Erica Spindler - Dead Run

She reached her bedroom doorway and peered through. She had left a single light on in the living room and another in the kitchen, the one over the sink. Both sent a soft pool of reassuring light spilling into the hallway.

Nothing looked out of order. She hesitated, listening. She heard a moped pass on the street below, caught the sound of distant laughter and a car door slam.

A relieved laugh escaped her. Of course, she had left several of her front windows open. The night had been mild, the humidity low. She had decided to circulate some fresh air. The sound that had awakened her had come from outside.

She headed in that direction to close the windows, then stopped as a distinct but muffled thump came from the kitchen, to her immediate right. She took a step into the room, flipping on the overhead as she did. Bright light illuminated every inch of the small area.

The scuffling sound came again. The cabinet beneath the sink, she realized. She crossed to it and ever so carefully eased the door open. Light flooded the small space. Beady black eyes blinked up at her from the garbage pail. Beady eyes belonging to creature eight inches long with a hairless, pink tail.

A rat! Liz slammed the cabinet door closed and sprang backward. How had the thing gotten in? And how did she get rid of it? No way could she sleep knowing it was in there.

Rat poison, she thought. Or a trap. Surely she could find a grocery or drugstore still open. Liz swung around and a scream flew to her throat.

Stephen stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at her, his mutilated face screwed into a frightening grimace. His mouth moved though no sound emerged.

She glanced quickly to her right, then left, assessing her options. The drawers behind her. She kept her knives in one of them. If she could get one, she might have a chance at defending herself.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded, backing up. “Get away from me.”

He advanced. His mouth moved and garbled, words spilled forth. He raised his hands as if in an attempt to grab her.

“Get away from me.” She took another step backward, reaching the counter. She reached behind her, eased open the drawer and fumbled for one of the knives.

Her fingers closed around a wooden handle. In a quick move, she drew out the knife, sprang away from the drawer and brandished her makeshift weapon at him. “Get away from me!” she shouted. “I’ll cut you, I promise I will!”

He froze, his expression a mask of horror. She took another step toward him. “I mean it! I’ll hurt you!”

With a cry, he inched backward. He reached the wall, but instead of stepping right to escape through the doorway, he sank to the floor. Bringing his arms up to shield his face, he cowered against the wall.

Liz stared at him, grip on the knife faltering. He whimpered, the defenseless sound childlike. Lump in her throat, she recalled what Heather had told her about the caretaker. That he had been the victim of severe child abuse. That the attack that had destroyed his face and taken his eye had also damaged his brain.

This man posed no danger to her.

Mortified at having frightened him, she laid the weapon on the counter. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. See? I put the knife away.”

He didn’t lower his arms. She saw that he trembled. Her heart broke for him. She could hardly fathom the horrific abuse this man must have suffered.

She held her hands out, palms up. “I won’t hurt you, Stephen. I was afraid. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

He lowered his arms a fraction, peeking at her over the top of them.

She took a cautious step toward him. “You understand being frightened, don’t you, Stephen?”

He did understand; she could tell by his expression, by the way he averted his gaze.

“Look at me, Stephen,” she said softly, taking another step closer. He did, though tentatively. “It’s all right. I’m not angry. And I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She smiled to prove it. “Would you like a glass of milk and a cookie?”

He nodded. She held out a hand. “Come, sit down.”

He took her hand and she helped him to his feet. She led him to the table and he sat, head down.

She poured the milk, went to the pantry and took out a package of Oreos-one of her personal weaknesses. She put three on a plate, then carried the snack to him.

“Here you go.” She set them in front of him, and took the chair across from his.

He met her eyes, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth, before his gaze transfixed on the cookies. She watched as he devoured them, then reached for his milk, gulping it down.

“Would you like more?” she asked.

He nodded. This time she brought the entire package to the table, along with a glass of milk for herself. “This is how I do it,” she said, and dunked one of the Oreos in the milk.

He watched her intently, then mimicked her. While he ate a half-dozen more of the chocolate-sandwich cookies, she studied him. Because of his misshapen features, she had thought this man to be a brute. Because of his inability to communicate, she’d thought he meant her harm.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Stephen was a gentle giant. An innocent trapped inside a monster’s face and body.

He wanted something from her, she realized. That’s why he had tried to grab her that day at the church. Why he had appeared at the parsonage window when she had been inside snooping. It was why he was here now.

But what?

“How did you get in here, Stephen?”

He turned and pointed toward the living room.

“The windows?” she asked. He shook his head yes. The side window, she acknowledged, thinking of the huge, old banyan tree on that side of the building, with its long, sturdy branches. It would have been relatively easy for him to climb the tree, traverse a branch and push through the window.

“Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it, a look of frustration crossing his face. He stood and pointed toward the door.

Liz got to her feet. “I don’t understand.”

He started toward it, motioning for her to follow him.

She did until they reached the door that led to the downstairs foyer. There, she stopped. He wanted her to follow him outside.

Liz held back. “I can’t go with you.”

He pointed toward the door again. She shook her head. “I can’t. Please try to understand, it wouldn’t be smart of me to do that. Look-” She pointed at her bare feet. “I’m not wearing shoes. And there’s this rat in my…” She let her words trail off.

As she had to him only minutes ago, he held out a hand to her. His eyes seemed to beg for her to trust him. They told her he wouldn’t hurt her.

She hoped to God she wasn’t wrong. Signaling that he should wait, she retrieved a pair of shoes, tied the kitchen cabinet shut with a belt to contain the rodent, then returned to Stephen. Taking a deep breath, she let him lead her out into the night.

Monday, November 19

1:00 a.m.

Stephen led Liz to Paradise Christian. He took her the back way, avoiding Duval Street by cutting through the alley, staying mostly hidden behind overgrown shrubs and mature trees.

Liz’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She was scared. No, she corrected silently. She had passed scared a half-dozen steps ago. Terrified would be a better description of her emotional state. What had she been thinking? Why should she trust this man? She knew nothing about him other than what Pastor Tim and Heather had told her.

Rachel had been afraid of him.

He could be a killer.

They reached the church’s walled garden. He held a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet, then eased open the heavy gate. They stepped through. Liz shuddered-the last time she stood in this spot had been the night Tara died.