William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

Mike pressed himself against the wall, then swung forward. Just before his foot connected with the door, he felt something wrap around his throat and jerk him backwards.

He stumbled, lost his balance and dropped his gun. Only the grip around his neck kept him from falling. He reached up and grabbed the thin—cord?—wrapped around his throat. He tried to pull it away, but he wasn’t strong enough. It was already wound twice around. The cord was pressing into his neck, cutting as well as choking. He gritted his teeth and pulled with all his might, but he couldn’t even budge it.

The lack of oxygen was already affecting him. He needed air and he needed it fast. He reached behind his head and grabbed his assailant’s arms. He tried to heave him over his shoulders. No luck—he just couldn’t get enough leverage. The killer must be made of concrete; Mike couldn’t move him an inch.

He began to feel lightheaded. He didn’t think it would happen this fast, but it did. He fell to his knees, no longer able to stand. He looked into the bathroom and saw an inner door standing open. Of course—an adjoining door connected the bedroom to the bath; that’s how the killer got behind him. Stupid fool—he deserved to be strangled.

His strength was fading fast. Mike knew he only had time for one last gambit. He suddenly threw his entire weight to one side. It caught his attacker off guard; he lurched forward. Mike saw his opportunity. He slammed his elbow back, catching the killer in the stomach. He heard a satisfying oof! then grabbed the cord and tried to pry it loose.

The attacker recovered quickly. Much too quickly. He slapped Mike’s hands away and pulled the cord even tighter around Mike’s neck. Mike fell forward, the air drained from his lungs. His lips parted; his tongue fell out of his mouth. He could barely think, barely see. He had tried everything he had and come up short. It was over. Worst of all, he knew Ben would be next and…he didn’t even want to think about it.

Fortunately, a few seconds later, he wasn’t able to think about anything at all.

47

BEN JUST COULDN’T STAND it any longer. He knew Mike was right; if the killer escaped through the kitchen door the whole exercise would be a waste of time. But he couldn’t bear to stand idle while Mike took all the risks. He couldn’t even hear Mike move since the air conditioner had come on.

Of course, Mike would be furious.…Screw it. Mike’s backup should be here by now anyway, but since it wasn’t, Ben was appointing himself.

The instant he entered the living room Ben heard something upstairs—a heavy thumping sound. He walked around and peered up the stairs. Through the bannister, he saw Mike down on his knees, and someone else, someone Ben could only see from the waist down, standing behind Mike, holding something tight around Mike’s neck.

Ben checked his instinctive impulse to dart upstairs. He needed a weapon if he was going to stand half a chance. His eyes swept over the room, but he didn’t see anything, not even the proverbial poker. His eyes lit upon the mixing blade, still on the sofa where Trixie had left it. That would have to do. Ben scooped it up and ran upstairs.

The other man heard Ben coming, but not in time to prevent himself from being tackled. Ben hurled himself against the back of the man’s legs, sending him flying into the wall. The man released his grip on the cord; Mike’s head thudded down on the hardwood floor.

Ben followed the man to the wall and stabbed him in the side with the mixing blade. The man let out a shout. Ben came at him again, but the man grabbed Ben’s arm and tossed the blade aside. This man was strong—incredibly strong.

In no time at all, he had twisted Ben’s arm behind his back. He pushed Ben against the banister, trying to shove him over the top. Ben struggled to get free, to get a look at his assailant’s face. He wedged his feet between the rails of the banister to lock himself down. The man pushed even harder. Ben felt the tendons in his legs straining; he knew he couldn’t resist for much longer.

Suddenly, they both became aware of a siren wailing in the distance. Thank God, Ben thought—the backup finally made it. The man shoved Ben onto the floor, then flew down the stairs. A second later, Ben heard the kitchen door open and slam shut.

Ben pulled himself to his feet. There was no point in trying to catch the assailant; he was far ahead and considerably faster, and besides, Ben was worried about Mike. Ben crouched beside his friend’s motionless body. Mike’s eyes were closed; his face was a ghastly color. There was a long, jagged cut across his forehead and it was bleeding profusely. Ben grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. No reaction at all.

Ben placed two fingers against Mike’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was faint and irregular but, by God, it was there. He was still alive. Ben saw a pool of blood on the floor where Mike’s head had fallen. Damn, damn, damn—he might have a concussion or skull fracture, on top of being nearly asphyxiated. If Mike didn’t get some help fast, his chances were slim to none.

Ben ran down the stairs, planning to call an ambulance. To his surprise, he saw a white and blue EMSA ambulance pull up in the driveway. The siren they heard hadn’t been the police after all. Ben ran out on the porch to meet them. His amazement doubled when the passenger door flung open…and Christina jumped out.

“Christina! You’re all right!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her tight.

“I was worried about you, too, Ben. What happened?”

The paramedics ran up to the front doorstep. “He’s at the top of the stairs,” Ben said, pointing. “He’s banged his head and may be suffering from oxygen deprivation.” The paramedics clambered up the stairs.

“Who? Mike?” Christina asked.

“Yes. The murderer got him. And he almost got me.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you see who he was?”

“No, damn it. I never got a look at his face, and I think he was wearing a stocking or mask anyway. I never even got a good look at his body. Christina, where have you been?”

“I got a phone call about half an hour ago saying you had been brought to St. Francis’s emergency room. I tried to get Trixie to come with me, but she refused—said she had to wait for Buddy. When I arrived at the hospital, and no one there had even heard of you, I became suspicious. I ran down to the ambulance bay, told them I had an emergency situation, and rode back here with them.”

“You probably saved Mike’s life. I think he needs immediate attention.” He looked up the stairs and saw that the paramedics had applied an oxygen mask to Mike’s face.

“If you’re not in the hospital, Ben, who called me?”

“Must’ve been the killer.”

“How did he get the number?”

“I don’t know. Has Buddy come home yet?”

Christina shook her head.

“That may answer that question.”

“But why would he make a false phone call?”

“To lure you away—” Ben suddenly turned white as a sheet. “Oh, my God! Trixie!”

Ben flew into the house and bolted up the stairs, avoiding the paramedics hovering over Mike. He could see into the two upstairs rooms with open doors. One was a bedroom, the other a bathroom. No one was in either one.

Ben approached the third door, the closed one. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open.

There she was.

48

TRIXIE’S BODY HUNG LIMPLY over the edge of the bed. Her head nearly touched the carpet; her face was a ghastly blue. Her neck was lacerated with deep, bloody abrasions.

This time, Ben didn’t bother searching for a pulse. Her condition was obvious.

Ben crumpled against the wall. His legs were like jelly, useless appendages. He pressed his hand against his face, still staring at her lifeless body. He felt sick.