Page 40 of The Executioners Three
Freddie didn’t think. She just acted. First, she shoved the film canister into her pocket. Then she flung everything back into the box and thrust it into the corner. Last, she bolted for the tiny attic door.
She tried to tiptoe, but she could only move so fast and stay quiet.
Footsteps thumped on the creaking stairs between the first and second floors. Then those footsteps crossed down the hall… And then they reached the end.
It was right as the attic door squealed wide that Freddie reached the dollhouse and switched off her flashlight. She was still exposed, though—no time, no time .
Freddie lurched sideways behind a refrigerator box labeled Rita’s toys . Beside it were more heaps of National Geographic . Enough to block her if she cowered low.
It wasn’t until the person reached the top of the attic stairs and shuffled into the main space that Freddie realized she’d left the door to the secret room open.
CRAP, she screamed inwardly. CRAAAAAP. But there was nothing she could do now. Nothing except curl as small as possible and cover her mouth to muffle her rough exhales.
The person shambled toward her… then past. Heavy footsteps. Oblivious and unhurried. Until they reached the dollhouse.
There they froze, and the room seemed to shrink inward. Freddie stopped breathing. She just listened, listened. Exactly as she knew the other person was doing too.
Listening, listening.
Her heart was a timpani. Her blood roared in her ears, and in quick, skittering thoughts, she tried to map out an escape route. From this angle, she could run for the stairs, staying behind the magazines the whole way.
But the person would be faster. They would reach the stairs before she could.
CRAP.
After an eternity of frozen time, of listening and screaming in her brain, a new sound scraped out. The person was moving again. Ducking into the hidden room in a whisper of fabric against the doorframe.
The door clicked shut.
And Freddie thought she might pass out from relief. She wheezed in a shallow breath. Let her hand fall from her mouth. And for several long seconds—or maybe minutes—she stayed that way. Still listening, still bracing for the person to realize they were not alone.
But nothing happened. Noises like boxes being moved and papers being shuffled filled the space, but that was it.
Which left Freddie with two choices. She could either wait the person out, leave after they were gone… or she could make a run for it now. The latter option would be loud. There was no way to get around those creaking stairs or the squealing hinges on the attic door.
So Freddie decided she would wait. Even though every second here was agony, it was her safest bet. Plus, if she could angle herself just right, she might be able to glimpse who had come in. Was it Sheriff Bowman or was it someone else like Edgar Fabre Jr., perhaps?
Yes. That was what Freddie had to do.
After carefully checking Xena wouldn’t knock into anything, Freddie unfurled and eased onto her hands and knees.
Her left wrist howled anew. Her palms burned.
But she ignored the pain and crawled toward the stairs.
If she waited at the edge of the magazines, then when the person descended, she could peek around and see them from behind.
Every inch Freddie moved, she paused. She listened. But the person in the secret room remained unaware; she was still safe. For now.
She reached the last stack of National Geographic . She tucked in her legs, ready to resume her earlier pose…
And that was when it happened.
Doodle-loo doo, doodle-loo doo, doodle-loo doo, doo!
Freddie’s Nokia started ringing. So loud. So unmistakable.
She ripped it from her back pocket, but it was too late. A second round was already blasting out.
Doodle-loo doo, doodle-loo doo—
Freddie slammed down the Power button. Her mind had wiped clean, a state of pure terror broken only be the gunfire of her heartbeat.
She had no choice now. She had to make a run for it.
In a bolt of speed, her muscles taking over—flight dominating over fight—Freddie pushed to her feet. She ran for the stairs, reaching them right as the door to the secret room swung wide. But Freddie didn’t look up, didn’t slow as she barreled down.
She had maybe a three-second head start on whoever was back there, and she had to use those precious seconds well.
She yanked open the attic door and slammed it shut behind her. Four bounding steps and she reached the stairs. She flew down, two at a time, before reaching the landing.
The attic door slammed a second time. The house rattled.
No time, no time.
Freddie leaped across the living room, grabbing the edges of the couch, of an armchair, and using them to fling herself faster.
She hit the kitchen. And again, she grabbed the edges of furniture—but this time, to slow down her pursuer. One chair. Two. She knocked them over. They crashed sideways, maybe buying her one extra second.
She heard glass shatter. She didn’t look back to see if it was jam or something else.
Then she reached the back door, and thank god it wasn’t locked. She turned the knob—its cold brass scratched and worn—and her eyes caught on the yellow raincoat beside the door.
Freddie grabbed it, wrenched the door wide, and burst out into the frozen afternoon. Again, she yanked the door shut behind her. Then she ran, pulling on the raincoat.
Freddie didn’t think her pursuer had gotten a good view of her. She didn’t think she’d been in their line of sight, and as long as she didn’t look back, then maybe this person would never see who she was.
She towed the hood in place and sped for the patio. Xena banged against her chest. Snow dusted everything now, lightening the amber and yellow trees—and meaning no matter which way Freddie ran, she left tracks.
She flung the gate wide and raced into the woods. She didn’t take the route she’d taken before, but instead cut right and crouched low enough that the fence blocked her from view.
Until the fence ended.
And behind her, she heard the door to Mrs. Ferris’s house crash shut. Her pursuer was on their way.
Freddie straightened and flat-out ran. Faster than she’d ever known she could run. Her camera thumped new bruises. Her breath came in panicked gasps.
She didn’t look back, even though she wanted to.
Even though she was desperate to know who had been in that attic with her.
Three houses streaked past. Two more fences.
Then Freddie reached a street. If she cut right, she could loop down onto her own street, but that was too obvious.
Right now, she just had to keep moving away and get to someplace no one would look for her.
Freddie crossed the street. Hopped the curb. Cut over someone’s lawn and into a small strip of woods that would lead to downtown Berm.
When at last Freddie was tucked inside the trees, she risked a glance back. No one was there.
Freddie wasn’t stupid enough to slow, though. Her pursuer might simply be in a car now, preparing to cut her off ahead. Or maybe they’d taken a different route and would pop out from the other side of these houses.
She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t slow.
It wasn’t until Freddie reached the edge of downtown Berm, where a line of “antique” shops (aka junk shops) marked this corner of blocks, that she finally eased her pace. She could barely breathe. Her legs had turned to Jell-O.
With a whispered apology to Mrs. Ferris, Freddie ducked inside the first junk shop she found—All’s Sell That Ends Sell—and tore off the yellow raincoat. She hung it on a coat rack by the door, then dipped back into the evening.
The sun was almost gone behind the horizon now, and snow clotted thicker as Freddie hurried through downtown. She was careful to keep her pace casual, her hands dug into her pockets like she was cold but not too cold. Like she always walked around Berm at sunset with a camera around her neck.
Jack-o’-lanterns leered at her. The fairy lights seemed to laugh.
By the time she reached the central block—where Mr. Binder’s shops all stood—the sun was setting.
Freddie was shivering, but it was a vague, unimportant problem.
One her mind hardly registered because it was clotted too thick with memories and theories and a constant play-by-play of what had just happened.
At a slender alley, Freddie cut left to circle behind the stores. A small parking lot served the city of Berm when the limited street parking could not. It was also where the back door to the Frame stores closed early downtown, and Greg’s Chevy was nowhere in sight.
Upon reaching the three steps leading up to the Frame the lockbox swung wide.
Freddie snatched out the key, and relief surged through her as she fumbled open the lock and shoved inside. Heat gusted against her, along with the pungent odor of darkroom chemicals. Before she could push all the way inside, though, a voice called her name. A voice from behind, in the parking lot.
“Gellar?”
Freddie’s throat closed off. Fear pummeled in. She half leaped around.
But it wasn’t Sheriff Bowman or an axe-wielding murderer striding across the parking lot. It was Theo Porter. He stood beside his Civic, a plastic shopping bag dangling from his left hand.
And now he smiled. Now he waved.