There was no time to be bogged down by sore throats and hurt feelings.
Drake double-parked directly in front of the doors to the faculty club and leaped from his Crown Vic while it was still running.
“Dr. Moorfield was too concerned with getting called out for what happened in the past to give me anything before,” he said as Beckett hurried to keep up with him. “She didn’t believe that I was telling the truth about the murders, thought I was just trying to pry information from her. Maybe now, though, now that the killer has Suzan, she’ll be more open. And if not, there are ways of making people talk. Even those as stubborn as Dr. Moorfield.”
Drake wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Beckett or just thinking out loud, but felt reassured when his friend chimed in.
“Yeah, maybe. I mean, Suzan was a medical student after all. I just… shit, the woman is just so damn obstinate.”
Drake nodded as Beckett scanned his keycard at the front door, gaining them access to the faculty club.
“And if we can’t get anything from her, I’ve got eight other names to look up,” he said, pulling the piece of paper that Screech had given him from his pocket and waving it in the air. “We’re going to find her, Beckett. We’re going to find her, and she’s going to be alive when we do.”
And yet, despite his reassuring words, images of Suzan filled his mind, flashing so rapidly that before he could completely grasp what he was seeing, the imaginary menagerie was onto the next. First, she was bent over her own neck, then in the bathtub, her eyes milky, her wrists slit. Next, she was hanging from the ceiling, shirtless, her tongue thick, followed by an image of her lying on her back, the top of her head rendered organic confetti. The penultimate image was of Suzan with burn marks on her shoulder and neck, her long brown hair frizzled, standing on end.
And then, finally, she was lying on the sidewalk, her throat opened in a crimson grin.
Drake shuddered.
“Let’s go!” he shouted suddenly, breaking into a jog. “Let’s go!”
As expected, the door to Dr. Moorfield’s office was open, just as he had left it not more than a few hours ago. But when Drake burst through, Beckett in tow, he was surprised to find it empty.
“Shit,” he swore, eyes whipping around. They fell on Beckett. “Where is she? Do you have her number?”
Beckett looked as if he was on the verge of breaking into tears.
“I don’t know… I don’t have her number.”
Furious, Drake moved around to the other side of the desk, scanning the messy top for any hints or clues as to where she might have headed.
“Fuck!” he yelled. With one arm, he swiped the contents off the desk in a fit of anger. As the medical journals, loose papers, and a stack of pens fell to the floor with a clatter, his eyes immediately focused on the burnished wood beneath.
“Beckett,” he said, his eyes locking in on the desktop. Beckett, who was busy looking at his phone, presumably searching for Dr. Moorfield’s contact info, glanced up.
“What? What is it?”
Drake gestured to the desk.
“Look!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “Look!”
Beckett hurried to his side. When he saw the words on the wood, drawn using the same soot or ash as the marks on the murder victims, Drake heard him suck in a tight breath.
“We have to go,” Drake said. “We have to hurry. He’s going to finish this—he’s going to kill Suzan and Dr. Moorfield tonight.”
He pulled the paper Screech had given him from his pocket as he said this, unwilling to take his eyes from the words on the desk: Two more.
The killer had been here. Within the two hours since Drake had last been standing in this very office, the killer had been here.
So close—I was so close.
Someone shouted in the hallway, snapping Drake out of his state of panic.
He unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the names for any that looked familiar. If he didn’t recognize any of them, he would start at the top, breaking down the doors of each until he found the information he needed, the information that would lead them to the killer.
When his eyes fell on board member five of eight, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Swallowing hard, he folded the paper back and jammed it into his pocket.
Then he turned to Beckett.
“Let’s go,” he hissed. “Let’s get out of here.”
An overweight security guard with a utility belt so jammed full of tools that Batman would be jealous, suddenly appeared in the doorway of Dr. Moorfield’s office.
“Halt!” he ordered, holding a can of pepper spray out in front of him in one chubby hand.
Drake didn’t ‘halt’; he kept on moving forward.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” he said, leveling his eyes at the man. The security guard faltered.
“Halt,” he said again, but his voice lacked the bravado of his previous command.
Drake balled his fists, prepared to strike the man if he didn’t move. But before he did, Beckett stepped forward and took control of the situation.
“NYPD,” his friend said. “We’re here investigating six murders and two kidnappings.”
“Wh—what?” the fat man said, lowering the can of pepper spray a few inches.
“Dr. Moorfield’s been kidnapped!” Drake shouted. “Now out the fuck out of the way!”
And then the man, driven by a combination of fear and confusion, slid to one side.
Drake didn’t give the security guard a chance to reconsider. He pushed by him and then broke into a sprint, hoping, but not checking to see if Beckett was following.
Chapter 60
By manipulating her jaw, Suzan managed to slip the gag down to her chin. Finally able to breathe properly without the risk of vomiting, she took a moment to better observe her surroundings.
The floor on which she sat was charred and burnt, and most areas that were salvageable had since been removed by looters, revealing a sooty subfloor. By the doorway she noted a single plank of hardwood, jutting up at an odd angle. It appeared wedged beneath the doorway trim, which had probably made it too troublesome to remove by the person that had taken the rest of the floor.
Think, Suzan. Think.
She had seen enough movies in her time to know that the masked man wouldn’t take long to return. And when he did…
Don’t think about that. Think about finding a way out.
With her hands and feet bound, she had to shimmy on her ass to move across the floor. Even though the binds on her wrists were tight, she still managed to push down with her palms, lifting her lower body before sliding it over. It was a painful process and after just a few of these awkward movements, the muscles in her arms started to ache. And with every thrust, the ropes cut deeper into her wrists. But by using this technique, Suzan moved quickly to the jutting floor plank.
It was dark inside the house, but with the full moon outside, and some of the plywood on the upper floor not aligned properly, she noticed that in the process of trying to remove the flooring, a piece of metal framing had also been exposed near the intersection of the floor and the door trim.
Suzan, sweat now mixing with the tears and ash on her face, made her way next to the exposed metal, and then spun around. With a deep breath, she lowered the rope between her wrists onto the metal.
Her first strike caused the fire weakened metal to fold over and she cried out in frustration. But after lowering the rope a second time, she realized that it was now anchored in the burnt subfloor, and the sharp edge was even more exposed. Suzan worked cautiously at first, making sure that she didn’t break the metal as she rubbed the rope against it. But as the seconds passed, she became more and more paranoid that the man in the mask was going to come sprinting up the stairs, and she started to work more furiously.
Every other stroke missed the mark, and she could feel blood running down into her palms as the metal sliced into her skin.
“Come on, come one,” she whispered as she w
orked.
And then, after it felt as if the entire night had passed, Suzan felt the rope give a little. With a tremendous grunt, she flexed and pulled her hands apart.
The frayed rope let go with a muted snap.
Yes! Her mind cried. Bringing her hands in front of her, she could see that they were covered in blood, and noted several deep cuts in the skin on the pad of her palm.
Ignoring the damage, she immediately started to tug at the rope around her ankles. She had only just started to figure out the knot when she froze.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway filled the hollow house.
“No,” she moaned. Working frantically, she tried to pull the rope from her ankles, but in her desperation, she yanked the wrong loop and it tightened.
“Please…”
But tears obscured her vision and no matter what she tried, the binding only seemed to pull her ankles closer together.
She heard a car door open, followed by an abbreviated struggle.
The sound of the plywood window covering being removed reached her next, followed quickly by footsteps on the floor below.
Suzan closed her eyes.
It was too late; even if she managed to free her ankles, there was no way that she would be able to run downstairs and get past the masked man.
Shaking her head, she grabbed the torn rope and scuttled back to where he had left her, putting her now free arms behind her back.
She heard the man on the stairs, but was now keenly aware that there was someone else with him.
And judging by the high-pitched nature of the muffled screams, it was likely a woman.
A weapon… if only I had worked faster, I could have grabbed a weapon.
Just as a shadow filled the doorway, Suzan realized that her filthy gag was still off, and she pulled it up over her mouth.
A bound and gagged woman was shoved in her direction. She tripped over the raised piece of flooring and collapsed to the ground, her thin body sliding to a stop only inches from Suzan, who cowered away from her.
The masked man entered the room next.
“I told you I’d be back,” he said with a chuckle. “And this time I brought company.”
Chapter 61
Drake pounded on the glass door with both fists.
“Open up!” he yelled. “Open the fucking door!”
He looked over his shoulder at the Crown Vic, and saw Beckett’s shocked expression staring back from the passenger seat.
“Call them!” he yelled to the frightened man. “Call Chase!”
Beckett seemed frozen.
“Just fucking call them!”
A light flicked on from within the lobby of the condo, and he turned back. The security guard with the oak-colored mustache sauntered toward him, moving with the pace of a funeral procession.
“Open up!” Drake yelled again as he continued to bang on the glass. The security guard’s eyes narrowed, and Drake saw him reach for something on his hip. At first, Drake thought he was reaching for the keys, but when he saw the man palm the butt of his gun, his heart sunk.
This was no university guard with a can of pepper spray.
“Please,” Drake said, changing tactics. “Open the door. I need to talk to him.”
The man moved closer to the door, but to Drake’s dismay, he stopped a safe distance away. As he neared, he squinted, and then, finally, recognition crossed his face.
“Detective Drake? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s fucking me, now open the door?”
The security guard took a step backward.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’ve been—”
But a sound from behind him drew both of their attention. Drake peered over the man’s shoulder, but could only make out the outline of a second man. They exchanged a few words in hushed voices, then the security guard turned back to Drake.
This time he had his keys in hand and was frantically trying to open the door. A second later, Drake heard the familiar click of the lock disengaging, and he shoved the glass door open, knocking the security guard backward.
“Wait! You need to—”
“Never mind that, Stewart. Come with me, Drake,” the shadowy figure said, stepping into view.
Drake grimaced at the sight of the short, dark-skinned man with the wiry mustache.
“Raul, I need to speak to Ken. I need to speak to him now.”
Raul nodded.
“Jes, he knows you are here. Please follow me.”
Drake hurried after Raul, who had the elevator on call, the doors open and waiting for them. They stepped inside and Ken’s manservant used a small key to set the elevator on its course to the penthouse.
The express ride to the forty-eighth floor seemed to take much longer than Drake remembered when he had been here a few months prior. Eventually, after what felt like an age listening to Raul’s heavy mouth breathing, the elevator pinged and the doors started to open.
Drake pushed by Raul and stepped into Ken Smith’s opulent penthouse apartment.
“Ken!” he shouted. “Ken, where are you?”
Ken Smith, dressed in a crisp gingham dress shirt and navy slacks stepped into view, a drink in hand, a wry smile on his lips. As usual, his gray hair was slicked back, not a single strange out of place.
“I’m here, Drake. No need to shout. Please, tell me what is so urgent that you—”
Drake finally managed a full breath.
“He’s got Suzan. The bastard took Suzan.”
Ken Smith ran a hand through his hair.
“Who? Who has Suzan? What the hell is going on, Drake?”
Drake grimaced, fighting back tears.
“A psychopath… he took her and Dr. Moorfield and he’s going to kill them both.”
There was a short pause, during which Ken’s brow furrowed. It was only in this moment, with his forehead crinkled in concern that he actually started to look his age.
“Dr. Moorfield?”
“Yes. It’s the man from the tribunal… whatever happened between them, he’s seeking revenge now. Please, you have to tell me his name.”
Ken simply stared at him.
“Please, you need to help me,” Drake pleaded. “He’s going to kill her! You have to—”
He stepped forward, intent on grabbing Ken’s perfectly ironed shirt and shaking the man. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Raul, the short, stocky man, moving toward him with astonishing speed.
Drake let his hands fall to his sides.
“Please, Ken. I need—”
“Slow down,” Ken said firmly. “Tell me what the hell is going on?”
“There’s a man… a man with some sort of vendetta against Dr. Tracey Moorfield. He’s been killing drifters, making it look like suicide. And now he has Suzan and Dr. Moorfield. You were… you were on the tribunal for something that Dr. Moorfield was involved in long ago. You need to help me, you have to tell me who was involved. You—”
Ken held up a hand, silencing him.
“I’m thinking, dammit. Give me a second.”
Drake feared that seconds was all he had before Suzan’s throat was slit.
“It was so long ago… I remember… I remember Dr. Moorfield was sleeping with a student, and… and…”
“Hurry, please.”
Ken’s brow furrowed again, and this time the creases extended to the corners of his eyes.
“Craig,” he said softly, a far-off look in his eyes. “Dr. Moorfield was having an affair with Craig Sloan, a medical student. Things went badly, and…”
Drake didn’t even acknowledge the rest of what Ken had to say. Instead, he yanked his phone from his pocket and sprinted back toward the elevator.
“Chase! Chase, the killer’s name is Craig Sloan!” he shouted into the phone.
Drake looked up in time to see Ken standing in the hallway, his drink still clutched in his hand. And then, just as the doors silently closed, he thought he saw a smile form on the man’s lip
s.
Chapter 62
The bound woman, who Suzan quickly realized was at least in her seventies, somehow managed to pull herself to a seated position. Despite the woman’s advanced age, or perhaps because of it, the woman was oddly calm, whereas Suzan’s body continually rocked with sobs.
And Suzan’s fear only intensified when the masked man stepped in front of them and slid the blade from a sheath on his hip. He angled it so that the moonlight reflected off the steel.
“If you scream, I’ll slice your carotid artery,” he said as he stepped forward. When his filthy hand reached for Suzan, she closed her eyes tightly thinking that he was going to grab a fistful of hair and yank her head back, exposing the soft skin beneath her chin.
Please, just make it quick, she pleaded silently.
But instead of cold steel, Suzan felt the man’s calloused fingers brush up against her cheek. In one smooth motion, he pulled Suzan’s gag down and then proceeded to do the same to the woman beside her.
Whimpering, Suzan said, “Wh—what do you want from us?”
The man ignored her and brought the hand not holding the knife to the jagged bottom of the crudely made leather mask. His fingers tucked beneath it, and then he lifted it off his face.
He was handsome, with short brown hair, blue eyes, and the beginnings of a beard. His nose was slightly crooked, but wasn’t bent enough to make him look sinister.
The woman tensed beside Suzan.
“You,” she said softly, her eyes going wide.
“Ah, yes, me, Tracey—it’s me. After fifteen years in prison, I’m back to finish what I started—to prove to you that I am a worthy student. When I’m done with you two, I will have completed the forensic pathology exam. I think this time I’ll get a passing grade.”
Suzan swallowed hard, her mind flicking to the final two images from Beckett’s presentation.
Throat slit and…
Only then did she notice the red jerry cans of gasoline near the far wall.
She gasped.
The final test image was of a burnt corpse—he was going to burn one of them alive.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 48
