Cheated By Death (33 page)

We ran for the house. Richard paused at the
locked, front door. I raced for the back door. Hunks of glass still
clung to the window frame; the woodwork around the door was
splintered where Ray must have kicked it in.

I yanked open the door, and barreled through
the kitchen to the main entry.

“Maggie! Brenda!”

Smeared, bloody handprints marred the
walls.

Bolting through the hallway, I made for the
stairs.

Where the hell was Maggie?

I rounded the corner, a blue mound blocked my
way.

It moved.

“Maggie!”

She raised a bloodied hand, reaching for the
banister. I crouched beside her, noticed a welling cut along her
scalp.

Enraged male screams from above shattered the
quiet.

“He hit me with a camcorder—went after
Brenda. He’s up there now,” Maggie cried. “Go!”

“Find a phone—call the cops!” I stepped over
her and took the stairs two at a time.

Topping the landing, I skidded past the
master bedroom, nearly tripping on the discarded video recorder—saw
only the empty rumpled bed in the room.

Sounds crashed above me: Ray’s frustrated
yelling, splintering wood, and breaking glass.

The attic!

I sprinted for the back stairs at the end of
the hall. Flinging open the door, I dashed up the narrow steps,
stopped at the top, taking in the pack rat’s paradise of stacked
boxes and discarded furniture.

I saw no one.

A gale blew through the open door to the room
on the left. Had Brenda gotten out—scrambled to safety on the
sunroom’s roof below?

I sprang into the doorway. Ray had climbed
out the gaping hole where the window had been—one leg in, one leg
out. Chunks of shattered glass still stuck to the frame.

“Goddamn you, bitch,” he screamed, oblivious
to me. He drew back to throw a knife—the others, still wrapped in
flannel, were clenched in his other hand.

I plowed through the junk, the noise
distracting him. The knives fell with a dull thunk as I knocked him
off balance, sending him through the opening. But he caught my
jacket sleeve, jerking me with him. I crashed into the wall. My
right knee jammed against the sill and stopped me from tumbling
after him.

Richard hollered somewhere below.

Panicked, Ray scrabbled for purchase against
the house’s brick exterior. He clutched the sill and hauled himself
up. Our eyes locked as my jacket ripped.

“Let go!” I yelled, yanking my arm back.

Thrown further off balance, Ray shrieked and
we slammed—my shoulder, his wrist—against the jagged glass. A spray
of crimson wet my face.

“Patty!” he snarled, grinding the last of the
glass into my bicep.

He teetered and I pushed myself from the
window frame. My knees smashed into the studs. Ray’s flailing hand
found my collar, his fingers clawing my throat.

“Kill him, Patty, kill him!” he shouted.

I looked back, and saw Patty’s silhouette
filling the doorway. Ray held on, his feet still slipping.

“He stole your father’s love—he cut you out
of the will!” Ray hollered.

“Liar!” I managed.

I slid to my knees, pulling him back into the
attic. Had Brenda gotten away?

Ray toppled onto me, his elbow smashing the
mangled flesh on my chest. Blinding pain choked me. Ray righted
himself, pinned my right shoulder with his left hand, his right
methodically smashing my sternum.

“Do him—do him—do him!” Ray chanted with
every punch.

“Patty!” I grated, through clenched
teeth.

“Do him—do him!”

Patty charged forward and scooped up a knife
from the floor. I opened my eyes and saw the shiny blade arc—shut
them, and sensed rather than saw the knife come crashing down.

Ray screamed, letting go as another gush of
scarlet spattered my cheek.

The heel of Patty’s palm slammed against my
throat.

“Leave. My. Brother. Alone!”

I squirmed away. The knife plunged into
Ray—again and again. His screams changed to a sickening gurgle.

Patty’s mad screeching cut the air.

His arms and chest sodden with blood, Ray
pitched back—disappearing out the shattered window.

Even with her prey gone, Patty’s arm came
down like a pile driver, the wooden sill splintering under her
gouging thrusts.

“Patty, stop!”

I threw myself at her—and caught her arm in
mid-swing. Her stricken face crumpled and her legs wobbled. She
buckled and I eased her to the floor. Prying the bloodied knife
from her fingers, I tossed it aside. She curled into a fetal ball,
weeping like an abandoned child.

Taking a couple of ragged breaths, I pulled
myself over the gory sill. Amid the remains of a broken chair and
chunks of glass, a blood-soaked Ray lay in a heap on the
winter-faded grass, his neck twisted at an impossible angle,
sightless eyes staring at the gray cloudy sky.

Just like Marty Concillio.

Something fluttered at the edge of my vision.
Brenda’s bloodied nightgown. She hung from the gutter, feet
dangling.

Richard hovered beneath her. “I’ve got you!
It’s okay, I’ll catch you,” he coaxed.

She lost her grip.

He caught her, momentum sending them into a
tangle of arms and legs. Then she was in his arms, whimpering, her
face buried against his chest.

Maggie rounded the corner, Richard’s cell
phone from the Lincoln clutched to her ear. “My God! My God!” she
cried, taking in the carnage.

I slid down, turning so I faced into the
room. Wetness—more blood—soaked into my jeans. It was everywhere.
The place looked and reeked like a slaughterhouse.

I sat there, trembling from adrenaline in the
god-awful quiet. Not silence, thanks to Patty’s sniffles. What had
been a killing machine only a minute earlier was now a huddled,
child-like form on the floor. I reached for her, brushed the hair
from her face, smearing Ray’s blood on her forehead.

Patty’s haunted, watery eyes met mine. “Oh
Lord,” she breathed. “What have I done?”

“You saved Brenda. And me.” I gathered her in
a tentative embrace. Her whole body quivered as the tears started
once again. I patted her heaving back. “It’s over, Patty. It’s all
over.”

In the background, sirens wailed.

The cavalry—at last.

24

The icy wind burned my cheeks. The gray sky,
thick with clouds, waited, as though for some mystical signal to
tell it to let down another crystalline blanket of snow. But the
bleak day hadn’t kept me from accomplishing something I’d been
meaning to do for weeks.

This was my second graveyard stop of the day,
a repeat of only weeks before. Only now I was at a different
section in Mt. Calvary Cemetery. It wasn’t exactly how I’d planned
to spend Christmas Eve afternoon.

The dual headstone was polished pink
marble.

ALPERT

John and Elizabeth

Joined in marriage

Separated by death

United for eternity

Underneath were the dates of their births,
marriage, and deaths. Richard had chosen the words. I never knew he
was such a romantic.

I didn’t protest when he’d asked my
permission to move our mother’s casket to another grave site. I
didn’t even care that the name on the tombstone was his, not mine.
I was certain our mother would have approved.

I set up the metal easel, attached the
bow-bedecked wreath of evergreen boughs and stood back. The
seasonal colors gave the grave a festive air. Well, as festive as a
grave can get. Maybe I’d come back in the spring, plant some
begonias. My mother had liked the variety named after liquor: gin,
brandy, whiskey and vodka—apropos for an alcoholic, I suppose.

Nice thoughts, I chided myself. If only
things had been different.

If only John Alpert hadn’t died in a car
crash.

If only my mother had been more mentally
stable.

If only Chet had loved her—and me—just a
little more.

If only . . . .

The wind gusted, bringing with it a
scattering of dry leaves. I thought about the sister I really
didn’t know. She’d saved my life—twice. It was a debt I didn’t know
how to repay. But I had to try, if only for our father’s sake.

I’d seen her a couple of times since that
awful day. Hollow-eyed and silent, she’d retreated into her own
private hell, looking small and fragile. Forever changed by what
she’d seen—and done.

She’d gone to stay with Ruby for a while,
pending the grand jury’s decision. No charges, of course. I didn’t
think there would be.

My gaze wandered to the left of the grave. I
bent down to brush the snow from the flat buff-colored granite
embedded in the ground. Only the year and a name were etched on the
stone: Charles John Albert. Richard’s and Brenda’s son. They hadn't
asked Maggie or me to attend the burial. It was something they’d
wanted to do for themselves, and we’d respected their wishes.

I straightened, staring at the tiny grave.
“I’m sorry, baby Charles. I’m so sorry.”

A silver Lincoln pulled up behind me. The
engine died and Richard stepped out. “Looks like we had the same
idea.”

I had to clear my throat before I could
speak. “You know what they say about great minds.”

He opened the trunk, took out another wreath
and easel. I moved mine to one side, making room for his.

He nodded toward the stone. “What do you
think? I had it done at the same time as . . .” His gaze moved to
the other granite stone. He didn’t elaborate.

“It’s a pretty place. It would’ve made her
happy.”

“We should’ve done this years ago,” he said
quietly. Somber-faced, he stared at the monument.

I wondered what else he was thinking. I was
thinking how damned grateful I was he hadn’t joined his parents in
eternity. He and Brenda. As it was, they’d lost a child.

I thought back to three weeks before, when
I’d sat with Brenda for a while at the hospital. Bruised and
bandaged, we were okay, but we had to bully Richard to go get his
chin stitched.

The ever-unflattering fluorescent light made
Brenda look haggard and traumatized. Could she ever go back to that
house? What she needed was a shot of hope. Only I didn’t know how
to approach the subject of the blue-eyed, dark-skinned child who’d
stayed in the back of my thoughts since I’d visited Emily Farrell
the day before.

So I reached for and took Brenda’s hand. She
looked up at me, puzzled, and something tugged at my soul. Regret,
I think. She would always be, after all, Richard’s wife.

Clearing my mind, I closed my eyes and
thought about the little girl. Concentrated first on the red
polka-dot dress, working up to the mop of unruly curls and
finishing with the mesmerizing blue eyes, like those I’d come to
know so well.

Brenda gasped, her hand convulsing around
mine.

I opened my eyes. She stared at me with what
looked like distress.

“Did you see?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But . . . how?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

Her grateful smile was full of hope and
promise for the future. She threw her arms around me, and I held
on, savoring the rush of affection she felt for me. It would be
enough. And I knew then she’d be okay, that she wouldn’t let this
whole, terrible nightmare rule her life.

I don’t know if she told Richard. It wasn’t
something I could talk to him about. And Brenda and I haven’t
spoken of it since. But every now and then, she gives me a knowing
smile.

“I know you've been torturing yourself over
this, Jeff,” Richard began, “but it wasn’t physical trauma that
caused Brenda to lose our son. There were chromosomal
aberrations.”

I frowned, unsure what he’d just said.

“
There was something wrong
with the baby. Something Brenda and I caused.
”
He let out a shuddering breath.
“
He
would have died anyway.
”

I wasn't sure how to react. Was he just
trying to spare my feelings?

I studied his face. There was acceptance in
his expression.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “these things just
happen.”

Richard cleared his throat and shrugged
deeper into his topcoat. “Damn cold,” he said.

“Cold as the grave?” I asked.

His smile was pained. “I got the results of
my last blood test this morning.”

I held my breath.

“Negative. Looks like I can get on with my
life.”

Relief flooded through me. It was the best
Christmas gift I’d ever received. Now we could all get on with our
lives. Well, mostly. “Congratulations,” I managed.

He smiled and glanced at his watch. “I’d
better get going. I still have a few more errands to run and gifts
to wrap.”

“Me, too.” I said, thinking of the five
little red, polka-dot dresses with white pinafores that Maggie and
I had bought, ranging from newborn to size six. But first I had to
deliver belated Hanukkah gifts—the last photos of my father —to
Patty and Ruby.

Richard slapped me on the back. “See you at
home, kid.”

Yeah. Home.

I watched the Town Car head down the narrow
ribbon of asphalt. Huddled in my jacket, I turned back to the
grave.

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her
characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for
romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice
Domestic contest.

In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett
also writes the New York Times Bestselling and Agatha-nominated
Booktown Mystery series under the name of Lorna Barrett. Bookplate
Special, the third book in the series, was nominated for an Agatha
Award for best novel of 2009.

Bartlett’s Victoria Square Mystery series will debut
in February of 2011.

Visit her website at:
www.LLBartlett.com