by Andrea Kane
When the door was safely locked behind her, she called 911.
Delphi slammed the front door behind him—so hard that the entire house vibrated from the impact.
Downstairs in their respective rooms, all the women leaped to their feet, fearful over what was happening, more fearful over what would happen next.
He tore through the house on a wild rampage, alternately smashing things, groaning in pain, and shouting English and Chinese profanities.
An hour passed. The intensity of his rage did not.
The goddesses cringed in their rooms, panicked over the outcome of this tirade. They understood that no new goddess would be joining them. Something major had gone wrong. And, whatever it was, Delphi would be taking it out on them.
But who? When? And how?
Waiting it out, and the apprehension that accompanied it, were unendurable.
Finally, they heard the stomping of his footsteps heading downstairs. Each of them froze and waited.
The metallic clink of keys. The moment or two until he found the one he wanted. And then the fumbling that indicated he was beyond fury and into psychosis.
Surprisingly, it was Hestia’s door he unlocked.
“I need your help,” he commanded, shutting the door behind him.
Hestia flinched. She was calm by nature, but Delphi had terrified her from day one. She compensated by obeying all his rules, and asking for as little as possible. Her goal was to remain almost invisible, a plan that seemed to be working, based on the fact that Delphi rarely spent any time with her. And it was unprecedented for him to single her out.
Until now.
She forced herself to rise, knowing he expected a response, and unsure what response would provoke him least. Before she could decide, he stepped out of the shadows and into the light, limping painfully toward her. As he approached, she could see that his nose was bloody, there was an ice pack strapped to his pants in the groin area, and his right arm was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Now she understood why he’d chosen her to come to.
“You’re badly hurt,” she confirmed quietly. “What can I do?”
“Hestia, the goddess of home and hearth,” he muttered. He was half out of it from whatever narcotics he’d taken for the pain, and from the sheer exhaustion resulting from his rampage.
“Yes,” she replied, keeping him calm by agreeing with him. “Now I’m Hestia. But before that, I was a nurse. Which is why you’re here. Describe your injuries to me, and how you got them.”
“Tyche, that bitch.” He was rambling, yet the pieces were easy enough to put together. “She launched a counterstrike. Against me of all people. I was her savior.”
Bravo, she thought silently. Whoever you are, Tyche, you got away. And you caused him pain in the process. I pray you take this to the police. If you do, maybe there can still be hope for us.
Aloud, she said only, “Show me.”
In answer, he rolled up his sleeve, and she could see that his wrist was badly swollen and discolored. With his left hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out some first-aid supplies. “I used ice on the drive back,” he told her. “I stopped at a pharmacy and bought an Ace bandage. I need you to wrap my wrist. I can’t do it one-handed.”
Hestia examined the wound. “The swelling is bad. The wrist could be fractured. You need to have it X-rayed.”
“I can’t and it isn’t,” he retorted. “I’ll continue to ice it. I’ll also elevate it and rest it. Now help me with the Ace bandage.”
She summoned all her courage and tried one last time. “It’s at least a grade-two sprain, if not a grade three. Which means, at best, the ligaments are partially torn, and, at worst, they’re completely torn. The joint will be impacted. You need to get to a hospital.”
“I said no!” he shouted. “Whatever treatment I need, you’ll provide. You’re a nurse. You worked in a hospital. Now fix it!”
“All right.” Alarmed by his outburst and the crazed, drugged look in his eyes, she took the Ace bandage, and with trembling fingers, she wrapped his injured wrist from the base of his fingers all the way to the top of his forearm, overlapping the wrap so it was as snug and supportive as possible without cutting off the circulation. “That should help,” she said. “Apply ice for twenty minutes at a time, every three to four hours. Do that for two days. Use the wrist as little as possible; it needs rest. Also, keep it elevated as much as possible. Prop a pillow under it when you sleep.”
He glanced over her handiwork. “A skillful job. I knew you were Hestia. I was right when it came to you. I was right when it came to all my goddesses. Tyche was a gross error in judgment. I don’t allow myself those.”
“Of course not. Nor do you make them.” Hestia prayed she was choosing the right words. “This Tyche who hurt you isn’t destined to be a goddess. That’s her flaw, not yours.”
Some of the wild rage left his eyes. “You’re right. She’s the deficient one, not I.”
“Exactly.” Hestia felt a surge of relief. “As for your nose, clean it up and apply an ice pack. That’ll take down the swelling. But the injury to your groin could be serious. I strongly urge you to see a doctor.”
His gaze hardened again. “I know what signs to look for. I’ll handle it.”
“What about painkillers?”
“I have what I need.”
“Of course you do.” He clearly had a drug connection. Hestia well remembered the hypodermic needle he’d had the day he kidnapped her at knife-point. She’d cooperated so he didn’t have to use it. Needles didn’t frighten her; she administered them every day. But she knew that if she’d had any chance of getting away when he first grabbed her, that chance would have evaporated if she were unconscious.
As it turned out, it hadn’t mattered.
There’d been no chance. No escape.
Delphi was turning away from her, limping painfully toward the door. “I’ll be back when the bandage needs to be reapplied.”
“That’s fine. But don’t neglect the other wounds. And be sure to get some rest.”
He paused, glanced back at her. “You’ll be rewarded for your loyalty and compassion.”
With that, he left. As he was shutting the door behind him, Hestia heard him mutter: “As for that little bitch—Mount Olympus is lost to her. She’s a whore like all the others. She’ll rot in hell. I’ll make sure of that.”
Martial Arts Academy
Flemington, Hunterdon County, New Jersey
April 6, 8:15 P.M.
Sloane pulled into the parking lot, relieved that the academy had called and asked her to teach tonight’s Krav Maga class. She needed a distraction. She’d spent days watching the video footage, until her eyes were bleary and her head was filled with cobwebs. And still she hadn’t spotted Penny.
At least three times, she’d had a surge of hope, paused the DVD segment she’d been watching, rewound it, and leaned forward, rechecking it in slow motion only to have her heart sink when she realized it wasn’t Penny.
By tonight, every frame was starting to look alike.
She’d known there was a lot of footage to go through, but she never imagined it would be this intricate and difficult. The sheer number of DVDs was daunting enough. But between the glare of the midday sun, the indistinct features of the people walking by, and the wooded sections blocking certain angles from view, Sloane was frustrated. She had assumed that Penny’s red business suit would have jumped right out, especially in a sea of T-shirts, dark sweatpants, and jeans. Evidently, that wasn’t the case—at least not yet.
But Sloane refused to give up.
Derek had already sent every DVD the Stockton campus police had fed him down to Quantico for more sophisticated analysis. There was one more day of outstanding footage yet to be burned, but the FBI and Sloane were concentrating on the day of Penny’s disappearance, and the day or two before it, when the kidnapper would most likely have visited the campus to finalize his strategy.
Event
ually, something had to turn up.
Sloane turned off the car, gathered up her Krav gear, and headed into the academy. She expected to have some time to set up before the students arrived.
That idea was forgotten the minute she stepped through the door.
The entire reception area and front office were jammed with people, including two local newspaper reporters and a photographer. It looked like a political press conference and—judging from the phrases being thrown around, like “physical assault” and “attempted abduction”—it sounded like the set of a TV crime drama.
“What’s going on?” Sloane called out, although she had no idea who was going to answer her.
Mark Donaldson, one of her more avid and early-arriving students, took on that role, walking over and raising his voice so Sloane could hear him above the crowd. “I guess you haven’t been watching the news. Tina was attacked at knife-point yesterday. The local press is all over her. So are all the students who just finished up their seven o’clock Krav Maga and tae kwon do classes.”
“Is Tina all right?” Sloane asked instantly. “When you say attacked, do you mean robbed? Raped?”
“Neither. She used her Krav to beat the crap out of the guy. Pretty cool, huh?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the office. “Talk to her yourself. She’s in there.”
Sloane shoved her way through the two dozen people until she reached the office. Spying Tina’s overwhelmed expression, she switched into take-charge mode. “Interviews are over,” she announced, holding up both hands and glaring pointedly at the press. “Leave your business cards on the table by the door. If Ms. Carroll wants to get in touch with you, she will. Everyone else—if you’re not here to take a class, please say your good-nights.”
“Just a few more shots,” the photographer cajoled.
“No.” Sloane’s tone was adamant. “I won’t be saying this nicely again. I want everyone to clear out immediately. Starting with members of the press.” A penetrating stare at one tenacious reporter. “If you need encouragement, be aware that I have the cops on speed dial. I also have two of them as students in my class.”
“Better listen to her,” Mark Donaldson chimed in. “She’s ex-FBI. And if you think Tina’s tough, Ms. Burbank will body-slam you out the door.”
With grimaces and under-the-breath comments, the press filed out, followed by the stream of curious students.
Sloane waited until the crowd had dissipated. She then gestured to Mark that she’d be out in a minute, and retreated into the office, where she and Tina were now alone. Shutting the door behind her, she walked over to Tina, who was sitting stiffly at her desk, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay, I guess.” Tina forced a smile, but Sloane could see right through it. The poor girl was still shaky. “I’m a little overwhelmed by all this craziness. And I still feel like the whole thing was an out-of-body experience.”
“What about physically?”
“Physically, I’m fine, other than a minor flesh wound on my left shoulder. It happened when he first grabbed me and put that mega-knife across my throat. The cut stings like hell, but it’s not serious. The college medical center treated it, bandaged it up, and sent me home with some painkillers.”
“Mark said this happened yesterday.” Sloane stuck with the basics, until she could decide if Tina was ready to supply details. “Were you at your dorm?”
“No. I was out running. I do laps around Lake Ceva every morning at five-thirty. The guy came out of nowhere. He put that serious-looking blade across my throat, muttered something I couldn’t understand, then told me to shut up and come with him or he’d slit my throat.”
Tina proceeded to fill Sloane in on the next thirty seconds of self-defense, a spark of pride flashing in her eyes when she described the Krav Maga techniques she’d used to disarm her attacker and put him out of commission.
“Nice job,” Sloane commended. “I couldn’t have done it better.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I took off as soon as I knocked him off his feet,” Tina concluded. “I never knew I could run that fast.”
“Adrenaline. It’s a powerful tool when your life’s at stake.” Sloane was pleased to see Tina’s color coming back. “So you got back to your room and called the campus police?”
“The second I locked my door. Two armed cops came ASAP. So did three campus security officers—and half the students who live in my hall. My room was like a three-ring circus. I had my parents on the phone, pretty hysterical, and wall-to-wall people asking me for details. One of the security officers took me to the medical center so my wound could be treated, and so I could set up a counseling appointment for this morning. I was pretty freaked out. Then the security guy took me back to my dorm, where I answered as many of their questions as I could. Half of what I said is a blur. The whole day seemed surreal. Honestly? I just wanted the whole thing to go away.”
“That’s perfectly natural,” Sloane murmured. “You’d just gone through a traumatic experience.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t help when the news spread all over campus and suddenly reporters appeared and students I didn’t even know started coming up to me to get the gory details. I tried to duck everyone, but it was impossible. I came to the academy tonight hoping to get away from the mass pandemonium, and to have some normalcy and peace. Guess that wasn’t in the cards.” Tina dragged her fingers through her hair. “It’s weird. When I drove away from campus tonight, I looked over at Lake Ceva. The area where I was attacked is roped off. It looks more like an official crime scene on CSI than like real life.”
“It is an official crime scene,” Sloane reminded her. “Just because you were smart enough and skilled enough to get away doesn’t make the attack any less of a crime.” A careful pause. “Did you see the man who attacked you?”
Tina shook her head. “Not really. He was wearing a ski mask. I saw his build, his height, even a slit of his eyes. But not enough to identify him. And he only said a handful of words, all of them in a low, raspy voice. I couldn’t even make out a few of them.”
“Do you think he might have been another student?” Sloane asked.
“I don’t think so. He seemed older. His physique, his voice, even the way he moved. It wasn’t like he was a young guy. I could be wrong. But that was the impression I got.”
“You said you delivered a knee strike to his face, and that you connected with his nose. Was it bleeding badly?”
“Yeah, all over the place. It soaked through his mask and dripped onto the ground.”
“Good. Then there’ll be DNA evidence.”
“I can’t imagine otherwise.” Tina blew out a slow, calming breath. “The police did one of those mouth swabs on me for a DNA sample. This way, they’ll be able to differentiate his blood from mine. Although most of the blood was his. I only had blood on my shirt from where the cut oozed through, and a little bit on my hair clip.”
“Your hair clip?”
Tina nodded. “It came loose when we were struggling. It slid out of my hair, and bounced across my shirt as it fell. I remember noticing the bloodstain on it when it was lying on the grass.”
Sloane went very still as the commonalities clicked into place.
Two attempted kidnappings—one successful, one not. Both on college campuses. Both leaving behind either a bloodstained hair band or hair clip at the crime scenes. Both within a few weeks of each other. Both in the New York/New Jersey area.
Coincidence?
No way.
“He planned on drugging me,” Tina was continuing. “A hypodermic needle fell out of his pocket when I knocked him down. That and something else. I saw it go flying off into the woods.”
“Tina, did the campus police say when they’d be getting back to you?” she asked.
“In a day or two.” Tina rubbed her sore shoulder anxiously. “I’m sure the college is trying to spin this so that panic won’t erupt, in spite of the media coverage. After all, this
was an atypical, isolated incident. It’s not like TCNJ has a high crime rate. So the school’s probably urging the police to take a responsible but low-key approach. Not that it’s done any good. The story’s in all the papers. It’s spread across the campus like wildfire. All the girls are freaking out, just knowing this guy’s out there somewhere. I don’t blame them; he’s clearly a wack job.” A hint of a smile. “Although I think I put him out of commission for a while.”
“No doubt he’s got some serious wounds to deal with,” Sloane agreed.
As satisfying as that knowledge was, it wasn’t comforting. Tina had kicked this guy’s ass. Wherever he was holed up, nursing his wounds, it had to be close by. He was badly hurt, and ripping mad. None of which bode well for what came next.
“The police were trying to figure out if there was a motive specific to me,” Tina was saying, “but I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Forget ransom; I can barely pay my tuition. My only assets are my poker winnings, which are just enough to buy my fighting gear. And, to my knowledge, I don’t have any enemies, certainly not psychotic ones.”
“Of course not.” Sloane’s wheels were still turning—fast. She had to choose her words cautiously, approach this in a way that wouldn’t frighten Tina. The poor girl had been through enough. But the truth was, potential victims weren’t the only ones Sloane was concerned about. She was worried about Tina. If the attack on her and the attack on Cynthia Alexander were related, then they might be dealing with a serial rapist or a serial killer. And that changed everything.
Not only would the manhunt become bigger and more widespread, but if Tina was the first girl to have gotten away from this psycho, and to physically overpower and humiliate him in the process, there was a good chance his rage would compel him to return and do God knows what to her.
Sloane wasn’t going to let that happen. She’d pull whatever strings she had to. But Tina would have police protection.
Speaking of police, Sloane would call Bob Erwin the minute she finished teaching tonight’s Krav class. The College of New Jersey Police Department wouldn’t have reason to make the connection to the John Jay kidnapping. But Bob would, once Sloane filled him in. He needed to know everything about Tina’s assault. Her ordeal, and whatever details of it she could recall, could be the break he’d been looking for to solve Cynthia’s case.
