Her body tilted and she screamed my name. She rose, four feet, five feet, rigid as a board and becoming horizontal. She put her arms over her face as the ceiling came closer, and I could only look on in shock, unable to do a thing.
Her body was only inches from the ceiling when he laughed and let her go. She plummeted down and I moved fast to get underneath her, catching her in my arms, both of us crashing to the floor.
We lay there battered and gasping and all I could hear was Mycroft's laughter—his cackle. Kinsella and the others were also amused. Except for Gillie: she'd fainted.
We were finished. He'd kill us and probably make it look like a lover's tiff gone wrong. Or maybe the conclusion would be that someone had broken in, burglars on the make, and had launched a frenzied attack on us when they'd been discovered (just look at the state of the place). He'd find a reasonably rational way, of that I was sure, but why should I worry what that would be? That was his problem.
I raised myself on one elbow, ready for the worst, but determined to make a match of it.
When the doorbell downstairs clanged.
FLORA
IT WAS A ludicrous situation: Midge and me sprawled on the floor, the Synergists spread around the room, edging in for the kill—and now the Avon Lady was calling.
Only it wasn't someone selling perfume out there. And we hadn't heard door chimes: the "bring out your dead" sound had come from the old bell hanging outside the kitchen door. The urgency in its tone told us the caller wasn't going to go away (and all the cars out front indicated that somebody had to be home).
Mycroft gave a barely perceptible nod of his head toward Kinsella, and before I could move the American had dashed forward to slip an arm beneath Midge's throat. Her feet kicked air as he lifted.
Mycroft came closer to me. "You'll get rid of whoever's out there. I'm not concerned with how, but you'll do it. Your sweet little loved one will suffer if you fail. A sharp pull of his arm and her windpipe will be crushed instantly. He can do it, believe me he can easily do that . . ."
I looked up at Kinsella and didn't doubt for a moment that he could and would. Taking in that wide, handsome face I wondered whatever had happened to Mom's Apple Pie and the American Way.
I rose unsteadily and considered rushing him, grabbing his arm or knocking him flat before he could do any damage, but I soon dismissed the idea: the bastard was too strong and too quick and I'd be too slow and not strong enough.
"If you hurt her . . ." I said unconvincingly, and he loved the threat. He squeezed one of her breasts with his free hand just to show me how scared he was, and the craziness in his smile made me shudder.
Midge squirmed against him, unable to cry out because of the bar against her throat.
I took a step toward them and he increased the pressure on her neck so that Midge's eyes rolled upward with the pain.
"I'll finish her and then you'll be next," he warned amiably.
I backed off, hands raised. There was nothing I could do. The bell downstairs rang more insistently.
"Don't be foolish in any way," Mycroft advised.
I shrugged and brushed by him, going into the hallway. Madness, I kept telling myself as I stomped down the stairs. The whole bloody thing is total, unbelievable madness. And if these lunatics were going to get us anyway, why not make a break for it when I opened the door? At least I'd get to the police. But the car keys were still upstairs, dropped in the mêlée. The caller would have come by car, though. Grab whoever it was and run for it, drive into the village and bring back help; that was the thing to do. But leave Midge alone in the hands of these freaks? That question didn't even need a conscious answer.
A stairboard gave beneath me and I abruptly found myself sitting down, one foot sunk deep into the carpet. Movement from behind and I knew one, or maybe two, of the Synergists lurked at the bend of the stairs, waiting to pass the word back should I misbehave when I answered the door.
The bell stopped clanging.
I felt a terrible despair.
Then the door was being pounded.
I picked myself up and hurried down the last few steps, crossing the kitchen and reaching the door without further deliberation. The wood was straining against the frame as though the person outside was angry and impatient, and desperate to be let in. My fingers touched the top bolt and froze on the cold metal; I was suddenly aware of who it was out there. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. My arm slowly lowered as if of its own accord and I stared at the door.
She'd been trying to reach us for a long time now.
My fear had reached a new zenith, rising from the slushy morass of dread like a dripping creature from a swamp.
Did I really want to face that figure who'd watched us from a distance? Did I want to come face to face with that ravaged countenance, to stand within feet of her? Did I want to smell her putridness so close, the stink of corrupting death that had already fouled the air inside the cottage? Did I finally want to meet my own nightmare?
Did I have a choice?
The banging had stopped as if she knew I was on the other side and that it was only a matter of time before the door opened. I reached up for the bolt once more and slammed it back, compelled by a will other than my own.
My fingers slid down the painted wood, sinking to the metal bar at the foot of the door. I snapped the lever horizontal, then began to slide the bar open.
"No!"
Still crouched, I turned to find Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs; something had made him follow me down. The hint of panic in his command told me he knew who was out there, too.
"Don't open that door!"
My grin may have been nervous, but it was a grin. I shot the bolt all the way back, stood and twisted the key in the lock. Then I opened the door.
I stared at the figure on the step, stunned speechless.
Because, of course, I was wrong again.
She marched by me, grousey as ever. "I thought you'd never open up," Val complained, well into the kitchen before turning to face me. "I saw the cars parked outside and assumed you were entertaining, but I've been ringing that bell and thumping on that door for ages. I was just about to come around to the other side."
Big, bristling Val; tweed two-piece suit, heavy brogues and thick stockings. Gorgeous, mustachioed Val.
"Val," I croaked. I wasn't angry like last time.
The breeze from the open doorway cooled the back of my clammy neck.
"Good Lord, you'd think I was a ghost the way you're standing there. Are you all right, Mike? I drove down because I was anxious over what we discussed earlier today. You know there's something very odd—"
"Get rid of her!" shrieked Mycroft.
Val had obviously noticed him immediately she'd stepped into the cottage, but now she gave the Synergist her full attention. "I beg your pardon?" she said, and I'd withered under that tone and that glare myself a few times in the past.
"Make her leave."
Mycroft spoke in a low, even voice, but I could tell his rag was going. Me, I was glad to see her, although I realized her presence didn't help the situation any; formidable though Val was, we were up against something more than mere numbers.
"Mike, I'm sorry if I've interrupted anything, but will you kindly inform this ill-mannered cretin . . ."
She'd spun toward me again and indignation trailed off with the sentence as she looked beyond me at the doorway.
The breeze wafting in was even more chilly, bringing with it a faint and peculiarly sour-sweet fragrance.
A hand touched my shoulder from behind.
Afraid to look all at once, I twisted my head and saw the shadow. Her breath touched my cheek.