Читать книгу Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 18

Rebecca quickly switched off the lights in the office and closed the door, locking it. Turning to face the darkness, she felt a damp chill spread under her arms. A paltry grey light filtered in through the window of the waiting-room. She could try to climb out of it. Problem was the ceilings were rather high in those old buildings, the distance to the ground neck-breaking. And the window faced D’ Arcy; beneath it a cement walkway stretched between the back parking lot and the front door. If all else failed.

In three quick steps she crossed the floor to the phone on Iris’ desk. For the second time that night she dialed 911.

“I need help,” she whispered. “Someone’s broken into the building. Please hurry.” She murmured the address into the phone.

Within arm’s length stood the cabinet of medical supplies. She opened the drawer. Feel around for it. Find it. In the dark she flicked on the pocket flashlight she used to look down throats. Shining it in the drawer, she searched. A weapon. She needed a weapon. Okay, better than nothing: a disposable scalpel. She picked it up and poked off the protective cover, dropping it in her jacket pocket.

Behind Iris’ desk, she stood listening to herself breathe, the scalpel in the palm of her hand. Footsteps began to climb the stairs. Her heart thumped against her ribcage. Someone was going to kill her. He had killed Mrs. Kochinsky and now he was going to kill her. But why?

He was climbing slowly. Waiting on every step. Closer and closer, each step louder. Finally he stopped: he had reached the landing. She gripped the scalpel in her fist, not daring to breathe. She watched the door intently, then focused on the knob. Her pulse pounded. She shone the pocket flashlight on the knob with her left hand. It began to turn, then it stopped. Her heart lurched in her throat. Again it turned until it could go no further in the lock. Several more times the knob turned quietly, discreetly. Her legs began to throb, shake. She had to keep her mind clear, not panic. Maybe he would give up when he realized it was locked. Maybe he would go away. Maybe pigs would fly.

Suddenly she heard him trying to manoeuvre the lock with something. A file, possibly. After a moment he tried it again, only this time he made no attempt at silence. The knob flashed back and forth, back and forth with a loud banging sound. He didn’t care if she heard anymore. The ruse was up. He was going to get through that door one way or another.

She stepped backwards away from the door, her mind aflame. How long would it take him to get through the door, how many minutes did she have left to live?

She ran through the hall toward the farthest examining room. Even at the back of the building the noise was agonizing. He seemed to be throwing himself at the door. She pictured Mrs. Kochinsky in her last moments, panicked, brutalized. Why didn’t anyone hear? Where were those cops? She eyed the window of the tiny room, wondering if she would break her neck as easily on asphalt as on cement. Suddenly without warning, the noise stopped.

She closed her eyes to hear better. The only sound was her pulse throbbing in her ears. No, wait. Something else. A siren. She heard a siren wailing in the distance. He must’ve heard it too. She waited a moment to be sure, then began to creep down the hall back toward the waiting-room.

She wavered near the window of the waiting area. The ragged light that filtered in from D’ Arcy Street lay ghastly on the tweedy sofas and pale walls. She stood there numb and mesmerized. She didn’t know how long before a loud pounding sounded downstairs at the front door.

“Open up! Police!”

Thank God. Yet she held her breath, listening. Could he still be there, waiting by the door? He’d be a fool to stay. But how did she know what he was. Maybe he was a fool and lay in wait on the other side of her door in the darkness of the hall.

“Police!” yelled the man at the front entrance. A fainter yet steady thumping issued from the back. They had the place surrounded.

But what if he killed her before the cops could get in? What difference to her if they caught him later? No, she reasoned, this makes no sense. He’s gone and it’s only your own fear that’s keeping you inside.

She unlocked the office door. Waited. No one jumped in. She creaked the door open.

“Police! Open up!” cried the voice outside. Fists pounded on wood. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll break it down.”

Without stepping out of the office, Rebecca craned her neck on both sides of the narrow hall. No one.

“I’m coming!” she yelled and ran down the stairs.

A strapping young uniform stood on her doorstep pointing a flashlight waist high. His expression was unaccountably wary.

“Thank God! I’m so glad to see you,” she said, acutely aware of her heart still lurching in her chest.

Suddenly the flashlight blazed in her eyes. “Put down the weapon, ma’am,” said the policeman.

“What?”

She could see his eyes moving from her face to her hand. Then she remembered the scalpel. She had never let go of it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling the handle suddenly hard in her palm. “I’m a doctor. I thought I’d have to protect myself. I’ll just....” Embarrassed, she felt in her jacket for the cover, made a show of replacing it on the scalpel, then dropped it into her pocket. “When I realized someone was in the building, it was the only weapon I could find.”

“He still here?”

“I don’t think so. He was frightened off by the siren. Just a minute ago.”

“I’ll take a look around inside,” he said. “My partner’s at the back.”

Still numb, she watched him head down the hall towards the back door, his walkie-talkie, handcuffs, and holster all attached and protruding from the black leather belt girding his waist. He opened the rear door to let the other cop in.

“Anything?”

The other man shook his head. “All clear.”

The first uniform came back and tried Lila Arons’ door; it was locked. Rebecca took him upstairs to her office.

“Another minute he would’ve gotten through,” she said. “He would’ve killed me.”

The cop had her close the door between them to test the lock. It held fast.

“I can’t find anything here,” he said on the landing. “Both front and back doors were locked, no sign of forced entry. Same for the door to your office. Some scratches on the lock but could be just normal wear and tear.”

He watched her the way Wanless had watched her: professionally.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“Nothing, ma’am, except the intruder didn’t leave any sign.”

“Someone was here,” she said. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Do you have some idea who it might be?”

She shook her head. “Someone killed one of my patients yesterday. I was just taking a look at her file when this happened. You can ask Detective Wanless. He’ll tell you. He’s at her house now. On Bathurst Street.”

“Detective Wanless. Is he Thirteen Division?”

She watched from the front door as the cop got into his cruiser and raised someone on his radio. When he returned to the building, his face was more human, easier to read.

“Detective Wanless asked me to take you to the station so you can make your statement.”

“What about the man who tried to kill me?”

His lips pursed and he looked away. “You know, we get lots of junkies breaking into doctors’ offices looking for drugs. Stoned out of their minds. But you know, ma’am, those guys are careless, usually leave something behind. Especially if they’re in a hurry.” The cop was having trouble making eye contact. She knew what that meant: embarrassment, disbelief. He looked like he wanted to believe her.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, looking behind her somewhere, “there’s really no evidence of any intruder, ma’am. Detective Wanless says you had a shock tonight.”

She watched the earnest policeman with horror. It was humiliating being patronized by someone so young.

“Ready to go, ma’am?”

“It’s all right, officer. I have my car.”

The policeman pondered her for a moment with reluctance, then tipped his hat and marched out to the squad car.

Rebecca walked along the hall toward the back door, carrying the manila envelope with Mrs. Kochinsky’s chart inside. She stood staring at the knob, turned it. Opening the door, she leaned out and tried to turn the knob from the outside. It wouldn’t budge. From the outside, it was locked. Then how had the man gotten in? The young cop was right — there were no marks of forced entry. She stepped outside, letting the door close. Then she realized. It closed automatically. It took a minute, and most people didn’t wait. Is that what she had done earlier, gone upstairs without waiting, knowing the door would close automatically?

She stared down at the ground, suddenly astonished by the object illuminated in the glare of the overhead lamp. A branch from a spruce tree lay by the side of the steps. It hadn’t been there when she had arrived. She would’ve noticed it; it was quite large. Unlocking the door again, she picked up the branch and laid it on the threshold just inside the door. Then she let the door go. It caught.

She looked around with a quick nervous energy, her eye drawn to the darkness directly across the street. There, in front of the school, the spruce trees rose two stories, casting deep shadows. She squinted into the murk of the branches, willing a shape to appear. A breeze picked up, wafted past her and through the spruce needles, making them sway. She shivered and ran to her car.