All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.
That was my last thought before sleeping and my first upon waking. It was dark and I was still on the sofa, feeling cramped and uncomfortable. The diagram was a crumpled sheet beneath me, its sharp edges poking me in the back. The clock on the mantel said it was seven o’clock. Where was Sam? I’d been asleep at least an hour. I dragged myself up the stairs, planning to fall into bed and then sleep, sleep, sleep. In the morning, all the mental cobwebs would be gone and I’d be able to think.
I pushed open my bedroom door. The room was lit only by the filtered light of a streetlamp. As groggy as I was, I registered the open night table drawer, the discarded oilcloth. Then an arm was around my throat, swinging me around and slamming me against the wall. The blow sent shards of white light through my head. A man jammed the cold barrel of a pistol hard up against my ribs.
Echo.
He put his face close to mine. “Did you honestly think Mr. Echo would let you destroy his life, and do nothing?”
“I—”
“Shut up.”
He yanked me away from the wall and pushed me out the door. “Up the stairs. We’re going to the roof.”
I stumbled forward, alternately shoved and jabbed by the gun in my back.
Moonlight poured through the skylight over the stairway, bathing us in a cold blue light, lending us the complexion of the dead. He gave me another shove and I tripped across the top stair to the third-floor landing. My legs shot out from under me and I went flat on my stomach. He was so close behind me that he tripped over my feet and fell to one side with a grunt. His finger depressed the gun trigger. The weapon fired and the bullet hit the skylight. The thick pane exploded, releasing a rain of shattered glass.
We both cringed, covering our faces, but I recovered first. Acting on instinct, I snatched up a shard, twisted and stabbed blindly at Echo’s face. I didn’t even feel the pain as the glass sliced through my palm. He screamed and dropped the gun as the shard plunged through the soft bubble of his eye.
From downstairs, came the sound of heavy fists pounding the front door.
Shaking, I grabbed the gun, backed down two steps and held the weapon on him. I tried to hold the gun in my right hand, but my palm was slippery with blood. I switched the gun to my left and steadied it with my right.
Blood coursed from his ruptured left eye. The shard had gone in about an inch deep—far enough to do damage, but not enough to kill. With a quivering hand, he started to pull out the glass.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The glass will cut on the way out, like it did on the way in. It’ll turn your eye into chop liver.”
His hand froze.
The pounding on the door downstairs got louder.
“Lanie? Lanie, it’s Sam! Open up!”
I was tempted to run down the stairs and let him in, but I couldn’t. I didn’t trust Echo. Even though I was armed and he was disabled, I was taking no chances.
“Get up. And don’t do anything to make me shoot you. Because I will.”
He grabbed hold of the railing and got to his feet. I backed down the steps to the second floor. There I waited and kept the gun trained on him as made his way down, gingerly, step by step.
Downstairs, the pounding on the door got louder. And voices, loud men’s voices.
“Lanie, it’s Sam!”
“Move aside! It’s Blackie. The police—and I say, “Open up!’”
“Hurry up!”
By the time we got downstairs, the cops were ready to break the door down.
“Answer the damned door, Lanie, or we’re coming in! NOW!”
I ran and undid all the locks. A bunch of uniformed officers surged in, their guns drawn. Sam and Blackie shoved their way forward. Sam grabbed me up in his arms. Blackie took one look at Echo and his nose flared in disgust.
“Grab him,” he barked. “And get a doc!”
I buried myself in Sam’s embrace. “It’s OK,” he whispered. “It’s OK.”
Then I heard Blackie’s brogue. “Lanie. The gun. You can let go of it now. You won’t need it anymore.”
My hand went limp and I felt him take it from me.