Then there were the little nagging fears. That the car would break down and I’d be late dropping the kids off at school. That I’d forget one of Jenna’s soccer games or swim meets or softball games. That by owning the bookstore I was damaging my children’s psyches by not welcoming them with open arms and warm cookies when they came home from school.
I’d started mentioning my fears of dentist drills and stubbing my toe in the dark when Richard had rolled his eyes and turned off the computer. “How can you look so normal on the outside but be such a mess on the inside?” he asked. “Have you ever considered therapy?”
I’d tried to tell him that all women worried like this. It was part and parcel of being female. The estrogen made us do it, Officer.
Agnes made a snorting noise.
“Well, maybe not all women,” I said.
A shiver climbed through my body, and I wrapped the blanket tighter around me. I deeply regretted that Marina and I had turned down the thermostat.
Somewhere out in the darkness lurked a murderer. He’d killed once, and though I didn’t think he planned to kill me, how did I know? Any happy ending I’d hypothesized could easily be attributed to wishful thinking.
Somewhere out there my children were waiting to call their mother for a bedtime phone-kiss.
Oh, my sweet Jenna.
Oh, my darling Oliver.
“Now what do I do?” I asked the empty air.
“What do you think?”
I could wait and hope for rescue. It would come, eventually, but when? Or I could shout and scream and yell in hope that someone would hear me. But who? And even if someone heard something, would they think to call the police?
Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being afraid. An excellent idea. Why hadn’t I though of it earlier? I said it out loud. “It’s time to stop being afraid.” Though I waited for Agnes to make a comment, she was quiet this time around.
But I still felt the fear licking at my ankles and threatening to run up my legs and into my heart where it would take hold forever.
Okay. If I couldn’t stop being afraid, I could at least do something. If I were busy, maybe I wouldn’t have time to be afraid. But before I did anything, I had to wait a little longer. Time played tricks on people. My father had once collapsed at home from what turned out to be his first heart attack. Mom called 911 immediately and for weeks went on and on that it had taken the EMTs “at least half an hour!” to arrive. My sister Kathy finally called to check. The first responders had arrived in four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.
Since Mom had provided half my genetic material, the possibility of similar time expansion was strong. Even though it felt like hours since Iron Grip had left, maybe it was only five minutes. Maybe he was outside, waiting for Marina’s neighbor to finish walking the dog.
Once again, I considered my options. Once again, I didn’t come up with anything good.
I counted seconds in my head. One one thousand, two one thousand. Ten times I counted to sixty thousand. Ten minutes. The steady rhythm calmed me and cleared my mind. I counted out another ten minutes, then another ten. He’d been gone for at least half an hour—long enough. First things first, I decided.
“Help!” I yelled. “Hellllp!”
My shrieks brought no assistance. The night was too cold, the basement too soundproof, my screams the wrong frequency—for whatever reason, I was on my own.
“You had to try,” Agnes said.
I nodded in the dark. “Would have been silly not to.” It was nice to have some support, even if it wasn’t real. “Do you have any ideas you’d like to share?”
But here she was silent.
Ah, well. It was probably best that I stopped talking to myself, anyway.
Once upon a time I’d carried a small pocketknife. Then one day, a small Jenna reached into my purse, dug out the knife, and pried out the knife’s short, sharp blade. I’d immediately taken it away from her, thrown the knife in the wastebasket, and carried the wastebasket into the garage.
Too bad. Even a small knife would have been handy right now.
I banged on the door with my knuckles. Banged on it with the heels of my hands. Kicked at it with my toes. Kicked at it with my heels. Banged on it with my fists. All I got for my efforts was a nice collection of wood splinters.
That was when I started to cry.
I don’t know how long I cried. I’d like to say it wasn’t very long. I’d like to say only a tiny tear escaped before courage reasserted itself. I’d like to say the intrepid spirit of my homesteading ancestors surged forth and brought me strength and innovative ideas for escape.
What actually happened was that I sobbed long and hard enough to exhaust myself. Right there at the top of Agnes’s basement stairs, leaning against the door, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, disoriented and with a stiff neck, I heard something. No, not something, but someone.
Iron Grip—he was back.
As quickly and as silently as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs. Faint moonlight washed through the windows—enough light to let me pick my way across the room. My breaths were rapid and shallow.
He was back. He’d come back to finish me off. What was I going to do? I had to defend myself somehow. There had to be a way.
I made my way to the workbench. Surely there’d be something here I could use. Too bad the workbench was in the darkest corner of this dark room. I need to find something sharp, something heavy, something . . . anything. . . .
Furniture screeched.
Wildly, I felt for something that would save me. And I had the element of surprise on my side, didn’t I? He didn’t know there were tools down here. Not that I was finding anything bigger than a screwdriver, but there must be something. . . .
More screeching. The door opened. Light bounced down the stairwell and onto the far side of Agnes’s hockey memorabilia.
“Hello?” called a male voice. “Is anyone down there?”
I rushed across the room and my hands wrapped familiarly around the best weapon possible. I stationed myself on the darkest side of the stairs. When he came all the way down, I’d give him a good slash, then run up and out across the street to Marina’s house and safety.
“Hello?” A heavy tread squeaked the top stair. “Is anyone here?” He came down one stair at a time.
His legs came into view. From my position I could see his leather belt, then his jacket, then his shoulders, and finally the back of his head. My hands tightened on my weapon. Head up, eyes intent on the goal, I swung the stick fast and high.
At the last second he turned, and I watched with horror as the curved blade of Agnes’s autographed hockey stick sailed straight into the side of the unsuspecting head of Don the dry cleaner.
Chapter 18
“Beth!” Marina forced her way around two law-enforcement officers, jumped over a case of medical equipment, and ran to my side. “Beth! Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.” The rotating lights of the ambulance and two police cars came through the living room windows and washed over us all, giving the scene a bizarre disco feel.
“I’m fine.” I blessed Gloria for being lax in having Agnes’s utilities turned off. My cell phone was in my purse, which was in my car. Luckily, Don had ducked away from the hockey stick and I’d barely landed a glancing blow. After he’d assured me that he wasn’t hurt, I’d called 911, then called Richard’s condo and talked to the children, getting a lecture from Richard beforehand on my irresponsibility of not being available when they’d called earlier and did I really expect him to wake them so I could say good night (to which the answer was, of course, yes). Then, as sirens broke the suburban quiet, I’d called Marina.