The Lighthouse by Bill K

Chapter 7: "Into The Spider's Web"


        It was after nine p.m. on the northeastern coast of Maine. A storm was rolling in out of the southwest. The wind was picking up again. Fortunately it was out of the southwest, rather than off of the ocean and wasn't as cutting. However, it was late September and had some bite to it.

        Wearing a black leather jacket and close fitting black jeans, for concealment as much as for warmth, Faith Connally edged along the back of the lighthouse. Every time the light, lit for nothing more than ceremony now as the lighthouse was a decommissioned tourist site, from the lighthouse passed, she pressed up against the wall. There was nothing outside to spot her, save for some of the wildlife out hunting in the nearby brush. She didn't know that, though, and wasn't going to find out the hard way. There were no lights on in the lighthouse. Though operating, it was most likely unoccupied.

        Bent low, Faith scurried across the grassy patch from the lighthouse to the cottage and pressed up against the wall. Her pistol was out and ready as she scanned the area for possible threats. It was just like her days on the force in Londonderry. That is, except for the fact that she was without any sort of back up if she ran into trouble. That thought was in her mind, but shunted to the background. Foremost in her mind was finding out what secret was being concealed, a secret enough to cause Loharo's friend to be replaced by a duplicate and for a murdering psychotic like Dennis Flynn to be turned loose in the area.

        The wind gusted and blew strands of her copper hair into her face. Faith took the time to brush them aside and cursed herself for not taking the time to tie it up before she left. She had never been on the job without having the fine long strands knotted or braided behind her. But she had been in a hurry, hoping she could find some answers.

        Hoping she could run into Dennis. After the incident in the forest, after his attack on Loharo, Faith knew she had to take him out. He was a rabid dog and someone had to put him down. She didn't relish another confrontation with him, but she wasn't going to back down from him. Too many lives were at stake. She'd deal with the consequences later.

        Peering around the corner of the structure, Faith could see dim illumination coming from the front second floor window. Someone was in here. However, they weren't on the first floor. Bypassing the front, Faith worked her way to the back door.

        Faith holstered her gun and pulled out set of lock picks from her hip pocket. It was a custom set she had taken from one Austin McHenry back in Londonderry. McHenry was a professional burglar who had been practicing his art in Ireland because he was no longer welcome in Scotland - or for that matter, England or Wales. He'd managed to escape before his tools could be put into evidence, so she'd kept them as a trophy. They'd come to good use in the past and were again of good use now. As the door creaked open, Faith again sent a silent expression of gratitude to old crooked Austin.

        The hallway was dark and gloomy. The colonial design of the architecture and furnishings lent a gothic aura to the building. Faith eased down the hall trying to anticipate perpetrators lurking in every shadow and not ghosts. To her right was a door; further down was a second door. Straight-ahead was the living room and to the left was another door. Pistol out, Faith tried the first door. It revealed a closet and several different weight coats.

        Silently she scurried down to the kitchen and looked in. The room was dark and empty, though lived in. Once she was sure it was secure, Faith eased over to the next door. She peered into the room. It was a parlor of some sort, given the ancient design of the cottage. Scanning the room revealed nothing.

        There was nothing in the living room out of the ordinary. Opening the door on the left, Faith found a stairwell to the second floor on her left and another door on her right. That door led to another stairwell, going to the basement. Momentarily in a quandary, Faith tried to decide where to search first. She finally decided on the basement, since it was unoccupied.

        Easing down the wooden steps, walking on the side next to the wall rather than the middle of the step, as it was weaker from use and more likely to creak, Faith descended into the basement. She pulled out a penlight and scanned the room. Cement floor, but original brick and mortar walls with some sort of moisture-proofing applied. Standard basement appliances - - water heater, furnace, washer and dryer. Then she found the meat freezer in her beam of light. Not unusual, but contraband had been hidden in such places before. Faith started for the freezer, then stopped suddenly.

        Someone was walking around upstairs. She had left the door to the basement opened. If whoever was up there noticed, it might warn them she was here.

        Faith listened intently, tracking the footsteps. They had walked away, but were returning. When the first footfall came from the wooden staircase, Faith cut off her light and eased back into the darkest part of the basement, under the staircase itself. She muffled her breath with her left hand as she kept her gun ready with her right. The light for the basement came on, a simple sixty-watt bulb in a socket dangling from the ceiling. Faith pulled further back under the stairs as she heard the footsteps descend the staircase.



        Constable Robert Harrington mounted the stairs to the second floor apartment with some effort. At forty-two, he was losing his enthusiasm for the long hours he put in as Town Constable. The work itself still pleased him, but his vigor was flagging. Climbing stairs this late at night wasn't helping things any.

        Then there was the prospect of facing Loharo Reeves. He'd gotten off on the wrong foot with her and now she saw him as a cop and not a person. People were so hard to deal with when they saw you as a cop. He'd made the right call at the time. There was no corroborating evidence to back up her wild claims about Donna Young being replaced by a duplicate. But he was more and more certain that something was going on in Skeffington's Harbor and that she had stumbled onto some of it. But as long as she viewed him as an adversary, he couldn't count on her help in solving the mystery. And it was all because of a single encounter and a lack of diplomacy on his part. If it weren't for that call, he'd put this visit off until morning.

        At the top of the stairs, Harrington took a deep breath, as much to replenish the strength in his weakened knees as his wind. If only the town would increase his budget enough to hire another deputy, he could cut back.

        Suddenly all other thoughts evaporated as Harrington noticed the front door to the apartment was slightly ajar. Closer examination revealed the bent and scarred wood where the door had been forced. His senses on alert, Harrington drew his gun and cautiously pushed it open.

        His gun pointed and ready, Harrington silently entered the apartment and quickly scoped the room. There was a fallen tray of food near a doorway, but no other signs of a struggle. He gave the room another sweep, searching for signs of anything: a clue, an ambush, a concealed victim or perpetrator - - or a body. Fifteen years as a police officer, first in Augusta and now here, told him what he needed to do. However, there was nothing in the room to indicate any of those possibilities.

        Then he heard it. A muffled whimper from the next room. Still ready for any sort of confrontation, Harrington moved as silently as possible toward the sound. It had come from the bedroom and a part of his consciousness, detached from the trained officer at this point, hoped he wouldn't find what he was afraid he might find. As he neared the hall connecting the living room to the bedroom, Harrington caught another voice. He couldn't understand what was said, but the voice was male. It also sounded like an Irish accent, though he couldn't be sure. A cold dread washed through his body. Harrington quickened his step, trying not to go so fast that he betrayed his presence and drew fire before he was ready, but trying to get to Loharo before anything happened - - or anything further happened.

        The bedroom door was slightly ajar and the constable sprouted a predatory grin. This would give him some cover. He crept up to the door, his ears straining to pick up what was being said. Just before he reached the door, Harrington noticed his heart thudding wildly in his chest, a sensation he hadn't felt since coming from Augusta.

        "Time to pay the piper," he heard the man, probably Flynn, murmur. He heard a muffled scream. It was probably Loharo and it sounded like she was either gagged or being smothered. It had to be now. Harrington shoved the door open with his shoulder and sank to one knee as he leveled his gun.

        "Police!" bellowed Harrington. "Drop your weapon!"

        The molding above Harrington's head exploded. He heard Loharo scream through her gag. As events seemed to unfold in slow motion, he could see Loharo's bare feet and legs on the bed and the cords that bound them to the footboard. The perpetrator had been standing at the foot of her bed, but had his back to Harrington and was ducking for cover as the constable returned fire. As the first bullet screamed over the perp's head, he seemed to change course. The second shot caused the man to stagger, but Harrington couldn't tell if he'd been hit or not. Now the man was running to the window. A third shot followed the man out as he flung himself through the window, the glass splintering loudly.

        Harrington was up on his feet in a second, the protests of his knees lost in the adrenal rush. He gained the window in seconds and pointed his weapon, but held back. The intruder was already on his feet and running off into the night. The constable rushed to the phone on Loharo's nightstand and dialed up the emergency number.

        "Constable's office," answered Hilary, the night operator. "What is your . . ."

        "Hilary, this is Harrington!" snapped the constable. "I need an APB broadcast. Male cauc, about five foot eight, hundred and fifty pounds. Dark jacket and pants, black hair, last seen running southeast from 26 Adams Avenue. Tell them it might be Flynn, that he's possibly wounded, definitely armed."

        "Right, chief!" Hilary said and cut the connection.

        Only then did Harrington turn to Loharo. In the low light, he could see the black woman had been stripped down to her underwear and tied spread-eagle to the posts of her bed. As he reached down and undid the gag tied in her mouth, he noticed how beautiful she was. In his limited contact with her, he'd noticed her pretty face. Now he knew she had a body to match.

        Then he noticed the tears dribbling down her dark face and a tremendous sympathy washed over him.

        "He was going to kill me," gasped Loharo, her sobs robbing her of enough breath to finish the sentence in less than three attempts.

        "Yes, ma'am," Harrington said softly as he undid the cord around her right wrist. "It's a lucky thing he was spotted stalking you. We got a call at the office about it. That's why I'm here." He waited until he'd freed her other wrist before continuing. "Did he - - do anything to you?"

        "Besides tying me up and scaring me to death?" Loharo replied, struggling with little success to regain control of her emotions. Her hands were trembling and she clasped them together rather than free her ankles. "Isn't that enough?"

        "Anything more than that?" Harrington said patiently. Loharo shook her head. "It was Dennis Flynn, wasn't it?" Loharo stared at him. At first she wondered how the constable knew about Flynn. Then she wondered how much more he knew. Harrington sensed this.

        "We identified Flynn from the fingerprints on the slug I pulled out of your ceiling last night," he explained. "That's why I came over. I wanted to let you know who he was and just how dangerous he is."

        "I know how dangerous he is," Loharo said, looking down, her voice still quavering. "So now do you believe me about Donna?"

        Harrington paused, trying to couch his answer in as diplomatic terms as he could muster. He could feel Loharo's wary, penetrating stare even as he noticed her hands still shook. He moved to the closet and pulled a robe out.

        "I still don't have enough evidence to make any substantive conclusions," he said, handing the woman the robe, "but it's clear something is going on and Donna Young is possibly involved. If you have any solid information that can help clear this matter up, I'm willing to hear it."

        Loharo stared at him as she pulled the robe on. His non-committal response was aggravating, but she could sense he was trying to be sincere. It was a step up from his previous condescending manner. And she did have to find out what happened to Donna.

        "How about you tell me what you've found out so far, including what you know about Flynn," Loharo offered grudgingly. "Then I'll tell you what I know and maybe it'll help convince you that the woman at the lighthouse isn't Donna."

        "Well, ma'am, if she isn't Donna Young, she's playing her part very well, including her concern for you."

        "What do you mean?"

        "Donna was the one who called the office and warned me Flynn was stalking you."



        Faith watched from the concealment under the stairs as the person making the footsteps came into view. Wool leggings, a gingham skirt and a bulky green sweater covered the woman's body, as shaggy brown hair cascaded down her back in a loose, unkempt manner. She was dressed for an evening out in the cold. Then Faith saw the gun in her hand, a nickel-plated .22 automatic. It was a cheap gun with limited range, but could be handled easily by a smaller woman. Her own .38 was deadlier, but had no advantage over the .22 in close quarters. As she searched the oddly angled shadows of the basement, she turned in Faith's direction. It was the mystery woman Loharo had photographed.

        She was moving in Faith's direction and the woman wanted to avoid a shoot out. Looking around her, she spotted some crumbled mortar chunks on the floor. Kneeling down to pick them up in her free hand, the redhead glanced back at Daria. Seeing she hadn't yet been spotted, Faith quickly tossed the mortar chunk to the opposite side of where Daria was looking.

        The chunk struck the far wall and fell to the floor with a soft clatter. It was enough to draw Daria's attention. Instantly Faith launched herself from hiding. Daria's attention drew back to her, spotting the motion, but by then Faith was already on her. She kicked viciously at Daria's knee and the woman crumpled, her gun clattering to the floor. Faith landed on top of her, straddling her as she jammed her gun into the back of the woman's head.

        "The fight's over!" huffed Faith. "Don't be doing anything stupid!" Daria stopped squirming beneath her, but she could feel the tension in the woman's body. Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped one over Daria's right wrist. "Relax yer arms," Faith snapped. Daria complied and she brought the left one behind the woman's back, snapping it into the other cuff.

        Only then did she rise from the woman's back. Regaining her feet, she leaned down and pulled Daria to hers. The women eyed each other warily.

        "You Amway folks are getting pushier all the time," Daria said, deadpan.

        "Suppose ye and I have a little chat," Faith said calmly, feeling in control. She led Daria up the stairs and deposited her in one of the kitchen chairs. She took another and glared at the woman. Daria remained implacable.

        "I think we should start with who ye are," Faith asked.

        "I could ask you the same question," Daria replied. "I'm a guest here. How about you?"

        "And just who are ye a guest of?"

        "Donna Young, the person who lives here."

        This line of questioning was getting her nowhere.

        "Do ye know of a man named Dennis Flynn?" Faith asked.

        "No." Faith watched her intently. The woman was good at hiding her emotions, but not perfect. Faith's years of training made her notice the eye twitch that indicated a probable lie. It wasn't admissible, but it was a good trick of the trade to have.

        "So what's going on here?" Faith asked, smiling confidently so Daria thought she knew more than she did.

        "I'm sitting in a chair with my hands cuffed behind my back, talking to a burglar," Daria responded placidly. She wasn't going to make it easy.

        Just then the phone rang. Faith and Daria both looked at it as it rang twice, then three times.

        "You going to get that?" asked Daria. "I'm a little occupied."

        Faith listened to it ring three more times. It stopped. She glanced at Daria. Now Daria seemed to look like she knew more than Faith did.

        "Who was calling?" Faith asked, annoyed.

        "If you wanted to know that, you should have answered it," Daria responded with that irritating monotone and that fixed stare. "So what's this Flynn guy to you? Old boyfriend?"

        "And why would you say that?"

        "Just a guess."

        This was accomplishing nothing. Faith glared for a few moments, then decided on a course of action. She rose out of the chair, then jerked Daria to her feet.

        "Since nothing is going on here, ye won't mind if we take a look around?" Faith asked sarcastically.

        "Not much I can do about it," Daria replied, wiggling her cuffed hands.

        As they ventured into the hall, Faith was blindsided by a shoulder driven into her ribs. Both women were knocked to the floor. As she hit, Faith struggled to pull her .38 from its holster, but the massive male weight on top of her kept her from doing so. Then the cold, hard metal of a pistol barrel pressed to her skull. Instantly she stopped struggling.

        "Are you OK?" asked someone behind them, another male voice. "When you didn't answer the phone, we figured something was up."

        "Great," said Daria unemotionally. "You're already smarter than the last two guys who had your job."

        "What do we do with her?" Faith heard the man on top of her ask. "Kill her?" Faith's heart clutched in her chest.

        "Not until I find out who she is and what she wants here," Daria said. "Tie her up for now. Then search her for the key to these handcuffs."

        Faith felt her hands jerked behind her back. Rough cord cut into the flesh around her wrists and jerked tight. Her elbows were pulled together and similarly bound, so that her shoulder blades were almost touching. She let out a grunt of pain that was ignored as more cord circled her breasts and pinned her arms to her body. As this was going on, her ankles were being tied. Once that was finished, her legs were bound above the knees. Though securely bound, the man who tackled her still sat on her, pinning Faith to the floor and restricting her breathing. Hands felt around her hips and backside until they found the handcuff key in her back pocket.

        "You want to question her now?" asked the man on top of her.

        "We've got more important things to do right now," Daria replied. "Gag her, blindfold her and stash her. I'll talk to her in the morning."

        A thick, choking wad of cloth was forced into Faith's mouth. Another cloth cleaved her lips and was tightly knotted behind her head. Finally a cloth was tied over her eyes. Faith felt herself hoisted over the burly man's shoulder and carried up the stairs to the second floor of the cottage. They paused to open a door, then she was carried into a room. Her captor's steps seemed to echo on the hardwood floor, indicating a large room with no furnishings, but there were deadspots, so something was here.

        Faith slid off of his shoulder and was deposited on her bottom on the floor. She heard the man walk out and lock the door behind her. Then she heard breathing and the muffled sigh of someone gagged.

        Someone else was there.

Continued . . .

Story is (c)2000 by Bill Kropfhauser

Chapter eight.

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