Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [100]
Charlie was breathing heavily, but not from the effort of controlling her. He began to speak, staring into her eyes but talking to himself. None of it made any sense. A minute went by as he muttered, then another. His grasp on her grew tighter and meaner. The enclosed space seemed to close in around her, with only a sliver of light coming from the not-quite-shut door.
The sliver widened, then narrowed again to what it had been. There was no sound other than a faint howling. Angela focused on Charlie’s face.
Charlie looked up to the half ceiling of the landing above. “The wind,” he mumbled, as if that were an explanation. “Not much time.” His clouded gaze swept the stairwell. Next he glanced down at Murray, who was moaning faintly, more dead than alive.
“Leave him alone,” Angela begged.
Charlie didn’t answer, just dragged her over to the thick steel door, closing it with a sharp click, then locking it shut from the inside. She felt a cold draft, and a rush of air. He was right about the wind coming from the roof. The unseen door at the top of the stairs had begun to bang. Blunt rectangles of light came and went on the walls.
Charlie held up the square-shaped key, taunting her with it. “Check it out, Angela. That’s a maintenance key—I took them all. They’ll have to saw through that steel door. Or blow the hinges. I’ll be finished by then. We’ll all be finished.”
He half carried, half dragged her with him. Going up. And up.
Angela fought back her overwhelming fear. He couldn’t have all the keys—higher-level staff carried their own. And there was a chance she could reach out to Charlie long enough to stop him—she had to try. For her father—for Maria— for the thousands of innocent people who could be hurt.
They reached the roof and Charlie kicked the door shut. “Here we are. Isn’t it nice? No crowds. I hate crowds.”
Try. Try anything, she told herself. “Very nice. Awfully cold, though. Come here often?” she asked lightly.
“You’re funny.” But he didn’t smile. “No, I don’t. Only when I have to.”
Angela realized that he wasn’t hanging on to her anymore. But it wasn’t like she could run away. His long strides would catch up with her in seconds. The other alternative would be to jump off the roof. She knew better. The walls went straight down for several stories. The high snowdrifts below wouldn’t cushion her fall.
He flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. She had nothing between her head and the icy air. Her curly hair whipped in the frigid wind, tangling instantly. She stuck her hands in her pockets to keep them warm, surprised to find the tiny knife folded into its metal sheath. She wasn’t going to brandish it and get it knocked out of her hand. He might use it on her, and she was no match for him. But her fingers curled around it.
Her father had given it to her, no questions asked. Somehow that gave her the strength to go on.
“Come on.” Charlie’s mouth tightened when she stayed put. “Do I have to make you?” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to his side. “Maybe you like to play rough. Forward march.”
Angela kept her head down and obeyed, stumbling against the wind. He gave her a push every time she faltered. On and on.
There was no sign of Christmas up here on the vast, flat roof of the mall. Mostly there was nothing but snow, blown into shallow, blueedged drifts where it hadn’t been scraped off. An occasional air vent spun in the wind, sending a faint, eerie drone echoing over the scene.
Where was he taking her? Hearing a creak, Angela glanced back at the door to the roof. It was closed. But not locked, she thought suddenly. He hadn’t taken the time to do that, unlike the lower door.
“What are you looking at?” he snarled.
Angela turned around, pulling her tangled hair out of her mouth. “Nothing.”
“Come on.”
Her wrist hurt where he grabbed it, taking her nearly to the edge of the roof this time. He stopped in front of something that looked to her like a pile of junk.
“There it is. My answer to all my problems,” he said