Play Dead
Page 94
A cold gust of wind chilled the room, whispering a warning that something was being overlooked, that the past could not be so easily laid to rest.
The whisper mercifully faded away.
The killer’s face twisted in thought. The fire marshals were sure to figure out eventually that this was no accident, that kerosene had played a key role in the spread of the fire, that this was indeed a case of arson. But by that time, the trail would have gone cold. The snow would have covered the tracks made by the kerosene containers. The rented car would be returned. The killer (now arsonist) would be long gone without so much as a trace left behind.
Perfect. Everything was so perfect.
So how come the tears were starting to flow again?
Why did it have to be this way? Even when the eyes were closed the image of Judy’s bloodied body kept reappearing before the killer. And that meant there would be nightmares for a very long time after today. Poor Judy. Poor loving, sweet Judy. Why did she have to die? Judy could have simply left the past alone, forgotten about it and let it be. But instead she chose to prod it, to poke at it until it awoke and attacked with a torrid vengeance. Now there was only one way to satisfy its growing lust.
“Good-bye, Judy.”
A hand wiped away a stray tear, reached for the book of matches, lit one and . . . and heard a knock on the door.
The killer’s heart rammed up into the throat, cutting off the air supply. Panic moved in with dizzying speed. Oh, God, what now? What now? The flame moved slowly down the match stick.
Fire.
Another knock. Who? Why . . . ? The match came close to the killer’s fingers, too close. With a small yelp of pain, the killer dropped the match on top of crumbled papers. They caught fire and began to consume the nearby journals, curling the pages inward as they turned black.
The die was cast. There was no turning back now.
Get out! a small voice said as the knocking came again, more urgently now. Get out now!
But suppose . . . ?
The legs dismissed the doubt. They sprinted out of the study in a mad dash. The killer closed the study door, trapping Judy and the deadly blaze in the small area. The fire began to grow and fan out.
As the back door swung open, a voice from the front porch called Judy’s name—a familiar voice, a voice so frighteningly, terrifyingly familiar. . . .
THE front door swung open slowly.
Laura moved past the doorway and into the small foyer. The house was dark, the sun having disappeared completely during the past half hour. A sole streetlight provided shadowy illumination. Laura’s eyes moved from left to right, scanning the entire living room area. There was no movement or sounds.
“Aunt Judy?” she called out but there was still no answer.
Laura took another step forward. Her nose twitched again from the strange, pungent odor that permeated the house. Gasoline or oil or something like that. It had to be coming from the garage. The smell was strong, nearly overwhelming. She took a deep sniff. Now that she really thought about it, it was not just a gassy or oily smell, not merely the smell of a gasoline station or some car repair shop. No, now that she really analyzed it, the smell was more like . . . like something burning. . . .
The odor suddenly made Laura ill. Her hand traced a path along the side of the wall until she located the light switch. She flicked it on. Fluorescent lights brightened the darkened room, startling her. She shaded her eyes from the surprising glare. When she was finally able to lower her hand and look toward the back of the house, she saw smoke pouring out from under the study door.
Oh, God, no.
Laura ran toward the study. The smoke was getting thicker now, spiraling toward the ceiling in long black gusts. She reached the door and placed her palm on the wooden panel. Her hand drew back.
The door felt warm.
Get out, Laura. Get out and call the fire department. Judy is not home. She went out and left an iron on or something. Get the hell out!
Laura could hear the crackle of the blaze behind the door.
Get out of here. Get out of here before the fire blows down the door.
The smoke crept closer. Laura covered her eyes with her hand and began to back out toward the exit.
Get out. . . .
She was about to turn around and run when a sound tore through the door of the study. She froze. Her heart kicked hard against her chest. The terrible sound repeated itself, this time a little louder.
A cough.
Laura felt an icy coldness slide through her.
Then another cough.
Someone was behind that door. Someone was trapped in the study.
Without conscious thought, Laura took action. Her hand reached out toward the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Gusts of thick black smoke rushed through the doorway. Laura fell and rolled to the side. She heard the cough again, the cough of a female, but this time it was more of a horrid choking sound.
Laura stood and moved back to the doorway. The smoke was everywhere, blinding her eyes and making them tear. Covering her mouth with her hand, Laura ducked into the study. On the ground below her, she found Judy.
Oh, Christ . . .
Laura bent down. She opened her mouth to speak but the smoke poured down her throat and silenced her. Judy looked up with pleading eyes, still coughing uncontrollably. A stream of syrupy blood matted down her hair. Laura felt Judy reach up and put something into her hand, forcing Laura’s fingers to form a fist around it.
“Take it,” Judy whispered hoarsely.
Laura transferred the items to her pocket and knelt beside Judy. She was unconscious now, her breathing sporadic. Laura grabbed hold of Judy’s arm and began to pull. The fire remained mostly in the corner of the study, gaining strength at a slow but steady pace. Papers crinkled from the flames. A chair began to collapse.
Then the fire found the kerosene.
Without warning, the corner of the room burst into flames. The blaze began to gnaw its way onto the carpet. The fire danced across the floor, grasping and then consuming the curtains. And then Laura realized something else—something that made her pull ever harder.
Oh, God, oh, no . . .
Judy was covered with the kerosene. The flames were racing toward her.
Have to move. Have to get her out before . . .
The smoke made it nearly impossible to see, but Laura knew that the blaze would not rest until it claimed all its victims. The flames grabbed hold of the desk, the books, the chairs. Laura continued to drag Judy inch by inch, but they were not moving fast enough. The fire was gaining on them, circling closer and closer.
And then the flames reached Judy.
There was a short, hideous scream as the blaze crawled across Judy’s torso and nestled in. Panic seized Laura in a crushing grip. She summoned some inner strength and renewed her pull on Judy’s arm. They began to move faster.
The whisper mercifully faded away.
The killer’s face twisted in thought. The fire marshals were sure to figure out eventually that this was no accident, that kerosene had played a key role in the spread of the fire, that this was indeed a case of arson. But by that time, the trail would have gone cold. The snow would have covered the tracks made by the kerosene containers. The rented car would be returned. The killer (now arsonist) would be long gone without so much as a trace left behind.
Perfect. Everything was so perfect.
So how come the tears were starting to flow again?
Why did it have to be this way? Even when the eyes were closed the image of Judy’s bloodied body kept reappearing before the killer. And that meant there would be nightmares for a very long time after today. Poor Judy. Poor loving, sweet Judy. Why did she have to die? Judy could have simply left the past alone, forgotten about it and let it be. But instead she chose to prod it, to poke at it until it awoke and attacked with a torrid vengeance. Now there was only one way to satisfy its growing lust.
“Good-bye, Judy.”
A hand wiped away a stray tear, reached for the book of matches, lit one and . . . and heard a knock on the door.
The killer’s heart rammed up into the throat, cutting off the air supply. Panic moved in with dizzying speed. Oh, God, what now? What now? The flame moved slowly down the match stick.
Fire.
Another knock. Who? Why . . . ? The match came close to the killer’s fingers, too close. With a small yelp of pain, the killer dropped the match on top of crumbled papers. They caught fire and began to consume the nearby journals, curling the pages inward as they turned black.
The die was cast. There was no turning back now.
Get out! a small voice said as the knocking came again, more urgently now. Get out now!
But suppose . . . ?
The legs dismissed the doubt. They sprinted out of the study in a mad dash. The killer closed the study door, trapping Judy and the deadly blaze in the small area. The fire began to grow and fan out.
As the back door swung open, a voice from the front porch called Judy’s name—a familiar voice, a voice so frighteningly, terrifyingly familiar. . . .
THE front door swung open slowly.
Laura moved past the doorway and into the small foyer. The house was dark, the sun having disappeared completely during the past half hour. A sole streetlight provided shadowy illumination. Laura’s eyes moved from left to right, scanning the entire living room area. There was no movement or sounds.
“Aunt Judy?” she called out but there was still no answer.
Laura took another step forward. Her nose twitched again from the strange, pungent odor that permeated the house. Gasoline or oil or something like that. It had to be coming from the garage. The smell was strong, nearly overwhelming. She took a deep sniff. Now that she really thought about it, it was not just a gassy or oily smell, not merely the smell of a gasoline station or some car repair shop. No, now that she really analyzed it, the smell was more like . . . like something burning. . . .
The odor suddenly made Laura ill. Her hand traced a path along the side of the wall until she located the light switch. She flicked it on. Fluorescent lights brightened the darkened room, startling her. She shaded her eyes from the surprising glare. When she was finally able to lower her hand and look toward the back of the house, she saw smoke pouring out from under the study door.
Oh, God, no.
Laura ran toward the study. The smoke was getting thicker now, spiraling toward the ceiling in long black gusts. She reached the door and placed her palm on the wooden panel. Her hand drew back.
The door felt warm.
Get out, Laura. Get out and call the fire department. Judy is not home. She went out and left an iron on or something. Get the hell out!
Laura could hear the crackle of the blaze behind the door.
Get out of here. Get out of here before the fire blows down the door.
The smoke crept closer. Laura covered her eyes with her hand and began to back out toward the exit.
Get out. . . .
She was about to turn around and run when a sound tore through the door of the study. She froze. Her heart kicked hard against her chest. The terrible sound repeated itself, this time a little louder.
A cough.
Laura felt an icy coldness slide through her.
Then another cough.
Someone was behind that door. Someone was trapped in the study.
Without conscious thought, Laura took action. Her hand reached out toward the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Gusts of thick black smoke rushed through the doorway. Laura fell and rolled to the side. She heard the cough again, the cough of a female, but this time it was more of a horrid choking sound.
Laura stood and moved back to the doorway. The smoke was everywhere, blinding her eyes and making them tear. Covering her mouth with her hand, Laura ducked into the study. On the ground below her, she found Judy.
Oh, Christ . . .
Laura bent down. She opened her mouth to speak but the smoke poured down her throat and silenced her. Judy looked up with pleading eyes, still coughing uncontrollably. A stream of syrupy blood matted down her hair. Laura felt Judy reach up and put something into her hand, forcing Laura’s fingers to form a fist around it.
“Take it,” Judy whispered hoarsely.
Laura transferred the items to her pocket and knelt beside Judy. She was unconscious now, her breathing sporadic. Laura grabbed hold of Judy’s arm and began to pull. The fire remained mostly in the corner of the study, gaining strength at a slow but steady pace. Papers crinkled from the flames. A chair began to collapse.
Then the fire found the kerosene.
Without warning, the corner of the room burst into flames. The blaze began to gnaw its way onto the carpet. The fire danced across the floor, grasping and then consuming the curtains. And then Laura realized something else—something that made her pull ever harder.
Oh, God, oh, no . . .
Judy was covered with the kerosene. The flames were racing toward her.
Have to move. Have to get her out before . . .
The smoke made it nearly impossible to see, but Laura knew that the blaze would not rest until it claimed all its victims. The flames grabbed hold of the desk, the books, the chairs. Laura continued to drag Judy inch by inch, but they were not moving fast enough. The fire was gaining on them, circling closer and closer.
And then the flames reached Judy.
There was a short, hideous scream as the blaze crawled across Judy’s torso and nestled in. Panic seized Laura in a crushing grip. She summoned some inner strength and renewed her pull on Judy’s arm. They began to move faster.
