down into blackness. Leaning slightly forward, she ran her hand over the rough wall, feeling for a light switch.
A slight scuffing sound alarmed her, and she started to turn around. But she’d barely moved when something smashed into the small of her back and butted her out over the stairs into darkness.
She came down on the wooden steps on her side and slid to the bottom, bruising her hip and ribs and banging her right elbow.
Only when she was sprawled on the floor at the base of the stairs did she comprehend what had happened.
Even as she painfully scrambled to her feet in the darkness, she heard the shufffle and creak of someone coming down the stairs.
She panicked.
Her heart racing with terror, she saw a dim light at the far end of the basement and ran toward it. She struck an ankle on something in the dark and almost tripped, but somehow remained on her feet and lurched forward, her hands outstretched to feel for unseen obstacles.
When she reached the source of the light, she saw that it was a high, narrow window that had been filled in with opaque glass blocks.
No escape that way!
She could hear the unmistakable sound of leather soles scuffing on the gritty concrete floor, closing in on her!
She fled at an angle and made out the outline of a half-opened door. As she bumped her aching hip on something-a wheelbarrow hanging on a wall-she almost cried out in pain. But she swallowed the sound. If whoever was pursuing her in the dim basement didn’t know exactly where she was, she didn’t want to make her location known.
When she reached the door and opened it wider, she saw that it led to a short flight of wooden stairs leading back up to the basement. She climbed the creaking steps, briefly on all fours like an animal, then straightened up and closed the door at the top of the stairs behind her and leaned with her back against it.
There was more light here, revealing the maze of partitions from another perspective. She was totally disoriented. The only sounds were her rasping struggle for breath, her hammering heart.
She felt the doorknob rotate like a drill bit against her back and gasped.
In a panic, she fled through the labyrinth of wooden partitions, bouncing off them. She couldn’t help it-she screamed. Though the sound was deadened in the thick-walled and cluttered basement, she knew she’d revealed her position to whoever was after her.
Finally she reached a crude, unpainted wooden door, another barrier between herself and her stalker. She yanked the door open, stepped to the other side of it, then slammed it behind her and fumbled for a lock.
There was none.
She looked around and found herself trapped in a small storage room. There was somewhat more light there, filtering in through a narrow, iron-grilled window and illuminating a swirl of dust motes.
Frantically she threw herself against a wooden storage crate and shoved it against the wall beneath the window. When she climbed up on the box and peered through the dirty glass, she was looking at a narrow alley littered with trash. There was no one to signal or call to for help.
She was trapped and alone.
She scampered down from the box, found a thick wooden plank, and wedged it between the door and a support post so tightly that the board had a slight bow in it.
Within seconds something or someone crashed loudly against the door, making the bend in the board even more pronounced.
Another crash!
Another!
The board bowed even more, the door shivered, and Molly saw one of its upper panels crack.
The crack widened with the next crash, and the dry old wood splintered and sagged inward. But brittle as it was, the door had just enough flexibility to hold and spring back.
Molly knew it wouldn’t hold indefinitely. She climbed back onto the crate and tried to work the lever that unlocked the window. It was ancient and rust-fused and broke off in her hand.
Something crashed against the door again, causing the plank wedged against it to jump a fraction of an inch to the side.
Molly struggled with the jagged metal stump of remaining lever and managed to force it sideways, slicing her palm in the process. The old wood-framed window was the sort that opened inward, with hinges at the top. She gripped the tarnished brass handle and yanked the window in and up, ducking her head so it wouldn’t brain her.
She got a mouth full of cobwebs for her effort, but the window rose.
Coughing, spitting, she clasped her hands over the iron grill and pulled and pushed. There wasn’t the slightest give in the ancient grill.
Then she placed both hands on an end bar, bringing to bear more strength than she would have thought possible, and a corner of the grill gave slightly where it was anchored to stone. She began frantically working the old iron structure back and forth against its mooring, each time causing a raucous squeak she only hoped someone outside might hear. She didn’t think there was enough play in the grill to allow her to weaken it enough so she could escape, but there seemed nothing else to try.
The crashing against the door stopped, as if whoever was out there was getting tired and needed a second wind.
Molly continued working on the grill.
Finally, its lower right corner broke free.
She almost couldn’t believe it.
Whimpering, determined, she leaned her weight against the grill and pushed with her weary arms, trying to bend it outward.
It wouldn’t budge.
Deirdre stood outside the unyielding door, glaring angrily at it and gasping for breath. She’d explored the basement and knew the bitch was trapped on the other side of the door. No way out. There might be plenty of time, but Deirdre wanted to get this over with, to get to her prey before some joke of fate interrupted what was about to happen.
She dragged a forearm across her perspiring forehead, looked around, and smiled.
Leaning against a wall were some old, rusty tools. One of them was a long-handled pickax.
Deirdre rubbed the shoulder she’d been smashing against the door, then walked over and grabbed the pickax, hoisted it, and gave a few practice swings.
Then she returned to the storage room door, drew the pickax well back, and with all her might swung the pointed end at what she knew was a weak spot on the door.
The satisfaction she felt as the old wood split was almost like sex.
Molly continued to work frenziedly on the iron grill, glancing behind her as the rusty point of the pick repeatedly punctured the brittle old door.
She was sobbing now, trembling, working her arms and hands with difficulty. Her palms were bleeding but she didn’t feel the pain, only her terror.
Deirdre knew she was close.
She could sense it!
Over and over she smashed the pointed end of the pickax into the door, seeing the gaps in the wood widen, the cracks turn into fissures that had to fly wide apart soon. Whatever Molly had wedged against the door was squealing with each blow as it jumped and vibrated and slid to the side.
Her mouth gaping wide to suck in air, Deirdre went into a mad fury of motion. The old door bucked on its hinges. Chips and splinters flew. Ancient nails bounced and pinged off the concrete floor.
She grinned wildly as she heard the wooden prop on the other side of the door clatter to the floor.
Wielding the pickax like a weapon, Deirdre kicked what was left of the door open and rushed into the storage
