All Fall Down (22 page)

No. She should get to the telephone.

Clutching her furled umbrella, she crept forward to the edge of the living room, surveying it from behind the doorframe. Her eyes shot to the fireplace, where the remains of a fire smoldered, doing little to warm or light the big, high-ceilinged room, in which no lamps burned. Someone could be in there, she thought. Someone could easily be hiding behind some of that old furniture. She listened with hearing that in her terror seemed as acute as an animal’s, but she heard nothing. No movement, no breathing.

Slowly she stepped into the living room, wishing desperately she could turn on a lamp, but the draperies were open onto the foggy night, and she didn’t want to expose her location to someone who might be right outside, someone who could fire a gun through the big front window. No, she would have to search for a phone in the semidarkness.

She dropped down onto her knees to prevent casting a silhouette against the window, and began to crawl across a thick rug of some sort. She could smell the dust she was stirring up. She knew Bernice was fastidious in other people’s homes and she couldn’t imagine her being different about her own, but even a good vacuum cleaner would have been useless against this old, embedded dirt. Why on earth didn’t Bernice fix up this place? Money? she wondered inanely, reaching forward to grasp the curved leg of a table. Slowly she raised herself up, running her hand lightly across the tabletop. A crocheted doily. A picture frame, which she knocked over but caught before it crashed onto the floor. A hurricane lamp that felt handpainted. Leaves—a houseplant. No phone.

She dropped back down and continued her slow progress across an open expanse of rug. The fire was just about out now, and all she could see was vague shadows of furniture. To her right was a settee with pillows heaped at one end. In front of the settee was a coffee table, an unlikely place for a phone. Nevertheless, she swept her hands across it. Magazines, an ashtray, and a glass on a coaster. She picked up the glass, beaded with moisture from the ice cubes inside, and sniffed. Bourbon.

She crouched again. I will not give in to this impulse to shake and sob, she thought, although her legs were trembling and she could feel tears running down her cheeks. There has to be a phone somewhere in this house. My guess is that it’s in the living room, and I
will
find it before
he
finds
me
.

Slowly, carefully, she crawled on, grasping her umbrella, listening for the slightest sound coming from the back of the house where another door might be unlocked. But she heard nothing. Finally she made out the form of what looked like a chaise longue with an afghan or blanket tossed on it. Beside it was a table.

She raised herself up again, feeling like a cat gently standing on its hind legs to begin a sniffing investigation of forbidden knickknacks. The fire gave one final hiss and died. Now she was in complete darkness and she paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation that someone was right behind her, reaching for her—a fear that since childhood had engulfed her whenever she was plunged into sudden darkness. She held still until the rush of panic abated, then forced herself to go on. Her left hand touched something glass—an ashtray. And there was a book of some sort, a fabric-covered book with tiny protrusions at each page. Index tabs. It must be an alphabetized address book. She drew in her breath, knowing what she would touch next—a telephone!

She sank down on the floor again and took the receiver off the hook. Light glowed beneath the buttons and relief flooded through her. So the phone lines hadn’t been cut, as she’d feared. There was no 911 in this area. If she could only remember the number of the sheriff’s office. Or maybe she should simply dial the operator. Punching zero, she leaned heavily back against the chaise.

A hand landed on her shoulder.

Blaine shrieked and leaped to her feet, feeling the hand trail down her back. Dropping the phone receiver, she whirled, backing away from the chaise. No movement. No sound except a woman saying “C and P operator” on the phone. But Blaine’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and she could see it. Barely. A hand hanging limply from beneath the afghan. A hand dripping blood.

1

A tremendous force seemed to be pressing on Blaine’s chest. After her first scream, all other sounds caught in her throat. She felt as if she were choking. Then, finally, air rushed from her lungs and emerged in a long, rattling moan.

She couldn’t run away. Who knew what terror could be waiting outside in the fog? Who knew what terror could be waiting in the
house?
She had no choice but to face what lay in front of her.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Get hold of yourself. Just—get—hold—of—yourself.” She took a couple of trembling steps forward, her eyes riveted on the shadowy, motionless hand. The
dripping
hand. Gingerly she lifted an edge of the afghan and pulled it back. The puffy face of Bernice Litchfield was angled toward the front window, as if she had wanted to snatch one last glimpse of the world before she died. Automatically, without thought, Blaine pressed her fingers to the woman’s thick neck. At first she thought she imagined it; then she was sure. The faint fluttering of a pulse! Bernice wasn’t dead.

Blaine shook off her coat, turned it wrong-side out, and used her teeth to tear two small holes in the lining. Starting with the holes, she ripped two strips of nylon lining from the coat, then picked up Bernice’s right wrist. She took one of the strips and began tying it above the slash in the wrist, then stopped. There were bones in the lower arm that prevented her from tying the strip tight enough to form a tourniquet. Sweat popping out on her forehead in spite of the chilliness of the room, she moved the strip higher and tied the tourniquet above the elbow. Then she did the same on Bernice’s other arm, thinking all the time of how cold the woman was. Shock, naturally. Blaine recovered her with the afghan, felt her way over to the settee, gathered some pillows, and put them under Bernice’s feet. Finally she sank down on the floor, ignoring the blood that had seeped from Bernice’s slashed wrists. The phone receiver lay at her feet. The operator’s voice had been replaced by the noisy whine indicating the phone was off the hook. Blaine pressed the disconnect button for a moment, then dialed the operator again and asked to be connected with the emergency squad. Once she had given them the location of Bernice’s house, she called the sheriff’s office.

After she hung up, she crawled away from the chaise longue toward the fireplace. She withdrew a poker from the tarnished rack of tools beside the fireplace and huddled against the wall, too frightened to think about who could have done this to Bernice. If she could only hang on for a few minutes, she thought. If she and Bernice could both only hang on for a few minutes, help would arrive.

The phone rang and Blaine dropped the poker, looking at the telephone as if it were a living thing. But it wasn’t. It didn’t know it shrilled beside a dying body. It rang a second time. A friend of Bernice’s, Blaine thought. Or maybe Susie.

The phone rang a third, then a fourth, time, and Blaine suddenly wondered if it was Logan calling. Maybe her message had been garbled. She hadn’t been exactly articulate when she called the sheriff’s office, and she hadn’t talked to him. What if he was calling to confirm where she was? What if he didn’t come, and the killer was still around?

She retrieved the poker, crept across the floor and picked up the receiver, managing a weak “Hello?”

A needle dropping down on a record. Oh, God, oh, no, Blaine thought. Scratching sounds. Then a strong male voice singing with reverence:

2

She was vaguely aware of cars pulling up in front of the house, of footsteps crossing the porch, of the door being opened cautiously. Light flooded the entrance hall, then Logan was calling, “Blaine? Where are you?”

“Here,” she whispered, curled against the table, the phone receiver still locked in her hand.

“Blaine?”

More footsteps. Careful footsteps. Men with guns drawn, not knowing what they were walking into. How brave policemen are, Blaine thought vaguely. How brave to walk into such danger.

She was aware of shapes by the living room door. “There’s no one in here but me,” she said hoarsely. “I’m over here with Bernice, but she’s dying.”

A lamp flared. She heard Logan say, “Stroud, you and Clarke check the rest of the house, and be careful.” Then he was beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “Blaine?” he said softly.

She looked up. Shadows hollowed his face with its chiseled features and prominent cheekbones, making it look slightly frightening. She swallowed. “I’m all right. But Bernice—her wrists—just like the others. Oh, Logan.”

She couldn’t look as he drew back the afghan. “Did you put the tourniquets on her arms?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“No one in the kitchen or dining room,” someone said.

“Is anyone checking the upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Then you look outside. And let the EMS people in here now.”

Logan knelt beside Blaine, put his hands under her arms, and drew her to her feet. “There’s blood all over you.”

“I know.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“She called me,” Blaine replied as people entered and began working on Bernice. “She said she needed to talk to me.”

“Talk to you about what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know?
” Logan prodded. Blaine shook her head, glancing away from him. “She just said she wanted to talk to you, and you came right out?”

“She sounded upset.”

In the background Blaine heard someone say, “Blood pressure eighty over forty. Let’s give her a vasopressor. Adrenalin, quick.”

Logan held Blaine away from his chest, looking at her intently. “Okay. Bernice was upset. What happened next?”

“I drove out here. She didn’t answer the door and there weren’t any lights, so I decided to drive home. But my car wouldn’t start. The car telephone wouldn’t work, either. So I started walking back to Prescott Road. Then someone stepped out from the woods. Someone with a gun.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Logan. He had a coat on with the collar turned up, it was foggy, and he almost immediately shone a flashlight in my eyes. Then he cocked the gun and I ran.” Her breath quickened at the memory. “He chased me through the woods. When I made it to the yard, he shot at me twice.”

“Twice?”

“Yes. I got inside and I passed out for a few minutes. I’ve never fainted in my life, but I was out cold for a few minutes—I’m not sure how long. Maybe up to fifteen minutes.”

“Did you find Bernice before you passed out?”

“No. I woke up in the entrance hall. No lights were on in here, but I knew I had to get to a phone. Whoever chased me could still have been around. I crawled through the living room in the dark, and I found Bernice.”

“No one upstairs.” Blaine looked over to see Abel Stroud standing in the doorway. “Want me to turn on some more lights?”

“Please,” one of the EMS attendants said. “It’s pretty hard to work by flashlight.”

“Go ahead,” Logan said. He glanced down at the afghan that had been heaped over Bernice. “Did you cover her?”

“No. She was already covered. Completely. I only drew back the afghan from her face at first.”

“Good thing you put on the tourniquets,” one of the EMS attendants said. “You could have saved her life.”

Blaine nodded. “I hope I did it right. I know how dangerous it can be to cut off the blood supply for an extended period of time…” She was aware of Clarke joining Stroud to begin a slow inspection of the living room.

“What did you touch in here?” Logan asked.

“All the tabletops. It was dark. I couldn’t turn on any lights because I was afraid of making myself an easy target. So I crawled across the floor and fumbled my hands over the furniture until I found the phone.”

“Where’s Robin?”

Blaine tensed. “Oh, my God, she’s alone at the house. I didn’t even call…” Tears began to run down her face, and her hands trembled in nervous reaction.

The EMS attendants slid Bernice off the chaise longue onto a stretcher and headed outside, where revolving red lights splashed bloody color through the open front door and the uncurtained front window.

“Clarke, drive Mrs. Avery home,” Logan said.

Clarke gazed at him in surprise. “
Home?
Not down to headquarters? I mean, this is the
third
time she’s found a body—”

“I know exactly how many damned times it is!” Logan flared, causing Clarke to gape at him. “Just take her home for now, then stay with her. Abel and I have work to do.” He looked at Blaine, and his words came out as a threat. “I’ll talk to you later.”

3

Ten minutes later Blaine braced herself when Clarke, nearly vibrating with suspicion and hostility, let her out in front of her house. She opened the box beside the front door, punched in the proper code to disarm the alarm system, then reached for her purse. She didn’t have it. She must have left it in her car or dropped it in the woods; she couldn’t remember now. She rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. Even outside she could hear music pounding from Robin’s room, and she felt unreasonably annoyed. While she had been running for her life out at Bernice’s farm,
because
of Robin, the girl had been here sulking and listening to music.

As Clarke stood by, quietly furious with the duty he’d been assigned, Blaine walked around the house to Robin’s room and saw with horror that the bedroom window was up. “Robin!” she shouted. The girl didn’t appear. “Robin, it’s me.”

Blaine stood on tiptoe and peered in. The room was empty and she felt a surge of anger, quickly followed by apprehension. “Robin! Robin, are you there?”

Nothing but the sound of Mick Jagger screaming about being between a rock and a hard place. Blaine ran back to Clarke, saying in a high, near hysterical voice, “Her window is open! Music is playing in her room, but she isn’t there!”

For the first time Clarke’s young face lost its angry look. “She wasn’t planning to go out, was she?”

“No! She was here when I left. I told her not to let anyone in!”

Suddenly Ashley appeared at the front window, pushing aside the draperies as she barked. “Ash, where’s Robin?” Blaine yelled without thinking, until she saw the deputy throwing her a dubious look. Obviously he was not one who talked to animals. “We have to get in through her window,” Blaine told him, “but I’m not tall enough. Can you give me a boost into the room?”

At that moment Robin’s blue Camero pulled into the driveway. Blaine nearly sobbed in relief, but when the girl stepped from the car, she demanded, “Where the hell have you been?”

Robin drew back slightly at the sight of the deputy. “I went out for a little while.”

“Out where?”

“Just out. Driving.”

“After I left? After I
told
you to stay here?”

The girl’s eyes darted from left to right. “Yes, after you left. I just needed some fresh air.”

“You needed fresh
air
,” Blaine said incredulously. “You needed fresh air so you went out—with a killer on the loose?”

Robin licked her lips. “Yeah. I don’t see that it’s such a big deal. You did it.”

“Why is your window open?”

“Is it? I guess I forgot to close it.”

Blaine’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath. “We’ll talk about this later. Just open the door, please. I seem to have lost my purse.”

4

Thirty minutes afterward, the doorbell rang. “That’s the sheriff,” Clarke said, seeming relieved. Blaine and Robin had sat in steaming silence ever since they’d come in the front door. “I’ll let him in.”

Blaine picked up the framed photograph of her and Martin taken at Christmas last year. They were sitting in front of the Christmas tree, Blaine wearing a turquoise velour robe and the diamond-and-pearl earrings that had been Martin’s present to her. Martin sported the red cashmere scarf that had been one of her gifts to him. He looked much younger than his years, his smile wide, his blue eyes reflecting deep happiness. A week later he would be lying in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down, blaming her for his helplessness. I miss you, Blaine thought miserably. I miss the way you used to be and how secure you made me feel.

Logan looked tired to the bone. He needs coffee, Blaine thought, but I can’t fix it. My legs are still trembling. “Robin, would you put on some coffee, please?” she asked finally.

“I make terrible coffee.”

“Just put it on, Robin. I don’t think any of us is that concerned about the quality right now.”

The girl reluctantly left the room. Blaine turned to Logan. “Did you find any trace of the person who chased me?”

“No, Blaine. Nothing.”

“
Nothing?
I was fired at twice. Didn’t you find bullets lodged in anything, like the porch posts?”

“A cursory search didn’t show anything. We’ll need daylight to carry on a thorough search.”

Blaine rubbed her forehead. No, of course there weren’t bullets lodged in anything. That had only happened when Martin died, making her look guilty.

“Blaine, is there anything else you can tell me about tonight?”

“About being at the house?”

“Yes.”

She stood up and walked to the fireplace. “The phone. I got a phone call.”

“Before or after Bernice’s call?”

“At Bernice’s house!”

“You got a call at Bernice Litchfield’s house?”

“That’s right. It was like the other calls I’ve been getting—no one spoke, they only played a song. “ ‘Rock of Ages.’”

“ ‘Rock of Ages’? What does that have to do with Bernice?”

“She hummed it or sang it all the time. She nearly drove Martin to distraction with it. He spoke to her about it a couple of times, and she’d act hurt, and then the next day she’d forget and start singing it again.”

Logan stared at her. “Blaine, how could the killer have chased you into Bernice’s house, then called you? There aren’t any pay phones nearby.”