Nowhere to Hide (21 page)

Now he gathered it up and took it inside. When he had a fire going in the monstrous woodstove, he lifted the lid and stuffed in the painting, along with its broken frame. Standing with the lid off the stove, he watched as the flames caught, as the canvas curled and browned, and the paint melted and ran together.

His eyes glittering in the fire’s glow, his face growing hot, he thought of Ellen Harris. It was all her fault. She had cast some kind of curse on him, making him do things wrong, getting his mind confused. Once he took care of her, everything would be fine again.

Soon, the heat from the flames together with the beer he’d consumed began to relax him. When the painting was reduced to ashes, he settled the lid back on the
stove,
threw on some dark clothes and drove the van into town.

~ * ~

Each time the woman in the upstairs bedroom heard the van leave the drive she would silently curse her nephew. The van, which had once belonged to her weak-kneed, sniveling husband, Henry Bishop, was now hers. But that evil boy had taken it
over,
just as he’d taken over her checkbook and everything else he could lay his filthy hands on.

But now Matilda was beyond hearing anything at all—had been since exactly 3:11 that morning when her soul departed her ravaged, skeletal body.

Alvin had extracted his own revenge against the despised woman.

She had not gone quietly into that good night, however, but in a rage, vowing vengeance against the nephew she’d taken in when even his own mother had abandoned him.

Alvin would yet feel her wrath.

~ * ~

Last night’s rain had made the road slippery and Ellen was forced to crawl along. As she drove, she found herself looking again for the unmarked car, and this time was rewarded by the glint of dark green metal just off to her left, in the brush.

Satisfied, even impressed, she drove on. Strange that today the road seemed narrower somehow—a gray, lonely corridor with deep woods hemming her in, now and then a branch reaching out for her, brushing against the car.

Seeing Myra’s little Honda Civic in the drive gave her a heavy feeling. She’d ruined their Christmas and now their vacation. She must be very popular with Carl. Somehow, she’d make it up to them.

Once Ellen reached the main road, the driving improved considerably and ten minutes later she pulled up in front of the police station.

"Sorry, Ma’am," the heavily mustached officer at the desk said. "The lieutenant was called out a while ago. I can get him to give you a call when he gets back if you like."

"No, that won’t be necessary."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Actually, there is. Thank you." Retrieving the envelope from her bag, she scribbled Mike’s name on the front and handed it to him. "Just tell him Ellen—"

"Harris," he finished. "I-
uh,
recognized you from the television. No problem. How are things going with you, Mrs. Harris?"

"As well as you might expect, Officer..."

"Branscombe.
Sergeant Branscombe." He smiled sympathetically.
"Tough break about your sister."

"Yes. I’m hoping you people can find her killer."

"We’re trying. In the meantime, you ought to get yourself a damn good watchdog living way out there on Cutter’s Road where you do—maybe a Shepherd or a Doberman."

"I’ll give it some thought," she said. Ellen sensed rather than actually noticed a flurry of activity around her. Hearing someone say "missing woman," she turned around in time to see two policemen, heads bent in animated discussion, walking past, and immediately she remembered reading in the paper about a missing woman when she was in McDonald’s with Myra. "Did they find her?" she asked, turning back to Sergeant Branscombe.
"The woman who was missing?
Miller, wasn’t that her name?"

He nodded grimly. "Oh, yeah, they found her all right."

It was clear to Ellen by his tone they hadn’t found her under very pleasant circumstances. Knowing he wasn’t likely to be more specific, Ellen didn’t press him for further answers.

As she neared the car, she saw what appeared to be a parking ticket under her wiper, and felt a surge of annoyance.
I put more than enough money in that damn meter for the little time I was in there. I know I did.
The phrase "rubbing salt in the wound" came to mind. But as Ellen drew closer, she realized it was not a parking ticket at all rattling under her windshield, but an ordinary sheet of white paper, the sort that might have been torn from a writing tablet. It was folded in two.

Her steps slowed. Her heart racing as if it already knew something she did not, Ellen slid the note from under the wiper.
Hesitated.
Opened it.
Written in neat, block letters in red ink, it said simply,
YOU’RE IT!
Nothing else.
Just,
YOU’RE IT!

It was from him. She had stirred the monster in his lair.

Twenty-eight

As she stood on the sidewalk holding the note in her hand, alternate waves of triumph and sheer terror washed over her. Her eyes darted around, but no passersby, except for one old man who nodded politely as he limped past with his cane, looked at her. A woman toting a sleeping child in a backpack hurried on past him.

Across the street, a young boy, his arms weighted down with books, came out of the library. He waited for a white bread truck to speed by before crossing over.

Ellen looked back at the note. I can’t be "it," she thought foolishly, as if this were a child’s game they were playing.
You haven’t tagged me yet.

She knew, of course, she should take the note directly into the police station and leave it for Mike, yet she made no move in that direction. Instead she put the note in her bag and drove on home.

She’d barely got her coat off when the phone rang. "Hello."

No answer.

"Hello. Who is this, please?" Maybe it was the girl who called before. Her hopes soared. Maybe she had a change of—

Before Ellen could complete the thought,
came
a chilling whisper in her ear, "Do you know me?"

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her legs turned to rubber. It was him. Ellen tried to speak, to challenge him, but her terror betrayed her, and she could only listen helplessly as a low chuckle traveled to her ear, a laugh so evil, so insane, it seemed to reach inside her very soul.

"Not so brave now, are you, witch?" he whispered again. "See you soon."

There was a click and the line went dead.

For several minutes Ellen stood holding the receiver in her hand, listening to the dial tone, like someone under hypnosis. Finally, she hung up. Her hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang again, vibrating against her palm. She inadvertently knocked it out of its cradle. It clattered to the floor. Ellen jumped back, stared at it.

"Ellen? Ellen, are you there?" came Mike’s anxious voice by her feet. "Are you all right, Ellen?"

She picked up the receiver off the floor. Closing her eyes, she held it momentarily to her heart, then to her ear. "Mike, hello," she said brightly. "Sorry about that. I dropped the phone."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I’m fine," she lied.

"Good," he said, sounding relieved. "I got the profile you left. I’m sorry I missed you."

"No problem. I doubt it will be of much help, though. Serial killers aren’t exactly my specialty."

"I’m not sure they’re anyone’s," he said, with a trace of anger, and Ellen remembered the missing woman who was now found.

"Was she murdered?" Ellen asked quietly.
"The Miller girl?"

There was a pause, then, "Yes, I’m afraid so."

"Do you think it’s the same man who...?"

"Ellen, we really can’t be certain of anything at this point. But, of course, it’s possible. Anything’s possible."

"Will you tell me if it is the—"

"Of course I will," he said, before she could finish. "You know that. Listen, Ellen, there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want to alarm you, but the two detectives who were watching your house have been pulled off the case. With this new case, we can’t spare the manpower. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my decision to make."

"You don’t have to explain. I understand."

"Damned if I do. We’ll still get a squad car out there, though, as often as possible."

"Good."

"Look, I-uh, can get away from here in an hour or so. My daughter, Angela is attending a pajama party tonight. I was wondering—well, could you use the company?"

Oh, God could I
. She wondered idly when they had gotten on a first name basis. She couldn’t seem to remember. Tell him about the note, about the phone
call,
a small inner voice urged her. She denied the voice. Police cars would swarm the area—maybe even helicopters. Even if they used the utmost discretion, he would know.

He’d slip away into the night, and then he would be lost to them forever. Gail’s murder would go unsolved.

And when the time was right, the killing would begin again.
Other women, in other places.
As frightened as she was, there was no way on earth she was going to let that happen.

"Ellen, are you still there?"

"Yes, I’m here. Thanks for the offer, Mike, but I think I’ll make it an early night tonight. I’m a little tired."

"I’m not surprised. Well, you try to get a good night’s sleep, then. I’ll call you."

Ellen thought she detected a note of hurt in his voice. It took all her willpower not to call him back.

~ * ~

When Alvin left Papa Bear’s, he was still wearing the white wig, still limping along with the cane. Sliding behind the wheel of the van, he smiled to himself. It amused him that no one in the tavern had recognized him. Even Jake, the bartender, who certainly saw him often enough, had said, "What’ll it be, Pop?"

Twenty-nine

The silence of the house pressed in on her. She went through the rooms checking the locks on door and windows. She watched television with the sound turned low. Then she checked the locks again.

The next three days and nights brought more of the same. Ellen didn’t leave the house.

The media was now flooded with the news of Cindy Miller’s murder, and though her heart went out to Cindy’s mother and her little boy, she couldn’t help feeling resentful that Gail’s murder had been pushed aside.
Old news, yesterday’s news.

     
She had a constant feeling of being watched, and took to wandering the house at night, going from window to window,
peering
out at the shadows for the one that moved, the one that did not belong. She jumped at the slightest sound, her eyes darting at imaginary shapes in her peripheral vision. Every creak and groan of the house, the wind, even the hum of the refrigerator all took on ominous meaning.

Why doesn’t he come?
She thought for the millionth time as she consumed one more of the endless cups of coffee, chain-smoked and eyed the liquor cabinet with weakening resolve. But she knew it was part of the plan to wear her down. He would come for her when she least expected it.

The gun was never far from her hand.

Several times in the night when she finally did manage to doze off on the sofa, the phone would jar her awake, whoever it was hanging up as soon as she picked up the receiver. Probably crank calls, she tried to tell herself. She’d had more than a few. But she didn’t for a minute believe that.

On the fourth day, Mike came and insisted on taking her out to lunch. He looked startled when she opened the door to him, and she knew she must look the total wreck she was.

"I’m not hungry."

"Nevertheless, you have to eat."