“Watch it. I outrank you.” We exchanged a little laughter, and I looked at the handsome man across the table from me. He was gorgeous to behold, a pleasure to talk to, possessed an admirable intelligence and a noble dedication to his work.
So why was I suddenly uncomfortable? Why did I feel out of place? Each time I saw West I had experienced a sense of joy and a soft feeling just behind my sternum. But this moment wasn't right, and I didn't know why.
“You okay?”
“Yesâof courseâwhy?” Three statements in four words. I was overcompensating.
“You seem . . . distant.” He leaned forward. “If you're still bothered by things I said early today, don't be. I said things more firmly than I meant to. Serial killings do that to me.”
“You didn't say anything wrong. I suppose I had it coming.” My uneasiness grew. Emotions detached from facts bothered me. If I was to be angry, then I wanted a reason for my anger. If I'm disquieted, then I wanted a reason for that. I had no reason for what I was feeling. I should experience joy and relief. I had finally let loose enough to go out with Judson West. So where was the schoolgirl euphoria? Had I been mourning the loss of my husband for so long that I could no longer have strong emotions for a man?
I had just finished a piece of pie, but for some reason I wanted a brownie and hot chocolate. I wasn't hungry. I didn't need the sugar fix. I wanted the simple, relaxed emotion I felt with Jerry last night as we watched the surf roll in and the moon paint the ocean.
This was a surprise, and I was too weary for surprises. That had to be it. I was just too worn out to process my emotions properly.
“I'm beat,” I said. “Sleep hasn't been my friend lately. I think I'd better call it a night.”
West studied me for a moment, then reached for his wallet. Instinctively, I reached for my purse. “Oh no, you don't. My male ego won't allow it. Put that away.”
“How do you know that I wasn't just reaching for my keys?” We had chosen to meet at Butch's. It didn't make sense to drive there in one car, then drive back to city hall to retrieve my car so I could drive home. I'm nothing if not fixated upon efficiency.
“I'm a detective, remember? That makes me a keen observer of all things human.” I put my purse aside and waited for the waiter to make change. A few minutes later I was in my car driving home and wondering at what point I had fully and completely lost my mind.
I
t was nearing ten thirty when I pulled onto my street and made my way toward home. My weariness was taking no excuses. I had put it off long enough. My blinks were getting longer, and I was glad that I only had a short distance to go. Sleep was what I needed and sleep was what I intended to get, if I could get my mind to cooperate. It was still mush, little more than Jell-O in the sun. My time with West had been disappointing, and I still didn't know why. He had been the perfect gentleman, witty, humorous, and concerned. It should have been the perfect date, but it never felt right, ill-fitting. I began to think that I needed psychiatric help.
I slowed as my house came into view. The front porch light shed yellow light across my tiny front lawn and spilled out on to the street. I decreased speed more than normal. West had said that an Atlas Security guard would be waiting for me. I didn't want to startle him. The house was dark as I expected it to be at this hour and the front yard was empty. No guard. I pulled into the drive and waited, assuming that he must be around the back of the house. A guard isn't much of a guard if he doesn't check the parameter. Nothing. Finally, I pushed the button that sent a signal to my garage door opener and waited for it to finish its slow rise, then I pulled in.
I switched off the engine, reached for my purse with one hand while pushing the same button that opened the door. It began its noisy descent, clanging and popping. There had to be a quieter contraption than what I had, and if there was, I would buy it in a heartbeat.
Stepping from the SUV, I moved toward the door that opened into the house. The garage light was on a timer. It came on whenever the big door opened and then extinguished itself sixty seconds later. Since I didn't want to be fumbling around in the garage looking for the light switch, I wasted no time entering the house. The Uniform Building Code requires that all doors leading from a garage into a house be fire rated and have a self-closing device. My house was no different.
I stepped across the threshold and reached for the light switch that would turn on the foyer light. Instantly the gloom was replaced by warm illumination. There was a beeping. There was always an electronic beeping when I entered. It was my security system reminding me that if I didn't enter a code in the next few seconds, calls would be made, police would arrive, and I might be facing a stiff fine for a false report. I obeyed my electronic master, approaching the living room control box and pushing buttons on the keypad to let the system know I belonged there. Red and green lights gave me information. Once the code was entered the beeping stopped and a green light shone next to the word Disarmed.
While driving home I had considered a short walk on the beach. I frequently took leisurely strolls along the sand bathed in the ivory moonlight. But West's concern had turned up my own, and I thought it unwise. Instead, I'd have a glass of milk and call it a night. Before I did, I had one more bedtime routine to perform. I punched in my code and a button with the word Stay printed on it. Once done the perimeter with its doors and windows would be armed but the internal motion detectors would be deactivated. A good thing, too. Having the alarm go off every time I get up to use the bathroom would wear thin real quick.
I waited for the green light by the word Stay to come on. It didn't. I reentered the code and pressed the right button. A red light stared back at me.
“Now what?” I said to myself. I looked closer at the control panel. A red light was shining next to a label reading Doors. It meant a door was open. But how could that be? The alarm was fine when I entered the house and the only door I had touched was the one from the garage. It must not have closed completely. That was the problem with self-closers. Sometimes they didn't do what they had been designed to do. I had a more detailed control panel in my bedroom. From there I could determine which doors and windows were open, but that was upstairs. I decided to check the door I had just used first. It couldn't be anything else.
My cell phone rang and I jumped. I opened my purse and found the annoying device. I looked at the caller ID. It was Jerry.
“Hello,” I said.
“It's me. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”
“I'm fine. I just got in and was locking up.”
I turned and stepped toward the door. Sure enough, it hadn't closed all the way and there would be no setting the alarm until it was completely shut. I raised my free hand and pressed it against the unclosed door. What was the children's joke? When is a door not a door? When it is ajarâ
The door swung open with a bang, hitting me on the wrist, and crashing into the wall. I cried out in pain and instinctively backpedaled. My cell phone fell on the carpeted floor. I screamed in pain.
“Maddy? Maddy!” Jerry's voice sounded tiny and miles away as it percolated out of the cell phone's speaker.
Someone charged through the door, erupting from the black sepulcher of the garage and into the thin light from the lobby chandelier. I was doubled over, holding my throbbing wrist, which sent lightning bolts of pain up my arm and through my body. I felt sick to my stomach but that lasted less than a moment. The frigid water of fear filled my belly the next second. Before me stood a figure dressed all in black. A black ski mask covered his head and face. Equally black leather gloves were clinched into knotted fists.
“Whoâ”
The right hand opened and struck me on the right cheek. My head snapped to the left, then sensations ran amok. Pain filled the side of my head, my neck popped at the sudden movement, I tasted blood, and my brain seemed to rattle in my skull. All this before I hit the floor.
For a moment, I forgot my wrist.
“Maddy! Maddy! Talk to me.” Lying on the floor I could hear Jerry's voice better but it didn't matter. The phone was four or five feet from me and if my rational mind hadn't just been slapped out of me, I might have reached for it. My uninvited guest had other ideas. A giant step later he had the phone in hand. Coolly, he pressed a button, closed the flip lid, and then threw it at the opposite wall, where it gouged the drywall and clattered to the floor, now more paperweight than phone.
He watched it fall. I let him. I rolled on my stomach and pushed myself up, sprinting for the stairs, hoping to put some distance between us. I felt something move in my wrist; something I've never felt move before. It conjured up a fiery gorge of nausea. I pushed it down. There would be time to vomit later, if I lived. And if I didn't . . . well, then it really didn't matter.
Driven by fear as deep as any I had ever felt, I made for the stairs. I took the first two in one stride, the third in one, then watched as the steps rose to meet me. My left leg wasn't working. I commanded it to move but it was weighted. I turned. My attacker had seized my foot. I pulled. I yanked. I kicked. I stayed put. Then came the tug and it was hard. I felt the stairs dig into my ribs despite the carpet and padding. I clutched for the handrail and missed, but managed to seize one of the turned balustrades.
He yanked my leg but I held on. The force was enough to make me certain that my knee would separate or my hip would slip out of joint. He stopped, and I turned in time to see he had chosen a different approach. He was starting up the stairs. I had only made a few risers so the trip was short.
The black figure stood above me. From my supine position he seemed to tower. The light from the foyer silhouetted his masked face. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of hair and began pulling me up. My heart had stopped beating; instead it quivered without rhythm. I couldn't breathe. I was being suffocated by fear.
He yanked my head around and my body followed. Something pressed against my jawâa hand. The pain searing my scalp from where he held my hair lessened as he let go. He placed that hand on the back of my head. I felt my head turn slightly and my neck twist. His fingers wiggled on my jaw. I thought of Jose Lopez. I thought of Jim Fritz. I thought of a guard found dead in his guard shack. So this was what it was like for them.
My fear melted away. My heart steadied. My mind came back online. For years I had watched old movies and had always been critical of the way they portrayed women as helpless, good only for screaming and stepping to the side until rescued by the hero. If I was going to die, I wasn't going to die like one of those silver-screen goddesses.
He moved my head to the right as if measuring the distance it would travel, then eased it to the left. I had never seen someone break another person's neck, but I knew that the next second would bring a snapping motion that would end my days. I could yield to it and it would all be over in moments.
I thought of my mother. I thought of my father. I thought of Nat and Celeste and Fritzy and Titus and Larry and West. And I thought of Jerry. Poor Jerry. This act would surely kill him as it killed me.
I pulled at the arm with the hand that held the head God built. At best, I could hold him off a second, maybe two. But if I tried, his practiced move might not work, and I might lie on the stairs suffering a slow death.
If I were to be another victim, I decided, I'd be one he'd remember for the rest of his miserable life. I placed one foot on the nose of the next tread, then the other, and pushed backward as hard as I could. If he wanted to break my neck, maybe I could return the favor.
He rocked backward, and I fought for purchase and pushed again. Legs that pounded a treadmill five days a week and fueled by fear-laced adrenaline did their work.
We fell backward. He landed on the stairs. I landed on him. And I heard the glorious sound of his head bouncing on a stair tread. He let go on the way down, clawing for the rail to one side and the wall on the other. His body cushioned my fall. The stairs knocked the wind from him, which spewed out in a guttural grunt.
I kept pushing backward hoping that he wouldn't have time to regain his composure. I raised myself up, scrabbled up the stairs, but felt the fleshy vise of his hand clutch my other ankle and pull. I went down again, my face by his feet.
If my face was by his feet, then maybe my feet were by his face. I kicked for all I was worth. One heel hit something soft; next my other heel hit something hard. I knew it was the treads on the stairs. I had also gotten some part of his head.
Again I was free. I crawled up two more steps before he was on me. Arms wrapped around my waist, and suddenly I was in the air, then falling. He had lifted me and tossed me over the handrail.
I landed on the floor hard, and it was my turn to feel my breath leave my body. Had I been farther up the stairs, the fall would have broken something. Air or no air, I had to get to my feet. I was beyond pain. Survival was at the forefront of my mind. I must have caught him a good one with my foot, because it took a second for him to gather himself and start down the stairs.
A second was a blessing. I staggered to my feet. My vision was blurred, and my lungs demanded air. I heard a thud behind me but I had no time to wonder about it. I started for the front door, but it was too near the staircase. I'd never make it.
On the wall near the staircase was the alarm panel. It had a panic button, but the odds of me battling my way past my assassin long enough to hit the alarm was nil. Instead, I turned and charged for the dining room. If I could open the sliding glass doors, I could make it outside. If I could do that, I could scream loud enough and long enough to be my own alarm.
If only I could get outside.