Saving Grace (Madison Falls)

by Lesley Ann McDaniel

  Something bumped against her abdomen as a rough surface scraped her palms. The crate! She grabbed at its rough corners, rotating around and thanking God for her luck. Struggling to see through the dark haze, she loped forward. In spite of the diffused lamplight penetrating the smoke, she could barely see through her slit-open eyes. She reached out a hand and felt for the doorframe.

  The moment her fingers touched its edge, an orange flame blazed up from out of nowhere, igniting the edge of the crate. She shrieked, tossing the enkindled object away from her and stumbling backward.

  What had she done? She surged forward, intent on rescuing the painting, but flames illuminated its distinct shape as the wood flared up like a bonfire. Her hope for the future was going up in smoke.

  Distraught and disoriented, she allowed the blazing heat to drive her back into the stand. The flames overtook the lobby, blocking her way to the exit. There was no way out.

  Hot smoke seeped into her lungs. Thinking fast, she grabbed for both halves of her door, slamming herself into the stand and shutting out all light but the pinstripe of orange that outlined the doorway.

  Drowsiness encasing her, she hit the floor, nearly overcome with the pungent air. Through slit eyes, she caught sight of something hanging off the edge of the counter and thrashed for it. She fingered soft wet fabric and silently thanked herself for ignoring her own instructions about hanging up the wet bar towels. As quickly as she could, she shoved the towel into the space under the door, slowing the rush of smoke. That bought her some time, but now what?

  Heaving herself to her knees, she felt something weighing against her leg. Her purse. Her phone! Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner?

  She touched the familiar softness of leather and plunged to the breathing space near the floor. Sputtering for breath, she pawed at the pocket she had opened a million times but now struggled with. At last the snap gave way, and she fumbled with the phone. Something was wrong. There was no comforting blue glow. It was dead.

  No! She always kept her phone charged. Why now? Terror surged in her throat as she sat up, trying to revive the plastic promise of hope to no avail. Gasping, she fell back, her head hitting the rough wood of the floor. Soot filled her mouth like a bellows, but a gut-wrenching cough did little to clear her passages.

  Desperation and lack of oxygen swamped her judgment. What if no one noticed the building was on fire? She let out a voiceless moan, feeling herself slip out of consciousness. Her eyes burned and she lidded them to a fast-forward version of her life.

  A picture flashed in her woozy mind. A similar moment in her recent past when she had lain in an alley, blood oozing from her abdomen where Kirk had plunged a switchblade. She had all but blocked out that horrible moment when she’d felt life leaving her, but now a critical detail came to mind. She had drawn on some hidden source of strength and had managed to pull herself to the street where people had finally helped her. Where had that strength come from?

  In a wisp of memory, it came to her. She had, for the first time in years, cried out to God. It had helped her then.

  Her voice failing her, she silently pleaded. Help me, God. Help me now.

  She sputtered, struggling for air that seemed to come a little easier. She forced the thickness into her lungs.

  As if beyond her will, her lids peeled open. The heaviness in the room burned her nose and eyes, but an unfamiliar calmness gave her clarity. As she studied the floor in front of her face, a narrow strip of dim light caught her attention. She reached out a weak hand to touch it, and the wall above the light seemed to give just a little.

  The door.

  She’d paid such minimal attention to the passage from her stand into the rehearsal space that, like Nancy, she had forgotten it existed. Now, its discovery breathed fresh life into her.

  With tremendous effort, she raised her leaden body.

  Keeping her head close to the floor, she flung her hand upward, fumbling for the doorknob. Her hand enclosed the orb, which had already absorbed heat like a branding iron. She forced her hand to twist before pulling it away. Locked.

  A wail of frustration sat tacit in her lungs. God, please.

  Then she remembered. The drawer. That old key ring.

  With the determination of a swimmer about to take the gold, she filled her lungs with air and pushed herself to her knees. She felt for the handle and gave it a too-forceful yank, sending the drawer and its contents plummeting. No. She groped across the expanse of floor, causing twist spoons to go clanging across the room.

  Falling forward, she struggled for breath, giving in to the need to melt like butter on the floor. As she did so, her hand touched something metal. A spoon. Moving her fingers ever so slightly, she felt the shape of something familiar. Not a spoon. A key.

  She flailed, finding the ring with flaccid fingers. So many keys. Would any of them fit this door? She forced herself up to her knees, fumbling. A jingling noise. She pulled the edge of her sleeve over her hand and felt for the door knob, struggling to separate one key from the others on the ring. There were too many of them. She didn’t have time or strength to guess wrong.

  The tip of the first key found the keyhole, but refused to go further. She felt for the next one along the ring and prayed for a miracle. Touching the hole in the door, she held up the tip of metal, and pushed. It went in.

  Sputtering a laugh, she turned the key and pushed open the door. She fell onto the landing and went no further. Where was her strength?

  Smoke filled her nose, and darkness overtook her.

  In the next instant, she was vaguely aware of strong hands grabbing her shoulders and pulling her upward.

  “Come on, stand up!”

  A familiar voice. Her groggy mind failed to identify it. She got to her knees, then, with help, to her feet. Someone had their arms draped around her, forcing her to hobble. Her knees gave a little. Steps…that’s right…from the landing. Clumsily, she navigated her way down. A vague light. The windows…the outside door.

  A rush of fresh air filled her lungs, and her legs dragged her as far as they could. A scuttle of noise…shouting. She collapsed onto hard pavement.

  “Breathe, breathe!” A voice from somewhere above her commanded.

  Flat on her back, she coughed uncontrollably. A siren wailed amidst frantic shouts. She looked up into a face, its features still unclear. She forced herself to focus.

  Directly above her was a pair of piercing eyes. She knew them well.

  Those eyes belonged to Kirk.

  Chapter 39

  “I love you Tracy!” Kirk screeched at the top of his voice. “I love you! Don’t you get that? Why are you doing this to us?”

  He pounded a palm on the steering wheel of her Beetle before gripping it again with a maniacal fierceness. His other hand clenched the handle of a switchblade, which he pointed in her direction. She stared at it—a grim reminder of their last encounter.

  She lifted her eyes, momentarily transfixed by the huge diamond stud in his right earlobe. A new ornament since she’d last seen him. By the light of the dashboard she noticed another, more disturbing, addition to his usually impeccable appearance. He was wearing gloves. Gloves. The implication sent her fuzzy mind into a tailspin.

  Squirming in the passenger seat, she averted her eyes from the dizzying darkness as her car careened along the curvy country road. She cleared her soot-caked throat and summoned her courage. “Kirk, I—”

  “Why did you leave me?” Angry and hurt, his voice was as terrifying as his presence.

  She leaned her shoulder against the door, distancing herself from him as much as she could. “I just—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your little problem? I could have helped you.”

  Her ‘little problem’? Was he serious?

  “I could have bought that theatre for you if it would have made you happy. I could have bought that whole town. All you had to do was ask.”

  A pressure started to build inside. How did he know abo
ut the theatre? Her only hope was to calm him down. She feigned composure. “How did you find me?”

  His sideways look implied the idiocy of that question. “I always find you.”

  Her heart chilled.

  He chuckled, the topic clearly improving his mood. “It was so easy. All I had to do was wait. I knew someone would come to me sooner or later. You’ve got friends here. Did you know that?”

  Coldness encased her body. Sophia.

  He let out a cackle that seemed alarmingly detached. “Hey, at least you did me a favor.”

  “A favor?” Her voice sounded small.

  “Sure. I never thought you’d buy a car, but I’m really glad you did. It handles nice for an old piece of junk.”

  She withered a glare. What was he getting at?

  “I thought I’d have to use my rental car, which would have presented a serious problem. Not that it would have made much difference to me, but this just makes so much more sense.” He tipped her a raised eyebrow. “Good thing I don’t mind walking.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He faced her with a disgusting leer. “You will.”

  Trying futilely to still her pounding heart, she looked out at the dark masses passing by the window. Mountains. She recognized this route. It was what Sam had called the old highway.

  Suddenly, her blood ran cold. They were headed toward the falls.

  Her voice quavered. “Where are we going?”

  A sly smile played on his thin lips. “I got a tip on a great romantic spot. I think you’ll find it inspiring.”

  The menacing insinuation chilled her to the bone. What was she going to do? If she let him take her to the falls, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She closed her eyes, bringing back the vivid images of that day with Devon. The roar of the water, the feel of the slippery rocks under her feet, her dizzying loss of balance.

  Kirk’s sharp voice cut into her thoughts. “Hey, have you got any paper in here?”

  “What?” Her groggy mind failed to comprehend.

  “Paper. Do you have paper?” He stabbed at the air in her direction.

  Her head spinning, she reached into the glove box, pulling out an old receipt and a pencil.

  He nodded eagerly. “That’ll work.”

  Fear made a slow climb up her spine. “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “I want you to write what I tell you.”

  Reluctantly, she poised the pencil, waiting for him to speak.

  “Let’s see, where should we start?” He drew the blade across his chin. “Might as well start at the beginning.” Using the blade, he pointed toward the paper. “Start with ‘I’m sorry about what happened in San Francisco’.”

  She jerked her head toward him. “What?”

  He chuckled. “Trust me. Now, how should we say this? I know. ‘I need you to understand that I did it for love.’”

  Her heart crashed against her chest. How did he know about San Francisco? “I can’t write that.”

  He slammed on the brakes, hurdling her forward. The seatbelt kept her lower body in place, but couldn’t prevent the cymbal crash of her head to the dash. Stars danced all around as he grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her back into her seat. The cold tip of the blade touched the hollow of her throat as he leaned into her. She let out a terrified yowl.

  “Don’t you get it?” His voice dripped with an almost inhuman force that drenched her with sheer terror. “You made a huge mistake when you left me. You narrowed down your options.”

  His eyes flared. She slid as far as she could to her right as the blade pressed deeper into her flesh, threatening to pierce it. She flailed, wanting to push away his hand but not daring to.

  A nauseating smile tightened his lips. “Are you going to make this harder than it needs to be?”

  Ultra-aware of the pointed metal that threatened to puncture her skin, she shook her head almost imperceptibly from side to side.

  Looking pleased, he sat back, keeping the switchblade aimed carefully at her neck.

  She let out her breath and reeled back, her elbow banging against the door. An electric jolt shot up her arm. Suddenly, her thinking turned crystal clear. This was her chance.

  She watched as Kirk struggled to keep the blade honed on her while reaching awkwardly across his body for the gearshift. She had to act fast. Finding the seatbelt latch, she clicked it open and reached with her other hand for the cold metal of the door handle. Bracing herself, she gave it a yank and pushed her shoulder against the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  Joanie’s words rang in her head. The passenger side door tends to stick.

  Kirk’s laughter peeled through the small car as it jolted into motion. “Nice try.”

  Tears of exhaustion pooled behind her eyes. Thrust back into her seat by the forward momentum of the vehicle, she redid her belt. What now?

  “Pick that up!” He pointed the blade toward her feet, where the paper had come to rest when she’d slammed forward. She bent to retrieve it, along with the pencil.

  “Where were we?” Kirk’s voice was cold, mechanical. “Read me what we’ve got.”

  Her voice quavered. “‘I’m sorry about what happened in San Francisco. I need you to understand that I did it for love.’” Her heart pounded and she nearly choked on the words. Why was he making her do this?

  “Good. Now.” the knife jabbed toward the paper. “‘I know what I did was wrong, but Kirk needed to be free of Julie.’”

  Horror seized her. “You knew Julie?”

  “Knew her?” He sneered. “I lived with her.”

  An icy shudder passed through her. Impossible.

  Her mind started to spin, the details of her first encounter with him blipping through her memory. A chance meeting at an opening night party, months after Julie’s death. They’d literally run into each other as she stepped away from the bar. Her drink splashed onto his lapel and they laughed about it. He seemed to know who she was, but had acted casual, just like any other opera donor.

  She couldn’t stop shaking. “You knew? All along, you knew that I was the one who found her?”

  “Of course I knew. Why do you think I wanted to meet you?”

  Her breathing grew shallow. Meet me?

  He’d been equally friendly to everyone at the Met in those early months. Inviting them all to his cottage in Chappaquiddick. Hosting cocktail parties at lavish restaurants for the cast and crew. He hadn’t paid her any special attention, but he’d known. He’d known all along.

  “Why didn’t you ever mention that you knew?”

  A smile broke through the grimness of his features. “I didn’t want to make you jealous.”

  Jealous? Why would she have been jealous?

  “Come on, Tracy.” A stomach-turning tenderness overtook him as he lifted the blade toward her face. Still clutching the weapon, he ran his index finger along her jawline. “You knew what you were doing. It was more than fate that brought us together.”

  Us? There was no ‘us’ as far as she was concerned. He was just a fan, nothing more. A crazy, maniacal fan.

  Memories came at her in earnest now. How he’d started sending her notes that had grown progressively more intimate. Casual references to personal details of her life that she’d only revealed in emails and phone conversations with other people. Even changing her number and address hadn’t helped.

  She’d done nothing to encourage his advances. When she’d told him tactfully that she wasn’t interested, he’d backed off for a time. Then the real nightmare began.

  Threatening notes. Expensive champagne delivered to her dressing room with a box of chocolates that she’d given to her dresser. News the next day that the woman was in the hospital after having spent the night in the ER.

  Grace’s clammy hands shook beyond control as she recalled Tristan, the tenor she’d dated for a short time, being mugged and beaten in a subway station.

  Then it had been her turn.

  She’d tried so
hard to be careful, never to be alone in a vulnerable situation, but it hadn’t mattered. He’d grabbed her one night as she stepped out of her building, pressing a knife to her side and telling her not to scream. That was when he’d stabbed her in the alley next to her building, leaving her for dead.

  That troubling thought raised a question. With as much force as she could muster, she blurted it out. “Why are you doing this? Why not just let me die in that fire?”

  A lunatic smile crossed Kirk’s face. “You know me better than that, Tracy. I wouldn’t deprive myself of the satisfaction of knowing that the last sight you saw before taking your dying breath was my face.”

  Disgust filled her being. What chance did she have against that kind of evil?

  He stared at the road ahead as he continued his dictation. “‘Kirk needed to be free of Julie. She loved him so much, and there was just no option. Now, Kirk is ready to be free of me, and I need to let him move on. I’m sorry if this hurts anyone, but you’ll have to understand. There’s no other way.’” He glanced down at her scribbling hands. “Good. Now sign it.”

  She let out a whimper, shutting her eyes tight. She couldn’t.

  “Sign it!”

  Letting the tears flow, she scrawled out her name, panicked thoughts reeling through her mind. All her time here in Madison Falls flashed before her like a social studies filmstrip. There had been no way for her to know that those would be her final days, but still…. Why hadn’t she appreciated them more?

  Her mind touched on random memories, lingering on that morning she’d gone to church with Lucy and Bob. She’d felt good there. She wished she could be there now.

  That young singer had said something that morning—what was it? God is always with us. If that was true, where was He right now?

  “Besides,” Kirk pointed at the paper she held loosely between her fingers. “I wanted this. Just in case there’s ever any question about who killed Julie.”

  She looked up, alertness suddenly kicking in. “Who killed Julie?”

  A satisfied smile curled up his lips. “You really don’t know?” He chuckled in a low and menacing rumble. “I guess I’m better than I thought.”