by Dee Davis
Directly across from her, sitting in a chair, was a store mannequin—a woman dressed in moth-eaten clothes whose faded colors still reflected the electric patterns of the sixties. Her features had been carefully altered, twisted into something sadistic. Terrifying. Human body parts replaced plastic, fingers curling inward, eyes staring at nothing, hair lank and bloodstained, a decaying, swollen tongue protruding between molded lips.
Sara tried to step backward, to escape the monster, but stumbled instead, falling forward, her hand brushing against the cold, lifeless fingers. She jerked back, swallowing bile, heart hammering as she scrambled to her feet, desperate for escape. The window here was boarded shut, too, but she didn't let that stop her, pulling at the boards, trying to wrench them free, working until her hands were bloody.
All the while knowing that thing was behind her, staring at her through Molly's eyes.
The boxes tumbled to the ground with a crash, and Ryan was in the room. The window boards still refused to yield. Sara yanked harder, splinters driving into her fingers and palms, tears of sheer terror streaming down her face.
“Sara,” he said, his voice deceptively gentle.
She turned to face him, bending her knees slightly, determined not to go without a fight.
“You've hurt yourself.” His concerned gaze raked across her, settling on her bleeding hands.
She launched herself at him, hitting him with the full weight of her body, her intention to knock him to the floor. But this time he was ready, taking the hit, and then twisting around to grab her, arms viselike around her chest. “That was a mistake, Sara.” There was anger in his tone, coupled with regret.
She fought against him, but it was useless, his superior strength subduing her with ease. “After all I've done for you,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, “the least you can do is stay with me. Besides,” he said, turning her toward the mannequin, “you haven't met my mother.”
“He's not here.” Eric slammed his hand down on the cre-denza in Ryan Greene's foyer, the resulting pain helping him to focus.
“We didn't think he would be.” Tony's voice was overly solicitous. A concerted effort to keep him calm. “It's too obvious. That's why we've got people searching the tax records for a second residence. You said he mentioned lake property.”
“Yeah. At the party. But he could be anywhere, and time is ticking away.” Eric clenched a fist, still fighting his surging emotions. Alternately angry, then terrified, he couldn't stop thinking about Sara, imagining the worst.
“So we'll find it. And we'll find Sara.” Tony reached over to lay an awkward hand on Eric's shoulder. “And, in the meantime, we search the house.”
“Right.” Eric sucked in a breath, pulling all his years of training into play. He could do this. He had to. “Maybe it'll help to go over what we do know.” He started up the stairs, Tony following. “Roy Graham was born in New Orleans. Dad out of the picture, mom on drugs. According to the records they faxed, Mom was arrested several times for solicitation, but never served time. When the kid was around twelve, Mom disappeared and he was put in foster care.” They stopped on the landing, Eric turning to face Tony. “Except it didn't stick. He ran away, played loose with the rules, and wound up being arrested.”
“But by then,” Tony opened a cupboard and slid out a box, randomly pulling out the contents, “Mom was back in the picture because she bailed him out. So the happy family is reunited and, as far as public records go, sinks into oblivion. We've got nothing more on either of them. No tax records , no driver's licenses, nada. It's as if they simply ceased to exist.”
“Until now.”
Tony nodded. “Claire's running Roy's fingerprints through the computer for confirmation that the two men are one and the same and Brady's searching for additional background on Ryan. But my gut says Roy Graham is Ryan Greene.”
“So we've got a guy with a lousy past who reinvents himself. None of which gets us any closer to finding Sara.” Eric hit a box with a swipe of his hand, spilling the contents on the floor; another detective, working down the hall, looked up at the disturbance.
“That's sure as shit not going to help.” Tony's eyebrows drew together in warning. “Look, if this is too hard—”
“I'm fine.” Eric cut him off with a wave of a hand, bending to pick up the fallen paper. “It's just that you know as well as I do that after the first twenty-four hours a missing person is most likely gone for good.” He couldn't bring himself to say her name, the act threatening the precarious hold he had on his emotions. “Every second counts.”
“We've got every able hand working the case, and they're working as fast as they can.”
“Detectives, I found something I think maybe you should look at.” A tech stood in the bedroom doorway, holding out a narrow black book. “It was hidden in the closet ceiling.”
Eric grabbed the book, flipping pages. The pictures were old. Yellowed at the edges. Most of them pictures of Ryan as a child. The usual poses—Christmas, birthdays. Eric turned another page, Tony looking over his shoulder. The photo here was larger and more faded, as if this page had been looked at more than the others, exposed to the elements.
A mother and a child sat on the steps of a ramshackle apartment building, the ironwork on the stoop bearing the unmistakable mark of New Orleans. The boy gazed up at his mother with intense adoration; the mother smiled provocatively at the camera, seemingly unaware of the child.
Ryan and his mother.
A mother who looked exactly like Sara.
“You're out of your mind.” Sara struggled against Ryan's hold, averting her eyes from the abomination in front of her.
“Not in the way you think.” He twisted her arms behind her, and she tried to jerk free, but he was faster, his arms tightening around her.
“You just said that thing was your mother.”
“I didn't say that at all.” He sounded so rational, so normal. As if everyone had dismembered body parts in their spare room. “I said you haven't met my mother. This is obviously only a likeness.” He reached out with one hand to caress the mannequin. “The clothes were actually hers, but the rest is just a re-creation.” He smoothed his hand over the bloodied hair. “I like to think of it as a work in progress, a reminder that ultimately I have the power.”
“That,” Sara jerked her head toward the mannequin, “is not a sign of power. It's the work of a monster.”
Ryan spun her around, his eyes shooting fire, his fingers digging into her shoulders. “I am not a monster. In fact, I have amazing control. If I didn't, believe me, you'd already be dead.”
She forced her gaze to meet his, an attempt to hold her own, to let him know that she wouldn't go easily, but fear was a seductive thing, and it clawed at her from the inside and out, threatening any attempt at dignity. “Why are you doing this, Ryan? I thought we were friends.”
“ ‘Friend’ is a relative term, Sara.” He smiled slowly, the gesture far more chilling than his anger. “And I'm afraid your definition is very much different from mine. As for doing this, I'm not the one who's at fault. That responsibility lies completely with you. I gave you every opportunity to prove yourself worthy, but you failed me. And in doing so confirmed that you're no better than her.” His expression darkened as he turned toward the mannequin, his grip loosening ever so slightly.
Sara seized the opportunity and jerked away from his grasp, spinning to the right, colliding with the mannequin. Fighting her revulsion, she grabbed an arm, ripping it off the body, swinging it like a bat.
Plastic connected with Ryan's skull, and without waiting to see the results, she sprinted through the door, veering left down the hall toward the bathroom. Ryan cursed somewhere behind her and she froze for an instant, heart beating wildly in her chest.
“Sara, there's nowhere to run.”
His rage was palpable, and the tenor of it was enough to set her moving again. She dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, and wedged a stool under th
e door handle.
She flipped on the light and turned her back to the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The room was narrow, barely more than a closet, with a sink, a toilet, and a tub, the latter at the end of the room, swathed in an ebony shower curtain.
Crossing the floor in two strides, she ripped back black plastic, exposing a small window above the tub. Like the others it was boarded shut, but this time there was only a single board. Hope surged through her as she stepped into the tub and up onto the far edge, her attention focused on the board.
Ignoring the pain in her hands, she pushed her bloody fingers under the edge, prying upward. The board creaked, and gave an inch or so. Pushing her hand farther beneath the board she pulled again, this time feeling it pull free.
It clattered to the floor of the tub, the sound of wood on enamel no doubt giving her away. But Sara didn't care. With shaking hands, she opened the lock and shoved up the window, freedom just inches away. Behind her, the door rattled but held. She pushed herself over the sill, squirming in an effort to squeeze through the tiny opening.
Halfway through, a loop on the waistband of her jeans caught in the sash, stopping forward motion. She reached back, struggling to free herself, feeling the precious minutes ticking away. With a violent crash the bathroom door splintered open, the metal stool scraping across the tile floor.
Terrified, she twisted, trying to rip the denim. But it refused to yield. Hands closed on her calves, and Ryan yanked her backward, her elbows and hands slamming forcefully against the window frame.
She kicked wildly, trying to loosen his grip, but in seconds he'd pulled her back, his body pinning her against the wall, his face a mask of pain and rage. “You bitch.” He hit her with the back of his hand, the force slamming her head against the wall. “I'll teach you to run away from me.”
Grabbing her hair, he yanked her toward him, and hit her again, this time with his fist, white heat exploding through her head. She tried to raise her hands, to protect herself, but he was too fast, his fist descending again and again, his face contorted with rage.
She opened her mouth to scream, praying that somebody, somewhere would hear, but there was no sound, pain robbing her of voice, her vision blurring, fading, darkness beckoning, cool and safe.
With something akin to relief, she let the velvety blackness carry her away, certain that this must be death, her only regret that she couldn't tell Eric good-bye.
“I don't know what I'm supposed to do.” Eric ground his teeth, staring blindly out the car window. They had finished at Ryan's with no further leads and, lacking clear direction, were heading back to the station, each passing hour lessening the odds of finding Sara alive. “She could be anywhere.”
“The lake house is still our best bet,” Tony said, not taking his attention from the road. “And if it's out there, we'll find it. Brady has the whole department working on it.”
“And in the meantime?” Eric knew the answer, but couldn't bring himself to put it into words.
Tony shrugged. “We wait.”
“While that bastard does God knows what to her?” His stomach twisted as his imagination went into overdrive. Frustration warred with anger, both emotions laced with equal amounts of fear and dread.
“Don't go there, Eric,” Tony warned, as usual seeing more than Eric wanted him to. “It's only going to make it worse. You have to keep your head clear. It's the only way you can help her.”
Eric slammed a fist into the dashboard. “Except that I can't help her if I can't find her.” As if on cue, Tony's cell phone rang, and Eric reached for it, pulling it off the dash and powering it on. “D'Angelo.”
“Eric. Glad I caught you.” Brady's voice was husky, a sure sign he was excited. Eric's heart rate ratcheted up a notch, and he held his breath, waiting. “I've got some news.”
“So spill it.” He hadn't meant to snap, but every second was important, and his patience was stretched thin.
“We searched the tax records and couldn't find any lake property deeded to Ryan Greene.” Eric tightened his hand on the phone, disappointment like acid in his gut. “So we tried the alias,” Brady continued, “and we got a hit. The house is on the lake, about a quarter mile up a track near the end of Lime Creek Road.”
“Lime Creek Road,” Eric repeated, his mind obediently doing the math. “That's about twenty minutes from here if we push it. We're on our way.”
The lieutenant sighed. “All right. But I don't want you guys going in without backup.”
“Then they'd better get moving,” Eric said, terminating the call.
“I take it Brady wants us to wait for the cavalry.” It was a statement not a question.
“There's no way I'm going to wait, Tony. I've got to find her.” Eric looked over to meet his partner's gaze, emotions raw and exposed. “It may already be too late.” His heart twisted inside him, pain cresting so white-hot he wasn't certain he could endure it.
“So we'll go.” Tony said, his expression set with grim determination. “And we'll find her. You've just got to hold on to that thought.”
Eric clenched a fist, thinking of all the times he'd said those exact words to someone. And of all the times they hadn't meant a goddamned thing.
Chapter 30
Sara hurt, the throbbing pain threatening to split her skull in two. She tried to change positions, to roll over, but something impeded the action, cutting sharply into her wrists and ankles, this new pain pushing her firmly into consciousness.
She opened her eyes. Or at least one of them. The other refused to function, the attempt shooting needles through her eyelid and cheek. Waiting a moment for the sensation to subside, she tried again, relieved when both eyes opened, albeit the left one swollen at half-mast.
She had trouble at first remembering where she was, but the sight of the Day-Glo wallpaper sent a shard of terror piercing through her.
Ryan.
She twisted her head, trying to find him, realizing that she was tied in place, hands above her head, feet anchored securely to the footboard. Cold air wafted across bare skin, bringing the horrified discovery that her shirt was open, her breasts bare. She stifled a sob, and pulled angrily at her bindings, collapsing back against the bed when the pain became unbearable.
“You're awake.” He materialized from the shadows on the far side of the bed, the mattress squeaking as he sat next to her. “I was worried that perhaps you wouldn't.” Chameleonlike, his rage seemed to have vanished, the face hovering above her reflecting only concern.
She gagged, pain and fear combining to make her stomach churn. “You hurt me.” Her voice came out a whisper, the simple movement of her lips and throat sending fresh waves of agony rocking through her.
“I'm sorry about that, Sara. But you brought it on yourself. There's no escape, and the sooner you accept that fact, the happier we'll both be.” He reached over to smooth back her hair, but she twisted her head to avoid his touch.
Anger flashed in his eyes, and he grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. “All this time I thought you were different. But you're not. You're just like her.” He released her in disgust, his smile brittle.
“Your mother?” she gasped, her own anger dispelling some of her fear. “Is that what this is all about?”
“My mother was a whore,” he spat out the words, and she forced herself to meet his gaze, her heart clenching at the hatred she saw reflected there. Then, almost as if he were metamorphosing, his features froze into a mask of disinterest, his anger seemingly vanishing on a whim.
Walking over to the stereo, he pulled out an album. “This was her room, you know. At least as much of it as I could re-create. These were hers, too.” He waved the record cover at the wall. “She was always listening to Frank Sinatra. Dreaming about him, collecting his albums, savoring them as if they were alive.”
He yanked the record from the cover, putting it on the turntable, the first melancholy notes of “I Will Wait for You” filling the air. “Sometimes I think she
loved Sinatra more than anything else in the world.” He turned to face her, eyes still glittering with hate.
“Then why did you immortalize her?” The statement was macabre at best, but in a sick, warped kind of way it held truth.
“Because I loved her,” he said, as if those four words explained everything.
Hate and love were part of the same circle after all, only in Ryan's world the emotions had obviously taken on a life of their own, morphing into something insidious.
Sara watched him warily, trying to find something of the Ryan she knew, some way she could reach him. Reason with him. Even as she had the thought she knew it was futile. The man she'd known was a caricature, a mask to hide the monster within.
He came to sit beside her again, his hand idly tracing the curves of her stomach. “Mother was beautiful, Sara, just like you. The kind of woman every man wants to sink himself into.” His fingers dug into the her belly, twisting her skin.
“But she chose me. I was the only one who could make her happy. I knew just how to touch her, to please her.” His hand slipped lower, and Sara squirmed to move away, the ropes making it impossible. “She taught me what it was to be a man.”
“You had sex with your mother?” The words were out before she could stop them. And Ryan's eyes turned angry again.
“It wasn't sex. It was love.” His grip tightened, his fingers hurting her. “She loved me.”
“That isn't love, Ryan,” Sara whispered, the idea of a mother debasing love into something so twisted making her forget for a moment who she was talking to. “That's perversion.”
The blow caught her by surprise. Her ears rang with the force of it, the pain in her head intensifying. “You don't know anything about her. About us. We were a team, she and I. Until he came along.” He stood up, agitated now, his hands clenching and unclenching.
