by Jana DeLeon
“Maybe Jason saw something that didn’t look right and asked Casey about it,” Shaye said. “I don’t think Jason was quick on the uptake. Casey could have passed off some BS on the street, intending to follow up later.”
“Oh my God.” Ray’s voice sounded behind them.
They turned around to see the blood drain from the motel owner’s face. Shaye rushed over. “You need to sit down,” she said.
“Not in here,” Ray said. “No way. I wasn’t going to look. But then…”
She guided him outside and sat him on a bench on the sidewalk. “Take long, slow breaths. The cool air will help.”
She went back inside as Jackson walked out of the bathroom on his phone, directing the coroner to the motel. He shoved his phone back in his pocket.
“We have to toss this place before CSI gets here,” he said. “Parks hasn’t been dead that long. There’s two needle marks on the back of his neck. Dugas probably intended to keep him drugged and kill him somewhere else, but the cops showing up this morning made him change plans.”
Shaye’s stomach rolled. “He’s gone to kill Madison.”
She rushed inside and yanked open the closet, starting with the boxes on the top shelf and then searching the clothes to see if anything was hidden in the pockets, but came up empty. Jackson searched the dresser.
“I have needles,” he said. “And a vial of something. Probably what he used to knock them out.”
Shaye pulled the nightstand drawer open. “No wallet. No keys. Nothing to indicate he was actually living here. This room looks like any other short-term hotel guest is staying in it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have anything.”
“Or maybe it’s somewhere else. Walter said Casey’s previous apartment building was sold to a developer and that’s why he was living here, but maybe that’s a lie. We need his previous address.”
“They’re running all that at the station now. If anything pops, they’ll call me.”
Frustrated, Shaye pulled the drawer completely out of the nightstand and peered inside, then she flipped the drawer over and found an envelope taped to the bottom.
“I’ve got something,” she said, and opened the envelope.
A photo and a folded piece of paper were contained inside. She lifted the photo and saw a very young Casey with a woman, maybe his mother, but then why hide it? She frowned. Something about the woman looked vaguely familiar.
“Look at this,” she said. “Does that woman look familiar to you?”
Jackson stared at the photo. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s an old photo.”
“Can I see?” Ray had walked back inside. “Maybe she’s stayed here.”
“Of course,” Jackson said and handed him the photo.
Ray took one look at it and the color that had returned to his face drained right back out. He sank onto the bed.
Jackson glanced at Shaye, then looked back at Ray. “Do you know who this is?”
“I thought I did. Years ago, she was my girlfriend, until she chose drugs and the party life.”
Shaye handed the folded paper to Ray. “I think you better look at this.”
Ray stared at the paper, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“I think Casey Dugas is your son,” Shaye said.
“No,” he said, even though the paper he held said differently. “Her name isn’t Dugas. It’s Babbage. Ramona Babbage.”
Madison awakened confused, her head pounding, her vision blurred. Where was she? What happened? She remembered the fire alarm going off and rushing downstairs, then nothing. Her arms were stretched above her head and felt heavy. She tried to lower them and push herself upright, but something cold and hard dug into her wrists.
Panicked, she blinked several times and narrowed her eyes at her right hand, trying to see why she couldn’t move. When her vision focused a little, she saw the handcuffs and let out a strangled cry. She yanked her arms down, twisting them one direction, then another, as she pulled, desperately trying to free herself, but the cold metal held tight.
She stopped pulling for a minute, her hands throbbing from the effort. Slowly, her memory started to return. Wanda was there on the street, except it wasn’t her. It must have been him, the killer. He couldn’t get in the building, so he’d lured her out. And she’d walked right up to him.
You thought it was Wanda. It sounded like Wanda.
She shook her head and started tugging again. What difference did it make? He fooled her and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing anyone could do about it because no one knew who he was. She was totally alone. This was it. She was going to die, and they probably wouldn’t ever find the body.
She started to laugh, completely breaking down.
There was a silver lining. Her parents would forever be the couple whose daughter disappeared. Taken by a serial killer because she couldn’t even recognize the enemy. At least her final moments on earth would embarrass them for as long as they lived.
You’re losing it.
Like that was a surprise. All the relaxation techniques in the world couldn’t make this one okay. Even Eleonore Blanchet didn’t have a meditation to ward away death by serial killer.
A draft blew up her legs and she looked down and frowned. What was she wearing? It was pink and old and barely covered her private parts. Oh my God. Had he raped her? She didn’t feel that anyone had touched her there and surely she would know. It wasn’t as though she saw a lot of that kind of activity. She would know if he’d violated her.
He hadn’t raped Carla either, though. He’d simply killed her.
So why was she still alive? He’d had time to bring her here…wherever here was, and chain her up. Why not just kill her and get it over with? Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew the answer. He was toying with her. It was fun for him. Maybe he even got off on it.
And instead of frightening her even more, that thought pissed her off.
She looked up at the bed, studying the handcuffs and the iron rods they were attached to. The headboard was made of metal that had been painted white. Every place that the rods were attached to the main headboard frame, she could see rust stains. The rods must be weakened, but by how much? The top of the rods had more rust showing than the bottom. Maybe if she concentrated all of her strength on one hand, she could break one of the rods.
Since her right arm was stronger, she started with that one. She lifted her arm up until the cuff was right at the top where the rod connected to the headboard. Then with every ounce of strength she could manage, she threw her body over, yanking her arm at the same time. She heard a popping sound and the rod shifted slightly to the side. Flakes of rust landed on her face and she shook her head to get them away from her eyes.
Pain shot through her shoulder, and she closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she positioned the handcuff again and yanked once more. This time, the rod popped loose. It rocked back in place, but all she needed to do was tug it enough to the side to slip the cuff off of it. She lifted her hand up again, ready to pull, but froze as a door creaked open.
Her pulse spiked so hard it made her dizzy as footsteps started her way. What should she do? Even if she could get her hand free before he made it to the room, one free hand wasn’t going to give her any advantage. The footsteps stopped outside the room and she shifted her arms and head to the same position they were in when she was unconscious.
She heard the door open, and the footsteps came into the room, stopping near the bed. The overwhelming desire to scream racked her entire body, and it took every bit of strength for her to keep her body loose. There wasn’t a whisper of sound except for the rhythmic repeat of his breathing.
“You always looked so pretty in that dress,” he said. “Other men thought so too, which is why it was your favorite. If only you’d cared enough about my father to stay out of that dress. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have left you.”
He shuffled some more, and she felt him bump the bed with his legs. Her body
wanted to stiffen so badly, and she fought against the straining muscles.
“I found him, you know,” he continued. “My father. And he told me all about the woman he used to love who betrayed him with other men and drugs. You lied to me. You told me he didn’t love you, but he did. You made him leave. You never saw him. Just like you never saw me. But you’ll see me now. I’ll be the last face you ever see. The one burned into your memory for all eternity.”
Madison felt a chill wash across her body and she struggled to keep from shivering. Did he think he was talking to his mother? What the hell was wrong with him? She knew he was crazy—he killed people—but this was so much worse than anything she could have imagined. No way he was going to cut her throat and let her go quickly. He was going to torture her.
She could hear his breathing coming closer, and then his finger touched her cheek. She bit her tongue, forcing back the scream that threatened to rip through her. He ran his finger down her cheek, then she felt his lips on hers.
“Soon, my love,” he whispered. “When you awake from your nap.”
His footsteps retreated, and she heard the door open and close. She sucked in a huge breath, fighting back the overwhelming desire to gag. The only reason he hadn’t started with her now was because he thought she was still unconscious. The second he knew she was awake, he’d be right back in here.
She glanced around, taking in the room for the first time. There was a single window, but it was boarded up. She might be able to get the right handcuff off the rod with minimal noise, but no way could she break her left hand loose without him hearing. Then she’d have to jump up and break the plywood from a window. She had no idea how long she’d been drugged, but even if she’d been in tip-top shape, she doubted she had the strength to break plywood away from nails. She needed a weapon.
She canvassed the room again, looking for something she could grab that would give her even a tiny chance of fighting back. All she needed was a sliver of opportunity to get by him and to the door. He was stronger than her, but she’d bet anything she could outrun him. Fear alone should push her forward like lightning. And then there was screaming. If she could get out that door, she intended to scream like a banshee and not stop until she was safe.
She heard noise from the other room and realized it was music. It wasn’t very loud, but it might give her a bigger window. She pushed her hand up to the top of the rod and slowly pulled until the handcuff was tight, then she pulled harder, slowly bending the rod out until the handcuff slipped through it.
Immediately, she dropped her hand onto the bed before the cuff could clank against the other rods. The muscles in her arms knotted and she felt a burst of pain shoot across her shoulder and down her arm. But none of that mattered now. She pushed herself up in the bed and studied the rod her left hand was cuffed to, brushing the loose rust away to get a better look. She began to panic when she realized it wasn’t nearly as corroded as the other rod. She’d barely had the strength in her strongest arm to break the other rod. No way was she going to be able to break this one, especially in one pull.
She inched closer to the handcuff and studied it. Her hands weren’t much larger than her wrists and there was a little play. On a television show, she’d seen someone break their thumb to get out of handcuffs, but she had no idea if that was a real thing or not. She tugged a bit on the handcuff and realized that she didn’t lack much to slip out of it. The nightstand next to the bed had a drawer, so she turned onto her side and slowly pulled it open.
A small blue tube lay inside and she drew it out. She knew that label. It was a body oil that her grandmother used. It reeked of lilacs and always made her sneeze. But it might allow her to get her hand free from the cuff. She removed the cap and squeezed the oil onto her hand, making sure it was coated all the way around. The flowery smell wafted over to her and her nose itched. Quickly, she rubbed it with her arm. A sneeze would be the end of everything.
When the urge to sneeze had passed, she tugged gently with her left hand, pushing the cuff up with her right. When it stuck midway, she wriggled her hand side to side, sliding it centimeter by centimeter until it passed the widest part. Then she gave it one last tug and her hand broke free. She clutched the cuff with her right hand and stepped out of the bed, slowly lowering the cuff against the rod, making sure it didn’t make a sound.
The floor had creaked when he came in the room, so she had to be careful where she stepped. First, she needed to find a weapon. If she’d been able to get the entire rod off the bed, it would have been a great one, but no way could she break the bottom loose without drawing him inside. She looked in the nightstand again, lifting a small box of tissue out of the way.
And that’s when she saw it. An old metal fingernail file.
She lifted it out of the drawer and clutched it in her right hand. It slipped in her oily hand and she reached down and wiped both her hands and the file on the bedspread. She couldn’t get all the oil off without soap and water, but it was better than before. It wasn’t much of a weapon, especially against the knife that she knew he had, but she had a better chance now than she’d had handcuffed to the bed.
And she had the element of surprise.
He expected to come back in here and find her groggy and secured to the bed. He wouldn’t be expecting her to be loose and to launch an attack. But that’s exactly what she intended to do. She’d move to the side of the door and tuck herself behind the edge of the wall that dipped to form a closet. He couldn’t see the bed unless the door was all the way open, so it gave her a second to launch. When he walked through the door, she’d stab him and run. It was Christmas. People would be around. Someone would hear her yell. All she needed to do was get out of the house.
She inched over to the door and tucked herself behind the small jut in the wall. Now she just needed him to come inside but not on alert, so stomping the floor or throwing something was out. As far as he knew, she wouldn’t be capable of any of that while restrained. There was only one option.
She took a deep breath and moaned.
She tried to make it sound as though she was groggy and slightly in pain, and that part was easy enough. Between her aching head and her arm and shoulder being on fire, she had plenty to draw from. The music that had been playing in the other room ceased and she heard footsteps coming her way. She clenched the file and drew in a breath, held it, preparing to launch as soon as he stepped into the room.
The door began to open and she saw his shadow creep onto the floor in the bedroom. She held her breath and prayed that he couldn’t hear her pounding heart, and when he took that first step into the room, she sprang. She swung her arm as hard as she could, lodging the file in the side of his neck. He screamed and stumbled forward. She gave him a shove that sent him crashing down onto the floor, then she bolted out the door.
29
Madison ran down a hallway and paused only long enough in the living room to find the front door. His cursing echoed through the house, and as she grabbed the door handle, she heard his footsteps pounding behind her.
“You stupid bitch!” he yelled.
She flung the door open but before she could bolt outside, he grabbed her hair and yanked her back. She saw the glint of the knife and screamed, knowing it was too late. That her plan had failed. Every second of her life flashed in front of her like a movie on warp speed. She saw her parents—the few times they smiled, but mostly their frowns. She saw her college roommate sitting next to her watching movies on a rainy Saturday night. She saw her first apartment in New Orleans and the view from her current place.
The gunshot deafened her, and she felt a sharp burn on the side of her head. She dropped to her knees, the pain so intense, certain that he’d shot her rather than using the knife. She heard shouting in front of her but everything was blurry. She drew in a breath and her chest burned. Her mouth tasted of blood. Was this what death felt like?
A second later, a hand grabbed her arm and she heard Shaye’s voice.
> “Madison? Are you all right? I need a medic over here! Madison? Can you hear me?”
“Shaye?” She blinked but everything was still out of focus. “Am I dead?”
“No. You’re very much alive. Detective Lamotte is an excellent shot, but the bullet grazed your temple and I’m sure it hurts. Do you have any other injuries?”
She was alive!
She blinked again and her vision cleared somewhat. A woman was kneeling next to her, leaned over and studying her. The long dark ponytail gave her away. It was Shaye. Her eyes flooded with tears as relief swept through her. It was real.
She lifted her right arm and could feel the handcuff still dangling from her wrist, then she lost her strength and her arm dropped back onto the hard floor. “My shoulder.”
“Jackson,” Shaye called, and a couple seconds later, a man leaned over and released the handcuff from her wrist. Another man knelt beside her and moved her hair, studying the side of her head. His badge indicated he was a paramedic.
“It’s a surface wound,” the paramedic said. “We’ll get her in the ambulance and get the bleeding stopped. They’ll want to run tests.”
“Of course,” Shaye said. “Can I ride with you?”
“Sure,” the paramedic said.
Madison looked up at the face that she would forget as soon as she blinked again and smiled.
“Thank you.”
The knock on Shaye’s door late that evening surprised her. She had spent most of her afternoon at the hospital with Madison, finally leaving when Madison stopped talking and started nodding off. She’d made the obligatory phone call to her mother while she was there, who’d done the complete shock-and-awe routine, exclaiming how happy she was that Madison was safe and that the man who’d taken her was dead. Eleonore had promised to visit Madison that night, and Corrine had insisted on a redo of Christmas the following day.
