by Greta Boris
"Can I have some privacy?" she asked.
"I don't want you trying to get away." He pointed at a window in the far wall.
Gwen lifted her hands. They were still tied. He shrugged and turned his back, but left the door open. She was past modesty.
When she was done, she stepped to the window. She managed to unlock it and lifted it open with tied hands. Sea air brushed past her face, clean and bracing. She swallowed deep gulps.
"What are you doing?" Mo yanked her away from the window.
"I need air," she said.
He dragged her into the living room and handed her a disposable cell phone.
"I'll read you the number." He took a note from his pocket and began reading aloud. "Why aren't you dialing?" he said, when he noticed the phone hanging limply from her fingers.
"I can't." Gwen lifted her roped hands. He snatched the phone and began punching in numbers.
"What am I supposed to say when she answers?" Gwen said.
"What we talked about earlier." His jaw muscles clenched. "Tell her you're here in the house, and there's a water leak."
"Where."
"Where what?" Mo's voice rose.
"Where's the leak? She's going to ask me for details. You want this to be believable, don't you?"
He huffed and walked to the window. "Okay, okay. You're right. I'm being hasty. Let's just calm down and make a plan." He faced her. "What's the plan?"
"It could be a slab leak. That happens pretty often in California," Gwen said.
"No, there's a basement. How soon we forget." His face contorted into a nasty grin.
"Okay then, the basement is flooding." Gwen ignored his cruelty. The conversation was surreal. They were concocting a plan to lure Fiona into danger with as little emotion as if they were making dinner plans.
"That's good. A pipe burst and the cellar is flooding. That will bring her out. There's a lot of storage. She doesn't know what's in the wine cellar, but she may assume there's something of value there. She's a greedy bitch. She'll come for the money."
Mo pushed the call button and handed the phone to me.
"Hello," Fiona's voice answered. Until that moment, the call had been an idea, an abstract. It's easy to throw an abstract to the wolves to save your skin, but now the abstract was someone Gwen knew.
"Hi," Gwen's voice was shaky. Mo would most likely kill her, but she planned to tell Fiona to stay far away.
"Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but your call is important to me. Leave me a message, and I'll call you back. Promise." A long beep rang in Gwen's ear. Relief mingled with disappointment.
"Answering machine," Gwen said.
Mo's face flared red. For a moment, she thought he was going to backhand her again. Instead, he took the phone and threw it across the room. It cracked into the wall leaving a gouge.
He brought his face inches from hers and screamed. "Why do these things always happen to me?" He jerked away and threw himself against the French doors so hard she was amazed he didn't break the glass. His right hand crawled up his chest and neck and buried itself in his hair.
"Nothing is ever easy. I plan and I plan and I plan and I plan and look what happens. I think I'm... I think I'm cursed." He looked at Gwen, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I always thought curses were superstitious nonsense." His hand flew up and a tuft of hair fluttered to the floor. The hand burrowed again.
"When this place came on the market, I thought my luck had changed. It was perfect. This had been her home. He'd sat with her here." His left hand drew a circle where furniture must have once been placed. His right was busy. Another wisp of hair floated from his head.
"I'd thought it was my mother's fault. That he never accepted me, you know?" His monologue changed course again. Gwen couldn't make sense of his ramblings, but didn't dare speak. She scarcely breathed. He was so volatile; a careless word would be like a match to spilled gasoline.
"I thought it was my mother who cursed me." He stared out the windows at the ocean, his face expressionless. Only his hand seemed alive. It plucked at his hair like it was weeding a flowerbed.
"I was wrong," he said, his head snapping toward Gwen, his words and movements so abrupt she started. "It was Fiona. She took his love, his attention, his money. She took what was mine. You understand what I'm saying?"
Gwen nodded because he seemed to expect a response.
He leaned forward and held his palms to the ceiling. Strands of brown hair dangled from the fingers of his right hand. "The only way to break her power is to get rid of her."
"But, he's gone. Your father's gone. What good would it do?" Gwen believed he was past reason, but she had to try. "You've got the wine. Just take it and go."
"That's what I'd planned to do." He paced across the room in short, quick steps. "I thought it would redeem the lost years, you know, to have something of his."
"It would, wouldn't it?"
"No," he spun on her. "There's no room for me. Not while she's alive." He resumed his pacing. "I don't want to kill you, Gwen; I really don't. I feel we've become, if not friends, at least allies. I helped you. I got rid of Lance. And, I know you wanted to help me with my project."
Gwen's heart knocked against her ribs. She'd come to grips with the idea of dying when she'd been tied in the dark—almost welcomed it at some points. Now that she'd tasted life again the idea of leaving it was sharp and painful.
"We'll try Fiona again." Gwen tried to match his matter-of-fact tone.
"No, it's no good. She knows. Somehow she knows." he said. "You tried. I appreciate that, but I'm going to have to come up with another way." A click punctuated his sentence—the sound of a blade pushing up through the box cutter's protective cover.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Art heard a sharp click.
"I won't say anything. You don't have to do this." Gwen said.
The fear in her voice made him want to leap through the doorway, but he restrained himself. He'd waited for the police as he'd promised Mike, for about three minutes. Then he'd gotten out of his car and walked through the dilapidated wooden gate. Mo's blue sedan sat in the drive, hidden by an oversized fig tree.
He'd found a small window open on the side of the house. It led into a bathroom. It was a squeeze. His stomach was scraped raw, but he got in. Then he heard voices.
He followed the sound to the entrance of the living room. Pressing his back against the hallway wall, he craned his neck around the corner until he could see what was happening.
Gwen and the goat man were engaged in a strange dance. Gwen faced the sea, her hair glowing like a halo in the dying sunlight. She moved to her right. The goat man, eyes fixed on her, circled left. He closed the gap between them with each step. They did a little do-si-do and switched positions. He wasn't wearing his ship captain hat and when he turned, Art could see hairless patches on his scalp. He looked like a dog with a bad case of mange. Disgust mingled with the taste of anger in his mouth.
"But I do," Mo said, his tone resigned.
"Let me go, Mo. I haven't done anything to you." Gwen's hands appeared to be tied, but she held them out in front of herself as if to ward off a blow.
"Only because you haven't had the chance."
Art's throat constricted when he saw the blade. He crept into the room. Gwen's eyes widened when he came into her line of sight. She opened her mouth. He put a finger to his lips, and she clamped it shut again. She forced her gaze to Mo.
"You're a woman. Therefore a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I don't fault you. You can't help yourself." His voice grew calmer with each word. "You're like her—a favored, petted princess. You even look like her. But you must know that."
Art crouched into a boxer's stance, fists raised to protect his face. He relaxed his hips and knees and shook his shoulders. He'd never hit a man before. He knew how it felt when his foot made contact with a sandbag, but he had no experience with flesh.
He launched his first kick—a roundhouse aimed at Mo's kni
fe arm. The impact was softer than he expected.
Mo screamed. The blade skittered across the hardwood. Art righted himself. He'd almost lost his balance. A bag didn't give like a man.
Before Mo could turn, Art delivered a quick jab, then a right cross to his kidneys. His fists plowed through muscle and crunched to a stop at bone.
Better.
That was better.
He'd anticipated the force of the momentum this time.
Mo's knees buckled, and he dropped to all fours with a heavy grunt. No time to breath. Move in. A lightning fast front kick to the ribs knocked the man to the floor.
It was over.
Adrenaline pumped in Art's chest. Energy and rage ran up and down his limbs like electricity looking for an outlet. He took in deep breaths to cool the heat.
"Gwen, is there anything to tie him with?" Art circled Mo, never taking his eyes from the goat man. He wanted an excuse to pummel him. Any excuse.
"Tape. There's duct tape in the basement."
"Get it," he said.
Gwen brought the box cutter to Art. He sliced through the ropes on her wrists. She threw her arms around him for one second then disappeared from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Gwen ran down the short hall, across the entryway and slid to a stop at the top of the basement steps. The jaundiced passageway gaped before her, a live volcano, a lion's mouth.
There must be something else to tie Mo with. The tape seemed as inaccessible as if it were buried at the bottom of the ocean. She couldn't make herself step across that threshold. She walked in rapid circles in the fading light of the foyer, tempted to tear at her own hair.
It was only a basement. Nothing more. The threat lay on the floor of the living room with Art standing guard over him. Face it, Gwen, face it.
She walked to the open door and gazed down the stairs. Just stairs. She let her mind descend before her. Mentally, she walked the long, amber-lit corridor, approached the gray door at its end and... She shivered and stepped to the center of the entryway.
"Gwen," Art bellowed. "Hurry."
She raced across the floor and dove down the steps like a child jumping into a cold swimming pool on a hot day. Don't think. Just move.
She jogged to the end of the hall and, thank you, God, the door to the wine cellar stood wide open. She stopped for a moment at the threshold to locate the tape with her eyes. Keeping one hand on the door to be sure it wouldn't close behind her, she stretched into the room as far as she could. The tape was just out of reach. She released her hold on the door for an unendurable second and grabbed the roll.
A crash echoed from the upper story. She bolted as fast as her weakened legs would carry her to the living room, to Art.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I curled into a fetal position and squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't believe a teacher could fight the way he did. The man was an explosion.
Think. Think. Think.
Intelligence was my best defense against a physically stronger opponent. I opened my eyes a crack and peered at him through a fringe of lashes. He held the box cutter loosely in his right hand. That was the only thing about him that was loose. He was a hunting dog on point. Riveted. Alert. I could smell his anger rippling toward me in waves.
I forced my muscles to relax and let my weight sag into the floor. My face grew slack. Pain tore through me, but I didn't tense. I made a mental assessment of my body. A couple of broken ribs and a few bruises seemed to be the worst of it.
Possum.
It was all I could think of. Let him think he'd done more damage than he had. He was the type who, once he calmed down, would feel guilty if he'd done anything permanent. I could use that against him.
Sure enough.
Soon I heard his breathing grow shallow and steady. I saw the rigidity drain from his face. Soon, his forehead furrowed. He squinted his eyes.
Closer. Come a little closer.
As if obeying my thoughts, he did. He crouched to examine me, so close I smelled his acrid sweat. I stayed as still as death.
Just two more steps. Come on. Come on.
He obliged.
As quick as a snake, I threw my left leg across the floor in an arch. His feet swept out from under him. The blade flew from his hand. He went down hard. I leaped and pinned his outstretched arms with my knees. Surprise was my only weapon until I could reach the box cutter.
It was only a few feet away. I leaned left. Mistake.
He arched off the floor when my weight lifted from him. I threw myself back on his chest and heard air whoosh from his lungs. He struggled beneath me, but I held my own.
Not for long.
He outweighed me by at least thirty pounds. I had to reach the box cutter. I braced myself for another grab and threw myself forward. My fingers closed over comforting steel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Art threw one arm across his face and grabbed for Mo's knife arm with the other. The man was stronger than he looked, his muscles all strings and wires.
Art guarded and feinted, but the box cutter made steady progress toward his face. Where was Gwen? What was taking her so long? "Gwen. Hurry," he yelled into the empty hallway.
If he could get a leg up, he could pull Mo down. But his pelvis was pinned.
He focused on working his right hip, inch by inch, out from under the goat man. Time crawled. He lost all sense of its passing. His world became Mo's contorted face and the blade slashing through the air above him.
His hip popped free. In one swift movement, he kicked up, hooked Mo around the chest and rolled with the momentum. Mo was down now, Art on top.
He reached for the goat man's arms. Before he could pin them, a sting shot through into his right thigh. He slapped at his leg leaving his face exposed.
Silver flashed.
Torture pierced his shoulder.
Art roared.
Fuel injected pain surged through him. He threw Mo off with desperate strength and yanked the razor blade from his shoulder. He smelled iron. Sticky heat covered his hand.
One palm on the floor, one on his injured thigh, and he pushed to his feet. The goat man followed. They backed apart and began to circle.
Mo hunched, readying himself to spring, his eyes crazy.
"I'll kill you." Art warned Mo because he should. He wanted to do it. He wanted to see the light fade from those pale, blue eyes. "Come on."
Mo lunged forward.
A missile whistled past Art's head and slammed into the goat man's. He fell sideways. A roll of duct tape bounced on the floor by his feet, then wobbled across the wood into a corner.
Art saw the next move in his mind. Before Mo could regain his balance, Art pivoted. The heel of his running shoe struck gut and ribs. Mo went down again.
Rage thundered in Art's ears as unstoppable as a freight train. In a second, he was straddling the goat man. He'd taken his wife, held her captive, was going to kill her. He'd killed others.
Bone and cartilage crunched under Art's fists. He didn't stop hammering when a voice yelled, "Police."
He didn't stop while he was being yanked roughly away.
He didn't stop until he was holding the sobbing body of his wife against his chest.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Art's good arm encircled Gwen's shoulders. She nestled closer to get out of the wind and lifted her face to the sun. They sat on a blanket in their old spot on the cliffs above Strands Beach—picnic dinner and glasses of wine on a camp table nearby. She couldn't seem to get enough of the great outdoors these days.
"I've had an offer," Art said.
"From Landmark Prep?"
"Yes. The same money I've been making, but the cost of living is so much less in Idaho. I think we'd be fine."
"Maricela could list our house," Gwen said.
"She could. This is a big decision, though. How do you feel about moving out of state?"
How did she feel? She didn't know. She'd spent most of the past month trying not to f
eel. The night she and Art came home from the hospital, there must have been ten news vans outside their house. It had been hard to count with the klieg lights in her eyes.
The number dwindled over the next week, but she'd worried the food in the house wouldn't outlast the blitz. Even Emily got tired of boxed macaroni and cheese.
Reporters on the street weren't her only problem. Her cell phone had constantly rung until she'd turned it off. Along with media outlets wanting an interview, she'd had two offers for book deals from true crime writers. The producers of the reality show "The Day I Almost Died" wanted to interview her for an episode. She'd hid in her house for weeks and wished, fervently, for her old life.
"A new start could be good," she said, her voice hesitant. She hadn't returned to Humboldt since everything had happened. She couldn't face her coworkers, especially John Gordon. She'd never actually accused him of anything, not even after she had learned he had been in the house on Cliff Drive the night before the open house, but her attitude had been harsh.
She knew he'd noticed it, because he'd confessed he entered the house just to see what a ten-million-dollar listing looked like. He'd confessed he was envious. He'd even tried to apologize for his behavior at The Leaky Barrel the night he and Lance had come close to blows. But Gwen hadn't been gracious, and now she needed grace.
The Frobishers had taken their house off the market and wouldn't return her phone calls. She wanted to say she was sorry, beg their forgiveness, but they weren't interested in talking to her.
Gwen didn't know if she'd ever be able to return to work. She'd started seeing Maricela's therapist. She said they were making progress. But right now, Gwen couldn't make herself park in the same lot as The Leaky Barrel, couldn't imagine showing a house, especially if it had a basement. Running away sounded attractive.
"We'd have to come back for the trial," Art said.
Gwen shivered. He tightened his arm around her. The idea of sitting in the same room as Mo Cotton, even if he was guarded and handcuffed, made her a little ill. "How do you feel about leaving St. Barnabas? They offered you the job. And a big raise. They really want to keep you."