Better Read Than Dead

  “Yeah, well, there may be something there that I can focus on to get a bead on Dora. I’m surprised you wouldn’t have thought about getting me the complete file to begin with; after all, you do want to find her, don’t you?”

  Andros regarded me the way a lion regards a pesky mosquito, and tossed the paper back in my direction with irritation. “Take the paper, Miss Cooper, and find my wife. I’m giving you three days from today. If you’re as good as you say you are, you should have no more trouble. Oh, and no more visits to the police department . . . you now have everything you need to find my wife. Are we clear?”

  Relieved beyond measure that I’d pulled my escape off so easily, I stood quickly and tucked the copy of the report into my purse. Turning toward the door before Andros had a chance to change his mind, I said, “We are perfectly clear, Mr. Kapordelis. See you in a few days.” Bravely I marched forward and put my hand on the door handle, pausing for the briefest of seconds to see if anyone would try to stop my progress. No one did, so I pulled open the door and stepped through quickly, walking down the hallway like I owned the place, hoping no one would notice and bar my exit.

  To my immense relief I made it to the car without incident, and took my seat on the large leather cushion, waiting for someone to climb in with me. Instead, Goblin—who had followed briskly after me out of the house—shut the door behind me from the outside and then pounded on the side of the car, letting the driver know to leave.

  Without further ado I was headed toward home, and as we pulled out of the driveway and onto Lakeshore Drive I wanted to sob with relief; somehow I had made it out alive. Now all I had to do was warn Dutch the moment I reached home. I tapped my foot anxiously on the carpeted floor of the car as I willed the driver to hurry, but as we got onto the highway all thoughts of making it home quickly evaporated.

  There was a major traffic jam, and cars were bumper-to-bumper as far as the eye could see. My intuition was buzzing in the back of my head, and the only reccurring thought I seemed to be able to focus on was that I had to warn Dutch—now . . . there was no time to lose. I eyed my purse on the floor of the sedan, and with a racing heart reached into it and pulled out my cell phone. I had to be quick and clever, and I wondered if I’d get away with the conversation I was about to have. As I flipped open the phone and began to dial I happened to look up suddenly, and I noticed the driver of the car watching me intently from the front seat. I had to be careful here, very, very careful.

  Plastering a relaxed, almost bored expression onto my face and ignoring the driver, I waited as the phone on the other end rang once, twice, then three times before it was finally picked up and I heard Milo announce, “Johnson,” into the mouthpiece.

  “Hey there,” I said anxiously.

  “Abby?” Milo asked while I watched the driver’s eyes stare suspiciously at me in the rearview mirror.

  “I have a message from Edgar,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Edgar,” I enunciated. “He wants to warn you that you need to call his partner in Holland tonight. He said he knows it may be kind of tough to reach him, but that he thinks you’ve got the number, correct?”

  There was a long pause while Milo tried to figure out my coded message. Finally he asked in a hushed tone, “Abby, are you in trouble?”

  “Nope,” I said, “But Edgar thinks there’s something really bad brewing in Holland and that’s why you need to call. Got it?”

  “Yeah, you want me to call Dutch, I got it, but you’re going to fill me in on why later on, right?”

  “Sounds good. Talk to you soon, buddy,” I said and flipped the cell phone closed as I stared out the window, sighing heavily as if I were bored. Inside my stomach was in knots and my heart was beating so loudly that I thought I was going to pass out, but somehow I managed to hold it together.

  It took us nearly an hour to make it back to my house, and after getting out of the car I practically bolted to the front door. Frantically I fished for my keys; then I remembered I hadn’t had a chance to lock the door when Goblin and Gargoyle had kidnapped me. I turned the knob quickly and walked inside, slamming it shut behind me and throwing the bolt home.

  I laid my head against the door for a moment, collecting myself, then pushed away from it and surveyed the room. The smell of burned carpet and pungent cigar smoke still hung heavily in the air. Deciding the smell was too much, I held my nose and went upstairs to my bedroom, which had been shut off from the rest of the house because of the cold. I opened my bedroom door and stepped inside, shivering a little at the coldness of the room and my own fear, and quickly closed the door behind me. Next I turned on the space heater, and after a few minutes the room became comfortable.

  Not knowing what else to do, I sat on the bed for a long moment and thought about how to get myself out of the mess I was in. I felt like there was a way out, but I was a long way from it. I prayed that Milo had gotten a warning to Dutch, and that he was okay. I’d have to let Milo know about Bennington, but for now all I could do was hide away in my bedroom and wait . . . for what I didn’t know, but something big was about to happen; I just knew it.

  As the room heated up, I felt my eyelids begin to droop. With all the adrenaline and stress from the past few weeks, I figured I could really use a power nap, so I reclined on my pillows and huddled underneath one of the thick afghans on my bed. In moments I was asleep.

  I was aware that I was in a familiar place, but that didn’t make me feel at ease. I looked around the large parking lot, nervous for reasons I couldn’t remember. I saw a grocery store in the distance, and a post office next to that, and for some reason that alarmed me.

  A figure appeared and began to walk toward me. I didn’t like the figure, but I couldn’t remember why. Before he got close enough to recognize, I turned and ran out of the parking lot as fast as I could. Suddenly a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop appeared in front of me, and I ran inside. The doughnut shop was bright and warm, and I felt safer here. I took in the surroundings. I appeared to be alone, but there was something odd about the place. All the doughnuts were displayed in a coffin, and I couldn’t figure out why that didn’t make sense. I approached the counter to get a closer look, and from out of the back walked J. R. Ewing sporting a ten-gallon hat, a flashy gold sheriff’s star on his right lapel and a brilliant smile.

  I was shocked by his appearance, but he seemed to know me, and for some reason that put me at ease. “Hello, little lady,” he said winningly. “I bet you’re here for the special of the day.”

  I nodded yes, even though I didn’t know what the special of the day was. “Well, come around the counter, missy, and have a look!” J.R. said.

  Without hesitation I rounded the corner and walked to where he pointed. “It’s back there,” he said, indicating an elaborately decorated doorway with beautiful stenciled vines and flowers snaking their way along the frame of a large wood door.

  The door itself was bright yellow, and seemed so inviting I had to go in. “Uh, hold on there just a sec,” J.R. said, making me wait a moment. “You almost forgot your tea.” And he handed me a cup of tea that smelled divinely sweet. I took a sip, and it was delicious except for the little particles of tea leaves still floating in the liquid. I smiled politely at J.R. and moved again toward the door. Just as I reached for the door handle, someone from behind grabbed me and whirled me around, sending my tea smashing against the doughnut-filled coffin.

  It was the masked postman, and his eyes told me he was furious. He raised his arm, and a tire iron caked in blood loomed over my head, ready to crash down on me. I screamed at the top of my lungs and sat straight up in bed, sweat soaking my clothes and my breath coming in short bursts of fright.

  I looked around the room, for a moment confused by my surroundings. When it finally registered that I’d just had a simple nightmare and that I was okay, I was able to get my breathing under control. After a few minutes I rolled my feet over the edge of the bed, and got up to change out of my damp clothes.

/>   I slipped on a pair of fresh undies, jeans and another woolly sweater; all the while the fragments of the dream buzzed around in my head. I was certain there were several clues my guides were trying to get to me, but I wasn’t certain how they all fit together. As soon as I’d dressed I looked around for something to write on, and remembered I had a small notebook in my purse. I grabbed my purse, plopped back down onto the bed, got out the pad of paper and a pen and quickly jotted down the dream.

  After I was finished, my eye kept coming back to the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop. What was the deal with J. R. Ewing? I thought about my childhood memories of the show Dallas, and smiled at how hooked I’d been on the show. I sighed and put the pad aside for a minute, letting my mind wander.

  I thought more about the dream, but nothing was really coming together for me, so I flipped on the television, thinking I could change the subject for a while, then go back to it later.

  After surfing through a couple of channels I landed on the news. There was a breaking story, and goose bumps lined my arms even before the news anchor turned quickly to a reporter on the scene outside of a Detroit police station.

  “Thank you, Nancy. I’m at Detroit’s East Precinct, where the body of a man pulled out of the Detroit River three days ago and riddled with bullets has been positively identified as Giolini Garzopolis. . . .” A mug shot appeared on the screen, and I felt my stomach drop to the floor. The mug shot was of Goon.

  I stopped listening to the reporter for a moment, and focused on the face, shock and panic raising my heart rate. A moment later the mug shot disappeared, and I had no choice but to listen to the reporter again as she rattled off the details: “. . . suspected of being connected to the Greek Mafia. It is unknown when Mr. Garzopolis was murdered, but the coroner’s report suggests that it was sometime late last week.

  “Also, a few minutes ago I was able to interview Detective Milo Johnson of the Royal Oak Police Department, who has come down to Detroit’s East Precinct looking for a possible connection between Mr. Garzopolis and the serial rapist who has been stalking that Detroit suburb. It is unclear at this time what that connection may be, but we will be following this story closely, and update you as details develop.

  “Reporting live from Detroit’s east side, this is Elizabeth Johansson for Fox Two News.”

  I clicked the television off and sat back against the pillows on the bed. My brow furrowed as I tried to make sense of Goon’s murder. Intuitively I knew that Andros had ordered the hit, but why? Why would Kapordelis want Goon dead? Suddenly my intuition buzzed again, and the image of a canary popped into my head.

  Goon was killed because Kapordelis thought he’d snitch about something? I asked mentally.

  Right side, light airy feeling . . . My sign for yes.

  Well, that explains why I haven’t seen Goon since Cat’s attack. He must have been killed right after I agreed to do the project with Andros. . . .

  Just then I had a terrible thought, and I bolted up and swiveled my feet to the floor, bracing myself with my hands as adrenaline coursed through my body.

  If Kapordelis saw the newscast, he would now know that the Royal Oak PD had made a connection between Goon and the rapist; but what Andros didn’t know was that Milo had gotten that particular link from a video surveillance tape—and not from me.

  My mouth went dry as I realized that Andros would most definitely make the conclusion that I had lied to him, and I alone had tipped off Milo . . . which, of course, meant that I was now a sitting duck. A chill swept through me as I remembered Dutch saying that Kapordelis’s goons were close by and watching my house.

  Oh, no!

  At the exact moment I had that thought I heard a tremendous wham! against my front door. Someone was breaking into my house. Startled, I jumped off the bed and grabbed the cordless. I clicked the on button and dialed 911, then put the phone to my ear and listened to silence. The phone was dead. I depressed the on button twice more, each time raising it to my ear, but no sound came on the line. My phone line had been cut. Panicking now, I searched the room trying to think. Spying my purse I grabbed it and snatched out my cell phone. Quickly I dialed 911 and before the operator even had a chance to speak I screamed my address into the receiver and begged the dispatcher to send the police.

  Wham! . . . crack . . .”

  My front door was giving way!“ Please hurry!” I begged and clicked off the phone. I then turned in a circle. . . . What to do? Where to go? Quickly I shuffled into my loafers and grabbed my purse again, opening my bedroom door and looking toward the stairs.

  Wham! . . . Wham! More wood splintering.

  I was about to rush out of my room, down the stairs and out the back door, but quickly thought better of it—they were probably waiting for a move exactly like that and had someone at my back door just in case I decided to run out that way.

  Wham! . . . Wham! . . . Wham!

  “Damn!” I whined as I shut my bedroom door again and turned in a circle, searching the room for a hiding place. Just then my eye fell on the small door to my attic, and without further hesitation I ran to it, heaving it open, then ducking through into the cold, dark space of my attic as I quickly shut the door behind me.

  I squinted into the fading light, searching for a place to hide, my vision obscured by the dimness. Suddenly I heard the front door give way, and instinct pushed me deeper into the room as I walked carefully over piles of old clothes and boxes of junk while my eyes darted around, looking for someplace to hide. Just then, through the darkness of the room, I saw to my immense relief a large black trunk that I’d had since college. It was an ancient relic I’d picked up at a flea market, and I knew from memory that it was also empty.

  As quietly as I could I stepped over several more piles of clothes and lifted the lid of the trunk. I’d be cramped in here, but I could fit. Swiftly I wrapped my purse strap over my head and plunged inside, even as I heard thunderous footsteps on the stairs. Quickly I reached over my head and closed the lid as quietly as I could, trying not to quiver too much and make the trunk rattle. I knew that if Kapordelis’s men found me, I was as dead as Goon.

  From inside the trunk I heard my bedroom door open, and not a moment later the contents of my room began to crash against the walls as if they were being strewn around like so much trash. I kept as still as I could in the trunk, waiting . . . barely breathing, my heart hammering in my chest so forcefully it hurt. I could hear at least two men shouting and yelling in Greek. There was more furniture tossing, and what I gathered were several colorful descriptors of me and my mama in Greek.

  After a few minutes I heard one of the men tramp his way back downstairs, while the other creaked the floorboards as he walked the hallway to my bathroom. After rooting around in my shower, he came back to my bedroom and tossed some more furniture around, cursing loud enough for me to hear. Finally he must have noticed the small door to the attic, because I heard it being tugged violently open.

  I stopped breathing and closed my eyes in fear as I heard him come into the attic and kick aside boxes and clothing. I knew it was dark up here, and prayed that he wouldn’t see the trunk, which was tucked into the far back corner of the attic. Because it was black, it wouldn’t stand out unless you knew it was there—or so I hoped.

  Even so, I heard my intruder’s footsteps coming near, and I tried to make myself smaller. I could hear him approach, one step at a time, closer and closer. He was going to find me . . . I was done. The footsteps stopped right in front of the trunk; silent tears fell down my cheeks because I knew it was over. He was two seconds away from killing me, and I hadn’t had a chance to say my good-byes to anyone I loved. Just then, however, through the leather of the trunk came a commotion from downstairs, and after a moment I clearly heard someone yelling, “Police! Police!” from the stairwell, even as the sound of sirens reached my ears, and I wanted to sob in relief.

  The man hovering over my hiding space paused for only a moment; then to my disbelieving ears I heard hi
m dart quickly back through the attic opening. I prayed he’d leave the house quickly with the other man, and bit my lip anxiously as I listened to his footsteps stop in my bedroom, where he lingered for a moment or two. Then, to my great relief, he finally barreled down the stairs, and I heard no more from anyone except the sound of approaching sirens.

  Slowly, cautiously, I opened the lid to the trunk and sat up, shivering with adrenaline. I took just a moment as the sirens grew closer and closer to try to collect myself, breathing deeply and trying not to hyperventilate . . . and that was when I smelled the first hint of smoke as a foggy tendril snaked its way through the doorway to the attic and circled the room like a hungry serpent.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alarm made my eyes bulge and my knuckles turn white against the sides of the trunk as I sniffed the air. My heart began to thud hard in my chest again even as the smoke alarm sounded, and with mounting terror I knew my house was on fire.

  Without further hesitation I bolted out of the trunk and rushed to the attic door, which was still partially open. I looked through the opening to my bedroom, which was alight with red flames of fire growing larger by the nanosecond. Before my eyes my window treatments billowed and danced with flames, my bookcase smoked with acrid black fumes, and my bedspread was one giant red-orange ball, and all I could do was stand there, too stunned by the horror of it to move.

  Something instinctual snapped me out of my shock, and I slammed the attic door closed, but the smoke was quickly growing in intensity. I looked around the attic, searching for a way out . . . but the door behind me was the only way in or out, and I realized with horror that I was now trapped!

  In seconds the smoke became thicker and thicker, and suddenly I could no longer see. Remembering my fire-safety class from grade school, I dropped to my knees and began to crawl away from the bedroom toward the outer wall. The smoke was choking me, and I had to drop lower and lower to find any form of suitable air. I was so terrified I began to sob hysterically; I have a tremendous fear of fire, and it was all I could do not to faint from fright.