“My ankle can’t do this, Delaney,” Shelagh said as we reached the top of the stairway.
No one seemed to have heard the destruction of the doorknob. At least no one was coming to our aid.
“Is anyone else in this building?”
“No, I own the whole thing, but I kicked everyone out a few months ago. I didn’t think people were taking care of it. I might tend to overreact sometimes, Delaney.”
Another understatement, but again I was going to leave that for a therapist to handle.
“Hop onto my back if you need to. We are out of here, Shelagh.”
“I’ll hang on tight.” She gritted her teeth.
She stayed upright, though just barely. I sighed with relief when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
But I hadn’t considered the other player. I should have. I hadn’t even thought to ask Shelagh about the fourth member of our hunting group.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, Tricia came through the door that Jack had brought me through less than an hour earlier.
For an instant I was glad to see her, but then I realized I shouldn’t be.
“Tricia?” I said, hoping the question in my voice would be answered with something positive.
It wasn’t. In fact, just the opposite. She pulled a knife from her pocket and pointed it at us. It wasn’t a big knife, but it wasn’t a butter knife either. It could kill.
“Tricia and Jack are together, a couple,” Shelagh said, her voice tired from the effort of making it down the stairs. She nodded upward. “I tried to tell you that you were wrong about no one else being involved.”
“Get back up there. You didn’t believe someone was watching, did you?” Tricia said.
Nope, sure didn’t. But I didn’t say that out loud.
I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.
The bookish voice was from The Madman by Kahlil Gibran. I had no idea what it was trying to tell me, but no matter—it seemed appropriate. I didn’t want to give up my freedom again.
“All right, all right, we’ll go,” Shelagh said as she started to pull backward.
I still held on to her tightly. The door was right behind Tricia. We were that close to our escape. I wasn’t going upstairs again. I didn’t want to get hurt and I didn’t want to hurt Shelagh, but I wasn’t going back up there.
With a speed that seemed both fast and in slow motion, I turned, let Shelagh fall the short distance to lean on the stair railing, and then kicked at the knife in Tricia’s hand.
I hit my mark, and the knife went flying and then clattered to the floor. I kicked again, at Tricia’s stomach, sending her to the floor too, in the other direction from the knife. I grabbed Shelagh and propelled us out the door. We still had to run out of that close, we had to get where Tricia wouldn’t be able to hurt us—hopefully someone would help.
But the close was no longer empty. Two of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen were there; one was a huge man with lots of tattoos over his bare arms and the other was a skinny woman, more appropriately dressed with a winter coat but seemingly struggling with … everything.
We’d come upon a drug transaction. It was a most joyful moment.
“Help us,” I said. “There’s a woman with a knife coming after us.”
The heavily tattooed man blinked, seemed to display some regret with his eyes, but then walked away from his customer and walked toward us.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Can you call the police?”
“I’d rather not. Hang on a sec.” He took a step around us just as Tricia burst out of the building, the knife in her hand again.
“Aye?” the man said as he reached into his back waistband and pulled out a bigger knife.
“Out of my way,” Tricia said.
Tattooed man just chuckled once.
“Don’t let her run,” I said.
From behind I could see the tattooed man’s shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. Then, in the flash of an instant, his meaty fist came up and punched away Tricia’s knife. A second later he had her hands zip-tied behind her back. Briefly I wondered where he’d gotten a zip tie, but I didn’t really want to know.
“Good work, young man!” Shelagh cried.
“You’re welcome.” He rubbed his fist and then pulled a mobile from a back pocket, handing it to me. “Not my phone. Use this to call the police, then destroy it.”
“I can do that.” I took the phone and dialed—all kinds of numbers.
The tattooed man and his customer were gone in a flash, and after I’d called everyone, I did exactly as I was instructed: I destroyed the phone.