by Cathryn Fox
Doctors asked his name, the day, president. Some of the questions he probably wouldn’t have known even if he hadn’t been in an accident. He moved his shoulder. He was going to be sore. He couldn’t remember if they had given him anything for it or not. He could always buy Motrin.
Where were his goddamn clothes? He’d have to ring his nurse. He pushed off the bed and felt the cold floor under his bare feet. He made it to the chair across the room.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
Oh…that hurt. Even turning his head was an effort. “Darren, help me find my clothes. Can’t catch that sonofabitch in bed!”
“Didn’t they tell you they want to keep you overnight?”
“They did?” Feeling woozy, he stared at Darren. He knew better than to say he didn’t remember. “You know me. Do you think I’m going to just lay in this fucking bed?”
“I’ll talk to the doctor. You’ll have to sign out against doctor’s advice. Give me a minute.”
“While you’re at it, see if I can get something for my headache.”
Brophy waited for Darren to return. Irritation grew as Brophy waited. Why the hell did they call it an emergency room, leaving him for what seemed like hours without a sign of a human being? Where the hell was Darren? His next course of action was heading out the goddamn door with only his fucking johnny on and nobody wanted to see that, he was sure.
“Detective, you should be in bed. Although I have the forms for you to sign to be released, you understand it’s against doctor’s advice. You have a nasty concussion,” his nurse said as he reentered the room, chart in hand.
“Just give me my clothes and some pills. Thank you very much,” Brophy said. He took the forms and signed away rapidly. “Where’s everybody? I need to get the hell out of here.”
“I’ll go ask while I retrieve your clothes.”
The minute he laid eyes on Darren, a wave of apprehension swept through him. “He struck again?”
“No,” Darren replied. “No. Cameron…she’s gone. She walked out. She walked into the Halliday woman…Agent Brennan said she was upset. He put her in a room while he calmed the situation. It had another door…”
“What the hell was she doing here anyway? Wasn’t she at your condo?”
“Dunn told me to bring her when we got the call. Thought it best with the guy still loose… Brophy…he’s still out there!”
“Calm yourself, Darren. She couldn’t have gone far. Where would she go?”
“Home, I imagine, back to her apartment. I’ve got to go…”
“Damnit, Darren, why wouldn’t she go find you? Did she figure out what you guys were doing?”
Darren didn’t bother to deny the obvious. “Halliday’s mother blamed Cameron for her son’s death. Knowing Cameron, she does as well. I have to find her before that bastard does…”
Brophy stood, ignoring his head, his shoulder…his whole goddamn body. “I told you you were playing with fire. This guy’s going to be furious. If he gets his hands on her…”
“Don’t. Don’t go there. We have to find her.”
Brophy nodded. “We will. Now help me with my pants, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Cameron had always found it ironic how everything around her could be crumbling yet the world outside went on as if nothing had happened. The day her mother was buried, the sun shone down brightly; people were out in their yards; children played in the parks; the birds sang. Her world had imploded; theirs wasn’t touched.
Her world now felt as though she had nowhere to step, no solid ground underneath her. Walking back to her apartment, the world again seemed untouched by her misery. Cars drove down the street. Pedestrians walked along without acknowledging anyone or anything in their way.
She fought back the tears as she walked to her front door. Her hands fumbled for the extra key hidden within a special cutout under the door frame. Greg had a habit of forgetting his keys, locking himself out of the apartment. He had come up with the unique design. Unless someone knew exactly where it was, no one would suspect. Thankfully, it was there.
She quickly unlocked the door. She wouldn’t be long. She couldn’t afford to be if she wanted to get out of here. She didn’t want to call attention to herself. She turned back around and froze.
Her hand covered her mouth. The apartment had been ransacked. The rooms looked as if a tornado had blown through: The couch and loveseat—overturned, sliced, cut to ribbons. Glasses and broken dishes littered the floor. The corner lamp was broken, thrown against the wall. She inched her way through the debris. The dining room table had been picked up and turned on its side, which seemed to have taken the blunt of the force.
She eyed her bedroom. She had to get her stuff and leave before whoever destroyed her apartment returned. She was shocked as she surveyed her living area. Clothes that she had wanted were ripped and torn to shreds. The smell…someone had urinated in her room.
She frantically searched for her phone outlet. The phone had been slung by the window. Hurriedly, she found the plug…the phone had to work. A dial tone greeted her. Relief flooded her. She hit speed dial. Answer, please God, answer. The only one she could trust.
“Hello.”
“Zach?”
“Cameron. My God, we’ve been worried sick. Dad’s gone out of his mind. We’ve had no idea where you’re been.”
“I don’t have time to explain, Zach. I have to get out of here, quickly.”
“Where are you?”
“At my apartment, but I have to get out of here. Someone has gone on a rampage. It’s a disaster, Zach.”
“Call the police, sis.”
“No, Zach. I’m not staying. It was a mistake to come back here. Please come get me. I don’t have a phone, money, anything. I’ll meet you down at the corner store—Lonnie’s. The whole place has been ransacked.”
“I’m coming, sis. Get the hell out of there, now. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Where the hell did he put that card? Zach tore the kitchen apart. He looked up at the fridge. Attached to a magnet—ADA Darren Kennedy. Zach grabbed it as he ran out the door, clicking his cell phone to make a call.
Cameron glanced quickly in her closet. There was absolutely nothing she could use. There was a sudden noise. Something was wrong. She shivered as she frantically searched for something to defend herself. She heard it again.
Footsteps crunched over the rubble on the floor, heading straight toward her. Her heart pounded. She felt her heart was going to pop out of her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She bent down and grabbed a high heel shoe.
From behind her, a voice echoed throughout her room. “You think you can defend yourself with a shoe?”
“Greg. Oh, thank God. Greg. What happened?” she questioned, lowering her arm. She stared at him. Something was different. “Are you okay?”
Greg’s expression had changed. His face seemed whitened, drained of all color. His eyes glazed over. His T-shirt was covered with blood. “No. I’m not okay. It’s not all right. Raymond’s not happy. He said I was betrayed.”
“Raymond? Greg, who’s Raymond? Where’s Karl?”
It was as if she hadn’t said a word to him. He shook his head. “Why, Cameron, why? Weren’t we a family?”
A surge of terror seized her. His eyes glared at her. His head cocked to the side. “Everything went wrong. Raymond said he would fix everything. Now I can fix it.”
“Greg, you’re talking to me, Cameron. Are you hurt? Tell me what I can do to help, Greg.” Cameron spoke as calmly as she could manage. Frantically, her mind raced. This couldn’t be happening! “Haven’t I always helped you? Haven’t we always helped each other?”
“No,” he cried.
He grabbed his head as if it pounded. He stood between her and the bedroom door. She took her chance. She rushed by him, pushing him to the side. Before she got halfway across the room, she was pulled roughly down from behind. She screamed. Instinct to survive kicked in. She fought and
scratched.
He reached back with his fist. That was the last sight she remembered before everything went black.
Cameron woke for a brief period of time. She was confined in a small, closed area. She couldn’t move freely. Her head hurt. Her eyes blinked. She couldn’t focus. She could feel movement. Someone was driving. She realized she was in a car and speeding along, not slowing. The motion made her queasy. The car hit a bump. She hit her head again. She couldn’t stretch her legs; she was in a trunk.
She tried to kick, but to no avail. Her legs wouldn’t move in the direction she wanted. She squirmed, but she was situated in such a way she couldn’t even bring her hand to her face. She couldn’t breathe easily; her lungs cried out for more air. Her only option was the stale air in her confined space. She felt so dizzy.
Images flashed through her mind as she tried to grasp the reality around her. Matthew was dead because of her. She could see his motionless face, covered in blood; his hair mangled with his own dried blood; cold, so cold. Then a cold gaze stared at her, a seemingly familiar face, yet his eyes, his dark, frightening eyes—mirrored his desire: a desire to inflict pain, agony, and misery.
She panicked; she tried to scream, but no sound was uttered. Her mouth was bound. Trepidation overcame her. Another bump and she hit her head again, taking her into the abyss of darkness once more.
A wet, cold force woke Cameron. She screamed. She was untied…unbound, but it hurt to move. A spray of water continued. The floor beneath her was cold, damp, and dirty. The hard surface had no give. Her mind raced.
Where was she? Disoriented, she tried to scramble to her feet. The water ceased. A light bored into her eyes. She cringed back. She blinked. Her left eye throbbed in pain. Her hand frantically felt her face. Her eye was swollen. She couldn’t see out of it.
“You awake, bitch?” a terrorizing voice asked as he laughed.
The laugh. She remembered that laugh, the night at Meghan’s. A fear gripped her. Flashes of her apartment—the shambles of the furniture, her shredded clothes, and Greg.
She turned her eyes upward; Greg stood over her. His hair looked disheveled, as if he had just pulled off a knitted cap. His clothes haphazard, his bloodied shirt was half tucked in his pants. He stood taller in old work boots, carrying himself with an air of confidence Cameron had never seen. His wild eyes were enraged with an evil intent on his one objective.
Shadows of dark objects hanging on the walls surrounded her…prophetic of the sinister threat that had captured her. From the corner of her good eye, she could make out a rectangular window high on the wall. She was in a basement. Her heart beat wildly as her head turned. Chains latched to the concrete walls. Collars of some sorts: whip, handcuffs, she couldn’t make out the terrifying items…some of which she had never seen before, nor comprehended what they could be used for. A basement, a dungeon. Oh my God, oh my God. Where am I?
Her arm throbbed. She looked down. It was bloodied. He had cut out the tag the FBI had placed in her. How…how did he know?
“Bitch.” His voice resonated around her. She faced him once again. The shadows became more ominous. Her whole body trembled, drenched, in sub-twenty degree temperatures, not knowing whether it was from the cold, the wet, or the object Greg held in his hand.
“You will have to be punished. You betrayed me. You disobeyed me. You disrespected me. No one disrespects me,” he cried. He swung back his arm, lifting a whip high above his head. It came down with such force that the whip snapped back, hitting him as it rebounded off Cameron’s defenseless body. She screamed.
He jerked her wounded body up with one yank. “Get up, you goddamn fuckin’ bitch.”
She struggled against him as he dragged her across the floor to the wall. He forcibly seized her arms. She heard clinking of metal. Through her fear, she could see shackles in his hands. She squirmed, twisted, and screamed again. She was no match for his strength. He restrained one arm with a click of metal. Her arm ached. He brutally pulled her other arm across the wall.
“Why, Cameron? I had everything worked out. Everything, until you screwed it up!” His hand rubbed her hair. “I wanted to take care of you. Never to have to worry again. Now you’re going to have to pay.”
“No,” she cried to deaf ears. Her words echoed in her musty dungeon. He stepped back. Her cries broke into sobs. “No, Greg…no.”
“You’re going to have to live with Matthew’s death. It was your fault. He wasn’t on my list. He wouldn’t let it go,” he mumbled. He cracked the whip against the floor. She jumped. Her legs trembled. Tears flowed down her face. “He had hurt you, though. He didn’t deserve you, but you’re supposed to take care of me. We’re a family. Cameron, you know you can’t break up a family. You were trying to break up our family. You can’t do that. Ask Matthew.”
A silence ensued, a frightening silence. “There’s nothing I can do about this,” he rambled. “You have to be punished.”
He whipped back his weapon. A pain seared throughout her body as he unleashed another lash. One more crack of the whip became another searing mark. She pulled her knees against the wall, trying desperately to loosen the hold, but it was no use. The sound again swept into the air. Her body tensed as it prepared for another blow. She cried, “Greg. It’s me, Cameron. Greg, for God’s sake!”
Another lash, another gripping, excruciating pain scorched her back.
“Greg, help me. Oh, God, help me. Greg, it’s me, Cameron,” she cried before the next blow landed again on its mark…over and over again.
Chapter Sixteen
Brophy stood staring through the two-way mirror. Karl Neslund sat, calmly waiting for him. Brophy intended to make him wait as long as he could. His head was still pounding. Centrello suggested heartily that Brophy should go home. Neither took it as a serious suggestion. He wasn’t leaving.
Brophy leaned against the wall. He had finished questioning Zach Quinn, and had sent the boy home. He had gotten someone to drive him, though. The boy was pretty shaken up, as one could imagine.
Zach had barged into the apartment. He had seen the rampage—the eruption of a psycho’s mind. Zach’s call to Kennedy had confirmed their worst fears: that Cameron had been in the apartment.
After entering the apartment, Brophy first hoped against hope that the girl had gotten away. She wasn’t there. Fifteen minutes. Brophy calculated the time that she disappeared before the apartment had been surrounded. Missed her by fifteen minutes!
The knowledge that they had identified the serial killer, Greg Mobley, was of little comfort. They lost the girl, the bait they had used to flush him out. And if they didn’t find the girl alive, they all would have to live with that.
All the information needed to identify Mobley had come in a flurry. Dr. Levy had received an email from a Dr. Schafer, which had been of interest, especially after he emailed the only picture he had of his patient, a Raymond Duffy, the patient he had suspected of killings in Virginia three years earlier. It was Greg Mobley.
Brophy had already begun to piece together the motive for the killings…the stalking of Cameron. The FBI took a closer look at the artist, Greg Mobley. They found a man of different faces. They discovered a loft where he kept paintings, disturbing paintings…and a computer lab, a lab that would have been quite expensive. The FBI had an expert forensic accountant looking into his financial background.
They also discovered a stash of different drugs including Rohypnol, GHB, and other benzodiazepines, which they suspected Mobley used to drug Zach and his friend the night in question.
Brophy wondered what awaited Cameron from this psycho. Would he think she betrayed him? Why the hell did the girl run? Women! He had a sinking feeling from the start of Dunn’s plan that this was going to happen.
The fresh blood they had found at the crime scene was determined to have come from two different individuals. Cameron had to have been injured. They had no witnesses to the attack. One neighbor saw Greg driving off in his car, a four-door Camry sedan. No
one had seen Cameron. Brophy had no doubts Greg had already dumped the car. The question lay with what he had done with the girl. He took a deep breath in. He was ready for Mr. Neslund.
“Mr. Neslund, before I begin, do you want anything? A drink? Food?” Brophy began. He pulled out the chair across from Karl and sat down. Karl shook his head. Brophy nodded and continued. “You realize why we’re here. Correct?”
“Yes,” Karl replied calmly. “You are investigating my roommate and friend, Greg Mobley, as a suspect in a murder case, and the disappearance of my other roommate, Cameron Quinn.
“First, let me state for the record, I’m being fully cooperative. I do not want a lawyer here. My first and only concern is getting Cameron back safely. I can’t believe Greg would ever do such a thing. In all honesty, it is beyond belief he would harm Cameron, or anyone for that matter.”
Brophy noted his calm, contained manner. Odd, given everything that had gone down. Brophy nodded and scuffled a few papers around. He looked back up at Karl. “But of course, you didn’t notice anything peculiar with your roommate’s behavior, or you would have informed us before now. We appreciate your effort here, sir. I can assure you that is one of our utmost concerns.” He paused for a moment. “You are aware that we are videoing this interview.”
Karl shrugged. “As I said before, anything to help out.”
“That’s good. Real good, Mr. Neslund.” Brophy paused. “So your contention is that you had no clue…idea…or inkling, that Greg Mobley could be the serial killer?”
“None whatsoever. I wish I had.”
“Isn’t he your best friend and roommate, Mr. Neslund? And you want me to believe you had no knowledge of his actions?”
“No, I didn’t. Look, Detective, I’ve known Greg a long time, since eighth grade. He has always been a quiet guy. He was only in town a couple of years before he moved away. We kept up with each other occasionally over the Internet, but it wasn’t until he moved back to Boston that I saw him again. He needed a friend.”
