Andrew Klavan - The long way home

But where was Beth?

The phone rang again. There was no sign of her. I remembered Sherman's sneering threat.

They'll kill her quietly, too, a knife to the throat. Cutting deep so she can't cry out. She'll bleed to death on the floor without a sound.

Horrible images came into my mind. Maybe I was too late. Maybe Sherman's thugs had already come into the house and…

I took my eyes off the road, glanced at the computer again-and now I saw Beth's door start to open. I glanced from the monitor to the windshield and back again. And then I saw Beth herself step into the room.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She looked all right, perfectly fine, good, wearing jeans and a sweater, calm, relaxed. They hadn't gotten to her.

As I glanced over again, I saw her find her ringing cell phone lying on the bed. She looked at the number on the readout and picked it up.

"Charlie?"

"Come to the computer, Beth. Talk to me through there."

"What's wrong?"

"Do it."

I snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into my pocket. Now I could drive with both hands and talk to her through the computer.

I felt the road grow more solid under me as I drove quickly through a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of town.

"Charlie?"

Beth's voice sounded small and tinny now as she spoke to me through the computer.

I glanced over at her. Her face loomed large as she stared through the monitor at me.

"Beth, listen to me. It was Sherman. Sherman killed Alex."

"Mr. Sherman?"

"He's sent people to your house."

"What? I don't understand. Why…?"

"To hurt you. To kill you, Beth. You need to get out- and then you need to call the police. But get out first -now-carefully-make sure no one's waiting for you. Get out and call the police. Don't ask questions. Just do it."

"All right, all right."

I came to a stop sign. I wanted to rush through it, but I was afraid of the police. If they pulled me over, I would never get to her. By the time I convinced them Beth was in danger, it might be too late.

I slowed the car just enough, then stepped on the gas again, coming around the corner onto Morgan Drive, a large boulevard with four lanes of two-way traffic. There weren't many cars out tonight, but there was a steady flow in both directions. I had to keep a careful eye on the road.

I kept stealing glances over at the laptop. There was Beth. She was moving toward the door. I urged her on in my mind: Get out of there. Get out.

But then she stopped. I saw her freeze, tense, one hand uplifted. She had left the bedroom door open when she came in. Now she was staring through it, out into the hall, out to the top of the stairs just visible on the computer monitor.

"Beth…" I said.

At the sound of my voice, she glanced back at the computer, back at me. She put her finger to her lips. Her voice came softly through the computer.

"Ssh. I think someone's in the house."

"Are you sure?" I said, trying to keep my voice down. I hated to think that her time had run out, that she couldn't get away.

She shook her head quickly. She wasn't sure. Putting her finger to her lips again, she moved to the door to listen better.

I drove quickly down the boulevard, weaving through the traffic, glancing over at the scene on the computer. It was like watching a horror movie, like watching the suspenseful scene where the heroine is caught in the house with the killer. I felt that afraid, that helpless to do anything about what was happening onscreen.

Only this wasn't a movie. It was real. It was Beth. And I needed to get to her.

Beth stood listening. Finally, I couldn't take the tension anymore.

"Beth!" I said in a hoarse whisper. "Shut the door. Lock the door. Call the police. Dial 911."

A horn blared loudly. I looked to the windshield just in time to see I had let the BMW drift across the center line. A pair of headlights was lancing toward me. I wrestled the wheel to the right, wrestled the car to the right, back into my lane, out of the headlights' path. The oncoming car raced by me.

Now there was a traffic light up ahead. It turned from green to yellow as I approached. I jammed my foot down on the gas and sped through it.

Finally I had a chance to glance over at the laptop again. There was Beth. She hadn't heard me. She had crept out through the doorway into the upstairs hall, walking softly. I could tell by her posture she was listening, listening to see if anyone had come into the house.

"Beth!" I said. "Get back in your room. Lock the door."

But even as I spoke, I heard it. Even there, in the car, the sound reached me through the computer's speakers.

A floorboard creaked in Beth's house. Someone was coming up the stairs.

Watching the busy road ahead, grabbing looks at the monitor, I saw Beth freeze in her tracks in the upstairs hallway. I saw her turn back to look at her bedroom door, to look at her computer, to look at me. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"Beth!" I whispered harshly. "Get back!"

I gestured to her-to the computer. I waved frantically to get her to come back into the room.

Finally, she moved. Hurrying on tiptoe, she dashed back down the hall, back into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly. There was a little twist knob, a bolt lock. She turned it. It wouldn't keep anyone out for long, but it might slow them down. Sherman had told me they didn't want to make any noise. They wanted to come and go quietly-come and kill her quietly and go. I didn't think they would just blast through the lock with a gunshot.

At least, I hoped they wouldn't.

I saw Beth standing in the center of the room. I started to speak, to tell her again to dial the police. But before I could, she flipped open the phone. Dialed 911.

She called for help. So did I: I prayed desperately as I peered through the windshield, working the steering wheel, forcing the car to weave left around a slow-moving van, then back quickly into the right lane to avoid a car that had paused for a left turn at an intersection. I prayed: Not her, Lord. Me. Not her.

"Police?" I could hear over the laptop speaker how shaky Beth's voice was, how scared she was. Well, I was scared too. I was only a couple of minutes away, but it felt like a million miles. I felt completely helpless to reach her. I heard her say, "My name is Beth Summers. I live at 45 Madison. There's someone in my house. Please send help. What? No. Someone in my house. Please, please…" She was close to tears.

And then she cried out.

I looked over at the laptop and saw the phone fall from her hand. Now I heard what she heard: a sound at the door. Trembling, Beth turned slowly to face it. The sound came again. A soft rattle. Glancing from the road in front of me to the laptop on the seat beside me, I saw the doorknob start to turn slowly, this way and that. Staring, terrified, Beth stumbled back a step.

It was hard to tear my eyes away, but I had to. I had to face front again. There was my next turn up ahead. I was almost there. It was a left turn and I was in the right lane. There was traffic to the side of me and traffic coming toward me. Somehow I had to get around all of it.

I twisted the steering wheel hard. The BMW squealed. The Volkswagen beside me screeched and skidded. An oncoming Cadillac sent up a blast of its horn. I cut recklessly across the lanes and shot off Morgan onto Belmont, a smaller, darker side street.

I stepped on the gas and raced into shadows. Madison- Beth's street-was only four blocks ahead.

Now I could spare a glance back at the laptop. Beth still stood frozen where she was, still staring at the door.

The knob was turning faster now, harder. The door started to rattle.

"Beth," I said.

My voice startled her. She spun toward me in terror.