Meg O'Brien - The Final Kill

Damn.

As she came within feet of the barn, she saw that one of the two big doors in front, usually locked up at night, stood half-open. An invitation.

How considerate. But sorry, Frank. I have other plans.

Veering off toward the far side of the building, she ran the way she’d been taught, barely touching the ground and with little sound. But as she reached that side, her heart jumped to her throat.

The usual porch light wasn’t on over here.

The fixture was on the wall at the far end of the stable. It should have illuminated this side dimly—just enough to see if someone else had gotten here before her—but the bulb had apparently burned out. Or Frett had knocked it out. It was so black here, it felt like the dark side of the moon. And the air was thick. Thick with fear. She thought she heard another heart beating, and her legs turned to jelly.

Several moments later, she realized she was hearing the heartbeat of one of the horses on the other side of the barn wall. Only then did she know that her hearing had improved because her own heart had actually stopped a few beats. She’d been holding her breath so long, it was a wonder she hadn’t passed out.

She sucked in air, steadied herself and listened a few more moments for any human sounds.

Nothing.

But that might not matter. Frank Frett would know better than to reveal himself that carelessly. He could be anywhere inside the stables—in the tack room, the feed room, in Sister Ellen’s office—and no matter where he was, he wouldn’t make a sound.

She was so sure of that, she made an on-the-spot decision and did what any impulsive, get-the-job-done person like her wouldn’t do.

She sat down.

She didn’t barge in screaming like a banshee, hoping to shock her target and take him by surprise, risking a shot in the back. Nor did she sneak around to the back door or through a window the way he’d expect her to.

No, he’d be covering the back door, the windows, all the routes she might take to outwit him. After all, she was the type to barrel right in, wasn’t she? That was pretty much what he’d said the other day, mixing both clichés and awkward metaphors. “You’re an open book, Abby, and anybody can hear you coming a mile away.”

Much to her chagrin, she had to admit he was at least half-right.

So, instead of the expected, she just sat down.

It shouldn’t take long, she thought, squatting and easing her back against a tree opposite the barn wall. Five or ten minutes of absolute silence, and if he was in there, he’d get impatient and wonder where she was. He’d come out—and that’s when she’d get him. Frank Frett wasn’t the type to sit around, and several minutes without any kind of movement from her would drive him nuts.

While she waited, she imagined the things she would do to the lilac killer, once he was good and dead. She’d get something from the gardening shed…lye, perhaps. Yes, lye. That should do it. She’d dig a grave just deep enough to dump him in it. Then she’d pour the lye over his entire body. It would eat away at his skin and other mucous membranes in no time. His eyes would go first, but whether it would eat through his bones, she didn’t know. It really didn’t matter. The pain is what mattered. The same kind of pain her lilacs had felt when they were burned by poison at the hands of Frank Frett.

Lye, she recalled, was what they used when they buried people in the old days to prevent diseases from spreading. She remembered, too, a story about St. Margaret Mary, who claimed to have had visions of the Blessed Mother and was told by her to begin a devotion to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. She did, and it was said that when they dug her up years later, her heart was still red and fresh, that the lye hadn’t touched it. It was God’s grace that her heart was preserved, the Church said, because of her love for the Blessed Mother. It was one of the miracles, Abby thought she recalled, that was used to prove her a saint.

Well, Frank Frett’s heart would never be touched by God’s grace. If they ever dug him up, they’d find it was cold, black and hard as a rock. Even lye couldn’t eat through a heart that hated lilacs.

A too-sweet smell of hay filtered through the wall of the stable, along with the sweaty odor of horses in their warmed stalls. Abby’s nose began to itch, and she pressed a finger under it to keep herself from sneezing. That did nothing for the smell of manure, which was faint but enough to make her empty stomach clutch. She hadn’t eaten in twelve hours, and she was hungry suddenly, though not in a good, healthy way. Instead, she really thought she was about to vomit. Covering her mouth with both hands, she gulped back the bile that rose in her throat, telling herself over and over, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. Just don’t make a sound, not a sound.

It was Frett himself who saved her. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold it back any longer, she heard movement at the rear of the barn. She forgot all about throwing up and crouched, moving that way, listening for a direction. Then she saw him. He was crouching, too, and then running from the barn toward the little chapel, his body nothing more than a black form about fifty feet ahead of her.

She brought her gun up and pointed it at his back. “Stop!”

He twisted around, his own weapon raised. But she’d taken him by surprise, and she shot first. He went down.

Abby ran over to him, touching his leg with her foot. He didn’t move, and the splattered red blotch on his chest told her she’d hit her mark.

“Gotcha,” she said softly. “Your days of poisoning lilacs are over, Frank Frett.”

“You think so?” he taunted, grabbing her pant leg and yanking at it. She was so surprised, she lost her footing and fell, dropping her gun. Stumbling to her feet, she picked it up, but he was already running again. Reaching a live oak tree, he stood behind it for cover, and she ran in a zigzag pattern until she was close enough to shoot again.

It didn’t work, and she saw it coming before she felt it. He stepped out from behind the tree and aimed his Shocktech 2003 at her. The thrust went straight to her heart, and she went down with an enormous rush of breath and a moan.

She wasn’t faking it the way he had. The pain was sharp and stinging, and for a few seconds everything went black. Then, her vision clearing, she saw “Frank Frett” kneeling over her in the person of Ben Schaeffer, her lover, his face twisted in anger.

“Dammit all to hell, Abby! Why aren’t you wearing your protective gear? A face mask, at least! Paintballs can blind you, you know.”

Considering Abby’s “injury,” Ben wasn’t all that gentle as he dumped her from his shoulder onto her bed.

“If you’d worn the damned chest protector I bought for you, this never would have happened!”

“Don’t swear,” she said, laughing facedown into her pillow. “The nuns might hear.”

“I don’t give—” He checked himself and lowered his voice. “And why the hell didn’t you wear your face mask?”

“It makes me sweat,” she said.

“So you’d rather lose an eye? Turn over.”

“No.”

“Turn over!”

She pressed her belly into the sheets rather than give in.

He tugged at her shoulder. “C’mon, Abby. I want to see how bad you’re hurt. If you don’t turn over, I’ll turn you myself.”

She knew he could do it, so she rolled over, grinning. “You think that silly little paintball did me in? No way.”

“It got you square on the chest,” he argued. “For God’s sake, it almost knocked you out.”

“Don’t be so dramatic! All it did was smart and knock the wind out of me. A little. Besides, I got you first.”