Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
“Knot yourself in,” he shouted. “You got that? Tie this around you. Don’t rely on your hands to hold it.”
He wasn’t sure how much she got of that, but she nodded. He swallowed hard and tossed the cords, listening to them clang as the metal hooks hit rock on the way down.
The cords curved over the guard rail because he couldn’t think of any other way to do it. She reached up, missed, then reached again. He kept feeding cord to her. As he did, he studied the guard rail.
This part looked safe enough. The base was embedded into the earth, and the ground looked solid — not that he could tell, really, but he had to trust something.
He’d try to pull her up himself first, and if that didn’t work, then he’d use the truck. If he just used the truck by itself, he was afraid he’d use too much speed, or it wouldn’t work and she’d fall and he wouldn’t know until the cord came up empty, bouncing on the asphalt.
He almost wrapped the loose back end of the cord around himself before it tightened in the woman’s hands, but at the last minute, he decided not to. What if she was heavier than he expected? What if she pulled him over the edge?
Then they’d both be screwed.
He wiped his hands on his pants, then gripped the cord tightly. She was balanced precariously on that ledge, trying to make a half hitch with the cord and her own body. She seemed to have some kind of wilderness experience, or maybe she was just one of those really competent people who knew how to do things like hitch a rope to themselves.
He watched her, his mouth dry.
Then she gripped the cord, much like he was, and tugged just a little. He started to pull, but as he did, she placed her feet on the cliffside wall and climbed like she’d done this before.
She was using his strength and his balance to give her a foundation, but she was pulling herself up. One hand over the other, one step at a time, she was coming up that hillside.
He kept the cord taut, praying it wouldn’t separate, praying he had the right ones — the ones that wouldn’t fray.
What if they frayed whenever pressure was applied to them?
God, he had to make that voice in his head shut up. He hadn’t realized how very annoying it was until now.
The woman stopped halfway and shook one of her hands like it hurt. He bit his lower lip, tasting blood.
C’mon, honey, he thought. Just a little more.
He didn’t want to pull and dislodge her.
She put her hand back on the cord and continued, shaking that hand whenever it wasn’t the dominant one.
As she got closer, he realized she wasn’t as young as he thought. Her face had that unnatural thinness that middle-aged smokers or those weird vegetarians who didn’t eat anything good or people with cancer had. Her skin was tan and sallow at the same time, but he figured that might be because she had been on the ledge. Her hair was tangled with leaves and brush and dirt.
He could hear her breathe, which reminded him to do it. He breathed, feeling the strain in his back as she got closer.
Finally she was within his reach. He bent over the guard rail — metal poking into his stomach — and offered her his hand. He had as firm a grip as he could on the cord with his other hand.
She looked at it, like she was unwilling to let go of the cord. Then she let go with her bad hand and reached toward his, missing his fingers entirely and clamping onto his wrist.
He had no choice but to take her wrist. Considering how wet her hand felt against his skin, this was a better choice. No sliding apart — no bad movie moment when their hands touch and then separate, followed by a scream as she fell to her death.
He tugged, the muscles in his back pulling as he yanked her from an odd angle. She scrambled up the side, collapsed against the guard rail, and let him pull her over it.
He had to grab onto her belt to do it. They fell backward. He took the brunt of the fall, landing on asphalt and still-wrapped cord. Pain shuddered through him, the familiar pain of a bad tackle, and his eyes watered.
She lay on top of him, and for a minute, he wondered if he’d hurt her. Then she rolled off and let out a huge sigh.
“Oh God,” she said in a curiously flat tone. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he lied. He wanted to stay on his back, but he didn’t dare. As Coach Stevens used to say, only babies rested.
He sat up. She was peering at him as if she didn’t quite recognize him, as if she didn’t remember what he had done.
He smiled reassuringly, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, she wiped at her face with the back of one hand. The dirt flaked off her cheek, and that was when he realized that she wasn’t covered in dirt; she was covered in dried blood.
“What happened to you?” he asked, thinking he could mask his growing panic, but something of it must have shown in his face or in his voice because her eyes widened.
“I fell,” she said in that flat tone. Emotionless, almost cold. Was she talking like that because she was in shock?
“I can see that,” he said. “Were you in the car? Is anyone else in the car?”
She wiped at her face again, then licked her chapped lips. Her hands were the worst. They were covered in real dirt and dried blood. On her right hand, her fingernails were gone.
“I don’t remember,” she said, but this time her voice warbled.
“You don’t remember if anyone else is in the car?”
She shook her head. “What happened?”
He frowned. She was wearing black leather shoes with some kind of heel. Scuffed and ruined now, they had the look of shoes that cost money.
They weren’t Birkenstocks.
“Was that your car?” he asked, sure it had to be. Two accidents and a murder couldn’t have taken place at the same site, could they? Not in the same week.
She swallowed, then glanced at the portable toilet. The look sent a chill through him. He was about to reach for her when she took off.
She ran for the truck. He lumbered to his feet and hurried after her, but she would reach the door long before he’d get close. She dragged the bungee cords behind her, and he stomped on the nearest one.
It held and she kept running. He bent over and grabbed the end, then yanking on it so hard that he had to take three steps backward.
She flew backward, and landed, hitting her head on the asphalt. She didn’t move.
He prayed she was all right — he didn’t need another body here, not one wrapped in his bungee cords — and he hurried to her side. Her eyes were rolling, but she was conscious, and when she saw him, she started to scramble up.
“If you tell me what happened,” he said, “I can help you.”
She kicked him, hitting his left knee. He gasped at the shuddery sensation that went through him; he knew, suddenly, that she had shattered something.
She was reaching for the metal edge of one of the bungee cords. He growled like the linebacker he used to be and lunged for her, ignoring the pain, dragging his malfunctioning leg. He slammed her into the back end of the truck and held her in place as he wrapped the bungee cords around her until she looked like a tied-up character in a Warner Brothers cartoon.
He hoisted her into the back of the truck but knew he couldn’t keep her there. She’d free herself. He was shaking. He limped to the driver’s side, got in, and drove to the two portable toilets. Then he got out again, went to the back of the truck, and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a child.
It was hard to carry her when he couldn’t brace his leg, but he did anyway. He used a fireman’s hold, making sure her feet were on his backside. She wriggled and kicked and called him names; he wasn’t sure if she was in her right mind. He’d been trying to help her, for heaven’s sake, and now she was trying to hurt him.
She must have figured he’d seen the cuts on her hands. The missing fingernails — those came from trying to climb free. But the cuts were the kind that could only come from a knife blade. He’d seen a few knife fights in his day; he knew what offensive wounds looked like. Defensive wounds were on the palms. Offensive were on the backs and sides of the hand.