A Heartbeat Away

CHAPTER 38

Before Angie could react, a man emerged from the shadows beside the door, and stepped into the aisle, blocking her path. He was tall—six feet or more—and thin, but broad at the shoulders. Even in the dim light she could tell that his aquiline face was probably handsome at one time. Now, dominated by a huge, jagged scar running down his forehead, across his eyebrow, and over his cheek, it was utterly terrifying. He wore a black leather jacket, black watch cap, and black leather gloves. Dangling loosely from his right hand was a meat cleaver. What little light there was glinted off its broad blade.

“Welcome to hell, Senorita Fletcher,” he said, his perfect English tinged with a Hispanic accent.

React! Angie’s mind screamed. Now!

She swept her arm across the shelf by her shoulder, sending a barrage of cans and cartons flying into his chest, belly, and groin. The impact wasn’t much, but the surprise gave her what she needed—enough time to whirl and bolt back down the aisle.

“No chance, senorita,” the man called out in a singsong voice.

Angie screamed for help, frantically wondering where she might find another way out. If there were a stairway, she would have to pass by Sylvia’s body to find it.

“Help!” she screamed again. “Someone please help!”

“I promise it will be painless for you, senorita,” the man called from behind her. “Dr. Chen was kind enough to part with her papers. Now, I just need a few answers from you. Thank you for leading me to her, by the way. I’ve been with you all the way from Kansas, and now I feel as if we are sort of buddies.”

He was close.

Angie turned her head to gauge how close, and slammed into Sylvia’s body. The woman’s corpse swung away, then back, striking Angie and dropping her to one knee. She cried out and, scrambling to her feet, shoved Chen at the killer, who was now near enough to connect with the cleaver had he chosen to do so.

Instead, he stepped to one side of the aisle, twirling the weapon like a drummer’s stick. They were no more than three feet apart. Even in the deep gloom, the grotesque, irregular scar stood out like a lightning bolt. There was nothing in his expression that suggested it was worth trying to negotiate.

“Enough,” he said. “We need to talk. Your friend Sliplitz understood. He answered my questions. You do the same and I promise you won’t feel any more pain than he did.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Believe it or don’t, Senorita Fletcher, you are not the first one to call me that. Now…”

Cradling the cleaver in his right hand, he took a half step toward her and reached out for her arm. Angie’s response was immediate. She swept her fist overhead, shattering the lightbulb and throwing the basement into absolute darkness. In the same motion, she grasped one of the metal shelving units, bringing it crashing down on the man.

The killer grunted and cursed, and Angie felt certain he was on the floor. Instead of turning to run, she leapt forward, stepping on boxes and the shelving, and stomping on what might have been the killer’s chest. Then, holding her arms out to her sides to maintain contact with the shelves, she moved ahead as rapidly as she dared, back toward the steel door.

One step through the blackness, then another.

Behind her she heard the man throwing aside the debris, and working himself out from under the shelf.

The door had to be directly ahead.

Angie was trying to visualize which side the handle was on when she slammed full face into a steel support beam. She heard the bone in her nose shatter. Blinding pain exploded through her head. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around the post, keeping herself from going down. Her nose filled with blood. Tears flooded down her cheeks.

At that instant, the killer’s hand closed on her ankle.

Fueled by adrenaline, Angie kicked frantically, and connected. The grip on her leg vanished. Dazed, she plunged ahead. Two more steps and she hit the steel door forehead first, snapping her neck back. Another blast of pain. More dizziness and nausea. More tears. She slowed momentarily, then fumbled blindly for the door handle.

Again she felt the man’s hand shoot out through the darkness and close on her ankle, but in that moment, her own fingers closed on the door handle.

She jammed the handle down. Immediately the door yielded, and she was in the alley, which was only marginally better lit than the basement had been. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that her pursuer was on his hands and knees. He had clearly lost some of his composure. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.

Angie charged ahead. The killer, scrambling to his feet, might have gotten her right there, had he not slipped and fallen heavily into a puddle of garbage mixed with freezing slush.

Still, with the man quickly regaining his feet, Angie knew the chase was almost over. She was too far from either end of the alley to make it.

“Help!” she screamed. “Someone help me, please!”

Her cries were swallowed by the dense winter night.

A fire escape seemed her only chance. The way up to the nearest one was the built-in rungs on the side of one of the narrow Dumpsters, standing no more than eight feet away.

Gasping for breath, Angie grasped the top rung and hauled herself up until she was standing on the rim of the Dumpster, six feet from the ground and another six feet or so from the steel ladder at the base of the slatted stairway.

“End of the line, senorita,” the man said, breathing heavily.

He reached for her ankle, but just as he did, Angie took a single deep breath and launched herself upward. The cold air and her winter jacket held her back, making the difficult leap almost impossible. She was certain she had missed, and was already wondering what she could possibly do next when the fingers of her right hand hit against the edge of the lowest rung of the fire escape ladder and curled around the metal. There was no way she would be able to hold on for more than a second or two, but that was enough. Her weight began to pull the rusted ladder down, far enough so that her feet reconnected with the rim of the Dumpster. She adjusted her grip, hooked the fingers of her other hand around the icy metal, and pulled with all her strength.

In what seemed like slow motion, the ladder swung down.

Her foot was on the second rung when she felt the killer clawing at her leg once more. This time, she pulled away easily and climbed upward toward the first landing. She screamed and screamed again for help, aware that any misstep now would mean her death.

To her dismay the windows on the building remained dark and closed. By the time she reached the first landing, the man was on the ladder. The windows facing the landing were barred. From now on it would be stairs—slatted, freezing metal that would make every step treacherous.

At the second-floor landing the windows weren’t barred. She considered and quickly abandoned the notion of smashing one of them, and trying to climb or dive inside someone’s apartment. The killer was way too close, and two people had already died because of her.

Keeping her hands in contact with the railing, she pounded upward past one landing, then another. Blood sprayed from her nose with every frozen breath. She pawed at it with the back of her hand and coughed it from the back of her throat. Still, the distance between her and the killer seemed to be widening. Perhaps his sodden clothes were slowing him down. Perhaps he was hurt. Perhaps it was all those hours she had spent on the stationary bike.

God, but she missed her apartment.…

Her dizziness was getting more intense, and her breathing was growing more difficult, but she could hear that her pursuer was laboring also. She was reconsidering smashing a window, when she looked above and saw movement. A woman was poking out from one of the windows on the next landing.

“Help me!” Angie cried out to her. “Please!”

The woman slipped back inside the room, but the narrow window remained open. Angie dove through it, landing awkwardly, hitting her already battered forehead and smearing the hardwood floor with blood. A wizened woman stood in a corner, illuminated by a small bedside lamp. Angie suddenly realized where she was. Riverside! She’d explored the place just hours ago. She knew the room and she knew its occupant.

It was Chen Su—Sylvia Chen’s mother.