by Parnell Hall
On her way home it got dark enough for her to turn on the headlights. She was reluctant to do so, as it was still light enough it would be easy to forget to turn them off. She shouldn’t have worried. When she pulled into the driveway, they shone on the garage. Sherry switched them off and got out.
Sherry locked the car. Cora Felton never locked it, in fact Cora made a big deal of the fact she didn’t have to, living in the country. But Sherry wasn’t taking any chances. It occurred to her it would be just her luck to have the car stolen when she parked it, so Cora could blame it on her. Not that Cora wouldn’t be blaming her enough as it was, when she sobered up and realized her car was gone.
The lights were on in the living room. Sherry’s first thought was that Aunt Cora was home. Then she realized that couldn’t be. There was no way Cora could have sobered up enough to have decided to come home. No, Sherry must have just left the lights on during the day without knowing it.
Sherry went up the front steps, unlocked the door, and let herself in. As she closed the door behind her, she felt a chill. Not from cold, from fear. From the sudden feeling that something was wrong.
She immediately felt foolish. The living room was exactly as she’d left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Not that there was much in the living room to disturb, but still. She was just jumpy. Everything was all right.
Sherry needed a drink. Not necessarily alcoholic. In fact, definitely nonalcoholic. But something to calm her jangled nerves. Maybe a cup of tea.
Sherry went in the kitchen to boil some water. On the shelf next to the wall phone, a light was blinking on the answering machine. She pressed the button, played the message back.
Beep.
“Hi, Sherry. It’s Margaret from the nursery school. Adrienne will be out of town, so could you take the four/ fives on Monday? I’m going out, so just leave a confirmation on my machine.”
Sherry smiled. She most certainly could.
She reached for the phone.
Beep.
The voice leaped from the answering machine. Harsh, guttural, slurred, gloating.
“So. Thought you’d get away from me, did you? Thought I’d never find you? Well, think again. You think you’re so smart with your fancy puzzles. Well, guess what. I’m smart too. Real smart. What do you think of that?”
His last words were light, mocking.
Chillingly casual.
“Bye, bye, love.”
Sherry backed away from the answering machine as if it were alive. Her eyes were wide with horror.
Dennis.
Good God, it’s true.
Dennis.
A floorboard creaked.
Sherry froze at the sound. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head. There it was, the tired old cliché from book after book, movie after movie. So incredibly trite it couldn’t scare anyone.
But in real life …
Sherry was suddenly terrified.
He’s in the house.
Sherry’s eyes darted around the kitchen, anticipating an attack from any side, and looking for a weapon. There was a broom next to the refrigerator, a rolling pin on the counter top, an iron frying pan on the stove.
On the butcher block was a carving knife. Sherry picked it up, held it out in front of her. Tried to control her breathing, which was rapid and shallow. Tried to convince herself there was no one there. It’s an old house, the floorboards creak.
It’s a prefab. Built on a slab. With no basement. The floorboards only creak if you step on them.
Stop thinking so much.
No, keep thinking. No basement means nowhere to hide. Except the garage. Was the garage door locked? Was that how he got in?
Sherry edged her way to the door. She meant to look out, see if the garage door was open. But down the hallway something caught her eye.
The door to her office. Was that a file folder lying in the doorway?
Holding the knife in front of her, Sherry inched her way down the hall. Reached the doorway. Peered around.
This time what she saw chilled her from head to toe.
The office was a wreck. File cabinet drawers were pulled open and emptied. Papers were torn up and strewn on the floor. The desk chair was tipped over, and the top of the desk had been cleared. The computer was smashed and in pieces, the keyboard in one direction, the screen in another, the body of the computer in another. The modem too was smashed, though it was still plugged in, and one of its lights was on. Lucky it hadn’t started a fire.
Sherry recoiled as if struck, overwhelmed by the sheer fury of it. The knife in her hand suddenly seemed very inadequate. She backed down the hallway toward the kitchen and the phone.
Not that the phone would do her any good. Not if the police weren’t there. Which she knew they weren’t. But surely they must have some sort of backup system. Some sort of call forwarding. Someone must be answering their phone.
Sherry reached the kitchen, slipped inside, raced to the wall phone, scooped the receiver up.
Her phone was dead.
Sherry nearly cried out. It was the last straw. More than she could bear. She was suddenly gripped with an overwhelming motivation.
Get out of this house.
Sherry slammed down the receiver, turned to the door.
A man was standing there.
He was holding a gun.
54
“Who are you?” Sherry cried.
She had no idea. The man standing in front of her was short, stocky, and balding. Not old, but older than her. He wore a black and white plaid shirt, tucked half in, half out of his gabardine pants.
He was obviously rather drunk. “You’re not her,” he snarled. “Where is she?”
“Who do you mean?”
He scowled. Waved the question away with his gun. “You know who. The old lady. Where is she?”
“You mean Aunt Cora?”
“Puzzle Lady. Where’s the Puzzle Lady?”
“She’s not here right now.”
“I know she’s not here right now. Where is she?”
For a second, Sherry debated actually telling him where Cora was. The odds of this man getting to the Country Kitchen seemed slim. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The thought that stopped her was: What if he did?
“She went out for a drink,” Sherry said.
“A drink?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Sherry held her breath, waiting to see the effect of the lie.
For a second his face looked murderous. Then it contorted, and he looked as if he were about to cry. “Why is she doing this to me?”
“Doing what?” Sherry asked.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t even know who you are.”
“Sure you do. Everybody knows.”
“Everybody?”
“Everybody. Police. Newspaper. Because of her.”
“Uh huh,” Sherry said. She tried a gamble. “Would you like a drink?”
It didn’t pay off. He scowled. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Not at all. Like I said, I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Kevin Roth.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know me now.”
It was like juggling hand grenades. Sherry had no idea what might cause him to explode. “Yes. I know you. You’re that poor man whose girlfriend got killed.”
“Not my fault,” Kevin Roth said.
“Yes, I know,” Sherry said. “You had a fight. Couples fight. Barbara ran off. There was nothing you could do.”
“Nothing I could do,” Roth repeated.
“Exactly,” Sherry said. She was beginning to sweat. Her hands felt clammy. Particularly her right hand.
The hand holding the knife.
That was what made the scene so bizarre. So far, Kevin Roth hadn’t alluded to it. Had given no indication that he’d even noticed it.
Sherry wanted to put it
down. She had no desire to fight a man with a gun with a carving knife. But the gesture would call attention to it. And if he saw it, if it registered in his brain for what it was, how would he react?
Would it make him shoot?
Kevin Roth was clearly not doing well. His eyes behind his glasses were bloodshot red. The skin on his face sagged. As she watched, he lurched forward, slumped against the side of the door.
The move startled him awake. He gaped at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
“What are you doing with that knife?” he demanded.
Sherry nearly jumped out of her skin. She controlled herself with an effort. Said calmly, “I was going to put it down.”
He considered that. “Where?”
“On the table.”
“What table?”
She indicated the butcher block, using only her eyes. He peered at her, first quizzically, then followed where she was looking.
“Okay,” he said.
Sherry exhaled. Then slowly, very, very slowly, she moved the hand with the knife. Up. Up. Across. Over. To the butcher block table. And … down.
He watched, intently, like a lion watching the movements of a lion tamer.
When she’d set the knife on the table, Sherry moved her hand away slowly and stepped back.
She was now unarmed and totally helpless. Not that the knife would have done her any good. Still, she no longer had even that.
And now he lurched from the doorway into the room, coming straight at her. Was he going to grab her?
No, at the last moment he staggered to the side, veered off to the butcher block, snatched the knife up in his other hand.
His left hand.
His right still holding the gun.
Kevin Roth held the knife up, looked at it, as if observing for the first time the sheer size of it. It made him angry. Sherry could almost see his brain associating the size of the knife with the fact it had been in her hand. With the fact she had intended it for him.
The bloodshot eyes grew murderous again. The left hand raised the knife.
Sherry bit her lip to keep from crying out.
He stabbed the knife down viciously.
Sherry gasped.
He embedded the knife in the butcher block.
Sherry’s relief at not being stabbed was short-lived. The violent action had seemed to help focus his thoughts.
He scowled, peered at her quizzically. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sherry Carter.”
He scowled again, then pointed his finger.
With his left hand.
The hand not holding the gun.
“You’re the one. Billy told me. You’re the one. Coming around. Asking questions. Sending the police. Trying to get into my house. Because of you. You and the old lady. Where is she?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“You lied.”
He raised the gun, pointed it at her face. “Tell me now.”
It was the first menacing gesture he’d made with the gun. And it was very effective. Sherry could see his finger on the trigger. Could feel the tension in his hand. It would not be hard for him to squeeze.
Sherry involuntarily took a step backwards. Her foot caught on the leg of the table. She lost her balance, started to go down.
Falling over backwards, she flailed out with her arms. A reflex action, reaching for support.
Not reaching for the gun.
But that’s how it must have looked to him.
Kevin Roth jerked back.
Pulled the trigger.
The explosion echoed through the kitchen. The bullet whizzed over Sherry’s head. Sherry went down in a crumpled pile between the sink and the stove.
She looked up, saw Kevin Roth’s face.
Firing the shot had transformed him. He was no longer a scared little man, acting out some revenge fantasy. He was the hunter, and she was the prey. She could see this in his eyes, as they bored into her.
Holding the gun in front of him, Kevin Roth crept around the table, stalking her. He stopped, raised the gun.
But Sherry Carter was no pushover. Even when Dennis was in a drunken rage, she always gave as good as she got. No matter how hard he hit her, Sherry never quit.
She didn’t now. Before Kevin Roth could fire again, Sherry got her legs under her, and lunged.
It nearly worked. He flinched back in surprise, and she flailed at his gun hand, knocking it down. He staggered, but didn’t drop the gun.
Sherry fell to the floor, rolled over, came up in a crouch.
But this time he was wary. He took a step back, out of range of her arms and legs, and raised the gun.
His finger tensed on the trigger.
Sherry balanced on the balls of her feet, prepared to dive out of the way.
To dodge a bullet.
She sucked in her breath, and—
“Hello?”
The voice came from the living room.
Kevin Roth turned.
Aaron Grant came in the door.
Aaron must not have heard the shot, because he stopped short, gawking at the sight of a man with a gun.
Kevin Roth’s face registered surprise.
Then recognition.
Then rage.
This was the man who had made all the trouble. The reporter.
Kevin Roth hesitated, not sure where to aim the gun.
It was all the opening Sherry needed. Before Roth could make up his mind who to shoot, she reached behind her, then lunged forward and brought the heavy iron frying pan from the stove down on his head.
55
“Sherry, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”
“Brenda—”
“No, really. It was just so unimportant. They were in town last week, he called up just to take a shower.”
“A shower?”
“Sherry. I know you always think I have a thing for Dennis. He’s very cute, but forget about it. They were passing through, had no place to stay, and I wasn’t gonna let ’em. I had a date. I let him take a shower and clean up if he agreed to be gone by the time I got back. And he was, but he must have gone through my address book.”
“Brenda—”
“I know, I know. I should have said something. But like I told you, I know their itinerary, and he’s not around. I can look up where he is if you want.”
“I want.”
“Sherry, don’t be like that.”
“I’m sorry. A lot’s happened, and I don’t have time to get into it. I’ll call you when things calm down. Right now, I need to know where he is.”
“Hold on.”
Sherry could hear Brenda put down the phone and her footsteps walking away. Moments later she was back.
“They’re in Florida.”
“Are you sure?”
“They have a gig tonight in Fort Lauderdale. Last night too. Trust me, they’re there.”
“They’re playing tonight?”
“That’s right. Two sets. At ten o’clock and midnight. I have it right here.”
“Uh huh,” Sherry said. “That itinerary list the hotel?”
It did. Sherry got the number, called it, asked the front desk to ring the room.
He answered with a grunt. Slurred, hostile. “Yeah?”
Sherry broke the connection.
So.
That made it official.
Dennis was in Florida.
Dennis wasn’t the Graveyard Killer.
Dennis was just Dennis, up to his old tricks again, harassing her with drunken phone calls.
It occurred to Sherry that Dennis was not going to play well tonight. Assuming he managed to make it on stage.
Sherry went back in the kitchen where Aaron Grant was standing guard over Kevin Roth, who was lying facedown on the floor. “Did he move?” she asked.
“No. Did you make your call?”
“Yeah. I called Florida.”
“Huh?”
“I called New York and Florida.” She h
anded him the cellular phone. “I’ll pay you when you get your bill.”
“It’s no problem,” Aaron Grant said. He was curious, but didn’t want to pry. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Sherry replied. When Aaron said nothing, she said, “I got a crank phone call. With a killer on the loose, I had to make sure that’s all it was.”
“And it is?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing. I knew it, but I had to make sure.” She looked around. “So, where’s the police?”
“They’re all out.”
Sherry frowned. “What?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you ran off with my cell phone. They’re all out. I left a message.”
“They’re all out?”
“It’s an emergency. Chief Harper’s daughter’s missing.”
“What?”
“She never came home from school. He’s worried sick.” Aaron jerked his thumb at the body on the floor. “He’ll be relieved to know she didn’t run into him.”
“You spoke to Chief Harper?”
“No. Dan Finley. Why?”
“Then you don’t know about the clue.”
“The clue? Oh, yeah, Dan told me about it.”
“What?”
“Sure. Four d line five. The girl wrote it herself. Dan told me.”
“Dan Finley knows about it?”
“Sure. Everyone knows about it. He was the first to know. He took the call.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“That’s what I can’t understand. This lunatic, this drunken madman, is in my house holding a gun on me. And all the time I know it makes no sense because the clue is not a clue. And if four d line five is not a clue, there is no lead to Barbara Burnside at all.”
“Then how can he be the Graveyard Killer?”
“He’s not. At least, I don’t think he is.”
“Then what was this all about?”
“I can tell you what I think. I have no proof. But it shouldn’t be hard to get. The police will take an interest, now that he’s pulled a gun. Basically, the bottom line is this. There was something not kosher about the Barbara Burnside accident years ago. It had nothing to do with the killings, it was something else entirely, but it was there. So when I started probing, I hit a nerve.”