The Drowned Woman: An absolutely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 2)

by CJ Lyons

  “I can’t remember anything. None of it makes sense.” A soft sob escaped Risa but she quickly cut it off. “I don’t understand any of this. Why involve me in the first place? What does Dom want from me?”

  “I think, maybe, he was trying to give you a reason to live. He knew you weren’t happy not working at the job you loved, so he gave you a story to investigate, a puzzle to solve.”

  Risa shook her head. “No. No, that’s insane.”

  Leah agreed. But as warped as it was, it fit with Chaos’ twisted logic. “We need to get out of here.”

  “If it’s me he wants, maybe I can make a bargain for you and Jack.” Risa sounded resigned to her fate—a fate Leah refused to accept.

  “No. If he comes for you, you need to engage him. We’re not powerless here, Risa. You need to believe that. Believe in yourself.” Risa was silent, her chin dropping to her chest. “Listen to me.” Leah used her best trauma-command-doc voice—not loud, but also not easily ignored. “You are our best weapon, Risa.”

  That got her attention. “Me? How?”

  “You have a hold over him no one else has. If we know anything about this guy it’s that he’s obsessed with you. Use that, manipulate him like he has you. All we need to do is buy enough time to escape and get help.”

  “Leah, we could be anywhere.” Risa’s voice hardened. “I’m not sure escape is our best option. He’ll just run after us, or worse, he’ll hurt you or Jack. Like you said, that’s probably the only reason why you’re still alive.”

  “Then what?”

  “We have no choice. If we get the chance, we fight back. Even if we need to kill him.”

  Forty-Five

  As Luka drove down Old River Road, the ancient, potholed macadam tested the Impala’s suspension. The heavens opened with pelting rain, howling wind, and a stroke of lightning pierced the night.

  Jack O’Brien had made it clear that he was no fan of Dominic Massimo, giving Luka hope that the chemist might be able to shed some light on the psychology behind Dom’s actions. At this point, any insights to help them find Dom would be helpful.

  A sudden sheet of lightning illuminated train tracks crossing along the narrow bridge the railroad had finally built over the marshland once it realized that the depression-era pumphouse couldn’t keep up with the river’s stubborn, periodic flooding. Luka couldn’t help but think of Cherise—these same tracks, this same river marked her place of death, although forty-odd miles to the west.

  Not her death, he corrected himself. Her murder.

  Past the marsh, the road crossed over the tracks and drifted closer to the riverbank, close enough that he could see wind-whipped froth churning only a few yards away. He rounded a bend and turned onto a dirt drive, leading to the small two-story pumphouse ahead, a flickering light beckoning from a front window. Despite its utilitarian function, the building had been embellished with Victorian-style arched windows along the ground floor and a tiled peaked roof. Even the lower level that housed the pumping equipment and that sat partially submerged by the river had leaded-glass transom windows, high enough to avoid the water. Where a residential building would have a porch, the pumphouse sported a gingerbread-trimmed portico that functioned as a carport. Two vehicles were parked beneath it: the white-paneled Keystone van, sitting behind an old Honda Civic, its hood exposed to the rain, mere yards from the river’s edge.

  Luka stopped the car at the edge of the trees and doused the lights. It was standard procedure, even for a benign witness interview: you never announced your arrival or parked directly in front of a building. As he trudged through the rain toward the other vehicles, another stray slap of memory came to mind—Cherise had driven a Civic almost the same color. Luka had the sudden feeling that if he edged his gaze as far as possible, he’d see her standing there, just out of reach, watching over him.

  Luka approached the building cautiously, wondering to whom the Civic belonged. Then he remembered: Vogel had a Honda registered to him. If his car was here, was Dom here as well? He had only seen Jack driving the van, but Dom could have lured him out here.

  Other than the dim light flickering from the front room, the building was completely dark, with no signs of life. Luka used the cover of the storm to sidle beneath the window, raising himself up just far enough to peer inside. He saw a battered couch, its back to the window, and a coffee table with an open laptop in front of it. A motionless man sat on the couch, his shaved skull bathed in the colors of the news video playing on the laptop.

  It was Dominic Massimo, appearing remarkably relaxed for a killer on the run. Luka had found his killer, but the timing couldn’t be worse. He needed backup. As he slid his phone free, he saw that beyond the coffee table, the laptop’s glow illuminated an open door leading into a dark room. Another man slumped against the wall, in view of Massimo. Jack O’Brien, gagged, hands and ankles bound, motionless. The shadows were too thick to see what injuries he might have, or even if he was still alive.

  Luka backed away silently. He had no cell service, but a text might still get through, so he alerted McKinley of the situation, hoping for a quick response that would assure him backup was on the way. Regulations dictated that he should watch and wait—in fact, that’s exactly what he would tell anyone else to do. No intervention unless the hostage was threatened.

  But Luka had questions. Questions he’d waited seventeen years for the answers. Questions that would decide if Dominic Massimo lived or died.

  Luka sidled beneath the portico and tested the front door. It was unlocked and made a tiny sigh as he pushed it open. He stepped into the dark foyer, closing the door quickly.

  He stood in a narrow, darkened hallway. The only light came from the open doorway of the front room to his left. He took a deep breath, held his weapon steady, and glanced quickly inside. The door opened slightly behind the couch into the room where Massimo still sat, intent on the video coverage of his own crimes. There were no weapons in sight, but one could easily be hidden.

  Once again, Luka had a chance to back out and let McKinley’s team handle the situation. Massimo hadn’t noticed him yet. He took a step away from the door, allowing the adrenaline to clear slightly. He had Chaos trapped; this wasn’t the time for unnecessary risks.

  For years he’d had visions of confronting Cherise’s killer, of beating out the answers to the questions that had driven Luka all his adult life, even killing him… but they all faded like the adolescent fantasies they were.

  No. Luka was a cop now. He would do this the right way.

  It’s what Cherise would want, he thought as he backed away. McKinley and his men would have more chance of taking Massimo alive. Luka’s responsibility right now was seeing to the hostage’s safety. If O’Brien was even alive. He hadn’t been moving when Luka saw him through the window.

  He took one last step backwards, hoping to find a way to get to O’Brien without alerting Massimo, when he sensed a warmth behind him. Not even an impression, definitely not a thought. A whisper of instinct. Before he could turn around, a man’s arm wrapped around his neck. In the man’s other hand was a semi-automatic, its muzzle jammed into Luka’s spine.

  “Damn,” the unseen man said in a jovial tone. “You cost me five bucks, Luka. Bet myself you were gonna put a bullet in that corpse there on the couch. Finish it once and for all. Avenge your lovely Cherise.”

  Luka still held his weapon. His attacker tightened his grip, using his gun hand to wrap under Luka’s armpit, adding leverage to the arm choking the blood to Luka’s brain. Luka tried to angle his pistol back to shoot the man in his leg. Anything to incapacitate him, give Luka a chance to escape. His vision was blurring, red fraying the edges, his head thundering, his brain screaming for oxygen.

  His mind gave the command for his finger to pull the trigger, but he couldn’t feel his hands, much less command them. The last thing he heard was the thud of his gun hitting the ground.

  The last thing he saw was Cherise’s face smiling, her hand reaching out
, inviting him to join her. Then blackness consumed him.

  Forty-Six

  Horror flooded over Leah at Risa’s words. Logically, she knew Risa was right—they might need to kill in order to survive this night. But all Leah could see was Ian’s bloody body. Could she actually do it? Intentionally harm someone? She glanced at Risa’s face, twisted with terror. It wasn’t just about saving herself, it was about protecting Risa as well. And more than that, it was Emily. Whatever it took to get home to her, Leah would do. Could do. Decision made, she used the wall to push herself to standing. “First, we need to find a way out of these zip ties.”

  Risa mirrored Leah’s movements. “Got you covered. Trick I learned working protests.” She sobered. “In fact, it was Patrick who taught it to me.”

  “I know you can loosen them with a hair pin or paper clip, but I don’t see anything like that down here.”

  “Yeah, those are the best options—less painful. This will work, but it’s gonna hurt.” She raised her hands behind her back. “Get your hands up as high as they’ll go. Push your butt out like you’re doing a squat. Now, I’m not going to do it because if I’m meant to distract him, he’ll need to see that I’m still tied up. But what you’re going to do is bring your arms down hard and fast, hit your butt while you’re pulling your arms out.” She demonstrated in slow motion. “Do it hard and fast.”

  Leah assumed the position, stretching her arms as high as she could, despite the pain. The zip ties were so tight that any movement caused them to bite into her flesh. The first time nothing happened except she felt a trickle of blood from one wrist.

  “Again. Faster, harder,” Risa instructed. “Think snapping motion.”

  Leah took a deep breath, strained to raise her arms even higher, then brought them down hard and fast as she blew her breath out forcefully. To her surprise, the zip tie snapped in two and she was free.

  “Nice trick. Now let me see if I can find a way out.” Leah retrieved the broken zip tie to use as camouflage for when their captor returned.

  “And find a weapon.” Risa leaned against the wall, watching Leah. “Do you think he could have drugged me before last night?”

  “No way to know. GHB clears the system so fast we were lucky to find it this time.” Cautiously, Leah felt her way around the periphery of the room. It was empty except for the large pipes feeding into an even larger round container. Not a boiler like she’d originally thought, not with those pipes that were a foot or more in diameter. More importantly, she found no tools, not even any loose pieces of pipe or fittings. Nothing that could be used as a weapon.

  “Did the GHB cause my symptoms?” Risa asked as Leah explored their prison.

  “The amnesia and lost time, yes. But probably not the other symptoms.”

  “So he was poisoning me with something else.” Risa’s indignation was undercut by fear. Leah wished she had answers for her, but right now she was focused on getting them out of here.

  The room was definitely subterranean, the only light a dim glow entering through narrow windows near the ceiling. There was a set of open-backed metal stairs leading to a closed door above.

  “Can you see me?” She waved to Risa. “I found the stairs. If he comes, he’ll be coming from this direction.”

  “I can make you out, barely.”

  Leah climbed the steps, taking care to hug the railing closely and test each step for telltale creaks and rusty groans. Despite the obvious age of the building and the sense of long neglect, the steps felt solid. She tried the door at the top—bolted from the other side.

  She returned down the stairs, then searched the area beneath them, cobwebs sticky against her face and hands. Thunder sounded from outside and rain pelted the tiny windows. Leah returned to Risa empty handed. “Nothing.” She wiped her grimy hands against the back of her parka and stopped. “Wait. Maybe something. Hold on.” The parka’s hood, waistband and hem were threaded with lengths of adjustable paracord. She tugged at the one around her waist.

  “If Dom drugged me last night, why didn’t he just take me then? Or both me and Jack?” Risa asked as Leah worked on removing the paracord. Leah got the cord loose. It was thin but strong, with small adjustment caps at both ends. She pulled it taut. A garrote? She’d need something to use as leverage, otherwise even with the element of surprise, he could overpower her, break free.

  Leah searched her pockets. Their abductor had taken her bag and with it her keys and cell phone, but deep within the inside pocket she found an old ballpoint pen. Some random gift from a pharma company, ubiquitous around the hospital, but it might just save their lives.

  She wound one end of her makeshift garotte around the pen and secured it—it really was a lot like a thin tourniquet, Leah realized. She’d need to get close, very close to use it, but it was better than nothing. Except, even with Risa distracting Chaos, he was trained military. He’d never let her get close enough to reach over his head, loop the garrote, and twist it tight.

  She held the length of paracord out for Risa’s inspection. “Maybe tie it to the base of the stair railing? Trip him when he comes down?”

  Risa nodded. “But promise, when he falls, you don’t wait for me. If we can’t kill him, then you need to run and get help. You hear me? You run. Leave me. Okay?”

  Leah ignored her by pretending to be too busy selecting a railing low enough that she could hide beneath the stairs and reach the cord to pull it, yet high enough that the fall would have some hope of at least stunning Chaos.

  “What was he doing while we were watching Cliff die?” Risa mused as Leah tied the cord and leaned her weight against it to test it.

  Something fell into place for Leah at Risa’s words. Suddenly she understood. Everything. There was one person who benefited from Risa being drugged, from her being unable to remember large swaths of time. Especially last night.

  A thud sounded overhead, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.

  “Quick, get into position,” Risa urged her.

  “Risa, wait.”

  Risa scurried back to the corner and lay down on the floor. “There’s no time. Put the hood back over my head.”

  “No, wait. I know who Chaos is. It’s not Dom.”

  Footsteps echoed from above, followed by the sound of men’s voices.

  Forty-Seven

  The stench of mold and mildew choked Luka. His throat was raw, every breath an effort. His head pounded. He opened his eyes—it was almost too much work to bother, returning to unconsciousness was so very tempting. He was lying face down on an ancient braided rug between the coffee table and the sofa. Someone knelt on the small of his back and the pain jolted him to full awareness. His wrists were pulled together as handcuffs ratcheted with a metallic snap.

  The man rolled off Luka’s body to stand beside him. All Luka could see was a pair of expensive leather work boots and jeans cuffed with mud. The man’s foot reached out to nudge Luka’s shoulder.

  “Didn’t go overboard with that chokehold, did I?” he asked in a friendly tone. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? I could have used the stun gun, but I much prefer a hands-on approach when it’s practical.”

  Luka blinked, trying to focus—not only his blurry vision, but his foggy thoughts. He rolled to one side, his back to the couch, hitting Massimo’s legs. They felt unnaturally stiff and cold. He pushed against them, mere obstacles as he fought his way to a seated position. His vision swam red with the strain and he closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. Massimo was dead. The fact finally penetrated the haze that filled his brain.

  Time. Buy time. He’d told Krichek where he was going—if Luka didn’t show up soon, he’d send backup. Or maybe his text had gotten through to McKinley and the ERT was on the way. Luka hoped.

  “Okay, there? Not gonna barf, are you?”

  Luka took another breath, shook his head—regretting the movement as it released a shockwave of pain roaring through his head—and finally found the strength to look up, focusing on the
man. Cherise’s killer.

  Jack O’Brien.

  “You never even had a clue, did you?” Jack’s grin widened. “I couldn’t believe it when you showed up at Risa’s building after I silenced the old lady. Knew you right away, of course I did. You’re the reason why I’m in this business, how I found my true calling.”

  “Wha—” Luka couldn’t finish the question, his throat tightening like a noose as his brain finally cleared. He swallowed hard, ignoring the pain. “You? Cherise?”

  Jack laughed, hands on his hips, back arched, face to the ceiling. The sound emerged more like a victorious howl of a rabid wolf baying at the moon. “You still don’t remember me! We met. Once when you dropped her off at our house. My stepsister, Lynne, she ran Cherise’s study group.”

  Lynne Braughman. She’d been one of Cherise’s best friends. Devastated after Cherise’s death, she’d been interviewed by the police—all the members of the study group had, but Jack’s name was nowhere to be found in the police report. No one had thought to question the younger brother—no one had even mentioned him being home during the study group.

  Luka searched his memory, could vaguely recall passing the boy on the lawn once when he’d escorted Cherise to Lynne’s house. There’d been an arch covered in climbing roses. He remembered thinking that someday he and Cherise would have a house like this, with its well-groomed lawn and lovingly tended gardens, but most of all with an arch they could walk through each time they returned, leaving the world behind as they crossed into their happily-ever-after.

  He’d barely even noticed the teenager kicking the soccer ball against the garage wall. Not until he was leaving and the ball hit him square in the small of the back. The kid had apologized and Luka had chuckled, retrieved it and kicked it back, the ball sailing past the kid, hitting what would have been a goal shot if there’d been a net. He remembered thinking that their kid, who’d hopefully both look like Cherise and be as smart as she was, their kid would have a real net. And two parents out there playing with him—or her.