“Not yet. First we’re going to have a little chat.”
“I’m not in the mood to chat.”
There was a creepy chuckle that made Walter’s skin crawl. “I don’t suppose you are.”
Walter’s burst of anger receded as his fear thundered back with a vengeance. Was this the person responsible for killing Daniel and Mandy?
Was he next?
“Listen.” He tried to make his voice cajoling. “Untie me from this bed and we’ll talk like civilized people. I’ll chat about anything you want.”
“No,” came the immediate response. “I like seeing you strapped down. Turnabout is fair play after all.”
Fair play? Had he arrested this person in the past? That might explain why they wanted to hurt him. And even Daniel. But what about Mandy?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Of course not,” the stranger mocked. “You had nothing to do with Hopewell Clinic, did you?”
Walter jerked, as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. Oh God. It was exactly what they’d feared.
“What’s your connection to the clinic?”
“We’re talking about you.”
Walter tried to think. Not an easy task when he was naked and chained to his dead son’s bed. But he was a survivor. If he could just get his captor close enough he might be able to . . .
Okay. He didn’t really know what he could do while he was chained. But as long as he had a breath in his body he was going to struggle to stay alive.
“I’m not saying a word until you show yourself,” he blustered.
Without warning, there was a thin band of pressure around his neck. Walter gasped, belatedly realizing there was a wire noose around his throat.
“I don’t like your attitude, Sheriff Perry,” the person mocked.
“Stop,” he rasped, tears trickling down his cheeks when the pressure slowly eased. It was one thing to contemplate death. It was another to stare it directly in the face. “Please. What do you want?”
“I told you. I want to chat.”
He drew in a shaky breath. Deep down he knew that his tormentor hadn’t gone to such efforts just to chat, but he clung to the futile hope that if he kept the person talking long enough, he might find a way to escape. Or someone might come looking for him.
Miracles happened.
“About Hopewell?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
There was another rustle. Was the intruder making himself comfortable? The thought was as disturbing as the noose around his neck.
It implied the person was supremely confident that there would be no interruptions.
“How did it start?” the intruder demanded.
Walter cleared the lump from his throat, forcing his thoughts back thirty years ago.
In those days he’d been the sheriff. A position that’d held a lot more respect than it did now. In the town of Curry his word had been law, and he’d enjoyed the power that had come with his shiny badge.
He’d also been married to his high school sweetheart, who was nagging at him to start a family, and in the middle of constructing a new house that was costing him a fortune.
“Dr. Booker received a grant,” he said, offering the story that they’d all rehearsed for years. “I guess he thought he could make a difference with the patients who were sent to him.”
“How very altruistic,” the intruder said. “Now tell me the real story.”
“That is the real story. The doctor built the clinic and asked me to be on the board. That’s all I know.”
There was a sound, like the clicking of a tongue. “You shouldn’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
He caught a scent as if the person was leaning forward. Was it familiar? Maybe.
“The good doctor already told me that you were the one who came up with the plan to create the supposed clinic.”
Walter flinched, rattling his cuffs. He’d wondered where Dr. Booker had been. They’d all expected him to attend Barb’s funeral. Or at least make an appearance at the meeting that Colin had insisted on.
Was he dead?
Or had the bastard saved his neck by ratting out the rest of them? It wouldn’t surprise Walter. The doctor had always been the weakest link. Unfortunately, he’d been necessary to their plans.
“That’s bullshit,” he growled. He wasn’t going to be thrown under the bus. It was every man for himself now. “Booker was the chief of staff. Anything that happened there was his responsibility.”
“He said you came to him,” the stranger insisted. “That you’d heard the government was handing out money to keep junkies out of prison.”
Damn that coward. “I might have heard about the grant—” Walter’s words were choked off as the noose tightened.
“It was you who created that hell on earth,” the intruder accused in his muffled voice.
“ No.”
“What did I say about lying?”
Walter gagged, his tongue hanging out as the noose squeezed his throat with enough pressure to cut off the air.
“You’re killing me,” he gasped.
“Not yet,” the voice taunted. “Admit that you were responsible.”
“I admit that I brought the grant application to the cabin,” Walter rasped. Inwardly he swore that if he ever got ahold of Booker, he was going to kill him with his own hands.
The pressure eased. At least enough for Walter to draw in a gasping breath.
“The cabin?” the intruder demanded.
His memories once again wandered back in time. To the days when he’d been young and brash and certain that the world was his to conquer.
“It was a rundown shack on Neville’s land where we used to get together on Thursday nights to play poker.”
“Who?”
“Just a few guys,” he hedged.
“Say the names.”
“Me. Neville Morse. Dr. Booker.” He was certain the intruder already knew they were involved.
“And?”
Walter hesitated. His life wasn’t great. He’d lost his wife, his self-respect, and now his son. But that didn’t mean things couldn’t get worse if he revealed the entire truth.
The thought had barely flashed through his mind when there was the faintest tug of the noose.
Screw it. Right now, it was all about survival.
“Mayor Chambers. Colin Guthrie,” he quickly confessed. “That’s it.”
The noose eased. “You convinced them to apply for the grant?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
Walter grimaced. The five of them had met at the Lodge, back when it actually was a Lodge and not a shady tavern. They’d all been drawn together by their positions of respect in the community, as well as their unspoken ambition.
It’d been a natural progression to start getting together in private to share a few hands of cards, some fine whiskey, and a few hours of venting.
“We’d been complaining that we all worked in jobs that were meant to serve and protect the public. Even Neville was a volunteer fireman,” he explained. “But we got crap pay for our sacrifices.”
“Yeah. Such great sacrifices,” the intruder mocked.
Walter bristled with a defensive anger. No one understood the pressures they’d had to endure. Especially him. How many nights had he worked late, breaking up a drunken fight between neighbors, or holding a woman’s hand after her fine, upstanding husband had beat the crap out of her? It wasn’t easy babysitting the citizens of Curry.
“We did our duty,” he insisted. “We deserved more than the chicken feed we were paid.”
They were words that he’d repeated to himself over and over. Sometimes he even believed them.
“And the grant offered you that opportunity?”
“It started as a joke.” He tried to shrug, only to wince as the cold metal dug into his wrists. He’d never cared if he might b
e hurting someone when he slapped the cuffs on them. If he was arresting them, then they got what they deserved. “I brought the grant application and said we should get the money and run. A million dollars was a lot of money back then. But Neville said no, we should get the grant and put up a few pieces of plywood on his land and call it a clinic. That way we could keep the grant money, plus charge the government for monthly rent.”
“But that wasn’t enough for you?”
Walter shook his head. Looking back, it was easy to see how they’d goaded each other into behaving in a way none of them would have done on their own.
Group mentality. Or was it mob mentality?
It didn’t matter. The results had been the same.
“It was the doctor who said the real profit was in the clients,” he said.
“Profits.” The word was spit out. “In human lives.”
A chill inched down his spine. How much did the intruder know?
“He suggested that we have a few real patients who got treatment for addiction and then some fake patients who he could bill for services that he didn’t have to provide,” he hastily said. “That was the profit.”
There was a long, tension-filled silence before his captor finally spoke.
“Fake patients.”
“Yeah.”
“Just so disappointing.”
The words whispered through the air at the same time the noose was yanked tight. Walter screamed, his back bowing off the mattress. The pain was excruciating as the thin wire dug into his flesh.
Eventually the pressure eased and he managed to suck in enough air to speak.
“Okay,” he squawked.
“The truth.”
He hadn’t been lying. After Hopewell Clinic opened, they’d filled a portion of the rooms with genuine patients. They’d even made certain that they were staffed with nurses, and a counselor who was in charge of the group therapy. Behind the scenes, however, the doctor was billing for twice the number of clients, while Neville had jacked up the cost of building the place, plus charging monthly rent.
It’d brought in a decent amount.
But money was as addictive as any drug.
No matter how much they made, they always wanted more. And more. And more.
“We started with the fake clients, then after a few months Colin said that he’d been approached by some powerful friends in Oklahoma City,” he reluctantly admitted.
“Now we at last arrive at your most egregious sins,” the stranger said.
Sins? The person sounded like a preacher. Or a judge.
Walter instinctively tried to deflect the guilt away from himself. “It wasn’t me.”
“Confess.”
“It wasn’t. I swear,” he said in pleading tones. “Colin was the one to make the deal with those men.”
“You mean the men who came to rape the poor women held prisoner in your clinic?”
Sweat dripped off Walter’s naked body even as he shivered with fear.
He wanted to tell the intruder that if he could go back in time and change things, he would. That he would have stood up and said he wouldn’t be a part of the sick scheme to allow Colin’s powerful contacts around the state to use the women in the clinic for their own pleasure.
But the fear that the intruder would know he was lying made the words stick in his aching throat.
After all, Walter had been as eager as anyone when Colin first came to him with his plan. He’d sought out a few whores over the years and knew the dangers. No man wanted to troll the streets for a woman who might have a nasty disease.
They could charge a fortune to discreet customers who would enjoy the company of women who were regularly tested, bathed, and waxed, whether they wanted it or not, and who waited for them in comfortable rooms that were constantly monitored to make sure the women behaved themselves.
The truth was, they easily made five thousand dollars a night.
Pure profit.
“They weren’t prisoners,” he finally muttered.
“Bullshit.”
“Colin brought in women to the clinic who wanted to trade off their jail time,” he insisted. “It was their choice.”
There was a scraping sound, as if a chair was being shoved aside. Or maybe the intruder had jumped to their feet.
“Did you warn them that the cost of avoiding jail was to service your rich and powerful buddies?”
“Most of the women were already prostitutes,” he argued, falling back on the excuse they’d given to themselves.
“So you decided to become their pimps?”
Even though the voice remained muffled, it was easy to make out the person’s anger. What was their connection to the place? One of the women who’d stayed at the clinic? If so, why would they wait so long to come back for revenge?
“They had a clean, decent place to live, plenty of food, medical services, drug rehabilitation, and free day care for their kids. Better than the streets.”
A harsh laugh echoed through the basement. “As long as they didn’t mind being raped several times a night, right?”
Walter’s mouth was dry. He needed a drink. That was the only cure to block out the memories.
The women pleading for his help. The crying children. The smug smile on the men’s faces as they strolled out of the private rooms in the back.
“We closed the place,” he rasped, his hands clenching and unclenching. Abruptly he caught a familiar scent. Was that whiskey? Was his companion drinking?
Or was it a figment of his tortured brain?
“No, you didn’t close it,” the person countered. “It burned.”
“I—” Walter bit back his words. The intruder didn’t know the full truth. Thank God. “Yes, it burned.”
“And now, old friend, you will burn.”
“What?”
Walter was confused as he watched the heavily shrouded form walk toward him. They couldn’t actually mean that he was going to burn, could they? Then the figure held out an arm and Walter caught sight of the bottle. Whiskey. Just as he suspected. But the person wasn’t offering it for Walter to take a drink. Instead the amber liquid was being doused over his naked body. Just like lighter fluid over charcoals.
Terror exploded through him as Walter frantically tugged at the cuffs, desperate to get free.
“No. What are you doing? I gave you what you wanted,” he screamed, tears running down his face.
The intruder tossed aside the empty bottle, reaching beneath the heavy cloak. Seconds later there was a hissing sound and the scent of sulfur as the person lit a match. Walter watched in horror, realizing not even his worst nightmare could have prepared him for this end.
“No!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ellie was tired. To-the-bone exhausted.
It wasn’t just the fact that she’d spent the entire night at the courthouse while Nate was being interrogated by the sheriff. She’d spent a lot of long hours defending her clients from law enforcement without being near the edge of collapse. This weariness was a direct result of fear.
She knew Nate was innocent, but she couldn’t deny there was enough evidence against him to give the sheriff ample reason to keep him locked up. She couldn’t even argue when the lawman insisted on sending him to a holding cell.
Now she paced the hallway as the sun rose and the clock continued its relentless tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Her feet were dragging, but her temperature was rising.
This was all so stupid. No matter how much evidence might be stacked against Nate, no one with a brain in their head would actually believe he was guilty. So why play this elaborate game?
Male ego?
She made a sound of disgust, whirling on her heel to head back into the office. Enough was enough.
As if on cue, Gary Clark stepped through the doorway. He was pulling on a black windbreaker with an official badge sewn on the sleeves and a matching baseball hat. He came to an abrupt halt when Ellie moved to stand directly in his pa
th.
He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance at the sight of her. “I told you to go home.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And I told you I’m not leaving until you release my client.”
“I’m not done questioning him.”
They both knew that he’d asked every question that could have some bearing on the death of Larry Harper and Dr. Booker. Plus a lot of questions that had no purpose but to annoy Nate.
“Then bring him back to the interrogation room so we can finish this farce,” she commanded.
His jaw tightened. “I have every right to keep a dangerous criminal locked up.”
“Not without charging him.” Her voice rose an octave, echoing eerily through the empty hallway.
It reminded her that it was Sunday morning. Most people were no doubt still in bed. Where she would be if this stubborn fool wasn’t so determined to prove who was boss.
“Don’t push me, Ms. Guthrie,” the sheriff growled, shoving past her to head for the nearby stairs.
He stormed away, not bothering to glance back. She expected him to flip her off. Before she could follow, his deputy, Clay, abruptly appeared. He was pulling on a jacket and had a determined expression on his face.
She hurried to stop him before he could disappear along with his boss. “Where are you going?”
The man hesitated, glancing down the hallway. Then, unable to resist the urge to share the latest gossip, he leaned toward her, speaking in a low voice.
“We just got word Walter’s house burned down.”
The ground seemed to lurch beneath her feet. “Walter Perry?”
“Yep.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
He gave another look around, as if making sure the sheriff hadn’t doubled back.
“The firemen just started the search, but just between the two of us, I heard on the scanner they found a body in the basement.”
A body. The ground did that lurch thing again.
“The sheriff ?”
He grimaced, his face draining of color. Had he just realized that the body would most likely belong to the man who owned the house?
“I guess it must be Walter, but we probably won’t know for sure for a few days.”
Ellie wrapped her arms around her waist, a cold horror spreading through her body. It was as if some malignant force was creeping through Curry, destroying anyone connected to Hopewell Clinic.
You Will Suffer Page 26
