Embrace the Grim Reaper (23 page)

Casey stopped, allowing Eric to get several steps ahead before he turned. “What is it?”

She held up a hand, watching under the streetlight they’d passed seconds before.

Two men came around the corner. Two men she’d seen before, talking to Thomas. Taffy and Bone.

They saw her. And they saw Eric.

Casey’s brain shifted gears. Her breathing deepened, and her muscles relaxed, even as her nerves tingled. She stepped in front of Eric. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

They stopped ten feet away. Taffy, as she’d noticed before, had a wrestler’s physique. Huge and thick under a loosely fitting jacket and black dress pants. He smiled. “I think you might just be able to, little lady.”

“And how would that be?”

He glanced at Bone, who hadn’t even a hint of a smile on his feral-looking face. “If you could just tell us who sent you to this tiny little town. The cops? Our…friends across town in Kentucky?”

“No one sent me. And I’ve never been to Kentucky.”

He continued smiling, nodding as if she’d said something clever. “That’s what Mr. Black told us you’d say.”

“Thomas?” Eric’s voice had gone tight, and high.

Casey waved at him to shut up, not turning from the men. “It’s the truth.”

“I see. I guess your definition of truth is different from ours.”

“I guess so.”

He was talkative. Very large, and very talkative. Casey figured he was already deciding how quickly he would take her down if she didn’t comply. His overconfidence was obvious in his swagger, and in the look in his eye.

Casey breathed in through her nose. To her left sat a car. A Pontiac, blocking the way. To her right sat a row of homes, a few large trees, windows with lights shining, TVs flickering. Behind her, Eric, who didn’t have a clue what was about to happen.

The man on the left, Bone, the one who had almost discovered her behind the theater’s curtains, he was the scary one. About a hundred pounds shy of his partner, his body was lean and wiry, his face all cheekbone and jaw. His eyes, expressionless above a nose that had been broken and badly reset, watched Casey, while the rest of him remained still. His arms hung loose at his sides, hands open, his feet spread shoulder-width. He had no jacket, and no gun that Casey could see. That didn’t mean he didn’t have something else.

“I’d like to talk with you a little longer,” Taffy said. “Just so’s we can get straight exactly what the truth is.”

“That would be good,” Casey said. “To get at the truth.”

Taffy stepped forward, his hand out, as if to shake.

“Eric,” Casey said under her breath. “Run away.”

“What?”

“Run!”

She would’ve run, too, and with the element of surprise could’ve outdistanced the two thugs in seconds, but she couldn’t leave Eric. Not with these two.

Casey slid her hand into Taffy’s, but instead of shaking it she torqued his thumb, jamming the pressure point, bringing him to his knees. As he dropped she jerked up her knee, crushing his nose. He fell forward, unconscious, and Casey grabbed the back of his shirt, and his chin, spinning him down and forward, between her and Bone.

Now Bone was smiling.

“You—” Eric said.

Casey turned and shoved him away. “Run!”

This time he listened.

Casey heard Bone coming, but didn’t have time to turn before his fist slammed into her kidney. She fell to the ground, gasping, clutching her side, and rolled to the left as his foot came down where her back had been.

She flipped to her feet, her brain fuzzy, vision blurred, back pulsing with pain.

A dog barked and Bone glanced to the side, waiting, but the dog went quiet. Bone turned back, and as Casey brought her hands up, he stepped in to hit her with a roundhouse punch. She jerked away so that he missed her jaw, but his fist caught her lip, smashing it against her teeth. She tasted blood.

He smiled again.

Casey sat back on her right leg and kicked his inner thigh. He stumbled to the left, and she turned to run. With a yell he lunged, grabbing her hair and jerking her backward. She reached up, trapping his hand with both of hers, and spun inside, double-twisting until his arm was behind him in a lock and his head was lowered. She rocked him forward, smashing his head against the Pontiac.

Spitting blood and faint from the kidney pain, Casey knew she couldn’t run away. At least not very far. She glanced into the Pontiac.

There were keys on the seat.

Dropping the man to the sidewalk, she stumbled around the back of the car and wrenched open the driver’s door, flinging herself inside. She grabbed the keys and poked one into the ignition. Not the right one. She pulled at the ring, but it was stuck.

The passenger door opened, and Bone lunged across the seat. She brought up her foot and kicked him in the face, his nose spraying blood as he shot backward.

“Come on, come on,” she pleaded, jiggling the keys.

Abandoning the keys, Casey scrambled to get out of the car, but Bone was up again, shaking his head, rounding the hood. He kicked the door, catching her right forearm and sending it back with a snap. She clutched the arm to her stomach as the door repelled against Bone. He kicked the door again, but she hopped backward, out of the way.

Bone wavered there, his face splotched with red. Casey felt her injured arm with her other hand. She didn’t think it was broken. She hoped not.

Bone’s eyes focused on her. Noting the curb several feet behind him, Casey aimed a kick at his stomach with her right foot. He stepped back, and she threw a sidekick with her left. He took another step away, and she went after him with a right kick, and then a left backward one. One more front kick, and he stumbled over the curb, falling onto his back.

Casey leapt forward to stomp on his stomach and he caught her foot, twisting it inside. She went with the twist and spun away, circling to face him. He stood up, his face a mask of rage now, his eyes horrible amidst the blood. Casey brought up her arms, the right one throbbing.

Bone grabbed at his ankle and came back up with a blade. He slashed at her and she spun away, but the knife sliced her left shoulder, through her jacket. He came at her again, thrusting at her stomach. She danced sideways, circling away. He was smiling again, his teeth smeared with red.

Casey shook her head, trying to focus. Her right arm throbbed, her left shoulder was staining her jacket red, and blood filled her mouth. She spat again.

Taffy groaned from his spot on the sidewalk, but neither Casey nor Bone broke eye contact. She could only hope she had hit Taffy hard enough he wouldn’t actually be getting up, or reaching for his gun.

Bone feinted to her right, and she spun away, circling. Her strength was fading. If Taffy got up, she was done. She couldn’t outrun Bone. She was losing blood. Her back ached.

She realized Bone had stopped coming at her. He was waiting. Waiting for her to make a mistake.

With a deep breath she stumbled left and clutched her bloody arm, exposing her neck. Bone came at her with an overhand strike. She reached up and passed his arm down, jamming the knife into his left thigh. He screamed. She pulled the knife from his leg, grabbed it with both hands, and stepped back, knife blade up.

Bone clutched his leg as blood spurted out, soaking his pant leg. Bright red blood covered his hands as he pressed against his thigh, and he yanked off his shirt, winding it around his leg. The shirt didn’t staunch the flow, but quickly turned red itself, the blood saturating the material within seconds.

He looked up at Casey, his eyes wild. Casey stayed where she was, brandishing the knife, watching with disbelief as Bone’s lifeblood flowed through the tourniquet and down his leg.

He blinked once, with disbelief, and Casey stared into his eyes, her teeth clenched, her breath caught in her chest. He lurched forward, his arms outstretched. She backed up. Her knife wavered.

“Please,” Bone said.

He stumbled toward her again, grabbing her shoulder with a bloody hand. She held the knife up, toward his throat. She was ready. But Bone’s eyes were glazing over, and his breath rasped in his throat. Slowly he leaned forward, his weight tipping toward her, his fingers clutching her shoulder.

“Please.”

Bone dropped to his knees, and Casey stepped away as he fell, his face twisting to the right as it met the ground. He jerked once. Twice. His legs spasmed, and he coughed, blood spurting from his mouth.

And then he was still.

“Oh, God,” Casey said. “OhGodohGodohGod.”

She fell backward against the Pontiac, the knife clattering to the ground. Nausea hit her, and she leaned sideways over the hood, vomiting onto the car and street. She wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to breathe.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

“Casey?”

Casey jerked her head up. Eric stood twenty feet away, his eyes wide. “What—”

The sound of a siren split the air, and Casey sucked in a breath. Of course. Of course, Eric would get the police.

“Eric,” she said. “I’m so…so sorry.”

She pushed herself off of the car, and ran away.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Lillian cut Casey off outside the back door of The Nesting Place, a finger on her lips. She gasped at the sight of Casey’s face. “What—”

“I’m all right.” She was. She would be. “What are you doing?”

“They’re inside.”

Casey’s heart fell. They were here already? But where was the cruiser?

“I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I never meant to—”

“Shh.” Lillian pulled Casey’s arm, and Casey yanked it back, her hand grabbing her shoulder, her right forearm protesting the movement. Lillian let go, but gestured her further from the house, into the shadows. “You need a doctor.”

“No. No. What’s happening?”

Lillian raised her hands toward Casey’s mouth, but she reared away. Lillian dropped her arms to her sides. “Rosemary’s keeping them busy. I said I needed to go to bed, because I wasn’t feeling well.”

With her glinting eyes and upright posture, Casey could see that was far from the truth.

Lillian jerked a thumb toward the house. “They’re insisting on seeing your room.”

“My room? Why? It’s not like I’ve had time to—”

“I’m not even sure how they knew you were staying here, because I’m sure you didn’t tell them, but here they are.”

“Of course they know where I’m staying. Chief Reardon knew it the first time I talked to him.”

“Denny?” Lillian blinked. “But he’s not in our sitting room.”

Of course. Other cops. Detectives. Could be the FBI or ATF if Casey’s suspicions about the men who attacked her were correct.

“I don’t know who they are, exactly,” Lillian said. “But they seem to know a lot about you. Said they’re business associates of yours. Rosemary didn’t like them from the get-go, because the woman’s dye job is simply horrendous.”

Casey went cold. “Dye job?”

“Yes. Like she did it at home in a dark bathroom with a generic brand.”

Casey swallowed. “And she’s with a man whose face looks like—”

“—it was cut in half and smooshed back together by a extremely untalented sculptor.”

Casey sank to the ground. They’d found her. And she didn’t have to wonder how. That damn phone. Dammit, Ricky.

“I can’t…” Casey said. “I have to go.”

“But your arm. Your face.”

“Lillian. I have to go.”

Lillian stared at her for a few more moments, then sighed. “Okay.” She stepped behind a bush and pulled out Casey’s backpack. “I hope I got everything. There’s no first aid equipment.”

Casey’s eyes stung.

“Rosemary will keep them busy for a while,” Lillian said. “We told them you were out, but that we were expecting you back late. They seem to have settled in for the wait.”

Casey dropped her chin to her chest. “I wanted…I didn’t want…”

“I know, sweetheart.” Lillian squatted, knees popping, and laid an arm over Casey’s shoulders. “We’ll see you again. And whatever your trespasses, my dear, whatever it is you’re running from, we hope you’re soon running back.”

Casey swiped the tears from her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and they came away, wet with tears and blood. She wiped them on her pants. “Tell Rosemary…”

“I’ll tell her, darling.”

Lillian stood and helped Casey back to her feet.

“The bike is there,” Lillian said, pointing to the side of the house. “It’s yours now, if you can…” She gestured at Casey’s arm.

“I can’t take your bike—”

“You can. You will. Go.”

A light flickered in the back room, and Casey jumped further into the shadows. Lillian waited quietly, but nothing else moved.

“Go, sweetheart,” she finally said.

“I never paid you.”

Lillian laughed quietly. “My dear, you’ve paid us in more ways than one. Now go.”

Casey hitched her bag onto her back, wincing as the strap scraped her shoulder, and stumbled to the bike. She swung her leg over the seat and rode quickly away from the house, not looking back, her right arm cradled against her stomach. She didn’t reach up again to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Chapter Forty

It was dark in Eric’s back yard. Dark and quiet. A neighbor’s garage stood open to the night, the car cold. She rolled her bike into the dark space, where it would sit, camouflaged among the family’s bikes, one a tiny pink two-wheeler with training wheels, streamers dangling from the handlebars. No one would notice the old Schwinn before she had a chance to take it.

Hunkered down in the garage, she gingerly pulled her shirt over her head, wincing as the material came away from her sliced shoulder. The blood had begun to clot, and the wound started bleeding again as she tore the fabric from her arm. Ripping the shirt with her teeth, she awkwardly tied a strip around her arm to staunch the bleeding.

She unzipped her bag, pulled out a dark, long-sleeved shirt, and eased it over her head. A rake hung on the wall just above her, and the nail was long enough to accommodate her pack, as well. She hefted it up, snagging the nail. The bag was inconspicuous there. Just one more thing, amidst the tools and sports equipment.

Casey looked at her bag. At her bike. She should just go. Just leave. Take off into the night. But even if she did, even if she somehow avoided the cops in Clymer, could she live with that? Could she live with letting Ellen’s death be branded a suicide? Could she let Eric wonder forever what had happened—either with Ellen or Bone and Taffy?

Besides, there was no guarantee she could avoid the cops, traveling on a bicycle.

Casey stepped carefully from the garage. There was no good hiding place for her in there. She considered Eric’s yard, with its shrubbery, but knew it would be a foolhardy spot to wait for him to come home. His house was the same. Even if she could find a way in, she would be discovered when someone—whoever it was—came to hunt her down.

But what if she didn’t find a way in.

The houses on either side were dark, and Casey could see no tell-tale signs of activity. No dogs had as yet noticed her presence, and she was hopeful none would.

She eyed the trees around Eric’s house. Not huge. But large enough. Sticking to the shadows, she made her way to the side of the house, where a mid-sized maple grew only feet from the building. With a leap, she grabbed onto a lower branch and walked her feet up the trunk until she could swing herself up to straddle the branch. She lay against the tree limb, gasping, focusing past the pain in her arms and back. She had to move. She grabbed a close branch and eased herself upward, climbing until she was level with the roof.

The branches here weren’t thick, but were at least as round as her legs. Leaning forward onto her stomach, she shimmied toward the roof of the house, the wood bending under her weight. The branch cracked with a loud pop, and dropped several inches. She froze, waiting to plummet to the ground, but the branch stopped, whether by its own strength or the support of another. When she was sure it was done moving she inched forward again, the branch bending until she was within reaching distance of the roof.

The limb cracked again, and with a lunge she grabbed onto the edge of the roof and scrabbled upward. The branch flicked back up, as if she’d never been on it.

Casey looked around the roof for a good spot, and scooted on her stomach to the opposite side, the driveway side, where she could see when Eric arrived. A chimney sat close to the peak of the roof, and she pulled herself into its shadow, where she brought her knees to her chest, fitting herself into the darkness.

It would take hours for Eric to be done with the police. By the time they finished at the scene and took his statement it would be the middle of the night. Casey settled down for a long wait, aware of the rustling leaves, the sound of faraway dogs, and the occasional car passing the house. Only when her legs began to cramp did she allow herself to move, and then just a minute amount, enough to stop the pain.

She leaned her head against the bricks of the chimney. Her kidney ached. Her lip throbbed. It had stopped bleeding, but she could feel the blood, crusty and already scabbing on her mouth.

The dead man’s blood hadn’t had a chance to begin clotting.

Casey shook her head. She couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about those eyes, blanker even in death than they’d been in life. The knife, left on the ground beside the Pontiac, holding both Bone’s prints and hers. Taffy, who would be waking up in police custody.

Lights danced across the backyard, and Casey brought her head up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. She peeked around the edge of the chimney. Not Eric’s car. A police cruiser. The doors were opening. Eric was stepping out. Eric and the chief.

“Check the yard,” Reardon said to an officer, who climbed out the driver’s side. “We’ll check the house, make sure she’s not hiding here.”

Casey eased back behind the chimney. Pulled her knees to her chest. Squeezed her eyes shut, childlike. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

Long minutes passed. A breeze blew across the roof, sending leaves past her, skidding across the roof, and she shivered.

She opened her eyes. The officer’s flashlight was coming back now. She could see the beam as it bobbed and weaved across the branches of the tree, across the roof, just beyond her toes.

A door slapped open. “Well?” Reardon.

“Nothing, sir. She’s not here.”

Silence.

“Eric said she ran, sir. She could be long gone already.”

Casey could feel the chief’s doubts. His inability to believe that she had left town so quickly, leaving no clue as to where she’d gone. “Yeah, well, Eric doesn’t know everything, does he?”

Footsteps sounded on the driveway, and the chief’s voice was louder. “You know what I want, Eric. She shows up, you tell her to come in. It will be better for her if she tells me the story herself.”

“But I told you—”

“You hear what I’m saying?”

A pause. “I hear you.”

“Good. We didn’t need this, Eric. Our town doesn’t need any more death.”

“Yes. I know.”

Casey held her breath as she listened, and soon the car doors opened, and slammed shut. One. Two. The car eased out of the driveway, the lights flickering against the house and tree. It drove away.

“They’re gone, Casey,” Eric said quietly. “If you’re out there.”

He waited for several seconds, then closed the door with a quiet snick.

Casey dropped her head to her knees. They were gone now. But when would they be coming back?

It took them about forty minutes. The car pulled into the drive, and Casey heard one door open, and footsteps up the stairs. She waited. Whoever it was must have rung the doorbell and received no response, because he banged on the door. It opened.

“What?” Eric sounded sleepy, and irritated.

“Just checking in,” Reardon said. “To be sure she hasn’t come by.”

“She’s not here.” Was that pain in his voice? “Come in and look.”

“Oh, I don’t need to do that,” Reardon said. “I trust you.”

Eric laughed.

“Sorry,” Reardon said. “Go back to sleep.”

The door slammed, and Casey listened to Reardon’s footsteps, the car door opening and closing. In a few seconds, they were gone.

She waited an hour this time, and then five minutes more, before crab-walking down the roof. She made her way to the back of the house, where a first-story layer jutted out over the yard. Easing herself over the side, shingles scraping her stomach, she let herself down, dropping into the grass and rolling. She lay motionless for several seconds, waiting for movement in the surrounding yards, gritting her teeth and holding her shoulder. When she saw nothing, she crept to the back door. She was relieved to find the door unlocked.

She entered what looked to be a mudroom and closed the door quietly behind her. Tiptoeing her way through the space and into the kitchen, she went through the house, checking each room on the first floor. Eric was not there.

She climbed the stairs, sticking to the edges, where they were less likely to creak, and paused on the landing. Three rooms. All with wide open doors.

Eric was in the first one. He lay, fully clothed, diagonally across his bed, his mouth open, his face relaxed in sleep. She went in and placed her hand over his mouth. His eyes flew open, and he sat up, pushing her hand away.

“My God, Casey, where have you been?”

She sat on the bed, next to him, feeling the warmth of his sleep on the sheets. “I’m sorry. I just…I can’t get into this kind of thing with the police.”

“This kind of thing? Exactly what does that mean?”

She blanched.

“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “I’m sorry. It was self-defense. I know that. They know that.”

“Do they?”

He looked at her for a long moment before climbing out of the bed and going to the window, where he put a hand on the wall and peered out into the yard. He looked fragile in the moonlight seeping through the window. “You do realize you killed him.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I didn’t think—”

“I didn’t mean to, Eric. He was just so strong, and coming at me so hard, and so fast.”

He turned back toward her. “I know. I told the police.”

“But Eric, you weren’t there.”

“Yes,” he said. “I was.” The look in his eyes brooked no argument.

“I can’t ask you to lie for me.”

“You didn’t. You haven’t. But I know what happened.”

“Do you?” She remembered his wild eyes, staring at her across the sidewalk. Across the bodies.

He was silent for a few moments. “I thought so.”

He came back to the bed and sat next to her. He took her hand, studying her fingers. She left her hand in his, feeling nothing from him but a childlike fascination as he ran his own fingers along hers.

“Leila knows who you are,” Eric said.

Casey froze.

“She wouldn’t let it be. She looked and looked until she found you.”

Casey pulled her hand from his. “Did she?”

“She used your first name, assuming that, at least, was true. She got the librarian to tell her the name on your driver’s license, and the issuing state.”

Oh, Stacy, you dumb man.

Eric turned toward her. “And now I know. I know, Casey Maldonado.”

Casey wrapped her arms around her stomach, hugging herself. She stood. “I have to go.”

“No!” He jumped up and got between Casey and the doorway. “You can’t run away just because I know.”

“Oh, really? And what exactly is it you know, Eric?”

“About your husband. Your…your son.”

Casey hiccupped. “You don’t…you can’t know.”

“You can’t keep running away, Casey. You’ve got to face it.”

She jabbed a finger in his chest, and he winced, holding his hands up to defend himself. “I have to face it? Do you even understand what it is I have to face? ”

“I thought—”

“They’re dead, Eric. Dead. They died in front of my eyes. Exploded into a million pieces, while I was thrown clear. Twenty feet away, into a clump of cattails. I should have been in there with them. I should have…”

She feinted toward the door, but he caught her elbow and spun her back, crushing her to him, his arms around her, pinning her own arms against her body. She fought at first, squirming, kicking, trying to take his feet out from under him, but he held fast, not allowing her leverage.

“Let me go!” she cried into his chest. “Let me go! ”

Eric lifted her off the ground and carried her, still fighting, to the bed, where he fell onto it, holding her beneath him, his height and weight enough to keep her captive, his legs on top of hers, not giving her a chance to get into a position to fight back. She screamed and cried, picturing Reuben, Omar, Ricky, her mother…Lillian and Rosemary, the woman with the bad hair…Eric, and Ellen…even the dead man she’d left on the sidewalk.

Eventually she shuddered, and stopped, her breaths coming in gasps, her face, and Eric’s, wet from tears.

Eric kept his weight on top of her, watching her face, until he dropped his forehead gently onto hers. “Can I let you go now?”

“No. No, don’t let me go.”

So he held her there, his warmth and body trapping her beneath him as she shivered and shook, until she finally, with one last shudder, tapped him on the hip with a finger, one of the few body parts she could move. “Eric.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t breathe.”

He lifted himself onto his elbows and rolled off of her, leaving her flat and deflated. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, smoothing her tear- and blood-sticky hair from her face. “I’m sorry, Casey.”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” She could hear him breathing, could hear her own breaths matching his. She rolled onto her side, away from him, hugging her sore wrist to her chest.

“I can’t do it,” Eric said.

She opened her eyes. “Do what?”

“Leave Ellen. I can’t let her disappear. I can’t let her death be what they want us to think. Chief Reardon never even questioned it. Just believed what the forensic people said.”

She rolled back toward him. “We don’t have to let her disappear, Eric.”

“But what can we do? We have nothing, except—”

“The DVD,” they said together.

“I can’t go back to get it from your mom,” Casey said. “There are…I can’t go back.”

He nodded, not asking her to explain. “Well, then, it’s good you don’t have to.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. Because I’ve got it right here. I brought it home after that night at their house.”

“You did?” Casey sat up.

“Yes. Come on.”

“What about the cops? They’ll probably be back. They’ll see the light downstairs.”

He stopped. “Okay. Wait here.”

He was back in less than a minute, sliding the DVD into a player on top of his dresser. “This TV isn’t nearly as good as Rosemary and Lillian’s, but it should do.”

They fast-forwarded through Eric’s visit and the minutes of Yvonne typing, until they got to Todd’s arrival. They watched his entrance and exit, and fast-forwarded again, through the remaining office footage of Yvonne’s office work, all the way to the blue screen.

“Nothing,” Eric said.

“Let’s watch again.”

They did, but saw nothing much more than Karl’s door and Yvonne’s desk.