My gun!
With his free hand, Drake reached behind his back and let out a sigh when he felt the familiar shape jammed into his belt.
It was still there.
Glancing around, he noticed that while his assailant hadn’t taken his pistol, she—a woman, it was a woman’s face tucked into that hood—had stolen something from him.
There were no longer two cars on the road, but one.
This time Drake fought the dizziness and pain and managed to stand.
“Shit.”
His Crown Vic was gone.
Through still squinted eyes, he stared up, then down the road.
All he saw was snow in either direction.
Wincing at the pain in his head that bloomed with each step, Drake slowly moved toward the woman’s car and slid inside.
The warm air pumping from the vents was almost orgasmic. Drake held his hands in front of the vent and a shudder ran through his body. A minute later, his fingers started to tingle as feeling returned.
He looked up in the rear view, and then cringed at the sight of his appearance. It wasn’t the blood that stained his brown hair or even the burn on his cheek from the fire at Dr. Moorefield’s house that gave him pause.
It was his sunken eyes, the dullness of the irises buried deep within.
“I’ll live,” he said to himself. After allowing just a couple more blissful seconds with his hands in front of the vent, he turned his attention back to his cell phone.
There was still no signal, but the GPS coordinates to the Elliot cottage were still on the screen.
“Seven minutes,” he muttered, staring at the directions.
He turned his eyes to the falling snow, grimacing at the way it continued to pile up in the absence of cars on the road.
A light suddenly lit up on the dashboard.
The car was almost out of gas.
It’s now or never.
With a grunt, Drake pulled himself from the vehicle and started to trudge through the snow. It was slow going, and before long, numbness started to embrace his extremities again.
“Seven minutes my ass.”
CHAPTER 66
Real detective work wasn’t the way it was portrayed in the movies. Most detectives don’t spend their time knocking down doors, aggressively confronting suspects. Almost everything happened behind the scenes; there was a whole lot of talk, of profiles, of ideas, of hopes, of relatively useless information, and occasionally a crime scene to analyze. But for long stretches of time, to the outside world, nothing seemed to happen.
Progress was slow, calculated.
The situation that Sergeant Chase Adams currently found herself in, however, was exactly the opposite.
She was in a frantic race against time.
Chase sprinted from the observation room with FBI Agent Stitts in tow.
“Do you think that she would go there? To the Elliot cottage?” Agent Stitts asked, breathing heavily as he struggled to keep up.
Chase, the phone still pressed to her ear as she listened to it ring in perpetuity, fished the keys from her purse and unlocked her BMW.
“I don’t know… maybe. With Tanya and Melissa, we know that they were held for some time. Neither Dunbar nor CSU were able to narrow it down to anywhere specific, but the NYPD has already cleared their apartment. None of the victims were ever there. Aerial photographs of the cottage show that it’s secluded, tucked away between trees. I know if I was to hold someone against their will, that’s the type of place I’d choose.” She shook the strange thought from her head. “But it doesn’t matter. Drake’s out there somewhere and in this storm…”
Chase let her sentence trail off, trying to ignore the flashes of images of Drake sitting in his rusted Crown Vic, huddled over the dash, trying to keep warm.
Trying not to freeze to death.
Agent Stitts nodded and he tapped the dashboard.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
Chase didn’t need any encouragement.
~
It took forty minutes to get out of the city, and that was with the cherry flashing on the BMW dashboard.
The entire time, Chase continued to try to reach Drake to no avail.
Outside the city, things didn’t get much better: even though traffic was minimal—non-existent in some cases—the roads hadn’t been cleared yet. Even with four-wheel drive, it was slow going.
“What’s that up ahead?” Agent Stitts asked, peering through the snow.
Chase squinted. She could see what looked like a car parked in the center of the road.
She slowed as she neared, hoping that it wasn’t Drake’s Crown Vic.
It wasn’t.
But this fact did little to appease her concerns. There were thick tire marks in the snow, indicating that another car, a much heavier car, had swerved and nearly gone off the road.
Chase slammed her BMW into park and hopped out.
She went first to the abandoned car first and checked the tag number against the ones that Dunbar had forwarded to her phone before it lost service.
“It’s Glenn’s car,” she shouted into the wind.
“What?” Agent Stitts hollered back. He was only a few feet from her, but the storm sucked the words up and spat them somewhere far away.
“I said, it’s Glenn’s car!”
Agent Stitts frowned, and then started to investigate the interior of the vehicle.
Chase, on the other hand, crouched down low, inspecting the tire tracks made by the other vehicle that had since vanished into the white.
It was halfway between where Glenn’s car was parked and the deepest grooves of what she was now convinced were made by Drake’s Crown Vic that she noticed the indentations.
They had no color—other than white—but she had been to enough crime scenes to know what the speckles were.
Blood… this is where blood had melted the snow.
“He was here,” she said, this time to herself. “Drake was here.”
Chase took a deep, hitching breath, and turned her gaze to the road ahead. She tried to put herself in Drake’s shoes, to figure out what he would do without cell service and the only car at his disposal one that was useless in the thick snow.
She knew what he would do.
Drake would keep going. Drake would keep on trudging until he caught the killer.
That was just the type of man he was.
Chase turned to Agent Stitts, who had just poked his head out of Glenn’s car, a frown etched on his pale face.
“No one’s here,” he said.
Chase shook her head.
“Forget about it! Let’s go!” she yelled. “Let’s keep going!”
CHAPTER 67
Every breath Drake took singed his nostrils. Even with the directions on his phone, it had been a struggle finding the Elliot cottage.
Eventually, by traipsing through thick snow, he found a small passage through the woods that led him there.
It took several tries just to shut off his phone, with his hands frozen as they were, and he decided that trying to operate his pistol would be akin to an ant trying to wield a flamethrower, and decided against it.
Stealth was the name of the game now.
He still wasn’t sure who had brained him, aside from being a woman, but as he came around a large shrub and he spotted his Crown Vic, he knew that it was someone involved with Colin, with this case.
Which means that there are two of them, and one of me. A frozen me.
Drake hunkered low as he made his way across the snow-covered lawn.
There was a single light on inside the cottage, casting a bleary, diffuse glow over the interior.
Drake perked his ears and held his breath, trying to pick up any sound from the inside, but the wind was just too damn loud.
With frozen limbs, he managed to manipulate his way up the steps to the porch, and then he sidled up next to the door.
It was ajar, which he thought strange given the weather.
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Drake darted his head into the opening for a split second before pulling back.
His breathing became more labored.
No, not two of them. Three of them, and one of me.
There were three figures inside the cottage, all of whom appeared to be either lying or sitting on the floor.
He brought his hands to his mouth and breathed on them, trying to bring life back into the digits.
Drake had no idea what they—Colin and the others—were doing on the floor, but he had to be ready to act.
Dropping to one knee, he crawled toward the door, staying low to avoid being seen through the glass pane carved out of the wood.
With his ear near the entrance, he realized that someone inside was speaking.
A male voice. He paused to listen.
“How could you, Ryanne? How could you do this?”
Drake leaned even closer, trying to block out the storm by covering the ear furthest from the opening.
“I never thought…” the man sobbed. “You’ve ruined everything. My life, your life… the kids…”
The female voice that replied was nasal, as if her nose had been recently broken.
“You’re such a fucking pussy… I had to do something, had to make money somehow. You’re just pissed that I wrote something in a few hours that sold more than you have in your entire pathetic life.”
This was followed by more sobs, and although Drake couldn’t see who was crying, he knew it had to be Colin.
But the third person… who is that? And why aren’t they speaking?
“Why, Ryanne?” Colin whined. “How could you do something like this? You’ve… you’ve… killed people. Innocent people.”
A wild cackle ensued.
“You said it yourself, ‘write what you know’. I stole your stupid notebook, and you didn’t even notice. I took notes, wrote every detail about the girls… about how they screamed when I cut them. About how at first, they all tried to be tough. But in the end, they all cried. They all whined and pleaded and begged for their lives. They were pathetic, just like you. And you know what the best part is? When the police come, they’re going to come for you. I even mailed the stories to a detective, with your fingerprints all over it. They’re going to pin this on you, Colin.” More laughter. “What do they call that? Irony, I think. Yeah, irony.”
Drake could take it no more. He rose to his feet, and then fumbled to pull the gun from the back of his jeans.
They had it wrong; Chase and Agent Stitts had it wrong.
This whole time they were looking for a man, but it was a woman who had committed the horrific murders, written the macabre tales.
The gun felt like a cinder block in his hands, but something in his gut told him that he was running out of time.
He had to act.
Drake pushed the door wide and aggressively strode into the cottage.
“NYPD!” he shouted out of habit. “Don’t move!”
He had intended to sound authoritative, but like the rest of him, his vocal chords were frozen and his words came out in a pathetic wheeze.
And yet it did the trick.
All eyes were suddenly on him and his gun.
The scene that unfolded before Drake took what little breath that remained in his frigid lungs away.
Colin was sitting on the floor, his wife’s head cradled in his lap. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth, and one eye was bruised so badly that it was completely closed.
Behind them he spotted a woman he didn’t recognize, bound and gagged.
And shivering.
Part IV, Drake couldn’t help but think. Red Smile PART IV.
Colin stared at him with wet eyes.
“I didn’t want any of this,” he whimpered. “I didn’t want—”
It was only then that Drake realized Colin was holding the sharp edge of a knife to Ryanne’s throat.
“Put the knife down!” he yelled, this time with more gusto. “Put the knife down, Colin, or I’ll shoot.”
Colin was so lost in his own head that he didn’t seem to hear him.
“All I wanted was to be happy, to write books and spend time with my family. I didn’t want any of this.”
Colin broke into full body sobs, and under normal circumstances, Drake would have seized this opportunity to lunge at him.
But he didn’t trust his fatigued and frozen limbs. Instead, he simply waved the gun.
“Colin, if you don’t put the knife down, I’ll have no choice but to shoot you. Think about what you’re doing… you have kids, and you can still spend time with them. If that’s what you really want, put the knife down.”
This time, Colin took notice.
“It’s ruined. Everything’s ruined.” A small indent appeared on Ryanne’s throat as Colin applied more pressure with the knife tip. “She ruined everything.”
Drake swallowed hard.
“Colin, please, think—”
“I know how to write a book… I do. I write good books; people like them.”
The bound and gagged woman suddenly moaned and started to squirm, drawing Drake’s attention.
She was like the others—like Tanya and Melissa and Charlotte and the other girl, the one hanging from the goalpost. She looked exhausted and terrified, her arms marked with criss-crossed scars.
If he hadn’t arrived, Drake knew that it wouldn’t have been long before her lips were also marked with blood.
“I know what people want!” Colin suddenly shouted. “A twist ending! Everyone wants a fucking twist ending!”
“Colin, no!” Drake yelled, but he was too late.
Colin ground his teeth and drove the knife into the soft skin beneath Ryanne’s chin.
This time Drake did lunge, but he was too slow. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, coating Colin’s hands and forearms.
Ryanne started to thrash and sputter as Drake approached.
He knew that he should fire, that he should take out Colin Elliot before he pulled the knife all the way across his wife’s throat, taking with it any chance of saving her life.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
As Ryanne’s eyes rolled back in her head, he found himself focusing on her face.
She was no longer a person, despite the blood that soaked the floor beneath Drake’s feet.
She was something else.
She was Dr. Mark Kruk.
She was Craig Sloan.
Ryanne Elliot was the Skeleton King.
A ruthless, heartless murderer who deserved her fate for what she had done to Clay Cuthbert, to Dr. Eddie Larringer, Dr. Tracey Moorfield, Tanya Farthing, Melissa Green.
To him.
For what the Skeleton King had done to Damien Drake.
CHAPTER 68
Chase nearly slammed into the back of Drake’s Crown Vic as she pulled up to the Elliot cottage.
She hopped out, gun drawn, and burled through the snow toward the side porch.
Halfway there, she came to a full stop.
“Drake?” she asked, heart pounding. “Drake? You okay?”
The man on the porch lifted his head, and stared up at her through bleary eyes.
Chase ran to him, and then stopped again when she realized that there was someone resting on his lap. She was so tightly wrapped in blankets, that it was hard to make out her face, but for a split-second Chase thought that it was Ryanne Elliot in Drake’s arms.
“Get away from her!” she cried. “Get away!”
Agent Stitts hurried up the stairs, beating her to the punch.
“It’s not her,” he said. “It’s not Ryanne.”
Drake nodded.
“It was her next victim—but he got here just in time.”
Agent Stitts bent down and picked up the girl. Drake didn’t resist.
“She’s alive,” Stitts said, as he made his way toward Chase’s car. “We have to keep her warm.”
Chase nodded and felt relief wash over her. They hadn’t even known that anoth
er woman was missing, but she was safe now.
Her solace was short-lived, however, when she realized that the killer was still on the loose.
Grasping her pistol with two hands now, Chase bounded past Drake, staying low as she scanned the interior of the cottage.
“She’s dead,” Drake said at the same moment that her eyes fell on the woman lying in the center of the room, her body surrounded by a pool of blood.
“Oh my god,” Chase whispered. “What happened?”
Drake’s words echoed in her head.
He got here just in time… But who’s he?
Drake, with no emotion in his voice, his eyes still locked straight ahead, replied, “I was too late—I got here too late. Colin was already gone.”
Chase breathed deeply.
“What? Where is he now?”
Drake shook his head.
“I don’t know, but he’s gone. I doubt we’ll ever find him. But Ryanne’s dead, Chase. She was the one writing the books, killing the women.”
He pulled a small black notebook from beneath the blankets that were draped over his shoulders and held it out to her.
She took it, noting that his hands were shaking badly.
“We need to get your warm, Drake. You’re going to freeze to death out here.”
But even before the puffs of warm air that accompanied her words dissipated, a strong feeling suddenly came over her.
A gut instinct that she just couldn’t ignore.
That’s what he wants, Chase thought with horrible sadness. That’s what Drake wants.
CHAPTER 69
Drake looked down at his phone, and stared at the video of Dr. Kildare and his campaign manager, their lips pressed together. The doctor swept the papers off his desk and propped her on top of it. As the video continued to play, Drake raised his eyes to look at the condo building before him.
He felt dirty, he felt wrong.
Drake was reminded of his night with Jasmine, and thought about how he would feel if someone had caught them on tape. In that moment, he felt a strange kinship with Dr. Kildare, even though they had never met.
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