by Chris Mooney
Lancaster was power hungry; he had staged the crime scenes to look like the textbook handiwork of a sexual sadist. Williams, however, was the real deal, a creature who fed off human pain and suffering. Deny the monster its food, and it became enraged. And even more irrational.
At least that had been her experience. Darby had no idea how Williams would act.
I’m going to find out, she thought as the interior lights came on. What had Nicky Hubbard told her about Williams? Fight back. Ray really loves it when you fight back. It makes us both so happy.
Us, Darby thought, her eyes finally adjusting to the brightness.
Ray Williams stood on the other side of the bars. The swelling had disappeared from her face, and she had the use of both eyes now. He was dressed like a man who was about to spend a summer afternoon out on his boat: white tee, khakis and penny loafers without socks. His bruised face had turned a dark violet, and dozens of stitched lacerations covered his face, scalp and ears.
He reached through the bars and dropped a pair of black lace panties and a bra on the floor.
‘Put them on,’ he said.
Darby didn’t move.
She broke out in a slick and greasy sweat when she saw Williams remove the remote for the shock collar from his trousers pocket. His eyes were as dead and lifeless as marbles.
‘I’ve adjusted the setting to ten,’ he said. ‘Put on the clothes or I’ll shock you.’
‘No,’ she replied, and her stomach turned to ice.
Williams’s eyes were busy with thought, and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Darby swallowed, bracing herself for what was about to come.
But he didn’t shock her. Instead, he placed the remote on the edge of one of the bars. Then he reached into his pocket again and came back with a new item: another remote, this one smaller, like a car-key fob.
The remote for his hanging contraption, she thought, her muscles tensing as her hands flew up to grab the lead.
Williams pressed the button. Again, Darby was yanked off her feet, but the motor sounded different, like it was struggling to complete the task. Williams didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. Keys in hand, he unlocked the door and moved inside her cell.
Darby had managed to wrap the lead around her fists. The plastic-encased metal dug into her skin and callused palms as she hoisted herself up to relieve the pressure on her neck. Williams stepped closer and, tilting his head to the side, looked up at her, curious, like an art collector admiring a prized painting.
Sweat popped all over her skin, and she gulped air to stave off the burning in her muscles. She was only buying herself seconds, though, and Williams knew it. At any moment she’d use up the limited glycogen stored in her muscles. The strength would leave her arms, shoulders and back, and then gravity would take over and she’d fall and hang from the ceiling, body twisting and swaying and suffocating, her fingers desperately clawing at the collar.
Williams must have pressed the button, because the next thing she knew she had crashed against the floor. Her skin and brain on fire, she rolled on to her side, gasping, and saw Williams staring down at her. Black gloves covered his hands now, and he held two new items: a pair of steel handcuffs and a hunting knife with a long, curved, sickle-like blade.
Don’t let him cuff you, she thought, gasping in mouthfuls of much-needed air. If he cuffs you it’s over.
Williams swung his foot back. Darby knew he was going to kick her, knew that if she tried to protect her stomach with her arms and hands, he might break her fingers. She tried to turn away, but his shoe slammed into her stomach. Air exploded past her throat and bright stars exploded across her vision. She curled into a foetal position and she used her arms to protect her face. She couldn’t fight him if he broke her nose or, worse, delivered a kick that would swell her eyes shut.
But he didn’t kick her. Instead, he dropped the handcuffs to the floor, grabbed a fistful of hair from the back of her head and pulled her up, no doubt wanting to smash her face on the floor.
Mistake. Darby wasn’t afraid to fight, knew how to fight. She braced an arm against the floor and then, using all of her strength, spun around to face him. Williams, still clutching her hair, was knocked off balance; he didn’t let go, and, as he fell sideways, towards the wall, his right hand, the one holding the knife, reached out to brace his fall. The blade scrapped against the concrete wall, twisting his wrist at an odd angle, and he screamed.
Darby screamed as she rose to her knees. Screaming meant delivering oxygen to her bloodstream. She had him pinned against the corner, and with her hands gripping the wrist holding the knife she screamed again and slammed her knee into his groin. She felt him buckle and his strength left him.
But not his fight; he still had plenty of that in him, and she swore she saw him smile as he knocked her back against the wall. Her head was slammed against the concrete, pain and terror exploding through her skull; but her eyes were pinned on the knife lying on the floor. Go for it or you’ll die down here. She did so, the concrete scraping her knees and palms, and had reached its hilt when Williams grabbed her by the ankle and pulled.
Darby turned and moved towards him. Swung the knife and saw the curved blade slice through his cheek and slash his left eye.
The howl that escaped his lips exploded off the walls and drilled into her head. His hands clutched at his face, blood and spittle spraying from his gloved fingers as he screamed again, and Darby felt something inside her break away and soar like a bird being released from a cage and given a chance to fly. He rolled on the floor, clawing at his face, kicking his feet. She moved to him, ready to put an end to this, when she heard the whine of the motor hidden somewhere inside the ceiling.
How? She had assumed he’d put the remote in his pocket. Then an inner voice screamed Whatever you do, don’t let go of the knife. Darby clutched the hilt as she was yanked backwards, her feet scraping against the floor. Williams howled again, and as she was pulled up to the ceiling Darby reached around the back of her head and grabbed the lead, catching sight of the remote on the floor just before her head slammed into the ceiling.
But she didn’t let go of the knife. She sawed at the lead wildly, the blade cutting her fingers, as Williams staggered to his feet. His face was buried in his shaking hands, and he screamed through his bloody fingers. Blinded him, she thought. Please let him be blind. The pressure on her neck was immense. She gasped desperately for air and kept sawing and sawing as Williams stumbled blindly towards the cell door. He had left it open – and he had left the remote for the shock collar on one of the bars.
The pain in my left eye is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It feels like hot shrapnel is buried deep in the socket. The only way I can save my eye is to keep the heel of my palm mashed up against it, no matter how agonizing it feels.
The door for the cell is open. I’m staggering over to it when I hear a thud, and I turn and see the McCormick bitch on the floor. She’s on the floor because she’s severed the lead. The bitch managed to cut through it because she has my knife, it’s still gripped in her hand. I reach out to grab the shock collar remote and end up knocking it off the bar. The remote lands somewhere on the floor outside the cell, and there’s no time to reach it and there’s no time to lock her up in here because the bitch has gotten to her feet, she’s holding the knife and she’s coming for me.
I have to use both hands to climb the ladder. I can’t see out of my ruined eye, can’t close it to prevent the blood and whatever else from spilling down my cheek. As I look up at the opening, all the women I brought down here race through my mind. They all fought back – I wanted them to fight back, it’s what makes life worth living – and the McCormick bitch was supposed to act just like the rest of them, scratching and clawing and kicking the way women do. I underestimated her, but it’s not my fault. I didn’t know she was inhuman. A monster.
I move past the opening and crawl out, on to the shed floor. All I have to do is slam the trapdoor on her and lock
it. I’ve spun around, on to my side, and grabbed the trapdoor when the bitch pops out of the opening like a jack-in-the-box. I try to push the trapdoor down, but the top part of her body is already out and she’s pushing against the door with her shoulder. Her other arm wiggles out and I see she’s holding my knife and she slashes at my arm and wrist until I let go.
But there’s still hope. I throw open the doors and scramble away. The backyard’s sensor lights are off at the moment, but there’s a full moon, the sky is packed with bright stars, and I can make out the path that’s been shovelled in the snow.
I wipe the blood away from my good eye and then I see her, my precious Sarah, standing at the window overlooking the backyard. The lights inside the kitchen are on, and as I run to her I can see her washing something in the sink, her pink bathrobe open, revealing the special lingerie she wears for me. Her body is much plumper now, her thighs are riddled with cellulite and her skin is beginning to sag, but I don’t care because she is my precious Sarah, my beautiful Sarah, and I love her.
‘SARAH!’
I hear feet running behind me and I see Sarah walk away from the window. I’m about to call out again when I’m tackled around the waist and thrown against the hard-packed snow. I’m screaming for my Sarah when the McCormick bitch, this creature sent from hell, clenches her right hand and drives it into my throat.
And then she is all over me. She hits me full in the face with her other hand and the next blow shatters my nose. I throw up my arms to protect myself, but this succubus is too strong and too powerful, with fists like concrete. She hits me again and again in a demonic fury and I beg her to stop.
‘Shut up,’ McCormick hisses, and the next blow to my skull makes my arms go limp and fall uselessly by my sides. I’m defenceless, at her mercy, and yet her fists keep raining down on my face and skull, and through the blood and pain I see her smile. ‘Shut up and bleed.’
Again I beg her to stop and then I realize she can’t hear me because I’m choking on blood and teeth – my blood, my teeth – and I can’t see or hear Sarah oh please help me baby I love you so much –
81
Darby was straddling Williams when the back door flew open.
At first she couldn’t take in the situation. The backyard sensor lights clicked on as Nicky Hubbard, dressed in a pair of snow boots and a pink bathrobe, rushed out on to the path. Beneath the robe she wore a black halter fishnet body stocking, and she had a shotgun gripped in her hands.
Hubbard pumped the action. The bitter night wind blew her hair wildly about her face as she brought up the shotgun. Darby had no cover, but she had some distance. She had rolled off Williams, and into a bank of fresh snow, when Hubbard pulled the trigger.
The report echoed but Darby knew she hadn’t been hit – not yet. Nicky Hubbard screamed as Darby scrambled to her feet, and when she broke through a crust of snow, her face, hair and ears covered in white and burning from the freezing cold, she realized she had made a tactical terror. Wading through waist-high snow was about as productive as running through water: slow and laborious. Useless. She’d be a target.
But there was no need to run. Hubbard had dropped the shotgun; Darby saw it lying on the ground, smoking, before the backyard’s sensor lights clicked off.
She also saw what was left of Ray Williams. Hubbard had blown apart most of his chest.
Darby moved on to the path. She wasn’t wearing any gloves, and her feet and legs were bare. The woman who believed her name was Sarah – who believed that the man named Ray Williams loved her – sat in the bloody snow, cradling his ruined face against her chest, her wails of loss echoing through the dark woods, her torn soul searching for answers.
82
A nurse was standing inside Terry Hoder’s room in Brewster General, checking on the man’s various monitors and tubes, when the tall, good-looking FBI agent visiting him received a call on his satellite phone. The nurse, whose name was Maura, would later tell her friends that she had never witnessed such a transformative expression on another person’s face – one that started with the euphoric ecstasy of someone who appeared to have been granted a wish by God Himself and then ended with the tall man’s face stretched tight with fear.
The man hung up and seemed to sway on his feet.
Stroke, the nurse thought, moving around the bed as FBI Agent Hoder eyed him curiously. He’s going to have a stroke or a heart attack.
‘Sir? Sir, are you okay? Take that chair right next to you.’
‘I’m fine. Honest,’ the man replied. He had blond hair and differently coloured eyes, and he looked like he had slept in his clothes. ‘Would you please excuse us for a moment? I need to talk with Agent Hoder privately.’
The nurse left to find a doctor; she didn’t like the man’s colouring. Just as the door shut, she thought she heard him cry in relief, or possibly sadness, she wasn’t sure which.
By the time Denver SAC Scott called back, Coop had already made the necessary arrangements with Brewster General. As he climbed into the back of the ambulance, he told Scott about his short conversation with Darby and the few details he knew about what had happened at Ray Williams’s home.
An hour later, as the ambulance was slowing to a stop near the end of Williams’s driveway, Coop opened the back door, jumped out and started running. All the house lights were on, including the outdoor ones; he saw shadows moving behind the windows. There were three federal cars parked in the driveway; because kidnapping is a federal crime, the FBI had taken charge of the case. But Coop was sure the news about Ray Williams was burning its way through Red Hill, Brewster and the surrounding towns.
An agent met him at the front door. ‘She’s upstairs,’ the man told Coop, stepping aside to let him into the foyer. ‘Door to the left of the stairs.’
‘How is she?’ Coop asked. Darby, naturally, had dodged the question on the phone. Just hurry up and get here, she had said and hung up.
‘She looks fine – although I can’t say that for sure, because she won’t let anyone get near her – and she refused to let us take her to the hospital until you got here.’
The foyer hall ran into the kitchen. Coop saw SAC Scott sitting at a small table with a shell-shocked blonde-haired woman dressed in a ratty pink bathrobe, her arms wrapped around her chest as though she were struggling to keep warm. She rocked back and forth, humming to herself, eyes puffy from crying and black from smeared mascara. Scott was the only one with her, but her gaze darted frantically around the kitchen, as though multiple voices were shouting at her.
The agent saw Coop looking at the woman and said, ‘Her name’s Sarah.’
No, it’s not, Coop thought, recalling the contents of Darby’s phone call.
‘Says she’s his wife, but people at the station are saying Williams isn’t married or was never married. It’s gets even weirder, if you can believe it. She’s in here cooking him a steak dinner, dressed in lingerie and heels, while he’s torturing broads out in the shed.
‘Sarah here told us she shot at McCormick because she was beating the shit out of her man. McCormick dodged the bullet and the lug ripped apart Williams’s chest, but I’m willing to bet he was already dead at that point, or well on his way to it.’
Then the agent scratched the corner of his eye. ‘McCormick did a real number on him first.’ He swallowed, grimacing when he said, ‘The guy’s face is unrecognizable, if you catch my drift.’
Upstairs, another federal agent stood by the bedroom door. It was open, and Coop saw Darby sitting on the floor in the corner and hugging her knees against her chest. The only thing she wore was an oversized wool sweater that barely covered her rump. Her legs and feet were bare, smeared with dried blood.
It’s her, Coop thought, suddenly afraid to move. It’s really her. When she called him at the hospital, he hadn’t believed it was her – thought that he was possibly talking to a recording. That someone was playing a sick joke. She had been missing for over a week, and his mind had already begun to accept tha
t her body had been dumped in the rapids, never to be found.
But here she was, alive, and the relief and joy he felt was almost powerful enough to bring him to his knees.
Darby didn’t get up as he approached – didn’t look up either. Her gaze was riveted on the neatly made bed.
‘Hey,’ he said gently, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. ‘It’s me.’
Darby still didn’t look at him. He was about to touch her shoulder when she pulled away. ‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Not now.’
‘Okay. I’m just going to sit beside you. We don’t have to talk. I’m just going to sit here with you.’
Coop glanced at the federal agent by the door; he was whispering to one of the paramedics. Coop shook his head and motioned for them to leave. The agent nodded and had the good sense to shut the door to give them some privacy.
He sat next to Darby. Her hands and fingers were swollen, cut and caked with blood, and he wondered how many times she had hit Williams with her fists. The wind roared past the house, shaking it, and, as he looked around the bedroom, everything he saw was clean and meticulously organized. No pictures on the walls or bureaus. It looked like a single man’s bedroom, cold and sterile, not a feminine touch anywhere. Nothing to indicate that he had shared a bed with a woman night after night.
For thirty-one years, Coop thought, and the picture of Nicky Hubbard at seven, Nicky with her gap-toothed smile and T-shirt stained with spaghetti sauce, flashed through his mind. He compared the photograph with the pale and haggard woman he’d seen downstairs, and his mind couldn’t reconcile the two. But on the phone Darby had told him Nicky Hubbard was alive. Williams had abducted her and his mother had changed Hubbard’s name to Sarah, and Sarah had shared this home with him.
‘The shed,’ Darby said. ‘He brought them there.’
