In Sickness And In Death Part 27

Peter said, "You never should have made friends with my brother. No one else wanted anything to do with him. I tried to warn you off. Most people who get shot at tend to stick close to home, not go around b.u.t.ting their noses into other people's business." With that, he walked away.

Believe me, I was sorry I had befriended Leslie. But hindsight is twenty-twenty.

When I could no longer hear Peter's footsteps, I rushed up to the door and pushed on it. I kicked it. It didn't even wiggle. I reached for the top of the wall and tried to pull myself up to see out. I managed to get an inch off the ground before I dropped. Even at my current light weight, I couldn't do it. Pull-ups never were my thing, and my muscles were weak from months of inactivity.

I heard the Lexus turn over. Good. Maybe he'll steal my car and Ray would find me here later.

No such luck. The Lexus pulled inside the barn. He shut off the engine.

I heard the car door slam and more footsteps. The sound of a creak wafted to my ears from the loft overhead.

A metal trough banged into the bars on my stall. It appeared to descend from the loft. I heard a noise like a garage door lifting. Then another noise like raindrops on a metal rooftop.

Something dropped to the floor at my feet. Corn kernels.

I looked up and watched as a rush of kernels flew off the end of the trough and showered the floor of the stall. They kept coming, covering the floor.

I realized Peter's plan. He was going to bury me alive!

Heart beating out of control, I scrambled to the wall and tried to claw my way up it again as the kernels poured into the stall. They were a foot deep now. Each time I dropped to the floor, I slipped and slid. I lost my grip on the wall. I realized I was screaming when I sucked in a cloud of corn dust and choked.

The kernels kept coming. The dust made my eyes water and my throat burn. I couldn't breathe.

I was knee deep now, struggling to move. My legs were mired in corn. My eyes burned.

I gagged. The air was too full of dust and particles. The oxygen was gone. My lungs strained for a breath of air.

Tears welled in my eyes.

The realization hit me.

I was going to die.

My chest felt tight. The pressure on my legs was growing. I couldn't feel my feet. I kept my eyes closed but my mouth opened involuntarily, trying to suck in air. All I got was a mouth full of corn dust, which made me panic just that much more. I was lost. I love you, Ray.

My fingers clawed uselessly, desperately, at the stall walls.

Then I felt it. The smallest knothole in the wood, maybe big enough for a toehold.

I struggled to lift my right leg out of the kernels. Holding my breath, I bent and unzipped my boot, letting it drop onto the rapidly rising corn.

It took me three tries but I fit my bare toe in the knothole. Summoning all my strength, I heaved myself upward. My big toe cramped but held my weight.

I grabbed the bars, coughing and sputtering. Then I puked corn dust all over my shirt.

My eyes burned when I tried to open them. I gripped the bars tightly with one hand while I rubbed at my eyelids with the other. My tears washed away some of the dust but more came to replace it as the corn kernels kept falling. Soon they would reach my kneecaps at this height, too.

I opened my eyes a slit and tried to see through my tears. Was Peter still in the barn?

Unable to see or hear him, I attempted to swing my still-booted foot onto the top of the stall wall. It took me five tries but finally I managed to pull myself into a kneeling position between the bars. After a moment of rest, I got my feet flat on the stall wood and swung over the top of the bars. From there, I looked at the eight-foot drop to the floor.

In elementary school, I had thought nothing of jumping off the top of the slide. Of course, my bones were a lot less old and brittle then. On the other hand, the stall below had hay on it. Perhaps it would cushion my fall.

I slid off my other boot. Heels planted on the top of the wooden stall, I crouched as low as possible to shorten my drop and let go of the bars.

I landed on my feet and immediately fell forward, smacking my knees for a second time that day on the floor beneath the hay. Winded, I lay still and listened for Peter.

The corn kernels trickled to a halt. The barn was silent.

Pain shot through my ankles as I pulled myself slowly to my feet. If Peter came after me now, he'd have no trouble catching me. My ankles would give out in a chase.

I limped toward the barn door and yelped as an enormous form filled the doorway.

It was Peter.

I backed into the barn, whimpering.

He came after me.

"Jolene, it's me. It's Leslie."

I squinted, trying to make out the color of the shirt. Even in the dim barn light and with my sore eyes, I could tell it was green. I let out a sob. "Peter tried to kill me."

"I know. I'm so, so sorry. He's not ... quite well." Leslie held out her hand to help me up. "Come on, let's get you some air."

Not quite well? Was that like a little bit pregnant? Her excuses sounded familiar, though I couldn't say why.

I let her lead me out of the barn. My eyes closed involuntarily. The sun was too bright and they were too damaged.

"Stand right here. I'll get some water to rinse your eyes."

I waited for her, afraid when I no longer heard the noise of her footsteps and afraid when I did. My heart beat so loud I feared it would burst.

She touched my arm, making me jump. "Lean your head back and I'll pour the water over your eyes. It will make it better."

I did as she asked then felt like I was drowning when the water ran up my nose.

I pulled away, snorting.

She pressed a towel into my hands. "Here, Jolene. Just blot your eyes gently."

When I finished, my eyes were still sore but I could see. Peter was lying crumpled by the barn entrance, a huge goose egg on his brow. A shovel lay abandoned on the ground next to him.

I backed away, pointing, my lips moving without sound.

Leslie glanced at him. "Don't worry. He's out cold."

When I had last seen her, she was, too. Apparently, their large bodies could take quite an onslaught and still bounce back quickly.

She took a step in my direction and held out her hands, palms up. "I'm sorry he attacked you. He hates so much the idea of me becoming a woman." She closed her eyes. "So much."

When her eyes opened, I thought they looked desperate. She took another step toward me. "He goes to a psychiatrist about it. He can't stand the thought of me ... changing my body and leaving him. He despises anyone who provides me with any sort of support, including you, my psychiatrist, and my surgeon. I thought he was coming around, but ..." Leslie heaved a sigh, the kind of sigh that says "I was so wrong. Don't worry. I'll see that he gets the proper care."

I wasn't worried. Within minutes, I planned to have Ray ensure Peter got the proper care, courtesy of the state of New York, for many years to come.

Peter's eyelid twitched.

I backed toward the farmhouse door. "We need to call 911 right now. Right now, Leslie!"

"Okay, okay." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I just don't want the police to hurt him."

Was it my imagination or had Peter opened his eye and looked at us? I jumped back a foot, shaking my head.

Frankly I didn't care if the police killed him, as long as they kept him away from me. "I'll call Ray."

I turned and ran for the house, yanking the door open then turning to lock it behind me, praying neither of them were carrying a key. Darting into the kitchen, I scanned the counters and the walls for the phone.

A white cordless hung on the far wall. I raced to it and dialed 911.

The operator answered. I stammered my name and the address of the Flynn farm. "Peter Flynn tried to kill me. I think he killed Jessica James. Can someone come right away?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sending a sheriff's deputy now."

"Send more than one. He's a big man."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you call my husband, Ray Parker? He's a deputy sheriff."

"Yes, ma'am. I know your husband. I'll call him now."

The doork.n.o.b jiggled. Someone banged on the door. The gla.s.s broke.

My hands started to shake. "Hurry, hurry. He's coming in the house."

I dropped the phone and started pulling out drawers, looking for the Chinese meat cleaver. It was in the sink, with bits of chicken flesh still on it.

I wrapped my fingers around the handle and held on tight.

No one came inside the house.

Instead, I heard sounds of a struggle outside: metal clanging, grunting, feet scrambling for footholds in the gravel.

Creeping toward the door with cleaver in hand, I was ever so careful not to trip on the shoes and boots in the hallway. I looked through the hole in the gla.s.s.

Peter had a pitchfork. Leslie had the shovel. They were circling one another.

Peter spoke first. "Les, you don't understand. Just let me go. I'll leave town."

"You can't go. You need help."

Peter's face twisted in anguish. "It's too late for that."

Leslie shook her head. "It's not too late. The doctor will help you."

"You don't understand."

Leslie waved the shovel at him. "What don't I understand?"

He jumped back seconds before she connected with his protruding stomach. "I killed a woman."

Leslie took a few steps back. "Jolene is not dead. She's in the house, calling the police."

Peter started to cry, great heaving, blubbering sobs. "Not ...

Jolene."

Leslie's shovel dropped a few inches. "Then who?"

"Jo ... sie Mon ... tal ... vo."

I could almost see the wheels turning in Leslie's head. "That dancer from The Cat's Meow? The one I read about in the paper? You said you didn't know her. YOU TOLD ME you didn't know her."

Peter nodded, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

"WHY?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know." His chest heaved as another sob burst from his lips.

Leslie lowered her shovel. "Put the pitchfork down, Peter. We'll talk about it. Whatever happened, we can work it out. Together."

"We can't. We can't. She's dead. I killed her. I didn't mean to ... I mean, I didn't want to." He fell to his knees, the pitchfork lying useless beside him.

Leslie moved toward him. "Why did you kill her, Peter?"

"I thought she liked me. She slept with me. I gave her money, but she said I was special. I thought she might want to marry me. I didn't want to be alone. You were leaving me." Peter covered his face with his ma.s.sive hands. "I told her about you. She listened. I thought she cared."

Leslie moved a little closer. "Why did you kill her, Peter?"

Peter dropped his hands. He raised his tear-streaked face to Leslie's. "I told her about you and how much I loved you and how much it hurt me that you didn't want to be twins anymore."