Liberty or Death (45 page)

"Don't look," I said. "Turn around and go out. Now! You don't want to see this."

I tried to block the way but she wriggled past me, gave a bloodcurdling scream, and then, still screaming, turned and ran from the room.

Maybe it's because I'm an oldest child, but I'm a real take-charge type. I didn't scream or cry or faint. I turned to the assistant manager, who was staring bug-eyed at the woman on the bed and pointed in the direction Rory had gone. "Find her. Take her somewhere and shut her up before you have the whole hotel in an uproar. And you, security, call the police."

I took another step into the room, drawn reluctantly toward the figure on the bed. Martina Pullman, president of the National Association of Girls' Schools, was one of those tall, handsome, fashionably thin women who loved elegant clothes and wore them well. The outfit she had on would, under other circumstances, have been laughable. Under these circumstances, it was jarring. Embarrassing. Horrible.

She lay on her back across the bed in a scarlet lace bustier, red thong panties and lacy red garter belt. Her long, unnaturally dark hair, hair that was usually confined in a severe chignon, was spread out around her head, as though she awaited a lover. The garter belt still held up one sheer black stocking, that foot still sported a scarlet spike-heeled shoe. The other shoe was on the floor beside the bed; the other stocking was knotted tightly around her neck. Her eyes were open, protuberant, and staring from a grotesquely purple face.

In my shock, the absurd, awful thought raced through my head that the advice our mothers gave us about clean underwear ought to be expanded to include not wearing anything we wouldn't want to be caught dead in.

The security man stepped past me, reached out a cautious hand, and touched the bare leg. "Cold," he said. "She's dead."

I shuddered, glad I hadn't had to touch her. I closed my eyes but the image was just as vivid, just as grotesque, and I saw it just as clearly. The lingerie ad from hell. I had not liked this woman. That was no secret. But I had admired her. I wanted to remember her good qualities, her talents, her strengths, not this. Not this wrinkled, bony, middle-aged woman got up like a young vixen, sprawled indecently across the bed, legs spread, exposing graying pubic hair, old silvery stretch marks, and most of one small breast, strangled with her own stocking, her gaping mouth still slick with scarlet lipstick, lipstick on her teeth, a bit of swollen tongue protruding.

Please, God,
I thought.
Let me die in bed in my own flannel nightgown.
And then, because my nature is always to be moving on to the next task, the next chore, and because anything was better than thinking about this, I remembered the hundred and eighty people who were expecting Martina's speech at breakfast. "Oh, hell," I said aloud. "I guess it will have to be me."

The security guard was staring, his hand on the butt of his gun. Did he think I'd just confessed? "I'm sorry," I said quickly. "We're running a conference together. She is... was... supposed to give the breakfast speech... now I'll have to do it." His look said more plainly than words that he found my reaction almost as shocking as Martina's death. He clearly expected me to be more like Rory. To run and scream and fall apart. I can run, but screaming and falling apart aren't generally in my emotional vocabulary. I try to be open-minded, but I'm quite intolerant of people who fall apart. Still, I didn't want him to get the wrong impression. I was plenty shocked, I just wasn't given to hysterics. If he expected a fragile female, I would do my best to oblige. Just because I didn't scream and thrash didn't mean I wasn't shaken.

I closed my eyes, turned my head, and reached out a groping hand for his sleeve. "I think I'd better sit down," I said. "In the other room..." I wanted to run downstairs, pack my stuff, and get the hell out of there. By the time he'd escorted me to a chair, my distress was genuine. I couldn't run on these shaky legs and I'd begun to feel sick and dizzy. I buried my head in my hands. I couldn't pack up and leave anyway. Someone had to run the conference now. Damn Suzanne. Suzanne, my partner. The one who was supposed to be here schmoozing and speechifying instead of me. Suzanne was at home with pneumonia. I would have taken pneumonia over this any day, but when it comes to violent death and its violent consequences, we are rarely given any choice. I was going to be the Jill-on-the-spot for the National Association of Girls' Schools conference on death in paradise.

 

Page forward for an excerpt from

Steal Away: A novel of Suspense

by Kate Flora writing as Katherine Clark

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from

 

Steal Away

 

by

 

Katharine Clark

 

 

 

 

The Taking

 

It wasn't a long ride from the school to his house, but David had played baseball at recess and after lunch and he was tired. He was ready to kick off his sneakers, take off his socks, and curl up on the window seat in the kitchen while his mom fixed him a snack. She'd promised peanut butter cookies today and she'd better not forget. Not that she forgot a lot of things, but sometimes, if she got wrapped up in her work, she'd forget what time it was and, just be starting his snack when he got home.

He lifted his head and sniffed the wind, wondering if he was close enough yet to smell something if she was baking. He hadn't liked what they served at lunch and he was hungry. His front tire hit a pothole. He skidded, nearly fell, and regained his balance, getting off far to the side to let the car behind him pass safely. His mom was always nagging at him to get way off to the side when cars came. It was hard to hear with his helmet on, but he didn't take it off. A lot of the kids did, when they thought they wouldn't get caught, but David had just started taking long rides and he didn't feel safe without it.

The car didn't pass. It slowed down until it came to a stop beside him. The woman inside rolled down her window and leaned out. David edged farther away from the van. His mother had given him at least a million lectures about strangers. "David," the woman said, "something awful has happened to your mother and your father. You're in great danger. You've got to come with us."

David just stared. He'd never seen her before in his life. She was older than his mom and she looked nervous and not very friendly. He looked toward the front of the van. Was there room to get past it and ride away? No. That was silly. Cars could go a lot faster than bikes, even though he could ride very fast. He'd have to go into the woods. He didn't like the idea. The woods were scary, especially if you were alone, and they were full of mosquitoes.

The sliding door on the van's side slid open. "David," the woman repeated, using his name like she knew him, "I'll explain it all to you once we're on our way. You've got to come with us. You can't go home. A very bad man who didn't like something your daddy did as a lawyer came and hurt your daddy and your mommy and he's waiting at your house to hurt you. Now jump in. Hurry!"

David edged closer to the van. She sounded serious, worried. But she hadn't given him the password and he was never to go with anyone who didn't know the password. He waited.

The woman looked annoyed. "Come on. Hurry up." She looked nervously over her shoulder. David didn't move. "Oh, for heaven's sake, David, rutabaga."

It was okay then, he thought. "What about my bike?"

"We'll take the bike, too. Come on!"

A man in the van reached out his hand. David took it, was lifted off his feet and into the van. The heavy door slammed shut behind him and he heard the click of a lock. The man jumped behind the wheel and the van drove off, the wheels spinning loudly through the gravel as the van turned around and headed back the way David had come.

"Hey. Wait! What about my bike?"

"There was no time. Someone was coming. It might have been him. We'll get you another one, I promise." The woman sounded sad, like she really had wanted to bring the bike.

His new bike. Brand-new. He bit his lip, not wanting to seem like a baby crying over his bike, but he watched it until he could see the shiny red no longer. There was a pebble in his shoe. He untied it, took it off, shook the pebble out. His hands were trembling too much to re-tie the laces. He left the shoe sitting on the seat beside him. "Is my dad all right?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, David," she said. "I didn't want to tell you this way..." She did look sorry.

"Is this the way back to the highway?" the man interrupted.

"Yes," the woman said sharply. "David, your dad and your mom are..."

She looked at the man but he wouldn't meet her eye. David filled the silence with all his worst imaginings and then she confirmed them. "Dead, David. They're both dead. I'm so so sorry." She reached back with a wrinkled hand and patted his knee. Carefully, like she was not used to children.

She must be wrong, he thought. In a minute she'd probably explain what she really meant. He distracted himself by thinking about happy things. When he looked out the window, he saw that they were almost to the place where the kid in his mom's stories, Cedric Carville, had thrown all those things out of the car. He picked up his shoe. Hefted it. Flexed his arm muscles.
As
they whirred around the curve, he opened the window and threw his shoe at the sign, watching the red sneaker spin end over end, landing just a few feel short. Not bad! A few more tries and he'd be able to hit the sign.

"Oh, David! That was a stupid thing to do, wasn't it?" the woman said. "Now you've only got one shoe."

David looked down at his foot and back at the woman. She was trying to smile but didn't look very friendly. "Sorry," he muttered, lowering his eyes. "Where are we going? Where are you taking me?"

"Far away from here," she said. "Someplace where you'll be safe. Where no one can find you."

"Will my grandma be there?"