Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1)

by Janet Taylor-Perry

  “As you are aware by now, day before yesterday, a thirteenth woman was reported missing. Miss Larkin Sloan, a teacher at St. Ignatius, remains unaccounted for, her whereabouts unknown.” Ray displayed a photograph enlargement of Larkin.

  “We are questioning a number of individuals regarding Miss Sloan’s disappearance. Any information the public can provide would be greatly appreciated.” He provided an anonymous tips phone number.

  A reporter shouted, “Detective Reynolds, do you have a suspect?”

  “Not at this moment. Any information that can be made available to the public will be made available. I have nothing else at this time.”

  Ray left the podium.

  The reporter shouted, “Is this a serial killer?”

  Ray stopped. Chris touched his shoulder. The chief discreetly nodded. Ray could feel his persistent migraine, and he knew the people of Eau Bouease had a distressing sentiment of senselessness. The detective returned to the microphone. “I think it’s safe to assume we’re looking at one killer, but that’s all I can give you.”

  I’m looking like the prime suspect did not leave his mouth. However disconcerted he felt about the fact that the one lead they had pointed to him, he knew they were on to something. His mood of ineffectiveness ebbed.

  5

  Alone in the Dark

  “Wait! Don’t leave.” Larkin Sloan’s voice rang into the gloominess.

  “I’ll be back. I have to take care of you for a while. There’s a sandwich, an apple, and a soda on the table beside the bed. There’s also a bottle of Advil if your head hurts. The chain attached to your wrist is long enough to reach the toilet directly to your left, but not this door. Please, don’t do anything to hurt yourself. I have to let Latrice know you’re all right.”

  “Please.” Her plea fell on deaf ears as she heard the door close. She knew she was alone.

  Her heart prayed, God, what do I do? What does this man want?

  After sitting quietly for some time, her answer came. Play along. Don’t upset him. Talk to him. He’s reasonable, and he’s not acting of his own accord. Someone is controlling him.

  Larkin’s eyes adjusted somewhat to the gloom. There was a small horizontal sliver of a window high in the wall, just enough that she could see it was almost dark outside. Dr. Fairchild will notice I’m missing. She won’t take that lightly. She’ll find me. Dr. Bixby saw me leave in the cab. Maybe he saw the driver. Cyclops! Oh, please, God, let someone take care of Cyclops.

  The captive looked around in the gathering shadows. She could make out the plate and soft drink can on the table just as the man had said. She could see the outline of a doorway. That must be the bathroom. She stood carefully and felt woozy. Of course, I was hit in the head with a book and apparently drugged somehow. She made it to the little cubicle, which contained a commode and a lavatory. After she relieved herself, she splashed water on her face.

  Back at the bed, Larkin became aware of the gnawing in her stomach. She had not eaten since six that morning, and only a Pop Tart at that. I was rather preoccupied at lunch time. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she eyed the meal prepared for her and wondered if it was safe to eat. Somehow, I think it is. A voice wafted on the air repeating a line from the movie, The Last of the Mohicans, “Whatever occurs, stay alive. I will find you.” She looked around to see who was speaking, but she was alone.

  Determined to survive, Larkin took a bite of the sandwich. It was tuna made with dill pickles, onion, and mustard, on whole wheat, the way she liked it. The apple was a tart Granny Smith, her favorite. She picked up the soda can. If this is Dr. Pepper, my captor knows me very well. It was.

  As she finished her meal, such as it was, she heard a scratching sound. She pulled the pillow on the bed in front of her and cringed, envisioning massive rats scurrying across the room. She was not the squeamish type, and she did not fear the creatures. Still, her skin crawled as she thought about one scampering over her in her sleep. I wish Cyclops was here to eat the varmint.

  Larkin found herself taking shallow breaths hoping to stop offending her nostrils. The place smelled of mold, mildew, and decay. She absentmindedly scratched, wondering if the mattress might have bedbugs.

  The room began to rattle. Larkin clutched the edges of the bed. The room shook so hard she feared she would be tossed to the floor. Several minutes of violent vibrating told her she was near the railroad tracks. Feeling the wall indicated this was not a warehouse and she was underground. She could feel the dampness, and the grittiness left on her fingers had to be nitrate residue. This place is a basement. Where am I? What kinds of places have basements when they’re already below sea level—if I’m still in the same parish, and I think I am? She racked her brain. I should be preparing my lesson and PowerPoint of Edgar Allan Poe, not trying to figure out a way to escape some lunatic. Poe—the thought hit—“The Cask of Amontillado!” Of course! This could be a place that would have had a wine cellar. Larkin thought and thought—a place with a wine cellar near the railroad tracks. When I get out, I have to know where to go, and I will get out!

  She was no stranger to events in the news. The smell of decay, possibly blood, made her wonder if this soft spoken, almost apologetic, man who had brought her here was behind the disappearances and deaths of twelve women. With his mannerisms, it just doesn’t add up. Then again, Ted Bundy was a charmer. Nonetheless, I don’t think the man will harm me, but I’m sure I’m still in danger—just not from the man who seems nice; but, perhaps, from whomever this Latrice person is. It’s someone who knows me, or has at least gone to the trouble to spy on me to be able to know things about me such as the foods I like.

  With darkness upon her, Larkin had nothing to do but think. The atmosphere felt oppressive. She could almost feel drops of condensation in the humid, stagnant air. She let her mind drift. She wondered if the police had figured out the link she had noticed in the murders the past year. Do they realize all the women have been killed on some form of holiday, whether Christian, pagan, or national? Probably not because nobody thinks about days like Ground Hog Day, the equinoxes, or the solstices being special holidays unless they’re familiar with Celtic beliefs.

  She felt compelled to share her theory with that detective from the news. She never really watched the news, but halfway listened as she graded papers or wrote. If something interesting caught her attention, she listened more closely. What is that detective’s name? He usually holds the press conferences. He has a pleasant voice.

  She shivered. My captor has a pleasant voice.

  Reynolds. Yes, that’s it. The newscaster said it this morning on the radio. I’ll call him when I get out. The worst he can do is laugh at me. And if I’m right, I have a whole month to get through to the voice at the door. Nobody else will die until Halloween.

  Maybe I’m a witch and can work some magic on this guy. She laughed. I do have a black cat.

  Larkin’s thoughts turned to her students. What will become of them? Why was Dupree so belligerent? Is he truly a lost cause? Does he have something to do with my being here?

  Lightning flashed in the small window, and in its wake, she saw the silhouette of a cross. Yes! I know where I am. This is the old abandoned monastery. It’s in the worst possible part of town, and nobody will care if they see someone going in and out. Homeless people often sleep in the courtyard and portico. It’s as historical as my house. It once had a wine cellar before the Civil War. The monks imported and sold the finest wine. The train track was laid in the 1870s and runs right behind it. About a year ago, the “For Sale” sign disappeared. I had hoped a religious group had purchased it and planned to restore it and use it to minister to the community. “Oh, my God!” she said out loud. “What if some strange whacked-out satanic group bought the place?” She paused as if expecting the rats to reply. “What if all these killings have some crazy religious motive behind them?”

  Larkin rubbed her eyes and tried to shake the cobwebs from her brain. Fatigue weighed on her. She became
conscious that her right eye was no longer numb and was beginning to throb. Realizing there was nothing she could do alone in the dark to free herself, she took two of the Advil and rested on the pillow. She tried to pray, but her thoughts flew in a hundred directions. She felt a connection to her best pal, Cyclops, and instructed him to send her some help. Silly thought I know, but any haven in a storm. As she drifted into a fitful slumber, she dreamed of blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. The eyes seemed to be in pain and darted to and fro as if frantically searching for something. An irritated, frustrated voice, the voice she had heard earlier in the evening, a familiar voice, accompanied the eyes. “I have to find Larkin. I won’t let her die.” The eyes seemed to stare directly at her, and she could not break their gaze; neither did she want to. She found solace in those eyes.

  6

  Compassionate Captive

  Larkin started awake as the door to her prison creaked. “Hello?” she ventured into the darkness. The sliver of window told her another gray dawn was approaching.

  “I brought you some breakfast,” said the voice from the night before. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

  “I need to go home.”

  “Sorry. I can’t grant that wish.” The man came closer. “I hope you like sausage biscuits. I brought coffee and orange juice. Cream and sugar?”

  “Just cream—three.”

  “Want some coffee with your milk?” The man’s voice sounded light, almost laughing. He offered her a Styrofoam cup.

  She pretended not to be able to reach the cup. “I can’t reach it. Can you come closer?”

  “Really? Why? Do you want to see my face? Latrice wouldn’t like that.”

  “Who’s Latrice?”

  “She tells me what to do. She told me how to get you here and what to do to keep you here and how to take care of you. She told me what to make you for dinner last night. Was it done right?”

  “It was delicious. Thank you so much.” She didn’t try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Do you always listen to Latrice?”

  “I just started hearing her a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I see,” Larkin said, realizing she might be dealing with a mentally unstable person. She walked as far as her leash would allow. “I really can’t reach it. See?”

  Larkin heard relief in the man’s voice as he said, “I guess your chain is a little short.”

  “It does reach the bathroom though,” she said, trying to draw him into a conversation. “But it’s not really a bathroom. How am I supposed to bathe?”

  “I…I don’t know. Latrice didn’t say.”

  The man took a couple of steps closer, but kept his face averted as he handed her a sausage biscuit and a cup of coffee.

  “I appreciate it,” she said honestly.

  “Can you carry your juice, too?”

  “Um.” She balanced the biscuit on top of the cup. “Sure.”

  The man turned to leave. Larkin said, “Please don’t go. Stay and talk to me for a little while. Have breakfast with me. I don’t like to eat alone.”

  “But you live alone.”

  “Ah, but my cat always has breakfast with me.” Larkin could not help but feel the lonely melancholy as she thought of breakfasting only with Cyclops and the last time she had been with him, she hadn’t even been able to do that.

  “I had a dog when I was a kid,” the man said guardedly. “He was a golden retriever. His name was Dawg, D-A-W-G. I named him Dog, you know like in Big Jake. John Wayne’s dog was just Dog, but I spelled it D-A-W-G because he was a Southern dog.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was in the back of my dad’s truck when my dad and my little sister, Ronnie—Rhonda—hit a deer. Dad lost control, and they were all killed. I was thirteen.” He paused. “Sometimes Dawg still comes to show me the way to go.”

  “I’m sorry. You know, my parents were killed in a wreck when I was five. We have something in common.” She had a fleeting thought, Another Son of Sam? Oh, my God, he’s listening to a dead dog. “Cyclops is all alone. He might starve without me,” she said, hoping to gain sympathy for her pet as leverage.

  “I have to go. I’m not supposed to talk to you.” The man stopped slouching and headed for the door again.

  Larkin surmised he was about six feet tall. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, utilizing the hood over his head to shield his face. It was hard to gauge his weight with the shirt on, but he seemed thin, not skinny, but perhaps buff.

  “Why can’t you talk to me?” she asked, desperate to keep her captor talking.

  “Latrice says your voice is strong, and you’ll only confuse me.”

  “I don’t want to confuse you. I just want to know why someone as nice as you has me chained to a bed. Are you going to rape me or kill me?”

  “Neither! I would never do that,” the man said in a frightened voice. “I don’t want to do anything to you. Latrice wants you.”

  “What does Latrice say she wants with me?”

  “She says you’re the last. You’re supposed to purify this country and bring forth a leader to stop the chaos.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Her stomach roiled.

  “I don’t know. Latrice didn’t say.” A well manicured hand massaged the man’s temple area as if he were getting a headache.

  “Let me ask you something. How can a person do anything if she doesn’t even know Latrice? When will she be coming to meet me?”

  “On your special day.” He dropped his hand to his side.

  “The day I’m to die like twelve other women? You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “No! No!” the man said. Clearly agitated, he clenched his fists against his thighs.

  “Latrice wants to hurt me, but you don’t. Don’t listen to her. Listen to me.”

  “Stop!” the man screamed as he put his hands over his ears. “Too many voices. I am getting a headache.”

  Larkin spoke softly. “I’m sorry. If you can’t listen to me, listen to Dawg. Where would he lead you?”

  The man said pathetically, “You don’t understand. There are so many voices. It’s a cacophony. Latrice said if I listen to her, the voices will stop.”

  “How many voices were there before Latrice?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot before I started taking pills. Then, not so many.”

  “Are you taking your pills?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Latrice said she could make the voices stop without them.”

  “She lied. Don’t listen to her anymore.”

  “I would do anything to stop the voices.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you take your pills even though Latrice says not to?”

  “I have to get some more.”

  “Get some and come back and talk to me. I can’t promise the voices will leave, but I will try to help you. I swear it.”

  A strained silence lingered several moments. “Why would you want to help me if you think I want to hurt you?” he asked barely above a whisper.

  “You don’t want to hurt me. Latrice does. She wants to hurt you, too. She is hurting you right now by not giving you your medication. You need it.”

  “I can’t go back to the health department to get the pills.”

  Larkin could tell she was getting through to the man. “Why?”

  “Latrice is there.”

  “Is Latrice’s voice there?”

  “No, she’s there.”

  “Is Latrice here?”

  “No!” The man’s agitation elevated. “Latrice is not a voice, Larkin. She’s real. She’ll be so mad I talked to you.”

  “Don’t tell her. Do you know where the free clinic run by Charity Chapel is located?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll take care of you. Tell them Larkin sent you.”

  The man began to pace. “I have to get out of here. I have to stop the vo
ices.” He headed for the door.

  “Please!” Larkin shouted.

  “Please what? Listen to your voice? Let you help?” The peculiar man came into the small patch of light very close to her, and she looked into the bluest eyes she had ever seen—the same eyes she had seen in her dream, yet not the same. These eyes were lost, begging to be found. Though they had deep dark circles, this man’s eyes were breathtaking.

  Without thinking, she reached out and touched his cheek. She whispered, “No, follow Dawg. I’m sure he’ll lead you to safety. If you don’t think you can trust me, trust him. Maybe he’s your guardian angel.”

  Blue eyes backed away and left Larkin alone.

  She put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. She prayed. Oh, God, is he crazy? Please, God, send an angel to guide him. He’s in so much pain, so much trouble. Please, protect him. Show me how to help him.

  Something about the man made her feel deep compassion for him. Larkin could not help but think something about this man just did not add up. He looks and smells like a street urchin, but the clothes he has on, although dirty, are top-line. She had recognized the Diadora logo on the sweatshirt. Only serious athletes wear that. The jeans are American Eagle, top-line mall apparel. His speech patterns are educated and cultured; his vocabulary, amazing. And he also looks vaguely familiar. Where have I seen him?

  She rubbed her own temple. She lay back and gave into sleep once more. Again she dreamed of blue eyes, but this time Cyclops was with the blue eyes. The eyes seemed more focused, more determined.

  7

  Confused Captor

  Though almost closing time, the free clinic remained packed with people. A nurse walked into the center of the waiting room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have to close for today. I have the sign-in sheet. Dr. Grant will be here tomorrow at eight, and we’ll start where we left off.”

  The indigent sick moaned, but started shuffling out the door. Against the tide, a hooded figure approached the nurse. He touched her arm with some force and spoke hoarsely, “Please, I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to see a doctor today.”