Free Death's Door by Betsy Byars Page A

back soon.
    2. He hoped she would have the money.
    3. He hoped he would get away.
    And now:
    4. He hoped he wouldn’t run out of gas.

21
    WITH THE CLICK OF A KNIFE
    Herculeah put the phone back in its cradle as carefully as if the phone were in working order. With a feeling of doom, she glanced around the shop.
    She was torn between leaving immediately and getting the money for Uncle Neiman. She wanted to do what was most safe but she didn’t know what that was. Or was anything safe?
    If the gunman had cut the wires, he was outside somewhere. If she rushed out—
    But he hadn’t seen her come in. That meant he was out front. So maybe ...
    She had made no decision, but she found she was moving toward the rare books. It was if she were sleepwalking and didn’t have control over her actions. Her heart had begun to pound. Her throat was dry.
    She felt in her pocket. The key was there. Her fingers curled around it. She drew it out. With her fingers, she found the keyhole. She got the key in on the third try. She unlocked the door.
    Herculeah found she couldn’t remember Uncle Neiman’s instructions. Where were the books she was supposed to move? The top shelf—she remembered that much. Right or left?
    She took off the books on the right. She set them on the floor. Rising, she felt the space against the wall. There was no combination lock.
    Her hands had begun to tremble. She reached up and took down the books on the left. There it was. She was aware that she was moving faster than she had ever moved in her life. Everything was speeded up, as if to keep time with her racing heart.
    She took a deep breath. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to the lock.
    Now for the combination. At least that was etched in her mind: fourteen, left, fifteen, right, twice around to seven. There was a satisfying click that told her the safe was open.
    At that moment she heard something that turned her blood cold. Ice water rushed through her veins.
    There were footsteps on the porch.
    There was a stealth about these footprints that told Herculeah whoever was coming to the door had no business there. Her heart was pounding in her ears now.
    Again she was torn with indecision. She glanced at the door, gauging the distance. Did she have time to run past the door and get to the alley before whoever it was came in? Maybe she only had time to hide behind the counter. Or maybe she—
    She had no time at all. There was a sharp, metallic click at the front door’s lock—a knife, Herculeah thought—and the entrance to Death’s Door swung open.
    Herculeah flattened herself against the wall. She pulled back into the shadows.
    She heard someone step inside. She heard the door close. It happened in a matter of seconds.
    She heard the sound of something heavy being put on the floor—a suitcase maybe.
    She heard a faint hissing sound, as if the man—she knew it was a man—were inhaling through his front teeth. It was a sound of satisfaction as if he found himself where he most wanted to be, about to do something he had looked forward to. Now Herculeah’s heart was pounding so hard she wondered that he couldn’t hear it.
    He came forward a few steps and stopped. He was a big man—she could tell that from his footsteps—and yet he moved with the certainty of an animal. Herculeah could tell his position from the creaking of the floorboards. He took another step.
    She knew he was standing in the entranceway now, probably looking from room to room, making a decision.
    Let him go into the dining room, she pleaded, willing it to happen with all her might. Then let him go up the steps to Uncle Neiman’s apartment.
    She sent the message again and again. Go into the dining room. Go up the stairs.
    Because, Herculeah thought with faint hope, if he went up the stairs, she would have a chance to get to the door. All she needed was a chance. She was as fast as any man—even one who moved