The conversation I’d heard between the patient and the nurse about a possible drug holdup had made me think about the hospice’s security system. It would stand to reason there must be some sort of alarm. Even if the drugs were kept under lock and key, someone who didn’t know that might force his way in and demand them. I inched forward, under the eaves, looking for an alarm box.
I found one, prominently marked with the security firm’s name. A large warning proclaimed that an alarm would also sound at the Port San Marco police station. The wires running from the box were intact. There was no way Snelling could have breached the system. I couldn’t even do it without the proper tools-and I knew a fair amount about burglar alarms from my days in security work.
The only place I hadn’t checked was the tool shed. And come to think of it, what was its door doing open anyway?
I hurried back through the trees, past the bedroom wing. Almost all the lights were off there now.
Into the cypress grove, down toward the sea. This time I was careful not to run into any branches.
The expanse of lawn looked as forbidding as before, but my motivation for crossing it was stronger. I glanced back at the hospice. The lights had been turned off in the living room. A soft glow emanated from beyond, presumably in a hall. Everyone was probably in bed but the night-time nursing staff, and I didn’t think any of them would be standing by a darkened window. I ran across the lawn and flattened myself against the wall of the shed.
Breathing hard, I stared through the darkness at the hospice. No lights came on. No doors or windows opened.
Then I heard a groan.
It came from inside the tool shed. I waited, but it was not repeated. My hand on my gun, I inched along toward the door. Inside, to the right, was a lawnmower. On the back wall, I could make out a row of rakes and hoes.
On the floor lay Abe Snelling.
He was on his back. The front of his light-colored shirt was darkly stained. But he was still breathing, shallowly in ragged gusts.
I moved through the door, saying his name. He didn’t respond. I said his name louder. There was blood, a lot of blood. Almost as much as when John Cala…
“Abe,” I said, “dammit, Abe. Not you too.”
I pushed my gun back into my bag and knelt beside him, started to feel for his pulse. A rustling sound came from behind me. Before I could straighten, something hit me from behind, and I dropped the bag and my gun. Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and I felt cold steel against my neck.
“Don’t scream,” Liz Schaff’s voice said. “Don’t scream-or I’ll cut your throat.”
Chapter 20
I froze. For a moment all I was conscious of was the icy blade against my neck. Its tip was sharp and pressed my skin. I was afraid to move for fear it would penetrate. It had done that to at least three other people…
Other sensations returned. I heard Snelling’s shallow breathing. I felt the sinewy strength of the arms that pinned me. I smelled the mustiness of the tool shed and the fragrance of Liz’s perfume.
I tried to speak but my mouth was dry with fear. Snelling groaned again and I started to look that way, then realized the motion would put pressure on the knife. I swallowed twice, and managed to say, “It won’t work this time, Liz. You’ve got a witness.”
She laughed, an ugly sound like the cawing of a crow.
“He’s still alive,” I said.
“He’s unconscious. Dying. I’d have finished him if you hadn’t come across that lawn.”
She began dragging me backward, toward the wall opposite where the lawnmower stood. Her grip on me was clumsy, one arm around my shoulders, the other lapped over it, holding the knife. Still, one quick jab…
She backed flat against the wall and we stood there in the dark. I could feel her heart beating fast.
I began talking, hearing my voice high-pitched and shaky. “Liz, you killed Jane and John Cala. You’ve almost killed Snelling. And now you want to kill me. You can’t go on like this. You can’t keep killing. There’ll be more people who suspect, more who know-”
“Shut up.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, forcing me to slump back against her. The pressure of the blade increased.
Still, she didn’t do anything. We merely stood there in the darkness, listening to Snelling’s breath which now had begun to wheeze. Was she waiting for him to die? I couldn’t believe Liz Schaff had scruples about stabbing an already dying man. What had she been waiting for?
“Liz,” I said, “I know about the women you killed at the hospice. Abe suspected, and so did Jane. It’s only a matter of time before the police catch on. You can’t kill an entire police department.”
“The women at the hospice were different.”
“How?”
“I didn’t kill them. I procured drugs. They wanted to die.”
“You mean they were sort of mercy killings.” Cautiously I felt backward on the rough board floor with my right foot. Her weight was mostly on that side.
“They were mercy killings.”
“Did they pay you?” I moved my right hand slightly, to a small space between her left arm and the hand that held the knife.
“Of course. There was risk involved. I had to get the drugs from the pharmacy in town where I worked at night.”
“How much did they pay you?” I shifted my weight to my left leg and tensed my muscles.
“Enough.”
“Well, it sounds like killing for hire to me,” I said, and shot my hand up through the small space between her arms. I knocked the knife away from my neck and kicked back with my right foot, circling her leg and pitching forward as hard as I could.
Liz stumbled sideways and careened across the shed. She slammed into the rack of garden tools and I heard something crash down on her. My bag and gun were lost in the shadows. I grabbed a sharp-pointed trowel from a shelf by the lawnmower, almost stepping on Snelling.
Liz straightened. She still had the knife. Its steel blade glinted in the moonlight that came through the small high windows.
“Put the knife down, Liz.”
She stood there, panting.
“Put it down!”
She came at me, crouching, the knife extended. I thought she was going to try to come up under the trowel at my throat. Instead she dodged to the side and scurried out the door of the shed. I dropped the trowel and went after her, hurling myself at her feet like an NFL tackle.
She went down and I saw the knife fly from her hand. I crawled after it, expecting a struggle. Again she surprised me, jumping to her feet and running toward the cypress grove. I started to get up, but my foot slipped on the damp grass and I fell ingloriously on my rear.
Snelling, I thought, he’s dying in there.
“Help!” I yelled. “Help!”
Lights began to go on in the main building.
“Help!” And I began to run toward the cypress grove.
The sliding glass doors of the building opened and two nurses and a man in a bathrobe appeared. They hesitated, then hurried across the lawn.
“There’s a man in the tool shed!” I shouted over my shoulder. “He’s been stabbed. Dying! Get a doctor!”
Ahead I could hear thrashing noises as Liz ran through the thickly planted trees and scrambled over the rocky ground. I plunged into the underbrush after her. My hands outstretched in front of me, I pushed branches aside and ran in the direction of the noises. If I could overtake her in here-
Suddenly my foot rammed against a big rock. My toe caught and I fell forward. I landed flat, struggled partway up, and fell again. The sounds in the trees ahead of me stopped.
Liz was already out of the grove, racing for-where?
I got up and went along more carefully, aiming at an opening where the grove bordered the lawn. When I got there I stopped, scanning the grounds for Liz.
She was on the platform where the steps led down to the beach, the place where I’d seen the two old ladies sitting the day I’d gone out on the reefs to look at the tidepools. She was silhouetted against the horizon, looking back at the cypress grove.