well as penning Award-winning suspense novels including Chill Waters, Nowhere To Hide and Listen to the Shadows, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, “Dark Reunion” was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre.
Joan also tutors with Winghill Writing School and is a Voice Over pro, narrating books and scripts. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband Mel and dog, Scamp.
She is currently working on her latest suspense novel.
Also Published By Books We Love
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Listen to the Shadows
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