Death's Door

Herculeah put the phone back in its cradle as carefully as if the phone were in working order. With a feeling of doom, she glanced around the shop.

She was torn between leaving immediately and getting the money for Uncle Neiman. She wanted to do what was most safe but she didn’t know what that was. Or was anything safe?

If the gunman had cut the wires, he was outside somewhere. If she rushed out—

But he hadn’t seen her come in. That meant he was out front. So maybe ...

She had made no decision, but she found she was moving toward the rare books. It was if she were sleepwalking and didn’t have control over her actions. Her heart had begun to pound. Her throat was dry.

She felt in her pocket. The key was there. Her fingers curled around it. She drew it out. With her fingers, she found the keyhole. She got the key in on the third try. She unlocked the door.

Herculeah found she couldn’t remember Uncle Neiman’s instructions. Where were the books she was supposed to move? The top shelf—she remembered that much. Right or left?

She took off the books on the right. She set them on the floor. Rising, she felt the space against the wall. There was no combination lock.

Her hands had begun to tremble. She reached up and took down the books on the left. There it was. She was aware that she was moving faster than she had ever moved in her life. Everything was speeded up, as if to keep time with her racing heart.

She took a deep breath. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to the lock.

Now for the combination. At least that was etched in her mind: fourteen, left, fifteen, right, twice around to seven. There was a satisfying click that told her the safe was open.

At that moment she heard something that turned her blood cold. Ice water rushed through her veins.

There was a stealth about these footprints that told Herculeah whoever was coming to the door had no business there. Her heart was pounding in her ears now.

Again she was torn with indecision. She glanced at the door, gauging the distance. Did she have time to run past the door and get to the alley before whoever it was came in? Maybe she only had time to hide behind the counter. Or maybe she—

She had no time at all. There was a sharp, metallic click at the front door’s lock—a knife, Herculeah thought—and the entrance to Death’s Door swung open.

Herculeah flattened herself against the wall. She pulled back into the shadows.

She heard someone step inside. She heard the door close. It happened in a matter of seconds.

She heard the sound of something heavy being put on the floor—a suitcase maybe.

She heard a faint hissing sound, as if the man—she knew it was a man—were inhaling through his front teeth. It was a sound of satisfaction as if he found himself where he most wanted to be, about to do something he had looked forward to. Now Herculeah’s heart was pounding so hard she wondered that he couldn’t hear it.

He came forward a few steps and stopped. He was a big man—she could tell that from his footsteps—and yet he moved with the certainty of an animal. Herculeah could tell his position from the creaking of the floorboards. He took another step.

She knew he was standing in the entranceway now, probably looking from room to room, making a decision.

Let him go into the dining room, she pleaded, willing it to happen with all her might. Then let him go up the steps to Uncle Neiman’s apartment.

She sent the message again and again. Go into the dining room. Go up the stairs.

Because, Herculeah thought with faint hope, if he went up the stairs, she would have a chance to get to the door. All she needed was a chance. She was as fast as any man—even one who moved like an animal.

But if he came in this room, she thought, and she felt unaccustomed tears sting her eyes, she would not have any chance at all.

There was a silence. The gunman didn’t move, just stood there, feeling the air, listening. Herculeah held her breath. She closed her eyes. She now had to breath through her mouth.

Please go in the other room, she pleaded. Turn right. Turn right. Don‘t—

She didn’t get to finish. She heard the gunman step into the room where she stood against the wall. Her eyelids flew open.

He took one step, another. He was coming closer. It was as if he were a hunter stalking a helpless creature, and even though he didn’t know exactly where his prey hid, he had plenty of time to find out.

Herculeah could smell him now—cigarette smoke and sweat. In the light from the street, his right hand came into view—a hand as big as a ham. And in it was a gun, a silencer on the end.

If he comes on this side of the stacks, he’ll see me, she thought. She resumed her mental pleading. Go between the stacks. Between the stacks. Between—

The man stepped between the bookcases, and she could see his silhouette through the gaps in the books. He was huge—massive shoulders, arms bulging against the sleeves of his jacket. She held her breath as he made his way through the room.

He paused as if looking for a book, though Herculeah knew he was not. Perhaps he had heard her. Perhaps he was one of those people who can sense another’s presence. Perhaps he had the animal ability to smell a victim’s fear. There was plenty of that.

All at once she remembered something Uncle Neiman had said—something about a stack of books falling on him. He had thought it was one of the attempts on his life.

So these stacks could be pushed over, if someone had the strength.

Herculeah drew in a deep silent breath. I have the strength, she told herself. I have to have it.

With that thought, she could feel it building in her like a force of nature, something that could not be held back.

The gunman was directly across from her now. She dared not move. She’d have to take two steps to get to the bookcase and that might be all the warning the man would need.

He drew air in between his teeth. There was that hissing sound, deadly as a snake’s.

At that moment, the man leaned down, peered through the books, and his terrible hooded eyes looked directly at Herculeah. The eyes were red and seemed to be lit from within like something at Hal loween.