I shot up from my squat, tuning my ears to the faint sounds, and reached for the phone on Cooke’s desk. The distinctive snick of a closing door came from the reception area. I stilled, the receiver in one hand and my fingers dangling over the keypad. While I strained to hear footsteps, my digits danced a quick staccato over the emergency numbers. I slid to the floor, pulling the phone to the edge of the desk.
My short pants deafened the rustling in the front office. I clenched my jaw, forcing my breathing to slow. A muffled voice resonated from the phone. I couldn’t risk a whisper. I had excellent hearing, but so could Cooke. A drawer scraped against its runners. My right hand clenched the hammer. My left clamped the receiver against my belly, and I squeezed against the desk, peering around its side.
The crack in the door stood no bigger than a finger. I focused all my attention on that cool gray void. My thoughts flickered from Tinsley, to Cody and Shawna, and back to Preston, hiding somewhere in the school.
I had to stop Cooke. Fear was not an option.
The stirring of feet on carpet began again. Hurried tromping replaced the soft steps.
My belly vibrated from the voice’s resonance on the phone. I pushed the receiver harder into my stomach, hoping the dispatcher would note the school’s number and guess something was amiss. The glow in the doorway seemed to vibrate. I tensed, pushing onto the balls of my feet, and tightened my grip on the hammer.
The gray light winked out. Then reappeared.
Someone had passed by the office. I waited, counting off seconds. The dispatcher on the phone had stopped calling out, and I released the receiver, letting the cord dangle over the edge of the desk. Hopping from my crouch, I tiptoed to the door and widened the crack. After a pause, I opened the door and peeked out. To my right, was the corner of the wall leading to the front administration area. To my left, the back office door banged shut.
I closed Cooke’s door behind me and ran for the back exit. Cracking the door, I heard the efficient Ms. Cooke marching down the corridor, her sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. She headed toward the book room, where she would find me missing. I danced, deliberating my next plan of action.
A shrill siren cut on, then stopped.
I whirled back inside the offices, wondering if Preston had tried to monkey with the security. A door banged and sneakers squeaked on tile. I flew down the rear office passage, rounded the bend into the main administration space, and dove beneath Amber’s desk. Behind me, the back door opened and slammed shut. Peering out from under the desk, I watched Cooke hustle through the space toward the glass front doors. She had traded her pumps for sneakers, but had left on the blue pant suit. Her scarf fluttered behind her, marking the long strides of someone used to making quick trips through the large school.
As she rounded the counter, I crawled out from beneath the desk, clutching the hammer. If Preston had tried to leave, I needed to protect him. Keeping low, I squat-ran toward the counter, then peered around the side. Cooke had darted out the glass doors and crossed the half-moon foyer toward the front doors’ security panel. I slipped into the reception area, pushed open the entrance, and saw Cooke zip down the arts hall. Her shoes squawked and scarf blew behind her.
She must have seen Preston. Had he tried the front doors and gotten caught? My heart battered my rib cage. I bolted across the foyer on my toes to keep my boot heels from echoing Cooke’s squeak with a clack. Like everyone else, Cooke proved a better runner than me. She made quick work of the hall and popped through the theater doors before I had reached the art wing. I cursed my short legs and lack of lung capacity and hustled after her.
If she got an eyeball of Preston’s art work, there’s no telling what she’d do to that kid.
I swung through the theater doors and hesitated in the green beanbag lobby, eyeballing the closed doors before me. Would Preston hide somewhere in the backstage hall, on the stage, or in Tinsley’s office? I took a chance on the stage, stole through the door, and up into the dim backstage. I hesitated on the top step, listening for Cooke and Preston. Stillness reigned.
Clutching my hammer, I moved forward, peering into the dim ghost lighting. And caught my hip on the props table. The table shuddered. As I reached to steady it, the collapsible leg slid center. Props clattered to the floor, hammering the wooden stage. Romeo’s scuba tank rolled and struck the metal costume stand with another raucous clang.
I rubbed my hip, mentally cussed the weak table and Tinsley for using it, and waited for Cooke to show.
Thirty-Four
Once the clamor had quieted, I moved in mouse-like jerks toward front stage, whispering Preston’s name. I sidled up to the ghost light, hoping if he hid in the balcony or auditorium seats he’d spot me. A rustling of the heavy stage curtains sent me spinning toward stage left.
Cooke strode out from between the curtains. “What are you doing here? Put down that hammer.” She glanced up at the backdrop and placed her hands on her hips, making me feel all of fifteen and caught in the art room after hours once again. “Did you do that to the backdrop? It’s very inappropriate. That quote is not even Shakespeare. And definitely not from Romeo and Juliet.”
“Of course I didn’t vandalize my own work.” I raised my hammer, shifting my stance. “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve called the police. It’s time to turn yourself in.”
“Turn myself in for what?” She dropped her hands and took a step closer. “You’re the one trespassing on school property.”
“I don’t consider getting drugged and waking in a supply room trespassing.” I glanced into the dark theater, wondering if Preston was still out there. Hopefully, he’d bolt. “You just didn’t get your chance to get rid of my body like you did everyone else who found out about your embezzlement scheme. You’ve been dipping into school funds, haven’t you? Probably for years, but finally been caught. Must be hard to be surrounded by the wealthy on a principal’s salary. But you must have stolen a fat lot to need to cover with murder.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Mr. Tinsley embezzled, not me. You and he are the ones in trouble. You were found on scene at Dr. Vail’s house. You came to the school today to force Mr. Tinsley into his confession. I feared what you would do to me, so I just gave you a sedative to calm you down.”
“Bullshit. You drugged me.” My arm began to throb, but I stiffened it, keeping the hammer aloft. “And how would you know I was found at Dr. Vail’s house?”
“You told me about your concussion, remember? You just woke from sedation and are mixed up. Now set down that hammer. You’re scaring me.”
“Where’s Tinsley?” I did feel confused. And exhausted from all the skulking and running. Cooke didn’t sound crazy. Her voice had that reasonable, coaxing tone used by nurses when they were explaining why you needed a shot. She gave me the heebies.
“Tinsley disappeared after you laid down for your nap. Tara said he left the school. I just came back to check on everything.” She held up a hand. “The security panel said someone entered from the outside theater door. We’re not safe. It could be Tinsley.”
“I’m holding you here until the police arrive.” But I doubted my words. My hands felt sweaty and dry. My arm drooped. I tried to raise it again, but my muscles felt like they were on fire. I needed a better plan than standing with a hammer raised over my head.
“You’re confused. You’re making assumptions again without knowing all the evidence. You’ve done it before.”
She was right. I did it all the time. I frowned.
“We need to be careful.” Cooke’s voice hushed. “Tinsley may be hiding in the school.”
“No way.” Cooke had thought someone entered, but it may have been Preston exiting. The dumping of adrenaline left my thoughts cloudy. “Why would Tinsley confess his bribing scandal if he wanted to return to the school and attack us? And why make his own texts so damni
ng if he’s the culprit?”
“All the anonymous texts were damning,” said Cooke. “It would throw off the police if his texts were, too.”
“And who killed Vail? And Amber?”
“I don’t know about Amber. Maybe it was just a robbery.” Cooke shrugged, sliding her hands into her pockets. “But you’re the one who saw Tinsley’s cape. Camille knew he had stolen all that money. She spent her time off last week researching the accounts to prove it. Called me on Sunday to report it. Tinsley was always a Nervous Nelly. He suspected she knew and killed her.”
“And Pringle?”
“Suicide.” Cooke shook her blonde bob. “So sad those texts about Dan Madsen pushed her over the edge. If Tinsley is the culprit, they should add stalking charges to murder.”
Her lies sounded so convincing. I pondered her theory for a moment and slowly moved toward her. “And why did you keep me in here?”
“I didn’t keep you. I thought you needed a rest and you would leave when your nap finished.”
“You have a reasonable explanation for everything, don’t you?” I switched my hammer to my left hand and lowered my right, shaking the blood back into my fingers.
“What are you going to do?” Cooke’s eyes remained on the hammer. “I thought we were waiting for the police.”
“I don’t trust you.” I switched the hammer back to my right.
“I don’t trust you either.” Cooke pulled her hands from her pockets and took two long steps toward me.
Then shot me with a taser.
During the longest five seconds of my life, I felt unaware of anything but pain. My muscles fought the charge, seizing and snapping like pit bulls in a cage match.
I screamed like a girl, but couldn’t muster the ability to stop myself from that humiliation. The pain cut off and I found myself panting on the floor of the stage, staring up at Cooke. She leaned over me, each knee planted on either side of my body, busily wrapping her scarf around my neck.
“Oh, hell no,” I said, swinging my arm up and realizing too late I had dropped the hammer. Probably about the time my muscles seized and then turned to jelly.
Dodging my ineffectual slap, she jerked on the scarf, squeezing my neck. “Lucky for me, the school keeps a taser for emergencies. You’re dangerous.” Her eyes narrowed as she yanked the scarf. “This is self-defense.”
I had hated those scarves for good reason.
I shoved my arms between hers, punching and slapping at her face. The silk noose tightened.
I began to gag.
Cooke grunted and her expression hardened. I grabbed at my throat, trying to curl my fingers beneath the scarf, but it wouldn’t give. Cooke yanked harder. I hammered the floor with my feet and reached for her face, grappling for her eyes. Cooke twisted her head, elbowed me in the face, and pulled the scarf taut.
A door banged in the distance. I wanted to call out to Preston to run away and wait for the police, but I couldn’t catch a breath to make any sound. Spots danced before my eyes and my lungs heaved. I bucked beneath her, writhing and punching, but the scarf continued to pull tighter.
Everything seemed to slow, but one thought hopped in my brain, jumping and screaming. It wanted me to give in. Which went against my nature. I had always fought, even for the pettiest and dumbest of reasons. Mostly for petty and dumb reasons.
But, said the thought, if Preston thinks it’s too late to help you, he can still get away.
I collapsed beneath Cooke. My lungs and throat burned, worse than the short-lived taser pain. Cooke’s grip on the scarf lessened, and I now fought my body not to gasp. I couldn’t see for my eyes had rolled somewhere north, but heard very male shouting and Cooke’s firm rebuttal.
I would have liked to yell at Preston to run. However, my body was too interested in oxygen to focus. The scarf still bound my neck, but Cooke’s grip had relaxed. My swollen throat worked teeny gasps into my fiery lungs. Air trickled through and my head began to deflate.
I should probably thank Preston for that accomplishment. But I still wanted him to get.
As the oxygen began to replenish my starving body, I became more aware of the scuffle above me. The intruder pushed Cooke away and worked his fingers into the knot on my neck. As I filled my lungs, a body slammed on top of me, whooshing the air out like a fat kid on a leaky beach ball. The body had planked but rippling spasms coursed through the dead weight.
My rescuer had been tased. And felt too large to be Preston.
The spasms cut off and the body relaxed. I lifted my head and saw familiar dark curls spilling across my chest. Not Preston. Somehow, my Romeo had found me. Found me laid out near dead. And now his dead weight lay over me. Which felt horribly fitting for our stage setting.
Luke and Cherry, Act five, Scene three.
I lifted my head and tried to push Luke off. And felt my gut back up my throat as Cooke snatched the ghost light and swung the heavy, metal stand above us.
“Luke, move,” I croaked and pulled my muscles tight, heaving us into a side roll.
The stand smashed into his right shoulder, missing his head. In it’s metal cage, the lightbulb winked off and dimmed on. Luke cried out and rolled onto his stomach. His right arm flopped at an awkward angle.
Gasping, I scrambled to get off the floor. My eyes left Luke to search for a weapon. Where was his pistol? No gun in sight. My hammer had slid a few yards away. Cooke’s Taser lay behind her. Useless.
Cooke grunted, lifting the stand with both hands. She boosted it to waist level, then adjusted her stance. The long, electric cord trailed behind her, pooling at her feet as she raised the heavy light.
“Stop.” My voice wheezed.
“This is self defense,” she repeated.
Diving over Luke, I scuttled toward Cooke.
“Get away from me,” she screamed. She swung the ghost light above her shoulder, teetering backward before righting herself.
I reached for the cord, looped it around my hand, and yanked. Cooke’s front foot lifted and back knee bent, fighting for balance. Pushing back in a squat, I jerked the cord taught. Unable to swing the clumsy weight and control her balance, Cooke stepped back, slipped, and fell. The heavy lamp crashed on top of her. Dropping the cord, I scrambled to my feet.
Amazingly, the lightbulb still remained intact. However, the ornate stand had slammed against the floor and one of its clawed feet had caught the side of her head. The wound trickled blood and Cooke appeared unconscious.
I turned away from Cooke and rushed to Luke. He lay on his stomach with his head turned, watching me. I winced at the blood soaking through the split seam near his neck and stopped him from trying to roll over. “Your shoulder looks bad,” I rasped. “Stay where you are.”
“Damn pain nearly knocked me out,” he said. “I can’t move my right arm. But how are you? Your throat? Is Cooke conscious?”
“I’ll be okay. She’s unconscious.” I paused. “She would have bashed our heads in.”
“Don’t think about it. You moved fast on your feet and stopped her. My cell phone is in my pocket. Call it in. Tell them you have an officer down.”
I slipped my hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “What about you? What can I do for you?”
“You’ve done enough.” He tried to smile but couldn’t. “My pistol’s somewhere. I held it on her when she was choking you. Didn’t stop her. I had to jerk her off and when I did, she friggin’ tased me.”
“I don’t see your gun.”
“Herrera should be here any minute.” His eyes squeezed shut and opened. “You need to know something. My call this morning...”
“Cody.” I stared at the phone.
“I had to bring him in. It took a while. And after booking him, I couldn’t find you. Your family wouldn’t give me the time of day, let alone
your location. Herrera said you hadn’t gone to the station and Sheriff Thompson hadn’t seen you either. I went to Pringle’s funeral and when you didn’t show, I got nervous.”
I looked up at the stage lights hanging above us. Adrenaline rushed from my body and a few tears squeezed out. “Good Lord, you arrested my brother.”
“Cherry, I had to do it. Let’s not talk about it now.”
“How did you find me?” I croaked.
“At the funeral, I got a key and codes from Cleveland and spoke to Herrera about searching the school. He wanted to come with me, but wanted to speak to Dan Madsen first. The longer he took with Madsen, the more anxious I became. So, I just left. Called the school, pounded on the front doors. No one answered. Came in through the back door we used the other night.”
“The theater exit.”
“Yep. I searched the theater and had gone up through that windowed hallway when I heard what sounded like an elephant stampede on the stage. Knew it had to be you.”
“You arrested my brother.” I dropped my gaze from the lights to the floor. “Cody’s confused. Something terrible’s eating at him.”
“He kidnapped Shawna. I don’t care what’s wrong with him.”
“Kidnapping? That’s a federal offense.” Panic welled in my chest, giving me flashbacks of the choking.
“He didn’t cross state lines. But he could get ten to life.”
“Ten to life?” I dropped the phone to cover my mouth. I turned away from Luke. “Oh, shit.”
“Sugar, I’m sorry. I was doing my job.”
“It’s not that.” I whirled back to look at Luke. “Cooke’s gone.”
Thirty-Five
I left Luke and my perilous emotions on the stage. After helping Luke up, I dialed 9-1-1, gave him the phone, and slipped away as he talked. I heard his shouts from the stage stairs, but didn’t stop to argue, only hoped his shoulder would keep him from chasing me. I still didn’t know where Preston hid, which now seemed as short-sighted as the rest of my failed detection plans. Pulling off the damnable scarf, I stumbled off the stage and into the green beanbag room. I gunned my oxygen deprived body toward the front doors.
DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE Page 27