James Heneghan - Fit to kill

“You could have a taxicab take you there and pick you up.”

“I will do no such thing. Two blocks? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous, Emma. Look, this maniac targets his victims, I’m certain of it. You’re a regular at the gym. He’s sure to have seen you there. What if you’re on his list?”

“Holy Mother of God! Don’t say that! Why would I be on his list?”

“I’m not saying you are. But think of those letters he sends the police and the newspapers about harlots. About the way they dress. You’ve got to admit you look… pretty stunning in those tights and things!”

“Things, is it? All I wear is exercise clothing! Usually a very unrevealing extra-large T-shirt over my leotards. What about the men in their skimpy tight shorts? It’s all right for them to be parading around showing off their family jewels, is it?”

“Och, all I’m saying-”

“I’ve finished my tea. You can kiss me now if you like.”

“Well, I haven’t, so you’ll just have to wait.”

A little while later, he had kissed her several times. Then he made his way home.

The thirteenth day.

Wexler called Casey at home and reported that the West End was wall-to-wall cops, most of them in plainclothes.

Casey telephoned Emma at six thirty, on his way out, and she promised him, for the second time, she would take a taxi.

“I’ll not be able to concentrate on a thing they say at the parks board meeting unless I know you’re safe.”

“Casey, I promise. I’ve already ordered Yellow Cab. It’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“What about when you get through at nine?”

“The same Yellow will pick me up.”

She wore her jungle outfit, which was what she called her green-yellow-black camouflage-design cotton skirt and matching jacket. It was smart and stylish, yet not too stylish that it would bother the moms and dads. She pushed her stocking feet into a pair of comfortable black pumps and hung a warm ski jacket with hood over her shoulders against the cold rain. She felt ridiculous riding two blocks, but the driver didn’t seem to mind.

“I am hating to say it, miss, but West End killer very good for business.” He smiled apologetically. “I come for you later, yes? Nine o’clock?”

“Make it nine fifteen, okay?”

She joined a thin stream of parents moving into the school.

The rain had stopped when she finally got out, late, delayed by a mother intent on making Emma fully informed of her son’s history since the day of his birth.

The same taxi driver was waiting. He seemed surprised to see her, as though surviving a parents’ night was an accomplishment deserving of congratulation. Which it was, thought Emma. Perhaps that was why she had unconsciously chosen the jungle outfit. There had been a good turnout tonight, but now all the parents had gone.

The driver let her off at Killarney Place. She overtipped him.

“Thank you, miss.” He gave a friendly wave and drove off. She looked about her. The street was empty and quiet. Traffic activity had ceased.

Key in hand, Emma approached the lobby door, breathing a sigh of relief that she was home. She pushed her key into the lock. She didn’t see the man in black step from the bushes. She was only aware that she’d been ambushed when his arm snaked about her neck and dragged her into the shrubbery.

She screamed.

Casey heard the scream.

He had been standing on the opposite side of the street from Emma’s apartment, having arrived just in time to see her alight from the taxi. He watched her walk to the lobby door. And saw the dark figure attack her.

Casey raced across the street, dove into the shrubbery. He leaped onto the man’s back. But the killer smashed his left eye with his elbow, and Casey saw stars. He fell beside Emma, dazed with pain.

The attacker ran away. Casey rose groggily to his feet and tried to run after him. But, half blind with pain, he lost him in the darkness.

He returned to Emma, still lying on the ground, and kneeled beside her. “Emma, it’s me, Casey. Can you stand if I help you up?”

“Casey?” Her voice was a croak.

“Let’s get you inside.” He took her weight on his shoulders. “I need your keys.”

“In the door…”

The keys were in the lock. Casey opened the door and eased Emma into the lobby.

From there he helped her into her ground-floor apartment. She collapsed, half conscious, onto the couch.

Then she struggled, trying to get up.

“Stay where you are, Emma. Relax. He’s gone. You’re safe.”

“Where…?”

“He got away.”

“Did you…get a look at his face?”

He shook his head. “No. Did you?”

“No.” She noticed his eye, already swollen.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m all right.”

“Your meeting…?”

“Didn’t go. Had a feeling about you… Jack covered for me. Close your eyes and relax.”

When her breathing settled, he called the police. Then he looked at his eye in the bathroom mirror. Swollen, closed, already discolored. But not too bad. Could be worse. He made an ice pack with one of Emma’s tea towels and waited for the police to arrive.

Emma had nightmares.

The killer with his knife. Her headless body in a dumpster.

At dawn she crept quietly out for a run, leaving Casey asleep.

The rain lashed down. She headed off into the wind, toward the park. She was soaked before she had run three hundred yards. But it didn’t matter. The rain and wind were what she needed to banish the images from her mind. Exorcise the devils. Wrench back the power that had been stolen from her.

She ran hard, pushing herself until her muscles, lungs and heart protested. She moaned loudly, exulting in the pain. Running like a wounded animal-feral, wild, fierce. She attacked the hill up to Brockton Point, running recklessly, savagely. The rain lashed her with whips of ice, the wind tore at her face and hair. She cried tears and raged down the Siwash trail to the seawall, splashing through leaves and mud. Finally, an hour later, totally spent, she emerged from her own private storm.

Casey was waiting for her when she got back.

“Shaughnessy! Your own blessed mother wouldn’t know you!”

She looked down at herself, soaked and splattered with mud and forest needles. She felt good. She smiled at Casey, stood on her toes and kissed his injured eye. “My brave knight.”

He put his arms about her and kissed her.

The storm rattled Casey’s window. He couldn’t sleep. His eye hurt. He glanced at the clock: 1:25 am.

He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the howl and scream of the wind and the rattle of rain against the window.

After a while he gave up trying to sleep and opened his book, but couldn’t read. He kept thinking of Emma. No matter how many new locks Emma had fitted to her slider door, that ground-floor apartment of hers was not a safe place. Not with the killer still on the loose. He wanted to call her. He looked at the clock: 2:06.

He picked up his book and tried again to read.

After an hour, his eyes were tired. He switched off the light and lay back, closing his eyes, listening to the wind gusting outside, drifting into sleep.

A loud splintering crash jerked him awake again. He threw himself out of bed and hurried to the window. The giant chestnut tree across the street had blown down. He could see that it had crashed through the roof of Matty Kayle’s house. Its roots, torn from the ground, formed a twisted mass that reared high in the air like the arms of a monster.