by Rebecca York
"I've got to reach him. It's a matter of life or death."
"He's at a soccer game with his son. He won't be home for a couple of hours. Did you have him paged?"
"I already did that. But I'll give you the message in case he calls home. Tell him Arnott has Megan. Tell him to meet me there with backup."
He clicked off, concentrating his efforts on driving, praying that he wasn't going to be too late.
MEGAN felt her heart rate speed up as the car came to a stop in front of a gated fence. Arnott got out, unlocked it, drove through, then relocked it behind the car.
God, they were trapped inside a fence. But she could climb over, she told herself. If she could get away from him. And she had to get away. There were no other options.
He pulled the car to a stop and looked back at her, his expression smug. "Wait right here. I've got to get things ready."
The words sent a sliver of cold piercing through her. After he got out, she started pulling at the handcuffs, trying to slip her hands through the rings. But all she got for her trouble was a pair of chafed wrists.
He returned, looking even more pleased with himself. Opening the back door, he climbed inside and pulled her around so that she was lying on her back again.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Was he going to kill her here in the car?
No, she told herself. He'd mess up the car, and he didn't want to do that, did he?
She could see the bulge at the front of his pants, knew that her helplessness and her terror were turning him on. Good—maybe with some of the blood drained from his brain, he wouldn't be thinking as clearly.
He had done this before. He had been successful. That would make him feel confident. Powerful. And he'd think of her as one of the dumb women he could use and discard as he pleased.
That gave her a tremendous advantage. He'd assume that she was just one more terrified woman he could control.
When his hand shot out to yank off her remaining shoe, her body gave an involuntary jump. He tossed the shoe to the side, then reached under her skirt, grasped the elastic of her panty hose and panties, and pulled them both down and off.
She closed her eyes, turned her head away.
"Look at me."
She swallowed, lay unmoving as she felt his eyes traveling over her body.
"You'll be sorry if you don't do what I say."
She turned her head back, watched the satisfaction spread across his face as he held her gaze with his for a long moment. Then he reached out and ripped the tape from her mouth, making her gasp from the pain.
"You look like a slut with your privates hanging out like that. Like my mom. She was always showing what she had to the guys."
She wanted to say that he'd been the one who'd exposed her. Wanted to ask if that's what this was all about—his mother. But she kept her lips pressed together.
Feeling his fingers stroke the skin of her hips, her belly, she cringed. When he reached down to rake his hand through her pubic hair, thrust his hand between her labia, she couldn't hold back a little moan.
He took out the knife again, and she stared at him wide-eyed, terrified of what he was going to do. He knew she was scared, and he was enjoying it. Bringing the blade down slowly, he cut an almost delicate line in the crease at the top of her right thigh.
She knew he wanted her to cry out. To beg. She didn't know which was worse—giving him what he wanted or keeping silent. So she opted for silence.
When he scooted forward, reached across her, and unlocked the bolt that held the handcuffs to the car, she tried to hold back her sigh of relief.
"Time to come into my playroom," he rasped. "We'll cut the rest of your clothes off when I get you on the table."
JACK looked at Craig and grinned. His son grinned back, and Jack felt a surge of love—and gratitude. Last year, after Laura had died, Craig had been eaten up with grief and rage. He'd had problems in school, problems with his friends, problems with the law.
That part was the worst to take. A cop whose son was caught shoplifting.
But the family therapy had helped Craig—helped them all. His kids were doing okay now—except for the occasional times like Lilly's nightmare.
"Great game, Dad."
"Yeah." Jack chomped on his hot dog, swallowed a swig of Coke. Before his mouth was entirely clear of food, he started shouting again. "Go for it, Martinez. Go for it."
Craig joined him, jumping to his feet in his excitement.
The moment was spoiled when Jack heard the beeping of his pager. Looking down at the number, he saw that it was his office.
Son of a bitch. Couldn't he even have an evening out with his kid? Was he supposed to be on duty 24/7?
"Craig, I'll be right back."
Trying to ignore his son's look of disappointment, he climbed out of his seat and went to find a quiet spot where he could see what was so urgent.
In the aisle, he almost collided with Emily Anderson. Jesus, what was she doing here?
"What is it? What's wrong? Is it Lilly?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
Emily was quick to reassure him. "No. She's fine. I left her at the Wilsons'."
A sigh of relief rushed out of him. It wasn't his daughter. But then what was wrong?
They huddled against the wall, but it was impossible to block out the noise of the game.
He waited until another round of encouragement from the crowd had subsided before asking again, "What's wrong?"
"Ross Marshall called. He said he paged you."
"Yeah, I just got a page. He called the house, too?"
"Yes. He sounded upset. He told me to tell you that Arnott has Megan."
He stared at her in disbelief. "You're sure that's what he said? Arnott has Megan?"
"Yes."
"Jesus." Dr. Sheridan had paged him earlier and he'd tried to call her back. But he'd only gotten an answering machine.
"He said he was going out to his place. He said for you to come and bring backup."
He looked at his son, who was once again happily immersed in the soccer game, and hated to drag him away.
But Mrs. Anderson had followed the direction of his thoughts. "You go on. I'll stay with Craig. That's why I came here."
His hand gripped her forearm. "Emily, thanks."
"Go on."
"Yeah." He ran down the steps, his phone already in his hand. First he called dispatch and got the same message from Ross. Then he called the station house and asked for patrol cars to meet him at the property of Donald Arnott, 5962 Newcut Road.
MEGAN stumbled, trying to stay on her feet as the killer pulled her after him into a ruined building and then down a flight of rough wooden steps and through a low doorway into a chamber where the air was fetid with the smell of old blood and other things.
It was brightly lit, and she gagged as she saw the racks of knives and other instruments on the wall. In front of it was a wooden table with leather straps. And at the foot of the table was a videocamera on a tripod.
Mouth dry, heart hammering in her chest, Megan knew that if he got her onto that table, she was a dead woman.
She took a few steps forward, then made a terrified sound as she sank to the floor beside the camera, going limp, pretending that the place was too much for her.
"Get up, cunt."
She stayed where she was, limp and unmoving, silently urging him closer.
When she didn't respond, he bent over her.
Bringing up her clasped hands, she smashed the metal handcuffs into his face.
He made a grunting sound, and she pushed him aside, slamming the videocamera down on his head, then sprinting up the steps, the rough wood tearing at the bottoms of her feet as she ran.
Behind her she heard him bellow, "Fucking bitch!" The angry exclamation only fueled her sense of purpose as she ran through the building, her cuffed hands making her movements awkward.
DONALD scrambled up, crashed into one of the tripod legs, and went down again. Anger boiling insi
de him, he pushed himself erect.
"Fucking bitch," he spat out again. She'd gotten the drop on him. And now he was going to even the score. She might have gotten out of the room, but she wasn't going far. Not when the place was fenced and her hands were cuffed.
His guns were in the house. He'd never needed them in this room, never needed them to control the stupid, frightened women he brought here. With a grunt he rubbed his face where she'd clunked him. That bitch was going to be sorry when he caught up with her.
He'd get her, all right. Get her good.
He wasn't going to kill her with the gun, just shoot her in some fleshy part of her body to make sure she was under control. Then he'd bring her back in here for a session she'd never forget.
JACK turned on the radio, listened to the scanner traffic as he headed for Newcut Road.
Satisfied that a patrol car was on the way, he pulled his notebook from his pocket, found Marshall's, number and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Ross, this is Jack. What happened?"
"Are you on your way to Arnott's?"
"Yes."
"Thank… G-…" the PI breathed, his voice breaking up from interference.
"How do you know he has Megan?"
The transmission was still flaky, but it sounded like Marshall said, "I smelled… in her car! All over… like rotten…"
"What? I don't understand."
"I can smell people. That's how… how I…"
Doubt shot through Jack. "You're not making any sense."
"Jesus. It doesn't matter… how… I know he's got… I thought it was Walter Galveston. But it wasn't… -im. And then I went out to her car and…" The transmission choked off. Marshall was probably in a pocket where his cellular service couldn't reach.
"Ross, Ross, can you hear me? Ross."
There was no answer. The line was dead.
Jack set the phone on the seat. The conversation hadn't made a great deal of sense. Was Marshall drunk? Out of his head?
The only thing he knew for sure was that the urgency—the fear—in his voice had been real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
« ^ »
THE ANGER HAD boiled off, leaving him relaxed, enjoying the hunt on this fine moonlit night—although it was hardly a fair contest. A man with a gun stalking a handcuffed woman. In a big cage.
He knew where she was. He knew there was no possibility of her escaping from this locked compound. So he'd slowed down, letting her think that maybe she had a chance to get away from him before he moved in for the good part.
Now he stood very still in the darkness, imagining he could hear the breath hissing in and out of her tortured lungs as she cowered behind a tree. He'd run her pretty good. She was tired.
Alone, defenseless, and scared shitless.
The bitch had thought she was so smart, whacking him with the cuffs like that. But she was going to learn the consequences of her actions pretty damn soon.
With a grin he started moving forward again, making sure she could hear his booted feet crunching through the dry leaves, playing the flashlight on the foliage, bringing the light closer and closer to the tree where he knew she was hiding.
ROSS eased up on the gas pedal, pulled off Newcut Road, and screeched to a halt in front of the gate, weighing his options.
He could change into wolf form and go under the fence the way he had on the night Arnott had shot him. But he wanted Jack to be able to get inside—if he made it out here in time to do any good.
Snatching the burglary kit from the seat beside him, he leaped out of the SUV and started working on the hasp with a hacksaw. It took effort—and precious minutes—to cut through the steel, but finally he snapped the hasp, tossed the lock to the ground, and pulled the gates wide.
Jumping behind the wheel again, he started up the road—unsure of where he should be going and angry that he hadn't had more time to explore inside the fenced area before Arnott had found him that first time.
The bastard had brought her in here. He knew that. But then what? Was there a room in the house where he took his victims? Or did he take them somewhere else?
That would be the safe bet. Somewhere hard to find. But where the hell was it?
Well, maybe he didn't have a clue where to look, but the wolf would know.
Ahead was a white Land Rover gleaming in the moonlight. Stopping well behind it, he pulled off into the woods, then jumped out and trotted over to the vehicle. When he yanked the door open, he could see that the backseat had been folded down to make a cargo area.
Pushed to the side of the flat surface were a woman's shoe, panty hose, and underpants.
The blood froze in his veins as he stared in horror at the undergarments. The son of a bitch had started undressing her out here. What else had he done?
Keeping the panic at bay, he started tearing off his own clothes even as the words of transformation tumbled from his mouth.
He felt his muscles popping, his shape changing as he kicked his pants away, then he leaped into the vehicle, breathing in Megan's wonderful scent, mixed with the stench of the monster—and blood.
Oh, Lord—blood.
The combination made him gag. Jumping out again, he put his nose to the ground, finding the trail easily. Megan was wounded. But she'd been on her feet and able to walk. At least he knew that much.
He followed the combination of scents along a dirt path toward a ruined barn, moving cautiously lest the bastard lunge out and pop him again. Because if he got shot this time, he'd be no damn good to Megan.
JACK arrived at the entrance to Arnott's property, knowing backup wasn't coming anytime soon.
Two hotshot rookies had been on their way—but they'd been so excited, they'd crashed into a station wagon at Georgia Avenue and Damascus Road.
He called for another patrol car as he rolled through the open gate. A sawed-off padlock was lying on the ground.
Which must mean Ross was already here—and inside. Jesus, he hoped the two of them were going to be enough.
He spotted a Grand Cherokee pulled off the road and Arnott's Land Rover a couple of dozen yards farther on. He'd run the plate, so he knew the make and model.
Stopping behind Ross's vehicle, he unholstered his Sig P228 and cautiously approached the Cherokee. It was empty.
Proceeding to the second vehicle, he found the door was open, the backseat folded down, and what he assumed was Megan Sheridan's underwear lying in a discarded heap across from the restraining ring that Ross had described.
Beside the car was an untidy pile of men's clothing. Damn—had Arnott already stripped for action? And where the hell had he taken Dr. Sheridan?
Ahead he could see the lighted windows of a house. His best choice was to assume the bastard had taken her there—and that Ross was on the scene.
NOSE to the ground, the wolf sniffed the doorway of the barn. They had definitely come this way, Megan and Arnott—both still on foot.
Cautiously he slipped through the door, his claws scratching across the rough floorboards.
Ahead he could see a bright light coming from somewhere below ground level.
Ears pricked, body tense, he edged toward the illumination and came to a short flight of rough steps.
A shiver traveled over his body. If Arnott was at the bottom of those steps with a gun, anybody coming down was going to be an excellent target—particularly a four-legged animal who would have to negotiate the stairs carefully. But if Arnott was holding Megan down there, then going down was the only way to save her.
He thought about changing back to human form. But then he'd only be a naked man—without a weapon. At least this way he had his teeth and claws, he thought as he set his right forepaw on the steps, listening intently for sounds from below. There were none. But Megan's scent was strong here. So was Arnott's. And other odors overwhelming both their scents. Blood. Tortured flesh. Human waste.
Hugging the wall, he made his way down the stairs. The room was empty but he goggled in
horror at the wooden table, racks of instruments, and overturned videocamera. Thank God Megan wasn't here now.
But she had been here. Very recently. Now she was gone. So was Arnott. He'd brought her here. And somehow she'd gotten away from the bastard.
A good hypothesis. He prayed that it was true.
But, God, where was she now? She must have gone back up the stairs.
Climbing the steps, he reentered the barn, then stood breathing the night air, trying to catch Megan's scent. He had followed her trail from the Land Rover. He had to figure out where she had gone now.
MEGAN crouched behind a tree, watching the beam of a high-powered lantern play across the foliage, hearing the killer's footsteps crunching on dry leaves. She cowered down, afraid to run, afraid to move, feeling twigs and leaves digging into her bare legs, her bare bottom.
The tree was a barrier between her and the killer. But he was coming closer, relentlessly closer. And if she stayed where she was, he was sure to find her. So she gathered herself together, stood, and ran for a tangle of brambles, her breath burning in her lungs.
When bullets sprayed the ground only yards behind her, she screamed and sprinted faster, the air searing her lungs.
In the distance she could make out the chain links of the fence. But there was no question of climbing it now. She'd be a target perfectly poised for the killing shot.
She dodged to the right, trying to lose herself in the underbrush. Desperately she pressed on, gasping for air, each breath close to a sob as she came to the end of her strength.
Her mind almost paralyzed by terror, she kept moving, her only goal to put distance between herself and the man with the gun.
Then she felt her blood turn to ice in her veins as she realized what she'd done. The fence was directly ahead of her and her only options were to turn and sprint along the barrier, or try to dodge back the way she'd come, making a circle around the killer.
Liking neither choice, she opted to circle back. And then suddenly Arnott was looming in front of her, the gun in his hand and a satisfied expression on his beefy face.
