Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  McKenzie felt her face warm in embarrassment. Of course, she knew what it had been. She’d grown up here, hadn’t she? Four point oh was a pretty good shock this long after the primary quake. “Maybe it was on a new fault line.”

  “As long as it’s not my fault,” Joyce told her. She tossed Mac a pair of acid-washed blue jeans. “That looks like your size.”

  The label and the size had been sliced off the waistband. McKenzie stood up to measure it to her hips. She modeled it for Joyce. “Looks like they could.”

  “Kick off your shoes and pull ’em on.”

  Mac had already found practically new running shoes. She wiggled her toes in them, and opened her mouth to say—

  THUD.

  She snapped her mouth shut. Joyce got to her feet and charged across the room, grabbing her by the wrist. “Biggest roof rat I’ve ever heard. Get away from the window.”

  They heard the glass breaking on the other side of the blanket they’d hung for a curtain, but they took to their heels, not about to stay to see who or what was coming through. Joyce slammed the bedroom door shut and keyed the dead bolt. She looked at Mac. “It works from both sides, but only if you have the key.”

  Mac wet her lips. “The other rooms!”

  They went from door to door, keying the dead bolts. Joyce had kicked off her heels. She made practically no noise on the carpeting. “Phone,” she said softly.

  She looked downstairs. A loud banging shook the upstairs. Mac nodded and started down.

  The upper half of the house grew very quiet.

  Joyce came down with her, step by step, eyeing the house. “Whoever they are, they don’t seem to care what kind of noise they’re making.”

  Mac became aware of just how much glass was in the front and other rooms as she paused downstairs. She looked back at Joyce, who was framed by the quilt.

  The lights flickered and then went out.

  “Shit.” Joyce’s voice, out of the twilight.

  The blanket curtains let in only slivers of light from the outside, weak yellow beacons from the streetlights. Not enough to see by.

  “Whoever it is, he’s still outside.”

  “I left the cell phone on the kitchen counter.”

  “I’ll get it,” said McKenzie. She put a hand out, touched the wall, and, trailing her fingers, went in search of the instrument. It had to be Jack, terrorizing her, but how did he find her? How did he know ?

  How did he always know where to hurt her?

  Never again.

  Mac stopped in her tracks, put her hand to her chest. Her heart railed there like a wild bird beating itself against a cage. Besides the cell phone on the tiled kitchen counter, there had been a can opener and a flashlight, one of those heavy-duty torches.

  Mac stubbed a toe turning too soon. She stopped and could feel her own heat being reflected back at her by the wall. If she squinted, she could almost see the darker wall against the midnight of the house’s interior. She put her hands out and felt to her right.

  Toward the corner. She wasn’t close enough. She took a side step, cautiously, quietly. Stretched out her arm. Slid her palm against the wall’s surface again. Reaching out.

  She hit air.

  McKenzie took a deep breath, knowing she’d found the turn to the kitchen.

  Then warm flesh grazed her hand. Someone tried to grab her fingers.

  “Christ!” McKenzie jumped and lunged the other way. She ran, unthinking. Words tore out of her mouth. “Joyce! He’s inside! ”

  She sprinted. He came after. She could hear his breathing. She collided with Joyce at the stairwell. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough to almost see the hazy lines of the banister. The keys went flying, up the steps.

  “Come on!” She charged after them, pulling Joyce up with her.

  He leaped and caught them mid-stair. The tackle drove them to their knees. Mac grunted under the weight and put a hand out to the wall, anything, clawing, to get back on her feet.

  The quilt met her hand. She wrapped her fist in it and pulled herself out from under Joyce and Jack as they fought. She could hear flesh and bones hitting, the sick thud of contact. Joyce swore fluently and the man stayed silent.

  Hanging from the quilt as if it were a strap, McKenzie swiveled round and kicked with all her might.

  She struck home. A masculine cry answered her. Jack staggered back, a shapeless shadow among all the other shadows.

  McKenzie let go of the quilt and grabbed at Joyce. “Come on!”

  She kicked the keys on the step, bent over to grasp at them. The chill metal answered her search. Her position saved her.

  Joyce screamed as Jack leaped again. Something flashed in his hand.

  There was a monumental struggle. Joyce’s voice, raw and urgent. “Run, McKenzie! Run!”

  She hesitated.

  She could see the two grappling, not well enough to know which was which, as they teetered in the stairwell. Then Joyce let out a sharp cry, and fell back, against the quilt. The wall hanging came down on her. Caught in its folds, she fell. Her weight took the other shadow with her as her body bumped heavily down the steps.

  Flash.

  McKenzie did not wait for the vision. She turned and ran, gobbling the remaining steps. She hit door frames, counting them, found the one she wanted and tried to plunge the key into the dead bolt lock.

  She couldn’t find the slot!

  She fumbled her fingertips across the metal.

  “McKenzie.”

  A low, somewhat breathless masculine voice from the stairs. She did not turn to see what Jack wanted.

  She inserted the key. The lock turned stiffly, and then she fell inside the open door. Wrenching around, she pulled the key out and kicked the door out of her way.

  With her entire body, she slammed it shut and locked it from the inside. The key cut into the palm of her hand as she leaned against the door.

  What about Joyce?

  She didn’t know.

  Carter was on the way. How long could she hold out?

  McKenzie turned to face the window. Saw the skyline, the silhouette of palm trees that framed the houses next door, the window glass like scattered diamonds on the rug.

  She’d locked herself in the wrong room.

  She couldn’t stay. He’d been up this way once before. He’d try it again.

  If he could get in, she could get out. Run to the neighbors. No one would let her in, but maybe somebody would get scared enough to let their dogs out. Call 911.

  It was better than being cornered.

  Mac shoved the keys down into her jeans pocket and crossed the room. Glass slivers ground into the floor under her feet.

  No one pounded at the door. She could hear nothing.

  He’d already guessed. Was already back outside, looking up.

  He had to be.

  Mac carefully leaned out. The tiniest of ledges led from one window to the next. And then the roof tiling eaves led to the garage.

  She could jump that.

  Adrenaline gave her wings.

  She picked up something, the blanket, and laid it over the windowsill where jagged glass fragments threatened like teeth. She swung one foot out. Secured it on the ledge. Then the other.

  She held onto the corner of the window as long as she could, scooting along the ledge, until she could not help but let go.

  She pressed her face against the stucco wall of the house. Hugged with her whole body as intimately as if she were locked in lovemaking. Inched her way along until her searching hand found the next window frame.

  Below her, Jack called softly, “McKenzie!”

  She did not answer. His voice did not sound close. Mac thought of looking down but did not.

  She inched along the minuscule ledge until her sneakers touched the tile roofing she sought.

  She jumped off the ledge and slipped, going to her knees.

  The noise had to bring him running. McKenzie straightened and fled, her night sight guiding her
over the roofing. A black abyss yawned in front of her. Then the flat roof of the garage. From there she could see the neighbor’s yard.

  Already lights were going on. Dogs began to bark frantically. McKenzie took a deep breath and ran. She took off like a deer over the abyss, hit the garage, and kept going until she reached the other side.

  “Mac!”

  A slender figure at the edge of the yard, in the lantanas and shrubbery. “Carter!” Hope surged in her. She would be all right. He would save her. She leaped downward.

  He moved toward her as she hit awkwardly and toppled. A stab of pain that she knew well from softball went through her right knee. She keeled over, sucking her lip in agony.

  There was the solid thud of a collision. She looked up to see two dark figures grappling. Jack and Carter danced with obscene violence. Grass flattened under their feet. Shrubbery branches whipped about. They wrestled with angry intensity. Fists struck, arms flailed. They cried out with thick guttural sounds.

  She wanted to scream, but the sound choked in her throat. Doors banged. Dogs kept barking furiously.

  Carter let out a low cry of pain. He twisted in his opponent’s hold. She still could not see his face as the garage shadowed them.

  For a second he broke away. McKenzie took a deep breath. She saw the other coil, like a snake ready to strike. She pushed her warning out, birthing a faintly audible “Carter!”

  Then she saw a gleaming streak, a swath of silver cut through the night.

  “Noooo!”

  Carter doubled over. He went to his knees, then onto his face.

  His shadowy attacker turned toward her, hesitated. A beam of light sliced across the driveway and backyard. It outlined him. Her assailant turned and bolted.

  McKenzie got to her feet. Her knee tweaked her once, and then she was steady. She could do this. She had to. She approached Carter’s still figure. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  Flash. She was to kill Carter.

  Flash. She saw love in his kind, gentle eyes.

  McKenzie stopped and put the heel of her hands to her sight. When would it stop?

  People poured out of surrounding homes. The sudden flood of porch lights and flashlights dazzled her. She put up an arm to shade her face.

  “Call 911,” she said. Begged. Over and over. “Somebody call 911.” Carter couldn’t be dead.

  Could. Not.

  The son of a bitch would never hurt her again.

  Confused, McKenzie stared numbly down at the fallen body as if she’d struck Carter Wyndall herself. She leaned over, hand trembling, to turn him.

  “Mac.”

  She looked up. Carter forced his way through the growing crowd. “What’s happening?”

  Her senses whirled. “Carter?”

  He caught her by the arms, then enfolded her in his arms. Could he hear the wild beating of her heart?

  “Carter?” she repeated breathlessly, disbelieving.

  “I got here as quickly as I could.” His breath smelled oddly of pepperoni and peppermints. It was real. She touched his face. He tightened his arm about her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jack broke in. He came after us, all through the house—the lights, he took the lights out. Oh, God, Carter, I think he might have killed Joyce. She fell on the stairs. I got out over the rooftops. You called to me—”

  “Not me,” Carter interrupted softly.

  “They fought after I jumped.” She looked down. “Then who saved me?”

  Strangers ringed them, flashlight beams cutting the air wildly, excited voices babbling. One of the neighbors put out a foot and nudged the fallen man over. The body flopped about, arms akimbo.

  Jack Trebolt stared up at the stars with death-clouded eyes.

  Chapter 34

  “Knocked cold twice in one day, this girl can take a hint. I’m punching in my time card and goin’ home.” Joyce stood in the front yard of the Calico House, porch light glowing behind her. Red and blue lights from squad cars cast deeper bruises on her face. She held the quilt wrapped in her front arms, bloodstained from the split lip and battered nose she’d suffered going down the stairs.

  She leveled a look at Carter. “Take my advice and take this one home for the evening.”

  Mac shivered, though the spring evening was still far from cold. The shock of seeing Jack’s body had iced through her and she seemed far from thawing.

  Carter put an arm over Mac’s shoulders and drew her close to his flank for comfort. “I’m considering it.”

  “I told Moreno what he needs to know. Everything else can be handled in the morning.” Joyce took a step away.

  “But,” said McKenzie. She scrubbed a hand wearily over her face. “What happened here?”

  “Jack Trebolt got killed here, and you didn’t do it,” Carter answered. “We’ve got an eyewitness next door who heard the commotion and saw the fight. That’s all we need to know right now.”

  “And it wasn’t you, because I thought you were the one who ... the one who....” Her voice failed her. McKenzie put her face to Carter’s shoulder and just stood.

  Joyce patted her on the back. “We’ll sort everything out in the morning.” She looked at Carter over McKenzie’s head. “I’ll page you when I’m ready to get together.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked slightly. “Fair enough,” he agreed.

  Joyce kept her hand on McKenzie’s back. “The man is a gentleman,” she said. “Go home with him. You can’t stay here alone tonight, anyway. They’ll be crawling all over doing fingerprints and such.”

  Mac looked up. “All right.”

  Joyce looked at the quilt. “I sure hope I can cold-water-soak these stains out.” She turned and left, walking slowly, obviously in pain.

  Moreno came up as Joyce got into her car.

  “Well, Mz. Smith. You’re keeping me on my toes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked as though she genuinely was. Moreno slipped his notebook into his pocket. “I’ll let you know tomorrow what else has to be done. I’ll have to talk to you again, go over your story once more.”

  “I know.”

  “At least,” he said, and his mustache fluffed out a little. “It’s in better circumstances this time. I know this is probably not the time to say this, but sometimes this is the only way to deal with a stalker.”

  “He was my husband.” Her mouth worked a moment, then she added, “I ought to have some feelings for him. But I don’t.” God help her, she didn’t. What kind of a monster was she, unless numbness were a feeling all its own.

  Carter stirred as if he could buffer her from the reality of the whole ordeal. “I’d like to take her home.”

  “Fine. Just the usual, don’t leave the area. I’ll contact her there.”

  Carter steered her toward his car. She walked steadily with him, as though her mind were a million miles away, and her body on automatic.

  He unlocked the apartment door a little apprehensively, but the place was dark and Dolan had gone. The assistant hadn’t picked up any before he’d left and the dinette table was strewn with the faxes and the pizza box.

  McKenzie smiled faintly. “The universal dinner,” she said, as he strode around the small room gathering up the mess. The faxes he did not want her to see, not only because the Bureau’s information was confidential, but because there were photos and drawings which were grisly enough even in their reproduced form. She’d had enough bloodletting for one night. Joyce had traded words with him, short and sweet, telling him all that McKenzie had been through. Jack’s death would be no balance for her father’s. Not now. Not yet.

  McKenzie dropped into his recliner, putting the back down and the footrest up.

  Carter paused near the kitchen door, hands full of trash. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Ice,” she replied softly.

  “Just ice?”

  “For my knee. Put it in a baggie, if you have o
ne. Or a towel. Please.”

  She spoke as if the effort of putting words together in a sentence were almost too much. He knew the feeling. He went into the kitchen, mashed up the pizza box to get it in the trash and went about making her an ice pack. He twisted off the cap of a lite beer and brought it out as well.