| |
––––––––
SEPTEMBER DROPPED THE keys twice before her numb fingers managed to fit the correct one into the lock. She opened the door and a doorbell beeee-boooped. A hand-lettered CLOSED FOR SNOW taped to the glass corroborated April’s morning visit. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find her laptop and business files, and learn more about Pottinger. Five minutes, tops, and she’d head over to Doug Childress’s place. He lived a few blocks away. She left the keys in the door.
Body Works contained more than a dozen exercise machines in the front mirror-paneled room, with cushioned jog-in-place boards situated in between. It was designed so that members moved from machine to machine, first working upper arms for thirty seconds, shifted to a jog-board for the next thirty seconds, and on to a thigh-master machine, and so on to complete the circuit. It provided a low-impact aerobic workout favored by middle aged and older women, and April had developed a dedicated clientele in the three years since she’d opened. It made sense that she would change the message machine to prevent any wasted trips.
The mirror was not her friend. Unlike April, September rarely wore makeup, but she admitted she looked like eight miles of bad road. She had a case of terminal hat-hair that could use a good brushing.
She found two smaller rooms at the end of the short hallway. One contained a pair of saunas, two showers, and a makeup area and sink, complete with courtesy towels and toiletries. She ached for the sensation of warmth. A sauna would be heaven, but the sink would have to do.
September pulled off her hat and gloves, ran warm water in the sink, added a dollop of coconut-scented wash and submerged her hands in the steamy liquid. Invisible spiders tingled over the blue-tinged flesh. Sensation returned and her fingertips became rosy. She cupped her hands and bent over the sink to splash her face. More soap increased the gentle lather and the pooled water turned pink as the soap stung and felt good at the same time.
Blood stained the white towel when she patted her hands dry. Nose bleed. Great. She held the towel to her nose until it stopped. God, she’d love to spend more time to get warm. She looked with longing at the sauna, gritted her teeth, tossed the towel in the laundry bin and moved on.
A file cabinet, phone and printer crowded the next room, with a laptop on the small desk. Two hand dumbbells served as bookends. An emergency fire exit with an alarm centered the back wall.
She turned on the laptop, tapping her foot as it pinged and sang to itself. She rifled April’s file cabinet but found nothing other than client folders filled with contracts, workout plans and contact information. “Damn.” She searched the desk calendar for any clue to appointments outside of the store—for a name or a “P” that might indicate the mysterious Dr. Pottinger. The desk was clear, and no flash drive hid within the single drawer. Crap.
April’s biweekly hair or nail appointments crowded between infrequent lunch dates with girlfriends or family, mostly with their mom. To be fair, April’s social life slowed with Steven’s arrival. But compared to September’s self-imposed lockdown, April’s dance card overflowed.
Most notes had to do with Steven. School stuff, meetings after class three times weekly with a “therapist” she guessed must be Lizzie, and the weekend horseback riding lessons—equine-assisted-therapy. September recalled April’s rant about the Texas school systems pressed into mainstreaming special needs kids, and how inadequately trained teachers were stretched too thin to be effective. Funding Steven’s therapy helped September feel better about—well, things.
That’s how the whole Shadow issue arose. God knew she wasn’t ready for another dog. Love ‘em and they leave you. Dakota was Chris’s idea, and she and the big dog had quickly bonded.
It had taken much longer to trust Chris. He had worked for two years to break through her resistance to marriage, but they had six years together before her stalker tracked them down. The boogeyman was still out there, waiting for her. So when April called, she ran home like a cat diving under the bed, hiding from one threat only to run smack into another.
She wondered how April had connected with Lizzie and Pottinger. Maybe there was a computer file or an email.
April subscribed to dozens of e-lists about weight training, weight loss, aerobics, business markets, autism, camera techniques, knitting, and on and on. When not working out or dealing with Steven, her sister sent and received dozens of messages daily. An email filter dumped emails into separate folders. September first tried a search for “Pottinger,” and when that didn’t work, she input both “Lizzie” and “Lizbeth Baumgarten,” and still came up empty. She scanned the most recent subject lines in the filtered list headed “Steven” and found nothing.
She checked the clock on the wall. Time to get out of Dodge.
“Beeee-booop.”
September froze. She’d left the keys in the door. She always locked doors. Why hadn’t she locked the damn door? Please let it be one of April’s diehard gym clients ignoring the “closed” sign.
No cheery ‘hello’ sounded. After a lifetime of silence, September inched forward, heart galloping in rhythm with quickened breath. The police couldn’t be here, not so soon.
She closed the laptop and tucked it beneath one arm. As she tiptoed to the doorway, September hugged the wall before peeking around the corner.
There. In the mirror. A man so tall he had to duck to miss the ceiling fan. He wore a bat-black cowboy duster that turned pale skin and silver hair ghostly. Hunching forward, he peered around in a cobra’s dance, poised to strike. He drew a pistol. Pulled back the slide to chamber a bullet. Screwed on an attachment to the overlong barrel.
Shit-shit-shit.
September pulled back from her vantage point. She didn’t recognize Ghost-Man, and he sure as hell didn’t belong in a woman’s gym. That wasn’t a cop gun. It looked like a .45 semi-automatic. She’d lived with a cop long enough to know, and the silencer was definitely not police issue.
Lizzie must have sent this reject from a spaghetti western. All the killer cared about was the flash drive when Steven had to be September’s priority. If Ghost Man killed her now, Steven was good as dead, and so was April.
September frantically scanned the small space. The emergency exit wouldn’t work. The alarm painted a target on her back, and the snow hobbled any ability to outrace him. Besides, she had parked right in front of the entrance and left the door unlocked for a quick getaway. Dumb. She should have realized Lizzie wouldn’t trust her, and would send one of her goons to finish the job.
She stole another glimpse and jerked back—he was halfway to her hiding place. Her breath quickened. Another three steps and he’d enter the sauna. She could run past the doorway and out the front.
He’ll hear. Shoot you in the back.
Damn call-waiting, she should never have answered April’s call. Poor Steven, some days it didn’t pay to get out of bed, and now it was up to her. If she could get out of here alive. September froze, only her eyes searching for something, anything, a way to distract or slow the Ghost Man so she had a chance to run.
There—the dumbbell bookends.
She dared another peek when he disappeared into the sauna room. No time, no time . . . September grabbed a dumbbell, and scurried down the short hall. She plastered her back against the wall beside the sauna doorway. Her breath jittered. She waited, the hand with the dumbbell cocked and ready.
The first door slammed open. “Come out.” The next door crashed, echoed its twin. “I know you’re here.” This room was next. His pistol poked through the door, sniffed for her.
September swung and the dumbbell smacked the heel of his gloved hand. The handgun spiraled away. Shattered the nearest mirror. She dodged and squinted. Mirrored slivers showered a bee sting swarm against her cheek. September stumbled in the slick glass. She fell to one knee. As she struggled to get up, she palmed away tears and blood.
The gun. There, by her foot.
The Ghost Man. He dove for the gun.
September screamed. He grabbed the pistol. She kicked his hand and the gun spun away. His hand wrenched her ankle instead. He twisted and rolled, pulling her with him.
“No!” She belly flopped, and was punched breathless. But by-god she still clutched the dumbbell.
Scrambling, he scooped up the gun.
She flailed, sobbing in fear. Crabbed backwards over crunchy glass and sliced open her palms.
He strangled the throat of her coat. She twisted, flipped onto her back and he was there. He straddled her waist. She stared at the greenish barrel held level with her face. September looked up.
He had a beautiful smile. “Give me the flash drive.” His knees pressed against her sides.
She struggled to suck in air.
“Where is it?” He smiled his perfect smile again, and pressed harder.
He patted the outside of her parka, searching the lumpy contents of her pockets. Bloody droplets and mirror shrapnel glittered his hair pink. He leaned close, relaxing the pressure enough for her to suck in a frantic breath. She could smell spicy aftershave. His eyes glowed like white marbles.
“You’d like to breathe again? So we’re going into the next room where you’ll empty those kangaroo-size pockets—”
September whip-lashed the dumbbell. It hit his temple like a ball bat thwacking a ripe pumpkin.
He dropped. Onto her.
She still couldn’t breathe. Black sparkles danced behind her closed eyelids. The hard cold pistol pressed against her throat, snugged between their bodies as intimate as lovers.
She pushed him off and the gun slid to the floor. The dumbbell dripped red.
She filled her lungs at last, and noticed the bloody goose egg that marred his head. September released the dumbbell and it rolled away, crinkling through broken glass. She waited until his chest inflated, and breathed relief mixed with guilty disappointment that he still lived. She picked up the gun, hating the greasy weight. The weapon looked the same as Lizzie’s weapon, only with the bonus silencer. He’d meant to kill her. She had to move, get out of here. He could wake at any moment.
She scrambled to her feet, and gasped when pain clawed her side. He’d done something to her side. She set the gun on the desk, grasped the chair with her right hand, and braced her left elbow on her thigh to pull herself erect.
The Ghost Man lay in full view of the glass entry. Best to get him out of sight, maybe confine him somehow, because once he came-to he’d be pissed and come after her with or without the gun. At that thought, she tried to pocket the gun but had to unscrew the silencer to make it fit. Then she grabbed the hem of his long coat and tugged his dead weight the short distance to the nearest sauna. She rolled him beneath the wooden bench, and dashed from the sauna. She slammed the door, jiggled it to be sure it latched, and jammed a flimsy laundry container beneath the handle. It wouldn’t hold long, but it was better than nothing.
The movement jostled towels in the laundry basket, revealing a flash of yellow stained with red. Steven always wore yellow. She pulled the terrycloth aside. Beneath the white towels, she found one of April’s signature size 4 workout outfits. It was covered with blood.
