State of Grace (40 page)

“Grace,” I breathed in relief. She was here. She would save me.

“Yes,” Tommy said as he continued his slow advance. “Grace. She is what brought us together, you know. It was her death that allowed me to find you.”

“Back into the kitchen and get the knife from the ham,”
Grace whispered.
“Let him get close. Let him think he has you where he wants you and then stab him as hard as you can in the belly.”

I nodded.

“See?” Tommy said knowingly. “You realize it now, don't you?”

I had backed fully into the kitchen and he stood in the doorway, his form a silhouette against the light of the living room.

“So,” I said as I continued to creep backward. “We're going to make love and then what?”

I could hear the smile in his voice as he continued his slow pursuit. “You'll see,” he said. “It will be beautiful.”

I felt the counter against my back.

“Gotcha,” Tommy said softly as he continued forward. “No place else to go. I guess we'll just have to pick up where we left off. Don't worry, though. I'm a very accomplished lover. And we have all night.”

He stepped forward and bent his head to kiss me. His eyes slid closed and I felt his soft lips again on mine.

He didn't seem to notice or care that I didn't return the kiss.

“Now!” Grace hissed in my head. “Now!”

In the darkness of the kitchen, Tommy hadn't seen my fingers close around the handle of the butcher knife. He didn't realize my intent until it was too late. With Grace guiding my hand, I thrust the blade deeply into the side of his belly and then twisted it.

Tommy pulled back with a hiss and then looked down at the blade protruding from his side. He stumbled backward and then looked at me in disbelief. Fumbling, he grasped the handle, gave a grunt, and then heaved the knife from the wound with a sticky, sucking sound.

“So, you want to skip the foreplay, huh?” he gasped, the bloody knife clutched in his hand. “Fine by me. Post-coitus is the fun part for me anyway.”

He lunged forward, one hand pressed to the bloody wound, the other wielding the knife. Still trapped against the counter, I feigned right. But I wasn't fast enough. I felt the blade slice my arm.

“Nice try,” he grunted and grabbed me with his other hand. It was slippery with the blood from his wound. “Come here,” he sneered and lunged with the knife again. This time I felt it cut across my palm.

“No!” I screamed and brought my knee up as hard as I could into his groin. He gasped and fell to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor and I kicked it away.

“Call 911!”
Grace said.
“Call them and tell them you need help.”

I stumbled into the living room, picked up the cordless phone and punched in the numbers.

“9-1-1, what's the nature of your emergency?” It was a woman. Her voice was calm.

“There's a man in my house,” I screamed into the phone. “He tried to rape me. I stabbed him. I need help. He murdered my friend.”

“Okay, ma'am,” the woman said. “Calm down. Are you in a safe place?”

“No! He's on the floor in the kitchen! He's—”

“Run!”
Grace screamed in my head.
“He's up and he's got the knife again. Get to the Jeep!”

I dropped the phone and raced to the door. My purse and keys were on the side table and I grabbed them as I fumbled with the
doorknob. My hands were sticky with blood, shaky from fear and clumsy from the wine.

“Hurry!”
Grace's voice was urgent.
“He's coming.”

I turned to see Tommy staggering into the living room. I wiped my hands on my blouse and tried again. It turned and suddenly, I was outside on the porch. I ran to the Jeep.

“It's locked,”
Grace said.

I fumbled with the keys. They all looked alike.

“That one,”
Grace said as my fingers closed on the largest key on the ring. I couldn't make my hands stop shaking. I turned to see Tommy lurching through the open door. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand clutched to his belly. From the other hand dangled the knife.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I yelled as I finally managed to get the key into the lock and turn it. I yanked the door open, climbed inside, and used my elbow to push down the lock once I slammed the door closed.

“Please start, please start, please start,” I prayed as I turned the key in the ignition. For once, the engine roared to life.

“Go!”
screamed Grace.
“Now! Drive!”

I threw the Jeep into gear and cranked the wheel. Tommy still stood clutching the doorframe of the front door. Our eyes met as he struggled to take a step forward and then collapsed. In amazement, I watched as he crawled across the porch and attempted to pull himself into a standing position.

“He's trying to get to his car.”

I punched the accelerator and the vehicle bucked forward before almost immediately catching a patch of ice. The Jeep fishtailed wildly and then caught traction and leapt forward. As I struggled to maintain control of it, I saw Tommy opening the door of his rented car.

“Lights,”
Grace yelled as we spun out of the turnaround and onto the drive. Quickly, I flicked on the lights and drove jerkily toward the road. In the rearview mirror, I could see the blink of headlights coming on.

“He's following us. Gun it. Now!”

I cranked the wheel and turned onto the rutted, snowy road.
Although much of the snow was now melted off, what remained had melted during the day and then turned to ice once the sun went down. Breathing in gasps, adrenaline coursing through my body, I drove down the rutted road, the Jeep bucking and slipping from side to side as I hit patches of ice.

“We're going to wreck,” I said. “I've had too much to drink. There's ice all over. I need to slow down.”

“You can't.”
It was Grace's voice, although not from my head. I looked at where she sat in the passenger's seat. She still looked eleven.
“Unless you want to end up like me, you can't. You should have listened to me. I am the only person who can take care of you.”

“I know,” I said miserably, nodding. “I know. I'm sorry. I just . . .”

“I know about the loneliness,”
she said.
“But you're not alone. You'll never be alone. You have me.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw headlights in jerky pursuit.

“He's still there,” I said. Grace turned to look out the back window. Her face was illuminated by the light of the dash. She was beautiful.

“He's losing blood,”
she said.
“He will lose consciousness soon. A wound like that bleeds out pretty quickly.”

“How do you know?” I asked as I struggled to keep the Jeep under control.

“I know.”

“Where are we going?” I asked. “It's 2 a.m. There's no place open.”

“Sheriff's department.”

I glanced back and noticed the lights had disappeared.

“I think we lost him,” I said as the Jeep hit a rut and bounced sideways.

I cranked the wheel to compensate and then felt a second wave of fear. “Oh my god, Grace. We left Toby.”

I pulled my eyes from the road to look at her. She was about to speak when the front wheels of the Jeep hit a patch of ice and slid drunkenly to the side. I jerked the steering wheel and the back began to fishtail. I pumped the brakes hoping to slow the skid, but that only seemed to make it worse. Almost as if it were in slow
motion, I felt the Jeep buck, lurch to the other side and roll out of control.

As I bounced around in the cab, I realized I had forgotten to put on my seatbelt.

“Shit,” I thought as my head smashed into the windshield and I began to lose consciousness. “Wouldn't you know it would come down to this?”

Chapter 30

The events following the accident are still unclear. I've been told that I was brought into the emergency room unconscious. A trucker apparently had seen the lights of my Jeep as I bounced down the incline and radioed for help. Sheriff's officers responding to my 911 call were close by and called for paramedics. The scene apparently hadn't been pretty. Firefighters had to cut me out of the wreckage and I was airlifted to the hospital in Colorado Springs, where I was treated for a broken leg, a broken arm, numerous broken ribs, head injuries, and a punctured lung. According to my mother, I drifted in and out of consciousness for about a week.

My recollection is much less cohesive. What I remember is captured in flashes. I remember the Jeep spinning out of control and then hitting my head repeatedly as it rolled. I remember waking up in the Jeep. It was upside down and I was on the roof. I remember touching my head and then staring at my hands. They were covered with blood—though I wasn't sure if it was mine, Tommy's, or both. I recall a pain that shot all the way up my leg into my hip as a man and a woman loaded me onto a gurney. I remember that a helicopter circled overhead and I could see snow falling in the beam of the powerful blue-white light that shone down on us. And when I turned my head, I saw Grace standing off to the side watching silently. She nodded encouragingly.

I also remember struggling to tell the doctors about Tommy—that they needed to send the police or sheriff's department to my cabin, and someone needed to take care of Toby. I could hear their voices discussing my condition, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to speak.

Several days later, I woke to the light of the morning sunshine streaming through the window of what appeared to be a hospital room. My mother sat in a chair by my bed, her chin to her chest as she slept. She looked pale and very tired.

“Mom?” I croaked. My throat was dry and my voice raspy. I wondered briefly if I had swallowed glass from the windshield. I tried again. “Mom?”

She awoke with a start and blinked uncomprehendingly at me for several seconds. “Oh my god, Birdie.” She jumped to her feet. “Shh, don't talk, sweetie. You had a tube down your throat to help you breathe. I'll get the nurse.”

She rushed out of the room and moments later, a woman in pink scrubs rushed in. Behind her were my mother and sister. The nurse smiled and studied me over the top of her glasses.

“Looks like someone's awake,” she said kindly. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good,” I rasped. “How long have I been here?” I looked down at the casts on my leg and arm. “What happened?”

“It's okay, honey,” my mother said. “You were in a car accident. You hit some ice and your Jeep went off the road.”

“Oh my god,” I groaned as it all came back to me. Tommy. The knife. “I was trying to get away from Tommy. I stabbed him. He was at my house. You can't let him get away. He killed Grace. He tried to kill me. He stabbed me twice.”

I tried to pull myself out of the bed but was stopped short by an excruciating pain in my side. I gasped.

“You have broken ribs and a punctured lung,” said the nurse gently. “You're not going to be able to go anywhere for a while. Just calm down and don't move around.”

“You don't understand.” I looked wildly around the room and met my mother's eyes. “You have to call the police. They need to arrest him or something. He was chasing me in his car. You have to go get . . . oh . . .” I began to cry. “Oh, Mom. I killed him, didn't I?” I reached wildly for her hand. “I didn't mean to, but he was going to rape and kill me just like he did Grace.”

My mother squeezed my hand reassuringly and exchanged a
look with my sister, who had come into the room and now stood on the other side of the bed, slightly behind the nurse.

“Sweetie, just lie back and try to relax. There's no reason to get upset. It's okay.”

“No,” I said forcefully. “It's not okay. He was chasing me in his car. I think he passed out. You can still catch him. He . . . he tried to kill me. You've got to believe me. You've got to send the police.”

Then I remembered Toby.

“Oh my god,” I moaned. “You've got to get Toby. You've got make sure he's okay. Tommy may have gone back to the cabin!”

I began to sob. My mother patted my arm.

“Sweetie, calm down,” she said. “Look at me. Look in my eyes. It's okay. It's all okay. Andy is at the cabin and is taking care of Toby. He's fine.”

I looked frantically around the room. If Andy was at the cabin, then the situation must be under control. I felt myself calm slightly. “So, they found Tommy? Was he still alive? Is he in jail?”

My mother glanced again at my sister and then looked back at me.

“Birdie, sweetheart, listen to me.” Her voice was soft and calm. “We talked about this last time you were awake. Remember? You didn't kill anyone.”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. “I did! Tommy Anderson. From Edenbridge. I stabbed him! He was going to kill me like he did Grace! Grace saved me!”

My mother sighed and looked at the nurse, who was poking at the beeping machine next to the bed. The nurse pressed a final button and then looked down at me. “Rebecca, listen to me. You need to take a deep breath. This machine keeps track of your vital signs and right now, it's telling me that you need to calm down. Okay? Now, I need you to answer a couple of questions for me, okay?”

I nodded helplessly.

“What's your name?”

“Birdie,” I rasped. “Rebecca Holloway.”

“Good. Do you know what year it is?”

“2004.”

“Excellent.” She scribbled something on the chart she held in her hand. “Do you know where you are?”

“I'm assuming the hospital.”

“Do you know why you're here?”

“I wrecked my Jeep,” I said and began to feel the panic rising again. “Grace and I were trying to escape from Tommy and I hit a patch of ice.”

“And who is Tommy?” asked the nurse, her eyes flicking up to meet my mother's. “Deep breaths, stay calm.”

“Tommy Anderson is a man I was e-mailing,” I whispered with exaggerated patience. “I knew him when we were young. He came to visit me and then he tried to kill me. He killed my friend Grace when we were kids. He was the Sullivans' grandson.”

I directed this last bit of information toward my mother, who looked at my sister. Tara shook her head and shrugged. My mother then looked at the nurse, who nodded, as if giving my mother permission.

“Sweetie, I'm going to tell you something and you need to stay calm and listen to me, okay?” My mother squeezed my hand gently. “You've had a nasty bump to the head. You're okay, but I think it's made you a little confused. We talked about this last time.” She paused. “We're still trying to understand who you're talking about.”

“Tommy Anderson,” I said, exasperated. “The Sullivans' grandson. He murdered Grace. And he just tried to murder me. Why won't anyone listen to me?”

“Birdie,” my mother said gently. “Reggie murdered Grace. Remember? He was arrested two weeks after the murder.”

“No,” I wailed. “It was Tommy Anderson. We've been e-mailing. He was in town when Grace was murdered. He was with his grandparents. He got my name from Roger and we've been e-mailing. You have to listen to me. He killed Grace. He tried to kill me. I stabbed him. I stabbed him in the stomach. There is blood all over the house. He chased me in his car.”

“Shhhhhhh,” my mother said softly, reassuringly. “Shhhhh. Sweetie, listen to me. You're confused —from the accident. We checked with Mrs. Sullivan. Their grandson, Tommy, died when
he was sixteen. He was killed in a gang fight in Chicago two years before Grace's murder. And we've talked to Roger; he didn't give your name to anyone.”

I wrenched my arm away from her hand in protest. “No,” I insisted. “Tommy was at the Nest after Grace's murder. It was his knife that was used to kill her. He
told
me so.”

“Birdie, Grace stole the knife from the Mercantile to protect herself from Reggie. That came out during the trial.”

“But, he said . . .” I began.

“Sweetheart,” my mother said softly, “We've all been to the cabin. There is no blood anywhere. You're confused. There is no Tommy.”

“But the e-mails,” I said plaintively. “Check the e-mails. They're all on my computer! He came to visit. He was staying at the Ranch House Inn. He had a rental car. Look for the reservations. We had dinner. At the Timbers. Ask the waitress. Kallie. She saw us together. Ask her.”

Tara put her hand gently on my leg.

“You were at the Timbers Restaurant, but you were there by yourself,” she said gently. “They called us after the accident was reported on the local news. They said you were drunk. You came in, drank a bottle of wine, talked to yourself, and then left. They were going to try to stop you from driving, but you left too quickly. We found the receipt.”

“But it wasn't just me,” I insisted. “Tommy was there. We were going to have dinner. We both ordered the steak but decided to go back to the cabin and eat leftover ham.” I looked wildly around me. “Mom . . . Tara . . . you've got to believe me. We fought. I stabbed him. There's blood everywhere. For god's sake, check my e-mails.”

“Sweetheart,” my mother said. “We
did
check your e-mails. You told us to the last time you were awake. Andy checked them. There weren't any from a man named Tommy. Just a lot of e-mails you wrote that were never sent. You have to believe me, sweetie. There is no one named Tommy.”

“You're wrong,” I yelled despite the pain in my throat and the weakness of my voice. “You're wrong! You're wrong!”

The beeps on the monitors next to me began to speed up again.

“You need to calm down,” the nurse said. “Deep breaths.”

“I don't want to take any deep breaths,” I hissed. “You won't believe me and I'm not going to stay here—not while there's a killer on the loose! He cut me for chrissake. Look!”

I held up my hand to show them where I had been cut trying to defend myself. But as I did so, I stopped and stared at my hand. There was no injury, no cut, no bandage.

“But it was there,” I insisted and then looked up at my mother. She looked sad. “This is bullshit!” I ripped the IV out of my hand and struggled to get out of bed. The nurse punched a button and two other women rushed into the room. My mother and sister stepped back while the nurses struggled to restrain me.

“Let me go!” I yelled. “You can't do this! I need to get out of here!”

I felt the prick of the needle and looked down as the nurse in the pink scrubs depressed the plunger on the syringe. I felt cold and then warm . . . and then very, very heavy. My head began to swim and as I faded once again into unconsciousness, I heard my mother's voice.

“Well, at least it was better than last time.”

When I woke up, it was evening. My sister was in the chair next to the bed flipping through an outdated copy of
People
she must have snagged from the waiting room. I blinked and then remembered what had occurred last time I was awake. Nothing made sense. I struggled to sit up but realized I had been restrained. As I moved, Tara smiled at me.

“Hey there.” She put the magazine down and came over to put a hand on my arm. “How are you feeling? Let me go get the nurse.”

“No,” I rasped. “No, not yet. Why am I in restraints?”

“They were worried you would hurt yourself. You ripped out your IV last time.” She looked nervously at the door. “I think I should go get the nurse. Mom and Dad would want me to.”

“Dad's here?”

“Yeah, can you believe it?” she said. “He flew in yesterday and was here last night. He's at the cabin with Andy right now, but he'll be here tomorrow morning.” She paused and looked again at the door. “I really should go get the nurse.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet . . . Please, just tell me what's going on. I don't understand what's happening.”

“Well—” She hesitated.

“Please.”

“You were in a car accident,” she said. “They had to cut you out of your Jeep and they brought you here. You're in the hospital in Colorado Springs. You've got a bunch of broken bones and a concussion and your lung was pierced. You're lucky to be alive.”

I struggled to remain calm.

“What about Tommy? Is he dead? Is he in jail?”

Tara stared at me for several seconds and then quickly looked away.

“At least tell me that Toby's okay.”

“Toby's fine.” Tara's expression was hard to read. “He's at the cabin with Andy and Dad.”

“What about Tommy?” I asked again. “Did they find the body? Are the police going to arrest me? It was self-defense, Tara.”

Tara squeezed my hand and looked deeply into my eyes. “Birdie,” she said and then sighed. “We don't know what you're talking about.” She put her hands up as I started to protest. “No, wait, hear me out. Listen. As far as we can tell, there is no one named Tommy. You didn't kill anyone and there are no e-mails from anyone named Tommy. There are a bunch of e-mails from you to someone named Tommy, but they were never sent.”

“But he came here,” I protested. “He and I had dinner together. People saw us. He came back to my place. He tried to kill me.”

“Birdie, you were alone at the restaurant. Everyone who saw you there says you were completely alone. And there is no sign of a struggle at the cabin—just a knife on the floor in the kitchen. From the ham.”

I tried to shake my head, but the pain was too much.

“You've got to believe me,” I pleaded. “He killed Grace. He told me so.”

“Reggie killed Grace,” she said. “Don't you remember? Natalie's father arrested him. There was a trial. He was found guilty. And then after the trial, Grace's mom committed suicide—a drug overdose. Remember?”