They hadn’t counted on the girl being with her. On her blog, Trish had left that part out, probably due to confidentiality laws. Tredwell had seen Trish walking to the car, but if he saw the girl with her, the moron didn’t realize they were together. From his vantage point, Leigh hadn’t seen the girl, either. She must have been walking behind Trish.
It had gone just as planned, until the girl appeared … When she ran off screaming, Leigh knew he had to do something to stop her. He started his car and pulled out of his space, and as Tredwell made a panicked phone call to tell him what had happened, Leigh drove up beside her.
Getting her into the car had been easy. He pretended to call the police, which had calmed her. He still had the bottle of chloroform in his car, so when he’d pulled over, he used it to knock her out.
He realized quickly that he couldn’t keep her for long in his Dalton cabin. If by any chance they connected him to the case, it was too easy to look it up. But there was a small house For Sale By Owner that he’d driven past a hundred times on his way to his cabin, so he called about buying it. It had been vacant for months, and needed a lot of work. But it had a basement built like a bunker. He’d bought it with cash under the name Ethan Horne — the name he’d put his phone in. He had taken immediate possession, then with a few modifications, made it into the perfect place to hold Emily. He’d planned to furnish the basement before moving her, but when she tried her escape, he decided to take her there sooner, and let her sleep on the cold floor for a while.
The whole plan was insane. He saw that clearly now. He should have killed her and dumped the body somewhere remote, where it wouldn’t be found for months, even years. But he couldn’t make himself do it. She was just a kid, like his own daughter. Trish had deserved death, but this girl was just an innocent victim … a girl with problems like Sara’s. A girl he could save.
After all, his whole career had been about saving lives, not taking them. Even with Trish, he’d been one step removed from the actual murder.
But now the police were asking too many questions, and he couldn’t be sure Tredwell wouldn’t talk. If they decided to search Leigh’s Atlanta house and his Dalton cabin, they wouldn’t find anything. He was sure he’d removed all traces of her. Still, she was a liability.
He had to get a grip on reality. Emily wasn’t Sara, and she wasn’t going to turn into a replacement daughter and let him nurture her to sobriety. He couldn’t rewrite that horrible chapter of his life, no matter how he tried.
It was time to kill Emily and put this whole nightmare behind him. It was the only way he could save himself.
forty-four
Emily retched into the toilet, flushed, and pulled herself up. She steadied herself as she stood over the sink. Cupping her hands, she washed her mouth out. As she straightened, she considered her reflection in the mirror. She had never looked worse. Her hair was greasy, stringing into her eyes, and her face was dirty. She needed to brush her teeth. How long had it been since she’d even thought of that?
Now, they looked brown and decaying around the edges … and they ached.
Funny, when she was high she hadn’t looked at herself that much. She didn’t really care how she looked then. But sobriety made things painfully clear.
How many days had it been since this nightmare began? She’d been kidnapped Tuesday … and three nights had passed. It must be Friday.
Anger at herself and the drugs and the situation curled up inside her like toxic smoke, and she wanted to jerk that mirror off the wall and throw it across the room.
The mirror. She could break the mirror!
Turning, she stepped into the bathroom doorway and looked across the basement, up the steps to the door. She turned back to the mirror. If she were careful, she could break it without the doctor hearing. He had left a couple of towels for her hanging on the towel rack, as though she were a guest who happened to like damp, concrete basements. She slid one of the towels off the rack and laid it on the floor. The mirror was hung on the wall like a picture, so she lifted it off its hook. She laid the mirror facedown on the towel. Kneeling, she hit the back of it with the heel of her hand, hard enough to crack it. She did it again twice more, hoping that somewhere in the fragments she would find a piece long enough to use as a weapon.
Satisfied that she had enough pieces, she carefully lifted the mirror. Dozens of fragments, large and small, lay on the towel. She knelt beside it and separated the pieces, careful not to cut herself. She found one that made an isosceles triangle, long, with a sharp point. It would be tricky to hold it without cutting her hand. She needed something to wrap around it so she could get a grip and surprise the doctor the next time he came close enough to strike.
She got the other towel hanging on the rack and ripped off a strip. Then she wrapped it around the broken glass, pulled a piece through to knot it off. Glancing back at the door, she gathered up the pieces of glass from the towel and stuck them down into the toilet tank, where she hoped he’d never look. She took the broken mirror frame and slipped it behind the hot water heater in the corner of the basement. Maybe he wouldn’t notice it was gone.
Then she went up the stairs and sat near the door, waiting for her chance.
At least an hour passed, and he didn’t come. Finally, she went back down and curled up in the blanket, clutching that piece of mirror. He would come eventually, and when he did, she’d be ready.
She waited, shivering, her head racked with pain. Finally, she heard footsteps across a wooden floor above her, then a fumbling of the lock. Her hands shook as she positioned the glass between her fingers, the blunt, cloth-covered end pressed against her palm.
The doctor opened the door, looked down into the room. “Are you ready to eat?” All compassion was gone from his voice.
“Can’t,” she said, lying still. “I’m having chest pains. What did you do to me? I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. It was just chloroform. You’re all right. Now, do you want food or not?”
She gasped a breath, wheezing like an asthmatic. “Can’t breathe.”
She heard him step down, one creaky step after another. “F-fever,” she said, shivering. “Heart’s pounding.” He moved faster, crossed the floor, bent down to feel her forehead …
She swung up with the glass.
The blade gashed his chin, his lips, his nose, his cheek, his eye …
He yelled and fell back, clutching his face, blood drenching his fingers.
Emily sprang from the floor and burst up the stairs into the house. She closed and locked the door, heard him bounding up the steps.
She scanned the room, surprised. It was a different house. Where was the door?
He pounded, kicking, cursing.
She ran through the small, unfurnished house, found a side door.
She unbolted it just as she heard the basement door crashing open.
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed.
She tore out of the house and down the gravel driveway, racing toward the street.
As she reached the asphalt, a car whizzed by. She ran along the road, searching for somewhere to hide. A bridge was up ahead, where a narrow river snaked across the road. She crossed it, then heard him coming closer. She veered off into trees. Maybe she could hide there, in the forest. Her feet slid in mud. She leaped over a stump and fell, got back up. Her breath came in gasps, and dizziness made her stagger. She had to go faster. She ran through someone’s yard, saw the river winding behind it, and decided that she would follow it downstream. There were more places to hide, fewer easy trails where he could follow her.
She ran along the bank, legs burning. Glancing back, she didn’t see him. She went through the trees, up over a hill, and made her way down the far slope. She could hear traffic just below — it sounded like a main road. She crossed a creek bed, getting her feet wet. Plodding onward, she pushed through bushes and brambles and branches reaching out to slow her, but finally she burst through the trees and onto the road.
>
Cars flew by. She waited for a break in traffic, then dashed across the street. There was a strip mall a block up ahead. A big sign heralded Boutique Square. She ran behind it, checking back doors for one that was unlocked. None of them were. She dashed up to the far corner of the shopping strip, peered around to the front. She didn’t see him anywhere. Maybe she had lost him.
The store nearest to her was a dress shop, so she slipped in the front door. The welcoming bell chimed. The clerk was busy helping another customer, so Emily grabbed an outfit off the closest rack and headed for the dressing room. She went in and sat down on the bench, trying to catch her breath.
If he reached the strip mall and went through the stores looking for her, this would be the last one he’d come to. That would buy her a little time. She could go out there right now and get the clerk’s attention, ask her to call the police. But if the doctor had told her the truth, she was wanted for murder. She didn’t want to go from one prison to another. No, she had to call her mother first.
She heard the clerk coming toward the dressing room. “If I can get you anything, let me know. My name’s Marianne.”
Emily stood up and called through the door. “I love this outfit. Do you have a phone so I can call my mom? She’s a few doors down. I’ll get her to come pay for it.”
“Sure,” the voice said. “I’ll get it for you.”
More footsteps, then she heard the bell as the front door opened. Someone stepped inside.
“I’ll be right with you,” the clerk said to the new customer. She came back to the dressing room door. “Here’s the phone, honey.”
Emily cracked the door open and took it. “Thanks,” she whispered, not showing herself. Her hands trembled as she dialed her mother’s cell phone. It rang once, twice, three times …
The number showing up on her mom’s caller ID would be this dress shop. What if she thought it was a telemarketer and didn’t answer?
It went to voicemail. “Hi, you’ve reached Barbara Covington of Covington Design Studio. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
She heard a man’s voice in the front room. Emily’s heart slammed against her chest as the voicemail beeped.
She whispered, “Mom, I was kidnapped and held in a basement, but I got away. I’m at the Boutique Square shopping center. I don’t know where that is.” She paused, listened for the voices.
“…paper towels. You’re bleeding. Should I call an ambulance?”
The man gave a muffled response. “…mugged me. Got my wallet. Blonde hair … ”
Dr. Leigh!
She heard the words dressing room. She had to get out of here. Still clutching the phone, she slipped out the door and headed for the stockroom. It was a mess, full of boxes and shelves and empty racks. She wove through them to the back door, unlocked it, and slipped outside. Dumpsters sat behind each back door. If she hid in one, would he look in them?
Of course he would.
She looked both ways up the alley, then put the phone back to her ear. “Mom, please come!” she said as she ran, not certain how far the phone’s range would extend. “Dr. Leigh’s after me. He’ll kill me.”
Then she heard the line cut off. She tossed the phone into one of the dumpsters and climbed over a half wall, ran up another alley. How would her mother know where to look for her? She’d never find her now.
She couldn’t worry about that. First, she had to shake off her kidnapper. Then she could find another way to call her mother.
forty-five
On her way to Dalton, Barbara’s phone rang. She saw Cabaret Dress Boutique on the caller ID, and let it ring through to her voicemail. As soon as she did, she regretted it. What if it was someone with information about Emily? She waited a few seconds for the message to show up, then called to get it.
“Mom, I was kidnapped and held in a basement, but I got away.”
Barbara’s heart almost stopped. She turned up the volume. “I’m at the Boutique Square shopping center. I don’t know where that is.”
Her mouth fell open. “Dear God … ”
There was a long pause. “Mom, please come! Dr. Leigh’s after me. He’ll kill me.
”
The message ended, and the recorded voice said, “There are no more messages.” Barbara clicked it off and punched the caller ID, tried to return the call. All she got was a busy signal. Maybe Emily was calling back.
She waited, but no call came. Finally, she called Information, suffered through the robotic operator. “Georgia,” she said. “Cabaret Dress Boutique. I don’t know what town.”
The computer system got confused, and asked her to repeat the city and state. “I need a human,” she yelled, hoping that someone, somewhere, heard it.
“May I help you?” It was a living, breathing woman.
“Yes,” she said, breathless. “I have a number and I need the address.”
“What city and state, please?”
“I don’t know!” She pulled off the road and held the phone down, scrolling back on the caller ID. “Can you look up this number, and you tell me? It’s 555 – 943 – 8878.”
There was a pause that took way too long. “That’s in Dalton, Georgia. Cabaret Dress Shop, 3213 Benson Boulevard.”
“Thank you.” She clicked it off, and tried the number again. Still busy. She pressed Kent on her speed dial. It rang to voicemail. She hated voicemail! Where was he? She quickly left a message with the address, then called back and asked for Andy. They routed her to his voicemail too.
As she left the message, she punched the address into her rental car’s GPS. It showed her the route, but gave no indication of how long it would take to get there. She pulled back into traffic, headed north. Somehow, she had to reach the police. She willed her hands to stop shaking as she dialed the emergency number.
“911, may I help you?”
“Yes, this is Barbara Covington. My daughter Emily Coving-ton, who’s been missing, just called me from the Cabaret Dress Shop in Dalton, and I need police to go there and get her.”
“Dalton? Where is that?”
“North of Atlanta somewhere! In the mountains.”
“Atlanta? Where are you calling from?”
She looked around, trying to see a sign. “I’m half an hour north of Atlanta.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re in Missouri.”
She sucked in a breath. Of course. Her phone number originated in Jefferson City. She’d gotten that dispatcher. “Listen to me! I need the 911 for the Dalton, Georgia area. Please, can you transfer me or something?”
“I’ll try to patch you through.”
She waited, holding her breath, but after a moment, realized the connection had been lost. She looked down at the phone. There were no bars. She’d lost the signal.
Now what?
Slamming her hand on the steering wheel, she stomped the accelerator and flew north. If she got stopped, at least she’d have the police’s attention. If she didn’t, she might get there in time to find Emily herself.
forty-six
Lance had messed up, big-time. His mother was going to kill him.
He hadn’t planned to ditch the plane. He’d really meant to fly home when he boarded and found his seat next to a fat, hairy man who smelled of vinegar. He tried to get comfortable in half his seat, and leaned his head back. He stuck his ear buds in his ears and closed his eyes, listening to his iPod turned up loud. The brain-rattling volume didn’t chase away his thoughts that he’d failed his mother, his sister, his dad.
They sat on the tarmac for way too long, and when he opened his eyes and looked up, the door was still open. The jet bridge hadn’t even been removed. He checked his watch. It was four-thirty. The plane was supposed to have left at four. If he had his phone, he’d call his mom, or Jacob’s parents, to let them know they hadn’t taken off yet. But he didn’t have it. He closed his eyes again, waited.
What was his mother doing? Was she waiting there for the plane to leave? Or wa
s she on her way up to Dalton to bang on the door of a killer and offer herself as a sacrifice?
How could he leave her alone, even if she’d demanded it?
Another hour passed. He hated himself. He was supposed to be the man of the family. Dad had told him to take care of his mom, but he wasn’t doing it.
Finally, at five o’clock, the flight attendant came on and told them that the plane was having technical problems. They would have to disembark and change aircraft.
It was a sign, he thought. A sign that he couldn’t go. He had to go back and help his mom, whether she liked it or not.
He got his bag from the overhead bin and waited for his turn to file off the plane. By the time he got into the terminal, it was filled with irritated people. He heard an announcement that the new plane would be at the next gate over and they would board in twenty minutes.
Since he was over twelve, no one with the airline had taken charge of him. If he just left the airport, no one would care.
As the passengers headed for the new gate, Lance hurried down the concourse, wishing he had money for a cab, or a cell phone, at least. But it was no problem. The hotel was only a couple of miles away. He could walk.
He followed the signs to baggage claim, found the exit, and stepped out of the airport. It had started to rain.
It took a while to get to the hotel, because it wasn’t a straight shot. The road that took him out of the airport was a maze. A couple of people slowed and offered him a ride, but remembering his sister’s fate, he refused.
The sky opened and rain poured down, slanting sheets pounding him. When he finally got to the hotel, he was soaking wet. The press people were gone. The rain must have sent them back to their vehicles. He went in, thankful for shelter, and dripped across the lobby. He got on the elevator and went to his floor. When he reached his room, he stuck his key card in. The green light didn’t come on. Now what?
He knocked and heard someone clicking the dead bolt.
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