Death Notice (42 page)

He managed to choke out a few words. “Stitch. Neck.”

Kat shushed him. She knew what had to be done. Henry was bleeding to death. She needed to close the wound in his neck immediately, even if it meant turning her back on the man who called himself the Grim Reaper. It was a risk, but one she was forced to take if Henry was going to survive.

“Say something, Martin,” she barked. “I need to know you’re still standing far away.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Kat noted the volume in his voice and judged his distance. If he got any louder, then it meant he was getting closer. Which meant she would kill him.

“Tell me about Arthur McNeil,” she said. “I know what he did to you.”

“Then I guess I don’t need to talk about it.”

A needle already looped with thread sat next to the scalpel on the table. Wasting no time, Kat lowered the gun, picked up the needle and shoved it into Henry’s neck. Blood squished between her trembling fingers, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

“When did it start? Before your father died?”

“Yes,” Martin said, his voice maintaining the same volume. “I was eleven.”

“It took place in the embalming room, right?”

“Yes.”

“While your mother worked upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Kat continued the stitching at Henry’s neck. So far, she had managed to loop the thread through the wound twice.

“I know that when your dad died, Art told you he’d stop if you did something for him. What was that?”

“You seem to be the expert,” Martin said sarcastically. “You tell me.”

“He made you embalm your father. He made you cut the neck and the arteries. He made you pour in the embalming fluid.”

And after that was the sewing of the lips and the coins over the eyes. Exactly like what had happened to Bob. Kat couldn’t begin to comprehend what it must have been like. Martin’s father was lying dead in front of him and a trusted family friend was forcing him to do things no kid could ever understand.

“Am I right?” she asked.

Kat slipped the needle through Henry’s neck one last time before tying off the thread. It was a horrible stitch job. The thread was crooked and knotted in parts. Huge gaps remained where she should have made another pass with the needle. But it was good enough. Henry’s bleeding had slowed considerably.

“Martin, is that what happened?”

“Yes.”

Kat’s spine stiffened when she heard Martin’s voice.

It was closer.

Much closer.

She reached for the Glock before whirling around to face him.

Martin stood only five feet away, and he had his own gun. Kat knew it was the same one that had been in the delivery van, the same one used to kill Lucas Hatcher.

Without saying a word, Martin fired twice.

The bullets punched into Kat’s chest. She screamed, flying backward next to the table. The last thing she saw was Henry. On the table itself. Surrounded by blood. Mouthing her name.

Her back struck the floor, a collision of bone and wood that sent shock waves up her spine. Pain squeezed her body. Air rushed out of her lungs.

Then, with one last gasp, Kat Campbell’s world went dark.

It took only an instant for Kat to fall. One second she stood at Henry’s side. The next she was on the floor. When it was
over, Henry strained against the ropes, trying to shout her name.

Only he couldn’t shout. He could barely speak. But his thoughts were so loud in his head that it felt like he was screaming at full volume.

Kat! Dear God, no!

Grunting with exertion, he tried to sit up, pushing himself against the ropes that held him down. He needed to see her. He needed to know if she was still alive. If she was, he needed to help her, just as she had helped him. But the binds refused to budge, the rope digging into him.

Kat! Can you hear me? Answer me!

He turned his head as far as the rope and the pain would allow, catching a glimpse of Kat’s legs splayed on the floor. Tears burned their way down his cheeks as he managed to croak out her name.

“Kat.”

His thoughts screamed the rest.

Don’t die! Please don’t die!

Martin took a few steps toward Kat’s body and kicked her in the ribs. Satisfied she was dead, he shoved his gun into a deep pocket of his apron, where it had been hidden the entire time. He then bent forward and picked up Kat’s gun. Wordlessly, he opened the chamber and let the bullets slide into his palm. Then he threw them into the darkness, where they bounced and scattered. Next, he tossed the gun away. It hit the wall before clunking to the floor.

With the guns out of the way, Martin vanished to a corner of the room. He returned a moment later, dragging a metal pail behind him. As he reached the table, he removed a plastic bottle and a funnel attached to a thin rubber tube.

Henry’s thoughts grew silent when Martin opened the bottle. The odor of chemicals assaulted his nose.

Formaldehyde. It filled the air around him.

The odor meant one thing—Martin still intended to embalm him.

Glancing between Henry and the bottle, Martin poured the formaldehyde into the pail. When the bottle was empty, he returned to the table and held Henry’s head in place. His hand fumbled along the wood next to him, finding the scalpel exactly where he had left it.

Picking it up, he held the blade to Henry’s neck.

“This time,” he said, “I’m not going to hesitate to kill you.”

Pain.

That’s all Kat felt.

Horrible pain. Deep in her chest, it pulsed at the spot where the two bullets had hit, feeling like twin holes in her sternum.

But Kat knew there’d be no holes there. Bruises, yes. Maybe marks worse than the ones on Henry’s face. But no bullet holes. At least not on that day.

With her eyes still closed, she slid a hand across her chest. Her fingers snaked past the buttons of her uniform and ran over the Kevlar vest she had taken from the trunk of her patrol car. The two bullets were embedded deep inside it, squished into still-hot studs of metal.

Sitting up, Kat opened her eyes.

Martin was next to Henry again, lantern light glinting off the scalpel in his hand.

Kat climbed to her feet. She shot across the room, the pain in her chest flaring as she tackled Martin from behind.

He dropped the scalpel as he fell forward onto Henry’s chest. Pushing himself away from the table, he nudged Kat backward until her feet hit the pail on the floor.

The pail rattled between her ankles. Kat tried to keep it
upright with her feet but couldn’t. The pail fell over. Formaldehyde sloshed out, splashing her shoes before washing across the floor.

She moved out of the puddle the formaldehyde created and tried to push Martin against the table again. Martin’s arms flailed, fighting back. He reached back to grab Kat’s hair with one hand. The other stretched out, reaching for the scalpel.

Kat tugged Martin’s arm. His fingers pulled away from the scalpel, grabbing the kerosene lantern instead. The lamp toppled over in a crush of glass and fire. Kerosene rushed over the table, soaking Henry before dripping onto the floor.

Fanned by Martin’s flapping hands, the flame spread. It caught the trail of kerosene and leaped to life in a menacing
whoosh
that rushed past Henry’s ear. A second later, it was everywhere. Flames streaked across the table and ignited his clothes. The fire spread to his shoulder and right arm, eating the fabric of his shirt.

The fire reached the rope that tied Henry down. As flames chewed through it, he pushed his arms away from his side. The rope snapped in a burst of sparks and fell away, trailing smoke.

When she saw that Henry was almost free, Kat yanked Martin’s arm again. The force of the tug whirled him around until he faced her. Not wasting a golden opportunity, Kat punched him in the jaw.

Stunned, Martin twisted away, taking Kat with him. Both of them fell backward, smashing into the table. It lurched under their weight and listed to the left. A table leg snapped beneath them. Kat could see Henry trying to hold on, even as the table itself, creaking and groaning, tipped over.

Henry slipped off the table, riding a slide of kerosene, blood, and fire. Then Kat was next, tumbling with Martin. They crashed next to Henry, landing on the overturned table, breaking it apart.

The table’s contents spilled to the floor.

The scalpel skittered away, blade up.

The fire grew larger.

Fueled by the kerosene, it spread fast. Flames rushed over what remained of the table before roaring across the floor.

Kat and Martin rolled away from the blaze, tumbling over, then under, each other. First, Kat was on top. Then Martin. Then Kat again. In the tumult, she managed to stick out a foot to halt their trajectory. When they stopped, Martin was on his back with Kat practically sitting on top of him.

Beneath her was the gun he had shot her with. The handle poked out of his apron pocket, begging to be grabbed. When Kat reached for it, Martin lifted his knee, nudging her off balance and onto her back.

The gun receded into the pocket again as Martin lunged forward and jumped on top of her.

Straddling Kat’s waist, he punched all over. Her head. Her face. Her gut. A fist connected with her jaw, causing a flash of blue lights to dot her vision.

The blue continued as Martin wrapped his hands around her neck, squeezing tight. Struggling for breath, Kat tried to pry him from her neck with one hand. The other flailed over her head, knuckles scraping the floor.

Martin lifted Kat’s head off the floor and slammed it down again. He did it two more times—lift, slam, lift, slam.

The pain of the blows created even more blue lights. They grew until she could barely see.

She could barely breathe.

She could barely think.

Her free hand continued to scrape across the floor. Sawdust raked her fingers. A splinter jabbed into her palm. Then steel brushed her knuckles.

The scalpel. Right at her fingertips.

Martin saw it, too, and swatted Kat’s hand away.

On the other side of the room, a vaporous hiss rose off the floor. The fire had reached the overturned pail and puddle of formaldehyde. Even in the chaos, Kat recalled Bob McNeil’s warning about formaldehyde. It was flammable. It was explosive.

He was right on both counts.

The hiss mutated into a roar that sent a ball of flame leaping off the floor. Kat watched wide-eyed as the tower of fire rose to the rafters. The flames lit the ceiling, sending tendrils of fire across it. They spread outward swiftly, moving to the walls and back down to the floor.

Still on top of her, Martin Swan didn’t notice the flames overhead. But Kat did. And she knew what he didn’t—that the mill was now completely engulfed.

Kat knew how this scenario would play out. The fire would eventually chew through the roof, sending it falling onto them. The walls would follow, crushing whatever was left.

She had only minutes to escape. Minutes to take Henry with her.

But she had to get Martin off of her first. And the only way to do that would be with the scalpel.

Kat twisted her arm, hand flexing. She scraped her fingers along the floor again, seeking the scalpel.

It wasn’t there.

Her hand searched the floor, desperately trying to find it. Instead, Kat felt hot wood, simmering blood, and pinpricks of fire.

Martin’s hands tightened around her neck. Kat could no longer breathe. All air was gone, blocked by Martin’s steely grip.

Her vision was also blocked. By her fluttering eyelids. By the flashes of blue. By an encroaching darkness.

She barely saw Henry as he crawled behind Martin, his face streaked with blood and smoke.

In his hand was the scalpel.

Henry lifted it. The blade glinted orange, reflecting the fire that surrounded them. It became a blur as Henry’s hand swiped across Martin’s throat. The scalpel created a thin, red line from one side of his neck to the other. Martin’s eyes widened when he realized what had happened.