The Widow File (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

She didn’t scream. She didn’t feel faint. She didn’t even feel fear. All she could do for several loud heartbeats was stand there and stare, her brain scrambling to figure out which out of all the many, many things wrong with the tableau before her was the worst. Different. That was the only word she could think of. Todd Hickman looked different; he looked wrong. He didn’t look like he was sleeping or unconscious or made of wax. He looked like Todd, but he looked like a wrong version of him. Finally the correct word rose to the front of her mind. Dead.

Todd Hickman looked dead.

A
pop-pop-pop
sound came from the sunroom just past the library. Dani knew that sound, a sharp, crunching sound like someone stomping on bags of popcorn. She’d researched it and filed it away with the thousands of other pieces of random knowledge she’d acquired over the years. She’d thought that factoid interesting—that silencers don’t actually silence a gun, they just muffle it. Silencers muffled gunshots until they sounded like
pop-pop-pop
in close quarters.

Close quarters.

Like the next room.

Then the thoughts came flooding. The breath whooshed out of Dani’s open mouth and like an animal caught in the high beams she dropped to a crouch and froze. Glass shattered, a radio crackled, and another round of
pop-pop-pop
sounded, this time accompanied by a brief but unmistakable human scream. The sound of a dull, wet thump on hardwood made her jump and that jump became a scrabble across carpet until her brain
got the message to her feet, or maybe it was vice versa, and Dani charged headlong out the rear door of the library and back down the carpeted hallway toward the exit.

Her plan, such as it was, involved hurtling herself through the same garden door she’d come in. Fortunately, fear made her vision sharp and she caught the hint of a shadow moving in the garden room before she cleared the corner. The carpet muffled her skid and it was only her low center of gravity that kept her from face-planting in the middle of the hall. The animal part of her brain that screamed “trapped trapped trapped” ran the show and she didn’t think to let go of either the Rasmund pouch or the purse she clutched tight against her chest as she cannonballed up the back stairs.

More pops sounded below. Somewhere a door slammed.

So many sounds rushed through her adrenaline-flooded mind she couldn’t think, couldn’t make a plan that involved anything more than moving, always moving. Footsteps sounded from the front stairwell but Dani couldn’t tell if they were ten feet away or a mile, if they were coming closer or retreating. Her fingers crushed the bags to her chest as she bounced from locked door to locked door, her brain and her body fighting for control over the situation, both losing miserably.

A muffled vibration made her jump straight up in the air. For one horrible second she was certain she’d been shot. No. Her phone. Her phone in her purse was vibrating, which meant it was probably making noise that she couldn’t hear over the pounding of blood in her ears but which was probably audible to anyone looking for her.

It didn’t take long for her reptilian brain to get on board with the idea that the people making the
pop-pop-pop
sound were probably looking for her and that this would be an ideal time to silence any and all noises that would assist them.

Getting her fingers in on the solution was another thing altogether. Dani dumped the bags on the floor, shoving her fists into her purse to find the beeping phone. Instead she found her keys, or rather they found her, stabbing into the webbing between her index and middle finger hard enough to break the skin. That pain broke through the clamor of panic and as she sucked the blood from between her fingers, Dani felt the odd sensation of time stopping.

She had to move. She had to hide. She had keys.

This meant something. This added up to something. Her brain and her hands translated the jumble of messages and managed to single out the fat brass key from the other contemporary keys on the ring. Moving slowly, so slowly, as if the floor would crumble beneath her should she disturb it, Dani crawled across the carpet runner, dragging her purse and pouch behind her. Her left hand shook as she neared the lock and she used her right to steady it. A click, a horrible moment when the lock resisted, then another click and the door swung open. Still scrambling on the floor, Dani winced at the sound of canvas on carpet as she dragged the bags in behind her. With infinite care, she snicked the door shut.

In the silence of her office, Dani’s brain snapped into focus. This was her office. She knew this space. The door was locked. Had anyone seen her come in?

Had she just trapped herself?

Her breath broke ragged through her clenched teeth and she couldn’t seem to get her fingers to perform anything but the grossest motor movements, but they would be enough. Even as she crawled across the ugly brown rug, some small secretary in the back of her mind listed her condition.

Adrenaline dump. Loss of coordination. Rapid breathing. Shock imminent. Muscle memory tendency—freeze in place. Distorted understanding of time. Loss of sensory conception. When had she learned this? The Dixon case, studying the video of the office workers flooding out of the Dixon Express Building in Dallas after a shooting rampage. She’d watched the video with Choo-Choo. The client had wanted… what the hell was she doing?

Dani crawled over to the denim beanbag she used as her office chair. She was talking to herself, listing details of old cases and factoids and symptoms of shock. “Self-comfort,” she whispered aloud. Self-comfort, familiar ground to anchor the conscious mind from the impact of trauma or shock. A natural psychological response. Expected. Normal.

“Not normal.” She spoke louder, trying to jolt herself from the spiral of panic. There was nothing normal about this situation. More gunshots sounded from somewhere below her. She could hear them through the
vents. The vents. Why wouldn’t Rasmund insulate their ventilation system better? It would be so easy to eavesdrop.

“Goddamn it, Dani.” She banged her knuckles against the bags squeezed to her chest. “Get your shit together. Get it together
now
.”

She forced her breathing to slow down, quieting it to a slow, softer panicked pant.

“What do you know for sure?” She heard a door splintering down the hallway. There were six doors on this side. Three Audio suites on the other. Her room was at the end of the hall. “They’re not here. They’re not here yet. What do you know?”

She knew Hickman was dead. Shot. She knew someone, possibly several someones, was moving through Rasmund and nobody was screaming. Why not? Why wasn’t anyone screaming? She certainly wanted to scream. Someone had screamed. In the foyer, after she’d found Todd. Who would be in the foyer? Evelyn? Mrs. O’Donnell? Was that Mrs. O’Donnell who’d screamed before hitting the floor? Dani could still hear that wet thump, that sound she’d been unable to acknowledge was a body hitting the floor.

It was just like the Dixon hit. She could see those shocky wide-eyed stares of the people fleeing the building as two armed gunmen blew through walls and doors and windows, killing thirty-seven people and wounding a dozen more before a SWAT team had taken them out. Rasmund had been brought in to analyze the incident.

Who would analyze this one, she wondered. Would they find her body like the bodies she’d seen photographed from a hundred angles? Arms and legs sprawled and flung by the force of automatic weapons fire? Bloody streaks on the carpet where they’d tried to drag themselves away from the killing floor? Thirty-seven people. She could still remember most of their names and why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

“Debra Maxwell. Daniel Tarrant. Christina Bomer.” The names stuttered out of her mouth. They weren’t the dead. They were survivors. She had listened to their interviews. They had survived in the building. They had survived in the presence of the gunmen. Another door collapsed somewhere down the hallway, this one closer.

“Behind them,” Dani whispered. “Behind them.” That’s what Debra Maxwell had said. The exits had been blocked. They had found a way to circle around the gunmen, getting behind them. They stayed behind the gunmen as the killing march moved through the building.

Someone screamed.

Not someone.

Dani squeezed her eyes shut, tasting blood where she bit into her lip. Fay. That was Fay. That was her partner screaming. Was. Not screaming anymore. Dani felt the fuzzy cloud of shock settling down over her and more than most of her wanted to let it take her away from this dusty floor and crowded room and
pop-pop-pop
–filled house. Out out out.

Fay. How dare they shoot Fay? The ever efficient fact-listing secretary in her mind reminded the panicking thoughts about the energizing power of anger. Rage could break the shockiest fugue states and Dani felt the sensation of being of two minds—one watching, one letting anger flood out fear. She wasn’t going to die here.

Once she accepted that as a fact, the act of escaping execution transformed from a terrifying and bewildering scramble for freedom into a list of obstacles and options, pros and cons—the most important to-do list she had ever assembled.

She couldn’t stop the gunmen. She was outnumbered and had no weapon and she’d never had any illusions of herself as an action hero. A vibration rumbled once more against her chest, sound muffled by her body and the heavy Rasmund pouch. Her phone. She didn’t berate herself for her stupidity in not thinking of her phone until now. She didn’t have the luxury of worrying about mistakes and wasted time. She had a job to do.

She slipped her trembling hand into her purse to find her phone. Step one, call 911. Get help on the way. Then she would have to find a safer hiding place.

Building the mental list soothed Dani’s nervous system and she felt her muscles relax and her thoughts line up in an orderly fashion. Her hearing came back into focus and she could make out the sounds of movement down the hallway. Radios crackled at low volume and from the sound of it, rooms were being searched. She couldn’t tell from where she hid but it
sounded as if she had at least two more Paint rooms between her and the searchers. Blessedly, the gunshots had stopped for now.

With a sigh of relief she yanked the phone clear of the inner zipper. She had just long enough to look at the message on the screen informing her that the vibrations she’d been feeling were her warnings that the battery was dying. Even as she swiped her thumb to unlock the device, the lights went black and the phone went dead.

That panic she thought she’d dismissed roared back up at her from the shadows but she refused to let it in. Not a disaster. Just an obstacle. Obstacles and opportunities. That’s what she had now. Pros and cons. Problems and solutions. That’s what she had. That’s what she did. That’s what she was good at. Over and over she repeated these words to herself, forcing her fingers to release their talonlike grip on the phone. What are the pros and cons, she made herself ask. Everything had pros and cons.

Pro: the phone would no longer make an unexpected noise and give away her location. Okay, that would do.

Con: she was stuck in a house full of murderers, in line to get executed while her best friend lay dead down the hall. No no no. That was panic. That was not fact.

Her teeth chattered as she argued with herself. Con: the con was that she had to find another phone. Another phone. She had to find another phone to call for help.

Another list built itself in her mind. As she had ignored her mistakes, she ignored the absurdity of how difficult she found it to put together a simple conclusion like that. Her world, her life, had come down to inches, to a string of small movements that she had to perform one after another to get her out of this room, this house, alive.

Another door splintered. She heard the sound of shattering glass and bells. That was Anderson’s and Keller’s Paint room. Anderson annoyed the shit out of Choo-Choo with his little bell choir performances. No gunshots. Dani let out a slow breath, listening to the sound of drawers being slammed, imagining Keller’s meticulously organized file cabinets being tossed. Three doors. She was running out of time.

Forcing herself to fight the paralysis of panic locking her knees down, she pushed off the beanbag and dove into a pile of cushions beneath the
window. She and Fay never used their phone. Fay kept it buried and unplugged, claiming it emitted an ultrasonic vibration that interfered with her concentration. Plus she hated being paged. Dani squeezed her eyes shut, blinking back tears, remembering her ridiculous outrage. She would have time to mourn her friend later. She corrected herself. Friends.

Another door collapsed, this time on the other side of the hallway. Two teams were sweeping the building, one side clearing Paint, the other Audio. She pressed her head to the wood, dizzy as the blood rushed in her ears.
Pop-pop-pop.
Surprised grunts, what sounded like shelves or maybe chairs being slammed into walls. Someone was throwing something solid around, something solid like furniture, not fragile. Not bodies.

Another crash and a rash of shouting broke out. An animal scream, a crash, a rumble of footsteps.

“Down! Down! Down!” a rough male voice shouted over the scream and the crashing until
pop-pop-pop
brought the uproar to a halt. Someone had fought back. And lost.

She found the multiline phone stuck to an old paper plate. No lines were lit up. Obviously, Dani thought. Rasmund business was currently on hiatus. She lifted the cradle and heard nothing. Of course. They cut the lines. Trying not to cry aloud, she dropped her head against the useless machine.

And she saw the cord sticking out from beneath a cushion.

It took three tries, each more desperate than the last, to get the plug in place, and by the time she heard the dial tone, she had once again bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood. Pressing nine and then pound, she heard the connection made to an outside line. 911. Keeping an eye on the door, she gripped the phone in a sweaty palm.