by Linda Howard
“Got it.”
“There’s a strong chance no one is watching you at any given time, just doing drive-bys to see if your car is here and if my truck is here, so I’m taking your car, and leaving my truck parked out front.”
“How would she know you’re involved with me at all if she isn’t literally watching me?”
“If she knows where you work, then she’s seen my truck parked at Great Bods on the nights when you’re closing. It’s a distinctive vehicle. She could easily have followed both of us here one night.”
Something occurred to me and I gasped. “She’s the one who keyed my car!”
“Probably.” The readiness with which he agreed told me he’d already thought of that.
“That’s vandalism! I hope that at least raises this to a Class A misdemeanor.” I was a bit disgruntled at being a Class B, or whatever.
“Class-One misdemeanor,” he corrected. “And, yes, it does. If this person actually did the damage, or had it done.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said impatiently. “Innocent until proven guilty, and all that crap. My ass.”
He gave a brief laugh and bent to retrieve the phone from the coffee table. “I’m impressed by your sense of justice. And I love your ass.”
Actually, I already knew that.
We swapped keys, or rather Wyatt did; I simply gave him my extra key to the Mercedes, which wasn’t on a key ring, while he had to take the key to the Avalanche off his ring because his extra, of course, was at his house. I had once pointed out that having the extra at home did him no good if he lost his keys, to which he had smugly replied that he didn’t lose his keys.
“I relocked the front door when I came in,” he said as he let himself out the side door, into the portico. “Don’t forget to set the alarm.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s already late, and I don’t have clothes here for tomorrow, so I won’t be back tonight unless you hear or see something, but if you do, call nine-one-one before you call me. Got it?”
“Wyatt.”
“Call nine-one-one on the landline so they’ll have your address, and use the cell to call me.”
“Wyatt!” I said, getting more annoyed with every word out of his mouth.
He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”
“Hello, telephone expert here! I grew up with one attached to my ear. I also know how nine-one-one works. I think I can manage.”
“Hello, cop here,” he replied, mimicking my tone. “I tell people what to do. It’s my job.”
“Oh, great,” I muttered. “You’re turning into me.”
He grinned, grasped me behind the neck, and pulled me to him for a quick, hungry kiss. I didn’t have time to bite him, it was so quick.
“Three things,” he said. “For the record.”
“What?”
“One: it isn’t just your hissy fits that turn me on. So far, pretty much everything does the trick.”
I didn’t look down at his crotch, but I wanted to.
“Two: I didn’t think I would, but I love the haircut. You’re cute as hell.”
Involuntarily I touched my hair. He’d noticed!
“And three…”
I waited, unwillingly breathless with anticipation.
“You still owe me a blow job.”
I double-checked every door and window, and made certain the alarm was set. I pulled the curtains over the double French doors leading from the dining alcove onto the covered patio. My small backyard had a six-foot privacy fence around it and a gate that could only be unlocked from inside, but a six-foot barrier isn’t insurmountable. The fence was for privacy, not security. Big difference.
If I were going to break into a place, I’d pick the back, so there would be a much smaller chance of being seen. With that in mind, I turned on the little white lights that festooned the trees, and the patio light. Then I turned on the light over the side door, in the portico. I turned on the front porch light. I felt a little dumb, lighting up the place like a Christmas tree, but I didn’t want any entrance to my home shrouded in darkness.
As tired as I was, I was too uneasy to sleep. I also still needed to do some thinking about Wyatt, to figure out exactly which issues had been addressed tonight and which hadn’t, but at the same time keep an eye out for some moron in a Malibu. I don’t know if it’s possible to deeply ponder issues and at the same time be hypervigilant. I’m guessing not.
I compromised by staying awake and not having the television on, or the earbuds of my iPod stuck in my ears, so I could hear any unusual noises, and doing mundane stuff that didn’t need a lot of concentration. I got out the clothes I was going to wear the next day. I got my new shoes out of the closet and tried them on again, and they were as gorgeous as they had been last Thursday when I’d bought them. I walked in them to make certain they were comfortable, since I’d be wearing them for hours. They were. I was in shoe heaven.
That reminded me that my snazzy blue boots from Zappos should have arrived, but any delivery was left on the steps under the portico and there hadn’t been anything there. I suppose some new delivery person could have left the box on the front porch, but in that case Wyatt would have brought it in. No delivery, then.
I was still carrying a summer purse, and it was time to switch to a more substantial autumnal bag, so I got my purse from downstairs, carried it up, and dumped the contents on my bed. Jazz’s invoice from Sticks and Stones caught my attention, of course, and I went over it again item by item. Part of me was outraged by Monica Stevens, but part of me had to admire her; it takes guts to overprice things by that much.
I swapped everything over to a nice leather tote, and stored the summer bag on the top shelf of my closet. Then I checked Caller ID on the upstairs cordless to see if there had been any more calls from Denver. Nothing.
Finally I couldn’t think of any other trivial things to waste time with, and I was yawning, so I crawled into bed and turned out the light. As soon as I did, of course, I was no longer sleepy. Every sound I heard seemed creepy, even those I knew.
I got up, turned the lights back on, and went downstairs to the kitchen where I selected the biggest chef’s knife I owned. Comforted by the weapon—hey, it was better than nothing—I went back upstairs. Five minutes later, I was back downstairs digging in the closet under the stairs, where I unearthed my big black umbrella that looked like something out of Mary Poppins. I usually carry smaller, more colorful umbrellas, but I have the big black one just because I think everyone should have a serious umbrella. Closed, it was very sturdy; I figured it was strong enough to hold off a psycho stalker bitch while I whacked at her with my chef’s knife. With my umbrella lying on the bed on top of the covers, and the knife on my bedside table, I felt as prepared as I was likely to be, short of buying a shotgun.
I turned out the lights, lay down, and promptly sat up again. This was not going to work. Getting up, I turned on the lights in the hall and on the stairs. That way I had light, but it wasn’t shining directly in my eyes, plus anyone who came to the door would be silhouetted against the light but wouldn’t be able to see me. Good plan.
As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered why I didn’t own a shotgun. Single woman, living alone; a shotgun made sense. Every woman needs a shotgun.
I woke an hour later to roll over and look at the clock. Fifteen after two. All was quiet. I checked Caller ID again; no calls had come in.
I should have gone to Mom and Dad’s, I thought. Or to Siana’s. At least then I’d have been able to sleep. Now I’d be exhausted all day tomorrow.
I dozed off again, and woke a little after three. No crazy was silhouetted against the light. I didn’t check the phone, because by this point I didn’t care if the crazy bitch had called. Sort of half dozing, I tried to get comfortable in bed. My knee banged the umbrella. I felt hot and uncomfortable, and the flickering light was annoying.
Flickering light? If the electricity went out, I would so freak.
My eyes opened
and I stared at the hall, where the light seemed to be steady enough, but the light in my bedroom was definitely flickering.
Except I hadn’t left any lights on in my bedroom.
I sat up and stared at my windows. Beyond the pulled curtains, red lights danced.
From below came a huge crash as something broke the windows, and my alarm began its cautionary beeping, warning that it was about to erupt into full shrill. “Shit!” I leaped out of bed, grabbed the umbrella and chef’s knife, and bolted into the hall, only to reel back as a blast of heat and fiery sparks rose to meet me.
“Shit!” I said again, retreating to the bedroom and slamming the door against the heat and smoke. Belatedly, my fire alarm began its piercing shriek.
I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, but nothing happened. The phone service was already gone. So much for that plan. I had to get out of here! Roasting alive was so not on my schedule. I grabbed my cell and punched in 911 as I ran to the front window and looked out.
“This is the nine-one-one emergency operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“My house is on fire!” I screamed. Shit! The whole front of the condo was leaping with flames. “My address is three-one-seven Beacon Hills Way!”
I ran to the other window, the one overlooking the portico. Flames were already eating through the slanted roof right below the window. Shit!
“I’ve dispatched the fire department to your address,” said the calm operator. “Is anyone else in the house with you?”
“No, I’m alone, but this is a condo and there are four units in this building.” The heat and smoke were building at a terrifying speed, and all of my windows were blocked by fire. I couldn’t go downstairs and out through the French doors in back because whatever had been thrown through the windows had ignited the entire living room, by the looks of it, and the stairs ended there by the front door.
The second bedroom! Its windows overlooked the back, which was secured by the privacy fence.
“Can you get out, and direct the fire department to the correct building?” the operator asked.
“I’m upstairs and the whole downstairs is on fire, but I’m going to give it the old college try,” I said, coughing on the smoke. “I’m going out the window. Bye now.”
“Please stay on the line,” she said urgently.
“Maybe you didn’t understand,” I yelled. “I’m going out the window! I can’t do that and talk on the phone at the same time! The fire department will be able to spot the condo just fine, tell them to look for the one with flames shooting out the windows!”
Flipping the phone shut, I tossed it in my bag, then darted in the bathroom and wet a towel, which I tied over my nose and mouth, then I wet another one and draped it over my head.
All the experts say don’t bother getting your purse or anything, just get out, because you have only seconds to do it. I didn’t listen to the experts. I not only grabbed the tote, which held my wallet and cell phone and Jazz’s invoices from Sticks and Stones—the invoices seemed horribly important—I also grabbed the chef’s knife and dropped it into the tote bag, too. The plan was, when I got out of this death trap, if I saw some psycho bitch out there, leaning against a white Malibu and gloating, I intended to gut her.
I made it to the bedroom door, then turned and made a swooping dive at my closet. Grabbing my wedding shoes, I stuffed them in the tote bag, too. Then, barefoot, I wrenched open my bedroom door. With a great whoosh the flames in the living room seemed to rush up the stairs. Sparks danced in the air, and black smoke already obscured the hallway. I knew exactly where I was, though, and exactly where the door to the other bedroom was. Getting down on my hands and knees, with the braided handles of the tote looped on my shoulder, I crawled as fast as possible down the hall. The smoke burned my eyes like all the fiends in Hell, so I simply shut them. I couldn’t see where I was going anyway. I knew by feel when I reached the doorway, and raised on my knees to search for the doorknob. I found it, turned, and pushed inward, then all but fell into the relatively clear air of the bedroom.
Relatively clear. Smoke boiled in the open door and I hurriedly shut it again, coughing as the evil black stuff sifted around the edges of my wet towel and through the fabric. At least it wasn’t so thick I couldn’t see the lighter rectangle of the window. I crawled to it, pushed the curtains aside, fumbled with the latches—“Damn it!” I said hoarsely, when one wouldn’t give. “Son of a bitch!” I was not going to let that bitch burn me to death.
Unslinging the tote from my shoulder, I reached into it and by some miracle didn’t cut my finger off on the razor-sharp blade of the chef’s knife. Grabbing the heavy knife by the handle, I began whamming the butt of it against the stubborn latch.
From downstairs I heard more glass shatter from the heat. I whammed harder, and the latch began giving. Two more whams, and it slid open.
Gasping for breath, coughing, I shoved the double-hung window open and hung over the sill, trying to stay below the smoke that poured out of the room so I could find some fresh air. My lungs were on fire, despite the wet towel protecting my mouth and nose.
I heard sirens, I thought, but maybe my own fire alarm was still valiantly shrilling an alert. Maybe the neighbor’s alarm had gone off. Maybe the fire department had arrived. I couldn’t tell, but I wasn’t waiting to see.
I threw the comforter off the four-poster guest bed and stripped both sheets off so fast I pulled the mattress half off the bed with the force of my tugging. Working as fast as I could, I knotted one corner of the sheet around the leg of the footboard, then tied the other sheet to the opposite corner of the first sheet, making a sheet rope that reached from the bed to the window, and down the side of the condo.
I didn’t stop to see if the sheet rope was long enough, I just tossed my tote out the window, then grabbed the sheet and went out the window.
It’s funny how the body works. I didn’t consciously think about how I was going out the window, but my body knew what to do from all those gymnastic exercises. I climbed out feet first, then automatically caught the sill and turned so I was facing the outside of the building and could brace my feet against the wall.
Holding tight to the sheet, I began lowering myself hand over hand, my feet “walking” down the wall—until I ran out of both sheet and wall. I hung there for a minute, panicked; to my left, flames were breaking through the kitchen window. The guest bedroom was built to overhang the bottom floor, the bedroom floor providing the cover for the small patio. I had no more wall to walk down, and below me was an eight-foot drop.
What the hell. I’d been higher than that when I was at the top of a cheerleader pyramid. And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I’m five-four. With my arms stretched over my head I can probably reach six and a half feet, give or take a few inches. That left just a foot and a half to the ground, right?
Not that I was hanging there doing math. I just looked down, thought, “How far can it be?” and let my legs swing down. When my arms were fully extended, I let go.
I think it was farther than a foot and a half.
Still, I landed with my knees bent the way I had trained, the cool damp grass absorbing some of the impact, and rolled.
I came to my knees and stared at the spectacle before me. Sparks were shooting into the air like obscene fireworks. The fire made a roaring sound, as if it were alive. I’d never heard a fire before, never been close to a burning building, but it’s this…this own thing in itself, something with a whole new identity. For now, while it burned, it was alive, and it wouldn’t die without a fight.
I was still trapped, there in the tiny fenced backyard with the flames devouring my home, looming over me, blackened walls threatening to collapse. Scrabbling around on the ground, I located the dark tote and this time looped the straps diagonally over my head and shoulders, then darted for the gate. I shoved the heavy latch open, pushed on the gate—and nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge.
“Son of a bitch!” I shrieked
hoarsely, so furious I could barely stay in my skin. Forget the knife; if I could get my hands on that moronic psycho nutcase bitch, I wouldn’t need a blade, I’d do the job with my bare hands. I’d tear her throat out with my teeth. I’d set her hair on fire and toast marshmallows in the flame.
No, wait. That could get icky. Forget the marshmallows.
After climbing out a second-story window, a six-foot fence wasn’t about to get the better of me. Reaching up, I caught the top of the fence and hauled myself up far enough to hook my right leg over, then I pushed upright, swung my left leg over, and vaulted to the ground.
Red lights were flashing everywhere. Men in yellow turnout suits were moving with urgent purpose, stringing out thick fire hoses, attaching them to pumps and fireplugs. People in their nightclothes were spilling into the street, some of them with pants hastily pulled on over pajamas, the fire and flashing lights throwing weird shapes and shadows over them. A fireman grabbed me and yelled something but I couldn’t understand him, because the fire trucks themselves made a god-awful amount of noise, added to the roar of the fire and sirens from other emergency vehicles that came racing toward us.
I guessed he was asking if I was hurt, so I yelled, “I’m okay!” Then I yelled, “That’s my condo!” and pointed to it.
With one arm he literally lifted me off my feet and rushed me away from the fire, away from the showers of sparks and exploding glass, away from the blasting streams of water, the sagging electrical lines, and didn’t let go until I was safely on the other side of the street.
I still had the wet towel tied over my mouth and nose; I’d lost the one I’d thrown over my head, somewhere between dropping and rolling. Whipping the towel free, I sank to my knees and sucked in fresh air as deeply as I could, coughing and gagging at the same time. When the coughing subsided a little and I could stand up, I began working my way through the crowd of people, pushing when I had to, wiggling my way through when I could, looking for a psycho bitch who would, obviously, be dressed in regular clothes instead of a nightgown or pajamas.