Part 2

Bull thought for a moment about picking up a few of the smaller objets d’art displayed in the gallery while he waited.  Several were small enough to be concealed in a pocket.  No one would notice until the following day – or even later – and any missing items could logically be attributed to a light-fingered guest.  But he reminded himself of why he was here.  “The boy can help me acquire a few pieces, once he understands what’s what.  And he’ll keep the attention away from me.  I just gotta have patience,” he told himself.

Just then, he heard a soft click.  The head guard had returned from his task of patrolling the grounds and had entered the house by the terrace door, locking it behind him.  Bull straightened up.  Now was the opportunity he had been waiting for all night. 

He could see the flashes of light as the guard shone his flashlight around the inside terrace, moving gradually closer to the gallery.  Bull lifted a heavy urn from a decorative column and moved stealthily to the sliding doors.  As soon as the guard entered the gallery, turning his attention away from Bull’s direction, he brought the urn down onto the back of the man's head.  Without even a grunt, the guard dropped like a stone, his face striking the door jamb as he fell.  A low moan escaped him as Bull pulled him fully into the gallery and closed both sets of doors. 

Blood trickled from a small cut on the guard’s head as well as from his nose.  Bull grunted with satisfaction to see that he was unconscious, but not dead.  With deft fingers, he removed the guard’s uniform shirt, pants, and shoes, donning them himself.  He clipped the security firm’s radio onto the belt, and made sure he had the guard’s handcuffs.  His gun went into the guard’s flashlight holster, while he slipped the heavy flashlight into his uniform trouser pocket.  As his final touch, Bull took a rubber mask representing former President Ronald Reagan from his jeans pocket, and pulled it over his head.   The uniform was a bit loose on him, but not so much that it would seem out of place.  Placing the guard’s wallet and other personal possessions into his own pockets, he rolled up his discarded clothing and stashed it inside the urn, which now lay on its side on the floor. 

He looked around for a place to conceal the unconscious guard, but there were no hiding places in the gallery.   Using the guard’s flashlight, he consulted his floor plan again, and found that there was a coat closet just outside of the gallery, off the main hallway.  Opening the double doors as if to continue a security patrol, he checked the foyer and hall.  The coast was still clear – the teenaged hosts remained outside, directing traffic in the rain, and the adult chaperones were nowhere to be seen.  Quickly, he handcuffed the guard and dragged him to the coat closet.  “You’ll be safe there,” he sneered, stuffing a balled-up handkerchief into the unconscious man’s mouth.  “Quiet, too.”

Just as the closet door clicked shut, a middle-aged, grey-haired woman came out of the study directly across from the gallery he had just left.  Damn!  Must be that Trask woman – the Wheeler girl’s nanny.   Aloud, he said only, “Just checking all doors.  Everything looks fine, ma’am.”

The woman stared at him, a puzzled frown on her face.  “Mr. Williams, why did you put on a mask?  You weren’t in costume earlier, and the party’s over now.”

“They say curiosity killed the cat,” Bull replied, drawing his revolver and letting her see it before taking her arm in a firm grip and leading her back into the study.  The Trask woman didn’t put up a struggle; she had gotten a very clear view of his weapon. 

Inside the study, he patted her down, keeping his gun in one hand.  In the pocket of her skirt he found a cell phone and a clean handkerchief.   The phone he disabled and slipped into his pocket, and the handkerchief made a fine gag.  Next, he pulled a packet of large-sized plastic locking zip ties from the guard’s shirt uniform pocket, and quickly fastened her hands together behind her back, giving a good yank on the end.  Now that her silence was assured and her hands out of commission, he placed his gun on the desk, well out of range even if she lunged for it.  Apparently frozen in fear, she made no effort to resist when he forced her to crawl on her knees and curl up under the desk.  A couple of ties linked together would keep her from crawling back out, and he tied her ankles together with another vicious yank.

“Nobody has to be a hero and nobody has to get hurt, see?” he said to the woman.  She stared back at him as if trying to see through the Reagan mask.  Bull was glad he had decided to use it; although it had aroused her suspicion, no way would she be able to identify him later.  “I’m just here for what’s mine.  My boy.”

Now the woman looked frightened, more than she had when he showed his weapon.  Bull felt a flash of curiosity, but time was passing, and there were things he needed to do.  Namely, to discover the whereabouts of his target.  The kids had all been outside when he came in; he hoped they were still out there.  It would be easier to isolate his target outside.  Turning out the desk lamp, which had been on when he entered the study, he left the Trask woman under the desk.  She was out of commission, at least long enough for him to finish his job.

The hallway and foyer were still deserted, so Bull once more assumed the role of security guard, sweeping the area with his flashlight as he headed for the front door.  Out the door and down the steps, he turned in the direction of the garage, where he could hear snatches of conversation. 

Unfortunately, he was accosted by a tall, redheaded man – the Wheelers’ stable manager, Regan, he decided, since it obviously was not the Lynch butler.  “Nice work, Mr. Williams,” the man began.  “Your firm did a great job keeping out the gatecrashers.”   His hand was already extended in greeting when he got the same look on his face as the Trask woman had.  Frigging mask might not have been such a hot idea.

“What’s the deal with the mask, Mr. Williams?  The party’s over,” Regan said, dropping his hand to his side. 

Bull already had the flashlight in his hand, and his reflexes were quick.  A stunning blow to the head and the big man dropped like a stone.   “Here’s a nice set of bracelets for you,” Bull muttered, snapping his second set of handcuffs around the redhead’s wrists.  He looked around for a place to conceal Regan. The rain had stopped momentarily, but the ground was sodden.  The kids’ voices were no longer audible, and he decided they had gone back inside the house.  Grunting with the exertion, he began to drag his victim toward the garage by his belt and the cuffs.  It was a stroke of good luck that the garage door was open, and he let Regan drop in a heap against an outside wall, concealed from immediate view by a large sedan parked in one of the bays.

“You might sing when you wake up,” he commented to the inert figure.  “Maybe you’ve got a hankie on you, too.”   Sure enough, a muddy red bandana turned up in the back pocket of Regan’s jeans.  Twisting the cloth tightly, he tied it tightly across the groom’s mouth.

“Now for the pause that refreshes,” Bull muttered.  He removed his smoking supplies from a pocket, rolled a cigarette, and stood just outside the garage door, smoking and planning his next move.  Two adults were down, one was left.  The prissy butler shouldn’t be any kind of challenge, though.

Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the skeletons of leaf-stripped trees. The crack of thunder was almost simultaneous, strong enough to cause the house to tremble. Bull picked his way across the yard, rain soaking him. It was fitting, he thought. An evil night for evil deeds. A malicious smile spread across his sallow face. The silly governess and the groom were out of commission. Each person he eliminated drew him that much closer to the prize—his son. The smile turned predatory. He could feel the excitement building, the blood pumping through his veins.

At the edge of the house, he paused. Ignoring the driving rain, he leaned down and grasped a thin, rubber-coated wire. Like a knife through melted butter, the wire snapped as he gently squeezed the side cutters. Child's play, he thought, satisfaction coursing through him. The thought of the teenagers panicking when they discovered the land-line was out of commission was more satisfying than he ever could have imagined. This was almost too easy.

Sliding the cutters back into his pocket, he crept through the door leading to kitchen entrance. Another bright flash of lightning and roar of thunder spurred him to move quickly, though his movements remained silent. With practiced ease, he closed the door soundlessly behind him. He crept past the stainless steel appliances and state-of-the-art gadgets, listening intently. A partially-closed door leading the butler's pantry caught his attention. More specifically, the line of light beneath it.

His body was instantly still, his senses on high alert. He could hear movement behind the door; a shuffling tread, and a low voice humming.

The butler.

He waited, tucked out of sight behind the pantry door. His fingertips began to tingle with anticipation. Focusing on the sounds from the room, he heard dishes scraping, the sliding of drawers, and the tinkle of cutlery. Footsteps that moved nearer to the door, then away again. Whistling that grew more cheerful as the work neared completion.

Not wanting to chance Harrison getting a good look at him, he crouched behind the door, biding his time. In a matter of minutes, he was rewarded. Still whistling cheerfully, Harrison pushed the door open. Using the butt of his gun, Bull brought his arm down swiftly and decisively on the unsuspecting man's skull.

Harrison went down like a sack of potatoes.

“So easy,” he murmured, staring at the unconscious man. He toed Harrison roughly in the ribs, but he didn't so much as flinch. He unceremoniously shoved him back into the butler's pantry. With a slow smile, he picked up a stack of carefully folded linen. There was no telling how long the butler would remain unconscious, so he gagged him with a six hundred thread count navy napkin, and covered him with the matching tablecloth.

As a final touch, he secured the butler's hands with a zip tie, tightening them enough that, even if he should regain consciousness, he wouldn't be tempted to try to remove them.

He was bent over the still form, adjusting the tablecloth, when he heard heavy footsteps in the kitchen.

“Harrison?” a young man's voice called out. Bull listened intently. Not his boy's voice, he realized.

“Harrison? Are you in here? I'm just getting some snacks ready...” The boy's voice trailed off as he realized the kitchen was empty.

Bull knew the exact moment the boy saw the light under the door to the butler's pantry.

“Harrison? You need any help in there?” he asked.

The door swung open. With surprising speed, Bull's arm snaked out and caught Mart around the neck. He chuckled at the look of surprise on the young man's face. Before even a squeak could escape his lips, Bull squeezed tight, cutting off the boy’s air supply.

He grunted as the stocky farm boy collapsed, but supported his weight easily. “Pleased to meet you,” he snarled, laying him down beside Harrison. “Any friend of my boy's is a friend of mine,” he chuckled. He twisted Mart's arms behind his back and secured him with another zip tie.

“You may as well get comfortable,” he continued, even though Mart couldn't hear him. “You're not going anywhere for a very long time.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Jim? Mr. Brian?” The voice came from the dark hallway.  Jim stepped out of the gallery, Brian close on his heels.  Brian reached for the light switch, but the dim orange glow of the Halloween lights barely made a dent in the darkness.

“What is it?” Jim asked the security guard.

“We have a couple of problems,” the man replied.  He held out a bloodstained hand.

Immediately, Brian was moving forward.  “What happened?  How did you get hurt?”

“It’s not me,” the guard responded, jerking his hand away from Brian.  “It’s Mr. Harrison.  He cut himself.  He asked if I could find Mr. Brian because he’s afraid he might need stitches.”

“Where is he?” Brian asked.

“In the butler’s pantry, sitting down.  I’ll take you there, but first…” the guard turned to Jim.  “One of my men just radioed in.  Your friend, Dan?  He’s at the bottom of the drive with a flat tire.  Jeffries offered to help, but your friend told him to go before the storm gets worse.  He said you and Mr. Mart could handle it.  I think Mr. Mart is on his way down, now.”

Jim turned to Brian.  “You go check on Harrison, I’ll help Dan and Mart. Then we’d better batten down the hatches – I think this is going to be a long night.”

Brian nodded, his dark eyes somber.  “Will you let the girls know?” he asked.  “I don’t want them wondering where we are.  I can just see Trixie and Honey searching for us in the storm.”  Jim nodded, turning back to the gallery as Brian followed the guard down the shadowed hall.

The guard, Mr. Williams, if Brian was remembering correctly, set a quick pace down the hallway.  When he reached the door to the butler’s pantry, he stepped back into the shadows to allow Brian to pass him. 

The pantry was dark, but Brian could make out a still form huddled in the corner.  “Harrison?” he inquired, moving closer to the lump.  “How badly are you hurt?”  With shock, Brian realized that the butler was unconscious, blood streaming from the side of his head.  As he leaned forward to investigate, he felt a whisper of air, a sharp pain, and then his whole world went black.

Jim dropped a kiss on Trixie’s forehead and took the full trash bag from her hand.  “I’ll drag this to the garage on my way down to help Dan with the tire.  That way you girls can stay dry.”

“Hurry back,” Trixie told him with an impish grin.  “We’re almost done, and those movies won’t wait all night.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, tugging at the curl that had escaped the confines of her Cat Woman headpiece.  “After all, I’m Batman!”  Her chortles followed him out the door.

The storm was picking up.  Jim made his way to the garage to dispose of the trash, stuffing the party remains deep into the galvanized can.  A small grin lit up his face at the whiff of bleach that escaped as he removed the lid.  Sanitized for my protection, ran through his head as he replaced the lid and headed outside.  A gust of wind caught Jim’s Batman cape as he stepped into the breezeway, flinging it up into his face.  At the same time, he was jerked backwards, a heavily muscled arm pressing tightly against his throat.

Caught off-guard, Jim struggled, trying vainly to free himself from the iron grip threatening his air supply.  His silent attacker increased the pressure, and Jim felt his head spinning as he ran out of oxygen.  As he lost consciousness, he heard a gruff, “Gotcha, boy,” and a whiff of an eerily familiar tobacco

With a grunt, the guard formerly known as Williams lowered Jim’s still body to the ground, pulling the zip ties from his pocket as he did so.  He quickly secured the young man’s hands with the ties, propping him up against the door of the garage.

Looking with disdain at Jim’s prostrate body, he reached into his pocket and took out a tin of tobacco and rolling papers and proceeded to roll a cigarette.  Inhaling deeply, he blew the smoke out into the chill of the night, chuckling at the ease of his mission.

“Almost time,” he rasped to the darkness. Dropping the half-smoked butt onto the ground next to Jim, he crushed it beneath his boot and turned himself back toward the house. “Now the fun begins.”

Honey straightened a cushion, and picked up a crumpled orange napkin from under the couch. “I think that’s everything, don’t you, Di?”  She dropped the napkin into the wastepaper basket, and turned to her friends. Diana was wiping down the tables, while Trixie finished sweeping the floor.

“Yes, I think that’s it.  Everyone seemed to have a good time, didn’t they?”  Diana smiled.  “I’m glad after all that Mummy insisted on hiring caterers for the food.  We had enough to do as hosts and hostesses, without having to worry about restocking the trays and keeping the empty glasses picked up.  Cleanup was a breeze since the caterers put all the leftover food away.”

“Not that there was much left over,” Trixie added.  She carried the broom and dustpan over to where Honey waited, and dumped contents into the trash bin.  “Let’s go up to your room and change out of these costumes while we wait for Dan to get back,” she suggested with a grimace.  “I really need to get out of this catsuit!”

“Yes, let’s.  We can be changed and ready to watch the scary movie Dan brought by the time the guys get the tire changed.”  Diana turned out the light and the girls headed for the stairs.

Diana led the way upstairs to her room, where the three of them would sleep that night.  Regan and the boys were bunking together in the enclosed terrace downstairs, while Miss Trask was to use the guest room across the hall from Diana’s.  

Once in Di’s attractive suite, Trixie headed straight for the bathroom to change into looser clothing and wash off her makeup.  With her face covered in cold cream, she turned back into the room, where her two friends were changing from their superhero costumes into jeans and tee shirts.  “Do you know what Miss Trask and Regan are doing now?” she asked.  “They aren’t working, I hope.”

“Miss Trask told me Harrison invited them to watch a movie with him in his quarters,” Honey replied, tying the lace of her sneaker.  “I haven’t seen her for awhile, so that’s where they probably are now.  I’m sure she’ll check on us in a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, the trio had finished changing and gone back downstairs to the Lynches’ cozy den.  Two overstuffed couches and a comfy easy chair faced the big-screen television, and a low square coffee table made a good serving area for snacks.  Each girl chose a couple of throw pillows and staked out a spot, while Diana tossed her friends an afghan apiece.

“Let’s turn on the news and check the weather while we’re waiting for the boys,” Honey suggested.  “I was so worried about Dan driving to town and back in this storm, and he goes and gets a flat in the driveway.”

Trixie had commandeered the remote, and pressed the power button.  The TV screen flared to life, and flickered as she scanned the channels for a weather report.

“There!  Storm Team 11 special report,” Diana cried, pointing.  Trixie backed up to the channel Diana had indicated.  The girls listened with much greater attention than they usually paid to the news and weather.

“I’m Kevin Harper, of Storm Team 11, covering one of the worst storms of the current hurricane season for Westchester County.”   The announcer was shown standing in a torrential downpour outside of the television station at White Plains.  His bright yellow poncho flapped in the gale, and although he huddled under a huge black umbrella, rain streamed down his face.

“Outlying areas of Westchester County have experienced flash flooding.  State Police have confirmed that the lower river road at Sleepyside is under water and closed to vehicular traffic.  There are scattered power outages throughout the county.”

“Residents are advised to stay off roads except for essential services.  Anyone who needs to be evacuated from their home, please call 9-1-1.  Kevin Harper, Storm Team 11, keeping you up to date with the severe storm situation.  Stay tuned to Storm Team 11 for the latest updates.”  The television screen switched back to the newsroom at the White Plains station, and the girls looked at each other.

“I just hope the boys are all right.”  Honey worried her lower lip between her teeth.  “I’m sure my parents’ flight will be delayed – there’s no way a plane could land in this storm.”

“Moms and Dad have to cross that bridge, too,” Trixie’s face wore a worried frown.  “I hope it’ll be all right when they’re ready to come home.”  She stood and walked over to the window.  “It’s still raining like anything over here.”

“Thank goodness Mummy and Daddy are staying in the city overnight,” Diana said.  She looked at her watch.   “The boys will be cold and wet when they get back.  I’m going to go make some hot chocolate and grab the cake.”  She jumped up and headed for the door leading back into the hallway.

Trixie and Honey looked at each other.  “They ought to be back any minute,” Trixie said.  “Why don’t you call them and see where they are?”

“Trixie, you know the Lynches’ driveway is a mile long.  It could take a long time – especially in the dark.”  Honey reached into the pocket where she normally kept her cell phone.  “Oh!  I forgot, my battery was down and I left my phone on the charger at home.”  She shrugged.  “Jim’s got his – why don’t you call him?”

“Mart’s carrying our phone tonight,” Trixie replied.  “I’ll be glad for one thing when he goes away to college – I’ll have a phone to myself then.”

Just then, a blinding flash of lightning caused Trixie to jump back from the window.  The answering boom of thunder shook the house, and the television screen went black, along with the lamp at one end of the sofa, and the night light that had been burning in the hallway.  Trixie and Honey almost stumbled over the coffee table as they moved to close the distance between them, as a crash and a bloodcurdling scream broke the sudden silence of the dark house.

“That was Di!”  Trixie breathed.  The two girls stared at each other, frightened for the first time since the storm began.