Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (24 page)

He gestured with the knife. “Upstairs.”

Her legs felt wobbly; she had to hang on to the railing with both hands to make the climb. Didn’t do it fast enough to suit
him. Twice he jabbed fingers into her back, the second time on the spot where the riser had cut into her back. She swallowed the pain cry that rose into her throat. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

At the top of the stairs he said, “Now into the kitchen. Wipe that blood off your face.”

“Why? So you can mess it up again?”

“Don’t give me any sass. Do what I tell you.”

“You busted my nose.”

“Not yet—not enough blood. Next time I’ll mash it to a pulp.”

He was right about the blood: not as much dribbling out now. But the numbness had worn off and her nose had begun to throb like hell. Not broken, maybe, but some badly bruised cartilage. A few red drops plopped into the kitchen sink, swirled away when she turned on the cold-water tap. She soaked a dish towel, wiped the stickiness off her face and hands. Rinsed the towel and wet it again and held it gingerly against her nose.

“How’d you find out?” she said. “Who told you?”

“Who do you think?”

“Yeah. Doctor Easy.”

“Too bad for you he didn’t believe what the judge told him.”

“Fool.”

“Bedroom,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why? You gonna rape me?”

He laughed, nasty. “Last thing on my mind. Had all of your chubby body I can stand—I don’t need another lousy lay.”

That made her even more coldly furious. Chubby body! Lousy lay!

“Go on,” he said. “The bedroom.”

“What for?”

“Keep things like scarves in there, don’t you?”

“Scarves? What . . . tie me up?”

“You’re not stupid; I’ll give you that much.”

“Tie me up and then what? Slice and dice?”

“No. Not here, anyway. We’re going for a ride.”

Those thin curls of fear rose again, and this time they didn’t burn away. “Where?”

“You’ll find out.”

The hell I will, she thought. Not going anywhere with you, asshole. Tied up, helpless . . . no way!

The knife swayed again, like a snake’s head. “Move.”

She moved, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Hers, the master bedroom, was on the right. Just before she reached the open doorway, she stopped and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall, loosening the press of her fingers on the wet dish towel.

He came up close beside her, nudged her with an elbow. “Move.”

“Woozy,” she said. “Give me a second. . . .”

He stepped over a little, almost in front of her. As soon as he did that she pivoted off the wall, swung the dish towel in an arc against the side of his face, then slapped it down over the hand holding the knife and let go of it. At the same time she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. He yelled, stumbled, bounced off the opposite wall.

Before he could recover, she was inside the bedroom. Slamming the door, twisting the dead-bolt lock.

He yelled again out there, pounded on the door, and shook
the knob and hollered something she didn’t pay attention to. By then she was across the room, at the glass doors that opened out onto a tiny balcony. She unlocked the doors, quick, and threw them open; chill, damp air swirled into the room.

The uphill house next door, close across an areaway, showed dark all along this side. Wouldn’t do any good to stand out there yelling for help, just waste time. It was a long drop from the balcony to the strip of hard ground below. A drainpipe ran down from the roof on one side; you could shinny down that . . . somebody could, but not her. Afraid of heights, had been all her life. No good at clinging and climbing, either—that kind of athletic stuff had never been her thing.

She didn’t hesitate more than a couple of seconds before she pivoted and ran across to the big walk-in closet, the soft-pile carpet muffling the sound of her steps.

“Bitch! You can’t get away from me!”

Hurling himself at the door now, trying to break it in. Fairly thick and the lock wasn’t flimsy, but how long would it hold?

The closet had a pair of louvered folding doors that she kept open. Once she was inside, she pulled them closed. In the darkness she felt her way to the back wall—all bureaulike drawers built in beneath where the pitch of the roof sloped inward at a low angle. In the ceiling just in front of the drawers was the trapdoor that gave access to the attic. She was just tall enough to reach the panel by standing on tiptoe, to slide it open in its metal frame.

Yelling, frenzied thumping out there in the hall—he hadn’t busted the lock yet. Maybe he wouldn’t; maybe it was strong enough to keep him out. . . .

There was a button mounted just inside the trap opening. A stretch and she found it, pressed it. The short set of aluminum steps unfolded electronically from inside a set of brackets, making a low whirring sound as they came down on a slant—a sound that got lost in the noise Delman was making. She went up the steps as fast and quiet as she could, scrambled over onto the storage platform to the left.

Another button was set into a stud up there. And a switch for a couple of overhead bulbs, but she didn’t dare put on the lights. She felt around until she found the ladder button. The low whir came again; the steps started to wind up next to her.

Loud crash below. The lock hadn’t held.

He was in the bedroom now.

Tamara scooted around to lie flat on her belly, then leaned down into the opening to try to slide the trapdoor panel back into place. Couldn’t quite reach it; the frame for the stairs was in the way. If he came into the closet, turned on the light, saw the open trap—

She told herself that wouldn’t happen. First things he’d see were the wide open balcony doors and he’d head straight over there, go out onto the balcony, look over the railing. Think she’d managed to shinny down the drainpipe, was on her way for help, and haul his ass out of here in a hell of a hurry. And she’d wait ten minutes to make sure he was gone, then go on down and call the cops and that’d be the end of Antoine fucking Delman.

Tamara wiggled backward on the platform. A spiderweb brushed her face; she swiped it off. The attic’s damp mustiness seemed to wrap itself around her. She could feel it on her skin as she lay listening.

Silence down there.

Still out on the balcony, trying to spot her in the dark? Come on, you son of a bitch, I’m long gone. Get the hell out!

Something wet dripped onto the back of her hand.

Sweat . . . no, blood. Her nose was bleeding again from the exertion, throbbing like the worst toothache she’d ever had. Another drop fell, and another—

Oh, shit—what if it’d been bleeding again
before
she came up here? What if she’d left a trail of blood drops across the bedroom to the closet? But she hadn’t, she hadn’t, and even if she had he wouldn’t notice—

Yeah, she had.

Yeah, he did.

The louvered closet doors rattled open. A second later the light came on.

Fear, a knot of it this time, rose up in her throat. She pulled farther away from the platform’s edge, into the musty darkness, the rough boards scraping her palms. The platform was about a dozen feet long and narrow, empty except for a handful of items the former tenants had left behind; she hadn’t had the time or inclination to clean it out, move her own storage stuff up here. Only been in the attic once before, with the rental agent on her first look at the flat. The rest of it was exposed rafters and joists and crosspieces, and mounds of insulation like dirty saffron-colored snow puffed up between the joists. No place to hide, no window or any other way out.

“I know you’re up there, bitch. Better come on down.”

She lay still, holding her breath, cursing herself. All that time with Pop getting herself firearms certified . . . wasted because she’d been too busy, too lazy, too stupid to buy a handgun. If she had, she’d’ve kept it in her nightstand drawer and none of this would be happening—

“Make me come up there after you, I’ll cut you into little pieces.”

Couldn’t go down to him, couldn’t, couldn’t! He’d use that knife on her no matter what she did. The fury behind the pretend calm in his voice told her that.

“All right, you asked for it.”

She heard him leave the closet, then faint sounds in the bedroom she couldn’t identify.

A weapon . . . anything up here she could use? Frantically she felt along the dusty boards, trying to remember what the former tenants had left behind and where it was. Wicker laundry basket. Roll of moldy rattan window shades that would probably crumble to dust if you picked them up. Box of old sheets and towels. Maybe she could . . . no, forget it. No hope of unfolding a sheet and throwing it over him in this dark cramped space, wouldn’t be enough time anyway.

She heard him come back into the closet. Heard him fumbling around inside the trapdoor opening, trying to figure out how to get the ladder down.

What else was here? Sharp object, or a heavy one like a chair or small table? Dammit, no, nothing like that.

It didn’t take him long to find the button. The low whirring came again; the steps began to unfold downward.

Jesus, sweet Jesus. She squirmed farther away from the edges of light, sweeping her hands over the platform now like a blind person. Something, anything . . . nothing but dust and dried mouse turds.

The whirring stopped; the ladder was all the way down.

She felt a sudden crazy urge to give up, curl herself into a ball, like one of those little bugs when they were about to be squashed. The hell with that! She kept moving, kept sweeping,
the dust clogging her throat and aching nose, her breath coming in little muffled gasps.

A spear of light shot up through the trap opening, steadied and made a yellow-white circle on one of the rafters. Flashlight beam. That was what he’d been doing in the bedroom, looking for a flashlight, and he’d found the one she kept in the nightstand.

Her hand touched something . . . the wicker basket. Pushed it away. Touched something else, something that rolled and rattled.

Delman was on the stairs now, starting up.

She caught hold of the rolling thing—a round, smooth piece of wood. Remembered what it was just before her fingers confirmed it.

Closet clothes pole!

Her pulse rate surged. Up on her knees then, quick and quiet, lifting the pole with both hands and pulling it across her body. Felt like it was about three feet long, not heavy but solid.

The flash beam roamed over the cobwebby rafters and studs, but it couldn’t reach to where she was; the angle was wrong. He’d have to come most of the way up before he could swing it around in her direction.

There was enough room along the platform so a person of her height could stand upright without banging her head on one of the rafters. She pushed onto her feet, hunched over with the clothes pole tight against her chest, her hands sliding down to one end until she was gripping it like a baseball bat.

Delman’s head appeared in the opening, then his upper body. The cone of light wobbled and danced lower over the skeletal timbers, making pieces of them appear and disappear in the heavy blackness.

She crept forward, turning her body, praying there’d be nothing in the way when she swung the pole.

He came up the last step; shifted the yellow ray toward her as he turned onto the platform, the light glinting off the blade of the knife in his other hand.

Two quick steps and she whipped the pole at the shape of him with all her strength.

He heard her and the swish of the pole—too late. Nothing got in the way of the swing; the end of the pole hit him high up on the body and sent him reeling sideways, howling. He slammed into one of the studs with enough force to shake the platform and make him lose the knife—she heard it drop and bounce metallically as he caromed off, teetered on the platform’s edge.

Tamara swung again and this time her aim was better: smacked him hard upside the head, a solid impact that tore the pole out of her grasp and the flashlight out of his. All the smacking, clattering sounds combined to create hollow rolling echoes; the torch swirled light like a pinwheel. She saw him twist, flail, topple backward, and fall onto the exposed joists. A scream tore out of him as soon as he landed—must’ve broken something, because he couldn’t stop himself from rolling down between two of the joists, into and through the puffs of fiberglass insulation.

Another strangled shriek, then a loud thud that choked it off. After that, only a thick, charged silence.

Tamara let out her cramped breath in a little sob of relief. The flashlight had stayed on the platform; it was rolling from side to side, casting long yellow arcs. She picked it up. The adrenaline rush was fading now; her hand shook so badly she had to take a double grip to hold the light steady. At the platform’s
edge, she aimed the beam at the spot where he’d fallen. She could just see him down there, all twisted up, not moving.

Lord of mercy, she thought.

Her wobbly legs carried her to the ladder, down it through the closet and bedroom into the hallway. Filmy white dust in the air there, filtering out of the dining room. Plaster dust.

She looked in through the doorway. More dust and pieces of plaster littering the floor, the ceiling cracked and bulging where the weight of Delman’s body had crashed into it. Damn wonder he hadn’t busted all the way through, be lying here on the floor with that plaster dust all over him. Black punk in white-face.

Landlord’s gonna be pissed, she thought. Probably make me pay to have the ceiling fixed.

Laughter, the wild kind, bubbled up in her; she clamped her jaws tight to keep it in. If she let it out, she knew she might not be able to stop.

It was late, almost ten, by the time he got to Bryn’s house. He’d called her from Ullman’s, while they were waiting for the Daly City police, and she still wanted to see him tonight, no matter how late it was. Did he mind? No, he didn’t mind. Not tonight, not anytime. She didn’t even need a reason; all she had to do was ask.

“You look tired,” she said when she let him in.