Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (106 page)

“Angela, it’s me. Are you okay?”

“Roberta, Sam’s out front,” Angela’s voice, charged with tension, blurted out. “He’s trying to get in!”

How the hell had Sam found them so quickly? “Hang up and call the police—dial 911. I’m on my way. Don’t let him in. No matter what, don’t let him in!” She slammed the receiver in the hook and ran to her car.

As she sped down McCarran Boulevard, another vision flashed behind her eyes. Blood. Bright, crimson.
Her own blood.
She jerked the steering wheel and the car swerved. A horn blasted to her left.

Tires squealed when she made a sharp turn onto her street. The passing houses blurred in her haste. As she turned into the driveway, she saw Sam on the porch, his face framed between hands pressed to the window in the front door. Thank God he hadn’t managed to break in. Where were the police? She had talked to Angela nearly ten minutes ago.

Robbi screeched to a stop halfway down the drive, rushed from the Jeep, and quickly ran to the back door. She saw Sam round the corner of the house, charging toward her. She barely made it inside, slammed the door, and engaged the lock before he rammed it.

Robbi dragged a kitchen chair to the door, tilted it under the doorknob as he rammed against it. With her hands covering her ears, she backed away.

In the dining room she found the children huddled together in a corner, crying. The
vision.

Robbi knelt, hugged them both, then gathered them up and led them to her bedroom.

Angela rushed in, clutching a fireplace poker. She looked both relieved and apologetic when she saw Robbi. “I’m sorry, Rob.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“He’s been banging on the door like that since you called.” She wrung her hands, wincing from the pain in the shoulder he’d dislocated. “I thought he’d give up and go away, but now I know he won’t. He’s over the edge. Nothing can stop him when he gets like that.”

“Did you call the police?”

She nodded, looked around helplessly. “Where the hell
are
they?”

Roberta turned back to the kids. “Mikey, there’s a lock on the door. Lock it if you have to? Understand?”

He nodded. …

Sam called out his wife’s name in a tortured singsong tone…. “An-gela.
An-gela.”
Stanley calling out to Stella in
Streetcar.

From her purse Robbi took out a tiny key. “Wait here,” she said to Angela. She strode into the living room, straight to a slim secretary desk against the wall, and unlocked it. She pulled open a drawer and lifted out the revolver. It was loaded. Behind her Sam was banging and calling out. Making sure the safety was on, she replaced the revolver and closed the drawer.

With her back ramrod-straight, displaying grit she didn’t feel, she strode to the entry. Her insides quaked and she felt sick.
No trouble, please. Not with the kids here. Not in my own home.

The burly man watched her approach, his face devoid of emotion. Her heart thumped heavily.

The normally bright room with its floor-to-ceiling windows, floral-print chintz, natural wicker, and latticework, suddenly dimmed, turned cool and gloomy as a cloud shut out the sun.

Through the closed door she said calmly, “Sam, this isn’t going to settle anything … you’re scaring the hell out of the kids.”

“Open … this … door.” He kicked the door. Robbie jumped, sucking in her breath. He began to pound on the window inset. Suddenly a denim elbow crashed through the pane. A hand reached in and began to fumble with the chain and dead bolt.

Robbi tried to push his hand back out. He grabbed her wrist and sawed it across the remaining shards of glass. She cried out and wrenched her arm away, watching in horror as the flesh opened and blood oozed out. She backed up toward the desk.

Angela appeared in the arched doorway of the hallway, her hand against her injured shoulder, her mouth and eyes open wide in fear.

Sam flung the door against the wall, his presence filling the space. He looked around quickly, then made for his wife. Angela froze. He punched her in the stomach. She went down on her knees without uttering a sound. He grabbed a handful of her thick, dark hair and yanked on it.

Robbi rushed at him, but, as if she were a mere gnat, he easily flicked her away.

On unsteady legs she ran to the desk, pulled out the drawer, her fingers leaving smears of blood on the handle, and grabbed the gun.

“Stop it!” she screamed.

Sam turned to Robbi and pointed a finger at her. “Stay out of this, you meddling bitch!”

Angela was on the phone, dialing, when Sam lunged at her. He pulled the cord from the wall, twisted it around Angela’s throat and pulled it tight.

Robbi’s chest felt tight, her vision blurred. Shaking violently, she raised the gun
. Do it. Do it. Do it
. He was going to die today, and she knew it. She had seen it. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

The children appeared at the couple’s side, crying, begging for him to stop hurting their mother. Mikey began kicking his stepfather, screaming and slapping. Sam momentarily abandoned his attack on Angela and turned to the boy, grabbing him around the throat, holding him at arm’s length.

“I’ll break your neck, kid,” he snapped at the boy. Then he whipped around and faced his wife. “Is that what you want, bitch?”

Mikey coughed, struggled.

Angela moaned deep in her throat. She turned to Roberta. “Stop him, please! For God’s sake, stop him!”

Roberta’s mind screamed,
Do it!

Do it. .

She watched in horror as the gun slipped from her leaden fingers and dropped to the floor.

Angela lunged for it. On her knees, the gun in tremulous hands, she aimed it at her husband.

“Let him go,” Angela whispered.

“You think you can shoot me? Huh?” When she failed to answer, he added, “You’re so fucking stupid. How many times have I told you, you are so
fucking
stupid.” He pushed the boy away and took a step toward Angela. “Gimme that.”

Angela pulled back. The sharp click as she cocked the gun stopped Sam momentarily. Then he charged.

Angela closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Robbi looked from Angela to Sam, staring in disbelief as blood appeared at the waist of Sam’s blue denim shirt. He looked stunned.

Angela stared into his eyes, lost, scared. Then she cocked the gun and shot him again, square in the chest. He dropped to his knees, teetered there a moment before toppling over on his side on the braided rug, lifeless.

Robbi moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. She heard the gun drop to the floor, she heard distant thunder and a sad mingling of sobs. And finally she heard the wailing sound of sirens.

CHAPTER THREE

When the police arrived minutes later, Roberta freaked out. She screamed at the two officers, accusing them of reducing the complaint to low priority because it was a domestic battle. She blamed them for the dead man in her house. In the end it was Angela and the children who calmed her down by embracing her, whispering consoling words to her.

They took Sam Braga to the morgue, Angela away in cuffs to the county jail, and the children placed with welfare. Roberta went to the hospital for the cut on her wrist.

Back at home, Sophie Bennett took over. She called a glass shop to repair the broken window, straightened the house, and cleaned up the blood—Roberta’s as well as Sam’s—while Roberta soaked in a warm bath. After tucking Robbi into bed with a glass of warm Chianti, she put the telephone in her lap.

“Call Don,” Sophie said. “You wanted to call him, so now’s the time.”

Tears sprang into her eyes at the mention of Donald.

Somehow thinking about him made her realize how vulnerable she was. Six months earlier he had been there for her. A solid shoulder. Someone to turn to for support.

She was scared. In a series of visions she had seen it all; brief but vivid, accurate. The children crying, her own blood, and finally Sam’s death.

As she dialed, Sophie backed out the bedroom door. She blew Robbi a kiss and waved good-bye.

Robbi waved back. Then Don was on the line.

She told him about her experience.

“Jesus, Rob,” Donald said, “You could’ve been killed. Are you sure you’re okay? You say you were cut?”

“A few stitches, that’s all.”

“Babe, if this doesn’t convince you to get a normal job, I don’t know what will. This was bound to happen. You’re dealing with violent people. They’re crazy.”

“Don, she’s my friend. Angela’s my friend.”

“Well, sure, but—dammit to hell, I really wish I could be with you right now. But I—I don’t know how I’d swing it.”

“It’s okay.”

“I guess you could fly here,” he said tentatively. Then with a bit more gusto, “Yeah, sure. That’s what you could do, come to New York … a visit. You might as well have a look at the place before you decide to move here.”

“That sounds good, Don. I’m really tempted.”

And she
was
tempted. She needed him. She needed a male she could be entirely female with, someone she loved who loved her in return.

“Well, think about it,” Donald said. “I’ve got an unbelievable workload, but—well, shit, if you feel the need to get away, just give me a call. Better yet, let my secretary know. She’ll take care of all the arrangements.”

Robbi didn’t respond.

“Rob, are you there? Rob?”

“I’m here.” She faked a yawn. “Don, the doctor gave me a shot to settle my nerves. I guess I’m not with it. Getting sleepy.”

“Well, good. Lie down. Rest. I’ll talk to you later. Love ya, honey.”

Pause. “Yeah, me too.” She slowly hung up the phone.

Despite the sedative, it took her a long time to fall asleep.

That night she dreamed about her dead brother.

CHAPTER FOUR

Angela spent the weekend in the county jail. Monday morning she was released on bail to return to her own home. The children, however, remained wards of the state.

After visiting Mikey and Carey in a foster home, Roberta sought a court order to have the kids released from welfare into her temporary custody.

The day of the arraignment, Roberta called Calvin Tanner, Angela’s attorney.

“Cal, what’s the charge?”

“Open murder. There was a smoking gun and a body.”

“But it was my gun. It was a clear-cut case of self- defense.”

“Not quite so clear-cut, I’m afraid. She told the police he wasn’t coming after her when she fired the fatal shot.”

“Calvin, you and I both know that the way he was going he probably would’ve killed her. Maybe not at that moment, or even that day, but eventually.” Yet Roberta realized there was no “eventually” for Sam. His time had come and she had known it well before it actually happened.

“Let’s hope the grand jury sees it that way too,” Calvin said.

________