Black Christmas (13 page)

The phone rang again and she ran back to it almost as if it offered her only hope of contact with the world, grabbing up the receiver and crying out, “Yes, who is it?”

Sergeant Nash spoke very slowly. “Who is this?”

“Who is
this?
Oh, God, what’s going on? I’m Jessica Bradley.”

“Jess, this is Sergeant Nash from headquarters. Are you the only one in the house?”

“No. Barbara’s asleep upstairs. So is Phyl, I think. Why?”

“All right. Now, look, Jess, I want you to do exactly what I tell you without asking any questions. Okay?”

“But . . . I don’t understand.”

“No questions! Now put the phone back on the hook and walk to the front door and leave the house.”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Jess, please. Just do what I tell you. Walk out of the house and go across the street to the car parked there. Our man, Jennings, will be waiting for you.”

“Okay, if you say so. I’ll get Phyl and Barb.”

As she started to hang up the phone he yelled into it, “Jess! Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that! Jess. He’s in the house! The calls are coming from the house.”

She lowered the phone, turned and looked up the stairs, stricken.

Nash was screaming over the wire, “Get out, Jess, Don’t go upstairs. Just walk to the door and get out! The police are on the way.”

She hardly heard what he said. Her eyes were riveted on the second floor as she edged her way slowly toward the hall and the door which meant escape. Numb with fear she could not look away from the upstairs landing. She was having a terrible struggle within herself while her mouth was saying softly, “Barb! Phyl!” Her soft words, spoken almost prayerfully, were not heard and when she reached the door she called again, this time screaming out the names of her two friends, “Barb! Phyl!”

Only silence greeted her. She desperately wanted to run from the house but something held her there, some force, or perhaps her own will, her anger and hatred at what had been happening to her, to all of them. Suddenly she bolted back into the living room, ran to the fireplace and grabbed up the iron poker that leaned against the red brick. Warily she moved out of the living room and started up the stairs, her face white with fear, compelled to go forward, not to retreat.

At the top of the stairs, she called softly, “Barb! Barb.”

Down the hall she went to Barbara’s room, stopping in front of the partially opened door. “Barb!”

She pushed the door but it hardly budged. She shoved again and it gave a bit. Leaning against it she pushed hard and suddenly it gave way and she half fell into the room. With the door open the dim light from the hall cast enough illumination for her to see, sitting on the bed, the bodies of Barb and Phyl, their heads twisted around, their eyes bulging.

On her knees her mind would not register the ghastly sight she saw. For a moment nothing happened and then she heard a sound that sent chills through her whole body. She looked up wildly and saw standing in the doorway of the closet a dim figure. There was only enough light to make out his eyes but his words were clear.

“Billy’s a bad boy! Billy killed the baby!”

Slowly the closet door swung open.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her fear galvanized her. Leaping to her feet she shoved the door back and was met by an outraged cry of pain. She ran out into the hall and took the stairs down two at a time, the poker still firmly in her grasp. The man in the room began to howl in rage as he started after her.

The sound grew louder as she struggled to unlock the front door which had become jammed. The stubborn bolt wouldn’t budge and the howling was punctuated with footsteps coming closer to the stairwell. Realizing the door would not open she looked around frantically. At the end of the downstairs hall was a door that led to the basement and she told herself, as the crazed man’s howl reverberated through the house, that she might be able to hide there.

She ran down the hall and into the cellar, pushing the door shut behind her. The door didn’t seem to have a lock but she found a bolt that fastened and she used it although she feared that it would be next to useless against the weight of the man who was, she could tell by his footsteps overhead, rushing about the house, searching for her.

She heard his footsteps in the hall on the other side of the door and suddenly his body slammed hard against the door as he screamed out in pain and rage. He slammed against the door again and again but miraculously the bolt held.

Slowly she backed down the steps, the poker in her one hand, the other guiding her along the railing. The door was buckling but not giving and she felt gratitude that it had been so well fastened. All at once there was a deafening silence as the man on the other side stopped his pounding against the door.

A step at a time she moved down the stairs, her eyes acclimated to the dark. When she reached the bottom she looked around and saw a boiler, a coal chute and bin and various odds and ends of junk piled about.

Stopping to listen for him she thought she could hear, in the distance, the sound of a police siren. Starting to move about she stopped when she heard her name being called. She looked up in time to see a pair of legs cross in front of the narrow cellar window. They kept moving but then stopped in front of another window, this one slightly wider. Clutching the poker and cringing she backed into a corner of the cellar. The body that she could see silhouetted from the moonlight on the snow knelt by the window and called her name again.

Wide-eyed, she stared up and saw a hand wiping the accumulated dust and mud from the window and peering into the cellar.

Her face reflected the horror that she felt when she realized that it was Peter!

Muffled and placating his voice came to her. “Jess, I know you’re in there. Let me in.”

She didn’t answer, but instead backed further away from the window and Peter Smythe. All at once there was a loud noise as she bumped into a stack of boxes and knocked several of them over.

“Jess!” Peter called. “Let me in.”

All at once he stood up and his foot lashed out, kicking in the glass and the entire window frame. It smashed onto the floor with a crash and then she could see him easing himself through the opening and coming to rest a few yards away from her on the cellar floor.

Very quietly, as he felt his way around in the darkness, Peter said, “Where are you, Jess?”

Wandering about, feeling into corners and behind boxes he said, “Jess. Don’t hide from me, Jess. I want to talk to you. Jess, we can’t kill the baby. It wouldn’t be right.”

Cowering behind the furnace she said, as he came toward her, “Don’t come near me, Peter.”

“Jess. I’m sorry, Jess.”

“Get away from me.” The sound of the siren was coming closer—and so was he. “I’m warning you, Peter, get away!”

Reaching out for her he said, “Jess, you know how much I love you. Why won’t you listen to me? Can’t we talk?”

Her arms raised involuntarily and as his hand brushed her hair she swung with all her might bringing the poker down across the side of his head with such force that he crumpled to his knees.

Looking stunned he reached up again for her and again the poker swung down on him; over and over again she hit him until finally he fell forward and was still on the floor in front of her.

Fuller’s car pulled up beside the one belonging to Jennings and Ken got out. One look through the window told him what had happened. “Oh, my God,” he said and started running toward the house as the squad car pulled up behind him and a policeman got out and followed him. The officer arrived at the front door at the same time Ken did and together they broke the glass and unbolted the door from inside.

Another policeman was running around toward the back of the house when he saw the broken window so he called out loudly to Ken, “The cellar.”

Inside, Ken found his way to the cellar door but it would not budge. Finally the uniformed officer returned with an axe and in a matter of seconds they had the door shattered. Fuller rushed down the stairs as a flashlight from the policeman outside played about the cellar, finally stopping on the body of Peter Smythe and Jessica Bradley, the poker still in her hands, standing above him. As the light hit Peter’s body she screamed and then fell forward, dropping the poker as she fainted.

“Apparently he made a phone call after every murder,” Ken Fuller was saying to Chris Hayden as the two of them stood at the far end of the bedroom where Jessica Bradley slept peacefully. A doctor was by her bedside and several policemen and two ambulance attendants moved past the lieutenant and into the hall as they spoke.

“Why, I wonder?”

“Who knows, Chris. I guess he really wanted someone to stop him. Poor bastard. Couldn’t help it, I suppose.” As Sergeant Nash came up to them Fuller said, “By the way, Nash, you’d better phone his parents and get them down here. I feel sorry for them. The trouble with a case like this is that you end up feeling sorry for everybody.”

The doctor reached over and checked Jess’s pulse again, then pulled back her left eyelid. “She’s way under,” he said. “What time do her parents get here?”

“They’ll be here in a couple of hours. They have to drive all the way from Unionville.”

“All right. I’ll stay with her until then.”

“Did anyone notify Pat Cornell?” Chris asked.

Fuller said, “Who?”

“Phyl’s boyfriend. No, I guess there was no way. Never mind, I’ll do it.”

Nash came back and whispered to Ken. “Lieutenant Fuller, I think we’re going to have to take these bodies to the morgue in Lincolnville. The hospital here doesn’t have the facilities for three more all at once, if we want an autopsy on every one.”

“All right. Notify the county coroner to start right away. The others can go on down and let Lincolnville know they’re coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nash stepped aside to allow Mr. Harrison, who had been standing by himself in the hall to step past the lieutenant and Chris. He watched as one of the ambulance attendants wheeled out a body covered with a sheet and then he started to follow the rolling stretcher down the hall.

Fuller said, “Everything about wrapped up here?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Nash replied. “The state lab guys will be here in an hour or so. It’s hard getting people, it being Christmas. They said it would take an hour at least. I’ve got McCloskey out front. You want me to leave someone in here?”

“No, the doctor’s going to stay with her.”

“The station house is full of reporters. A couple of them are here, too. Downstairs. TV guys. They want pictures.”

“Christ! Send them back to the station. I’ll talk to them there. No pictures of any of the bodies. We’ll be leaving for the station in a minute, tell them. I’ll make a statement there, on camera. That’ll get them to leave.”

“Right.”

The doctor stood up and came to the two men in the doorway as Nash started down the hall. At the top of the stairs Mr. Harrison stood watching the ambulance men move the mutilated body down the narrow stairs.

The doctor said, “God, this is unbelievable. We’ve got a mass murder on our hands. The most grisly thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mr. Harrison suddenly began to moan and crumbling he grabbed onto the edge of the railing. Before he could fall to the floor Chris was beside him holding him up. His body went limp and he made a faint whimpering sound as the doctor rushed to his side, threw his head back and examined his eyes.

“He’s in shock. Help me get him downstairs. He may be having a coronary. Hold one of those ambulances. We’ll have to take him to the hospital.”

They lifted him to his feet and slowly carried him down the stairs as Chris said, “She’ll be all right, Mr. Harrison. I really believe that. She’s going to turn up.”

The doctor said, “He can’t hear you.”

The floor was empty except for Jess’s sleeping body as Fuller, Nash, Chris and the doctor helped Mr. Harrison down to where one of the ambulance attendants was waiting with another stretcher. They loaded him onto it and Chris and the attendant, followed by the doctor and Sergeant Nash carried him to the waiting ambulance.

“McCloskey,” Fuller called to the uniformed man who held the door open for them.

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep an eye out. No one’s to come in here, especially any reporters. The girl’s asleep. Her parents will be here in a couple of hours. The lab boys from the Capitol are expected but they’re the only ones to go in. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’m going to headquarters to make a statement. I’ll send you some relief as soon as the day men come on.”

Fuller turned and closed the door, then went to his car trailed by two reporters who were trying to get a statement ahead of their colleagues. McCloskey watched them out of sight and then leaned back against the wall of the house.

Upstairs, Jessica Bradley slept peacefully unaware of the muffled sound coming from the attic. Up there a mad voice drifted out as the man spoke to himself.

“Nasty Billy! Nasty Billy!”

The voice changed to that of a woman saying, “Bruce, where’s the baby? Where’s Agnes? I can’t find my baby!”

The little boy answered, “I can find her, Mommy! You wait here. I’ll go get her.”

The woman answered him in a relieved voice. “Oh, what a good boy you are, Billy. You’re such a good boy to your mother. Such a nice boy.”

The trapdoor moved almost imperceptibly and then began to creak on its rusty hinges until it was wide open. A shaft of light from the hall below illuminated Clare Harrison’s dead face and Mrs. MacHenry’s body still hanging from the rafters. A shadow moved across the face and the body and then something dark and subhuman began to creep down the stairs from the attic to the second floor.

Standing outside, Officer McCloskey lit a cigarette and walked a few feet from the house, staring up at the windows on the second floor, then to the first where, through the broken window of the front door he could hear faintly from inside the dark house the ringing of the telephone.