by P. D. Martin
My protection pulls up behind us but they stay in their car. Montana and Sargent are back on shift.
“This is insane,” Josh says, eyeballing Darren.
“Keeping Sophie safe is what’s important.”
“She’s a hell of a lot safer with me.”
“We don’t know that, do we?”
“Guys, I’m standing right here.” But nothing I say is going to make a difference. Not now. There’s too much testosterone pumping.
“You’ve only known her for a few days. How can she be safer with you?”
“Listen, buddy, I’m not the one in all states at the times of the murders.”
“How do we even know that? We know nothing about you. What you’ve done over the past eleven years.”
“Stop it! Both of you stop it!”
Josh turns to me. “You don’t know anything about this guy.”
I look away, then back to Josh. “O’Donnell’s checked him out. He’s clean.”
Josh is quiet, as is Darren.
Finally Josh speaks. “Let’s go.” He starts walking then turns back. “The real murderer could be standing on the other side of that door.” Josh points toward number twenty-five.
“Or I could be looking at him now.”
Is Darren crazy? He’s pushing Josh to the limit.
Josh stops and stiffens. For a moment I think he’s going to take a swing at Darren.
“I’m out of here.” I walk away.
Darren grabs my arm. “Wait, Sophie. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Josh looks at me, defeated. He wants to be the one holding my arm, telling me I shouldn’t be alone. He turns away and starts for the door.
I pull my arm away from Darren. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Laurel and Hardy, remember?” I motion toward the Bureau car. “I’ll meet you back at the D.C. Field Office. I’ve got to go to my place anyway. I left the lock-picking information on my bedside table.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got these guys watching me, and Josh needs backup,” I say. “Go.”
“But…”
“No buts. Josh just rang the doorbell. He’s going in now.” I run back toward the car.
Darren stands near the fence of number twenty-five, still unsure. Then the front door opens and Darren moves toward the house. He’s a cop. I knew he wouldn’t let Josh interrogate a potentially dangerous suspect by himself. There are still too many unanswered questions.
CHAPTER 21
I pull up outside my building, with Montana and Sargent behind me.
Sargent leans his head out the window. “Want one of us to come up?”
“Nah. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll come up,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.
“I’ve just got to grab a few papers. I’ll be five minutes, tops.”
Sargent settles back in, then thinks better of it.
“Not by yourself.”
I can’t help but resent my babysitters. I haven’t had time alone in days.
He shrugs. “I need the exercise.” He gets out of his car and pats his sizable stomach. How does he pass his yearly physical?
I manage a laugh.
I walk into the building foyer and start up the stairs, slowly. Sargent follows close behind. I know I should strike up a polite conversation, but I don’t have the energy. Physical and emotional exhaustion are catching up with me. Even the three flights of stairs wear me out, as does the thought of having to see Darren or Josh; or worse, both of them at the same time. It’s gotten so complicated. I don’t know what I feel for either of them, and I still can’t put my mind at rest about Josh. It all seems too coincidental.
I walk into the apartment and leave the door open for Sargent.
I get distracted on my way to the bedroom and lean over the dining-room table, taking another look at the map. It still bothers me.
Sargent stands at the door, but I notice he’s unclipped his gun holster. He’s ready for action, if need be.
I shift each photo to where the victim was found. Still nothing. I reluctantly add Sam’s photo. I maneuver photos around, checking out different angles. And that’s when I notice it. I rummage through the main D.C. photos on the other end of the table, and consult the relevant crime-scene reports to determine the positioning of the bodies in relation to the locations. I replicate the way the victims’ heads were facing on the map, using the passport-size photos. They’re all facing toward the same direction, as though they’re looking at something. This can’t be a coincidence. I trace the eye lines to find the point of intersection. Maybe this is his special place. He wants the victims, his ex-girlfriends, to keep watching him. I need to check it out.
I grab the map. “Come on. We’ve got a lead to track down.”
I jump in the car with Montana and Sargent, sitting in the back with the map. As far as I can tell, the women are all looking at one particular area. I navigate, taking us into D.C. and through the busy streets.
I lean over and show Sargent the map. “Tell me about this area,” I say, pointing to the map.
“Not much there. It’s a poor area. Lots of housing projects, a couple of abandoned warehouses and St. Anne’s Hospital.”
“A hospital?” I remember my impression that the women were tied to gurneys.
Sargent continues. “It’s abandoned now.”
It would be a perfect hiding spot. “Let’s go there.”
In terms of evidence the killer’s been careful at the abduction and dump sites, but would he have been that careful in his lair? In his private place? The hospital may contain evidence, evidence that will also eliminate or confirm Josh as a suspect. And now is the best time to look; with Sam recently killed and the perp targeting me, the building will be empty.
We arrive at the front of the redbrick building about twenty minutes later. The whole area is surrounded by a six-foot fence, with Do Not Enter signs hanging on the fence every few feet. The three of us climb over. I drop to the ground, bending my knees to soften the impact.
“What are we looking for?” Sargent asks.
“Evidence. This may be where the D.C. Slasher took his victims. I’m hoping he left something behind for us.”
I draw my gun, as do Montana and Sargent. The hospital is five stories high. Most of the windows are broken and there’s no roof. The building is covered in graffiti.
“How long has this place been closed?” I ask.
“Years. It was supposed to be fixed up. Then they were going to tear it down and build a new hospital, but it never happened,” Montana explains.
I move to the nearest window and knock out the remaining glass with my gun. I climb up onto the window-sill and drop down into the room. Glass crunches underneath my shoes as I land. Sargent and Montana are hot on my heels. Once we’re all through, we move into the nearest corridor.
“Let’s split up,” I say.
Sargent shakes his head. “One of us needs to stick with you.”
Montana motions toward the end of the corridor, where it ends with a T-intersection. “I’ll take the left, you guys take the right.”
We make our way to the end, checking the five rooms off the main corridor, and then we split up.
Sargent and I move through the old emergency department. The hospital looks like a war zone, with broken glass, chipping paint, graffiti and even some of the old fittings still here, broken and strewn across the floor. But no evidence of murder. Soon we reach what looks like the children’s ward. An old, faded painting of a clown is pinned to a board.
“Did you hear that?”
Sargent stops and listens.
The unmistakable sound of voices, but they’re too far away to make out. Then silence.
“Must be Montana,” Sargent says. “Maybe he’s found something.” Sargent flips his cell phone open and punches in a number. We can hear the phone ringing down the corridor we came from. But Montana doesn’t answer his phone.
“Shit!” Sargent
and I start running back the way we came. Within a few minutes we’re standing over the still figure of Agent Montana. Blood is spreading underneath him. I bend down to check his pulse. It’s there, but weak.
“He’s alive,” I say. “We need backup. There’s more than evidence here.”
Sargent nods and flips his cell phone open again. But as he’s about to dial, I hear a slight thud. I know that sound. It’s a gun with a silencer. Sargent’s eyes widen. As I stand up, he folds. He must have been shot in the back.
I look up but can’t see the shooter. I dive for cover, launching myself across the corridor toward the nearest room. But I’m too slow. I hear the thud again and then a sharp piercing pain in my side. I look down at my rib cage, confused, then black out.
I wake up, disorientated and groggy. I remember being shot, then realizing it was a tranquilizer. I was hit by a tranquilizer. I open my eyes, hoping to find nurses around me, but instead I’m tied to something. Tied to his gurney. I’m naked.
Panic engulfs me. My biggest fear realized. I think about all the bodies I’ve seen, all the women who’ve been in this situation.
I tug on my ropes. They’re tight, very tight. I can’t move my limbs more than half an inch in any direction. It’s cold and only a small bar heater takes the chill off the room. I take another look around. The room’s still a little hazy, but gradually things start to take shape. It’s dark, but I can make out shapes and some colors around me. The floors are covered in white tiles that spread halfway up the wall, like a bathroom or kitchen. But some of the tiles are broken. One corner of the room is filled with building materials. A piece of plywood with nails sticking out, a broken chair and electrical wires, coiled. I’m still at St. Anne’s. The gurney is ice cold and I look down at it—stainless steel. Next to my head is a tray of surgical instruments. That fucking bastard.
There are no windows and only one door. Part of the door is covered in hessian; there must have been glass there at some stage.
The swinging door opens and a man in a balaclava comes in.
“Hello, darling. You’re awake.”
“Josh?”
A hollow laugh rings out. “You think Josh is man enough for this? He’s pathetic.” He hangs his head close to mine and smiles through his balaclava. “Oh, and by the way, he won’t be mounting any rescue mission, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve made sure of that.”
“What have you done to him?”
He shakes his head. “Poor Josh. No girl, no badge, no gun. But it gets worse.”
Josh’s ID would have been taken away with his gun when he was suspended. “What have you done to him?” I repeat.
The balaclava moves with the killer’s grin. “It’s terrible when an FBI agent goes bad, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “First it was Sally-Anne in Arizona, then those other poor women. Michigan, Chicago, D.C. and even his coworker. Sorry, two coworkers.”
“You bastard.” I struggle against my restraints. “The Bureau will realize you’re framing Josh.”
“You think? Even after they find your body and Josh’s DNA at the scene of the crime.”
“Josh will find out who you are!”
“How? He’s cut off from the FBI, a disgraced agent. No one wants to help him. They just need someone to pin Sam’s death on.”
“You fucking bastard. You’ve been framing him all this time.”
He laughs. “He had everything. I had nothing.”
I start to cry.
He looks at me and what I can see of his face changes. He smiles a more genuine, sympathetic smile. He reaches out and strokes my hair.
“There, there, darling. It’s just the two of us now. I’ve got the one thing Josh wants the most. You. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you.”
“Who are you? Who are you, you freak!”
He pulls his head back and stands upright. “Temper, temper.” His eyes follow the length of my body, from my toes to my head.
His eyes are cold, dead.
He stares at my stomach. “I loved it when Detective Carter came to D.C. Josh was so jealous. It was about time he suffered.” He puts a hand on either side of my waist and leans over me. “What a loser.”
He stands back up again, moves to the end of the gurney and places his hand on my foot. I cringe at his touch and move my foot.
“Never, never do that again!” he screams. “You like it when I touch you!”
He puts his hand back on my foot and I play along, resisting the urge to shrink from his repulsive touch. There’s no point anyway. I can’t get away. Not yet. His fingers move up and he runs them along my leg up to my hip. I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. He does a small circle on my hip before continuing his journey. His hand passes over my waist and finally comes to rest on my head.
“I thought you were different, special. You must be if Josh wants you so bad.” His stroke becomes harder and he pulls his fingers through my hair. I wince in pain and my eyes water.
He’s oblivious. “But you’re no different from the rest.” He pulls my hair harder and then reaches for the tray of instruments.
“You’re a slut!” He pauses, casting his eyes over the choice of knives. “Josh and Carter?”
I brace myself.
The cold point of a knife touches the top of my inner thigh. Then he pushes and the coldness turns into burning pain. I scream. The knife keeps digging into my flesh and I feel blood trickle down my leg. He withdraws the blade.
I think fast. “I don’t clot. I’ve got a blood disorder.”
“Really? We’ll see about that.” He returns the knife to one end of the cut and pushes down, lengthening the incision.
I scream. The pain is almost unbearable. I concentrate on not passing out. The knife is sexual for him—penetration—and I’d rather the knife than any part of him.
I watch his hand…his hand. “You’re not left-handed,” I say.
“Very good. Aren’t you a clever girl.” He pulls the two sides of the wound apart and I scream in pain once again. Now blood surges down the side of my leg. Everything goes a little hazy. I’m about to pass out.
“Your blood looks normal to me, Sophie. Nice try, though.” He puts the bloody knife back on the tray. He stands silently, looking at the wall for a few seconds, then he turns back to me. “Don’t ever lie to me again!”
What am I going to do? Think. Think.
He tears off a piece of paper towel and picks up the knife. He slowly wipes the knife clean, all the while focusing on the blade. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I want to be kind to you, even though you don’t deserve it.” He throws the paper towel into the bin and places the knife back on the tray. He positions it so it’s exactly centered. “Carter was a mistake is all.”
The faint feeling eases. “Nothing happened with Carter, I swear.” I hope to diffuse his anger.
“Really?” He leans in to my face again.
“I promise. Absolutely nothing.” I fight the pain.
He moves over to the cabinet and grabs a bandage. He applies the tourniquet. Good, it’ll stop the bleeding.
“Nothing happened with Carter,” I repeat.
He grunts and leaves the room.
There’s got to be a way out. There has to be. I’m not going to die. Not at the hands of this son of a bitch. I move my restraints, testing the give again. There’s not much. Not enough to slip my hands through. Next I try my legs again. I can still only move my legs and arms about half an inch in any direction. Okay, what about the task force? This guy must be on our list. They’ll question him soon enough. And maybe someone else will work out the significance of the body positioning and where all the victims are looking toward. Surely Darren will notice the map’s missing from the dining-room table.
I start to cry. “No,” I whisper, defeat taking over. Sam’s dead. And I’m next. I bite my lip. I can’t cry. He kills them when they break. I push the tears away. I don’t know what to do. There must be a way ou
t. I can’t accept that this is how I’m going to die. I can’t. The tears start again, but I fight them back. I think about my parents. I want to be at home, sitting in front of the fire with Mom and Dad. I don’t want to die.
I steady my breath. I need to focus. My restraints…I need to keep working on the rope. I start with my hands. I need my hands free. I wriggle and twist my wrists around. I pull against the rope. I keep this up for about ten minutes and then stop. The rope burns have become almost unbearable. I need to rest. I need to get my strength back and think of a way out. But my escape plans will have to wait…the grogginess finally takes over and I pass out.
I wake up with a start, disorientated. Then I realize where I am. I’ve got no idea how much time has passed. An hour? A day? The door creaks open.
“Oh, thank God.” I lift my head up. “You found me.”
I knew the Bureau would be on to this guy and find me. It was just a matter of how long it would take them. Thank God they found me in time.
Marty reaches over me, going for my arm ropes. But his reach falls short and his hand rests on my face.
“I never lost you.”
It can’t be.
“No. No,” I say. Not Marty. I close my eyes, not wanting to look at his face. I’m still in the killer’s hands.
But it all makes sense. The perfect crime scenes, the knowledge of the cases. His relationship with Josh. And if he ever left DNA or other trace evidence at a crime scene, he’d be able to get rid of it after the fact, during the investigation. I think about Sam’s profile. The age and race are right, the occupation, marital status, his current living situation, education level…I mentally cross the items off, one by one.
“You’re surprised.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I hide my anger, only letting him see my shock.
“Surprised at how clever I am.”
“No. I always knew you were clever.” I play to his ego.
He smiles. “I sent them all off in the wrong direction.”
“But you’re not left-handed,” I say, still trying to put the pieces together.
