I sat down and leaned back on my elbows. “Okay. Tell her Ms. Sotelli’s here, too.”
As we waited, we watched Lynnette play. She had found an antique wicker doll carriage and tucked a few teddy bears in, then set up a tea party on the floor for the others. We could hear her murmuring to herself, carrying on a lively conversation for five or six different characters. It was all very peaceful and quiet.
“She probably won’t come,” Heather said pessimistically for the third time.
That’s when we heard footsteps in the hallway.
We had moved down a couple of steps to leave room for her to sit above us if she chose, but Pell followed behind her with a chair, which he placed on the landing.
Savannah stood looking down at us for a moment, then a formal smile crossed her lips and she took the chair as if it were a Hepplewhite in a formal drawing room. Her colorful chiffon scarves no longer looked jaunty, merely sad. Her pink ballerina slippers were filthy. Her hair could have used a good brushing, but her face and hands were clean.
“Ms. Sotelli, Miss McKenzie.” Her voice was as husky as ever. “How kind of you to visit. I confess I had not —”
From out of the darkness came two gunshots in rapid succession.
The shots were so unexpected that even though I’ve been raised around guns and actually had a .38 locked in the trunk of my car, it took a split second to register what was happening.
A third shot hit the steel railing above, spraying me with enamel paint chips before ricocheting off somewhere.
“Uncle Pell!” Lynnette screamed in terror and got up and started toward us.
“No!” I yelled, ducking and running down the steps to her. “Stay there! Lie down!”
But Pell was even faster. He pushed me aside and raced to snatch her up in his arms.
Another shot shattered the concrete wall beside Savannah’s head. Heather scrambled up the steps, grabbed Savannah’s hand and pulled her back into the hallway, out of the line of fire. As they ran for cover, yet another shot zinged past.
Even while listening for more shots, my mind was racing furiously. The shooter must be after Savannah since Heather and I had been there several minutes and no shots were fired till Savannah appeared on the stairs. But why shoot a delusional old woman?
Mentally I tried to add up the shots. Five or six? And did the shooter have extra bullets?
In the sudden silence, we heard a crash, then staccato footsteps running at least three aisles over.
“He’s getting away,” I told Pell. “Quick! Call Underwood.”
“Wait!” Pell cried, but I was already flying over the teddy bears, rushing toward the same door our assailant must be making for.
And would reach before me, unless I could somehow fool him into thinking someone was between him and the exit?
I grabbed a glass vase from the shelf I was passing and lobbed it as hard as I could over the shelves toward the exit. It landed with a satisfactory loudness and sounded as if it had taken a couple of other pieces of glass along, too.
And it worked!
The sound of running footsteps immediately swerved aside and headed out into the studio area. As he ran, crashes marked his direction. Glassware and metal fell to the floor as he brushed past them.
In the dim light, I saw a narrow cross aisle up ahead and put on more speed as I turned left and followed the sounds ahead of me. I stubbed my toe sharply on some metal object that he’d dislodged in the aisle. Broken glass crunched under my shoes and I almost tripped over a stack of baskets.
Then I heard another set of footsteps.
“This way!” called Heather. “He’s heading for the front office.”
I heard her roar, “Where the hell’s the fucking lights?” Then a crash from her direction. She must have tripped over a cable.
The first footsteps vanished. Had he stopped short or was he hurrying across a carpeted set?
I came around a wall in time to see Heather silhouetted against the security tights near the front.
“Deborah? Where are you? Where’d he go?‘ she called, running blindly toward me.
“Sh-hh!” I hissed as I strained to see and hear.
Then I caught a flash of white legs mounting upwards in the darkness. Someone was on those movable stairs. Theoretically, the steps went nowhere. In actuality, someone agile could probably pull up and onto one of the overhead catwalks and then run along a clear path to an unobserved exit.
Someone in white silk slacks.
Of course.
Although I was pretty sure that she killed Chan, I still didn’t know why: but I could make a pretty good guess as to why she thought she had to kill Savannah.
“You can’t get away,” I called. “I know who you are!”
I saw a flash and heard the explosion in the same instant as the bullet destroyed a portable light stand off to the side. God, she was a lousy shot.
