Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(105)

And that makes her very, very dangerous.

I hear Mrs. Pall’s footsteps once I open the office door. Sharp little taps of sensible heels on hardwood floors. Everything neat, tidy, clean, perfect. All this outward perfection is nothing but another mask, another shell covering the rot.

I ease out of the office into the hallway. I can’t remember if the wood creaks. I need to remember, but nothing’s clear suddenly. I have my gun out and down at my side; I realize it’s not a magic shield, that if Mrs. Pall steps around that corner with her shotgun, it’s a matter of who’s got the best reaction time, and even if I do, she can still obliterate me with one random, spasmodic trigger pull as she dies.

The floor doesn’t creak. It’s silent as I carefully move forward. I check the parlor. It’s empty. No one is on the stairs leading up to the second floor.

Mrs. Pall’s footsteps are coming from the other side of the house. I’m all that stands between my children and this woman, that man in the basement cage. If I go down, they’ll disappear. Connor . . . he’ll kill my son. He’s got no use for him. But he’ll kill my daughter in an entirely different way. He’ll devastate and destroy her, twist her into the shape he finds most enticing. She’ll live and die down there. And Vee, who’s now my responsibility, too, just as fragile and vulnerable. And the two anguished women we just set free.

I can’t lose. I can’t.

Mrs. Pall is humming quietly under her breath as I move through the dining room with a table big enough for a dozen people; the wood gleams, the china in the cabinets looks spotless and in perfect order. The centerpiece is a bowl of fresh flowers that seem to have been cut from the garden this morning, and the heavy smell of gardenia hangs in the air, tickling at my nose. The carpet in here is soft and muffles every step.

She’s in the kitchen. I don’t like that. Kitchens are deadly places full of weapons. She’s got something boiling on the stove that could be thrown on me. A knife block full of options. Blunt objects like heavy pans hanging on a rack that crouches above the freestanding center counter.

The room smells like freshly chopped garlic and baking meat. Same smell as earlier, but stronger now.

Her back is to me. She looks the very picture of the perfect 1950s housekeeper, down to the coiffed hair, the glint of pearls at the back of her neck, the perfect bow on the back of her apron.

I ease into the room.

The floor creaks.

She freezes. I can’t see her hands. What I do see is that the shotgun is leaning in the corner ten feet from her. I aim my gun at her back. “It’s over,” I tell her. “The women are out.”

“Where is my brother?” Mrs. Pall asks.

Her brother. Of course. I wonder if she was ever really married, or if she was, how long her husband got to live after the wedding.

“You don’t have to be like this,” I tell her. “I changed. You can change. Whatever happened to you, you can change.”

“You have no idea what happened to me.” Celeste’s shoulders move back, and I can imagine her chin coming up. She turns, slowly enough so that I don’t shoot her. Her right hand is up, and she turns in that direction.

She throws the knife with her left. I fire, but I’m also trying to duck; she has the speed and skill of someone who’s practiced this move. It’s not panicked. It’s precise, and even as I move, she adjusts.

The knife buries itself in the skin of my upper right arm, and I feel it hit bone and stick. The shock is the impact, not the pain, but she’s managed to fuck up my ability to shoot. I try anyway. I miss, and the agony that races up my arm makes my fingers spasm.

I drop my gun.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I don’t let that slow me down as I dive for the shotgun. She’s almost as fast, but her shoes slip on the highly polished floor. Mine don’t. I reach for it. I instinctively grab with my right, and my fingers go hot and cold with pulses of agony. The shotgun tips over with a heavy thud as my whole hand spasms.

She gets hold. I throw myself on it, weighting it down, and drag her with it as her shoes scramble for purchase. She falls to her hands and knees and lets out a shriek that chills me to the core, like some banshee released from a tomb, and she comes at me with sharp fingernails and grasping hands.

I punch her in the face with my left.

She falls backward, and I kick the shotgun away and pile on top of her. She’s wiry and strong, but I have more muscle. I get in two more hits before she finally bucks me off, rolls, and scrambles to her feet.

I expect her to go for the shotgun, but she doesn’t. She runs toward the door where I entered and scoops up my fallen handgun instead; she doesn’t stop to fire at me. She keeps running. I pick up the shotgun and check it. Two barrels, ready to go. The question of how the hell I intend to fire it is another matter. I know I shouldn’t pull the knife out of my arm in case it’s nicked major blood vessels; the pressure of the blade is holding anything like that mostly shut. But there’s no damn way I can hold the shotgun one-handed and fire with any kind of accuracy with a knife in my arm.

I put the gun on the counter. I grab the knife, take a breath, and yank straight out. I feel the blade come free of the bone with a brisk snap so intense it almost takes out my knees; I manage to stay up, and drop the knife into the sink. Blood sheets down my arm in warm pulses. Fuck. If I don’t bind that, I’m dead, but I have to catch Mrs. Pall. If she goes down to the cellar . . .