She took a break from screaming to explore her confines. The crawlspace was rectangular, and approximately five hundred square feet, but most of that was inaccessible, due to the solid stone bedrock rising up to meet the floor's support beams. She was limited to less than a hundred square feet. The corner, at the edge of the foundation, offered the most headroom. She could kneel there and stretch her torso. It was the place she felt the least vulnerable, with her back against the wall.
How could she get out? She'd gotten in somehow, and it stood to reason she could get out the same way. She groped the walls for a door, or a hatch. She found nothing. She used her bound hands to feel along the ceiling until she found the ridges of a trap door overhead. She tried pushing it open, using her shoulder and straining against it until she feared she might break something in her body, and still the trap door wouldn't budge.
She crawled the hundred-square-foot perimeter one more time before returning to her corner. With her back pressed up against the cool wall, she thought about killing him.
Charles DeWitt had actually looked happy to see her walking on the road hours earlier—so happy, she'd seen him as a “friendly face.” After the photo slides she'd seen in Daniel Robichaud's house, she'd been in such a panic that anyone who wasn't Daniel Robichaud might have seemed like a friendly face. But now she was here, and she realized she'd been wrong.
Now that she had nothing but the darkness, there was ample time to ponder how much she'd been wrong.
She knelt, sat, or lay on the concrete floor for hours, with nothing to distract her from her thoughts. No drinks, no friends, no scenery, no internet, no television, nothing. She imagined her death at the sadistic hands of Charles DeWitt. She grieved. She accepted. And she came back to the awful reality, only to repeat the cycle of dark thoughts.
Eventually, she fell asleep, huddled in the corner.
Hours later, she awoke with a start. Something overhead creaked, and there was light. She could see the crawlspace that had been only dim shapes so far. The walls and concrete floor weren't as filthy as they'd seemed in the dark. Part of the floor was poured concrete and part of it was natural rock. She saw a flash of movement at the edge of her vision, and suddenly the light was gone. The trap door had been opened, but now it was closed again.
She screamed, but there was no help. The lights stayed off. She grew quiet and crawled over to the area beneath the trap door. Her heart pounding with hope, she shouldered the ceiling again and pushed the trap door. It seemed to move, to give way. She gasped in excitement and pushed again, only to find—to her heartbreak—that the trap door hadn't budged after all. It was only her legs, slipping out from under her to give the illusion of escape.
She called out, “Hello?”
The only reply was the floor creaking.
“Charles?”
He didn't answer, but she sensed him there, listening. She bit back venomous words. She wanted to call him a coward, a weak-hearted joke of a man who had to drug women because he didn't have the stomach to fight them. But he knew what he was, and reminding him would only guarantee her death, and possibly hasten it.
So, she tried to appeal to him with the truth. “Listen, Charles. I'm not from around here. I'm just visiting, all the way from California. In fact, when we bumped into each other, I was just on my way out of town.”
There was no response, no way of knowing he was there or could hear her, but she continued. “Charles, I really want out of this town. As soon as I get to my car again, I'm going to hit the gas and push the pedal to the metal. I won't even look in the rear-view mirror. I'll be gone, Charles, and nobody will be the wiser.” She forced herself to stop talking, to let the words sink in. The less she said, the more likely he was to think it was his own idea.
As she waited, her stomach made a grumbling sound. She was shocked by this seemingly normal function. She didn't feel hungry. She didn't feel anything, except an intense desire to lure Charles into opening the trap door enough for her to grab him and smash his face in. Her stomach growled again, so she decided to go with it.
“I'm hungry,” she called up. “And thirsty. Plus I need to use the bathroom. Any chance you could let me out for a few minutes? I promise I'll be good.” She grimaced in the darkness. The lies came so easily. She would say anything. If only she knew the magic words, she'd say them.
He answered, “You're thirsty?” His voice came with such clarity, she jerked upright and hit her head on a joist. It had seemed as though he was down in the darkness with her, inside the crawlspace. She spun around and crawled to her corner quickly, scraping her elbows and knees on the rough concrete.
She forced her breathing to slow down so she could listen. She made a clucking sound. The acoustics were hollow. The only soft thing down there was her.
He repeated the question. “You're thirsty?”
Now that she was in the corner, she could tell the voice was coming from above, from the other side of the barrier. She answered as bravely as she could manage. “Yes, I am. Also, I'm hungry, and I need to use the washroom.” She added, “But I'd be happy with just a little water. That's all. Just a cup, or a bottle of water.”
“Let's make a trade. You admit who you are, and I'll let you have some water.”
“Who I am?”
He sounded angry. “Who you are, Samantha Torres. I know you're not just a regular tourist. You're here on an investigation, aren't you?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking quickly. “I'm here to investigate the death of Warren Jameson. I was hired to look into the accident... and my client knows I'm in town. I have to check in regularly.”
The floor overhead creaked. “And was it an accident, Samantha Torres?” The way he kept saying her name was so taunting, so cruel. “I'll only give you water if you're honest with me. Was it an accident?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I'm closing the case. It's already closed.”
He laughed cruelly. “You're a liar.”
She growled under her breath, “Takes one to know one.”
“You don't have any evidence. You have nothing. I saw you with Robichaud, trying to pump him for information.” He snorted. “Typical woman, using her looks to take advantage of a man.”
“You're wrong,” she said to the darkness. “I do have evidence. Warren knew someone was following him that day. You didn't notice, but he turned his camera around and took pictures behind him while he was walking along the trail.”
“What?”
Samantha grinned and almost laughed at how hooked she had him. She'd been fishing before, and she knew it was important to let him take the bait and let the hook sink deep before she applied pressure.
“You're a filthy liar,” he said. “If there was evidence, they would have questioned me. There aren't any photos, and you've got nothing.” His voice changed tone, becoming artificially light. “Besides, I wasn't anywhere near the mountain when that man died. I didn't even know him. Why would I kill him? You're a hateful, spiteful liar, Samantha Torres. I'll be doing the world a favor when you starve to death down there.”
She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming at him. He'd killed Warren. He'd practically admitted it.
“Charles, I can get you those photos,” she said.
“They don't exist, and even if they did, you'd have copies. Don't be ridiculous.”
With her bound hands, she checked the tiny pocket in her jean shorts. The memory card was still in there. It was ridiculous, but true.
For the next five minutes, she pleaded with him, trying to negotiate her freedom in exchange for the photos.
He wasn't buying it, and worse, he sounded bored.
Being honest and brave wasn't working. She took a different tactic and began making sobbing sounds, whining and muttering “water” and “thirsty.”
After several minutes of steady keening, the world cracked open with light. The trap door was open. She immediately crawled toward it, but it was only open long enough for Charles to drop a bucket down. Sh
e saw a brief glimpse of his face, the sight of which was worse than the darkness. He closed the door immediately. She grabbed the bucket eagerly and called up a meek thank-you. Getting him to agree to one small thing was progress. She could build on it.
He called down, “When you go to the bathroom, don't make a mess down there. Use the bucket. If you're a good girl, I'll get you a cheeseburger.”
“Thank you, Charles,” she said sweetly. If he could use her name, she could use his. “Charles, I know you were only trying to protect Caitlyn. Can you hear me, Charles? I know that deep down you're a kind, caring person, and you could see how special Caitlyn is, how she needs protection. Girls like her need someone like you to look after them.”
The floor squeaked. She had him interested. Talking about Caitlyn could be her freedom.
Samantha reached into the bucket and found, by feel, two water bottles. There was also a roll of toilet paper, which was so absurd, she nearly screamed in fury but didn't. He hadn't responded yet to her comments about Caitlyn, so she called up another sweet thank-you for the water. She twisted off the lid, thankful to feel the plastic seal breaking to verify the bottle hadn't been tampered with.
He asked, “Did Caitlyn say anything about me?”
“Yes, Charles. She says you're kind, and caring, and that she's very fond of you.”
Charles laughed. “You're stupid. I'm going to bed now. Sleep tight, Samantha. Don't let the bed bugs bite. Or whatever's down there with you.” There was a metallic sound, like a lock being fastened to the trap door, and then footfalls overhead. A door closed, and another minute later, a vehicle started and drove away.
She was alone.
Again, she had nothing but the darkness, and time to ponder how it had been a mistake to run from Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud. The blurry figure in Warren's hasty photos had not been Robichaud. It had been Charles DeWitt, sneaking up from behind like a coward.
She sipped her water slowly, savoring each drop. Her body ached all over, and now it was definitely nighttime. The crawlspace was much cooler than it had been during the day, which was a relief, until she got too cold, and it was just another layer of torture. She crawled from the high-ceiling corner to another part of her prison. She wiggled and squeezed her body to fit between two floor-support beams. In the smaller space, she would conserve more body heat.
She lay on one side and then the other for hours, unable to sleep, with nothing to distract her from her thoughts. No drinks, no friends, no scenery, no internet, no Colorado, no future. She visualized her death courtesy of Charles DeWitt. He might push her off a cliff, the way he'd killed Warren. He'd do it somewhere more remote. The body wouldn't be found until after wildlife had destroyed enough of her soft tissue that the bruising on her wrists and ankles wasn't detectable. Over and over, she fought her emotions, gave up, and came back to the dark present. She found her will to survive fading with each minute passing.
She finally drifted off, only to wake with a start, certain she wasn't alone.
“Hello?” she called out, equal parts fearful and hopeful about hearing an answer.
Two feet in front of her, a shape began to glow. It was the white of a tuxedo shirt. Her ghost was there, lying next to her.
She began to cry, wasting precious water but unable to stop her tears. “You're here,” she said. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again.” As he came into focus, glowing like a welcome night light, her relief dried up her tears.
“I figured out your secret,” she said. “You were killed by Charles DeWitt. He's obsessed with Caitlyn Winters, and when your aunt, Wendy, started sending Caitlyn those letters, he must have felt protective, or jealous.”
Warren's face, in profile, showed interest.
“Charles wanted to stop the letters,” she said. “Wendy must have sent something in the mail that led him to your house.” Samantha stopped talking to let her thoughts coalesce into imagery. “Warren, you said your aunt drove your Jeep sometimes. What if she drove it to spy on Caitlyn, and the other stalker, Charles, spotted the Jeep and assumed it was you driving? And instead of going to the police, he decided to be a hero to Caitlyn and take care of the problem himself.”
Warren was quiet. But then again, he was always quiet.
“Can you at least give me a sign?” she pleaded. “I mean, I know I'm crazy, because I'm talking to a ghost, but can you at least try to be supportive? Can you give me a hint if I'm right? That it was his camouflage jacket that's visible in your photos?”
Warren rolled onto his side, facing her. He reached up one glowing hand and placed it on her forehead.
Suddenly, she was having a vision. It was like dreaming, but she was awake.
She saw Charles, following Warren along the trail up the mountain, then accusing him of stalking Caitlyn. Warren had laughed. He'd mocked Charles and told him, “Go home, little man. You're the real stalker.”
Charles didn't get the confession he wanted, but he didn't go home yet, either. He lurked in the bushes, watching Warren and waiting for an opportunity. When Warren sat on a log to remove his hiking boot and shake out a loose stone, Charles crept up behind him and struck him on the back of the head with a bat-sized stick. He'd meant it only as a warning, but when he saw that Warren wasn't breathing, he panicked. He dragged the body to the cliff's edge and pushed him over.
On his way back down the trail, lightning struck a tree and set it ablaze.
Charles dropped to his knees and began to pray, seeing the lightning as an act of God. While he was down on his knees, he spotted a hiking boot. It was Warren's. Charles said a prayer of thanks, grabbed the boot, and tossed it over the cliff. He took one last look down at Warren's lifeless body, and then left.
In Samantha's vision, she saw Charles walking away, getting smaller. But she stayed with Warren. She floated down to him, down to the green meadow, where she knelt by his side and looked down at his face.
There was something wrong with his face.
It wasn't bruised or cut from the fall, and his expression was serene, but there was still something wrong.
The man who'd been murdered on May fifth looked nothing like Warren.
Or, he looked nothing like the ghost who lay beside Samantha in the crawlspace.
Samantha's eyes flew open.
“You're not Warren,” she said.
The ghost's eyes filled with glistening tears.
Everything came back to Samantha in a rush, like a force of nature shattering its way through a barrier. Her veil of protective illusion shattered.
Samantha saw her handsome boyfriend come into her life, courtesy of a blind date set up by her best friends Hilda and Ricky. Like Warren, he was also interested in photography, though he worked as a lawyer. His name was Samuel, so he called her Sammy, as did their friends, because Sam and Sam didn't seem right. She joked about calling him Mule as a nickname for Samuel, but she rarely called him anything but Sam.
They'd been dating a year when he proposed by hiding a diamond ring in a bottle of sparkling apple cider. She'd been sober five years, and she'd learned how to stand on her own, but now she was going to be someone's wife, which was even better. Soon, they promised themselves, she'd be a mother as well. They would have two kids, or maybe three. Four at the most. And they'd grow old together. Sam and Sammy. Two Sams, in love forever.
He was running twenty minutes late for the wedding, and then he was gone. His convertible had been struck on the freeway by an eighteen-wheeler being driven by a man who'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Dead instantly were Samuel and his best friend John, who was Ricky's brother.
“Samuel,” she whispered. “It's you.”
He nodded and glanced up at the ceiling of her prison. When he looked at her again, his expression was that of grim determination.
“I know,” she said. “I know you don't want me to give up, but Samuel, it's so hard. Everything is so hard without you. I want to be with you. I want to just die, and go to where you are, and we can be together.”
He shook his head and gave her a stern look. She swore at him. She kicked and clawed at his image as she screamed and cried and yelled at him for leaving her, for leaving her all alone. He stayed where he was, patiently waiting until she was done, and then he held her.
She fell asleep in his arms and slept a while. When she awoke, she knew what she had to do.
Chapter 15
June 10th
7:15 p.m.
Owl Bend Community News
“Don't you worry your pretty blonde head about her,” said Charles DeWitt to his coworker, Caitlyn Winters.
Caitlyn was at her desk, eating a meal at her computer for the second time that day. Two hours earlier, she'd received an upsetting phone call from that smarmy know-it-all, Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud. He was calling people all over town, making a fuss over the whereabouts of Samantha Torres.
If they only knew, Charles thought, grinning.
They would be working late on a story about forest fire prevention. He'd offered to pick up dinner for Caitlyn at the burger place, but she'd declined, saying she preferred her salad. That was just like Caitlyn to always prioritize keeping her pretty figure over temporary pleasure. He really admired her restraint. He would have to practice restraint of his own, waiting until after he'd worked out the details using Samantha as his first doll. It was a shame she wasn't blonde, so he could imagine she was Caitlyn, but she was still good for practice. And she deserved what she got. It was wrong of her to come to this town where she didn't belong and start socializing with people she didn't have any right to be friends with. Charles had lived there his whole life. People like the Winters family belonged to him, not outsiders, and especially not snoopy private investigators, or FBI agents, or whatever that liar Samantha Torres was.
Caitlyn sniffed, wrinkling her pretty nose. She had a spot of salad dressing at the corner of her mouth that made Charles ache with longing. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would play with his pretty blonde doll.
Date with a Ghost in Colorado (Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 1) Page 10
