A Novel Way to Die

TWENTY-TWO





DARLA FELT THE SPLINTERED FLOOR PRESSING INTO HER cheek as she struggled for air, her vision little more than a red blur. Through the sounds of her gasps, she was aware of a distant pounding that wasn’t just her throbbing head, and then ripping sounds.

“You were right, your friends have come looking for you,” she heard Barry’s furious voice from what seemed a long way away. He loomed in suddenly to slap something cold and sticky over her mouth before wrapping her wrists and ankles together with something that held them immobile.

“You wait all nice and comfy here. I’ll talk to them and then be back to deal with you in a minute.” Then he was gone, shutting the door after him and leaving her lying in a heap.

“Hang on, I’m coming,” she heard Barry’s voice drifting up to her through the holes in the floor.

Get up, the familiar voice in her head shouted, though it was hard to hear it over the roar of blood in her ears as her pulse raced. She tried to force her body to comply, dragging her knees to her chest so that she could shift her bound legs beneath her and prop herself into a sitting position. But even that small effort made her head spin.

Through the haze she heard the now-familiar shriek of hinges that was the front door opening and realized she had only a few moments to try to pull herself together.

Focus! James knows something is wrong . . . that’s why he’s here . . . don’t let him leave without finding you!

Her vision began to clear, and she realized in relief that while Barry had used duct tape to bind her wrists, in his haste he’d left her arms in front. She could rip the tape from her mouth and scream for help . . . or could she? As her dizziness subsided, she saw that the tape covered not just her wrists but her hands as well, plastering them together in a prayerlike pose that left all but her fingertips immobilized.

Frantically, she began scrabbling with her fingernails at the edges of the silver tape on her face that stretched almost from ear to ear. As she did so, she was aware of voices drifting up to her, the holes in the floor channeling the sound to her as clearly as if she was in the same room.

“Uh, hi,” she heard Barry say, his tone one of friendly bafflement. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“We are looking for Darla,” came James’s chilly response. “I spoke to her on her phone less than thirty minutes ago. She said she was here, and that she was on her way back to the store. Unfortunately, she never arrived.”

“Well, I—”

“Quit stalling, Mr. Eisen.”

This voice was Jake’s. Thank God James had had the sense not to come alone!

“You’ve got about three seconds to tell us where Darla is,” she threatened, lapsing into cop mode, “and then I’m calling 9-1-1 and Detective Reese, in that order. One, two . . .”

Darla could hear the steel behind her words and knew that Barry had met his match. But the man didn’t seem inclined to admit it.

“Wait a minute,” he replied, sounding confused. “Darla was here, yes. I heard her talking to you, Mr. James. But then she left in a hurry. Didn’t she call to tell you what happened?”

“I tried calling her on the way over,” James replied, “and I got no answer.”

Darla had finally loosened a corner on the tape gag. Now she began tugging on it, tears springing to her eyes as the top layer of her skin seemed to pull off with every inch of tape that she managed to dislodge. Had she been able to get a better grip, she would have ripped it away in a single agonizing motion. Instead, she was forced into this slow torture.

“Mr. Eisen, you look like you’ve been in a fight.” This was Jake’s voice again, sounding colder still. “You mind telling us how you got blood on your neck and your shirt sleeve?”

“I’m trying to explain.”

Now, Barry sounded politely exasperated, and Darla could picture him giving them a deprecating shrug.

“Darla came over here looking for her cat. She got a call from you”—Darla assumed he was indicating James—“and said it was an emergency at the store. But as she was leaving, we heard a cat meowing out by the Dumpster. We ran to check, and it was Hamlet. He was injured. His back leg looked pretty messed up. We assumed he’d been hit by a car and crawled there to hide, like cats do.”

“Hamlet’s, like, hurt?” The incredulous voice belonged to Robert, who had apparently rounded out the posse that had come in search of her. “Where is he now? Where’s Ms. Pettistone?”

“She took him to the emergency vet. I had to crawl between the container and the house to get him out, and that’s how I got scratched up.”

Barry’s voice was rueful, the nice guy who’d tried to help out and gladly paid the price for it. And even worse, Darla thought in despair, the ex-debate captain’s story sounded reasonable.

“I told her I’d call a car service so she could take him to the vet, but she said her own car was parked in the garage nearby, and it would be faster for her to go get it.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?” Jake’s tone was accusatory, disbelieving. “How was she going to drive and carry a hurt cat all at the same time?”

“I told her I’d go. Hell, I volunteered to drive her car. But the cat was going crazy. I guess I caused him some pain when I pulled him out from where he was stuck, and he didn’t want me anywhere near him. Darla said it was better for me to stay here. I should have thought to call you, Mr. James, but she said she would phone you as soon as she got to the vet.”

“I have Dr. Birmingham’s phone number in my contacts,” James said. “Let me phone her now and see if Darla is there.”

“I’ll try Darla on her cell,” Jake said. There was a pause, and then Darla could hear Jake’s voice again, saying, “It goes straight to voice mail. James, did you get the vet?”

“I reached a recording saying that the vet’s offices are closed on Sunday, and it gave an emergency number to dial. If what Mr. Eisen is telling us is indeed the truth, then perhaps they have sent Darla elsewhere.”

Darla barely heard this last, however, for she had finally tugged off the final bit of tape. Though the delicate flesh around her mouth burned painfully now where she’d lost skin in the process, her emotion was one of triumph. It didn’t matter that her hands and feet were still bound. All she needed to do was scream and her friends would come racing to her rescue. She took a swift breath and let it out again in what she meant to be a primal cry for help.

But what came out of her ravaged throat was nothing more than a whispered croak.

Horrified, Darla tried again, but with the same results. Though it had been brief, the pressure of Barry’s hands around her throat apparently had been sufficient to do some damage. In fact, the pain that somehow had stayed on the fringes of her consciousness now swept over her. Her throat felt scraped raw and was painfully swollen, the sensation far worse than the time she’d been rushed to the emergency room as a child when the strep throat she’d contracted had set fire to her tonsils and made breathing almost impossible. And that didn’t even count the raging headache from where she’d struck her head on the doorjamb.

Think! If she couldn’t make some sort of noise, Jake and James and Robert might well leave without finding her. And that meant Barry would return upstairs to finish what he had started.

Trying to hold back a wave of dread at the thought, she pounded her bound hands against the wooden subfloor. The resulting sound, however, was muffled by the tape, and the vibrations absorbed by the floor’s surface. At this rate, she’d never catch anyone’s attention two stories down. If only she had a hammer, or something with some weight behind it!

She frantically scanned the room for something malletlike, even though she knew all Barry’s tools were downstairs. She heard Jake say, “I think I should call Reese, anyhow. And we can send Robert over to the garage to see if Darla’s car is still there.”

“I agree with your suggestion,” James said. “In fact, I—”

“Now wait a minute.”

Barry’s voice had cut James short, and Darla could hear the anger in his tone.

“I don’t mean to be rude, and I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t care about Darla or her cat, but I’ve got some projects I have to finish here. I was supposed to be in Connecticut for Curt’s funeral, but one of the building inspectors was giving me a hard time about the wiring we just did. So I really need you people to leave right now so I can finish this project and get on the road.”

“We won’t be in your way,” was Jake’s flip reply. “Go on with what you were doing. I’m just going to call Detective Reese.”

“Call him,” Barry said, no longer bothering to sound like Mr. Reasonable Guy. “I’ll mention to him that you guys were asked to leave and you won’t. I think it’s called trespassing, and probably harassment, too.”

Darla, meanwhile, had spied another of the empty gallon paint cans lying near the closest wall. Not a hammer, but better than nothing. She began wriggling her way over to it, careful to avoid the hole in the floor. If this didn’t worked, as a last resort she could fling herself through that opening. Her body hitting the floor below would cause enough ruckus to bring someone running—and the fall couldn’t be any worse than what Barry had planned for her.

“Maybe we should leave, Jake,” James was saying now, and his suggestion sent a wave of panic through her. Had Barry actually convinced them that he was hiding nothing? “If Mr. Eisen wants us off his property, I think we are obliged—”

“Hey, look what I found behind the door,” Robert cut him short, his tone excited. “They look like the sticks Ms. Pettistone had in her hair this morning. And this one looks like it has, you know, blood on it!”

Blood from where I managed to stab Barry, she thought in satisfaction as she inched her way closer to her goal. Surely the sight of blood would convince them that something was wrong there.

“Remember, I told you the cat was hurt,” she could hear Barry counter reasonably. “We tried to make a splint with those hair things, but it didn’t work. That’s where the blood came from. She must have dropped them there.”

At his words, a shudder went through her. Once again, the man had come up with a plausible argument for another uncomfortable question. Plausible enough that the trio might finally give up and unknowingly leave her behind. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to get to that paint can before they marched back out the door again!

But this time, it seemed that her friends weren’t buying what Barry was selling.

“That story is, in the parlance, bullshit,” James replied, much to her relief. “In fact, I am beginning to think you are keeping something from us. Darla, can you hear me? Are you somewhere in this house?”

“Darla! Darla, are you here?” Jake echoed. “Damn it, Barry, you’d better spill your guts now, or I’ll let Robert use that bat of his on you!”

Barry began to argue the point, and James to counter him, but Darla didn’t need to hear any more. The important thing was that her friends didn’t believe him!

By now, she had reached the paint can and dragged herself to her knees beside it. The sweat from her palms had seeped into the adhesive of the tape, loosening its grip on her skin. Now, she could use both hands to readily grasp the bail on the paint can. Holding it by that wire handle, she raised the empty can shoulder high and then smacked it against an exposed stud in the wall.

To her surprise, the can gave off a hollow bong, almost like a bell.

Encouraged, she raised the can and swung it against the stud again, and yet again. Each time, the dull rings were louder, reverberating in the empty room.

“Wait!” Jake’s voice rose above the small hubbub that had been going on below. “What in the hell is that sound? It’s almost like a cowbell ringing.”

Darla raised the can to strike it again; then, recalling something Jake had said a few days earlier, she changed her mind. Grabbing the metal container by its edge now, she used it like a mallet against the floor to beat out a familiar two-part rhythm.

Shave and a haircut, two bits. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

“Oh my God, it’s Darla,” she heard Jake’s stunned cry. “Did you hear that? She’s the only one I know who does that stupid knock.”

“It sounds like it’s coming from, you know, upstairs,” Robert added. “Here, I’ll go look for her. Ms. Pettistone! Where are you?”

“Give me that bat, Robert. I might need it. James, go with him,” Jake snapped. “I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Eisen until Reese and his team can get here.”

Darla could hear feet pounding up the first flight of stairs, heard James and Robert call her name as doors flung open. She rang her makeshift bell again, and then again, doing her best to guide them her way. And finally, a lifetime later, the door to the room where she was huddled burst open.

“Ms. Pettistone?”

“Darla?”

Both men stared at her with looks of shock, as if they’d not really believed to find her there, and in such a state. By that point, the energy she’d summoned to drag herself across the floor and play bell ringer had begun to seep away, so that she could do little more than raise her bound hands in a semblance of a greeting.

“Watch out for the hole,” she croaked and then slipped into a state of semiconsciousness.

Vaguely, she was aware of the pair tearing the tape from her wrists and ankles, and then James carrying her down the two flights of stairs, Robert hovering protectively in front of him and carrying her jacket. They set her down again in the foyer, well away from Barry—though she had seen with surprise that he was facedown, with Jake standing over him and wielding what appeared to be a Louisville Slugger.

“Jake, any trouble here?” James wanted to know as he took off his coat and carefully covered Darla with it.

The ex-cop gave him a cool smile.

“Nope. Reese and the ambulance should be here any minute.” Then, with a glance at the prone figure at her feet, she added, “Oh, him? I had to give our friend a little pop behind the knees with Mary Ann’s bat when he tried to take off. Unfortunately, he smacked his head when he fell, so he’s feeling a little woozy right now. Robert, come stand guard a minute. I need to talk to Darla.”

Handing off the weapon to the teen, who promptly shouldered the bat as if he were at home plate, she hurried over to where Darla lay, her throbbing head pillowed by her coat.

“Hey, kid, you look like hell,” she said with small smile, joining James in kneeling beside her. She brushed Darla’s tangled red hair from her face in a motherly gesture. “Are you up to telling me what happened? James told me on the way over that he and Robert were certain Barry was responsible for murdering Curt. Given what happened to you, I’m guessing they were right.”

Darla tried to nod, and then winced as her head began pounding again. “He killed Curt,” she managed in a ragged whisper, “and Tera, too.”

“Tera?” Jake’s dark eyes opened wide, while James gave an audible gasp. “You’re sure of that, kid?”

“All I saw was blond hair, but I’m sure it’s her. She’s in the basement.”

Struggling into a sitting position despite James’s protests, Darla pointed in the direction of the basement door. Her voice still hoarse, she added, “Jake, she was an innocent victim. She saw Barry kill Curt, so he killed her, too.”

“Oh my God.”

Jake’s words were little more than a whisper, and her olive cheeks went ashen. She sunk back on her heels and slowly shook her head. “Tera’s dead. Damn it, she was just a kid, too. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to Hilda.”

Then, with a sharp look in Barry’s direction, she added, “It’s a damn good thing there are plenty of witnesses here, or I might be telling Reese how I had to defend myself with a baseball bat against that son of a bitch when he attacked me.”

“Swing away,” James said in hard voice Darla barely recognized. “I will be happy to testify as to an unprovoked attack and a necessarily prolonged attempt at self-defense.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Robert chimed in and raised the bat in a threatening gesture over the prone Barry.

Jake, however, shook her head. “Satisfying as it might be, I won’t have you guys perjure yourselves over that piece of garbage.” Then, turning her attention back to Darla, she said more softly, “You said she’s in the basement. Can you tell me where, so I can show Reese when he gets here?”

“Behind the boiler,” she whispered, swiping at a tear that had rolled down her cheek. “She-she was wrapped in black plastic, like she was trash.”

She paused, wishing she could forget that horrifyingly poignant sight but knowing she never would. Even though she had suspected all along that harm might have befallen the girl, she had continued to hope until that last moment for her safe return.

“He told me he was going to Connecticut today,” she went on, “but instead he stayed behind to take care of Tera. He was digging a hole in the basement floor to bury her, and then he was going to plaster over the door so no one would ever go down there again. But I messed up his plans when I came here to look for Hamlet.”

“Yeah, where is he? Where’s Hamlet?” Robert demanded.

Darla took a deep breath, the pain in her throat intensified by the sob she found herself holding back.

“He was the one who found Tera first,” she managed. “I heard him meowing in the basement. I ran down there to look for him, and he showed me where she was. When Barry went after me, Hamlet tried to save me . . . that’s why Barry had scratches on his neck. But then Barry hit him with a flashlight.”

She paused and then in a rush finished, “I-I think Hamlet’s dead.”

“No!” Robert’s disbelieving cry was that of a young boy. “Hamlet can’t be dead. I’m going to go see for myself!”

“Wait!”

Jake leaped to her feet and hurried to intercept the youth. He had dropped the bat and was headed for the basement, tears streaming down his face.

“Robert, I know you’re upset, but if there’s a body down there, it’s a crime scene. I can’t let you go trampling around there, even for Hamlet.”

“But what if he’s not dead? Ms. Pettistone said she didn’t know for sure.”

“He’s right. I-I don’t know,” Darla choked out, aware that her own tears had begun to spill in a similar storm of grief. “Please, Jake, let him look.”

Jake pursed her lips and then nodded. “Can you tell him exactly where you saw Hamlet last?”

“He was lying on the bricks. Barry picked him up and threw him in the boiler firebox.”

At her words, Robert’s grief-stricken expression turned murderous. He rounded on Barry, who had begun to moan and stir.

“Dude, you’d better hope that Hamlet is all right. My friend Alex Putin . . . he, you know, likes cats,” he threatened and ran to the basement door.

“Don’t touch the handle of the firebox with your bare hands,” Jake called after him as she returned to kneel beside Darla. “Fingerprints! Use your shirttail.”

Robert nodded and vanished behind the door. James, meanwhile, picked up the discarded bat and took up position near Barry. Cocking his head in the direction of the front windows, he said, “I believe I hear sirens.”

“About damn time,” Jake replied. She gave Darla’s hand a reassuring squeeze and said, “Hang in there, kid. The paramedics will be here in a minute, and we’ll get you to the hospital so the docs can check you out.”

Darla hugged James’s coat to her like a security blanket. In a small voice that reminded her of herself thirty years earlier, she rocked back and forth there where she sat on the floor and whispered, “I don’t want an ambulance. I want my kitty.”

As if in answer, a faint shout came from the basement. Darla couldn’t guess if it reflected Robert’s shock at seeing Tera’s body or if it was an indication that he’d found Hamlet. She hugged the coat more tightly, trying to tell herself that she didn’t care that all much, that she’d never wanted a cat.

It didn’t work. All she could see in her mind’s eye was Hamlet valiantly trying to hold off Barry so that she could escape from the basement, rather than slipping off into the shadows and leaving her alone.

Now, the emergency sirens sounded like they were just outside, so Darla didn’t hear Robert come back up from the basement until he abruptly emerged through the doorway. He was cradling a furry black form that lay limply in his arms, looking like little more than a large black pelt. Darla gasped.

“Is he . . . ?”

Is he okay? Is he dead?

She didn’t know which question to ask . . . didn’t dare ask either.

And then youth gave a tremulous smile. “He’s breathing. But we should, like, get him to the vet.”

The sirens abruptly cut off then, and over the shouted commands of the emergency personnel outside, Darla heard a querulous meow. The limp black form began to squirm, and a pair of emerald eyes blinked open.

“Hamlet!” Darla cried, or rather, tried to. Instead, what came out was a relieved sob.

Robert, meanwhile, had broken into a grin as the squirming was followed by another, more insistent meow. “Hey, little bro. What’s the matter? Do you want down?”

Gently, he set Hamlet down on the floor. The feline blinked and gazed around him, as if taking roll of everyone in attendance. Spying a groggy Barry lying several feet from him, he took a step back and gave an evil hiss.

“I think we all second that sentiment,” James remarked, and Darla saw him swipe away what appeared to be a suspicious bit of moisture from his eyes.

Darla blinked back her own tears. “Hey, Hamlet, thanks for taking care of me,” she croaked. “You’re a true cat hero.”

Hamlet stared at her, green eyes bright; then, quite deliberately, he padded his way toward her.

It was at that point that the front door burst open, and Reese and two uniformed patrolmen rushed in. One of the latter shouted an all clear, and the paramedics followed inside, their gear clattering as they demanded to know where their patient might be. Jake sprang to her feet and was telling Reese what had happened, with James chiming in with his own version. At the detective’s quick word, the nearest officer slapped a pair of cuffs on Barry and then dragged him to his feet—roughly, Darla was glad to see.

But exciting as it all was, the distraction held her attention only until she felt a soft paw touch her knee. She looked down to see Hamlet gazing up at her, green eyes inscrutable. Then, with the flick of a whisker, he settled himself on her lap and began to purr.