Queen of Spades

by Kristi Belcamino

  Climbing to the fourth floor, Eva was glad for the first time that the Camdens had the tallest house on the beach. When she’d first moved in, she’d been irritated that another house could easily see into her third-floor bedroom. But after she met the couple, she felt better. They were elderly and harmless. The first time she’d been invited to their house, she’d done a little recon and found that this small study on the fourth floor offered the best views of her house. From here, one could see right into her master bath, but only a blank wall. The master bedroom wasn’t visible.

  She trained the binoculars on her house. She lowered them to get a view of the driveway. No cars. So far, so good. She could see the beginning of the gated driveway. The gate was closed. Police tape was strung across the front door, and other pieces of the yellow plastic hung across the doors to the back deck, the service room door, and the door to the garage. She was relieved to see they were unbroken. Anybody who might have forced their way inside would most likely have torn the plastic or at least stretched it out.

  Although it hadn’t been her first plan, Eva decided to first check inside her house and make sure the killer wasn’t already holed up inside. Then, once she cleared it and possibly set a few traps, she would retreat back to the Camden’s study where she’d wait for the killer to arrive. Once that happened, she’d break into her own home through a secret passageway accessible only from the beach level. The panel door looked like part of the wall. A small staircase led directly to her safe room. It would give her a chance to take the killer by surprise from inside the house. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it would have to do.

  As she crept out the Camden’s side door, she tucked her cell phone deep into her boot. As she walked past, Eva hoped that the Nelsons, in the house between, were gone for the day. Both parents worked, and the kids were in grade school, so unless something unusual was happening that day, the house would likely be empty.

  She gave a quick glance through the windows as she passed, but the house looked deserted. Once safe in the shadows under her own deck, she felt for the panel that triggered the secret door to open. She stepped inside the cool darkness and pushed the button for the panel door to close. Heart pounding, she waited in the dark and listened. She didn’t hear anything unusual, so she crept up the dark staircase.

  At the top, she felt the door to the safe room. She pressed her ear against the door and listened intently. She didn’t hear anything that alarmed her, so she pushed another button. The door slid open silently. Her safe room had been trashed and stripped. Bare wires hung everywhere, and the door to her closet was wide open. She quickly stepped to one side, taking her gun out of the holster. She angled herself against the wall, and listened. When she didn’t hear anything, she crept toward the opening and peered out. Most of her clothes had been torn from the hangers and lay in a pile on the floor of the closet. The walk-in closet door was open, showing a glimpse of the master bedroom. She waited, watching and listening, before stepping into her closet, her gun held before her. She kept her eyes trained on the doorway to the master bedroom, pressed herself to one side, and silently made her way forward. She crouched at the doorway and scanned the room before stepping inside, assuring it was empty.

  The covers had been torn off the large bed, and the mattress was askew. All her toiletries had been swept off the dresser onto the floor. Some perfume and cosmetic bottles had shattered, leaving an odd potpourri of both fresh and exotic scents in the air. A framed photograph of a street scene Matthew had taken during their trip to Cuba lay shredded on the floor by the bed. Clothing was dumped from drawers.

  But her focus was on the door to the hall. Keeping her back to one wall, she silently glided forward. Once she reached the doorway, she again crouched before sticking her head out briefly, scanning quickly, before jerking it back in. Nothing. She rose and, gun first, stepped into the hall. The master bedroom was at one end of the hall, so keeping her back to it, she padded toward the children’s rooms.

  As soon as she reached Alessandra’s doorway, she froze. Her heart thudded in her chest. Her mouth had grown dry and her legs weak. Her gun hand trembled. She closed her eyes for a second. She couldn’t do it. But she had to. Taking a breath, she gently pushed the door open and glanced inside. She could see immediately the room was clear, and the door to the adjoining bathroom was shut.

  Like the master bedroom, Alessandra’s room had been trashed. It seemed like way more destruction than what detectives investigating a homicide would leave behind. Why would they rip posters off the wall? It made Eva’s blood boil as she took in the scene: dresser drawers yanked out and dumped, items swept off the dresser onto the floor…. Swallowing hard, Eva knew she had to get away from the bedroom or she would collapse in grief and fury. When she peered in Lorenzo’s room, she saw the same. Again, she choked back her emotions. Later. Later she could think about how horrific it was to be in this house. Later in her prison cell.

  The upstairs bathrooms were also clear, as was Matthew’s study and the children’s playroom. A week ago, a massive table held Legos on one end and a half-completed puzzle of Europe on the other. Now, everything was scattered on the floor. An old-fashioned arcade game that once stood in a corner was upended, the screen cracked.

  Eva heard a slight sound and stepped back out of the room, gun before her, heart racing. But then she realized what the click was—an automatic timer that switched off the heater. She’d set it to turn the heat down when she was the only one home—after Matthew had gone to work and the children were at school.

  She’d wanted the home toasty on cold mornings while everybody got ready, but once she was home alone, she could simply pull on a sweater if she was chilly. Matthew had told her not to worry about it—they had more money than they could spend in ten lifetimes.

  But her frugal ways, stemming from growing up in a poor country—eating panzanella salad to use up stale bread, taking in her brother’s old pants so they would fit her, and reusing coffee grounds—were forever instilled in her. Even though her family was one of the richest in her country, frugality was part of the Sicilian DNA.

  That’s why the claim that she’d killed her family for the insurance money was so ludicrous. Absurd.

  She brushed that thought away and made her way down stairs. Her heart clenched when she saw the foyer where Matthew’s body had been. A dark stain had congealed.

  Good God! Nobody had cleaned up the blood. She leaned her head against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly dizzy with grief. But then she remembered her task—searching the house for a killer who might be lying in wait. She jerked her head upright and lifted the arm holding the gun.

  Her eyes flicked to what she could see of the first floor, which was most of it, since it had an open layout to assure that every room had a view of the bank of windows revealing blue sky and gray ocean.

  From the foyer, she could see a little bit into the family room. She’d save that for last and try to steel herself first. After searching all the other rooms on the downstairs level, she stepped toward the family room. As she got close to the large opening, she realized she’d be able to see most of it without actually stepping inside.

  Once she was close enough to see the entire room, she scanned it as quickly as she could, her eyes skimming over the blood on the floor and couch. Don’t go there. No. Not now. No.

  It was the last room. The house was clear.

  She stumbled to the stairs feeling sick and desperate. Her instinct was to get as far away from the first floor as possible. The horrors of that day kept flashing in her mind. Alessandra. Lorenzo. Matthew. Blood. Her entire life destroyed.

  She’d held it together for the past few days, but suddenly the devastation of losing everything she loved hit her at once.

  Before she realized it, she was in the master bedroom, breathing hard, disoriented and dizzy. She leaned against one wall, weak with grief, trying to stop from hyperventilating. Her arm with the gun dropped to her side. She squeezed her eyes
shut trying to get it together. Breathe, she told herself.

  A small sound, barely a whisper came from just inches away.

  She froze.

  Her eyes flicked open.

  A person in a rubber mask and rubber body suit stood before her holding a gun inches from her nose.

  Eighteen

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Before she could react in any way, the masked figure’s other arm came up out of nowhere and Eva felt a sharp prick in her neck.

  She flailed, but her body turned almost instantly to mush, sinking into the carpet. She tried to speak but only spluttered some saliva. Her mouth fell open like a fish sucking for air. Her vision whirled.

  The masked face peered down at her, multiplying and blurring. She was lifted up and placed on the bed. A gloved finger closed her eyes, and she lost the ability to open them again.

  She woke to someone holding up the back of her head and pressing the lip of a cup to her mouth. She drank greedily, trying to quench her cotton mouth and swollen tongue.

  Her arms and legs seemed paralyzed. Then she realized she could twitch them, but little else. As she gulped the rest of the water, her gaze landed on her captor. The eyes peering at her through the mask were unreadable. Black. Flat.

  Then the cup was gone and the hand behind her neck disappeared. Her head flopped down hard on the mattress making her blink. “Who are you?” the words came out garbled, thick on her tongue.

  She watched the figure stand and put the cup on the dresser next to a few gallon jugs of water. It was a man, she realized. Without a doubt. She could even see the groin area clearly through the rubber suit.

  “Who?” Her voice cracked. Her lips were suddenly dry again.

  The man turned his back to her and rummaged in a duffel bag. He tossed something pale her way that landed with a thud on her chest. It was followed by a beige furry thing that landed on top of it. She looked down and saw the fur was actually a wig. When she shifted, it slithered onto the bed, revealing the paler, slippery item. For a few seconds, she stared at it in disbelief before realizing what it was.

  A silicone mask. It looked female with pink pouty lips. With his back to her, the man stood in front of her dresser watching her in the mirror.

  “You bastard.” She spit the words out. They sounded like a croak. He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  Then she realized what he was doing. She could see it in the mirror—he was sharpening something. A dagger. One of hers.

  Fear spiked through her, but only momentarily.

  Whatever he had injected into her neck had knocked her out, but how long had it been? A few hours at least. It was dusk. A golden light seeped into the room. What would normally be a romantic, heart-lifting splash of color had transformed into something out of the most depraved nightmare.

  He hovered over the bed holding the dagger. With one fluid motion, he slit her shirt open from neck to waist. Using the blade, he flicked the scraps of fabric back off her chest and then sliced through the band of her bra. It snapped to the sides, exposing her breasts. His lips were wet in the slit revealing his mouth, and he sucked in air sharply at the sight.

  “Do it.” Her words were slurred from the drug. “Kill me.”

  He lifted his head slightly so his eyes were on her face. Then, barely perceptible, he slowly shook his head.

  Putting the dagger’s handle in his mouth, he climbed on top of her and reached down and yanked her pants down to her knees where they got stuck on her boots. She tried to squirm out from under him, but her muscles weren’t receiving the signal yet.

  “No!” she screamed.

  He cut her leggings off in pieces, leaving her naked with her boots still on.

  He rose back to straddle her hips and held the knife to her throat. She tried in vain to thrust her neck into the blade, but he easily jerked the knife back. The drug had dulled her reflexes and made it nearly impossible to even move. She paused. He wanted her alive. Well then... she would do everything in her power to die before it happened.

  He could have his way with a corpse.

  Starting at her collarbone, he drew the blade quickly and lightly down her chest. She felt warm, sticky blood ooze from a shallow cut.

  “Kill me.” She hissed the words. They were less slurred. The drug was wearing off. She found she could flex her ankle and did so gingerly, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was regaining her ability to move.

  She watched and waited until he dipped his head in concentration, bringing his head within range. She jerked her head smacking it into his nose but it was weak, ineffective. He grabbed a hunk of her hair, yanking it so fiercely she howled in pain and when he drew back he was holding a clump of her hair.

  She flailed and jerked. He reached over to the bedside table, and a second later she felt another needle jab in her neck. Her slight ability to move seeped instantly away.

  But this time she didn’t pass out. She watched as he took the blade to her again, making small marks across her abdomen. He was slowly and methodically torturing her.

  He took a smaller blade and stabbed her. A jab here and there. Although his face was masked, she could sense his glee. Over and over, he slipped the blade into her naked flesh but not deep enough to kill. She knew the pain would come. But right now, all was numb. Her head was clear but her body paralyzed.

  He sometimes held the blade aloft so she could see her blood dripping from it.

  “I will leave you alive, but I will make sure you never forget my visit.” It was the first time he had spoken. The Sicilian words fell out of his mouth. Why was his voice familiar?

  Her mind went on high alert. She tried to respond, but her mouth was useless. Instead, a small bit of drool formed in the corner of her lip. His voice was familiar. Her mind raced, trying to identify the dialect. Was it her own?

  Again and again she tried to move, waiting for the drug to wear off, but nothing happened. Her limbs remained useless.

  The only way she knew she was crying was that her vision had grown blurry, as if she were underwater. The tears pooled in her eyes before overflowing down her cheeks. She decided to close her eyes and act like she’d passed out or was sleeping. She wanted him to feel secure that she was no longer a threat. That way when the drug wore off, she could attack.

  After a while, he left her side and sat in the gold and green Victorian upholstered chair in the corner—the one she’d curl up in while she read. His legs were splayed out before him. He reached over to her dresser and took a sip of something out of a bottle.

  Eva watched him through slit eyes.

  But she breathed loudly and even tried to make it sound like she was snoring. She couldn’t tell for sure but it seemed like his head had tilted slightly to the side, as if he might have dozed off, as well. Good.

  The first indication that feeling was returning was an intense, searing, white-hot pain that dotted and sparked across her chest. All the stab wounds. The pain was excruciating. Slowly so he wouldn’t notice, she tried to flex her toes and fingers. Her ability to move was returning. She concentrated. She needed to channel that pain into pure rage. That would be the only thing that might save her. Soon, soon, she’d be able to move, and he would pay.

  After a few minutes, he leaped up and raced over to the bed. Inwardly, she braced for a blow from the dagger that would end her life, but instead he reached down to her wrist and felt for her pulse. It must have been weak because it seemingly worried him enough to press his head to her chest. She considered grabbing him and breaking his neck right then and there, but although she could move, her reflexes were probably still slower than usual, and her strength might be zapped. It was too dangerous. By the time he realized she could move again, she needed to be halfway out the door.

  Because right then, with her body bleeding out and her limbs so shaky and numb, she wasn’t confident she’d be able to stand up, let alone kill that son of a bitch.

  Seemingly satisfied that she was breath
ing, he lifted his head and scooted off the bed, peeling the rubber suit off and stepping out of it completely, leaving the rubber mask on. She watched him through her eyelashes. He flicked the bathroom light on, filling some of the bedroom with a dim light. The bed where she lay remained in shadow. He cast a glance back at the bed as he stood in front of the mirror above the dresser naked, his taut buttocks facing her. She watched and waited. Then he peeled off the rubber mask. It took everything she had to stifle her gasp.

  It was Nikos. From the school.

  He was not Greek. He was Sicilian. He’d only come to the school a year ago. That meant he’d lain in wait to torture her for an entire year.

  His eyes flickered over to the bed again and she squeezed her eyes shut tight. She could hear his footsteps padding toward the bathroom. Her blood pounded with excitement. Her muscles tensed, ready for flight. She heard him turn on the shower.

  Once he was in the shower, she could dart in and attack him before he even realized what was happening. Right now, with her wounds, she needed every advantage she could find. Her body tensed, waiting in anticipation.

  He stood naked in front of the shower door as steam started to pour into the room. She started to lift her head but froze when he glanced back into the room. She knew the sound of the water would muffle her movements, so, as soon as he stepped toward the shower, she leaned forward, reaching deep into her boot. She drew out the dagger. As her hand reached inside her boot, she felt her cell phone.

  She punched in Detective Collin’s number and threw the phone on the bed before rushing toward the bathroom.

  Holding the dagger before her, she saw the empty shower at the same time she felt the kick to her kidney. She collapsed onto the floor, turning as she fell to thrust the dagger toward him. She sliced at Nikos’s thigh, drawing blood and a scream of anguish. Blood began to gush, and she scrambled on all fours back toward the bedroom. She was nearly to the bed and phone when a hand twisted in her hair and yanked her head back. Nikos stood over her, naked, holding her gun.