Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (39 page)

He raised his hand to slap her.

"Please don't," she begged.

Stopping his downward swing in midair, he looked at her as if he'd seen her for the first time, a stranger suddenly in his line of vision. He dropped his arm to his side. "Oh, Annie," he said softly.

She sensed the right time had come. "Jamie, please, untie me. I won't try to get away, I promise. It just hurts so much."

He hesitated for only a moment. "You couldn't get away even if you tried."

"That's right. But I don't want to get away. We're old friends."

"Yeah, that's right. You told me you loved me, remember?"

"And I did," she admitted.

"Okay, Annie. I'm going to trust you." He walked around her chair and began to undo the rope.

She'd won a second round. Still, the battle wasn't over; she hadn't won the war. Her hands dropped when the rope was removed. As she brought her arms around to the front, pain shot through them. She rubbed her wrists, gently lowering her hands to her lap.

He came back to stand in front of her, his legs touching her knees. "You don't know what I've been through." Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

"Tell me, Jamie," she urged. "Tell me all about it."

He moved away from her, picked up the fallen chair, and sat down, the back no longer a barrier between them. "It's been lousy, Annie. Since they died, Mommy and Daddy."

"It must have been terrible for you." The longer he talked, the longer she stayed alive. She had to pick her moment carefully. There would only be one.

He gave her a frosty look. "You wouldn't know."

"Tell me," she urged again.

From his jacket pocket he took a crumpled pack of Camels, shook one up, grabbed it with his lips, and returned the package to his pocket. Eyes still on her, he lit up, blew out the match, then dropped it on the floor. "You really want to know?"

"Yes. Very much." And she did.

"Okay, then I'll tell you," he replied, as if she'd offered a reward for information. "After it happened, after they were burned to crisps," he pointed out acidly, "my Grandma and Grandpa Perkins took me in for awhile. But that didn't work out."

"Why not?" She would ask him lots of questions, get him to expand on whatever he told her.

"They were old. My daddy was what they call a change-of-life baby. She was forty-five when she had him. Anyway, they were old—crotchety. Mean, you could say. They didn't want me to move, it seemed. Every time I tried to play in the house they told me I was making too much noise, stuff like that. So I left there."

"What do you mean, 'left'?"

"They put me out," he amplified. "Sent me to a home. With nuns. My daddy was a Catholic." He sucked on his cigarette, blew long streams of smoke in the air. "They beat me up, the nuns."

"How?"

"With rulers. Metal ones. Then I went to live with some people, the Rogers. That was in New Jersey. She was real fat. He was tall and skinny. I called them Jack Sprat and wife. Remember that rhyme? Jack Sprat would eat no fat, his wife would eat no lean?"

"I remember," she said.

"They heard me one day. He beat the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. For a moment she forgot that sitting before her was a man who'd killed at least four adults and a child. She mustn't let his story seduce her. What she had to do was look for an opening, a vulnerable moment. "Go on, Jamie."

His eyes searched hers as if within them he might find the answer to all his pain. "I like the way you say my name. Nobody's called me Jamie for a very long time."

"Because you called yourself Jim," she explained.

"I had to. You can understand that, can't you?"

"No. Tell me."

"Later." He dropped his cigarette on the floor, squashed it out with his foot. "I got sent away from Jack Sprat and wife and went to some people called Schroeder. It was the same. Every place I went, they were all the same."

"How many homes were you in?"

"Ten, twelve, I don't know. But I got out of it when I was eighteen. I enlisted," he said proudly. "I was a Marine."

"Did you go to Vietnam?"

"No. I just said that." He looked away from her, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "They didn't like me in the Marines either, but I'm not talking about it so don't try to make me." His eyes were flat now, like slate. "I bummed around, picking up jobs here and there, and what kept me going was the same thing got me through all those places I'd lived as a kid. If I hadn't had my plan I don't think I would've made it."

'What plan?"

"My Razzamatazz plan," he grinned.

"Tell me," she said softly.

"I always knew I'd come back here. I knew I was going to make them suffer."

"Who?"

"The people who lived."

"You mean the people who survived the fire?" She remembered how shaken her father had been, how he'd talked about the panic, people being trampled.

"There were eighty-two of them."

"And you were going to kill all eighty-two?'

"You don't get it," he said angrily.

"I'm trying."

"I wanted them to suffer like I did. I wanted them to know what it was like to have people you love die. Like Mary Beth Higbee's grandparents. They were in the fire, but they got out. Knocking other people out of the way so they could save their own skins. Anyway, if I killed them they wouldn't suffer, they'd just be dead. But if I killed their grandchild, they'd suffer plenty."

She swallowed hard, feeling the full weight of this man's sickness. Suddenly she believed she would never get away. He was going to kill her no matter what she said or did. Kill her because her father had survived the fire. The will to fight leaked from her body like air from a punctured tire.

"I like things neat. Tied up, if you know what I mean. So I thought the twenty-fifth anniversary of the fire, of my parents' dying, would be the best way to mark it. But I couldn't come back here as Jamie Perkins. Somebody might put two and two together," explained Drew. "And then there was the most important part." His eyes fired up again. "The smartest part."

"What was that?" she forced herself to ask.

"See, if I just came here as Jim Drew, the antique and junk man, and a whole series of murders started three years after I arrived, well, I'd be one of the first suspects. People here don't like outsiders, in case you've forgotten. They're suspicious of them in the best of times. But some ex-Marine, looking sort of beat-up, living in a barn off the highway, selling mostly junk? I'd be a sitting duck. But if I made them think I was a guilt-ridden nut right from the beginning, by the time the murders began I'd be the last person they'd suspect."

"So you started confessing to everything that happened."

"You got it. Well, hell, I even confessed to the murders. Nobody can say I didn't try to get arrested!" He started to laugh, rocked backwards in his chair, its front two feet raised off the ground.

Without thinking, Annie seized the moment. Arms outstretched, she jumped, flung herself forward, and pushed Drew backwards. The chair toppled over as he tumbled back, crashing to the floor.

Annie was through the doorway before Drew landed. Her ankle tortured her, she ran to the huge sliding doors and pushed. Nothing moved. Glancing back at Drew, she saw him slowly rising. There wasn't going to be time to get out of the barn. Frantically she looked around. There were boxes, furniture, curios piled everywhere. And then she saw the ladder leaning against the second story. A large iron unicorn on wheels blocked the ladder. She pushed it to the side and hobbled up the rickety steps. At the top she started to pull the ladder up after her, but Drew reached it and caught the bottom rung. She let go suddenly and the ladder fell, knocking him to the floor.

"You fucking bitch!" he screamed over the music.

A waist-high railing ran three-quarters of the way around the second story. Annie was on the long side opposite the barn doors. She could see that there were alcoves and nooks in which to hide, but there was only one way down—the way she'd come up. It was essential not to get too far from the ladder. She could hear Jim Drew scrambling around and knew she had to act quickly. He would be putting up the ladder again and she would have to knock it down. Or better still, knock him off it.

Behind her, to the right, was a rusted gasoline can. She picked it up, relieved to find it empty. The ladder thudded against the wood as Drew propped it in place. Annie moved to the right side of the opening and dropped to her knees. She heard him grunt as his boot hit the first rung. It would be stupid to throw the can before he was halfway up, but if she missed then she would have much less time to run. Still, it was a chance she must take.

Counting his steps, she calculated where the midpoint would come, the music and the thumping of her heart almost blocking out the sound of his footfalls. But as he reached eight she sprang up and with all her force threw the can at the top of his head. He saw it coming and, letting go of the ladder, put up his arms to ward off the blow. The can hit his arms, bounced, and glanced off the side of his head. Balanced precariously, his arms windmilled while he tried to regain his equilibrium. A horrified expression passed over his face as Annie gave the top of the ladder a shove. It swung out, stopped upright for an instant, teetered, then finally fell backwards. Drew let go of the ladder in midair and fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

Still on her knees, Annie watched and waited. The Beatles finished their song. Immediately another record began, loud and metallic-sounding. Drew lay unmoving for several moments. For a second she was hopeful. And then he stirred, slowly sitting up. He raised his head. "I'm going to get you!" he yelled.

Annie remained where she was, watching to see what he'd do, deciding what her next move should be. She was astonished to realize that she no longer felt fear. Something more powerful had gained control of her. Perhaps the will to survive. And with it came energy, adrenalin pumping through her body.

Awkwardly, Drew got to his feet, took a step, limped. He grimaced in pain, muttering to himself. Then he glanced her way again, kicked out in anger, hitting the fallen ladder.

She smiled as he limped toward the far end of the bar. Now they were more evenly matched. Drew disappeared under the overhang of the second story. She couldn't imagine where he was going. Was there another way up? Would he suddenly appear before her, pop up as if he were a jack-in-the-box? She had to be ready for him.

Frantically, she looked around for other weapons, hoping to find a pitchfork, a spade at least. Behind her was a stall, remnants of hay littering the floor. Cartons were piled up against the far wall. She ran to them, opened the top one, peered in at books, moldy and old, earwigs crawling over the covers. She whirled around, searching for something else. And then she saw it in the corner, covered with dirt and bits of hay.

Kneeling down, she wiped away the filth with the sleeve of her

louse. The red of the cylinder began to show through. God, let it still work, she prayed. She'd never used a fire extinguisher before and had no knowledge of how it operated. She turned it around searching for directions. A chrome band circled the middle of the cylinder. There was print beneath the grime. She gave it a swipe, but the dirt was caked and needed more than a wipe with a sleeve.

She looked around the floor of the stall for something sharp to scrape off the dirt. A rusted can opener was near her foot. Perfect. She dug at the dirt on the chrome band. It seemed to take forever. While scraping away, she managed to remain alert to the sounds around her even though the rain on the tin roof and the blaring music of the Rolling Stones were almost deafening.

When she'd gotten most of the dirt removed, she brought the extinguisher closer to read the instructions. But she saw immediately that instead of instructions on how to use it, what was printed there were instructions for maintenance and recharging. Frustrated, she slammed it with the heel of her hand, cried out in pain, then slapped the hand over her mouth as she heard the squeak of a board from the far end of the upper floor.

Fear returned as Annie realized Jim Drew had gained access to the second floor. Her heart pumped overtime. She breathed, mouth open, as if somehow taking in great gulps of air would help her. Quickly, she turned the extinguisher around. She knew there had to be instructions somewhere. The front of the metal band also revealed bits of printing. She struggled with her can opener again, scraping and scratching. Slowly, a black band within the chrome one appeared. Large chrome printing spelled out, TO OPERATE: She knew she had to hurry as creaks in the distance told her Drew was moving closer.

The words were finally visible. TO OPERATE: HOLD UPRIGHT. PULL PIN. SQUEEZE LEVER. DIRECT AT BASE OF FLAME. Pin? Pin? She started to panic.

Then suddenly, “I’m going to get you, Annie.” Drew’s voice, hollow and menacing, came from nearby. “You’ll never get away,” he warned. “Never!”

----

Hallock and Colin had had two close calls. The first with a trailer truck obviously heading for the ferry at Point Haven, the second with a Volkswagen bug. No one was hurt or pushed off the road in either instance, but privately each man thought that his number was up both times.

The rain had increased the last five minutes as if they were driving under a continuous waterfall. In any other circumstances Hallock would have pulled off the road. But he couldn't do that now. Now they had to creep along the back road, both of them hanging out of the windows, trying to see, trying to keep on the right side, but not too far over.

Colin knew there was a possibility that when they made it to Drew's barn, he and Annie might not be there. He was sure that Drew had gotten to her somehow, but chances of him taking her to his barn were slim. Still, they had to check it out. He couldn't allow himself to think that Annie might already be dead; it was totally unacceptable.

There were no lights on the back road, but in the distance, on Colin's side, he could see a glow through the downpour. He pulled in his head.

"I think we're here," he said, water running down his face.