Heaven's Prey

by Janet Sketchley

  She shrank against the door, waiting for the blow that didn’t come.

  Her captor spat a curse and started the car forward again. Ruth wilted into her seat, her heart thudding hard enough to shake her body.

  “Shut up, and enjoy the ride,” he snarled. “I’m breaking new ground with you. Get me angry, and who knows what I’ll dream up?”

  His words were ice daggers, thrust hard to pierce her spirit. He didn’t look her way, but he had to know they’d found their mark.

  Why hadn’t she fled when he stopped the car? If she jumped now, even at this slow speed, she’d likely turn her ankle or something. No, she’d need her full strength to lose him in the forest.

  He appeared engrossed in keeping the car tires in the narrow, mud-slicked ruts in the road. A few more twists and turns, and the trees opened into a small clearing. The parking lights did little more than accentuate the night’s darkness, but as Harry eased forward Ruth made out the faint shapes of a cottage and an outbuilding.

  Harry stopped in front of the smaller building. “Don’t even think about running.” He pulled a heavy-duty flashlight from under his seat. “I’m faster than you, and I’ve got the light.”

  Pocketing the keys, he ran through the rain toward the double doors. Tears stung Ruth’s eyes, and her lips quivered on the verge of a wail. If only he’d left the keys in the ignition. She could have driven away—could have run him down—could have done something.

  She opened the door and sprinted across wet grass for the nearest trees. Why did he have to have a flashlight? Couldn’t she catch a break at all?

  Feet thudded behind her, and his fierce grip on her wrist spun her around. “Try screaming next, why don’t you? The squirrels won’t care. Get this through your head. You are mine, and there is no way out.”

  Ruth mashed her knuckles against her mouth. If she let herself scream now, she’d never stop.

  Muttering a stream of curses, Harry forced her back to the car and shoved her into her seat. “Make me chase you again and you won’t be able to walk. I’ll still get what I want from you.” He slammed the door and dashed around to the driver’s side. Behind the wheel, he restarted the car and inched it forward into the garage.

  “All right, sweetheart, this is the end of the line. Let’s go.”

  Sweetheart. “My name is Ruth,” she snapped.

  She might as well not have spoken. Harry switched on the flashlight again and exited the car. “Come on.”

  Ruth pulled her purse from the back seat and forced herself to stand. Harry seized her hand and pulled her toward the door. They brushed past rakes and shovels hanging on the wall, sidestepped a coiled extension cord in the corner, and emerged into the rain.

  Harry shut the doors and snapped the padlock one-handed. He dragged Ruth toward the cottage. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, and she nearly went down. A sharp tug on her arm kept her on her feet. Pain rocketed through her shoulder.

  He ignored the doors and circled to a rear window that rose easily at his touch.

  “In you go.”

  Rough hands shoved her through the opening. Harry climbed in before she stood. The flashlight’s beam lit the gun in his other hand. “Don’t try anything.”

  He shut the window and pulled the curtains together, then aimed the light around the room. All the windows were covered. He flicked a switch, and a circle of fluorescent light snapped to life on the ceiling.

  Ruth blinked in the sudden brightness. They stood in a small, functional kitchen painted a cheerful yellow. Bright copper pots hung along one wall. If she could get her hands on one of those, or a knife from the block on the counter—but he had the gun.

  He held out his hand. “Your purse.”

  “What?” Instinctively, she clutched the shoulder bag tighter to her side.

  “Mace, stupid. Or whatever else women carry that could be used as a weapon.” His leer stole her breath. “You know I’m not after your money. What I want matters more to you than that.”

  Holding her purse by one corner of the soft leather, she passed it over. Harry’s hand covered hers, squeezing her fingers enough to make her struggle. When he let her pull away, he tossed the bag on top of the fridge.

  “Get out of that coat.”

  Ruth’s trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons. She draped the wet coat over a chair, careful to put the table between herself and Harry.

  The sudden curl of his narrow lips showed he recognized the gesture. “Boots too. I don’t want to be stepping in your puddles.”

  She wished he’d slip and crack his head. No boots made it that much harder to escape. But she’d run anyway. Just give her the chance. As slowly as she could, Ruth slid her feet out of her boots. She set them where she could grab them on the way out the door. Please, Lord.

  Harry slapped the table. “Come on. Let’s explore our love nest.”

  Cold washed her, locked her joints. She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t pray. Couldn’t beg for mercy.

  Harry’s mocking smile widened. He caught her hand and pulled her through the open doorway.

  Ruth shuffled after him. She was having trouble thinking, sorting this out. It couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be here, not with Harry Silver of all people. Not the next to die.

  Panic closed her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Please, God.

  In the light spilling behind them from the kitchen, Ruth saw a room that would be cozy under other circumstances. A brown plaid couch and chair nestled on a thick beige rug in the centre of the space, in front of a wide-screen television. The silhouettes of logs lay waiting in the fireplace.

  Something sour and squishy flopped in her stomach. This cottage was so homey inside, the sort of place she and Tony talked about buying. Now they’d never have the chance. She blinked hard against fresh tears.

  The chill from the hardwood floor seeped through Ruth’s socks as Harry led her to the nearest window. He adjusted the curtains, then circled back past the furniture toward the dark rectangles of doorways. Ruth’s leg bumped against the rocking chair as they passed, knocking the soft bulk of a folded afghan to the floor.

  The flashlight beam showed covered windows in both tiny bedrooms, too. Colourful quilts covered each bed. Ruth recognized a log cabin design on one quilt and a variation on the tumbling blocks pattern on the other. Harry pulled her into the second bedroom. He dropped the flashlight on the bed and yanked the phone cord from the wall. Ruth brushed her fingertips against the quilt, desperate for a bit of comfort.

  Harry splintered the handset against the metal bed frame.

  Ruth flinched.

  “I can break bones, too.” His fingers dug into her arm as he dragged her back to the living room.

  After he disabled the phone beside the couch, he flashed his light inside the bathroom. “No window. All right, potty break. You’ve got two minutes.”

  Ruth fled through the door and snapped the lock behind her. She leaned against the illusion of safety, forcing herself to count another ten deep breaths.

  Once she eased the pain in her bladder, she opened the cupboards under the sink. Please, God, I need some kind of weapon. Toilet cleaner, disposable razors—could she take the blade out somehow? Soap, toilet paper. There in the back—a can of air freshener.

  Clutching the cool metal cylinder, she popped the cover as silently as she could. Hadn’t she heard something about lighters and aerosol spray? She felt along the shelf above the toilet. Nothing. Not even a matchbook tucked into the medicine chest. Definitely not a candle-lover’s bathroom.

  Harry banged on the door, and she jumped. “Time’s up. Are you coming out, or do you want me to come in?”

  “Just a second.” Ruth held the spray can behind her back, ready to surprise him. She’d only get one shot at this. Her left hand reached for the doorknob.

  Help me, Lord!

  Chapter 6

  Heart pounding, Ruth opened the bathroom door. Her captor stood out of reach, a mocking smile on h
is unshaven face. He raised a beer bottle in casual salute. “Most thoughtful hosts we have. Look what I found in the fridge.”

  Ruth launched toward him, whipping the aerosol can to point at his face. Her finger jabbed the spray button.

  One-handed he knocked her improvised weapon aside and clamped her wrist. He spat a string of curses, his grip tightening with each one.

  Her free hand clawed at his fingers. She kicked out blindly. He twisted her arm down. She fought for balance.

  His beer crashed to the floor and he wrenched her upright. The vice on her wrist forced the can up to her own face, and his other hand twisted into her hair and pulled tight.

  Pain flared in her scalp, and she couldn’t stop the tears. She fought to turn the spray can, to kick him, to get away.

  He yanked harder on her hair. “So that’s how you want to play it, huh?”

  His fingers jumped to cover hers on the can. The spray hit full in her face. Ruth screwed her eyes shut and stopped her lungs. She raised her free hand to block the stream. Her nostrils burned and her chest heaved.

  Suddenly it ended. He kept hold of her hair, but she felt the rest of him pull back. She risked a peek through her fingers, eyes burning.

  Harry held her at arm’s length. He dropped the can and fanned in front of his own face. “Empty.” He gave her hair a vicious twist and let go. As he stepped back his eyes bored through the haze in hers. “Don’t mess with me.”

  She tried to breathe through her sleeve, then scrubbed her face with it, blotting her streaming eyes and nose. What did he expect her to do, surrender without a fight?

  Harry retrieved his beer. “Good thing I’d almost emptied this or you’d be cleaning.”

  He jerked his head toward the living room. “Over here. I want to see if we made the news yet.” He flopped onto the couch and picked up the television remote.

  Ruth perched in the rocking chair, keeping as much distance between them as she could. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and tried to clear her nose.

  The television clicked on, revealing a partially clad couple locked in a passionate embrace. Ruth’s stomach churned. She threw a terrified glance at Harry.

  His hard, blue eyes bored into hers. A wild light flared in their depths. “Now, that’s more like it,” he drawled, sitting up and leaning toward her.

  Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. If he wanted her to be afraid, she must somehow conquer her fear. Father, please let me know You’re here with me. Help me draw courage from You.

  She opened her eyes. Harry leaned back on the couch, one foot on the coffee table. He was still watching her, but he seemed farther away now, as if an invisible wall stood between them. She met his gaze without flinching. The fear had dimmed, even though the danger remained.

  He snorted and aimed the remote at the television. Munching one of the sandwiches he’d taken from the store, he clicked through a string of late night movies, sports, and international news coverage. There was no local news. He switched off the TV and dropped the remote onto the couch beside him.

  Ruth glanced at the clock over the fireplace. Quarter past midnight. What was Tony doing now? Lorna and Alden would be on their way, stunned as they relived the pain of losing their daughter to Silver. They would still be en route, even if he’d phoned right away. Did he at least have someone with him for support, or was he facing this ordeal alone? Father, let him feel You near him.

  Her captor rose. He stretched his arms in the air, then brought his hands together overhead and cracked his knuckles, watching her. His lips drew back, exposing his teeth in a wicked smile. The hypnotic intensity of his stare pinned her.

  He snatched her hand, and she went rigid. He turned it over, forcing her fingers open, and pressed his lips into her palm. His chin whiskers bit into her tender skin. When he looked at her, the blue light in his eyes froze the breath in her lungs.

  “Come on, sweetheart, time for bed.” His hand tightened on hers. Before she could pull away, she was on her feet and in his arms.

  Ruth’s heart lurched against her ribs. She fought to breathe. A feral, growling sound vibrated in her captor’s throat. She shoved hard against his chest, but his hold was a band of iron.

  His mouth brushed her ear. “The fear will win. It always does. There’s no way out for you.”

  Ruth drove her shoeless heel down on his instep. He pulled her tight against his body, too close for an upwards jerk of her knee. His fingers wound into her hair again, snapping her head back. “You don’t learn, do you? Try to hurt me, and I’ll hurt you ten times worse. And that’s just to warm up.”

  She read the promise of death in his eyes, inches from her own. But Harry Silver never killed quickly or cleanly. She couldn’t squelch a whimper.

  He licked his lips, grinned, and propelled her backwards. Ruth’s leg banged the side of the sofa, and she anchored her foot underneath it. He jerked against the extra weight, and the heavy piece of furniture scraped across the floor. Pain shot through her leg. Another jerk and her foot slid free.

  Screaming, she kicked at the doorframe as Harry pushed her into one of the bedrooms, but he only laughed and held her tighter. He slammed the door behind them with his foot, picked her up, and threw her onto the bed.

  Ruth scrambled into a sitting position and inched away from him, her eyes fixed on his face. Her heart jackhammered against her ears. She clamped her lips together, fighting a sudden need to vomit.

  Harry ran a rough hand down the side of her face, then pressed a finger against her lips. “I told you.”

  He picked up the telephone cord he’d left on the floor and stretched it taut between his fists.

  Ruth shrank against the bed, shaking. She had no words, to plead or to pray. No tears. She barely had breath.

  Harry grabbed her shoulder, pushed her face-first into the soft quilt, and pinned her wrists together behind her back. He yanked the cord tight around her hands and feet, and dropped her onto the rug beside the bed.

  He walked out, and Ruth heard him moving around in the bathroom. Then he was back, and the door banged shut.

  Her breath froze, but he ignored her and walked to the far side of the bed. She lay on her side facing it, numbly watching his feet as he pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor. The bed creaked as he climbed in. Then silence. Ruth’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.

  The bed creaked again. He poked his head over the side and flashed a mocking smile. “Not tonight. I’m tired from the drive, and you stink of aerosol. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tomorrow. Dream of me.” He winked conspiratorially and turned off the bedside light.

  In the darkness, Ruth bit her tongue to keep silent. Her stomach quivered with fear, but anger brewed there, too. Sadistic jerk.

  She’d known he was cruel. The news reports’ graphic descriptions of the state of his victims’ bodies, and their speculation about his actions, had sickened her. Her imagination threw them back at her now at the memory of what she’d seen on his face, heard in his voice. Naked evil.

  Horror gripped her, rattled her limp body like a wolf might shake a rabbit. She swallowed hard. It took every shred of willpower to keep from dwelling on the fear, but she couldn’t let it gain control. Terror and madness would destroy her before Harry had the chance to try.

  She had only one hope, one anchor against the rising tide of fear. But even prayer took a conscious act of will, a deliberate choice—to believe God heard her through the haze of dread that made the very air feel heavy.

  Ruth screwed her eyes shut, determined to focus, to string one silent word after another. She prayed for Tony, for Lorna and Alden and her nephew Ian, for her friend Norma, for the blond cashier at the store. Finally, for Harry Silver.

  Praying for a man locked in prison halfway across the country had been safe, but praying for a killer lying close enough to touch her was just plain crazy. Ruth’s skin crawled with millions of invisible, icy feet. This couldn’t be happening. Any minute she’d wake at home in bed beside
Tony.

  Tears leaked from her eyes. The way she lay on her side, her upper eye made a hot puddle on the bridge of her nose until the tears slipped over the side. She tried to keep her breathing steady so Harry wouldn’t hear. God, please help me.

  ~~~

  Ruth awoke to the hiss of a shower turning on in the next room. For a moment, she wondered why her body hurt. This wasn’t a firm mattress—she was on the floor. A chill of dread swelled in her stomach as she recalled the previous night.

  She’d lain waiting for Harry’s breathing to say he was out, so she could try to escape. How could she have slept?

  Now she strained against the cord that bound her hands behind her back. Her hands and feet were numb from being tied so long. The unyielding cord bit into her wrists. This would never work.

  Maybe she didn’t have to get loose. She rolled onto her stomach and tried to draw her knees under her body. Fibers from the plush rug irritated her eyes and nose. This wasn’t working either. Think. Back onto her side, pull the knees up, then roll. Sweating, grinding her face and shoulder into the rug, she pushed herself to her knees.

  She gulped clean air and used the bed as a support to get to her feet. At least he’d left enough slack that she could stand. Fire ringed her ankles. Below them, her feet were dead. How would she ever stay upright, let alone hop to safety?

  The sound of running water stopped, and she heard Harry whistling. Out of time. Her first hop shifted the rug beneath her, and she fell against the bed. There was the buzz of an electric razor from the bathroom, then silence.

  Ruth wiped hot tears on the side of the quilt and lowered herself to the floor. Better if Harry didn’t know she’d tried. Lord, please give me another chance. When the bedroom door clicked open, she closed her eyes. She heard her captor opening and shutting bureau drawers. He gave a low, satisfied grunt.

  Moments later, she felt his eyes on her. She tried to take slow, regular breaths, defying her heart’s frantic pace.

  “Don’t bother faking. I know you’re awake.” He squatted beside her, his fingers pulling at the knots that held her ankles. Then he grasped her wrists and rolled her onto her stomach. Rug fibers teased her nostrils, and she fought to control a sneeze.