Once Forsaken (A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 7)

by Blake Pierce

  Mike stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “Well, he’s got his own agenda. Reputation is everything for a prestigious school like that. It doesn’t look good to have a homicidal maniac killing kids on campus. Try to see it from his point of view. And of course, he’s too pathologically shortsighted to see that more murders aren’t to the school’s advantage. But first things first. Have the students been warned about the danger?”

  “I’ve got Agent Lucy Vargas working on that,” Riley said. “With luck, she’ll get a warning out today. Autrey isn’t going to like it, though. And he’s liable to be in an especially bad mood when I go in to talk to him again tomorrow.”

  “Yessss, I suppose he will,” Mike said.

  He paused to think for a moment.

  “Do you think the killer is a student?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But it seems likely. All the victims that we know about were students.”

  “If so, the killer may very well have a record at Byars for mental problems. You need to get that information from Autrey. Easier said than done, of course.”

  He thought again briefly.

  “I could write a letter. You could take it with you tomorrow. I could say that I’m working as a consultant on the case, and that I’m requesting a subpoena to check the school’s records for psychiatric problems.”

  “Can you actually do that?” Riley asked. “Ask for a subpoena, I mean, based on what little we know at this point?”

  Mike chuckled.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I doubt that he does either.”

  Riley laughed a little too.

  Mike added, “Judging from my clinical knowledge of anal, paranoid college administrators, he won’t want things to get that far. I’ve got a hunch that he’ll be a lot more cooperative with you then. Who should I contact at the BAU to offer my services, making my involvement official? Walder, maybe?”

  Riley shuddered slightly.

  “No, not him. He wants nothing to do with this case. Right now Meredith’s the man in charge.”

  “Ah. Meredith. Excellent. I’ll write a letter right away and email it to you as a PDF.”

  “Thanks so much, Mike. I knew I could count on you.”

  Mike sat gazing at Riley for a few seconds.

  “It’s been a long time, Riley,” he said. “How are you doing these days?”

  Riley knew Mike’s concern was both personal and professional.

  “I’m better,” she said. “The PTSD is really lifting.”

  “Do you still get nightmares?”

  Riley hesitated.

  “Sometimes,” she said, downplaying the truth. She’d actually been having quite a few nightmares. “They tend to be about feeling helpless when people I love are in danger. April especially.”

  “That’s understandable, considering everything you and your loved ones have been through. Maybe you should come by and talk about it sometime.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she said. “I appreciate your concern.”

  She thanked Mike for his help, and they ended the call.

  Riley sat at her desk quietly for a few minutes. It began to dawn on her that there was a whole lot going on in her life that Mike Nevins knew nothing about—the adoption of Jilly, trying to put things together with Ryan.

  But the truth was, she didn’t want counseling about any of that. It would be nice to see Mike, but not if he was going to get all analytical. Maybe he really could help. But right now, Riley was determinedly putting one foot in front of the other, taking one day at a time. Talking to Mike would only make things more complicated.

  There was a knock at the door, and April came in.

  “Tiffany just left with her parents,” April said. “Are you working on the case right now?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Riley said. “I just talked to someone who’s going to help. I’m going back to Byars College tomorrow. I’ll call Bill—he’s working on the case and I’m sure he’ll go with me. Maybe we can find out more this time.”

  April smiled happily.

  “That’s so great, Mom! I can’t tell you what it means to Tiffany. It means a lot to me too.”

  Then April’s smile faded.

  “I’m sorry I got so mad at you about it,” she said.

  Riley got up from her chair and put her arm around her daughter.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “You were right. Sometimes it’s good to light a fire under me.”

  April laughed.

  “Well, with you and Bill on the case, the killer doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Riley’s spirits sank a little.

  She could remember a few cases that she hadn’t been able to solve, cases that had gone cold. Every FBI agent had faced some of those.

  April didn’t know about any of that.

  And she couldn’t bring herself to tell her.

  Instead, she gave April a strong hug.

  “What’s that for?” April giggled, crushed up against her mother.

  For luck, Riley thought.

  But she didn’t say so aloud.

  She knew she was going to need a lot of luck to solve this one before someone else died.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Murray clawed at the rope around his neck. The noose was tightening, and his consciousness was flickering. He was choking and gasping. Try as he might, he couldn’t loosen the noose with his fingers.

  I can’t let this happen, he thought.

  But he was dizzy from the loss of blood to his brain, and also from the drug.

  He had seconds left before he’d fade away for good.

  He struggled to think clearly.

  He knew the ladder was nearby. Somehow he had to get to one of its steps to slacken the rope.

  He swung toward the ladder, but then his weight carried him pendulum-like away from it, and the rope tightened more with the movement.

  On his second swing, one foot hooked the ladder, and the other foot secured his hold on it.

  The ladder rattled and lurched wildly with his moving body, its legs dancing on the concrete garage floor.

  He couldn’t let it fall over!

  If that happened, it would be all over. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But to his own amazement, he managed to stabilize the ladder, then anchor both feet on one of its steps.

  The rope slackened a little. But the pressure around his neck went unrelieved. The noose was still as tight as before. He continued to pull at the noose with his fingers, but the knot seemed to be stuck.

  He could breathe just a little now, but the lack of blood flow made him increasingly dizzy.

  He wasn’t safe yet.

  Far from it.

  At this rate, he would still pass out.

  When that happened, he’d tumble off the ladder to certain death.

  Shelves full of garden tools were close by. He glanced sideways. Yes, there were the garden shears on the nearest shelf.

  Could he reach those shears?

  His arms flailed toward the shears. But they were just beyond his reach.

  With his feet still on the ladder, he leaned toward the shelf. The swaying movement almost sent him into a fatal swoon. But now he was near enough to grasp the shears.

  His hands and arms were tingling and numb. Even so, he managed to get hold of the shears, and he held them in front of him.

  He knew what he had to do next.

  He had to cut the rope above his head.

  It ought to be simple and easy. The rope wasn’t very thick, and the shears were sharp. A single swift slice ought to do it.

  But his consciousness was waning, and he could barely feel the handles in his tingling grip.

  Still, he managed to open the shears and raise them above his head.

  With a great effort, he closed the shears, but they didn’t seem to connect with the rope.

  Panicked now, he sliced wildly, again and again.

  Then came a moment of complete blackness. />
  He seemed to be sinking through space.

  The next thing he knew, he lay on the cold garage floor, his body hurting from the blow. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then he realized that he’d cut the rope and fallen. The noose was too tight, and he still couldn’t loosen it with his fingers.

  He saw that the shears had fallen right next to him.

  He picked them up, opened them slightly, and slid a sharp blade under the noose.

  It took only one sharp slice this time.

  The rope fell away from his neck.

  He crouched on the floor on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping and retching.

  Was he out of danger?

  Almost, he realized, but not quite.

  The drug was still in his system, and its effect was building.

  If he didn’t do something quickly, he’d pass out, and possibly slip into a coma, or even die.

  He had to get out of the garage and get help from somebody.

  One of the big doors that led to the street wasn’t closed all the way. It had been left raised a couple of feet. He should be able to get under it.

  He was so dizzy that he could barely tell up from down, but he summoned his strength and crawled toward the opening. Then he lay flat and rolled under the door.

  He was out into the driveway.

  His whole body felt the shock of exhilaration.

  He tried to call out.

  “Somebody help!”

  But he could only make a hoarse, rasping sound.

  He felt himself losing what was left of his lucidity.

  Got to keep crawling, he thought dimly. Keep crawling until I find somebody.

  He crawled and crawled. Then he heard the sound of an approaching car engine, and he was bathed in light. He was barely aware enough to understand what was happening. A car was approaching—and he was in the middle of the street!

  He turned his head and saw a pair of blinding headlights. A car horn blasted through the night, followed by the screech of skidding tires.

  Then he lost consciousness altogether.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning, Riley and Bill arrived at Byars College as early as the administrative offices would be open. As Bill drove into the campus, Riley saw that the students they passed were hunched against the cold, hurrying about and avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “Wow, these kids look scared,” Bill commented. “The warning Lucy called in must have really had an impact.”

  Riley said, “Actually, they’re acting pretty much the same as the last time I was here.”

  Bill shook his head.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” he said.

  Riley felt exactly the same way. She felt sure that Byars was a miserable place to go to school, even when there wasn’t a murderer stalking the campus.

  Bill parked the car, and then he and Riley made their way to the dean’s office, where they found the atmosphere as chilly as the weather outside.

  The secretary greeted them coldly. Of course, she recognized Riley right away.

  “Dean Autrey isn’t on campus today,” the woman said. “He can’t be reached. He’s attending a very important conference.”

  Riley was sure that the woman was lying and that she was following the orders of the dean. A glance at Bill told Riley that he thought so too.

  “That’s no problem,” Riley said, pulling Mike Nevins’s letter out of her bag. “I’m sure you can take care of this for us.”

  She handed the letter to the secretary. The woman’s face grew pale as she read it.

  Riley suppressed a smile. She knew that her psychiatrist friend was well known and respected in the nation’s capital.

  The letter stated Mike Nevins’s concern that a mentally troubled killer was at large at Byars. It also said that Mike was requesting a subpoena for the school’s records, and that he was sure that it would be granted.

  It was, of course, written in Mike Nevins’s inimitable style—formal and almost painfully polite.

  And Riley knew that it was all the more effective because of its politeness.

  It was like Mike had told her once …

  “Politeness is scarier.”

  Sometimes Riley wished she could cultivate a little of Mike’s brand of scary politeness. But it just wasn’t her style.

  The woman got up from her desk and went into the inner office. Riley and Bill could hear some noisy grumbling from in there. Soon the tall, silver-haired dean came stalking out, gripping the letter in his hand. He looked anything but pleased, and his customary formality was more than a little ruffled.

  “You really don’t give up, do you?” Autrey said.

  Riley suppressed a smile. She wanted to say, As a matter of fact, I don’t.

  Instead, she introduced Autrey to Bill.

  Then she said, “Sorry to trouble you. We were somehow under the impression that you weren’t on campus.”

  “I’m not,” Autrey sputtered confusedly. “I mean, I’m just on my way—somewhere important. First thing Monday morning, and you’ve already ruined my schedule.”

  Glancing toward the rattled secretary, Bill said, “Oh. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  Autrey said, “Well, if you came around to see if I complied about that silly warning, don’t worry. The whole campus has been alerted about this imaginary killer of yours. Aside from causing a lot of undue worry, it’s proven a great excuse to cut classes. Students are staying away in droves.”

  He peered at the letter through his narrow reading glasses, muttering.

  “Such nonsense … Palpable baloney … A huge fuss about nothing …”

  He looked up at Riley and Bill.

  “I assure you that nobody has ever murdered anyone at Byars. Ever.”

  “So would you like us to get a subpoena?” Bill asked.

  Autrey growled and shoved the letter at the secretary.

  “Miss Engstrand, give them whatever they want,” he said. “Sorry to put you to the trouble. I’ve got to go.”

  He grabbed his coat off the coat rack and stormed out of the office.

  The secretary sat gaping at Riley and Bill.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  Bill began to explain.

  “We need information on students, staff, graduates—anyone who may have had major psychological issues …”

  As Bill continued, Riley’s phone buzzed. The call was from Meredith.

  “Agent Paige, where are you right now?” he asked.

  Riley gulped. Was she going to have to explain the gambit she and Mike Nevins had used to obtain records? She doubted that he would approve.

  “I’m at Byars College with Agent Jeffreys,” Riley said.

  “I need the two of you to head straight over to Brandenburg Memorial Hospital.”

  Riley was surprised that he didn’t seem the least bit curious about what she and Bill were doing.

  “That’s right here in DC, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Right. It looks like someone survived an attack by our killer. He’s in the ER there.”

  “He?” Riley thought.

  After finding out that Kirk Farrell really had committed suicide, she’d assumed that the killer was only targeting females.

  “His name is Murray Rossum, and he’s a Byars freshman. He was found in the street outside of his home late last night, barely conscious. According to the police, he’d been drugged and hanged in the family garage. It was a miracle that he got away alive.”

  “Is he able to talk?”

  “It’s my understanding that he’s conscious. I don’t know whether he’s talking or not.”

  Riley felt a tingle of excitement. This could be an unexpected break.

  “We’ll head right over there,” Riley said.

  She and Meredith ended the call. Bill had just finished explaining what he wanted to the secretary. She was already bringing up information on her computer.

  “This will take some ti
me,” the woman grumbled.

  “We need this as fast as you can get it,” Bill said.

  Riley took Bill aside.

  “We’ve got to get to Brandenburg Memorial Hospital,” she said. “Someone seems to have survived an attack—a guy this time.”

  Bill looked surprised.

  “Sounds like my theory that he might be bisexual might have legs again,” he said.

  “Could be,” Riley said. “Let’s go.”

  *

  As Bill drove, Riley exchanged text messages with Flores, who gave her as much information as he could put together about Murray Rossum. He was a very wealthy kid, the son of international real estate mogul Henry Rossum. The father had houses all over the world, but apparently Murray lived only in Georgetown. It seemed that Murray was Henry Rossum’s only heir and offspring. Rossum had long ago divorced the boy’s mother with a substantial settlement, and she had conveniently withdrawn from the scene.

  Bill parked the car, and when they got out Riley could see that Brandenburg Memorial Hospital was a glittering glass tower of modern design, obviously a prestigious and expensive hospital.

  They went inside and presented their badges to the receptionist, who directed them to the floor where Murray Rossum was being cared for. As they approached the room, they were stopped by a tall, distinguished-looking doctor.

  “Hold it right there,” he told Riley and Bill. “My patient isn’t seeing any visitors.”

  Again, Riley and Bill showed their badges.

  “We understand he was the victim of a homicidal attack,” Bill said. “We have reason to believe it was part of a series of murders of Byars College students.”

  “Is Murray Rossum able to talk?” Riley asked.

  The doctor wrinkled his brow with concern.

  “He’s in and out of consciousness,” he said. “We expect a full recovery from his physical injuries and from the dose of alprazolam his attacker gave him. But the emotional trauma is another matter. That might take years.”

  “We understand your concern,” Bill said. “But this is a matter of life and death. The killer is likely to strike again, and very soon.”

  The doctor thought for a moment.

  “I’ll allow it,” he said. “But I want to be present. And I’ll decide when to cut things short.”