by Jana DeLeon
Now he wished he would have paid more attention to all their “manly” endeavors. If he had, he might already be out of this building and on his way to the police. Maybe if he’d been stronger, he wouldn’t be here at all. He still wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but he’d bet someone big and strong could have gotten away.
He grabbed the splinter on the top of his finger and closed his eyes, counting. When he reached three he pulled as hard as he could, screaming as the piece of wood ripped through his tender flesh and finally popped out. He flung the splinter across the shed and wrapped his T-shirt around the finger, squeezing it to stop the bleeding. He could feel it throbbing, and pain shot through his hand and up his arm like tiny bursts of lightning. He rocked back and forth and recited the lyrics to an old folk song his mother used to sing to him until the shooting pain began to subside. It still hurt and if he didn’t get out of here soon, it would likely become infected, which was a bigger worry than the pain.
Another problem was his energy level. He had no idea how long he’d been missing but he knew it was way too long to go without eating. Yesterday, his stomach had rumbled and growled for a while, but it had finally given up. The longer he’d dug, the more tired he’d become until he’d finally fallen asleep while digging. Just slumped over onto the ground and crashed from exhaustion. It had been dark outside when he’d fallen asleep and it was light when he woke up, so he assumed he’d slept for several hours. That scared the heck out of him. What if his abductor had returned while he was asleep? The worst part was he didn’t feel like the sleep had done him any good. His entire body ached and his head was foggy, like he felt last year when he’d had a horrible flu.
He studied the hole, wondering if it was wide enough yet. It looked deep enough to fit his body if he turned his head to the side, but he wasn’t sure if his shoulders would fit the gap. If it was close, maybe he could put his arms over his head and angle them through a little at a time. It was going to be tight no matter what, and he’d probably be scraped up and down if he managed to get through it, but scrapes would heal. Death wasn’t something peroxide and Neosporin could repair.
He decided it would be easier if he lay on his back and scooted out that way than attempting a stomach crawl, so he moved in front of the hole and turned around, then lay down. He stuck his arms through the hole and inched forward until his head was right up to the wall. He lowered his head into the hole, then braced his hands on the side of the shed, pushing himself forward with his hands and feet. The uneven boards cut into his scalp and cheek as he inched under them, and he winced but managed to remain silent. His cry earlier hadn’t brought anyone to the shed, but he needed to remain quiet, just in case the killer came back.
His jaw hung a bit on the wood and he closed his eyes, then gave his body one big shove to force it through the opening. He felt the skin on his chin rip, and a warm trickle of blood ran down his face and onto his neck. He turned his head up to see his surroundings and realized he was in the middle of a swamp. The foliage and trees were common in undeveloped areas, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear lapping against a bank.
That meant the killer could access him on foot and probably by boat. Maybe by car. He couldn’t see a road from where he lay but it was possible there was one around another side of the shed. He inched forward again, pressing his shoulders against the opening, but it was just a tiny bit too small for them to fit through straight. He twisted his shoulders so that the right arm was higher than the left arm and pushed through at an angle. The splintered wood tore his shirt and he felt the shards pierce the tender skin under his arm, but it was working. His right shoulder popped free of the shed and he wrestled his left shoulder through the opening.
He lay there for several seconds, trying to get his breath. The amount of exertion required was so far beyond what he thought it should have taken, but then his body had started giving out a long time ago, and his muscles were so knotted he wasn’t sure what it would take to get them loose again. He would have loved to take more time to recuperate, but the urgency he felt to get away from the shed completely overrode the pain and weariness. There would be plenty of time to rest later. Preferably when he was sitting in a police station surrounded by armed officers.
He took in one last breath and blew it out, then he placed his hands against the shed and pushed while digging his heels into the ground to propel him forward. Inch by inch, he forced the rest of his body through the hole.
When his feet popped out, he heard the car.
He jumped up from the ground and staggered as his weak legs attempted to gain hold, clutching the side of the shed to get his balance. Once he was steady, he crept up to the side of the shed and peered around.
A dirt road led up to the shed. It was covered with weeds, but tire tracks in the mud indicated that a car had recently been there. The sound of the engine nearby was proof that one was close now. He hurried to the other side of the shed and peered around, but all he saw was swamp. He couldn’t stay here. As soon as the killer saw he was gone, he’d come after him, maybe with a gun. Ethan wasn’t all that great of a runner and he definitely couldn’t outrun a bullet. Given his knotted muscles and weakened condition, he probably couldn’t outrun a toddler.
He had to do everything possible to stay out of sight.
He half ran, half limped into the swamp on the side of the shed, heading toward the water. If he was lucky, he’d find a boat to use or some fishermen passing by. No matter, it was better than standing here and waiting for the inevitable. He was about twenty yards into the dense brush when he stopped. Maybe he should stay long enough to get a glimpse of his abductor. What good was he to the police if he couldn’t even describe the man who took him? If the police couldn’t catch the guy, then he’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder…suspecting everyone.
Damn it.
Logic told him one thing and survival instinct told him another.
Praying that he wasn’t making the wrong decision, he turned around and headed back toward the shed.
15
Shaye helped Tara carry the bags of groceries up to her dorm room and waited as she placed the cool things in her small refrigerator. Space limitations prevented them from buying a lot, but what she had would easily cover Tara for three days. Perhaps not in the variety arena, but she had plenty of protein and enough calories to sustain her. A bag of chocolates would probably help areas of stress and general boredom.
When Tara finished unloading the groceries, she sank onto her bed. She’d been quiet while they shopped and on the ride back to the dorm. Shaye knew Tara had a lot to process, both with what had already happened and with what could potentially happen.
“Did she suffer?” Tara asked quietly. “Brenda? I figure they told you how she died when I left.”
“Yes. She did.” Shaye wouldn’t lie to Tara but she had zero intention of giving her details.
Tara swallowed. “I think he must want them to, you know? I mean, why lock that girl in a coffin? He could have just shot her or stabbed her or hit her on the head with a shovel and it would have been over quickly. But he doesn’t want that, does he?”
“His method does imply something personal.”
“So they all knew him? Know him?” Her face twisted in anguish. “I wish we knew if Ethan was alive.”
“We have to remain positive and working. Your part is staying safe and watching and listening to the people around you very carefully.”
“You do think it was someone they knew.”
“Maybe. Or it’s someone who chose them because they remind him of the people he seeks revenge against for whatever slight, real or imagined.”
Tara frowned. “Wouldn’t you be able to see it? Someone walking around with all that hate…wouldn’t they look different?”
“I think some people are unable to hide the darkness inside them, and it shows through their disdain for other people and their treatment of those around them. But others are very clever.
They move through life appearing as everyone else does, just waiting for their opportunity to strike.”
“Like when they have us all fooled and we’re sitting ducks.”
“In some cases, yes. In this case, it remains to be seen. But even if this person is a stranger to his victims, I’d still ask the same things of you. Your classmates might have seen or heard something that is relevant and probably wouldn’t even know it. But I believe if you hear or see something that doesn’t fit, you’ll realize it right away. And then I want you to contact me.”
“I guess that could happen.”
“Trust your instincts, Tara. You sensed the danger at the library, even before he made you aware of his presence. Those instincts will not only keep you safe, they might provide the one thing that breaks all of this wide open.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped and her hair lying limp against her pale face, Tara didn’t look like anyone’s savior. But Shaye knew better than anyone what people were capable of when they paid attention to the voices in their head and the feeling in their gut.
“Thank you,” Tara said, “for everything. The police wouldn’t have believed me without you.”
“The right policemen would have. All I did was get you in front of someone smart enough to pay attention.”
“They’re going to find this guy, right?” Tara asked hopefully.
“They’re going to do everything they can to. I promise you that. Detectives Grayson and Lamotte are two of the best New Orleans has. If anyone can catch this guy, they can.”
Tara glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at Shaye. “Is he your boyfriend? Detective Lamotte?”
“He’s a friend for now.”
Tara gave her a shy smile. “And later?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”
“I think I’ve already seen. I know everyone thinks we’re all still kids and can’t possibly know about real love and all, but I saw the way he looked at you. He’d do anything for you.”
“He already has.”
Ethan crept up to the tree line and crouched down behind a group of bushes. He pushed the branches to the side and peered through the foliage at the dirt road that led to the shed. He’d just stay long enough to see who was driving the car, then he’d take off out of here as fast as his legs would carry him. He hoped his decision to get a glimpse of his captor wouldn’t be the dumbest thing he’d ever done.
The car emerged from the trees, moving slowly on the narrow, bumpy path. It was an old silver Toyota Camry with rust spots. He had a feeling that he’d seen it before, but couldn’t associate it with an individual. As the car swung left toward the shed, Ethan stared at the windshield, but the setting sun created a glare on the glass that prevented him from seeing inside the car. He rose up a bit, wavering between cutting his losses now and running, and waiting for the driver to emerge. Every second he waited was one second more advantage to his captor.
He started to take off but then the car door opened. Another second wasn’t going to make a difference at this point, so he remained in place. The figure emerged, facing away from him. All Ethan could gauge was approximate height and build and the color of his hair. But none of those things brought on recognition.
Then he turned around and Ethan sucked in a breath.
How could it be? Why him? And what in the world did he have against Ethan?
He lingered only a second more before hurrying into the swamp. He had to find help. A house or fishermen…someone with a phone. If someone had already received a text about him, then that meant the next victim was already on the hook. He had to get to the police before someone else disappeared.
When he reached the bayou, he drew up short, almost sliding over the edge and into the water as his feet connected with the loose dirt on the embankment. He scanned the area, looking for any sign of life, but the water was devoid of boats and the bank on the other side only contained thick foliage and tall groups of cypress trees. He looked back and listened for any sound that he was being followed, but so far, he appeared to be in the clear. Still, it wouldn’t be long. No way was he going to be allowed to just walk away.
He studied the bayou for several seconds, wondering how deep it was. Probably too deep to wade across, and that might present a problem giving how swift the current was. Ethan could swim just fine, when the muscles in his arms and legs weren’t in knots and he wasn’t completely spent on energy. Still, he wouldn’t leave any signs of passage in the water. Maybe he could get in and float, letting the current carry him downstream for a while, then get out on the other side and follow the bayou until it led to someone.
He bent down and grabbed a cypress root to help him down the embankment. It was only a ten-foot drop, but something could be submerged in the murky water, so jumping in wasn’t a good idea. A slow lowering was the safest approach. With a good grip on the root, he turned around and began to lower one leg down the embankment, trying to find another root to place his foot on.
The first bullet tore right by his head, grazing his scalp just above his right ear. He released the root to grab his head and immediately lost his balance. He pitched backward into the water, his back slamming onto the moving surface and sending shock waves through his body. He sank immediately and began to swim, clawing his way back up to the surface.
The second bullet hit the water right beside him and he dived back under, swimming as quickly as he could to get away. When he thought his lungs would burst, he surfaced again, gasping for air. He couldn’t hear footsteps over the current, but a third bullet striking the bank behind him told him everything he needed to know. He dived again, this time swimming for the opposite bank. There was a spot with a gradual slope that led into the bayou. If he could make it up that slope and into the swamp beyond, then he might have a chance.
He swam at an angle, praying the current wasn’t carrying him too far downstream and pushing his arms and legs until he wanted to scream at the pain. His chest burned and he could feel his pulse beating in his throat. When he didn’t think he could take another second, he burst onto the surface.
And right in front of an enormous alligator.
He choked back a cry and tried to dodge to the right of the floating beast but it was too late. The gator lunged and grabbed hold of his left arm with its powerful jaws. Ethan screamed as the gator pulled his shoulder from the socket and a second later, he was back underwater, rolling under the surface over and over again.
His last thought before he blacked out was that he wished he would have told Tara how he felt.
Jackson headed into the lab, Grayson right on his heels. The call had come only seconds before and they’d rushed upstairs to see what the scientists had discovered. The lead forensics tech waved them behind the glass wall that separated the work area from the office area, and they headed around to where he stood next to a computer on a table.
The tech nodded to each of them and immediately started talking. “I had my team run a comparison on the DNA obtained from the St. Claire and Olivier cases. We still haven’t finished processing all the evidence from the scenes, but once we excluded law enforcement personnel, we found common DNA between the two.”
“Did you run it?” Grayson asked.
“Unfortunately, there was no match,” the tech said.
“Sex?” Jackson asked.
“Male. We ran the matching DNA for familial results but came up negative there as well.”
“It was a long shot that we’d get a match,” Grayson said, “but it was definitely worth it.”
The tech nodded. “Because of the match in the first two cases and because of the matching method of death used in the Lewis case, I’ve moved evidence from that case up in priority. We’re running each piece as they’re prepared rather than waiting to run them all at one time. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
“Thank you,” Grayson said. “We appreciate you making this a priority.”
�
�The last thing this city needs is another serial killer on the loose,” the tech said.
Jackson and Grayson headed out of the forensics department and down the hall.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Grayson muttered. “This summer, this city was rocked by some of the most horrible crimes in the history of the state. The police department was left practically in ruin, everyone pointing fingers at each other or afraid to say anything at all. Things were just starting to settle down a little and now this.”
“Right when the Archers return home.”
“No one is blaming them,” Grayson said. “Besides, Ross St. Claire and Amber Olivier were killed before the Archers set foot back on American soil.”
“I know that, but you know it won’t matter. When it gets out that we’ve got another serial killer in New Orleans, and that Shaye is involved on any level, nothing else will matter but that.”
Grayson sighed as they stepped onto the elevator. “I would like to say that I wish she’d chosen a different profession, or no profession at all, but the truth is she’s really good at it.”
Jackson nodded, pleased that Grayson felt that way. Their conversation earlier had really helped clear the air between them, and the tension that had been present before was all but gone now. For the first time in months, Jackson felt he and Grayson could get back into their groove again and make a difference.
“And most of the people she helps have already been turned away by the police,” Jackson said, “or would be and know it. Nor do most of them have the ability to pay for the services she’s providing, and I’d bet anything she’s not taking anything from them.”
“Which she can do because she doesn’t need the money. A regular superhero.”
Jackson grinned. “I called her Batman, but she argued the description because she doesn’t have the cool car.”
