Darkness peering (39 page)

"Stay right where you are!"

He stopped about a foot from the door and smiled at her. "Did you know
Helen Keller was a poet?"

"Please don't move," Rachel said, fear crawling up her spine.

"They took away what should have been my eyes, but I

remembered Milton's Paradise,"" Vaughn reeited in a deep, lilting
baritone. "They took away what should have been my ears, then
Beethoven came and wiped away my tears. They took away what should
have been my tongue, but I had talked with God when I was young. He
would not let them take away my soul-possessing that, I still possess
the whole."" He flipped the light switch and everything went black.

The drawn velvet curtains were supremely effective in shutting out all
light. She stood in total darkness, heart knocking in her chest.
Frantically, she felt her way toward the wall, bumping into furniture,
and finally found the light switch, but just as she flicked the lights
back on, there was a blue flash and the room went dark again. The air
chilled. Sweat poured from her body. He must've gotten to the fuse
box.

"Nicole!" she screamed, skin around her eyes pulling tight. "Where
are you!"

No answer. Just a lot of thumping and bumping in the dark and suddenly
a hand groping past her head, and something heavy landing on the back
of her skull. The bone-crushing blow sent her careening across the
carpeted floor, gun flying out of her hand. She lay sprawled across
the carpet in the lobby, a low insect like hum filling her brain.

Groaning, she swore her way through the pain. She'd bitten her tongue
and could taste blood. Now a pair of rough hands grabbed her ankles.
"No!" Vaughn Kellum was dragging her across the carpeted floor, her
clothes bunching underneath her. Her eyes bulged in the
all-encompassing darkness. She scratched at the rug, kicked her legs,
flailed her arms, and suddenly, miraculously, her outstretched hand
touched something cold and metallic, and her fingers closed around the
barrel of her Smith & Wesson.

She aimed the gun in Vaughn's direction and fired. The shot lit up the
night. She saw for an instant his startled face as he dropped her legs
and clutched his arm, just a fraction of a second--his shocked lace,
his clasped hand ... then nothing.

Scrambling to her feet, she aimed her weapon at any stray sound. The
rusty clang of the radiator pipes. Wind whistling through the rafters.
She felt him behind her, beside her, goose bumps popping out on her
flesh. She wildly clawed at empty space until she hit a wall, then
groped along it until her hand clutched velvet. Yanking open the
curtain, she found the lift cord for the Venetian blinds and tugged,
and the distant street lamp flung its steely gray light into the house,
just enough for her to see. She spotted him as he threw open the back
door and disappeared into the rain.

"Nicole!" Her lungs were raw. She made a quick search of the shop,
then found the basement door. Kicking it open, she took the creaking
stairs down into darkness.

"Nicole?"

Feeling along the wall for the fuse box, she steadied the gun before
her, worried he might come back and lock them both in the basement.

"Nicole!"

She found the fuse box, powered up. Light flooded the cavernous space,
piled high with firewood and old dressmaker's forms laced with cobwebs.
Near the thrumming furnace was a workbench, to the right of the
workbench a width of cork board covered with power tools. Once she'd
satisfied herself that Nicole wasn't in the basement, she headed back
upstairs.

"Nicole!" She took the stairs to Vaughn's private residence two at a
time. The banister was burnished mahogany. The door at the top was
locked. She shot out the lock, wood splintering, and searched through
the large empty rooms in the upstairs residence. The dark woodwork
cast an aura of gloom. Yellow-tinted pictures hung on the walls,
exquisite plaster rosettes and moldings adorned the twelve-foot
ceilings. The bedrooms were empty. The bathroom with its
old-fashioned claw-footed porcelain tub was empty. "Nicole!"

Finding the door to the attic, she heard a muffled cry, the

sound of it producing a shock like a dash of cold water. She jiggled
the doorknob, then called out, "Step away from the door!" She fired
off a round and tugged until the door burst open. She hurried up the
narrow attic stairs, her throat so dry, it was difficult to breathe.
"Nicole?"

At the northern end of the attic was a small enclosed room with a
padlocked door. Somebody was making an awful racket on the other
side.

"Help! Get me out of here!"

"Stand back. Stand back! I have to shoot the lock."

It took several rounds, splintering the wood, before the lock gave way
and Rachel bolstered her gun. From inside a narrow, dark, smelly space
leapt a ragged, trembling figure, and suddenly Nicole Castillo was in
her arms, clinging like a child who'd just awakened from a nightmare.
"Thank you, thank you," she whispered in Rachel's ear, "thank you,
thank God, oh thank God ..."

RACHEL CHECKED NICOLE'S VITAL SIGNS, WRAPPED HER IN A

blanket, called an ambulance, called for backup. She locked Nicole
inside her car with the cell phone and car keys and grabbed a
flashlight out of the glove compartment.

"Where are you going?" Nicole clutched her arm.

"I can't let him get away."

"No! Please don't leave me!"

"They'll be here soon, I promise."

Her shoes crackled against the gritty asphalt as she took off across
the street. The cold ate into her bones as she moved around behind the
house. An eight-foot chain link fence surrounded the backyard. She
headed up an incline into the piney

woods, eyes straining for any sign of him, hand flexing on the
checkerboard handle of her gun. There was no movement in the woods
ahead. She was afraid she'd lost him.

Looking back, she noted the street was shrouded in fog, the nearest
street lamp a distant halo. Her breath made cottony plumes. The sky
suddenly opened up and the slishing sound of rain surrounded her.

Rachel moved into the woods, past gold birches and evergreen trees,
their branches weighted with rain. The ground fog thickened as the
woods closed in around her. Her throat constricted, throttling a
rising panic. She fought to keep her wits about her, fought the urge
to run as she slogged through the glistening sword ferns.

A bird shrilled, and she spun at the frantic fluttering of wings. It
streaked past her head and was gone, swallowed into the mist. She
stood rock steady as tendrils of fog circled the space where the bird
had just been.

The ground was soggy underfoot. She couldn't see very far in front of
her, perhaps ten feet. She scaled a stone wall, the soles of her shoes
slipping on wet rock, then crashed through a knee-deep bed of ferns.
Her clothes felt heavy, the frozen fabric scuffing together. Her legs
ached, her blood dragging through her veins.

"Oh God," came shivering out of her, and she suddenly recalled
something McKissack had once told her. The first thing the victim said
was "Oh God." The last thing she said was "Oh shit."

Frightened now, but still not admitting it to herself, Rachel trudged
through a pine grove, soggy needles crunching underfoot, then paused to
listen--arteries throbbing, ears straining past the thick sibilance of
rain falling on leaves. She aimed her flashlight at a dense maze of
swaying conifers--larch, fir, spruce. Fat droplets collected on the
purplish cones and white needles until they became too full and
dropped, pelting her like water balloons.

Now she heard a rustling sound and, locating its source, moved swiftly
toward it, out of the pine grove and into a stand of birch trees.
White, gold, silver, majestic, magnificent. She slid between

trees growing too closely together and heard it distinctly now-the
crisp snap of a twig, the rustle of undergrowth. He was close.

A dog leapt out of the wet tangle like a menacing growl with teeth.
Rain streaked across her flashlight beam, making everything seem as
scratchy and distant as an old home movie.

"Good dog. Heel!" she commanded, but the dog stood its ground,
collarless and malnourished. She could see the ribbed skeleton beneath
its matted fur as it gave a weakened bark.

Holding herself tightly reined, she moved on. Her breathing was
labored, despair and exhaustion about to set in. Her bones felt
brittle. Petrified. She wanted to lie down for a moment, right here,
right now, to catch her breath, but she was somehow able to draw on an
unfathomable font of strength and keep moving. Keep slogging through
these black wet woods.

She no longer knew where she was. The cold damp air burned her lungs,
and her flashlight danced over trees--bunchberry, tamarack, flowering
dogwood. Dogwood leaves with their curved, parallel veins and delicate
pink flowers bearing ruby red fruit in the spring. She leaned against
the dense compact bark of the dogwood and thought she'd rest awhile.
Just for a moment. She snitched off her flashlight and lifted her face
to the rain, a steady sprinkling downpour that caulked even' crevice.
She recalled what they said about drowning, how it was supposed to be
painless. We started out in water; in the womb, we had gills. Perhaps
death was a mercy? She listened to herself breathing, in and out. In
and out.

The hand came out of nowhere. A quick grope, and then a hammer punch
to the head. Her knees noodled and she went sprawling. Gun and
flashlight flying out of her hands. She tried to force her arms and
legs to move, then everything rocketed away. She saw a blinding light,
the kind projected onto a movie screen after a piece of film has
broken. A purifying, white light.

And then, clotted darkness. Hissing silence.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn't sure how long she'd been out.
Seconds? Minutes? Her eyes slowly focused and she could see him
through the fog. Condensation clinging to his glasses. He loomed over
her with his hundred-year stare, then started kicking--heavy, hateful
blows landing against her abdomen and ribs.

She barrel-rolled to avoid the next kick, tumbled through the wet
leaves. Now he was gone, lost in the fog. Visibility zero. Lurching
to her feet, she circled the small clearing, heart racing, eyes
darting. An arm flung out and caught her on the chin. She stumbled
away. Roaring, he charged after her. She squatted on the ground,
thrust one shoulder forward and, bracing for impact, caught him on the
knees. He grabbed her on the way down, knocking them both to the wet
earth.

Now she was at a distinct disadvantage as he climbed on top of her and
wrapped his hands around her throat. He was going to choke the life
out of her. His rage was deep, he drew strength from it. Even in the
darkness she could see the cold contempt in his eyes. The eyes of an
eight-year-old boy whose mother saw him beaten, saw him hungry, saw him
tormented, but never intervened.

Her insides burned. She felt tiny and breakable. She'd forgotten to
eat her spinach, and now Bluto was going to stretch her limbs apart
like strings of taffy. He slung her about like a mouse. Not about to
let this happen, she leaned bravely into the chaos she was about to
create.

Adrenaline jump-started her body and, snaking her arms through his, she
broke his grip. They tumbled down an incline together, bumping over
rotten logs. She caught a sharp rock with her hip and the pain of it
shot up her spine. At the bottom of the incline, her head hit
something metallic and tube like and her hand closed around her
flashlight.

As he lunged forward, she threw a punch with blinding speed, flashlight
connecting with his chin. A wet sound. Before he could react, she
started beating him on the head with the

flashlight, its impact like a metallic sneeze. There were fireflies
behind his head, sparks going off in the sky. What was that? She
squinted. Tiny distant flashlight beams scanned the woods and
illuminated the canopy of branches above their heads. She'd never seen
anything so beautiful in her entire life. Beams of light sparkling on
wet leaves.

"McKissack!" she screamed. "Over here!"

"Rachel?" came a distant male voice. McKissack's voice.

Enraged, Vaughn started throwing punches so fast his arms blurred. He
scooped up a fistful of dirt and plunged it into her mouth. Wet earth
gritted her teeth and clogged the back of her throat, making her choke.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she couldn't see. Gagging, she blindly
thrust her palm directly upward into his chin, knocking his glasses off
his face, and he reeled backward and clutched his nose, blood spurting
through his splayed fingers.

She struggled to her feet, gagging on matted clumps of earth, her stiff
overcoat slowing her progress. He hurtled forward, bloody hands
outstretched. Exploded like a popcorn kernel. He groped the air for
the shape of her and let out a bloodcurdling shriek, his breath making
cloudlike bursts.

She ducked and ran behind him while he flailed and groped for her. She
searched for her gun, found it, leapt for it like a lioness, fingers
clamping gratefully around its checkerboard grip. She grew instantly
calm. Amazingly calm. Aiming her semiautomatic at Vaughn Kellum,
using the Weaver stance, she said, "Police! Don't move!"

He turned toward the sound of her voice, his hearing aids secure. His
glasses were gone, though, lost in the fallen leaves.

"It's over, Vaughn," she said. "Put your hands on your head!"

The flashlight beams were closer now, jogging and circling. McKissack's
voice, a little louder. "Rachel! Where are you?"

"Over here!"

Vaughn Kellum started to walk directly toward her, guided by the sound
of her voice.