A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [87]
Instead, he stepped to one side of the aisle, twirling the weapon like a drummer’s stick. They were no more than three feet apart. Even in the deep gloom, the grotesque, irregular scar stood out like a lightning bolt. There was nothing in his expression that suggested it was worth trying to negotiate.
“Enough,” he said. “We need to talk. Your friend Sliplitz understood. He answered my questions. You do the same and I promise you won’t feel any more pain than he did.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Believe it or don’t, Senorita Fletcher, you are not the first one to call me that. Now…”
Cradling the cleaver in his right hand, he took a half step toward her and reached out for her arm. Angie’s response was immediate. She swept her fist overhead, shattering the lightbulb and throwing the basement into absolute darkness. In the same motion, she grasped one of the metal shelving units, bringing it crashing down on the man.
The killer grunted and cursed, and Angie felt certain he was on the floor. Instead of turning to run, she leapt forward, stepping on boxes and the shelving, and stomping on what might have been the killer’s chest. Then, holding her arms out to her sides to maintain contact with the shelves, she moved ahead as rapidly as she dared, back toward the steel door.
One step through the blackness, then another.
Behind her she heard the man throwing aside the debris, and working himself out from under the shelf.
The door had to be directly ahead.
Angie was trying to visualize which side the handle was on when she slammed full face into a steel support beam. She heard the bone in her nose shatter. Blinding pain exploded through her head. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around the post, keeping herself from going down. Her nose filled with blood. Tears flooded down her cheeks.
At that instant, the killer’s hand closed on her ankle.
Fueled by adrenaline, Angie kicked frantically, and connected. The grip on her leg vanished. Dazed, she plunged ahead. Two more steps and she hit the steel door forehead first, snapping her neck back. Another blast of pain. More dizziness and nausea. More tears. She slowed momentarily, then fumbled blindly for the door handle.
Again she felt the man’s hand shoot out through the darkness and close on her ankle, but in that moment, her own fingers closed on the door handle.
She jammed the handle down. Immediately the door yielded, and she was in the alley, which was only marginally better lit than the basement had been. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that her pursuer was on his hands and knees. He had clearly lost some of his composure. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.
Angie charged ahead. The killer, scrambling to his feet, might have gotten her right there, had he not slipped and fallen heavily into a puddle of garbage mixed with freezing slush.
Still, with the man quickly regaining his feet, Angie knew the chase was almost over. She was too far from either end of the alley to make it.
“Help!” she screamed. “Someone help me, please!”
Her cries were swallowed by the dense winter night.
A fire escape seemed her only chance. The way up to the nearest one was the built-in rungs on the side of one of the narrow Dumpsters, standing no more than eight feet away.
Gasping for breath, Angie grasped the top rung and hauled herself up until she was standing on the rim of the Dumpster, six feet from the ground and another six feet or so from the steel ladder at the base of the slatted stairway.
“End of the line, senorita,” the man said, breathing heavily.
He reached for her ankle, but just as he did, Angie took a single deep breath and launched herself upward. The cold air and her winter jacket held her back, making the difficult leap almost impossible. She was certain she had missed, and was