The Abduction of Mary Rose (31 page)

The answer came at once as she heard Molly's stress-filled cries outside the door. Her heart sank. Oh, Molly. I should have left you at Lisa's; she had wanted me too, but I didn't want to take further advantage of her kindness.

"I have your furry friend," he said calmly, like he was talking about the weather. "I'm going to count to five. I'm going to count to five. I'm done playing with you. If you haven't opened the door by then I will surgically remove one of kitty's pretty green eyes."

Horror speared her heart and she was off the bed. She knew he wouldn't hesitate to carry out his threat. On the contrary, he would take pleasure in it. She fought back tears of frustration and helplessness. She'd brought this about and she wasn't going to start bawling like a kid. She simply was not. She needed to do something.
Oh, Molly. I'm so sorry.

"One."

"Please don't hurt her," she pleaded.

Silence.

"Two."

She glanced desperately at Thomas' photo. What can I do? Help me?"

She swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. "Please."

"It's up to you," he said softly through the door. "You just have to open the door. “She had managed to stop her tears, and now if she could just quiet the screams in her head because it was impossible to think over them.

"Four."

She put her face against the door. "All right. I'll open it. I have to move the dresser away first. It's heavy." She moved one corner of it so he could hear the scraping on the floor. She prayed he would believe her.

He didn't reply. Molly gave a plaintive meow through the door.

I have to do something. Surprise him somehow. He's confident now, sure I'll open the door.
Again her eyes sought Thomas's in the photo. As if he had spoken, she suddenly knew what might work. It was a chance. Her eyes darted around the room, settled on the stool by the vanity.

"Four-and-a-half," Leeland said through the door. "Last warning."

On the second syllable in the word,
warning
, she picked up the vanity stool with both hands, and putting every ounce of force she had behind the effort, she hurled it through the window. At the explosion of glass, Molly let out a startled yowl from behind the door, and her captor yelped and cursed. Incredible relief flowed through her. She's got away. She clawed him and got away. She was crying without knowing it, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Good for you, Molly. You are one smart cat.
Some of the pressure rolled off her and she grew hopeful again. They'd both been given a reprieve.

With the tiny shards of glass still tinkling to the floor following the shattering of the window, the silence seemed even more profound. The soft air came in the window, gently lifting the lacy curtains as if with an invisible hand. She prayed one of her neighbours had heard the crash and called for help. Please let someone have insomnia.

Drawn to her house earlier by the commotion and wailing sirens, maybe one of her neighbours was still up, still too excited at the change in the night's routine, to sleep. Yet it seemed unlikely. The police led us all to believe they had their man, and the threat was over. We could all sleep safely.

But she had heard something. For a brief instant, over Molly's howls, she was sure she'd heard the squeal of brakes out on the street. But that didn't mean they wouldn't just keep going.

There was no sound outside her door now. Would he believe she had actually jumped? She waited, eyes glued to the door. The night air was soothing at her back, unsticking her shirt from her body.

A bone-chilling
whomp
against the door made her heart jump in response, her throat close. Obviously, he didn't buy that she had jumped out the window. She'd barely taken a breath when once again he threw himself against the door again, hard this time if possible, actually splintering the panel in the door, as if Satan himself were his ally, lending him superhuman strength. He was hurt, he was wounded, and yet he kept on. My God, she thought, this old oak door has endured for over 100 years.

Desperate, she plastered herself against the dresser, trying to hold it in place, as if she could, every aching muscle taut and straining. The third body-slam tore the screws out of the bolt, cracking the wood around it, sending her backwards into the room. Each time he rammed the door, the dresser moved away from it, just a little more.

Naomi scanned the room for a weapon, something she could use to defend herself. Panic was making it hard to think. She zeroed in on the monkey totem, on the floor where she'd set it. She'd bought it at a yard sale a couple of summers ago.

Another body-slam, and more splintering of wood.

Naomi crossed the floor and grabbed up the totem like it was a baseball bat and she was Mickey Mantle. One hand closed around the head of the top monkey, See No Evil, who had his hands over his eyes, while the left hand closed over Hear No Evil. Speak No Evil was free to witness.

Carved from teak, one of the hardest of woods, so the man who sold it to her had assured her; it had a satisfying heft in her hands. The square, heavy base had the best chance of doing damage, she thought, stepping quietly to the side of the door so she'd be behind it when it opened. The totem gripped in moist hands, she did just what Mickey Mantle would do she wiped the dampness from her hands onto her pants, and took a better hold.

She wasn't a violent person. Could she do this?
You'd better
, she told herself.
You'd better aim it well and bring it across his head just as hard as you can. As if your life depended on it. Because it does.

The dresser moved again, and this time his huge, bloodied hand with its hairy wrist wormed its way through the splintered wood. As if the hand and wrist were a deadly snake seeking her out, Naomi struck swiftly with the totem, bringing it across his wrist. The crack of the wood against wrist bone was sickeningly loud, the howl accompanying it equally so, louder even than Molly's, and somehow enormously satisfying.

He snapped his hand back, cursed her. Feeling proud of herself, fearless, she raised the totem again. Come on, you son-of-bitch. Stick it through again. Stick you damn head through, why don't you?

It was at that moment that she heard what sounded like a gunshot out in the hallway, followed by another, louder wail of pain. Then Leeland's pleas, "Hey, man, take it easy, don't…."

"Get down," a vaguely familiar voice bellowed. "Down on the floor now and put your hands behind your back, or the next bullet will go right between your eyes."

"Sure, sure. Don't shoot, okay? Don't shoot."

Naomi peered through the crack in the door.

She lowered her totem cautiously, peered through the hole again to be sure what she had seen and heard were real, and not a figment of her imagination. Some wishful thinking on her part. But no, Sergeant Nelson was standing in her hallway, looking more beautiful than Clint Eastwood, a gun trained on the killer. She dropped the totem to push one side of the dresser away from the broken door enough so that it swung open.

Marcus Leeland was belly-down on the hall floor. His face turned toward her, she could see the tell-tale four claw marks, deep and nasty, on his face. His hands were cuffed behind his back. Sergeant Nelson was relating the situation over his cell phone, then he snapped it closed. "You okay?" he asked her, not taking his eyes from his prisoner.

She came farther out into the hallway. Saw the blood seeping from Leeland's thigh where he'd taken a bullet. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. How did you…?"

"I'll tell you all about it later."

For the second time that night, Naomi heard police sirens screaming through the streets of River's End.

Chapter Forty-Nine

After the police led Marcus Leeland away in handcuffs. Sergeant Nelson sat with Naomi in her kitchen and explained over herbal tea how he knew the police had taken down the wrong man.

"Well, I didn't know, actually," he said in answer to her question, "it was a hunch mainly. Something just didn't add up. You don't get a guy who's been eluding police for more than two decades that easily. Not in my experience anyway. It was possible, but my gut said something was off, so I figured I'd just take a drive by your place.

"Thank God, you did," she said, feeling surprisingly calm, considering. "What a coincidence that you just happened…."

"Not such a coincidence," he interrupted. "I've actually driven past your house quite often, lately. Can't sleep anyway. I don't do retirement well. I'm thinking I might get into the private investigator business. Anyway, as luck would have it, I was within yards of your house when that footstool came sailing through the window and damn near through my windshield. I didn't know what it was then, of course, till I got out of the car."

"I thought I'd heard the squeal of brakes. I'm so glad I missed your windshield."

"That makes two of us," he grinned. "By the time I got up those stairs, Leeland seemed to be getting the worst of it. I think if he'd gotten through that door, you would have brained him with that thing in your hand. What was it, anyway?"

"A totem. The three wise monkeys."

"A totem? Hmmph. I like the irony."

She laughed. "Not the Native Indian kind. Of Chinese origin, actually. I looked it up one time. Many scholars believe they were carved as a visual representation of the religious principle, 'If we do not hear, see, or speak of evil, we ourselves shall be spared all evil'."

"Sounds like burying your head in the sand to me. Anyway, my first bit of excitement in a while. Like I said, I've been going stir crazy with nothing to do but lie around and listen to my heart beat, so I should be thanking
you
. And by the way, don't give me all the credit. Young fellow works at the paper, name of Eric Grant, was pretty concerned about you, kept in touch with me. Matter of fact, he called me tonight after getting an urgent email from Lisa Boyce. He wasn't getting any cooperation at the station, so he phoned me at home. We've sort of become buddies, he grinned. "He's about the only one around who doesn't treat me like a sick old man. I'm grateful for his company."

At the mention of Eric's name, Naomi felt a flush to her cheeks. "Eric Grant called you?"

"Sure did. It was his dogged persistence that made me take a renewed interest in your case. Even though we both knew it couldn't be in any official capacity. Much to Angela's consternation," he laughed. "I love her to pieces, but it'll be great to move back into my own place. I'm too old to be bossed around by my kid sister."

"Well, she's obviously taking good care of you because you look great."

"Yeah, I owe her. My life probably. You're a persistent woman, yourself, Naomi. Leeland didn't stand a chance with you on the case. Both your moms would be proud of you."

"Thanks, that's really sweet of you to say, Sergeant Nelson."

"It's only the truth. And call me Graham."

He was a good man, and a wonderful policeman, retired or not. She was glad he hadn't given up on her.

"I think you'll make a great private investigator, Graham. Do the doctors think you're well enough? I mean, you look good but…."

"I'm doing okay. Better than I probably should. You're a pretty sharp detective yourself, maybe you'll join me."

He was the second one to suggest it. "I don't think so," she smiled. She was flattered, but not remotely interested. She just wanted her life back.

Pale light filtered through the slats in the living room shades when he rose to leave, telling her his sister would be calling the cops on him. "Try and get some sleep," he said.