Once upon a time I’d carried a small pocketknife. Then one day, a small Jenna reached into my purse, dug out the knife, and pried out the knife’s short, sharp blade. I’d immediately taken it away from her, thrown the knife in the wastebasket, and carried the wastebasket into the garage.
Too bad. Even a small knife would have been handy right now.
I banged on the door with my knuckles. Banged on it with the heels of my hands. Kicked at it with my toes. Kicked at it with my heels. Banged on it with my fists. All I got for my efforts was a nice collection of wood splinters.
That was when I started to cry.
I don’t know how long I cried. I’d like to say it wasn’t very long. I’d like to say only a tiny tear escaped before courage reasserted itself. I’d like to say the intrepid spirit of my homesteading ancestors surged forth and brought me strength and innovative ideas for escape.
What actually happened was that I sobbed long and hard enough to exhaust myself. Right there at the top of Agnes’s basement stairs, leaning against the door, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, disoriented and with a stiff neck, I heard something. No, not something, but someone.
Iron Grip—he was back.
As quickly and as silently as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs. Faint moonlight washed through the windows—enough light to let me pick my way across the room. My breaths were rapid and shallow.
He was back. He’d come back to finish me off. What was I going to do? I had to defend myself somehow. There had to be a way.
I made my way to the workbench. Surely there’d be something here I could use. Too bad the workbench was in the darkest corner of this dark room. I need to find something sharp, something heavy, something . . . anything. . . .
Furniture screeched.
Wildly, I felt for something that would save me. And I had the element of surprise on my side, didn’t I? He didn’t know there were tools down here. Not that I was finding anything bigger than a screwdriver, but there must be something. . . .
More screeching. The door opened. Light bounced down the stairwell and onto the far side of Agnes’s hockey memorabilia.
“Hello?” called a male voice. “Is anyone down there?”
I rushed across the room and my hands wrapped familiarly around the best weapon possible. I stationed myself on the darkest side of the stairs. When he came all the way down, I’d give him a good slash, then run up and out across the street to Marina’s house and safety.
“Hello?” A heavy tread squeaked the top stair. “Is anyone here?” He came down one stair at a time.
His legs came into view. From my position I could see his leather belt, then his jacket, then his shoulders, and finally the back of his head. My hands tightened on my weapon. Head up, eyes intent on the goal, I swung the stick fast and high.
At the last second he turned, and I watched with horror as the curved blade of Agnes’s autographed hockey stick sailed straight into the side of the unsuspecting head of Don the dry cleaner.
Chapter 18
“Beth!” Marina forced her way around two law-enforcement officers, jumped over a case of medical equipment, and ran to my side. “Beth! Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.” The rotating lights of the ambulance and two police cars came through the living room windows and washed over us all, giving the scene a bizarre disco feel.
“I’m fine.” I blessed Gloria for being lax in having Agnes’s utilities turned off. My cell phone was in my purse, which was in my car. Luckily, Don had ducked away from the hockey stick and I’d barely landed a glancing blow. After he’d assured me that he wasn’t hurt, I’d called 911, then called Richard’s condo and talked to the children, getting a lecture from Richard beforehand on my irresponsibility of not being available when they’d called earlier and did I really expect him to wake them so I could say good night (to which the answer was, of course, yes). Then, as sirens broke the suburban quiet, I’d called Marina.
“What happened?” Marina’s red freckles stood out sharp on skin turned white. “Don, what are you doing here?”
“Finally got those drapes done.” Don nodded at the plastic-encased drapes hanging on a dining chair. “I’ve had them in the van for a couple days. I was driving past and I saw a light on, so I knocked. The door was unlocked, and there was Beth in the basement, swinging a mean high stick.”
“What?” Marina looked at me blankly.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. One of Gus’s young men”—I nodded at the officer in blue standing nearby—“is going to take me to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” She put shaking fingers over her mouth.
“For a tetanus shot,” I said patiently. “And to take out a few splinters. But who knows how long that will take, so I need a favor.”
She dropped to her knees. “Anything. Just say the word.”
I squinted at her. All I needed was a little shot. She was acting as if I’d had a near-death experience. “My car is behind the school. Can you drive it to the hospital and get your DH to pick you up?”
“No. I’ll wait for you. I won’t abandon you in your time of need. I’ll sleep in the waiting room if I have to. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll—”
“Ma’am, are you ready?” The EMTs helped me to my feet. A sudden and blinding headache reminded me of the damage Iron Grip had done to the back of my neck. There was no need to mention that tidbit to Marina.
“Beth.” Marina moved to my side and touched my leg.
“I know. This place is a mess.” Iron Grip had sliced open pillows, emptied bookshelves and cabinets, and strewn papers everywhere. “I’ll take care of it later. You’ll move my car, right?” I asked as the officer guided me toward the door. “Just drop the keys off at the front desk.”
“But I don’t
“I left them on the dining table.”
“Beth . . .”
Whatever she wanted to say, she wasn’t saying it fast enough. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I called.
Then I was out in air cold enough for heavy frost. I looked up at the clearing sky and couldn’t stop shivering as the officer opened the sedan door for me.
“It’ll be warm in a minute,” he said. “I’ll have you toasty before you know it.”
“Thanks.” But I hadn’t been shivering from the cold.
Both Gus and Deputy Sharon Wheeler interviewed me in the hospital. I’m sure they grew as tired of hearing my two standard answers as I did of saying them.
GUS: “Was there anything missing from the house?”
“I’m not sure.”
DEPUTY WHEELER: “Can you think of anything about your attacker that would help us identify him?”
“Sorry, no.”
DEPUTY WHEELER: “What time were you attacked?”
“I’m not sure.”
GUS: “Did he leave in a vehicle? Did you hear a car start?”
“Sorry, no.”
And so on and so forth. The Rynwood police department had jurisdiction over the break-in, but the sheriff’s department was investigating anything connected with Agnes’s murder. Why at least one of them couldn’t wait until the next day to talk to me, I didn’t know.
I was dirty, I was hungry, and I was growing immensely tired of the emergency room doctor’s humming as he
