The Truth About Mallory Bain (39 page)

Cookie jar.

Hanging pots jiggled and clanged. Cupboard doors, drawers opened and slammed. Stemware, glassware, dishware rattled and shattered. Doors, upstairs, downstairs, opened and slammed.

Loud groans followed by shrill screams echoed above the table. A voice moaned wearily as though a man writhed in agony.

My breathing slowed and shallowed.

An unearthly screech wailed above us. I gripped Ben's hand. He never flinched. Dana's hand clasping mine eased its grip. I felt her tremble.

Judith's chanting ceased. “Speak.”

This great house shook when the disembodied voice thundered,
“No more friends to bash in the head!”

Jack Harwood shouted as though he stood among us in bodily form. It had been his voice I'd been hearing. Whispered. Spoken in the courtroom, my car, in my dreams.

“You stole lives, Dana! You killed! You want to kill again! You can't be content with what's within your reach. You always want what you cannot have. The truth is, Dana, you
—
are
—
selfish. This fixation you have with Ben is a perfect example!”

“Answer him, Dana.”

Dana seethed. “I will not! This is a trick!”

She pulled back, tugged until she pulled free. I waved my hand into the void, stretched my legs and searched under the table.

“She's gone!”

“R
ick! Rick!” My shouting was a mere whisper amid the clamor.

“Over here!”

A loud crack. Shattering glass.

“Rick!” Ben shouted from behind me. “Judith?”

“I'm here.” Her voice came from near her chair. “Mallory Anne?” Her voice faded.

“Where's the phones?” Ben shouted.

No answer.

“Stay there!” I fumbled around my chair to reach my aunt.

Ronnie screamed.

Silence.

Chairs falling. A string of thumps.

A strong hand grabbed my arm. I tried to pry loose.

A sharp crack.

Near the windows.

More breaking glass, heavier glass.

A man groaned. Ronnie screamed again.

Strong hands wrapped around me. I knew it was Ben pulling me out of the dining room.

Judith cried out.

I shouted, “Ben, wait!” He gently laid his palm across my mouth. My pleas were muffled. The guise of entertainment had ended. Jack Harwood was in control. The Fowlers now knew Ben Holland was in the house.

We kept moving, Ben pulling me farther away from the chaos. Distant screams followed more thuds and breaking glass.

A scrape close by.

The scrape again. Ben coaxed me out the kitchen door.

“No! I won't leave you!” I pulled against his grip.

He groaned and led me by the hand through the kitchen, down the back stairs, into an even blacker darkness.

He pulled me close at the bottom of the stairs and whispered, “Hide. Hide anyplace down here where they won't find you. I'll come back for you.”

“Who left? Did someone come in?”

“I don't know.”

“Ben. I'm staying with you!”

“Don't fight me.”

“They might still be in the house. People are hurt up there. Maybe dying, maybe dead.”

“That's what I'm saying.” He paused. “You cannot go back up there.”

“This is horrible.”

“I will find Dana and I'll restrain her, and then I'll hunt down Erik.”

“He'll kill you.”

“Have a little faith.”

I laid my palms flat against his chest. “He either hurt or killed somebody in that dining room. I can't let you do this alone.”

“And I won't let you up there. You're staying here.”

We locked arms and stood face to face in silence, the darkness too intense to see each other.

“There must be a landline down here,” said Ben.

“In the laundry room.”

“Go, then. Keep trying that phone. Then hide. Do this, Mallory. Be safe for Caleb and me. And if I don't come back, stay put until the police find you.” He smoothed my hair. His voice quivered. “Hide, baby. Please.” He kissed me quick. “I love you.” And then he was gone.

I stood alone, waving my arms, searching.

Harwood's voice echoed in my mind, “you want to kill again.” I had to help. I inched forward, fingering my way along the walls until I found the landline hanging on the wall. No dial tone.

Jack must have known his rage kept us from getting help.

I set the receiver back on the cradle.

“Shutting off the phones won't help us, Jack,” I said aloud, chancing his spirit might hear.

I lifted the receiver again. Static. I found the staircase and climbed slowly, hoping to avoid steps that creaked beneath the carpet. I reached the top and paused. My shaking knee rested on the top step. I listened. In the kitchen several feet away came the sounds of metal clinking on metal, drawer rollers sliding open and closed with soft clicks, glass cracking beneath footsteps.

I shallowed my breathing until I heard nothing nearby. I crept on hands and knees across the stone floor toward the hum of the refrigerator until I felt the warmth at its base. I huddled and listened.

A woman screamed in a distant part of the house.

I buried my face into my arms folded atop my knees. Agonizing screams meant pain. Pain before death, even. Other noises were unidentifiable. Then spine-chilling shrieks.

Harwood.

My arms shivered. My muscles ached from holding them still. My heart pulsed in my throat. Footsteps approached. Stopped. I slowed my breathing to a near standstill, locked my arms tightly around my knees.

Do
—
not
—
move.

Stillness. Waiting.

A man coughed closer to me than the screams.

The death place.

A shoe touched mine. I squeezed my eyes closed. The person breathed hard.

“Dana!” A man's voice called out in loud whisper from several feet to my left.

Dana's voice whispered back from above me. “Erik!”

“We gotta get out of here. Now!”

“After I find Mallory.”

“After you find Ben, you mean. He's done with you, Dana.”

“Shut. Up.”

“You've done enough. Hell, we've both done enough.” His voice quavered. “This is bad. Real bad.”

“Not my problem.”

“Yeah, well, it's
our
problem, and I say we're going. Pity you married me, 'cause you can't have him now. And because we're on the run, we'll lose Emma.” He sputtered, “Damn you to Hell, woman.”

She spoke in guttural sounds as she moved away from me, closer to Erik.
“I. Want. Mallory. Dead.
You stupid fool. Don't you know, we need them
all
dead now.”

Footsteps. Whispers. Silence.

Gone.

I sucked in a deep breath. Slid upright against the refrigerator. I laid my hands palms down on the breakfast bar countertop and lightly skimmed the surface to avoid broken glass. I found the knife rack. Toppled. I touched each one, seeking the largest blades.

She has knives. Erik has a fishing knife.

I groped the drawers beneath the counter until I found the one beside the stove. I slid the drawer open and fingered the tops of utensils, careful not to slice my hand. A familiar wooden handle. I inched my forefinger upward and touched the cold steel of Grandma's carving knife.

A man yelled, “Erik!”

Ben!

A series of thuds.

Grappling.

Armed with the carving knife, I moved around the island and out of the kitchen into the dining room. A solid form tripped me. A large hand grabbed my ankle and tugged. Fingers pinched at my sleeve. I clenched the knife as I fell against a firm chest.

Leather. Spearmint.

“Mallory?” Sam's voice was muffled.

I rose to my knees. “You're hurt.”

“Erik.” He moaned. Hesitated. “Dana jammed a knife in my leg.”

I touched his face, neck, his arm. Warm with life, not cold from impending shock. His breathing was steady.

“Give me your belt, Sam.” I pulled his belt from his jeans and slipped it around his thigh. I left enough strap for him to tighten and loosen to minimize blood loss yet keep blood flowing at intervals to keep life in his lower leg.

“I came up behind her. Nice and easy.” He paused. “Pinned her arms.” Groaned. “Didn't know about a knife.” He groaned again. “Speared my leg. Split open my shoulder.”

I laid my hands against his blood-soaked shirt. “Who else is hurt?”

“Rick. Erik got him first. I kicked him in the leg after he jumped Rick but he stabbed me with a chunka' glass.” Pause. “I fired off a coupla good jabs. He slammed me over the table. Ronnie butted in. Lotta screamin.'”

“She can't be dead.”

“Don't know.” His voice cracked. There was a long pause. “But Rick . . . he . . .”

Hot saliva filled my mouth. My stomach soured.

“Hurt bad for sure.” Sam rolled back and forth against his pain.

I scooted to the china cabinet and retrieved cloth napkins from the drawer. I folded each once more, then slipped them under his shirt and pressed gently.

“Hold this.” I wiped my bloodied hands on my slacks.

“Stuff keeps smashin'. Wind blowin'. People shoutin'.”

“The house has been taken over. I know.”

Sam groaned. “Maybe Ben, Grant found them. Hear men fightin'. Don't know where.”

“I'll help you crawl under the table. It's not safe here in the open.”

“Ronnie's there,” he grunted.

I crawled over to the table. “Ronnie?” I whispered.

No answer.

“Ronnie?”

Still no answer.

I crawled under the table. The space was empty. “She's not here.”

“Feet runnin' on the staircase.” He coughed.

“Crawl under this table. And Sam, don't you dare die.”

He moaned assent.

“I'm leaving you. I have a knife, too. Kitchen knife.”

“Mallory. Careful. Busted glass everywhere. Grip that knife hard, but don't be a badass.”

“Meaning?”

“Keep your head straight. Don't be scared to kill. You give 'em hell.”

Harwood's fury jumbled the voices beneath the wind and clamor. I knew where I had to go and Sam said what I needed to do. I stepped into the living room and moved toward the staircase. Halfway across the room, I slipped on newspaper. My ankle twisted. Cramped. I stumbled into the sofa. Ronnie's crutches clattered to the floor. I squatted and patted the rug. My fingers touched wood and I lifted the crutches upright against the cushion. I took the knife in my other hand and wiped my sweaty palm across my thigh. With knife in hand, I moved again.

Glass cracked under my shoe. I froze. The room brightened from the headlights shining through the sheer curtains, and in that moment of fleeting light, I glimpsed the destruction. The headlights from a second passing car lit my part of the room. In the mirror above the sofa, I glimpsed the figure of a man standing behind me.

Click.

I stared transfixed into the darkness, my feet spread, my shoulders tense. “Talk to me, Erik.”

Silence.

“Think about what Dana has done. Let's end this. Help me help her.”

Silence.

I heard his breathing a split second before my cheek split open. Stinging pain. I jumped back warm blood spilling down my face. My stomach tightened.

My body shook as I brandished my knife in downward thrusts, slicing the air. Glass snapped beneath our feet. I brought the blade downward again. It plunged deep. He cried out. I stepped back. His knife slashed diagonally across my front, popping the threads of my sweater. Blood trickled down my stomach.

I rammed my knife down hard until the tip passed through thick flesh and stopped at bone.

Glass crunched. The floor vibrated with the thump of his body. I fumbled behind me until I found a crutch. I cracked it across him. He groaned. Headlights. Erik laid belly down.

My stomach roiled when he didn't flinch. I reached down and pulled out the knife. I bent forward, resting my palms on my knees and tried breathing deeply despite my panting. The wave of nausea eased. My bad shoulder ached. I stood up slowly and pressed my forearm hard against my wet cheek. The slash burned.

Swiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I stumbled my way to the staircase and paused, gripping the newel post. I'd just killed a man who had once been my friend. Flashes of the sad-faced, younger Eeyore filled my head. Wrenching sobs rose from the pit of my stomach—I fell to my knees and heaved up what little was in my stomach.

Don't you dare quit. Ben needs you. Your family and friends need you.

With a shaking hand, I grabbed hold of the banister, wood slick with polish. I pulled myself upward. The hallway went either direction at the top of the stairs.

A bright sphere of silvery white hovered at the end of the hallway to my right. I fell against the wall and watched it pulsate as the brightness swelled. My knife slipped from my hand. I slid down the wall to retrieve it, but Dana stepped into view.

I brought my hand back to my side.

The sphere's glow highlighted the wet redness on the blade hanging from her hand, then formed into the figure of a man.

Harwood spoke in gargling sounds. Dana argued. He rushed her. She ran. I saw a blood-coated knife gripped in each hand. Knives she'd used to stab people I loved. I tripped backward into Tony's former room and held my breath.

The ghost's light brightened the hallway, giving her light to see me if I dared move from the shadows. My knife's wide blade glinted on the floor across from the bedroom doorway.

I pressed my palms hard against my eyes. Our séance had triggered a killing spree. I tipped my head back against the wall and stared blindly into the darkness. Tears of shame rolled down my cheeks. Dana breathed in puffs, feet from where I hid. Her nails clicked on the knife handle.