She'll Never Live

by Hunter Morgan

  "Got to be tough," she told herself aloud as she knocked the rest of the envelopes on the floor, looking for the phone. "Got to be tough like Mom. I know, you don't want to be her, or anything like her, but right now, Ash..."

  The phone wasn't there. It just wasn't. She checked the glove compartment. Under the seat.

  "Damn it!" She slapped both hands on the steering wheel. Then looked up, hands still on the steering wheel.

  She didn't know how to drive...

  She grabbed the key ring off the seat beside her, hand shaking, and inserted the key. It slipped right in.

  She took a deep breath and turned the key. It started right up.

  "Come on," she told herself. "You wanted to take driver's ed. This will be a good start."

  She put her foot on the brake, pulled the shift toward her the way she had seen her mother do a million times and watched until the little "D" lit up.

  "Here we go," she muttered. She twisted the knob on the end of the signal thingy and the headlights came on, filling the yard with even more light, pushing back the darkness. She eased her foot off the brake and the car crept forward. Her mother usually backed up and then pulled out, but she didn't want to test her backing up skills just now. She didn't really want to test her driving forward skills, either, but she didn't see any other choice.

  The car slowly went around in a circle. One tire hit the sidewalk and she cringed, thinking of the poor little plants in the flower bed she had probably crushed. At last she was moving down the driveway, but the car was going so slow that she could have pushed it faster.

  "Gas," she said aloud. She pushed on the pedal and the car shot forward, scaring her. She pulled her foot off and it slowed right down.

  "Okay, okay." She pressed the gas pedal again, only evenly this time. The car sped up slowly until she was going twenty-five. Fast for the dirt driveway. At the end, she let her foot up and eased down on the brake. There were no cars coming in either direction.

  The neighbors were to the right, two miles, around a sharp curve. Town was five miles to the left. The neighbors were closer, but it was around that curve and she wasn't sure how good she would be at steering. And what if they wouldn't answer the door? They were old; they might not hear her.

  She gazed into the darkness in the direction of town and made her decision. She'd go to the police station.

  She buckled her seatbelt, took a deep breath, eased off the brake, turned the car, and pushed the gas pedal as it came around. No problem. She speeded up. Before she knew it, she was going forty miles an hour and the telephone poles were whipping by her. Gripping the wheel, her gaze strayed to the switches on the console between the front seats. She knew what most of them were for.

  Without hesitating, she hit one button, then the one beside it. The siren on top of the car screamed, and the blue lights flashed. Almost smiling to herself, she pushed the car up to forty-five.

  Chapter 15

  Claire woke slowly. Her mind was fuzzy and she was disoriented. She'd had the most bizarre dream...

  As she became more alert, even before she managed to open her eyes, she realized it hadn't been a dream. Her head hurt like hell and she was slightly nauseated. But that wasn't her biggest problem right now. The fact that her ankles and wrists were tied together was.

  She took a moment before she opened her eyes. She knew he was there. He made no sound, but she could feel him. She could also tell that she was in large room, one that smelled of hay. No animals, but it smelled like a barn. Fighting the nausea, she thought back over the list of names of possible suspects, trying to force her mind to begin functioning again. Mayor Tugman had a barn on the rear of his property, behind the old Victorian house he'd inherited. But it was not Morris who watched her now. And Patrolman McCormick's parents had a chicken farm west of Albany Beach. Though she'd never been out there, she knew they must have barns. But the man she had wrestled in her daughter's bedroom wasn't Ryan. This man was slightly less muscular. Slenderer.

  "I see you're beginning to wake up," came a male voice from in front of her. She could tell he was sitting, too. But still she didn't open her eyes. Sensory overload. She had to stay in control. She had to, if she was going to remain alive long enough to get away.

  "Where's Ashley?" she asked, her voice surprisingly strong, considering the circumstances. She could tell now that she was tied to a hard chair at her waist, and her ankles were not only tied... no, taped if he was sticking to his MO, to each other but also to the chair.

  "Don't worry about her," he said in a voice that she now knew would haunt her the rest of her life. However short or long that might be. "She—"

  "Damn it, Alan! Where the hell is my daughter?"

  She opened her eyes to see the hospital phlebotomist seated on the bench of an old wooden picnic table about eight feet from her. He was still wearing the stupid ski mask, but she knew it was him. She'd marked his name with a red marker only this morning.

  The table he sat at was the kind of table her grandparents had always had, the kind with the benches attached. For a moment, he just stared at her.

  She was so angry that if she'd had her Cougar right now, she could have shot him and killed him. Justice and her oath be damned. But, she was also scared... not for herself, but Ashley. Had she gotten away? The last thing she remembered was Ashley running out the bedroom door.

  "Where is she?" she whispered. She tried to move her feet slightly, then her hands, just to analyze her situation. It wasn't good. She could now see that she was duct-taped to a plastic deck chair that had been covered in a sheet of plastic. She tried not to think about the purpose of the plastic.

  The Bloodsucker stared at Claire Bear in disbelief. How did she know who he was? How? She'd been unconscious since the fight in Ashley's bedroom, and he'd not yet removed the mask.

  He was disappointed that she knew who he was. A little hurt. He felt silly.

  He grabbed the bottom of the mask and pulled it over his head to reveal his face. The thing was beginning to get hot and itchy anyway.

  He shifted his gaze slowly to look at Claire Bear as he smoothed his close-cut hair; he needed a haircut. She was staring right at him and he knew immediately that she would be different than the others. It was all he could do not to look away. He was glad she was tied up. She scared him just a little, the way she looked at him. Granny had looked at him that way sometimes.

  "Tell me where she is," the police chief demanded from between clenched teeth. She didn't seem afraid so much as angry.

  "What if I don't want to?"

  She looked away, then back at him. "She's my little girl," she said quietly. "Please, Alan."

  He didn't like her using his name the way he had liked it when the other women had. Claire's voice was accusing, somehow. Ugly.

  He got up from the back bench on the picnic table and walked around, glancing at the tray all set up and ready for Claire. She was a little scary now, but he knew that soon she wouldn't be. Not after the bleeding started.

  He took a step toward her and she tipped her head back and screamed, "Fire!" so loud that he covered his ears.

  "Don't do that," he yelled. "There's no one around here to hear you, but it hurts my ears."

  To his surprise she tilted her head forward again and didn't scream. Now she was trying to twist her hands and loosen the duct tape. The plastic that protected the chair from blood crackled beneath her.

  "You won't get away with this," she said.

  He smiled, grabbing the duct tape off the table. He hadn't suited up yet, so he had to be careful. "I have."

  "Nope. I already knew it was you, Alan. It makes perfect sense; a phlebotomist obsessed with blood. I feel like an idiot that I didn't know sooner." She was quiet for a second, but when he didn't say anything, she went on. "You were watching us from outside the house, weren't you? Didn't you see me on the phone? I was talking to Captain Gallagher. I told him it was you."

  "You lie." He smiled. Now that he was up and moving, h
e wasn't afraid anymore. He knew who was in control here. He was. "You lie because if you had really told Captain Gallagher it was me, he'd be here by now." He pulled a strip of tape away from the roll. "He and his backup cars, and canine units and maybe even a helicopter with a searchlight." He made the roll of duct tape fly in the air the way he had seen a police search helicopter maneuver in a movie he saw the other night.

  She shook her head. "We were waiting until tomorrow. So we could all confer and then come to the hospital to arrest you there."

  He watched her. He knew Claire Bear might try to trick him so he had to be careful. Granny had been crafty, too. "I don't believe you."

  She somehow managed to shrug. "Just don't say I didn't tell you so when the canine units arrive. Of course, if you told me where Ashley is, I might be able to help you out."

  He frowned. "I have no intentions of getting caught, Claire Bear. I'm not one of those." He pulled the tape out a little farther and began to tape her forearms together. She wriggled a little, but not that much. He had done a good job with the taping. His practice was improving his technique.

  "You called me Claire Bear, Alan," she said, giving up the struggle. Realizing she was just wasting energy she would need later. "Why did you call me that?"

  He lifted his shoulder, feeling a little silly again. "It's just what I call you," he said softly.

  "Well, don't," she snapped.

  He yanked hard on the tape, tearing it, hurting her, but she didn't cry out. He walked back to the table, dropped the roll of duct tape and reached for the scalpel. When he walked back to her, she didn't scream in fear the way the others had. She didn't even cry.

  "Don't do this, Alan," she said. "You have no reason to do this to me. To Ashley."

  "I didn't hurt Ashley." The minute he said it, he wished he hadn't.

  Still, she didn't take her gaze off him. "I've always been nice to you, haven't I? I was never like those other women who maybe said something hurtful. Maybe they turned you down when you just wanted to go out, and maybe get to know them better."

  "You don't understand, do you?" he shouted, hearing the buzzing in his head. But it wasn't just Granny's buzzing. It was hers. It was Claire Bear's.

  He lowered the scalpel and made a careful incision.

  * * *

  "Where is she?" Graham slammed both palms loudly on the glass wall the night dispatcher sat behind. He probably needed to calm down or he'd end up in a cell in the basement. What good would he do Claire there? "Where is Ashley? I want to see her this minute," he demanded, so angry, so scared, that he couldn't catch his breath.

  "I'm sorry, Councilman."

  At that moment, by luck, Detective Robinson passed on the other side of the glass room. When he spotted Graham and realized what was happening, he signaled to the dispatcher to let Graham in. The door alarm buzzed and Graham twisted the knob, afraid if he wasn't fast enough, he might not get into the back of the police station before the door locked again.

  "Detective Robinson," Graham called, sprinting down the hall. "Where's Ashley?"

  The detective halted outside the break room. The door was closed. "How'd you hear?"

  "Neighbor has a police scanner. She in here?" He laid his hand on the door to the break room.

  Robinson muttered under his breath. "Great, another hour and everyone in the state will know. I told them to stay off the radios." He looked at Graham. "She's inside, but I don't know if you should talk to her yet. She's pretty shook up."

  "He kidnapped Claire from the house? How'd Ashley get away? How'd she get here?"

  Robinson's plump mouth turned up in a half smile. "Chief's got a pretty smart cookie here," he said affectionately. "Phone lines had been cut, no cell phone. She took the police cruiser. Taught herself to drive on the way into town. Lights and all."

  Graham smiled grimly, mostly because he knew how proud Claire would be of her daughter. He just hoped she would live to hear the story. "Is this the guy?"

  Robinson grimaced. "MO is nothing like his previous hits. He came into the house through a window." He hesitated. "But Ashley says he had a scalpel."

  Graham tried not to think about Claire with a madman with a scalpel. He tried not to think about the women found in the Dumpsters. "Let me see Ashley, Detective. Let me talk to her. She might be able to tell me something I can—"

  "Robinson," a man bellowed from down the hall. "I've got troopers on Claire's property. Anything they need to know before they go in that I don't know about? Dog? Booby traps?"

  Graham saw Captain Kurt Gallagher coming down the hall. He'd dressed quickly, too, but had taken the extra minute to comb his bedhead.

  "What the hell is he doing here?" Gallagher barked when he saw Graham. "There are no visitors."

  Graham felt his hackles go up. "Ashley shouldn't be alone," he said.

  "And she won't be." He walked up to them. "I'll be in with her."

  "But she knows me. We have a rapport," Graham argued.

  Gallagher frowned. "She knows, me, buddy. Claire and I dated—"

  "Dated. As in the past tense," Graham interrupted, trying hard not to lose his temper. "You're history, and you and I both know it."

  Robinson backed up. "Look, fellows."

  "Now let me in to talk with Ashley. Let me see for myself that she's all right and then maybe I can help you figure out where he took her."

  "Do I need to call an officer back here to escort you out, Councilman?"

  "Captain," Robinson said quietly. "He might have a point. Ashley's been seeing a lot of the Councilman lately, and as best I can tell, no offense intended, but you're not one of Ashley's favorite people anymore."

  "What the hell do I care—" Gallagher cut himself off and glanced away.

  "Look," Graham said quietly, not caring if Robinson heard. "You don't want to get in a pissing contest with me over this, Gallagher." He met the state policeman's dark gaze. "You just don't," he warned.

  Gallagher threw up his hand. "What the hell. Let him in. How can it hurt? Right now, we have nothing. A man with a black mask who appeared out of thin air. For all we've gotten out of the kid so far, it could have been one of the crazy dishwasher's aliens who took her."

  * * *

  Claire held her breath so long that she made herself dizzy, then exhaled in relief. She almost laughed. Alan hadn't cut her. He hadn't cut her. He was just cutting the duct tape around her wrists to free them, now that her arms were bound together just below her elbows.

  But he was just getting ready to cut her and she had to do something fast.

  "Alan," she said, looking up at him as he tore the tape off her wrists. It smarted, but she ignored the pain. "Alan, tell me why you're doing this. Tell me why you need these women. I just want to understand."

  He balled the tape up in his hand, looking down at her. "You're very pretty," he said. He reached out tentatively and brushed her hair with the back of his hand.

  "Do I remind you of someone?" she whispered.

  He looked away and then when he looked back, his eyes were watery. "Some people don't deserve children. I'm very disappointed in you. Ashley shouldn't be sent to her father's. It's wrong to send her away." His voice caught in his throat with the last words.

  Claire's mind was racing. Nothing he was saying was making any sense, but then, he was crazy so what made her think he would? She watched him walk back to the picnic table, throw away the tape and begin to don a plastic jumpsuit. "Is that what happened to you, Alan? Did someone send you away?"

  "I don't want to talk about this." He shook his head. "You, of all people, wouldn't understand."

  "But I want to, Alan. I want to. I want to understand so that... so that I can be a better mother to Ashley. And..." She wasn't sure where to go next with this conversation, but any direction was better than standing still. "I wasn't really going to send her away. Not really."

  He looked up from slipping plastic covers over his sneakers. "You weren't?"

  She shook her head. "Of c
ourse not. That's just the kind of thing parents say to scare their children into behaving. I would never send Ashley away, not even to her father." When she said that, she remembered a conversation she'd had years ago with someone. She remembered that Alan had been raised by his grandmother on an old farm outside of town. It was probably where they were right now. She had never heard what happened to his parents; no one had ever said. "But that happened to you, didn't it?" she said, taking a chance.

  "I said I don't want to talk about it." He covered his hair with a plastic shower cap.

  "Tell me, Alan," she whispered trying to wrack her brain, trying to remember all the things she'd read about men like him. "Then you can cut me. Then you can do what you need to with me."

  He looked up, obviously confused. "I can?"

  "Look, I don't really understand about the blood," she said, flying by the seat of her pants. "But I understand wants. Desires. Needs. And it is the blood of blond-haired blue-eyed women that you need, isn't it?"

  He nodded slowly.

  She waited.

  "My mother left me," he said so quietly that she wasn't even certain what he had said.

  "Your mother?" she breathed. He nodded.

  "She left you here, didn't she?"

  He nodded.

  "With your grandmother?"

  He flinched and looked away.

  "And your mother shouldn't have left you here, should she?" Claire suddenly had an awful feeling. She had read time and time again that serial killers had often been abused as children: sexually, verbally and physically.

  He hung his head for a moment, then looked up. "Would you like to see her picture? My mother's?"

  What I'd really like to do is get the hell out of here, Claire thought. But she forced herself to focus on Alan again, trying desperately to recall everything she'd read about these kinds of killers. "I would," she said, smiling.

  "I've never shown anyone before." He unzipped the plastic jumpsuit and slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his long sleeved navy T-shirt. He walked closer, holding out a small, tattered photograph of a woman.