Twisted

by Andrea Kane

  “Your idea is perfect,” I said to Artemis. “Gaia would love that. She even has a favorite garden out back. I’ll suggest this to her right away.”

  “If she’s up for it, I can be ready in two minutes,” Artemis called back. “I’ll carry the wheelchair so you can carry Gaia. Once we’re outside, she can sit back and revel in nature.”

  I was so eager to tell Gaia, I could scarcely contain myself. “I’ll be right back,” I promised Artemis. “That way, I can share Gaia’s response with you.”

  “I promise to answer this time when you knock.”

  Sloane heard him go, and released a huge sigh of relief. Now all she had to do was hope that Gaia’s desire to drink in the natural world one last time would supersede her physical weakness from the disease that was claiming her life.

  By the time Sloane’s chiton was on and belted, and her hair was dry and brushed, Luke was back at her door.

  “We’re ready,” he said as he knocked.

  “As am I.” Sloane quickly palmed her cell phone.

  He unlocked the door and beckoned for her to join him. “Gaia is elated,” he told her as they crossed the hall to her room. “I’m so glad you came up with this idea. She’s so weak she can hardly sit up on her own, and yet she’s smiling, eager to be pushed through the gardens, to breathe in the scent of the flowers. And it is a perfect twilight. Clear, warm, with a full moon to light our way.”

  “It sounds as if it was meant to be.”

  Transferring her cell phone to the wheelchair was easier than Sloane had expected. Luke was so preoccupied with lifting his mother, removing the IV bag so he could carry it downstairs and hook it onto the wheelchair, that he barely noticed Sloane. She dropped her cell phone into the seatback bag, folded the wheelchair, and hooked her arm around it to carry it downstairs.

  Soon they were strolling through the gardens. Lillian interrupted to ask Sloane to push her wheelchair. Sloane was puzzled, but pleased to agree.

  “Luke is exhausted,” Lillian explained, indicating the signs of fatigue etched on his face. “He’s done nothing but care for me for weeks on end. He won’t take a break unless he trusts whoever’s with me. I know he trusts you. Would you mind taking over for him just for this walk? It would do my heart good.”

  “Of course not.” Sloane glanced at Luke to seek confirmation that the arrangement was okay with him.

  His nod gave her permission, although he did pat his jacket pocket to remind her he had his pistol.

  Sloane didn’t need a reminder.

  With Luke sitting on a stone bench, scrutinizing them carefully, she had to be just as cautious as if he were walking beside them. Well, almost. At least this situation afforded her the benefits of distance and camouflage.

  She wheeled Lillian through the lush garden the older woman loved most, then glided her wheelchair along the path, moving to a beautiful, serene spot. She angled the wheelchair so Lillian could smell the flowers, and simultaneously gaze at the mountains that surrounded them.

  “Are you familiar with these mountains?” Lillian sounded half out of it, partially from the morphine and partially from the weakness. “They’re so majestic, tall, and green. Or snowcapped in the winter. I’ve always loved it here. It’s like being halfway to heaven.”

  “You’re right. It is.” Sloane slid her fingers into the mesh compartment of the seatback bag, retrieved the phone, and flipped it open. Four and a half bars. It didn’t get much better than that.

  Keeping her hands shielded from view by her body, she accessed the phone menu, entered Text Messaging, and went to her out-box. Then she selected the last message sent, clicked Options, scrolled down to Resend, and pressed OK.

  The whole process took less than thirty seconds.

  With such good reception, Sloane assumed the message would go through.

  Or maybe it wasn’t an assumption. Maybe it was a prayer.

  But whether or not she’d succeeded, she had to get rid of the phone before Luke found it. And the best way to do that would be to leave it on and leave it out here, where nobody would venture after this evening’s walk was over, and where the reception was ideal. Because once Derek realized the message was from her, he’d work with the cell-phone company to triangulate on the location of her cell phone.

  She glanced behind her. Luke was leaning back on the bench, his right hand in his jacket pocket. His gaze kept shifting from Sloane and Lillian to the beauty of the sunset over the mountains.

  Sloane bided her time. Then, when Luke was looking up at the sky, she grasped her cell phone and tossed it into the row of hedges just beside her.

  Done. Now it was up to Lady Luck.

  Second Avenue, New York City

  May 2, 12:30 A.M.

  Derek hadn’t shut an eye. In fact, he’d barely sat down.

  He didn’t plan on slowing his efforts. Nor did he plan on giving up or considering the worst. He was best when he was active, doing things to bring about resolution.

  Feeling helpless was not his forte.

  Goddammit, he was going crazy.

  From its spot on the night table, his cell phone gave a short beep. He snatched it up and glanced at the display. The text message indicator was on. He flipped open the phone, which informed him that he had a new text message, and inquired if he’d like to read it.

  He punched in yes.

  His heart began pounding as he read the abbreviated words.

  luke. 12–24 hr 2 live. mtns. c wash monmnt 2 e. BOMB.

  Sloane was alive. She’d managed to use her cell phone. And she was trying to give him the information he needed to find her.

  Derek didn’t waste time, and he didn’t go through channels.

  He called his ADIC—the head of the entire New York field office—at home. Frankly, Derek didn’t care what time it was, or what protocol he was violating. Sloane had sent the message at seven-thirty. That was five hours ago. Anything could have happened since then. He was down to the wire. And he wasn’t about to let Sloane, or any of those other women, die.

  He relayed the situation and the contents of the text message to the assistant director in charge.

  “What do you need?” was his response.

  “For starters, a SWAT team and a bomb squad. I’ll also need topology experts from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.” Derek wasn’t screwing around. “Also, specialists from Parks and Recreation. Former Special Agent Burbank is telling us that she’s in the mountains and that she sees something resembling the Washington Monument to her east.”

  “At one A.M? That’s not going to be easy.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I don’t care how hard it is. I don’t care if we have to wake up the governors of all three states. This is a serial sexual killer who’s brutally raped and carved up half a dozen victims. Right now he’s got seven kidnapped women, all of whom could still be alive, but with only a few hours left to live. Among those seven women is one of our own.”

  “I’ll make the calls.”

  Date: May 2

  Time: Dawn

  Sloane had lain awake all night, jumping every time she heard the slightest sound, in the hopes that it was SWAT breaking down the doors and initiating a rescue.

  But weak sunlight was starting to filter into her room, telling Sloane that another day was beginning in which she was on her own.

  Worse, she’d heard Luke going in and out of Lillian’s room all night. His step had been urgent, and the frequency of the visits was increasing. Which could only mean that Lillian was nearing the end.

  If a rescue team didn’t arrive soon, Sloane would be combating Luke’s psychotic group sacrifice alone and unarmed.

  She sat up at the sound of Luke’s racing feet. He was headed downstairs. She wished she knew for what.

  Just to be on the safe side, she went to the bathroom, used the toilet and brushed her teeth, then filled the tub up enough so she could kneel in it and wash herself. There was a method to her madness, because instinct told her
that Luke was coming unglued. And that meant that she had to be ready on a dime.

  The goddesses have been alerted, and are in the ritual room, bathing and dressing.

  Now I must initiate the final phase.

  I’d amassed everything beforehand. I’d known that, when the time came, my emotions would be too erratic and too overwhelming.

  I wasn’t wrong.

  My hands are shaking as I turn off the furnace. A necessary precaution. Nothing can ignite prematurely. Right beside the furnace is the plastic garbage can I’d dragged in from the garage. Into that, I empty the fifty-pound drum of dry chlorine pellets I’d bought from a local pool-supply company. I then fill an empty, half-gallon ice-cream container with several cans of cheap brake fluid, tape an electric match to its side, and place the ice-cream container inside the garbage can, on top of the pellets.

  I pause, forcing myself to take a few deep, composing breaths. I can’t spare another second, not with Gaia hovering on the brink.

  Still trembling, I continue.

  I connect the leads from the electric match to a digital timer. I set the timer.

  The countdown begins.

  With Gaia entering her final moments of life, there is precious little time to waste. I must hurry. She needs me.

  I conclude my final preparations, arranging three propane barbecue tanks symmetrically around the room, cracking open the valve on each until I can hear and smell the propane escaping.

  The funeral pyre is ready.

  Sloane had just finished tying the rope of the ceremonial gold-trimmed chiton Luke had set aside in her closet—trying not to picture it covered with bloodstains—when his rushing footsteps pounded up the stairs. A brief lull, probably as he checked on Gaia, and then the running resumed, this time in the direction of “Artemis’s” room.

  His fist hammered against the door.

  “Artemis? Artemis, please wake up.”

  Sloane knew in her gut that the moment of truth had arrived. And that meant there was no rescue team, placing the ball squarely in her court.

  Seven women were depending upon her. That, in itself, would have to give her strength and purpose.

  “I’m awake,” she replied, going to the door. “I’m also dressed.”

  Luke fumbled with the key, finally unlocking the door and opening it.

  He’d obviously stopped off in his room as well, since he was freshly shaved and impeccably groomed. He was dressed in a long chiton, also embroidered with gold, with the pistol tucked in his rope belt. But his face was whiter than his chiton, and he looked like hell.

  “It’s time,” he announced, and Sloane could hear his voice quaver despite all his attempts to appear calm. “All the goddesses are in the ritual room, washing and dressing. I’ve prepared them for what lies ahead.” He swallowed. “You were right. Sedation will be needed. A few of them are weeping hysterically, and a few others are putting up a fight. I can’t allow Gaia to be exposed to that negative energy. This must be a peaceful, sacred passing.”

  He glanced toward Gaia’s room. “I have to get back to her. The music and candles are in place, as are the goblets of wine. But I…” He turned back to Sloane. “You have to prepare as well. Wash. Dress.”

  “I’ve done both.” Sloane kept her voice low and respectful of what was about to occur. “I heard you dashing around. I assumed it was Gaia. So I rose, bathed, and put on the ceremonial chiton you left me.”

  For the first time, Luke seemed to actually see her. “You knew. I shouldn’t be surprised. You look every bit the goddess.”

  “I wanted to braid my hair.”

  “Yes. Good. That is fitting and proper.” Luke was talking more to himself than to Sloane. “The gods will give me the strength I need. She and I will only be separated for minutes.”

  “Of course.” Sloane considered touching his arm, then thought better of it. “Delphi,” she asked, gazing directly into his vague, empty eyes. “Would you like me to sit with you at Gaia’s bedside—at least until it’s time to bring up the other goddesses? Because I could keep vigil with you. It might ease this transition.”

  Another of those rare flashes of sanity. “I’d like that. So would Gaia. She feels deeply bonded to you. The walk you two took last night is all she talked about during her lucid moments. You made her happy. And that brings me more joy than you can imagine.” He stood there for a moment, like a lost boy.

  “Check on Gaia,” Sloane urged. “Then sedate the goddesses. Leave them in the ritual room until they’ve calmed down and their presence is required upstairs. I’ll braid my hair. I’ll be ready for you when you return.”

  “Right.” Robotically, he walked out of her room, shut and locked the door.

  Sloane sank down on the edge of the bed. She’d just bought herself a little time alone with Luke. She’d have to use that time, and his grief, to her advantage. Because once Lillian was gone, any trace of Luke would be gone. At which point Delphi would take over, and he’d do away with the goddesses, one by one, culminating with her and then himself. Shortly thereafter, the entire manor would burst into flames and be reduced to cinders, along with their bodily remains.

  Pistol or no pistol, this would be her last chance to save them.

  High Point State Park

  Kittatinny Mountains

  Sussex County, northwest tip of New Jersey

  May 2, 7:05 A.M.

  “There’s the monument,” one of the New Jersey state troopers pointed out. He, along with a dozen other New Jersey state troopers, and the local police, were part of the FBI-led search team. “It’s over eighteen hundred feet above sea level. It’s the tallest point in New Jersey. You can see everything for miles from up there.”

  Derek was wearing his forty-pound SWAT vest and all his protective gear, carrying his assault rifle, with his pistol strapped to his thigh. So were the fifteen-plus other members of New York’s enhanced SWAT team who’d been available and were now assembled under the command of John McLeod, their team leader. Joining SWAT were two SABTs, who were on standby, ready to suit up in their heavy-duty EOD-9 bomb suits at a moment’s notice, and equipped with the disruption tools needed to deactivate any explosive devices.

  “We’re going door-to-door, covering the grid, starting with the buildings due west of that monument,” McLeod announced to the group. “Derek, fill us in on the topography.”

  Derek nodded, grateful as hell that Sloane had managed to leave on her cell phone, allowing Verizon to triangulate on the area where she and the victims were located.

  “Most of what you’ll find are small farms, and all of them are spread out,” he specified. “Some are hidden by trees for privacy. Be especially interested in those. Our Unsub is intent on keeping his hideaway as close to invisible as he can. But we’re going to find it—and we’re going to find it fast.” A quick glance at his watch. “Time’s working against us. Let’s go.”

  Sloane leaned past Luke and tucked a blanket beneath Lillian’s chin, talking softly to her as she did. Luke stood on Sloane’s right, directly beside his mother’s face, holding her hand in both of his, and murmuring to her about eternity and beauty and reverence.

  Over the past hour and a half, Lillian’s breathing had gone from labored to erratic to almost nonexistent—so much so that, several times, Sloane had to stare at the rise and fall of her chest for what seemed like forever, just to see if she was still alive.

  This was torture.

  And Luke wasn’t taking it well.

  He was experiencing major mood swings. One minute he was a compassionate, loving son, the next minute he was a delusional soon-to-be Greek god, and the next minute after that he was a violent, angry killer who wanted to seek vengeance on a world who was taking away the only person he’d every truly loved, and who’d ever been there for him.

  It was the last of those moods that worried Sloane most.

  When the rage took over, Luke was irrational and unreachable. He stalked around the room, waving his pistol and hi
s combat knife, and ranting about justice and decency and the annihilation of society. He kicked furniture out of his way, blotches of red staining his cheeks, and describing the horrific ways he’d killed people and the even more horrific ways he wanted to kill more. Sloane didn’t need convincing. She was already worried sick that the wrong provocation—like a defiant remark from one of the soon-to-be-retrieved goddesses—would result in his going off on a shooting and stabbing rampage, and then deferring his own ascension to Mount Olympus long enough to continue that rampage elsewhere.

  During those moments when Luke went berserk, Sloane remained very still, just stroking Lillian’s hair and adjusting her pillows. Fortunately, the poor woman was totally out of it, so she didn’t have to witness her son’s depravity firsthand.

  But unless Sloane could find the right moment to attack Luke and win, or, at the very least, defuse his murderous rage, this was going to be bad.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the rage ended, transforming Luke into Delphi, who went on ad nauseam about the nobility of Mount Olympus and what awaited them there.

  And then, every once in a great while, it would be Luke standing beside Sloane, watching with tears in his eyes as his mother slipped away.

  Oddly, it was during one of Luke’s tirades that Lillian opened her eyes and very clearly said, “Luke.”

  He whipped around, staring at the bed, recognizing the fleeting moment of lucidness in his mother’s eyes.

  Instantly, he lowered the knife and the pistol, walking around Sloane to resume his place at the top part of the bed. “I’m here, Mother.” He put the knife and pistol on the floor, and took her hand, clasping it tightly between his.

  An expression of wonder crossed her face. “It’s beautiful. The other side is beautiful.” She drew another slow, shaky breath. “Don’t grieve. It’s my time.” Her lids were slowly drooping. “I’ll always be with you. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget…how much I love you.”