Blood Games

    Sure that she was clear of the archway by now, she rolled face down and started swimming underwater.

    Stay down here? she wondered. I could veer off and maybe lose him.

    Cat and mouse in the dark pool.

    Cat and mouse. Jim would like that. He’d been playing with all of them right from the start.

    Sooner or later, he’ll find me.

    Gotta go for the shower room, go for the knife.

    Straight ahead.

    She kicked to the surface and swam with all her strength. The sounds of her own splashes reverberated like water churning, erupting inside an echo chamber. She couldn’t hear splashes from Jim. But he had to be back there, had to be coming.

    Does he know how to swim? she wondered.

    If not, he might be wading. That’d slow him down plenty.

    More likely, though, he was gliding silently toward her below the surface.

    She tried to swim faster. Her sneakers felt heavy. They dragged at her feet, slowed her down. She wished she’d gotten rid of them, but couldn’t waste any time doing it now.

    I’ve got my shoes slowing me down, she thought, but Jim’s got the knife to hamper him. He can’t possibly swim full speed with that in his hand.

    And I can outrace him, shoes or not, as long as I’m up here and he’s down below.

    Even though she told herself that, she half expected with every kick to feel the clutch of Jim’s fingers around one of her ankles.

    Her right hand, darting out, jabbed a hard surface that curled her fingers and scraped her knuckles. She drew it back fast, flung up her other arm and lunged against the pool’s side. Her feet found the bottom. She leaped, shoving at the granite, knowing for sure Jim would grab her now.

    But he didn’t.

    She got both knees on the edge and scrabbled away from the pool. She thrust herself up. She ran. The smack of her rubber soles resounded through the silence, horribly loud, but not so loud that she didn’t hear a swush of disturbed water behind her or the wheezy gasp of Jim sucking air into lungs that must need it badly.

    Abilene knew she had to be very close to the stairway. She slowed to a walk, rolling her feet to quiet the sound of her footsteps, bending forward and sweeping her arms in search of the banister.

    She heard Jim panting, but no new splashy sounds. He’s still in the pool, she thought. Standing in the water, listening for me.

    Her right hand hit wood.

    And she had a sudden urge to rush up the stairs. She didn’t want to go into the shower room, to be in there in the blackness with Helen’s savaged corpse. If she could get back up to the lobby, maybe she could find the shotgun. Maybe Cora already had it. Or Vivian or Finley might’ve regained consciousness by now and maybe one of them had the shotgun.

    They could blow the bastard away.

    I’d be leading him straight back up to them, Abilene thought.

    They’re safe up there. For now. As long as he’s down here after me.

    If I can nail him, they’ll be safe perm…

    Water swished and flopped.

    Here he comes!

    Abilene turned away from the banister. Following a mental picture of where the door marked Gents should be, she crept through the darkness with her arms outstretched. She found the wall. As she felt her way along it, she heard water dripping onto the granite floor. And footsteps. Slow, quiet pats.

    He can’t see me, she told herself. Doesn’t know where I am.

    She touched the doorframe. Two more sideways steps, and she knew she must be in front of the door.

    She pushed.

    The hinges squawked.

    Rushing footfalls slapped the floor.

    Abilene lunged forward, whirled and threw the door shut. It slammed with a crash.

    She backed away from it fast, angling to her left and hoping she wouldn’t trip over the bench. Its edge brushed the side of her knee, so she knew she’d cleared it. Knew that she should miss the bank of lockers, too.

    The door hinges groaned.

    Reaching out, Abilene touched cool metal.

    I’m at the end of the lockers.

    She couldn’t remember if there was a bench on the other side of them.

    But the shower room was there.

    She could smell it.

    That’s Helen.

    Christ!

    Imagining the diagonal path she would need to take, she spun around and ran.

    She flung her arms out, swept them ahead of her as she charged through the blackness. The stench was like a foul, putrid rag rubbing her face. She tried to hold her breath. Something hammered her right foot out from under her.

    As she plunged, arms out to break her fall, she realized it must’ve been the raised threshold of the shower room that had tripped her.

    The floor smacked her palms, her knees. It knocked them out from under her. It hammered the breath from her lungs but she managed to keep her head up as she skidded.

    Wheezing for air that clogged her nostrils and throat with its-heavy reek of corruption, she belly-crawled until her hands slipped on gooey muck.

    ‘Gonna end up same as yer fatso friend,’ Jim said from somewhere behind her.