Sorority Sister (15 page)

The footsteps on the stairs behind her failed to pick up speed. She could hear them slowly, patiently moving up the stairs with soft thuds.

Maxie felt a wave of doubt. If that was Erica in those painter’s clothes, she
knew
there were telephones up here. Why wasn’t she hurrying after Maxie, to stop her?

Maxie made it into her room, closed and locked the door, exhaled a huge gulp of relief, and stumbled to the telephone. Picked it up, put the receiver to her ear.

There was no dial tone.

The phone was dead.

Maxie sank to the floor, the telephone still in her hand. No wonder Erica hadn’t raced up the stairs after her.

There was a light tap on the door. Then the voice of the injured “doctor,” deep and confident, called, “Need any help in there? I noticed you have a bad ankle. I might be able to give you a shot for the pain.” A deep, wicked chuckle. “Put you to sleep for a long time. Maybe even a
very
long time.” Another laugh. “But first you’ll have to open the door and let me in.”

“Not in this lifetime!” Maxie shouted defiantly. She was angry, but she knew the person she was angriest with was herself. She should have waited in the driveway for the patrol car. What was the good of having the police around if you weren’t willing to let them handle things?

Now, look where I am, she thought wearily. Locked in my room, no one else home, no telephone to call for help, and a maniac on the other side of the door.

She couldn’t just sit here on the floor and wait for something to happen.

As she pulled herself to her feet, Maxie caught sight of the white scaffolding stationed outside her window.

No … I
hate
heights, she protested even as she moved to the window to look out. Heights make me dizzy and sick. I’d fall before I even got both feet on that thing.

But she opened the window and peered out. The structure stationed against the house loomed up out of the darkness like a giant Tinkertoy. The platform itself, running horizontally beneath her window, was too far down for her to step directly onto. She would have to hang from the sill and drop onto it.

Even if I could get up enough nerve to do that, she thought, dizzy just from looking out the window, I’d still have to climb down the rungs to get to the ground.

No. Impossible.

“Hey, Maxie,” an unfamiliar, masculine-sounding voice called, “any bugs in there? You got creepy-crawlies I can zap with my miracle insecticide?”

The fake exterminator.

“You know, this stuff kills more than bugs,” the voice tormented from beyond Maxie’s door. “Maxie? You still in there?” A hand rattled the doorknob, lightly at first, then more violently. “Take me no more than two minutes to get this stupid door open, you hear me?” The voice was angry now, but it still didn’t sound like Erica’s voice. Maybe she’d used so many different voices, she’d forgotten how her own sounded.

The doorknob rattled again.

Two minutes …

Maxie threw one leg over the windowsill, then the other, until she was sitting on the sill. Then she turned around carefully, facing the window, placed her hands on the sill, and lowered her body toward the platform.

There were several horrible seconds when her feet touched nothing but air and she was sure she was going to completely miss the platform and fall to her death. But then the toes of her left foot touched wood, and slowly, carefully, she stretched her legs, wincing as the bad ankle protested. Stretching, stretching, her fingers aching, her arms shrieking in pain …her right foot touched the platform, and her hands let go of the sill.

The platform jiggled slightly as she landed, falling into a semicrouch, clutching one of the white pipelike metal supports with both hands.

The worst part was still ahead of her. She crouched there, holding on, as long as she dared. But she knew that she had to get to the ground before her pursuer realized that she was no longer in her room.

She stood up shakily and reached out with both hands to the nearest scaffold support.

I can’t
do
this, she thought with certainty as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.

You have no
choice,
her brain ordered.
Go! Now!

Maxie went.

Slowly, hand over hand, down the white pole, gripping it with her legs, like a fireman sliding down a pole to a fire. She did not look down. She prayed the whole way down, and prayed harder each time she came to a place where the rungs criss-crossed each other, forming an “X” that she had to climb around before she could continue sliding.

It was a harrowing descent, made worse by the sensation of minutes ticking away rapidly. How much time did she have before Erica got the door to her room open and realized that her quarry had made its escape?

Halfway down the scaffolding, Maxie glanced toward the garage and its apartment, sitting off to the left and behind the house. Tuttle’s truck was there. If she could just make it to the ground, she’d go get him, make him call for help …

If I can just get to the ground, Maxie prayed …

Her hands were wet with sweat, her legs aching from gripping the pole, her shins stinging from rubbing against the cold white metal.

Not much further … almost there …

Tuttle might not be home. He could have gone out with friends. Did he have friends? No, he couldn’t have friends, because he
had
to be home. He
had
to help her.

There …just below her … the blessed,’ wonderful, beautiful ground! A foot more, that was all, just twelve little inches and she’d be there …

She dropped the last few inches, favoring her bad ankle so that she stood slightly tilted, leaning gratefully against the thick metal pipe of the scaffolding frame as she caught her breath.

The voice came out of the darkness, destroying every last shred of her relief at finally being back on the ground.

“Hi, there, Maxie! Nice trip down?”

The figure all in white stood before her, and although it was still wearing the stiff white mask, Maxie could feel its slow, easy, triumphant smile.

“W
HAT DO YOU
WANT
?” Maxie screamed, her voice shaking. “Leave me
alone
!”

“Hey, what’s goin’ on out there?” Tom Tuttle’s voice called from the garage. Maxie heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading down from the garage apartment.’

She heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. The gardener was coming to her rescue. Suddenly, Tuttle didn’t seem quite so creepy. If he got her out of this, she would never say anything bad about the gardener again.

“Here, Tuttle!” she cried, “over here, by the side door to the utility room.”

Her white-uniformed attacker darted backwards, into the shadows. But Maxie could still hear ragged breathing, coming from the bushes.

“Over there!” she shouted, pointing, as Tuttle arrived, muttering under his breath. “By those bushes.”

Tuttle turned in the direction she was pointing.

The board came out of nowhere. Thick and solid, it slammed into the side of Tuttle’s head, knocking him off his feet and sideways. He grunted with surprise as he flew out and then down, slamming into the ground with a fleshy-sounding thump. His head bounced once when it hit. Tuttle let out a distressed little sigh as his eyes closed and his body came to rest on the lawn.

Maxie watched the whole thing with horrified eyes, letting out a shrill scream when the board slammed into Tuttle. Then shock rendered her silent.

When the gardener was completely still, she whispered, “Why did you
do
that? I think you’ve … you’ve
killed
him.”

“The old coot isn’t dead.” Turtle’s attacker emerged from the bushes. “Only the good die young.” Maxie’s left wrist was suddenly encircled with one of the painter’s white-gloved hands, while the other hand bent to wrap itself around the gardener’s overalls. Then a door was opened and both victims were dragged into the utility room, where Tuttle was deposited in a heap and Maxie was tossed into a corner, near the washing machine.

It was dark inside, the air heavy with the smell of paint. Maxie sat huddled against one wall, her arms around her knees. Her heart was pounding so loudly, she half-expected Erica to shout, “Stop that infernal noise!”

“For your information,” she was told, the voice muffled behind the mask, “the door is locked. You’d never get it unlocked before I caught up with you. And I would be very, very angry that you’d tried to leave me. So forget about getting out of here. It’s not going to happen.”

“You can’t keep me here.” The defiance in her voice was forced. She was terrified. She couldn’t see, but could feel, Tuttle lying so still; so crumpled up, like a pile of painters’ rags.

“Guess again. I can do anything I want. And what I want is for this place to go up in smoke. So that’s exactly what’s going to happen. And you with it, Maximilia.”

Maxie’s defiance deserted her. Up in smoke? Fire?

“Let there be light,” the voice that didn’t sound like Erica’s said, chuckling. “Can’t work in the dark.” There was the click of a switch, and the darkness evaporated, replaced by a garish yellow glow from an overhead bulb.

“So,” the voice said, “how do you like your new accommodations? It really doesn’t matter if they’re not to your liking, because these are temporary lodgings. Believe me, they’re
very
temporary.”

Maxie’s eyes went to Tom Tuttle’s limp body. Although she willed him to wake up and help her, his eyes remained closed and not a muscle moved. Even if he did wake up, she knew he wouldn’t be in any shape to fight.

Humming softly, the white-clothed figure picked up two of the huge white paint containers lined up against the wall and moved to the oversized white hot water heater.

Maxie watched fearfully as Erica crawled behind it.

What was happening?

Whatever it was, she was suddenly sharply aware that the tall, fat, hot water heater stood
between
her and Erica. Shielding her from view. Any move she made now couldn’t possibly be seen from behind that tank. The door was on the painter’s side, so Maxie couldn’t very well get out, but …

Her heart leaped. If she approached from the left side, very quietly …

What she needed was a weapon of some kind, a board, a tool …

Her eyes searched the utility room. There w
ere
tools. But they were on a shelving unit directly behind the painter’s head. Would she have time to grab one before she was noticed?

It was worth a try.

The thought of slamming Erica on the head with a wrench or hammer made her physically ill. She wasn’t at all sure she could do it. Maybe there was some other way.

What
other way? The outside door was locked, the door to the house too close to her captor.

She had never hurt anyone physically in her entire life. But she had no choice now. All it would take was a light blow, enough to stun, to give her time to run into the house, unlock a door and call for help.

Before the house went up in flames fueled by paint fumes.

Stiffening her spine, Maxie took a deep breath, slid out of her loafers, and tiptoed quickly and quietly across the cement floor. She couldn’t be seen, she knew that. But she also knew that at any second, that white-capped head could lift, see that she was no longer in that same spot, and Erica could jump up to grab her. With fury. At any second …

She was only inches from her destination. Her eyes were fixated on Erica’s legs, sticking out from behind the hot water heater to make sure they didn’t suddenly move. So she failed to see a painter’s round green spray bottle lying on the floor. One socked foot nudged it and sent it and its green plastic tubing spinning into the wall with a loud scuttling sound.

Maxie gasped, her heart stopped, but her feet kept moving even as Erica’s legs jerked in response.

Maxie rounded the hot water heater. She never took her eyes off her target for a second as she sent her arm on a search of the shelves, blindly, desperately, seeking a tool, a shovel, a weapon of some kind. Anything …

She wasn’t close enough. Her fingers curled around nothing but air.

Erica, alerted by the noise the paint sprayer had made, stood up.

Turned around.

Saw her.

Brown eyes blazed with fury. “I
knew
I should have creamed you the way I did Tuttle, you witch! I figured, since you couldn’t get
out
of here, I’d let you watch what I was doing. Gave me a kick, having you watch. My mistake … ”

There was no time for Maxie to turn and run. There was only enough time to realize, with a paralyzing sense of shock, that the eyes blazing anger and hatred at her were
brown.

The figure lunged at her, forcing her up against the wall, hands at her throat.

Erica’s eyes were
blue.

The figure pushed her closer to the shelves.

Oh, Erica, Maxie thought, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I should have known it wasn’t you.

Choking, gagging, she sent her hand on another search. This time, her fingers closed around something metal, something hard … lifted it … sent it down upon the white-capped skull…

But at the last minute, her attacker saw it coming and moved, receiving only a glancing blow to the temple. It was enough to force her cruel hands away from Maxie’s throat, but not enough to knock out the attacker.

Shattered by the lost opportunity, knowing she wouldn’t get another chance, Maxie thought grimly,
Okay, then,
and reached out with her free hand to rip the stiff white painter’s mask free.

And gasped in disbelief.

“C
ANDIE?”
M
AXIE WAS SO
stunned, she offered no resistance when Candie reached out and shoved her to the floor. She sat with her back against the wall, looking up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “But … I thought you were Erica,” Maxie whispered.

“Well I’m not, am I? I’m Allison Barre’s baby daughter, Candace. The one she never had time for.” Candie’s voice was laced with bitterness.

“It was you all the time? You were the woman in the caterer’s uniform? You were the doctor, the exterminator, Tia Maria?”