by T. R. Ragan
The way he shook made her wonder if he had the onset of Parkinson’s. Her phone vibrated. She pulled it from her pocket. There was a text from her mom asking Kitally to give her a call when she had time.
“Just what the world needs,” he said as he took short, gingerly steps.
“What are you talking about?”
“Those contraptions that young people hold so dear to them. Everyone is attached to machines all day long. Nobody wants to stop and enjoy the sun in their face or sit on a bench and just look around for a bit, maybe do a little people watching. People need to take a minute to breathe without worrying about that Internet nonsense.”
“It’s sort of fun being connected to the world,” Kitally told him. “You can play games with your friends in another country if you wanted to.”
“It’s nothing more than a tracking device. They’re watching you. Right now. Everyone knows what you’re doing.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Kitally asked him, trying to change the subject. “You do have one, don’t you?”
“We’re going to use the oldest trick in the book.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to distract them while you run into the room where they keep the files and get whatever it is you need.”
Kitally walked ahead and opened the door for him. “We need to talk to Betty first,” she said as he walked inside without so much as a grunt or a dirty look. “She’s the one who needs to tell me what exactly I’m looking for.”
“Fine. We’ll get the old badger first, but if she starts flirting with me, I’m gonna have to put a stop to it. All the old ladies in this joint like to follow me around as if they’ve never seen a man before.”
“Well, you are an incredibly charming man,” Kitally said.
“Is that sarcasm I’m noting?”
“Are you kidding me? If I were thirty years older, I’d be chasing after you myself.”
He chuckled at that.
Kitally followed him inside and let the door swing shut behind her.
Two hours after Hayley had called Lizzy with the news that they had video images of Wayne Bennett assaulting and sexually abusing a young woman, Lizzy walked into the office of Prosecuting Attorney Grady Orwell.
The man was short, with fiery-orange hair. His suit was wrinkled and his face was pale, probably due to too many hours behind a desk.
Grady shook Lizzy’s hand with a strong grip, then gestured for her to take a seat in the leather chair in front of his desk.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” Grady said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. When I was told you had some damning evidence against Wayne Bennett, you can bet I was interested to see what you had.”
“You sound passionate about this case,” Lizzy said.
“And you sound surprised.”
“I guess I am. Bennett has managed to get a lot of very important people in Sacramento to side with him. I thought maybe you might be one of them.”
“I think it’s safe to say I was as pissed off as you were when I got the news that the bastard was released on some absurd technicality.”
Lizzy decided she liked Grady Orwell. “Let’s get to it, then.” She handed him a file along with a flash drive. Then she set up her laptop on his desk and played the video.
Together they watched Wayne Bennett drug a young woman and ruin yet another person’s life. After the screen went black, Grady leaned back in his chair and took a quiet moment to think about what he’d just seen. “I’ve talked to a lot of people who dislike Wayne Bennett for one reason or another,” he said matter-of-factly. “I knew what he was capable of, but seeing him in action leaves an extremely bad taste in my mouth. Do you know the name of the young woman in the tape?”
“I do. It’s all in the file.”
“I am assuming you obtained this video illegally.”
“The file was left at my doorstep, and so, of course, I have no way of knowing how the video was obtained or who is responsible.”
“Of course.”
“My plan,” Lizzy went on, “is to make contact with the woman in the video and see if she’s willing to appear in court and swear before the judge. I have no plans to tell her about the tape.”
“I do need testimony to build my case,” he said approvingly.
“If you look in the file, you’ll see a handwritten declaration signed by Olimpia Padula, another young woman who was assaulted by Bennett. Not only is she willing to tell her story in front of a jury, she’s eager to do so.”
Grady opened the file and read through the woman’s statement. “This is good. We both know the judge will rule out the use of the taped video as ‘tainted’ and therefore inadmissible in court, but I’m going to show it to the judge anyhow. It won’t hurt for him to see Wayne Bennett as the monster he truly is. But this,” he said, tapping Olimpia Padula’s declaration, “is a gold mine.”
“Is there any way you can persuade the judge to place Olimpia Padula in some sort of protection program to prevent possible retaliation or further intimidation?”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Lizzy gathered her things, including her laptop, and then stood and looked Grady square in the eyes. “He must be stopped.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. I’ve been working to put Bennett away for years.”
“At the very least, he should be arrested and locked up for threatening witnesses.”
“I agree.”
“But your hands have been tied,” Lizzy stated.
“I think you know why.”
“He’s bribing the whole lot of them.”
Grady Orwell’s silence said it all. He thanked Lizzy and walked her to the door. “We’ll get him eventually. In the end, good will triumph. It always does.”
“You believe that?”
He didn’t answer, but before Lizzy could disappear completely, he called her name.
She stopped and turned his way. “What is it?”
“Don’t stop.”
She lifted a questioning brow.
“Don’t stop looking. Don’t stop pushing. If we’re ever going to get this guy, it’s going to be because you never stopped pushing for answers. Just don’t stop.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Claire woke to the sound of a woman’s voice. At first she thought she was hearing things, but then she heard it again. Someone was there, and they were calling out, asking if anyone was home.
“I’m in here!” Claire said, her voice raspy and hoarse. “I’m down here! Please let me out!” It was no use. They would never hear her. She grabbed the piece of wood she had finally dislodged from the wine rack last night and used it, along with her fists, to pound on the door.
It felt like forever before the metal slot creaked open. The eyes looking through the opening did not belong to the lunatic who had brought her here.
“Who’s in there?”
“It’s Claire Kerley. Help me, please. Get me out of here.”
“Why are you in there?”
“I’ve been kidnapped,” she said, her voice struggling to be heard. “I want out! Please!”
Claire saw the doorknob moving. Her breathing quickened at the thought of escaping. “There’s a key somewhere in that room,” Claire said, her body pressed against the door. “Maybe on the ledge above the door.”
“It’s not there. Let me check—oh, here it is, on a hook. I found it!”
Claire stepped back.
The door opened. A stream of light spilled in through a tiny window at the bottom of the stairs.
The woman entered the wine cellar and staggered back, gagging at the smell. Her gaze fell on all the bruises covering Claire’s legs and arms. She wore a dirty T-shirt and nothing els
e. “What is going on? Did Zachary do this to you?”
“I don’t know what his name is, but he’s crazy and we need to get out of here!”
Claire pushed past the woman and made her way to the stairs. Her legs wobbled, forcing her to use the wall for support. “Get out of here while you can,” Claire told the woman as she made her way up the stairs. “He could be back any minute now.”
Confused, the woman heeded her advice and followed close behind.
As soon as Claire made it to the landing, the front door opened.
He’s home.
As soon as he’d pulled his car into the driveway and seen a car he didn’t recognize parked in front of his house, he’d known something was wrong, especially since nobody was sitting inside the vehicle.
He hurried up the walkway toward the house. When he came through the front door he found himself face-to-face with Claire. She stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in place. Her hair was tangled, her eyes big and round and filled with panic.
He shut the door, slid the extra dead bolts into place, and then slipped the padlock through the chain and clicked it into position. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She screamed at the top of her lungs, but the sound that came out was a whimpering cry at best.
He had to stop her. He pounced, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close to him, her back to his chest. He clamped his other hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
Just then, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Gillian,” he said, struggling a bit to hold Claire still, “what a surprise. What the hell are you doing here?”
“After our last conversation, I was worried about you. Reasonably so, it appears. Let the girl go, Zachary.”
The woman’s ability to stay calm under fire wasn’t lost on him. She was a rock. Sadly for her, she had a rock for a brain as well. “How did you find me?”
“According to files your parents kept on you, this was your last known address. I should have paid you a visit years ago. Your refusal to open a bank account should have raised a red flag.”
He sighed. “Having you make yearly deposits to Jake Polly’s account in the Cayman Islands should have also given you pause.” He shook his head in wonder. “I will never understand why my parents left you in charge of their trust.”
“They trusted me to look after you. Now, please,” she said, “let the girl go.”
“I can’t. She’s mine.”
“What do you plan to do with her?”
“What do you think?”
Claire had continued to thrash annoyingly in his arms, and now she managed to bite his hand. He squeezed her so hard, she gasped for air.
“When we first met,” Gillian dumbly persisted as if he actually gave a fuck what she had to say, “I asked you if you ever had dark thoughts about killing.”
“I remember every word.”
“I asked you if you ever entertained thoughts of killing your parents.”
“And I said never.”
“But you were lying.”
He grinned.
“Everything you told me that day and since was a lie.”
“Of course they were all lies.” He released one of his hands from Claire now that she was docile and used it to pull his hair in frustration. “Yes, Gillian, I killed my parents and every woman I could get my hands on. You are the worst fucking psychologist in the world. I killed a few children and an old man, too. I killed my own sister, and I can’t wait to kill you.”
Gillian’s eyes widened as if she finally understood her fate. The woman gave dimwits a bad name. She ran past him toward the living area. He couldn’t have her screaming from the balcony. Tossing Claire to the side, he went after Gillian, grabbed her by the hair, and whirled her to him, driving his knee into her stomach. She crumbled to the floor, and he dragged her toward the kitchen.
Claire, he noticed, had given up on getting out the front door. A smart move, considering the number of dead bolts, not to mention the padlock that would need a key to unlock.
He heard her clattering down the hallway. He wasn’t worried. She no longer had much of a voice. All that screaming had destroyed her vocal cords. She would have to jump nearly fifteen feet out the window if she wanted to get away.
Gillian wasn’t a big lady, but she was tall, which made her quite an unwieldy load. She clawed at his hands and arms, doing her best to get away, but frankly, she had no muscle and no drive. All in all, she was a bit of a dud.
He knew Claire wouldn’t jump, but he didn’t like the idea of her running loose in the house. Picking up his pace, he dragged Gillian to the kitchen. She surprised him when she twisted her body and pulled free, leaving a massive clump of hair entwined in his fist. Dropping the hair, he went for the sharpest knife he could find.
“Your sister and your parents have forgiven you,” Gillian cried as she staggered out of the kitchen and careened toward the front door.
She tried to open the door, gave up, and turned toward him. “It’s time to put a stop to this madness, Zachary.”
Knife clutched tightly in his hand, he walked toward her.
Before she could say another word, he plunged the blade into her chest.
He took one glance at her eyes and then guided her, by the knife’s handle—she was holding it with him now, gently, with both her hands—toward the kitchen, where her mess would be easier to clean up. He didn’t care about Gillian. He never would have gone after her at all if she hadn’t come for a visit.
The woman took her sweet time dying, standing before him in the middle of the kitchen, both hands still clutched around the handle of the knife. But the poor girl didn’t have the strength to pull the blade from her chest. Bored, he watched her until she fell almost gracefully to the floor.
He released a long laborious sigh, leaned over her, and removed the knife with a good, sturdy yank. “You never should have come. If it weren’t for you, Gillian, my parents would still be alive. As much as I wanted to kill them over the years, I refrained. They were my parents, after all. But then you came along and stuck your nose into my affairs.”
With the bloody knife in hand, he turned back the other way and made his way down the hallway. “Claire, my dear, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
He stopped to listen.
Silence. Not a peep.
He walked quietly into the master bedroom.
The window was open, as he suspected it would be. He poked his head out and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the lovely view. If his finances hadn’t been controlled by Gillian, he would own the house. He would have added on to the balcony off the main room, so it swept around the entire house. A shame really, to waste such a beautiful view with one useless window. If he did a good job of disposing of her body and car, it occurred to him, he might just have that balcony, after all.
He looked straight down at the hard-packed soil directly below the window. No sign that Claire had jumped. Turning about, he made his way into the bathroom. His fingers curled around the shower curtain. He jerked it back, expecting to find Claire, shivering in fear.
No such luck.
“Claire,” he called again. “Come out now and I won’t punish you for trying to run off. It was Gillian’s doing. We both know that.”
He crossed the room. Blood dripped from the sharp blade of his favorite carving knife.
“Don’t make me search for too long. I’ve had an exhausting day.”
Before opening the mirrored closet doors, he stopped to admire his reflection. He was quite a good-looking fellow, if he did say so himself. His teeth were straight and white, no stains at all. His eyes were piercing. His nose, although crooked, was not too big, not too small. He had yet to paint a self-portrait, but he could not lie, the idea intrigued him.
His fingers tou
ched the edge of the closet door and slowly, almost lovingly, he slid it open. Anticipation filled him with excitement.
But then his heart sank.
She was sitting in the corner. And she wasn’t even going to bother putting up a fight. Instead, her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, which were pulled up close to her chest.
“Claire,” he said. “Did you really think you could get away from me?”
Her head was bent forward, and she seemed to be sniffling like a baby.
“This was the best you could do?” He’d expected more from her, his little fighter. “Don’t be a coward, Claire. The reason I like you so much is that you’re a bit sassy and unconventional.”
He nudged her with the tip of his shoe. “Come on,” he urged. “I feel a second wind coming on. I think it’s time to paint another portrait.” He reached down and touched her arm.
Her head snapped up, her expression fierce. She reached out and slashed his arm with something sharp. A goddamn hanger.
Blood trickled down his arm.
The little bitch didn’t stop there. She lashed out, again and again, hitting flesh every time, across his arm and then his neck. But he felt no pain. He welcomed it. Simply put, he would never allow little Claire to get the best of him. He lifted the knife in his hand and slashed her across the right shoulder, rendering her arm useless.
End of story.
She fell back.
He tossed the knife and then took hold of her good arm and dragged her out of the closet and down the hallway. “Big mistake, Claire.”
She kicked and hissed, growled like a dying wildcat. Even if she’d been able to muster a scream, she’d come to accept it would be pointless. He dragged her all the way to the front entry, where Gillian’s corpse lay. The bitch had managed to crawl out of the kitchen, making a mess of his front entry, after all. He took a handful of Claire’s hair at the back of her head and shoved her face closer to Gillian’s. “In case you didn’t realize it, she’s dead.”
Claire let out a whimpering cry.
“Yes, yes, I know. So very sad.”
He shoved her face closer until her lips touched Gillian’s. An electric current charged through him. “The kiss of death,” he said, holding her there. “That’s the title of our next painting. I like it, don’t you?”
