Regina’s mind raced. What was he talking about?
He stared at Regina, a wily grin on his face. “I like to be near pretty women. I like to have them around me, tending to my needs.” He slipped the strap of the handbag from his shoulder and dumped the contents onto the floor. With the toe of his shiny ox-blood shoe he stirred the items around, and seeing nothing that could help the prisoner, dismissed them. “I bet you never dreamed I have women catering to me. Lovely women like yourself and your daughter. Well, nor did I when I was young.
“Rejection is not easy to accept,” he said, reaching a coarse, hairy hand to her face, caressing. “Of course, you wouldn’t know that, being the beautiful woman that you are. I lived with rejection all my young life. Women I wouldn’t waste words on today cruelly spurned a young man’s advances. I can pick and choose now. And if they choose not to desire me, then they are no longer desired. Cases in point: Corinne, Donna, and ...” He paused. “... others.”
Marilyn Keane, she thought, and Carmenita Flores. How many more? “You’re doing this because I rejected you?” She fought the urge to slap his hand away from her face.
“You and the others.”
“You learn that ‘City Gallery’ intends to do a show with all the finalists and this awakens your hatred toward us?”
He laughed without mirth. “It was my suggestion to air a show with the finalists. Fortunately for me, Nolan Lake jumped at the idea. You see, it was essential that the public be reminded of that tragic incident.”
“Why?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Why bring me here? Why not just splash me like you did the others?”
“Patience.” A hardness glinted in his bulging eyes.
He quickly reached down and cupped a breast. Regina instinctively pushed his hand away.
He eyed her shrewdly, then grinned, nodding his head. “Some never learn,” he said.
Regina opened her mouth to speak. But no sound came out. She shook her head instead.
“I’ll bring your daughter now. I trust you won’t do anything foolish. There’s no reason she should suffer . . . unnecessarily.” He went to the door and inserted a straight, picklike object into a hole. The door opened and then he was gone, closing it behind him.
Regina quickly bent down and grabbed her container of mace from the scattered contents of her purse. The relief she’d felt when he’d overlooked the small blue leather case had been overwhelming. She unclipped the keys and dropped them back to the pile, then shoved the mace into her coat pocket. When he came back with Kristy, she would attempt to disable him with the burning chemical.
She stood in the middle of the room and looked around. There were no windows and only one door. It was like an office within a vault. Light radiated from fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. The desk top was bare. She quickly moved around the room, trying drawers and cabinets. All were locked with the exception of a bottom drawer in a file cabinet. There she found a Polaroid camera and a wooden box. The box was filled with photographs of nude women in countless compromising positions. Hastily she sorted through them until she found Wilma Greenwood among the bunch. A much younger, very striking, Wilma.
He had left this material out for her to see. To prove to her the power he’d had over these beautiful women. If they played the game, they had only to live with the degradation of that repulsive monster committing consensual rape, using their bodies whenever he wanted, any way he wanted. But if they didn’t play ...
She shuddered.
Where was Kristy? God, had he already —no ... no, she guessed that wasn’t his style. He would want her, the mother, to witness some horrific act as part of the punishment. Then what would he do? Disfigure her and Kristy? Perhaps. But she felt that was just a prelude to an ultimate goal. She and Kristy knew their attacker. Judge or no judge, he couldn’t expect to get away with it. There was only one conclusion.
Like Carmenita Flores and Pandora, they wouldn’t live to tell anyone.
John slammed down the receiver, then pounded a fist against the wall. He had just spoken to Wilma. No word from Regina. Wilma would call the courthouse and check on Judge Corde. John prayed the judge was in trial.
As he waited for Wilma to call back, he resumed his pacing. He had to do something. He couldn’t just hang around wearing down the carpet while the woman he loved had disappeared into thin air. She was in danger. He felt it in his gut. She would have called if she could.
The phone rang. He snatched it up.
“John, Corde’s not at the courthouse,” Wilma said.
“Christ.”
“More bad news. The investigating police found a matchbook at the scene of the psychic’s murder. The matches are from the Bull’s Blood Lounge and there’s a very clear fingerprint on it. John, it’s yours.”
“Aw shit,” he groaned. “He’s setting me up. Jesus, I should have seen it coming.” He remembered the pistachio shell in the utility room of the gym. Somehow Corde knew his habits, likes, and dislikes. “You know I didn’t do it. I was with Regina at the time that woman was killed.”
“I know that. And I’ll vouch for you.”
“Wilma, I’ve got to get out of here before they come or I’ll be doing my explaining at headquarters and there’s no time for that.”
He hung up, started for the door, stopped. If he left and she managed to get to a phone, he’d miss her call.
“Goddamnit!” he banged the wall again.
“Johnnie?” His aunt Anna opened the door, poked her head inside tentatively. “Johnnie ...?”
“Aunt Anna, you’ve got to tell me. It’s extremely important. Did you see Regina this afternoon?”
His aunt looked at him, her large brown eyes filled with concern for him. She reached into an apron pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to him.
He read the note, his heart galloping wildly. The time at the bottom read 12:50. He glanced at his watch. 2:02. Well over an hour ago. Damnit, would she still be at Fort Point? He doubted it. More than likely he had taken her to his house in Pacific Heights.
He raked his fingers through his hair.
His aunt touched his arm. “Has something happened to Mrs. Van Raven? I didn’t read it. I’m sorry if—”
He cut her off. “Aunt Anna, do something for me.”
“Of course, Johnnie.”
“Stay and listen for the phone. I want someone here if Regina calls. I’ll check in later.”
She nodded.
He called Wilma. “Corde has Regina. I’m going to his house now. Give me ten minutes, then send the police. Tell them it’s a kidnap situation and to treat it as such. No sirens. The judge doesn’t know he’s a suspect.”
“Godspeed. John, be careful.”
He hung up and ran into his bedroom. “I’m taking your car. Aunt Anna,” he called out as he rummaged through the nightstand drawer looking for his handgun.
The gun was gone.
“The fucking bastard,” he cried in exasperation. Corde must have taken his gun the night he broke into his apartment. There was nothing he could do about it now. He could only hope that the element of surprise would give him the edge he would need.
He located the leash hanging on a nail in the garage, not ten feet from the body of his dear deceased wife. Getting the leash had given him the opportunity to see the rotten bitch once more.
He stood in quiet contemplation over the sprawled form, his nerves deliciously keyed up, virtually humming with pleasure.
Amelia had believed in reincarnation, the afterlife, and out-of-body experiences. He hoped her spiritual self had managed to come out of the grotesque thing that sat crumbled on the concrete floor to view the ruins of the once-magnificent face.
Seeing Amelia again, being reminded of how he had been cheated of the prolonged torture that would have given him the ultimate satisfaction, renewed his fury at the woman in his basement room. He wouldn’t be cheated this time.
He took the leash ups
tairs to his bedroom.
“Your mother is here,” he said to the girl on the bed. “She wants to see you. Shall we get you ready for your visit?”
Above the silver duct tape across her mouth, Kristy stared at Corde with large, terrified eyes. Her gaze dropped to the chain leash in his hand.
“Oh, don’t be frightened, sweet girl. I don’t intend to whip you with this.” He held the leash up. “I shall just put it around your neck so you won’t be tempted to wander.”
He tossed the leash on the bed, then went into Amelia’s closet. There was no hesitation, he knew exactly what he wanted Kristy to wear. His body tingled with anticipation.
He returned to the room and laid the clothes on the bed. Then he leaned over and cut the pantyhose at Kristy’s wrists and ankles and the one around her throat securing her to the headboard. The tape he pulled off slowly, reveling in the discomfort her eyes could not conceal.
“I trust you to cooperate,” he said. “I’m sure you love your mother too much not to.”
Kristy looked down, nodded.
“Put these on.”
She stared at him, unmoving.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my presence.” His light tone turned harsh. “Do it now.”
She undressed, turning away as best she could. Her modesty, and the brief snatches of nudity revealed to his eager eye, titillated him a hundred times more than if she had stood before him naked, desirous of his touch.
“The brassiere goes,” he said.
The girl paused briefly, quickly removed her bra, then resumed pulling on clothes. When she was done, she turned slowly, head held high, refusing to look at him.
He scrutinized her carefully. Wonderful. So believable. He felt a stirring in his groin.
Kristy wore a pink taffeta dress with a pinafore of Swiss batiste, the sash tied in a bow at the back of her tiny waist, the ruffled hemline ending above her knees. She wore ankle socks and white Mary Jane shoes. She could undoubtedly pass for a prepubescent child.
“A pity you’re so tall,” he said. “Ah, well, such as it is. There on the bed, a satin ribbon. Use it to pull your hair up on the sides and tie it into a bow.” He moved toward her. “Let me show you.”
She jerked away. “I know what you mean.” She stepped to the full-length mirror and arranged her long brown hair.
He handed her a jar of cold cream and a wad of tissues. “Off with the makeup and earrings.”
While she did that, he went through Amelia’s drawers and selected a pair of fishnet hose, a garter belt and demi-bra, all in black.
He turned back to Kristy, who stood waiting,
“Perfect.”
Retrieving the leash from the bed, he approached her, looped it over her head, and pulled in the slack. When he tested the tightness, pinching her neck, she cried out and glared at him.
He gave her two smart swats on her behind. “Behave yourself. I will not tolerate insolence,” he scolded. “Come, child. Your mother is waiting.”
He yanked at the leash, forcing her to follow.
John parked his aunt’s Skylark two blocks down and ran for all he was worth to the Corde estate. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky to the north. He was thankful for the driving rain that, he hoped, wouldn’t draw undo attention to a man in a hurry. His lungs felt about to burst, his breathing was labored. Once inside the Corde grounds, he ran, crouched low, staying well within the shadows of the three-story house, tall hedges, and walls. At the garage he slowed, wondering if he should go to the door in back— the one the housekeeper had allowed him to use—or try to find a way in through the garage? He opted for the garage. He would need some sort of weapon against an armed killer.
He didn’t bother with the aluminum garage doors. They were automatic and would only open from the outside with a remote device. He found the access door on the far side. It had four small windows in the upper half. John bent, lifted a nearby watering can, and with the metal spout, was about to tap at the pane nearest the doorknob. The can went through the window sash. The pane was missing.
Glass, on a square carpet in front of the door, crunched under his shoes. Someone had broken out the glass before him. Had Regina come here instead of Fort Point, hoping to find and rescue Kristy before becoming a prisoner herself?
There were three cars in the garage. Nearest to him was the judge’s Rolls-Royce. Next to that was a limited-edition sports car of some obscure make. The car closest to the interior door was Amelia’s dark blue Mercedes. As he passed the Mercedes he tripped on something. He threw out an arm to catch himself and touched a soft mass that was unmistakably hair.
His heart seized.
Regina?
Please, no.
At that moment a flash of lightning illuminated the garage and the hideous thing at his feet. The shocking sight of it forced him to stumble back.
He was stunned, yet relieved. He’d seen enough to guess it was Amelia. John knew what Corde was capable of, yet he was totally unprepared for the atrocity at his feet.
He hurried on before another flash of lightning forced him to look again.
He was at the door when he heard a rustling sound, like someone moving. It came from behind him. He tasted bile. For a brief, insane moment he imagined it was the body making that sound —the woman, crazed, rising from the dead to seek her revenge, prepared to destroy those in her path as she sought her murderer.
He whirled, looked behind him. The dark outline leaning against the car hadn’t moved.
In the dim light, he saw an assortment of tools hanging on a pegged wall. He reached for the largest and heaviest—the monkey wrench.
Then he slipped quietly into the laundry room.
Kristy’s captor lifted the handgun from the dresser, flipped the safety lever, then shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers.
They went down the stairs to the main floor. The choker chain pinched her neck when he pulled. She tried to hurry along so he wouldn’t have reason to tug at it. As he led her through the house, Kristy thought of her mother waiting in another part. She knew her mother was in danger, the same as she, and she knew the judge would not hesitate to control them through threats directed at one or the other. It was all her fault. If she had listened she wouldn’t be here now. She wished her mother didn’t have to be involved, but God forgive her, she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with this creep. In her mind’s eye, a scenario of the two of them somehow managing to overpower him and get away, fueled her spirit, giving her hope and strength.
Momma, I’ll never disobey you again. Never.
The man pulling her along was a slimy, sexual pervert. She’d picked up that much upstairs. When he was tying her up in the bedroom his damp fingers had lingered a second longer than necessary on her legs and throat as his eyes raked over her body. He could have done anything he wanted once she was tied up, but she sensed he was restraining himself. Waiting.
She trembled. She and her mother were in a serious situation. How serious? A matter of life or death? The man was a superior judge. Would he rape them, burn them with acid —she shuddered visibly at the thought —and then allow them to go free? Not likely.
She remembered how she and Sonya had thought it was a kick when the bug-eyed official had made subtle passes at them during the preliminaries. They’d laughed behind his back, making jokes about his pop-eyes, bald head, and hairy hands. It wasn’t so funny now.
Why hadn’t she told her mother about him? She knew why she hadn’t. If she told her mother that a contest official, who was old enough to be her father, was looking at her like she was a double fudge ice cream sundae, her mother would have gone into a tizzy and would have forced her to drop out of the contest.
Oh, what a damn fool she was.
John heard the footsteps coming his way. He ran to a set of louvered doors. Inside were a washer and dryer. He jumped up on the washing machine and pulled the doors closed. Through the slats he saw a trail of muddy footprints leading to where
he crouched. He held his breath, praying Corde wouldn’t notice.
A pair of ox-blood shoes came into view ahead of a pair of shiny children’s dress shoes. Both pairs of shoes stopped. John tightened his grip on the wrench. Moments later he heard soles descending wooden stairs.
The basement.
John slid back the door, carefully lowered himself to the floor, and hurried to the basement door. He opened it a crack.
The couple —he saw it was Corde and Kristy —moved across the basement to a wall-to-wall wine rack. The judge inserted his hand into a pigeonhole. A portion of the wine rack in front of him opened.
Christ, a secret door. He debated trying to rush Corde before the man could disappear into the room and close the door, but he had waited too long. The couple were already moving inside and the door was closing.
John crept downs the steps. He hurried to the wine rack, located the pigeonhole where Corde had buried a hand, and reached in.
The hole was smooth terra cotta. There was nothing, as far as John could feel, in which to activate the door. He reached into several other holes. Smooth and cool. Nothing.
Regina had heard nothing until the soft click of the latch releasing alerted her that the door was about to open. She stood with her back to the wall, the mace canister clutched tightly in her hand, her breath locked in her lungs, waiting.
Kristy came through first, followed by the judge. But not enough room separated her daughter from Corde to afford Regina an accurate shot. At that moment Kristy looked to her left. The surprised expression on her face when she saw her mother pressed against the wall was enough to alert Corde to her presence. He tried to back up, but the door had closed behind him.
She raised the canister, but he yanked Kristy to one side, throwing her into Regina, blocking the direct opening Regina had counted on for a clear shot of mace into his face.
She pushed her daughter down and, with less than a positive position, blasted the spray blindly. She saw the mist filling the empty air. Corde was already well out of its path, under it, diving at Regina. He caught her around the hips and drove her brutally backward to crash into a metal file cabinet.
Night Hunter Page 37
