The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,114

and, with nowhere else to put them, dropped them into her pockets. Her head spun; she thought she might faint. She had to know where he was. Stepping from joist to joist, she made her way back to the trapdoor, brushed three dead cockroaches out of her way and knelt on the floor, bringing her ear close to the gritty plywood.

She heard the muffled thumps of bedroom doors opening and closing. She prayed that Lora had closed the one with the attic stairs in it, and then she heard it open, and footsteps right beneath her, and her heart clenched. She wondered if the marks from the ladder could be seen in the carpet’s pile. Then more footsteps and the door closed.

Everything went quiet. She pushed herself up. Every joint in her body ached. How could she get out of here? And why had he traveled in daylight? She knew he was capable of doing it but would only take the risk in desperation. What had happened to make him hurry home? Did he know she was here? And what was going to happen when Slick showed up?

She heard faint voices floating up from downstairs:

“…come again next…”

He was sending them home. She heard a distant, final thump and realized it was the front door closing. She was in the house alone. With James Harris. Everything was silent for a few minutes and then, from right beneath the trapdoor, a singsong voice drifted up.

“Patricia,” James Harris sang. “I know you’re in here.”

She froze. He was going to come up. She wanted to scream but caught it before it could slip out between her lips.

“I’m going to find you, Patricia,” he singsonged.

He would come up the ladder. Any second she would hear the springs stretch and see the light around the edges get brighter, she’d hear his heavy steps on the rungs, and she’d see his head and shoulders emerge into the attic, looking right at her, mouth splitting wide into a grin, and that thing, that long black thing boiling up out of his throat. She was trapped.

Below her, a bedroom door opened, then another. She heard closet doors rattling open and shut, nearer and farther away, and then a bedroom door slammed with a bang and she jumped a little inside her skin. Another bedroom door opened.

It was only a matter of time before he remembered the attic. She had to find a hiding place.

She squeezed the penlight and looked at the floor, trying to see if she’d given herself away. The white cockroach poison had her tracks all through it as well as drag marks from the suitcase. Squatting, forcing herself to move slowly and carefully, she used her palms to whisk the poison smooth, leaving the gritty white layer thinner, but undisturbed. She walked backward, hunched over, brushing the floor lightly, the small of her back on fire until she reached the suitcases and stood. She used the penlight to check her work and was pleased.

She examined the suitcase and realized the one with Francine’s body in it was rubbed clean. She scooped up roach powder and mouse droppings and used them to dirty the suitcase. It would do the job if he didn’t look closely.

Standing made her feel exposed, so she forced herself to lie down behind the draped mound of Mrs. Savage’s things. With her ear pressed to the filthy plywood floor, she heard the house vibrating beneath her. She heard doors opening and closing. She heard footsteps. Then she heard nothing. The silence made her nervous.

She checked her wristwatch: 4:56. The silence lulled her into a trance. She could stay here, he wouldn’t look for her here, she’d wait as long as she needed, and she’d listen, and when it got dark he’d leave the house and she could sneak out. She would be strong. She would be smart. She would be safe.

She heard the springs groan as the trapdoor opened, and light flooded the far end of the attic.

“Patricia,” James Harris said loudly, coming up the steps, springs screaming crazily beneath his feet. “I know you’re up here.”

She looked at the filthy blankets draped over the boxes and realized that