Better Read Than Dead (33 page)

At the exact moment I had that thought I heard a tremendous
wham!
against my front door. Someone was breaking into my house. Startled, I jumped off the bed and grabbed the cordless. I clicked the on button and dialed 911, then put the phone to my ear and listened to silence. The phone was dead. I depressed the on button twice more, each time raising it to my ear, but no sound came on the line. My phone line had been cut. Panicking now, I searched the room trying to think. Spying my purse I grabbed it and snatched out my cell phone. Quickly I dialed 911 and before the operator even had a chance to speak I screamed my address into the receiver and begged the dispatcher to send the police.

My front door was giving way!“ Please hurry!” I begged and clicked off the phone. I then turned in a circle. . . . What to do? Where to go? Quickly I shuffled into my loafers and grabbed my purse again, opening my bedroom door and looking toward the stairs.

Wham! . . . Wham!
More wood splintering.

I was about to rush out of my room, down the stairs and out the back door, but quickly thought better of it—they were probably waiting for a move exactly like that and had someone at my back door just in case I decided to run out that way.

“Damn!” I whined as I shut my bedroom door again and turned in a circle, searching the room for a hiding place. Just then my eye fell on the small door to my attic, and without further hesitation I ran to it, heaving it open, then ducking through into the cold, dark space of my attic as I quickly shut the door behind me.

I squinted into the fading light, searching for a place to hide, my vision obscured by the dimness. Suddenly I heard the front door give way, and instinct pushed me deeper into the room as I walked carefully over piles of old clothes and boxes of junk while my eyes darted around, looking for someplace to hide. Just then, through the darkness of the room, I saw to my immense relief a large black trunk that I’d had since college. It was an ancient relic I’d picked up at a flea market, and I knew from memory that it was also empty.

As quietly as I could I stepped over several more piles of clothes and lifted the lid of the trunk. I’d be cramped in here, but I could fit. Swiftly I wrapped my purse strap over my head and plunged inside, even as I heard thunderous footsteps on the stairs. Quickly I reached over my head and closed the lid as quietly as I could, trying not to quiver too much and make the trunk rattle. I knew that if Kapordelis’s men found me, I was as dead as Goon.

From inside the trunk I heard my bedroom door open, and not a moment later the contents of my room began to crash against the walls as if they were being strewn around like so much trash. I kept as still as I could in the trunk, waiting . . . barely breathing, my heart hammering in my chest so forcefully it hurt. I could hear at least two men shouting and yelling in Greek. There was more furniture tossing, and what I gathered were several colorful descriptors of me and my mama in Greek.

After a few minutes I heard one of the men tramp his way back downstairs, while the other creaked the floorboards as he walked the hallway to my bathroom. After rooting around in my shower, he came back to my bedroom and tossed some more furniture around, cursing loud enough for me to hear. Finally he must have noticed the small door to the attic, because I heard it being tugged violently open.

I stopped breathing and closed my eyes in fear as I heard him come into the attic and kick aside boxes and clothing. I knew it was dark up here, and prayed that he wouldn’t see the trunk, which was tucked into the far back corner of the attic. Because it was black, it wouldn’t stand out unless you knew it was there—or so I hoped.

Even so, I heard my intruder’s footsteps coming near, and I tried to make myself smaller. I could hear him approach, one step at a time, closer and closer. He was going to find me . . . I was done. The footsteps stopped right in front of the trunk; silent tears fell down my cheeks because I knew it was over. He was two seconds away from killing me, and I hadn’t had a chance to say my good-byes to anyone I loved. Just then, however, through the leather of the trunk came a commotion from downstairs, and after a moment I clearly heard someone yelling, “Police! Police!” from the stairwell, even as the sound of sirens reached my ears, and I wanted to sob in relief.

The man hovering over my hiding space paused for only a moment; then to my disbelieving ears I heard him dart quickly back through the attic opening. I prayed he’d leave the house quickly with the other man, and bit my lip anxiously as I listened to his footsteps stop in my bedroom, where he lingered for a moment or two. Then, to my great relief, he finally barreled down the stairs, and I heard no more from anyone except the sound of approaching sirens.

Slowly, cautiously, I opened the lid to the trunk and sat up, shivering with adrenaline. I took just a moment as the sirens grew closer and closer to try to collect myself, breathing deeply and trying not to hyperventilate . . . and that was when I smelled the first hint of smoke as a foggy tendril snaked its way through the doorway to the attic and circled the room like a hungry serpent.

Alarm made my eyes bulge and my knuckles turn white against the sides of the trunk as I sniffed the air. My heart began to thud hard in my chest again even as the smoke alarm sounded, and with mounting terror I knew my house was on fire.

Without further hesitation I bolted out of the trunk and rushed to the attic door, which was still partially open. I looked through the opening to my bedroom, which was alight with red flames of fire growing larger by the nanosecond. Before my eyes my window treatments billowed and danced with flames, my bookcase smoked with acrid black fumes, and my bedspread was one giant red-orange ball, and all I could do was stand there, too stunned by the horror of it to move.

Something instinctual snapped me out of my shock, and I slammed the attic door closed, but the smoke was quickly growing in intensity. I looked around the attic, searching for a way out . . . but the door behind me was the only way in or out, and I realized with horror that I was now trapped!

In seconds the smoke became thicker and thicker, and suddenly I could no longer see. Remembering my fire-safety class from grade school, I dropped to my knees and began to crawl away from the bedroom toward the outer wall. The smoke was choking me, and I had to drop lower and lower to find any form of suitable air. I was so terrified I began to sob hysterically; I have a tremendous fear of fire, and it was all I could do not to faint from fright.

I reached the far end of the attic, coughing and choking now as I clawed at the wall, pleading out loud for someone to help me. There was a roaring sound behind me as the fire feasted itself on the contents of my bedroom, and I inched along the wall, pounding on it and screaming for help. I couldn’t see; my eyes were forced closed by the biting sting of the smoke. I couldn’t breathe either, and I knew I was losing consciousness. I put every ounce of effort into inching across the floor, pounding on the wall, screaming at the top of my lungs, when my hand pushed through a flimsy piece of plastic and my arm dangled out into the cool, crisp night air.

For a split second I didn’t move, the sensation of my hand extending beyond the wall taking a moment to catch up with my panicked, oxygen-starved brain. Then I remembered.

Dave had told me about the small window he’d accidentally broken up here when he was trying to repair the rafters, and I remembered him telling me he’d replace it as soon as he was finished because he didn’t want to risk breaking it again. He must have covered the opening with plastic to try to keep out the cold.

I shoved my face out of the window and gulped great gobs of air. My respite was short-lived, as the smoke now had a way out as well, and quickly took over the small window. With wobbly knees I stood up and pushed my body out of the opening. Behind me I could feel the heat of the smoke intensifying, beginning to burn my skin. I had seconds to live if I didn’t get out now.

I pushed out of the window, still blind from the smoke, and something scratched at my arms and face. Synapses fired in my brain as I remembered that this window sat next to a huge evergreen that shaded my whole house on this side.

Coughing and choking, while trying to open my eyes a tiny fraction as they watered and stung, I felt around the prickly needles, and my hand connected with a thick branch. Without hesitation I grabbed the branch with one hand and swung out of the window, my grip barely holding me as I groped forward and got my legs around the trunk. I faced away from my house and clung to the tree, coughing and sputtering and trying not to pass out.

I had barely recovered myself when my back, which faced the house, started to feel hot, and I realized the room I’d just been in was completely ablaze by now, and flames were about to replace the smoke coming through the window. I had to get out of the tree before it too caught fire.

As quickly as I could I shimmied down the trunk, feeling my way because my eyes stung too much to open. My purse, still wrapped across my body, caught on a branch, and it took several panicky seconds to untangle myself before I finally got to the ground and crawled clear of the tree and the house.

Around the front I could hear sirens and shouting and someone screaming. Loudest of all, however, was the roar of the fire as it gorged on all of my treasures and memories. I sat there in the backyard for a long moment, staring through the small slits of my eyes as they watered out the toxins that still stung them, and a grief like I’d never known took hold deep in my heart.

It’s a terrible thing to watch your world burn away before your eyes, and as long as I live I will never forget the misery of that moment.

Several minutes passed as my breathing, although still painful, slowly returned to normal. I was coughing only every third or fourth breath now, and I felt just about strong enough to stand again. I had to get some help, but everyone seemed to be at the front of the house. Dully, I stood up and swayed my way across the backyard, no longer looking at the house because it was gone and I knew it. I got to the back gate and peered through the opening, and what I saw stopped my heart cold.

Gargoyle and Goblin stood in my driveway with twisted little smirks on their ugly, dark faces. Around them were my neighbors, slack-jawed and terrified, some pointing to my house, others crying as if it were their own.

If I pushed through the gates I’d be met first by Gargoyle and Goon, but my neighbors, the police and fire department were also there, so how much danger could I still be in?

Just then my intuition buzzed loudly in my ear, and I turned my head out of sheer habit.
Don’t . . .
circled around and around in my head. My hand rested on the gate as I debated what to do.
Don’t!
my intuition screamed. Just then I was overcome by a succession of coughs, and I saw Gargoyle’s head snap up in my direction. He couldn’t see me through the gate, but I watched, horrified, as he slapped Goblin on the shoulder and the two quietly edged their way through the crowd in my direction.

Get away!
my intuition screamed, and instinctively I backed away from the gate. As quickly as I could I darted into the shadows of the yard and around to the back shed. There was a bin where I stowed my compost back there, and without waiting I pulled myself up onto it and managed to swing my way over the back fence. I was rewarded with a couple of splinters, but with everything I’d been through in the last several minutes that was the least of my worries.

As quietly as I could I made my way across the yard of my neighbor, desperately trying not to make too much noise as dried leaves crunched softly under my shoes. I reached the driveway, eyeing the house nervously. Why, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t risk being seen right now. I knew that it was imperative that people presume I had died in that blaze, at least for the time being.

For the next hour I kept to the shadows, slowly making my way toward my office building, which was ten minutes by car or a half an hour on foot. Of course, if you’re trying to be stealthy about it, you can add an extra twenty minutes.

Finally, nearly frozen by the cold of the November evening, I rounded the block my office was on, and walked quickly to the back of the building. It was now around eight thirty, and I figured just about everyone I had to worry about would be out of the building. Punching in my security code to the back door, I made my way quietly up the back stairs and cautiously down the hallway to my office. I let myself inside and avoided turning on the lights.

Instead I lit a candle from my reading room and walked around to my desk. Pulling out a key from my purse, I opened the bottom drawer and extracted a metal box with a lock. I inserted another key from my key chain and lifted the lid.

As I looked at the contents, a mixture of melancholy and relief flooded my numbed emotions. There was three thousand dollars in that box, and it was now that I remembered the last time I’d seen that money.

Three years earlier I’d had a vivid and powerful vision. I’d been meditating, and one of my guides had stepped forward with a very strong message. He had instructed me to gather three thousand dollars as quickly as I could and put it into a lockbox to be kept in the bottom drawer of my desk at the office. He told me point-blank that I was not to touch this money under any circumstances until such time as an absolute emergency required me to use it. I remember thinking that perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me, but even as I had the thought something compelled me to comply.

It had taken me several months to gather the money, mostly because at the time I was also saving to buy a house—the very one that had now been reduced to ashes—but I’d managed it somehow. Over the years I’d forgotten about the box, but in my neighbor’s backyard I’d suddenly remembered it, and I had a feeling that now was the time when it was safe to dip into the well.