“You may be wondering about the rest of the names,” Ebling says. Smiling, he sits down on the couch, between me and my purse, and pats his pocket again. This time, he pats a different pocket. “We have those, too.”
We? What if the Head is waiting by the front door? To-somehow-stop me from leaving? If I run I could be in even more trouble.
Ebling’s so close I can smell the fragrant brandy he’s swirling his glass. See the gray stubble on his cheeks and chin. See a few tiny reddish-brown spots on his yellow tie. I place my glass on the coffee table and stand, moving toward the fire.
“Chilly,” I say, edging away from him. This is not good.
“True,” he replies. He stands up, coming elbow to elbow with me in front of the fireplace.
He’s too close. The fire is too hot. I loosen the scarf around my neck. Call me. Call. Me. I send ESP messages to Josh, to Penny, to Annie, to everyone I called. All my dear ones who I’m beginning to fear I may never see again. My eyes well, and it’s not the heat.
“I suppose you’re wondering about Byron,” he says. He takes another sip of brandy.
“As a matter of fact, I was.” I’m trying to back up but I’m trapped between the couch, the coffee table, the fire and a mousy accountant who seems to be developing into another kind of animal altogether. A scary one.
“Truth is,” Ebling says, “he is indeed upstairs. However. He will not be coming down. Our Byron was so despondent that you discovered his secret little financial stratagem that he killed himself. It’s very sad,” Ebling says, as if he’s relating the plot of a movie, “because he could never have regained his reputation, let alone abide for the rest of his life in prison for three murders. He went upstairs to his room. And used his little antique pistol. Such a tragedy.”
He pauses. With a flourish, he hands me my brandy glass, urging it on me like a gracious host from hell.
“So I fear you won’t be having your meeting about your little project.”
I instantly recognize his voice as “Carter the temp.” And Ebling did a perfect imitation of the Head. I guess he’s right. He’s good at voices.
Oh. Which allowed him to hide his identity when he made the phone calls. And he said “three” murders.
Three. Did he and the Head kill Josh?
Am I next? I’m next. My throat closes. My brain spins, racing to get ahead of whatever is about to happen. Do I run for the door? Couch, coffee table, fire, Ebling.
“But now,” Ebling continues, sounding like himself again, “the least I can do is show you that list of names you wanted so much.”
He gestures at the snifter I’m holding.
“Byron did have one last glass of his very nice brandy,” he says. He steps toward me. “Which you may also want to do.”
He reaches inside his pocket again.
Of course there’s no list. There’s a gun. Pointing at me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Couch, coffee table, fire, Ebling.
I’ve only got one idea.
The fire.
“No!” I yell. I crash the crystal snifter, hard as I can, into the crackling fire. With a hot whoosh of heat, the alcohol-fueled flames flare from the fireplace. Harrison leaps back, jumping away to escape the licking orange.
I grab the heavy decanter from the coffee table. With a cry of something that even I can’t translate, I smash the crystal toward him, hitting his neck and lower jaw. Sticky, pungent brandy spills from the bottle, dousing my hands and Ebling’s clothing and the rug beneath us. Ebling wails, outraged, and I hop in pain and surprise, frantically patting away spitting flames from the brandy spatters on his clothing.
I throw my scarf around his neck, pulling, pulling, pulling with every ounce of my strength. The soft loop of knitted fabric tightens, yanking Ebling off balance. Before he can untangle himself, I wrench the scarf, fabric straining and murderer howling, down toward the floor.
The heat from the fire is more intense than ever. It seems closer. Hotter.
The crack of Ebling’s head against the coffee table, a thunk of skull against solid mahogany, is as shockingly loud as the silence that follows.
The gun drops from his open hand. I kick it out of the way with a sweep of my boot. It spins across the rug and slides under the couch, just the barrel showing. Keeping my eyes on the motionless Ebling, I move to try to pick it up.
And then I see I have another problem.
The fire.
Rivulets of flame travel across the Oriental rug, devouring the tight weave and turning the elaborate maroon and emerald designs into monochrome crusting black. Some alcohol-fueled flames are licking at the pleated skirt of the upholstered couch. The camel fabric begins to streak with smoke. The air is a suffocating, thickening gray, sweet with the brandy fragrance, acrid with burning fabric. I stomp my boots at the flames, grabbing for the phone on the round end table.
“One Bexter Academy Drive. Emergency.” I say to the 911 operator. I struggle to keep my voice calm so she can understand me. “A fire. A big fire. And we need an ambulance. Someone’s hurt.”
I glance at the still-motionless Ebling. Can I drag him out of here? And what about the Head? Who’s still upstairs? And maybe still alive?
“Operator?”
“One Bexter Drive. I understand, ma’am. Help is on the way. Now listen to me, ma’am. Are you listening?”
“Maybe we need two ambulances,” I say, ignoring her. “And the police, send the police!”
I can’t help it anymore, my voice sounds thin and frantic and terrified. I’m moving toward the front door. Through the increasing smoke, I see Ebling’s head lift from the floor. His eyes open, then close again. And his head drops back down.
Should I try to get him out? What about the Head? The cordless phone is still clamped to my ear, my hand clenched in a death grip around it. The dispatcher, urgent-voiced, is trying to tell me something. I know. I know the firefighters are coming. But what if it’s too late for the Head? I’m through the living room arch and into the front hallway. The stairway to the second floor is right here. I could race up, outrun the fire. Get to the Head. And when the firefighters get here, they’ll-
“Ma’am? Get out of the house. Now. Right now.” The dispatcher’s voice goes harsh, commanding, demanding. “Get everyone out. Now. Go.”
A piercing wail suddenly comes from every corner of the darkening living room. I freeze, baffled. Until I realize it’s the Head’s alarm system. The one guarding his treasures.
If he’s dead, the fancy alarm system won’t matter. Do I go upstairs?
And then I hear the sirens. Sirens from outside. Louder and louder and louder.
“He’s, he’s…it’s, it’s…” I jab a finger toward the living room, trying to explain everything at once, not able to compete a sentence, but the four black-suited firefighters, one carrying a huge silver cylinder, the others hefty axes and picks, don’t care about a coughing and babbling woman standing in the doorway. I flatten myself against the wall to get out of the way as heavy boots clomp down the hallway. Radio static cuts through the wail of the sirens. The four instantly take control of the fire, the living room, the now-motionless Ebling and me.
In an instant, a mist of glittering water hisses from the black hose connected to one firefighter’s triple-size extinguisher. The flames sizzle in protest. The gray smoke hisses into white. Through the fire and water and smoke and steam and the sounds of the sirens and the still-howling alarm, I watch one firefighter shoulder through the chaos toward Ebling.
“He’s, he’s-dangerous!” I yell. I step back into the house, heading for the living room. If they can be inside, I can be inside. I need to warn them about Ebling, and show them where I kicked the gun. “And there’s a gun in the-”
“You need to be outside, ma’am.” A black-suited monolith in a white helmet, with breathing tank strapped to shoulders, doesn’t wait for me to follow directions. He picks me up, clamping two huge gloved hands around my arms, and moves me toward the open front door in about one second.