by Debra Webb
Sarah stared at the victim’s wrists, then her hands. Those markings on her wrists could have been tape or rope burns. But how had the killer kept the victim’s arms out of the way while doing his or her evil work? There was nothing to tie her arms to on either side of her torso or above her head. Unless ropes had been stretched from the center of the chapel floor to the support beams at the sides of the structure. Sounded like a lot of extra effort to Sarah and why would the restraints have been removed before the crime-scene photos were taken?
Not standard protocol.
What were the other markings on her hands? The tops of Valerie’s hands appeared skinned or scraped. The tissue certainly looked torn. More patches of torn skin left a path up her forearms. All the way to the bends of her elbows.
Sarah studied the markings for a long while, and then she knew.
“Son of a bitch.”
She scrambled off the bed and pulled on her Converses.
Her theory couldn’t be confirmed without a copy of the autopsy and that wasn’t happening in the middle of the night. But there could be something at the scene.
All she had to do was remember how to get there.
◆◆◆
Sarah braked to a hard stop.
“Dammit.”
She’d passed it again.
After dragging the gearshift into reverse once more, she hit the accelerator. The car lunged backward. She slammed on the brake. Jerked forward.
Puffing out a frustrated breath, she let off the brake and eased down on the accelerator with a little less force. The tires spun, then grabbed onto the icy dirt and propelled the car slowly backward. When she’d reached the halfway point along Chapel Trail, which she now recognized after passing it twice, she moved cautiously to the side of the road and slowed to a stop. Shutting off the engine, she peered through the darkness. With nothing but the aid of the moonlight she could barely see the cluster of broken trees she’d noted on her first visit. Yep. The chapel was close by.
She grabbed her shoulder bag and climbed out of the car. Once she’d fished out the flashlight, she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed into the woods.
The wind had died down, but it was still as cold as hell. She shrugged her coat up around her neck. Man, she’d give a hundred bucks for even a cheap scarf and pair of gloves right now. Back home, vendors dotted the streets of Manhattan. Forgot your umbrella? Not a problem. Check any street corner and you could buy a piece of crap for ten bucks that would get you through the day.
If she’d had any common sense she would have waited until daylight. But she’d never been accused of possessing any patience much less any common sense.
She hated waiting.
Maybe it was some kind of phobia related to all those nights she’d waited for her mother to come find her.
Until that last time...
“Yeah, yeah. I’m totally screwed up.” Just like my daddy and mommy. DNA was a bitch.
Once she spotted the yellow tape hanging from a tree branch she was good to go. If the wind had been blowing as it had earlier she would have spotted the tape fluttering midair from the road. As it was, the long strips flanking either side of the path up to the chapel lay impotently on the ground.
She accidentally veered off the path and stepped into ankle-deep snow, swore a couple of times and found her way back to the path Conner had used. If she stepped in the indentions others before her had made, the snow didn’t rise above her Converses. The wind had blown the strands of tape wide apart, making it more difficult to stay on the path in the darkness. She didn’t have the patience to take it slow and let the narrow beam of her flashlight do its work.
Luckily for her wherever there was a break in the tree canopy the snow reflected the moonlight, making her trek somewhat less difficult than it could have been. She slipped once or twice but quickly regained her balance.
She held on to the railing and climbed the steps up to the chapel. With the drop in temperature since nightfall the damp stones were slick with a coating of fragile but slippery ice. By the time she reached the top step she wished again that she had brought her gloves. Her hands were freezing.
“And the boots,” she muttered. Her toes were numb.
Ducking under the tape, she used her flashlight to scan the chapel’s floor until she found the spot where the victim had lain. Instead of wasting time scouring the entire area around the bloodstain, she lay down next to it. The cold instantly permeated her clothing.
The victim had been about Sarah’s height. Since the tissue damage was on the top of her hands, Sarah stretched her arms up over her head. Satisfied her position was close enough, she rolled onto her right side, keeping her arm stretched above her head. She set the flashlight, beam down, on the area next to her hand.
When she’d scooted up onto her knees, she reclaimed the flashlight and began scanning the area around where she’d stationed it. Slowly, inch by inch. Then she found what she was looking for.
She leaned closer to inspect the spot where there appeared to be tissue left behind. The darker part was dried blood; the lighter, skin. More spots of varying sizes spanned about a twelve-inch path.
Oh, yeah. She was on to something here.
Sarah sat back on her haunches and stared at the residue left by the victim’s hand and forearm. Some fifteen to eighteen inches to the right was a matching sequence of spots.
The victim’s hands and forearms had been glued to the stone. That was why she hadn’t tried to escape...or to fight her attacker.
Or to rip the stitches from her lips so she could scream.
Valerie Gerard couldn’t move without ripping off her own skin.
Sarah positioned herself on the cold floor once more, placing her hands parallel to the spots where the victim’s hands had been. Then she rolled up into a straight-legged sitting position and leaned down to set the flashlight between her feet. She crawled back onto her knees and searched until she found the corresponding spots where the victim’s heels were likely glued to the stone as well.
“There we go.” Sarah grimaced. There were traces of tissue and dried blood higher up, where the meaty parts of the calves had been glued down, too.
Sarah shook her head. What a sick son of a bitch. And why the hell hadn’t the crime scene photo reflected that “glued down” positioning of the body? Had the body been touched or moved prior to photographing?
Sitting back on her heels, she roved the flashlight over the stone floor. Whatever the crime-scene techs had missed was likely history after the snowstorm that blew through last night. Not that she’d expected to find anything other than what she had. But it never hurt to look. Sometimes a fresh set of eyes detected something others missed.
Mostly, she lingered after finding what she’d come for, to absorb the vibes of the place.
Though she definitely didn’t believe in the paranormal, she did believe in atmosphere. There was a perfectly logical explanation, in her opinion, for all things that went bump in the night. She didn’t believe in spirits or the devil, maybe not even in God. She waffled most of the time on that last part. Her aunt had taken her to church every Sunday from the time she was about ten all the way until she left for college at eighteen. So it wasn’t like she hadn’t been exposed to the Good Book or its teachings.
She just wasn’t convinced anything beyond the human sphere of things existed.
It was too easy to blame bad things on the devil or on God. When the fact was, most bad things were carried out by humans. Every single event that people called miracles or plagues, dating back to Noah and before, could be explained by science. Not that she was a scientist by any means. She’d dropped out of college and her bid for a forensic science degree after three semesters to go to work for Truth Magazine. But she’d spent a lot of time studying the sciences. Men of science had a theory for everything just as men of the Bible had their legends and myths and parables.
It all boiled down to personal choice.
Whether one b
elieved in heaven or hell or demons or angels, there was one truth here and now that could not be denied. A human being had killed Valerie Gerard and there hadn’t been any angels around to save her.
Just like there hadn’t been any to save Sarah when she was a little girl.
A shudder quaked through her. From the cold, she reasoned. The cold had leached deep into her bones.
She dug around in her bag until she located her cell. The picture quality wouldn’t be that good, but she wanted documentation of her findings.
With the flashlight’s beam aimed on the place where a limb had been positioned, she snapped a couple frames of each location.
Surprisingly, the images turned out better than she’d expected. She tucked the cell back into her bag and got to her feet.
Had the victim been walked up the path? Was the perp wielding a gun?
Wouldn’t the techs have found tracks? Where had the killer left his vehicle? According to Conner any footprints left by the perp had been ruined. Had the same thing happened with tire imprints? Another question to ask the chief.
Or maybe the perp had come from an alternate direction. There was another road, a private one Conner had said, that ran parallel with Chapel Trail. Where the rich folks lived.
Sarah ducked under the tape on the other side of the chapel. The slope was steeper here. Lots of snow and ice. The trees were thicker. This didn’t seem like a good route for marching or dragging a hostage.
Unless the perp had been going for as much camouflage as possible. Sarah made her way down the slippery slope, dodging saplings and monster evergreens.
She walked for maybe ten minutes and didn’t stumble over any paths or broken branches that might indicate anyone had traveled that route recently. After an about-face, she moved back toward the chapel in a zigzag pattern. Still no indication of a used path. But it was dark, she could be missing something.
The recognized entry path leading up to the chapel was on the opposite side. That left the side adorned with the crucifix and the other side that looked out to the sea. The crucifix side was a sharp drop. The chances of making it up that incline with or without a hostage in tow were slim to none.
She stared out at the sea, moved to that end of the chapel. This route wasn’t much better. Pretty steep slope. A few hundred yards beyond where she stood, past the expanse of woods, was the narrow gravel road Conner had told her about, beyond that a house that sat on the rocky shore. No, not a house. A mansion.
Someone was up late. Lights glowed from the massive windows. Maybe they couldn’t sleep, either.
Reaching into her bag, her icy fingers fumbled for the binoculars. She could only be labeled a Peeping Tom if she was caught, right?
She rested the binoculars against her eyes and focused the lens to the longest zoom setting. A soaring window came into view. The room was...
A man stared at her.
Sarah jumped. Jerked the binoculars away from her face.
A man stood at the window gazing toward the chapel...or maybe toward her.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. He can’t see you.”
It was dark as hell where she stood. She was wearing a black coat and dark jeans. She had turned off her flashlight.
No way could he see her.
Another deep breath and she set the binoculars back into place. There he was. Perfectly still, gazing out the window like a statue.
He wore dark clothes. Navy perhaps. He was older. Fiftyish. Dark hair.
She stepped closer to the edge of the rock floor and studied the man. Was he lost in thought? Had he seen her flashlight and was curious as to who would be up here this time of night?
Strange. He seemed to be looking right at her.
Couldn’t be. It was dark and he wasn’t using binoculars.
No sooner than the thought had formed, he moved to his right.
A telescope.
A big, powerful telescope.
She stepped to the side, close to where the vines had encroached, despite ambitious pruning. The thick, rebellious vines snaked about in no particular pattern, weaving in and around the wooden pillars supporting the chapel’s roof.
He had to know someone was up here. He’d seen her flashlight. She was sure of it. Now he was looking for the owner of that light. He would likely call the police. Damn it.
If she knew his name and number she would call him and tell him not to worry. She was a little weird but she was no threat to him or his prestigious property.
The hair on the back of Sarah’s neck lifted.
She tensed.
The rasp of leather on icy rock whispered in her ears a split second before she recognized the danger.
Turn around.
Something slammed into her back.
She was propelled forward.
Cold, thin air met her.
She was over the edge.
The oxygen evacuated her lungs.
Falling.
She clutched at the vines.
The sudden jerk told her she’d managed to grab on.
Don’t move.
Be calm.
Think.
The vine was holding.
Her heart bumped hard against her sternum.
She wasn’t falling anymore. She had a death grip on a couple of vines and she wasn’t letting go for anything.
You’re okay.
Take a breath. Stay calm. The bag she always carried pulled at her neck like a millstone.
Stay still? Or climb up?
It was dark as pitch below her but she was pretty sure there were trees and rocks. Nothing she wanted to land on.
Up was her best bet.
Reach up, she ordered her right hand.
Her body refused to obey.
Do it!
Her right hand released the vine. Adrenaline shot through her veins.
Her hand shook as she reached up. A foot or so higher, she latched on to the vine once more. Then the other hand. Reach up. Higher! Grab on. Pull!
One methodical, achingly slow foot at a time, she pulled herself upward. Until she was within reach of the stone ledge.
Then the memory of the impact that had sent her over the edge paralyzed her.
What if someone was up there...waiting to push her again?
Her body trembled violently. Her fingers started to burn.
She had to do something.
Couldn’t keep hanging there.
She tried to look down...couldn’t see shit.
Up was her only option.
She reached up, hoped like hell no one stepped on her fingers. She clutched the ledge. Pulled. Her arms trembled. All she had to do now was turn loose of the vine and reach up with the other hand. No hesitation. Do it fast.
Using her right hand since it was strongest, she released the vine, grabbed the ledge. After a moment to steady herself, she reached and clawed and pulled with both hands until she hauled herself up, her arms quivering violently.
Sarah collapsed on the cold-as-ice stone floor and caught her breath.
She was okay.
Safe.
Not dead.
A new surge of adrenaline fired her blood.
Someone pushed me.
She rolled to her side. Shot to her feet.
Listen!
She peered through the darkness. Held her breath. Listened beyond the persistent pounding in her chest.
Silence.
Darkness.
Time to get the hell out of here.
Her legs wobbled, weak and seemingly boneless. After straightening her bag so that it no longer dragged at her neck, she crossed the stone floor, careful not to make a sound. She pulled out her cell phone and checked her service. Shit. No service.
Perfect.
As quickly as she dared, she moved down the slope. It wasn’t that far to her car. Whoever had pushed her evidently had taken off.
Probably just someone who wanted to scare her.
Yeah. Enough to kill her.
&nbs
p; She stilled. She could have been killed. Dr. Ballantine’s warning about ending up a victim rang in Sarah’s ears.
Okay, but she hadn’t been. She was safe.
Keep walking.
Just get to the car.
Get out of here.
Not far now.
Something rustled to her right.
She darted left. What the hell?
She stilled. Listened.
More rustling. The soft crunch of snow.
Someone was close...coming in her direction.
Sarah couldn’t see a damned thing. She couldn’t turn on her flashlight. All the hell she could do was move as quickly as possible with her arms extended in front of her so she didn’t collide with a tree.
Faster.
She bumped a gnarled trunk. Pain streaked through her shoulder, across her chest. Shit.
The pepper spray was in her bag...wait...no...keep going...don’t take time to look for it.
Move. Don’t stop. Don’t dare stop!
Don’t even slow down.
The sound behind her was louder now.
Closer.
Whoever was after her wasn’t taking his time.
How the hell could he see?
He had to know the area.
Heart pounding, she burst into a run.
Barely missed a head-on collision with another tree.
Don’t think. Feel. Run!
He was practically on top of her now.
She braced for impact.
Hands grabbed at her coat.
She slammed her elbow backward as hard as she could. The contact jarred all the way up to her shoulder.
A grunt told her she’d connected with something vulnerable.
The hands stopped clutching at her.
She rushed forward.
Stumbled.
Fell flat on her face in the underbrush and snow.
She scrambled to get up.
Strong fingers manacled her ankle.
She screamed.
The sound echoed through the woods.
She kicked at her attacker.
Twisting her body, she kicked harder.
She couldn’t see his face.
He wore a black ski mask. His eyes glittered.
She kicked hard at his head. Rammed a hand into her bag. Her fingers couldn’t locate the metal canister.
