Still dead air on the phone and now it was all the more ominous, now that the house was devoid of the rock music, quiet except for her own breathing, the pounding of her heart in her ears and the sounds coming from down the hall.
Ashley closed her fingers over a knife in the drawer, slapped it onto the counter and punched the power button on the phone off, then on again. Frantically, she punched 911 once more and reached for the knife. "Come on, come on," she mumbled, tears running down her face.
When the call didn't go through again, she knew he had cut the lines. They did it all the time in movies; apparently bad guys really did do it.
Where was her mother's cell phone? Why hadn't she let Ashley have her own?
She dropped the phone, closed her fingers over the handle of the knife and jumped over the bottles on the floor, spilling something. The knife wasn't as big as the butcher knife she would have liked, but it had a nice serrated edge.
Trying to catch her breath, rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand, Ashley ran across the kitchen floor. Something deep inside her told her she had to keep moving; she couldn't stay here in the kitchen where he would see her the minute he reached the end of the hall.
Her mother had told her to run. Out the front door. All she had to do was go the other way—through the living room. But how could she? How could she leave her mother with the man with that knife doctors used to operate on people?
There were still sounds of struggle coming from down the hall, but as Ashley cut through the kitchen to the dark dining room, she heard her mother give a strangled cry and then suddenly she didn't hear her again.
A sob wracked Ashley's body, and she covered her mouth with her hand to keep the man from hearing her. She refused to allow herself to think what the silence might mean. She stood still, listening to the deafening stillness down the hall, and her own pounding heart.
"Ashley?"
A voice called her name, only it wasn't her mother's voice. It was his. And she knew that voice... knew him. She just couldn't place it.
"Ashley?" He was panting as she heard him come out of the bedroom, down the hall toward the front of the house. There was no sound from the bedroom or from her mother.
Don't let her be dead. Don't let her be dead, she prayed frantically as she clutched the knife.
"Ashley, where are you?"
She ducked down behind her mother's birch-wood dining table. She'd bought it shortly after the divorce and had it shipped from out west. It was one of her prized possessions. Ashley thought it was ugly.
"Ash," came the man's voice, almost gently. "Where are you, hon?"
She knew he was at the head of the hall, even though she couldn't see him.
"Ashley? Come now. I don't have time for games," he warned, sounding like a kindergarten teacher.
He was now in the space between the kitchen and living room, effectively blocking Ashley and the front door. She couldn't go that way. But if he would just step into the kitchen, maybe go around the corner toward the laundry room, she could slip into the hall. She could go to her mother.
"Ashley?"
That's it, you sick bastard, Ashley mouthed silently as she listened to his voice grow more distant. Look in the laundry room.
"Ash?"
She took a quick breath and at the moment she thought he had stepped around the refrigerator, she dashed forward, around the table, around the chair, through the doorway and down the hall. Quiet in her bare feet. Quiet as a mouse. As a mouse carrying a knife.
Ashley stepped into her bedroom and almost tripped over her mother. She had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. Her mother was unconscious, laid out on the floor. Dead? No, no, she didn't think so. Just passed out. She tried to listen to the man's voice as he called her again, trying to judge where he was as she leaned over her mother, trying to assess what was wrong.
No blood. She wasn't bleeding. Of course not. Because this man didn't kill women right away. He kidnapped them. Then he killed them, sometimes more than a day later, according to the newspapers.
"Ashley, I know you're in here because both doors are locked from the inside," the man called, rattling the dead bolt on the front door. "Now where could you be?"
Ashley fell to her knees and laid the knife on the carpet beside her mother's head. Hair covered her face, hair the same color as Ashley's. "Mom? Mom?" She brushed the hair from her face and then shook her hard.
She didn't respond.
Ashley spotted the gauze pad on the floor beside her mother. He had knocked her out with some kind of poison or something.
"Ashley, we can make this easy, or we can make this hard. Now, I know you're worried about your mother, but she's all right. Really she is. And you and I, maybe we could make a bargain. Hmmm?"
He had cut through the dining room and was now standing at the head of the hall. Ashley glanced over her shoulder at the window. The sill was high, but she could use the nightstand that had fallen over to boost herself up and over into the flower bed outside.
"Ashley?"
His voice was suddenly closer. He was coming back down the hall. Panic rose in Ashley's throat and for a moment she thought she would barf. No time to get out the window now. He was ten steps from her. Eight.
The closet? No. He'd look there. Under the bed? She'd never fit. Too much crap under there.
"Sweetheart," he crooned, his voice taking on a frightening edge. "You don't want to make me angry."
Her gaze fell on the heap of clothes beside the bed. When she was little, she and her mother had played hide-and-seek and her mother had been good at it. She'd taught Ashley all the best places to hide, such as behind the curtains up inside the window... and under a pile of clothes.
Ashley spun around on her hands and knees and backed up, wiggling under the clothes. The bath sheet on top was perfect. He wouldn't see her. He'd never think to look here.
"Ash—"
She spotted the knife beside her mother's head and her stomach lurched. She thrust her hand out, quick as lightning, grasped the knife handle, and pulled it under a pair of green sweatpants that was hiding her arm.
"Now, now, you're trying my patience," the man in the mask called. "Where did you go?"
Ashley tried not to breathe, afraid he would hear her. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she had an itch on her ankle, but she remained perfectly still, taking shallow breaths. She thought of every bad word she had ever heard that she could call him as she waited. He was in the doorway of the bedroom now, looking right at her. Not seeing her.
He stood there for a minute that seemed like a whole day in Biology class, then backed up and went farther down the hall toward the spare room, her mother's room and the bathroom.
Please wake up, Mom. Please wake up, Ashley prayed fervently. She wanted to reach out and shake her, but he was so close there in the hall that she didn't dare.
The Bloodsucker hesitated in the doorway of a dark room, then reached over and flipped on the wall switch. It was a bedroom that obviously was not used. He stepped in and opened the closet: coats, suitcases, too small for a girl Ashley's size to hide. He peeked under the bed, gripping the warm handle of the scalpel. Nothing there but some clear plastic boxes with more clothes. Women liked clothes. He backed out the door, shut off the light, and closed the door.
Taking his time, he continued down the hall. It was true that the evening had taken an unexpected turn, but he was still in control.
Ashley couldn't get away from him. She was right here and there was no need for him to panic. She was just a little girl, really, in an adult woman's body. She wasn't as smart as he was, couldn't possibly be. She couldn't outwit him. This was just a game. And a fun one at that. One that would become even more fun once he and Ashley could be together in the barn.
"Ashley," he sang. "Come out, come out, wherever you are." He pushed open the bathroom door, flipped on the light. The tropical fish shower curtain was open. No place to hide. The bathroom smelled good, like baby powd
er and shampoo and hair spray. He lifted a towel hanging on the rack and brought it to his nose, inhaling. He knew Ashley would smell good, too. The way he remembered his mother smelling.
He let go of the sweet-smelling towel, flipped off the light, closed the door and moved down the hall to the last door. Claire Bear's bedroom. Inside the dark room, he hesitated. It felt unoccupied, but she had to be here. Where else could she have gone when both doors were locked?
He listened to the stillness. The quiet was much better than that awful music Ashley had been playing when he went into her bedroom. They would have to talk about her choice of music and he would cite the statistics on crimes committed by teens who listened to such violent lyrics. He was surprised a police officer would allow her daughter to listen to such garbage. He flipped on the overhead light below the ceiling fan with a sigh. The music was just another example of Claire Bear's poor parenting skills.
The Bloodsucker stood in the doorway, the scalpel at his side, and studied the room. It wasn't overly feminine. No ruffles, bows or flowered wallpaper. It had kind of a Southwestern look—like maybe one of the interior decorating shows he'd seen about a house in New Mexico. The walls were painted a pale, earthy sand color and there was a geometric patterned, Indian-looking blanket on the bed. The lamps on the nightstands were big clay jars, and there were some Indian prints on the walls; Navajo, he guessed. He had seen a show on the Discovery Channel about the patterns in Navajo art.
His gaze flickered to the windows; the curtains were drawn and the windows were shut. He passed the closet, which was open. He drew his fingers over several dry-cleaning bags hanging there. Uniforms. Shoes lined neatly on the floor. He pushed back a dress and spotted the safe. He wondered what was inside, but it was only a passing interest. He was not a thief.
"Ashley," he called softly, stepping back. There was no master bedroom bath. Claire Bear and her daughter shared a bathroom. How frugal.
He took a couple of steps back, returning to the doorway. He was beginning to get a little nervous now. Where was she? He couldn't stay in the house much longer. It wasn't safe. Too many things could go wrong.
His gaze flitted to a mirror over the dresser. He studied the man in the ski mask. He liked the mask. Liked the feel of it against his skin. The power it gave him.
He shut out the light, closed the door quietly and listened. Not a sound. Where was she? Where was she? He trembled. He wanted Ashley. He wanted her so badly.
He slipped down the hall and stopped in the doorway of the teen's bedroom. What a mess; clothes everywhere, a trashcan spilling over onto the floor, books in piles on every surface. And the dark purple walls with the posters were hideous.
His gazed shifted to the open window and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He looked over his shoulder, then at the window again. A light evening breeze made the purple and black curtain ripple. Had Ashley sneaked back down the hall when he'd gone to the front of the house and climbed out the window?
Claire, on the floor at his feet, twitched, startling him. She was waking up. They never woke up this quickly, but he never had the gauze that was soaked with chloroform out for so long, either.
His heart rate increased as he struggled in indecision. He had the mask on. Neither of them had seen him. Did he just run? He wouldn't get caught. Especially not with Captain Kirk taking over tomorrow. He could just chalk this one up to experience.
Then he looked at Claire on the floor in front of him, her beautiful hair spread across the dark, ugly carpet. She was so lovely. She was not Ashley, but she was so lovely. And smart... though not as smart as him. She would make a good companion, if only for a little while.
Claire's foot jerked, forcing him into action. He had dropped his backpack somewhere in the struggle. He spotted it at the end of the bed, grabbed it and dropped to his knees. Tucking the scalpel carefully into its plastic sheath, he put it in the front pocket and pulled out the duct tape. It worked better than rope and was faster. He put her ankles together, taped them and then taped her wrists together.
He was upset with himself that he had been so foolish to let Ashley get away. She was probably out in the yard in the dark, poor thing, scared out of her wits. Crying. Huddled behind a bush, barefoot, and unable to get help for her mother. He wished he had time to look for her. He could take them both back to the barn.
That thought pushed his fears aside, filling him with anticipation again. He knew he didn't have time to look for Ashley. But this would all just add to the drama, wouldn't it?
With Claire Bear taped, he slipped on his backpack. He debated whether or not to pull off the mask. He didn't really need it now, but he liked it. He'd take it off at the car, before he drove away. He would never want to impede his vision with such a thing.
The Bloodsucker leaned over Claire Bear and lifted her easily into his arms. He could tell she was beginning to come out of it, but when he got her to the car, he'd dose her up again. He kept an extra baggie in the car for just this kind of emergency.
He glanced at the open bedroom window, trying to figure out how to climb back through it with the police chief in his arms. Then he laughed aloud at himself, turned and headed down the hall. Why did he need a window? He'd walk out the front door.
* * *
Once Ashley heard the front door close, she waited a full five minutes before moving. She counted as the seconds ticked by, refusing to think about all the bad things that could happen next. Even though she wanted to jump up and run after the man who had taken her mother, she knew that would be stupid at this point. She had to get help. But first, she had to make sure she was safe. What if the creep had walked around the back of the house and was looking in the window right now? She hadn't heard a car start outside. How had he gotten away?
But she wasn't really sure she would hear anything right now, her heart was beating so loud.
At last the five minutes were up and Ashley crept out from under the clothes, half expecting the masked man to pounce on her. He didn't. The room was empty, but she ran for the light switch and flipped it off anyway, afraid he might see her through the window and shoot or something.
Still clutching the kitchen knife, she ran for the window, slammed it shut, and locked it. It wouldn't keep bullets out or Freddy Kruger with an axe, but it would keep a man in a mask out who you were dumb enough to invite in because you had to have a smoke to piss off your mother.
Ashley went to the doorway of her bedroom, stopped, and listened to the house, listened for any sign he might still be around. She heard just the usual, familiar sounds a house made: the ceiling fans whirring, the drip at the kitchen sink, the frogs croaking in the woods that were loud enough this time of year to even hear inside if you listened carefully. And there was a cricket somewhere in the living room, chirping. Her mother had tried to find it last night and been unsuccessful, and Ashley had secretly been pleased. She didn't like it when her mother squished crickets. Thinking back now, she felt guilty about it. It was kind of childish taking pleasure from such little triumphs, especially now if—
She stopped her thoughts right there and then. If she let herself consider the is, she'd dissolve in a helpless puddle right here on the carpet and he would win. And she wasn't going to let him win. She wasn't going to let him kill her mother. Her mother had saved her life and now she was going to save hers.
Ashley took a breath and walked out into the hallway. She listened, then crept in the direction of the living room. She checked the door. Shut. She reached for it and clicked the dead bolt. Then, she walked through the kitchen, toward the laundry room. She caught the scent of her mother's marinara, and swallowed the lump in her throat.
No time for thinking now. Time for action, she told herself.
The back door in the laundry room was locked. She went back to the kitchen and thought for a moment. It was more than two miles to their closest neighbor and the phone was out. She'd have to run there. But what if the guy was outside? Or waiting for her on the road? What if he
came after her and tried to run her over with his car? Every bad horror movie she had ever seen flashed through her head.
Then she thought of something. The cell phone! Her mother's cell phone!
But she didn't know where it was.
She raced down the hallway and into the bedroom. She turned on the light, realized how stupid it was to still be carrying the knife and dropped it on the bed. "Where is it? Where is it?" she muttered out loud.
Not on the dresser. Not on the nightstand. "Mom," Ashley groaned. "Where did you leave it this time? Not at work. Please not at work."
She jerked open a couple of drawers, but the cell phone wasn't there either. Her mother was too neat for that, anyway, too organized. It wasn't in the bedroom.
She ran back down the hall to the kitchen counter. Surely she would have seen the phone if it had been in its charger on the counter, but—not there either. "Damn it!" she shouted in frustration.
The police car?
She looked at the door. That would mean going outside and suddenly she was terrified again.
But what were her choices? The minutes were ticking by. She had to get help.
She ran barefoot for the front door, flipped on the porch light, twisted the dead bolt and threw it open. There was no one there. The yard was quiet. Nothing there but the police cruiser and an old pickup alongside the house that wasn't even tagged anymore.
Ashley stepped out onto the cool cement porch, then remembered the keys on her mother's dresser. Of course, the cruiser would be locked.
She ran back down the hall, snatched up the keys and went back out the door before she had time to let herself get scared again. By the light of the security lamp in the yard, she fumbled with the keys, found the right one and unlocked the door. She jumped in and clicked the switch on the door to lock herself safely inside. Then she turned the light on overhead. There were manila envelopes on the seat with photos inside. She dumped them onto the floor and when the pictures fell out, she instinctively looked down. They were photos of the women the killer had kidnapped. Photos of the dead women. A sob rose in her throat.
She'll Never Live Page 19
