Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(105)

“Amelia. Stop!” Foster screamed as she gathered what was left of her strength and pushed back.

Amelia leaned down, close to Foster’s ear, and whispered, “You ruined everything. You and her. I’d barely begun to perfect my craft. But you just wouldn’t stop coming.”

The pain she was in was off the chain, but there was no way Foster wanted the last eyes she saw on this earth to be those of Amelia Davies. “Anika!”

Amelia startled at the mention of her birth name, and her focus broke. Suddenly, an agonizing wail from the basement pulled Amelia’s attention away from killing. It was all the chance Foster needed. She pulled her hand off the knife and elbowed Amelia in the stomach, then followed up with a blow to her jaw. When Amelia flew back and rolled away, Foster scrabbled away on her knees, flinging herself into a corner across the room, leaving a trail of blood behind her. She needed to stand but couldn’t yet. It looked like Amelia couldn’t either. Facing off from their respective corners, the two were like spent boxers between rounds, waiting for the bell.

Amelia chuckled, though nothing at all was funny from where Foster sat. She watched as Amelia gleefully wiped her blood off the knife, then ran the blade along the leg of her jeans, back and forth, each slow pass cutting into her own skin. Blood quickly soaked the denim. Then Amelia held the knife up to the light from the window, admiring the blade. “This is his, you know. He gave it to me so that I could . . . follow. It’s not big enough to sever hands or feet. I needed a saw but didn’t have one . . . yet, so I had to symbolize the cuts with the lipstick—wrists and ankles. Hands and feet. Hands and feet.” The slow singsong in her voice turned Foster’s stomach. “And a spot of blood, one to the other. Like signing a painting. Genius, right?”

“Li!” Foster called out, but her partner didn’t answer back. Where was Tom Morgan? Was he in the basement as well? Foster tried reaching for her gun, but her bloody fingers wouldn’t work. She stared over at Amelia, but though Amelia stared back, Foster doubted she knew she was there. As she struggled with her holster, Foster stalled for time. “Amelia Davies, you’re under arrest.” The snap on her holster popped free. The gun, she knew, would be difficult to grasp when she got to it. How would she even lift the weapon, let alone aim it and shoot it?

Amelia snapped back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and Foster doubled her efforts with the gun—faster, more determined to get it loose—but no amount of hurry or level of necessity had any impact on her injured hand. Amelia worked her way up onto her feet. Foster got to hers too. If she was going to die, she’d do it standing. Foster slowly raised her arms in front of her, like a fighter, shielding her throat and chest, waiting for Amelia.

“You can’t arrest me,” Amelia said. She shook the knife. “I have this. I intend to make my mark with it.” With the knife she traced a lazy pattern in the air. “I’ll sign you. Like I signed all the others.” She pointed the knife in the direction of the basement. “And then I’ll sign her.”

Foster took a quick inventory. Right forearm sliced, bleeding. Right hand slashed, the cut deep, bleeding, fingers swollen, nearly inoperable. She was beginning to feel light headed. If she lost consciousness, she was dead. “Put the knife down and back away from it.” She meant it as an order, but Amelia paid her no heed. Instead, she stood in Foster’s way, a human blockade between her and the basement door.

“Maybe I kill her first, if she isn’t dead already. Save you for last?” Amelia chuckled like a wicked child playing a dangerous game.

Foster stepped forward. The chuckling stopped. “It’s not going down that way.”

Amelia charged again.





CHAPTER 78


Li was sitting up. That was progress. Whenever she moved or shifted, there was a sharp punch to her spine, and when she ran her hand along the back of her head, she felt a giant goose egg right at her nape. And then there were the twisted knee and broken ankle.

“Sitting’s good,” she muttered. “Sitting’s great.” Li glanced up at the ceiling, at a network of cobwebs hanging off dusty rafters. She hated spiders. She hadn’t hated basements before today, but now she hated them too. Sweat drenched the front of her shirt, she was covered in black, greasy grime from the basement floor, and every bone, every tendon, every bit of cartilage in her body cried out for a doctor and an emergency room. The sound of a violent struggle above her breached the basement door. Foster.

Li reached for the phone in her pocket to call for help, but her fingertips brushed up against only pieces of jagged plastic. The device had been smashed to bits when she fell. She thought of Nowak across the street. He might wander back over to see what was taking them so long, and then again, he might not.

Bodies fell and crashed upstairs. Foster was in trouble. Li pushed up and fought her way to her feet, using the bottom step to lean against. It took a few seconds before her vision cleared. “I’m up. All right. I got this.” She felt for her gun at her side. Still there. Still in one piece. “In business.”

Li looked around, hoping to orient herself. The dark room felt drafty and deep and smelled of sewage and mold, but a shaft of dull light coming from somewhere was just enough to help her make out a bare light bulb three feet from her. Hopping over, keeping her broken ankle off the floor, she pulled the cord, but the bulb was low watt, and the light it gave off was not enough to do much good.