I shook my head.
“Would you like to pray before you die?” she asked.
“The room in the cellar . . . did he put you in it often? Did you pray there?”
The serenity left her. “He said I was crazy, but he was the one who was crazy. He didn't have faith. God didn't speak to him.”
“He shouldn't have locked you in the room,” I said, feeling a rush of anger at the man who put his schizophrenic wife in a cement cell rather than get her medical attention.
“It's time,” Sophia said, leveling the gun at me.
I glanced down at DeChooch, wondering if I could kill him to save myself. How strong was my sense of survival? I glanced over at the cellar door. “I have an idea,” I said. “DeChooch has some power tools in the cellar. I might be able to get through his ribs if I had a power saw.”
“That's ridiculous.”
I jumped up. “No. It's exactly what I need. I saw this on television. On one of those doctor shows. I'll be right back.”
“Stop!”
I was at the cellar door. “This will only take a minute.” I opened the door, turned the light on, and moved onto the first step.
She was several paces behind me with the gun. “Not so fast,” she said. “I'm going down with you.”
We took the steps together, going slowly, not wanting to misstep. I crossed the cellar and grabbed a portable power saw that was sitting on DeChooch's tool bench. Women want babies. Men want power tools.
“Back upstairs,” she said, agitated at being in the cellar, looking anxious to leave.
I took the stairs slowly again, dragging my feet, knowing she was antsy behind me. I could feel the gun at my back. She was too close. Taking chances because she wanted to get out of the cellar. I got to the top stair and I whirled around, catching her at midchest with the power saw.
She gave a small exclamation, and there was a gunshot that went wild, and then she was tumbling down the stairs. I didn't wait to see the outcome. I jumped through the door, slammed it and locked it, and ran out of the house. I ran through the front door I'd carelessly left unlocked when I'd followed DeChooch into the kitchen.
I pounded on Angela Marguchi's door, yelling for her to open it. The door opened and I almost knocked Angela over in my rush to get in. “Lock the door,” I said. “Lock all the doors and get me your mother's shotgun.” Then I ran to the phone and called 911.
The police arrived before I got enough control over myself to go back into the house. No point going in if my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold the shotgun.
Two uniforms entered DeChooch's half of the house and minutes later gave the all-clear for the paramedics to enter. Sophia was still in the cellar. She'd broken her hip and probably had some cracked ribs. I thought the cracked ribs were chillingly ironic.
I followed the EMS crew and stopped in my tracks when I got to the kitchen. DeChooch wasn't on the floor.
Billy Kwiatkowski had been the first uniform in. “Where's DeChooch?” I asked him. “I left him on the floor by the table.”
“The kitchen was empty when I entered,” he said.
We both looked at the trail of blood leading to the back door. Kwiatkowski switched his flashlight on and walked into the yard. He returned moments later.
“Hard to follow the trail through the grass in the dark, but there's some blood in the alley behind the garage. It looks to me like he had a car back there and drove off.”
Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable. The man was like a roach . . . turn the light on and he disappears.
I gave my statement and slipped away. I was worried about Grandma. I wanted to make sure she was safe at home. And I wanted to sit in my mother's kitchen. And most of all, I wanted a cupcake.
LIGHTS WERE BLAZING when I pulled up to my parents' house. Everyone was in the front room watching the news. And if I knew my family, everyone was waiting up for Valerie.
Grandma jumped off the couch when I walked in. “Did you get him? Did you get DeChooch?”
I shook my head. “He got away.” I didn't feel like going into a big explanation.
“He's a pip,” Grandma said, sinking back into the couch.