Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (143 page)

Jake rushed around the island, the shotgun aimed at the man on the floor. Just as he pulled the trigger, the man kicked out at the barrel. A blinding flash lit up the kitchen. The blast blew out the window above the sink.

“Run!” Jake yelled.

Roberta hesitated, then tore out the door, the gun banging against her legs. Once outside, she slowed, called out to Jake.

“Get the hell out of here! Run!” he shouted.

With a despairing moan she turned and ran.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Jake caught a glimpse of Robbi running across the yard toward the woods before he turned back to Eckker. The man, on his feet again, was reaching for him.

Jake lifted the shotgun, pulled the pump back, but before he could finish the action, Eckker grabbed the barrel and wrenched it from his hands. Jake was thrown onto the center island. He rolled over the top and fell off the other side, landing on the abandoned wheelchair. It careened noisily across the room as he came to his feet.

Jake circled the island until he had a nearly clear passage to the back door. He saw Eckker glance at the door, anticipating his next move.

At opposite ends of the island, both men charged for the door. Jake’s ankle rapped the edge of the footplate of the wheelchair and, without slowing down, he grabbed the armrest, whirled the chair around, sending it into Eckker. The big man fell into it, a clatter of metal, then both man and chair tumbled over, blocking the exit.

Jake reversed his course and bolted out of the kitchen into the dark house. He heard a clamor, the rattle of metal, what sounded like the wheelchair being thrown across the room. Without benefit of light he tried to remember the layout of the house. He had to find the gun room. He ran through the living room, down the endless hall. Not far behind, he could hear glass breaking, cursing.

Inside the gun room, Jake headed for the rifle cabinet. He grabbed a double-barreled shotgun, yanked out the drawer that held the ammunition, but before he could get his hands on the shells, Eckker charged into the room.

Jake abandoned the gun. There was no time. He struggled with the tall cabinet, pulling it away from the wall. It clipped Eckker on the shoulder as it crashed to the floor between the two men. Jake picked up the swivel desk chair and smashed it through the low windows, jumping out with it. He rolled in the slick, rain-soaked grass, came to his feet, and, without looking behind him, he ran.

Jake ran west, making his way over boulders and around small firs and seedlings. Once in the cover of the trees, he would veer south, find the boundary fence, and follow it up to the pond and Robbi.

After a quarter mile he considered going back to the house for the shotgun. But if Eckker was waiting for him, he was a dead man. Robbi, he told himself, had the single shot 20-gauge. Once he met up with her, the one shotgun would have to serve them.

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Deep inside the first wooded area beyond her yard, Robbi shifted westward. She had to find the fence. Without a guideline she could go in circles, lose her bearings, and become hopelessly lost.

She moved along as rapidly as she could in the dark timberland. Tree branches clutched at her, roots and boulders tripped her up, sending her to her knees time and again. Her ankle, where five weeks earlier she had sprained it on this mountain, throbbed unbearably. Her muscles and joints screamed with fatigue. She stopped often to catch her breath, to massage aching tendons, and to drink water from cupped leaves.

She reached the barbed-wire fence and the open meadow at the same time. Locating the boundary marker elated her, yet the vast clearing that she must now cross to reach the pond filled her with trepidation. She would be out in the open. If he had a rifle, he had only to aim and shoot.

She braced herself and stepped out. A streak of lightning zigzagged through the clouds, and she froze in a crouch, her heart slamming in her chest. She could wait here for Jake. He’d have to cross the clearing sooner or later, and she’d just sit tight until she saw him. Unless he wasn’t coming. If he’s dead—no, don’t think like that. He’s coming.

What if he had already crossed? She had stopped so many times to catch her breath that he might have passed her, might at that moment be waiting for her at the pond.

Oh God. what should I do? Go or stay?

The decision was made for her. Snapping twigs sounded behind her. Someone else was in the woods. Jake or the killer? It was foolhardy to assume it was Jake. She must cross, and she must do it now.

Gathering all her courage, Robbi set out, her steps swift and long. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. The farther she went into the clearing, the faster her pulse raced. At the point of no return, she sped up.

Off to her left another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Thunder followed within seconds. It occurred to her that she was the tallest object in the meadow and lightning could strike her.

Mindful of the shooting pains in her ankle, she continued to run. Wind and rain battered at her. She kept her eyes to the ground, watching for obstacles and to avoid being blinded by the lightning.

The next streak brightened the entire sky. Thunder exploded within the light. Thunder or rifle shots? Robbi cried out and dropped to the ground in a crouch. Panicked, too paralyzed to move, she trembled, shivering violently.

Do it. kill me! Get it over with!
Then she thought of her sister and she knew she had to go on. She forced herself to get up and run.

Coughing, gasping, she felt she would drown from the water being sucked into her lungs. As lethal as combat fire, lightning exploded all around her, the accompanying thunder giving it the gravity due a force so deadly. The woods she raced toward seemed to retreat with each footfall.

Several times she fell, sharp bits of gravel biting into her knees. She scrambled to her feet and rushed on. The wind and rain shifted direction, at her back now, pushing her, urging her onward.

So intent on clearing the meadow, she had entered the woods some twenty feet before she realized it. A tree loomed in front of her and, throwing her arm straight out, she abruptly stopped herself with her hand and shoulder.

She dropped to the ground, her back to the tree, her breath a ragged wheeze.

The rain suddenly eased. Looking out the way she had just come, Robbi scanned the field. To the northeast, with the dark trees as a backdrop, she thought she saw someone crossing. Only by focusing her eyes a bit to one side of the object could she detect the movement. She stared, mesmerized. The form grew. By his massive bulk, she discerned it to be the killer.

She was so tired. Where would she find the strength to go on? She could hide, then shoot him if he discovered her. But she had only one shell; the others lay on the kitchen floor.

Yet, if he failed to discover her and he went on, he was that much closer to Tobie. Better to have him behind her.

Wearily she struggled to her feet. She glanced back once to see the man midway in the clearing, coming at a fast lope. Wanting to cry but swearing instead, she picked up the shotgun, pushed off from the tree, and hurried on, scratching her legs on the prickly manzanita.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The killer was certain to guess she was following the fence, yet Robbi was afraid to stray too far from it. He knew this wilderness, had roamed the area for years both day and night.

She thought of the night in the woods when he’d turned Maggie loose. Remembered his glee at the prospect of a hunt. She tried to recall his technique and strategy. How did he finally catch her? He’d anticipated her actions. The running, the hiding, the running again until she could run no longer. He had only to look for the white dress.

Robbi looked down at her own clothing. The khaki shorts blended with the surroundings. Her gray athletic shoes, caked with mud and leaves, were dark. But her shirt was white.

She pulled it off, rubbed it in the mud, then put it back on. The mud, acting as insulation, added a degree of warmth.

When a rustling in the brush had her frantically searching for a hiding place—only to realize it was a porcupine—she paused to take stock. Maggie had hidden. Then, like a frightened rabbit, she had revealed herself. He would expect her to do the same.

In this game of cat and mouse, of tactical warfare, hysteria would be her downfall. Only if she continued on in a relatively composed manner to the pond would she have a chance.

One thing comforted her. If he were in the wilderness stalking her, then he couldn’t be in that basement with her sister.

She moved on. Several minutes later she approached her destination. The pond was approximately one tenth of a mile in length and fifty yards wide. The barbed-wire fence split the oval body of water width- wise down the middle. Which side will Jake be on?

There was something familiar, yet alien, about the place. Waves of energy rose from the ground into her body, rising in tingling ripples. She took a step, felt what appeared to be solid ground totter beneath her feet. She jumped back, her feet braced apart.

All was still, the ground hard, unyielding. At the outer edge of a fallen pine tree she tentatively put a foot out and pushed. The ground rocked beneath her foot.

The rain, a mere drizzle now, glistened off the dry red needles. She tugged at the tree; it moved. Robbi pulled, hauling it away. Dropping to her knees, she brushed at the layer of sandy wet soil until she felt the wooden plank. Digging her fingers under it, she lifted.

Roberta didn’t have to see in the hole to know what was there. The stench overwhelmed her. She gagged, swallowed down the bile that rose to her throat. Over her pitiful retching, she heard him coming through the brush.

She dropped the plank. She had to choose now: hide or fight. The killer was closing in at her back, barbed wire loomed to her left, the pond in front, its rocky bank, running to the right. Frantically she looked around.

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Eckker crashed through the brush. He had her trapped. She was ahead of him with nowhere to go. With the eyes of a cougar, he searched the landscape.

She was nowhere in sight. Baffled, he looked around, turning his entire body in a full circle. She had been just ahead of him. He’d seen her cross the clearing. He’d heard the manzanita rustling, then the bits of shale sliding down the ridge just before abutting the rocky bank of the pond. She had to be there somewhere.

He crossed a flat boulder to the pond and looked down. Tiny drops of rain peppered the surface and broke the usually tranquil water into a dark, fragmented pattern. He scanned the pond on both sides of the fence for a swimmer. Except for the rippling water, nothing else moved.

He hurried back to the thicket of manzanita, crashing through it until he reached the shaft containing the bodies. He threw the dead tree aside, bent down, and lifted the wooden cover.

Oblivious of the reek of decaying flesh, he took the penlight from his pocket and peered down into the pit. Nothing had changed. More water filled the shaft, but all was as he’d left it.

He dropped the plywood, scattered a layer of sodden earth, and replaced the tree.

She had never reached the pond. She was hiding somewhere behind him. She was trying to keep him from her sister.

In the dark, with the rain again pouring down, he made his way along the boulders as gracefully as a big cat.

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