Bernadette went up to one of the windows and pressed her face against the glass. The curtains on the other side blocked her view. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the door and inserted the key in the lock. She could feel the deadbolt turn. She put her hand on the knob and pushed the heavy wooden door open. A narrow band of white—the floodlight—followed her inside. She heard a creak behind her and turned to see Garcia stepping inside, carefully closing the porch door behind him.
They moved directly into the kitchen, a renovated galley. A butcher-block table was in the middle of the space, and modern glass-front cabinetry and steel appliances lined the walls. Heavy footsteps overhead made her freeze. She thought she heard music as well.
She closed the door behind her and turned the deadbolt; she didn’t want to make it easy for him to flee. Garcia watched her hands but said nothing.
Moving carefully across the wooden floor, they headed for the door at the far end of the kitchen, with Garcia taking point. The kitchen’s old-fashioned swinging doors opened into the formal dining area, a space with a long table surrounded by antique chairs. Then came a front room. Looking to the right through the parlor, they could make out the spindled railing of stairs leading up to the second floor. A bookcase was built into one side. The lace-covered windows at the front of the house had a dull glow from the streetlamps outside.
As they drew closer to the stairs, they could see a light at the top. Flattening themselves against the bookcase, they listened. Someone was singing, but she couldn’t understand the words. It was an opera. She heard another voice; Charles was singing along.
Garcia slid closer to the foot of the stairs. They heard a thump at their feet and started. Garcia had knocked a fat book off the shelf. Reaching into their pockets, they pulled out their guns and waited for their quarry to come down the stairs, but he continued with his singing.
Garcia moved to the foot of the stairs, crouched down, and aimed up. She did the same. There was a landing, after which the steps took a sharp turn and continued their ascent. It was the vision from her session with the scarf. They were in the right place. Had they come soon enough to save Regina Ordstruman, or was she already dead?
Taking out her flashlight, Bernadette ran the beam around the floor near the front door. Dark splatters dulled the shiny wood, but there were no big puddles. If he’d stabbed her to death, he’d done it elsewhere. Garcia came up next to her, stared at the blood, and reached into his pocket. Bernadette put her hand up. She didn’t want him calling yet; she wanted to find the girl first. With a hard-set mouth, he pulled his hand out of his pocket. She clicked off the light, and they went for the stairs.
She put one foot on the middle of the first step and winced at the creak. She took the second step by setting her foot on the left side of the stair. Silence. Garcia followed behind her, both of them hugging the left.
Squatting behind the potted palm, they looked up from the landing. Through an open doorway, light and music spilled into the hallway. He’d stopped singing. Had he heard them taking the stairs? There was a pause in the music. Perhaps he was switching CDs. She prayed for new tunes that would get him singing again.
Her prayer was answered. Miraculously, she even recognized what he was playing. It was the music from The Phantom of the Opera. He was singing along again and not doing a half-bad job.
Holding their weapons in both hands, they finished their trek up the stairs. They made a squeaky beeline for the hallway table. Squatting next to it, they heard a toilet flush and water running. He was in the master bathroom, a logical venue for his operatic performance. While Charles launched into “The Music of the Night,” she thought about their next move. They needed information from him, but not at the expense of the girl’s life.
The hallway in front of her started to blur and spin. The dizziness was back, and more intense than before. If she folded, she’d give them away before they found the girl. Reaching up, she clutched the edge of the hallway table for support.
“Shit!” he yelled from inside the bathroom. “Fucking razor.”
Feeling something sting her cheek, she stifled a yelp. Something wet dripped onto her gloved fist. Behind her, Garcia lightly touched her arm. She turned her head and saw his eyes widen with shock. Using her teeth, she pulled off her right glove. Reaching up, she gingerly touched her cheek and examined her fingers. Blood. He’d cut himself—and she was bleeding. Their connection was growing closer by the minute, and she had to sever it soon before she lost herself in him.
Chapter 40
THUMPING OUT OF the bathroom, Araignee was drinking straight whiskey—she could smell it out in the hallway—and it made her nauseous. She hoped her tolerance for the stuff was the same, glass for glass, as his. How could she use her gun when she was plastered? Garcia would have to do all the shooting.
Inside the bedroom, they could hear dresser drawers being opened and slammed shut at a ferocious pace. Garcia touched her arm, and she looked at him hunkered next to her in the hallway. They were both thinking the same thing: Chaz was getting ready to take a trip.
Suddenly something shattered in the bedroom.
“Shit!”
He’d dropped his bottle or glass. Hopefully, that would end his binge for the night.
“Fuck!”
A sharp sensation stabbed her right hand, and she inhaled sharply. She switched the gun to her left hand. Lifting her right palm, she was horrified to see deep cuts across her index and middle fingers. He’d sliced himself on the broken glass. While she wiped her bleeding fingers on the leg of her jeans, she sensed Garcia tense next to her. He knew what was going on, and it was scaring the crap out of him. She wondered if the same question came to his mind as to hers: If they shot Charles Araignee, would she be hit as well?
The music stopped. The next sounds made them stand straight, ready to charge the room. It was a moan, followed by Charles’s response.
“Shut up, bitch.”
Gritting her teeth through the pain, Bernadette pulled her leather glove back on over the injury. She turned her head and nodded to Garcia.
Suddenly their prey bounded out of the suite. They watched his back as he went down the steps barefoot, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt. He held on to the banister with his left hand and carried the broken glass in his right. The hand with the tumbler was bandaged.
“I’ve got the girl,” Garcia growled, and bolted into the bedroom.
Moving to the top of the stairs, Bernadette looked down and saw Chaz next to the bookcase, bending over something. He’d discovered the book Garcia had knocked off the shelf. She took a step back from the railing and held her breath, wondering if the fallen volume would set off an alarm in his head. After a minute of quiet, she peeked over the railing again and saw he was gone. A faint light was coming from the kitchen.
Her weapon pointed, she glided down the stairs, cut through the front room, and went into the dining room. Sidling up to the kitchen door, she saw light spilling out from the bottom of the door. On the other side, she heard cupboards being opened and closed. If he was hunting for whiskey, she prayed he’d find none. She was starting to snap out of the daze, helped in part by the sobering pain radiating from her fingers.
She heard silverware rattling. What was he looking for? Before he sliced himself again or unearthed another bottle of booze, Bernadette decided to make her move. Crouching down, she pushed the swinging door open an inch. At the far end of the kitchen, with his back to her, he was fiddling with something on the counter. She couldn’t see what it was; a bread machine blocked her view of his hands. She closed the door and stood up. With her gun in both hands, she raised her arms out in front of her. She kicked the door open and went through. “Don’t move, Charles!”