Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

  She stood to one side of the door, trying to keep an eye on both of the hallway entrances that led off the kitchen, and opened the door slowly. The room beyond was dark, lit only by the dim light from the kitchen. She stepped in and realized that it was a pantry, food on one side and rows of computer monitors on the other. She pressed the power button on one of the monitors with no effect. She tried several more with the same result.

  Without thinking, she patted the wall to the side of the door and flipped on the pantry’s light switch to see what was wrong, then, her heart thundering at the stupidity of her mistake, quickly flipped it off, but not before she had noticed that the monitors’ power cords had been pulled out of the power strip attached to the back of the shelf.

  She stood in the darkness, straining her ears for any sound that would indicate that she had given away her location, but could hear nothing. As her heartbeat slowed and her night vision slowly returned, she realized that she might have an easier and safer way of finding out where Philip was than sneaking from room to room.

  Mainly by touch, she plugged the monitors back into the power strip. The first ones showed not the interior views she had expected, but exterior views. One, she noticed with a stomach-churning realization, displayed the detached garage behind which she and Philip had “hidden,” and behind which Mitchell Pieda’s trussed body lay.

  Her fear mounting, she began plugging in and powering up the monitors on the bottom shelf. One by one, the rooms of the first floor of the house appeared on the screens—dining room, living room, the library that she recognized as the site of her altercation with Anton Rossi. Each was illuminated by some dim light source; each was deserted.

  She clicked on the last monitor, which displayed a room unfamiliar to her, but it was not the room itself that made her breath catch, but the view of Philip standing at a desk, the Glock in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other. As she watched, his already tense posture changed to an even higher level of alert. She had heard it, too—a sound coming from somewhere within the house. He walked to a door, listened, and then stepped through.

  She frantically scanned the other monitors and picked him up as he stepped into a hallway. She cast her mind back through her limited mental map of the house. The hallway down which Philip was walking must be the main hallway through the center of the house. He was only a few dozen feet from her.

  She stepped out of the pantry and hurried as quickly as stealth would allow to the doorway from the kitchen to the hallway. She reached it just in time to see a door—that must be the door to the basement—close. The hallway was deserted again.

  Should she follow him? Unless she could alert him to her presence in the house, he might shoot her as she came through the door—he would be expecting her to be waiting for him outside. With Philip’s instruction not to text him, she couldn’t think of a way to let him know she was in the house without also alerting anyone else who might be there. She hurried back to the pantry.

  She scanned the monitors again and spotted Philip on the lower level. The plushly carpeted hallway gave access to several doors, one of which—the door to the movie room, she was sure—was open. The doorway was lit by a flickering light. Philip made his way slowly down the hall toward the door, his back pressed to the wall.

  Her heart pounding, she looked for the monitor showing the movie room, but couldn’t find it. In desperation, she turned on the light again and saw that most of the monitors had switches on them with neatly hand-lettered labels. She finally located the right one—Theater—and flipped the switch.

  She saw a stage at the front of the room, on which two people sat: Louise Mortensen, legs crossed, fingers interlaced in her lap, and a portly man holding a clipboard. A banner reading Vivantem: For Life hung behind them. After a disorienting moment, she realized that it was not a stage, but a video of a stage playing on the room’s huge display wall.

  At that moment, Philip whirled through the open door into the movie room, sweeping the room with the Glock.

  In the flickering light, Lizzy saw the open door behind Philip move and George Millard step out.

  “Philip—he’s behind you!” she screamed.

  Philip must have heard her. She couldn’t imagine that he could hear what she was saying through the thick walls of the house, but it was enough to make him turn, just as George Millard raised his gun.

  Philip was only feet away from Millard, and rather than bringing his own gun up to fire, he used the momentum of his turn to swing the Glock in an arc, connecting with Millard’s gun just as it leveled at his chest.

  A flash burst out from the monitor.

  “Philip, I’m coming!” Lizzy cried, and shot out of the pantry.

  Scorching pain shot through Philip’s right shoulder as he staggered back. He regained his balance just as George Millard’s fist connected with the side of his face.

  He dropped to a crouch, partially to avoid another blow, partially because his swimming head couldn’t keep him upright. He was miraculously still holding the gun, but his arm hung useless at his side. He grasped his right wrist with his left hand and wrenched the gun up, sending another bolt of pain shooting through his shoulder. He pulled the trigger.

  He heard a cry from Millard. The shot must have hit him, but Philip didn’t fool himself that it was enough to stop him—the shot had gone too low. The bullet had probably hit him in the leg. Philip scrambled backward, behind one of the large theater chairs, readying himself for another attack. As his mind cleared, he realized the foolishness of his position—the only effect of being behind the chair was that he couldn’t see what Millard was doing.

  “How did you deal with the resistance you faced to your revolutionary approach to fertility treatments?” asked the portly man with the clipboard from the screen.

  Philip could hear Millard swearing, his voice near the ground, and realized that he was searching for the gun that must have flown out of his hand when Philip hit him.

  “One must have the courage of one’s convictions when one faces opposition,” replied Louise Mortensen.

  Philip was the one with the gun—he couldn’t afford to be on the defensive. He had to take care of Millard before Millard located his gun.

  He dragged his right hand over the arm of the chair with his left and fired in the direction of Millard’s voice. Philip heard the bullet ping on metal and the image on the screen disappeared, plunging the room into near darkness. Not only the sound from the video, but also Millard’s swearing, fell silent.

  Philip tried to push himself up and his hand squished into a sticky dampness in the carpet that he knew must be his own blood. His vision darkened, lit only by the bright white pain of his wound. He grabbed the arm of the chair and pulled himself up, right into the barrel of George Millard’s gun.

  67

  As Lizzy ran to the door through which Philip had disappeared, she heard a second gunshot.

  She wrenched the door open and ran down the steps, but tripped on the last one and went sprawling on the carpeted floor of the hallway. As she scrambled up, she heard another shot. She ran down the hall and careened around the door.

  Despite her headlong flight and fall, neither man appeared to have heard her approach. George Millard might have been distracted by the spreading red stain on the thigh of his pants. Philip Castillo was no doubt distracted by the gun pointed at his face.

  “No!” she screamed, and as Millard turned toward her voice, she released the coiled energy of her rage, and in the back of her mind she heard the whirring rattle of the snake as it struck her at the Needle.

  Millard’s gun discharged and she heard a bullet whine past her ear. Then, with an expression of aggrieved disbelief, George Millard dropped to the ground.

  Lizzy ran to where Philip had collapsed and dropped to her knees at his side. “Are you okay?” she asked, then gasped. “Oh my God!” Philip’s right shoulder was dark with blood, like a gaudy epaulette. “What can I do?”

  “Is Millard dead?” he
rasped.

  “Yes.”

  “You better check.”

  “I don’t have to check,” she said, her voice tight. “He’s dead.”

  Philip hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t fancy hanging around to see if Louise Mortensen shows up.”

  “Me either.”

  “First get Millard’s gun, then we’ll each have one.”

  “I don’t need the gun.”

  He seemed about to argue, then capitulated. “Okay. Let’s go. Can you help me up?”

  She got his left arm hooked around her shoulder and helped him stagger to his feet. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Back to the car.”

  “Can you make it that far?”

  “I sure hope so,” he said through gritted teeth.

  They started toward the door when the light in the hallway went out.

  “What happened?” Lizzy yelped.

  “Mortensen must still be around, she must have shut down the power.”

  “But how?” Lizzy’s voice was spiraling up in panic.

  “She must have shut down the main circuit breaker. Listen, I’ll explain the ins and outs of electrical systems when we’re out of here.”

  “Should I get out my phone? I have a flashlight app.”

  “Let’s not waste the time,” said Philip. “We’re almost at the door, and it’s a straight shot down the hallway and up the stairs.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Isn’t all that electrical stuff usually in the basement?” she asked.

  “Yes, Lizzy, it is. It’s quite possible that Louise is down here with us. So if you sense anyone out there, make sure to give them a big squeeze.”

  After a slight hesitation, Lizzy said, “Okay.”

  At the door of the hallway, Philip stopped. “Actually, we should check the hallway first,” he whispered. “Can you shine the light from your phone into the hallway?”

  Lizzy propped Philip against the wall next to the door and got out her phone.

  “Stay inside the room, just put your hand out,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Shine it toward the right. Go.”

  Lizzy popped the phone out the doorway, and Philip, gripping his right wrist with his left hand, looked out and then jumped back.

  “Okay. Now to the left. Go.”

  He looked in that direction, then back to the right.

  “Okay, it looks clear at the moment.” He leaned back against the doorframe. “Just give me a sec.”

  Lizzy watched him, her eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He pushed himself away from the doorframe and swayed.

  She caught his arm to steady him.

  ”Thanks. You might as well keep your phone out to light the way.”

  Lizzy looped Philip’s left arm over her shoulders and they started down the hallway.

  “I know you have to be a contortionist, but try to keep an eye out behind us,” said Philip.

  “Okay.”

  When they got to the stairs, Lizzy hoisted Philip from step to step, his breath whistling in and out in painful gasps, hers not much less labored. When they reached the top, Lizzy grasped the doorknob and tried to turn it.

  “It’s locked,” she said, her voice jumping an octave.

  “Dammit!” Philip swore through gritted teeth.

  Lizzy slipped out from under his arm, almost sending him tumbling back down the steps, and began banging her shoulder against the door.

  “Calm down,” came Philip’s voice, sharp, from the dark.

  Lizzy turned toward him. “We have to get out!”

  “Let’s just think this through. If she locked the door, she’s probably not waiting on the other side for us to eventually burst through so she can shoot us. I’m guessing it means she knows what happened to Millard, and she’s trying to give herself time to get away. Let’s not do anything rash.”

  Lizzy considered taking another run at the door, then took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Philip slid down the wall until he was sitting on the top step. His face was pasty, a slick of sweat on his forehead. They were silent for a few moments, the only sound the hoarse rasp of his breath.

  “Want me to try to wrap up your shoulder?” Lizzy asked, her voice unsteady.

  He shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay. I just need to rest for a minute. Sit down for a sec.”

  She sat.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, but her lower lip trembled.

  “You’re not upset by what you did, are you?”

  She shook her head unconvincingly.

  “He would have killed you—and me too, for that matter—if you hadn’t squeezed him.”

  She nodded again, but didn’t meet his eyes.

  Philip tried to move his right arm, then stopped with a grimace. “Lizzy, there’s a piece of paper in my jacket pocket—can you get it out?”

  She reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of legal paper.

  “Take a look at it,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his good hand.

  Lizzy shone the light from her phone onto the sheet. After a few seconds, her face went still. “What is this?” she asked, her voice stony.

  “I found it in Louise Mortensen’s desk. In a file labeled Millard.”

  She pointed with a trembling finger to the entry 12/5 PB Philadelphia. “That’s the day my dad died.”

  “I know.”

  “PB. That’s Patrick Ballard, isn’t it. They killed him in Philadelphia.”

  “That’s what I think it means.” He leaned toward her. “We always thought that George Millard killed your dad,” he said, his voice thready, “and that Louise Mortensen or her husband had him do it, but that paper proves it. I wanted you to see it.”

  “Are these all people he killed?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s a list of all the jobs he did for them.” He pointed to the last entry. “Does that look like someone you know?”

  “PC Sedona. That’s you.”

  Philip nodded.

  Lizzy folded the paper and tucked it into her own jacket pocket.

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Lizzy said, “How are we going to get out of here? Are we going to have to call 911?”

  Philip was silent for several seconds, and Lizzy was about to repeat the question when he spoke. “We could,” he said, his voice weak, “but we’d have an awful lot of questions to answer when the police showed up, including why I’m shooting up a mansion with an unregistered gun, and how yet another corpse shows up with a massive stroke.”

  “Yeah,” said Lizzy. After a moment, she said, “Should we call someone else?”

  “Like who?”

  “Andy?”

  “Do you want to call Andy? Get him involved?”

  “Not really. But I’m worried about you. You don’t look good.”

  He gave her a sickly grin. “Don’t worry about me, I’m tougher than nails.” He took a deep breath and winced. “Let’s see what we can do before we call in the cavalry. Can you look around and see if there’s another way out of here? If you can get out, you probably just need to flip the lock on the other side of the door to let me out.”

  “Okay,” she said, and stood.

  “Lizzy.”

  “Yes?”

  “I doubt Mortensen is still in the house, but be careful.”

  She nodded and hurried down the stairs.

  Lizzy carefully opened the first door and shone her phone’s flashlight into the room. It was a windowless utility room and, she noticed with a jolt to her stomach, contained the electrical panel. She opened its metal door and shone the light inside. She found the switch labeled Main, which was set to Off, and flipped it to On. The dim light that had illuminated the hallway when she had first made her way down the stairs came on.

  “Lizzy?” she heard Philip’s faint call.
/>   She ran to the bottom of the stairs. “That was me.”

  He nodded and let his head fall back against the wall of the stairwell.

  Lizzy returned to her search.

  The second door led to the movie room. She recalled it as also being windowless, and she wasn’t enthusiastic about reentering the room in which George Millard’s body lay to confirm that fact. She would return to the movie room if she wasn’t able to find an alternative.

  She opened the third door and flipped on a light inside the door. It was a storage area, neatly stacked boxes and furniture creating a central aisle, at the end of which, directly under the ceiling, was a tiny window.

  Lizzy ran to the window. She expected to see a moonlit sky but saw nothing but blackness. Even as slender as she was, it was hard to imagine fitting through it. There was still one door at the end of the hall to check—maybe it would provide a more appealing exit.

  She ran out of the storage room and to the last door. It didn’t look like any house door Lizzy had ever seen—it looked like metal, and hung in a metal frame. There was a handle next to a keypad. She tugged at the handle with little hope. The door didn’t budge.

  She ran back down the hall, then pulled up at the door to the movie room. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside. She shone the flashlight around the room, keeping the beam off the crumpled shape on the floor, but it was, as she had remembered, windowless.

  She backed out of the room and ran back up the stairs to Philip. He was slumped forward.

  She bent over him. “Philip?”

  He roused himself and looked up. His face was gray, his eyes squinted in pain.

  “Find a way out?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

  “Philip, you look really bad,” she said. The stain on his jacket had spread down the sleeve to his elbow. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call 911?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” His face was wet with sweat. “Remember what I said about prison? I really can’t see a way that calling 911 wouldn’t end up with me back in jail. And you somewhere maybe not much better. Like a lion in a circus.”

  Lizzy bent closer to him, thinking she had misheard him. “What?”