Tears filled Chyna’s eyes and her throat tightened. Never again would she hear her mother laugh, joke, console, praise, or pour out her love. Vivian was gone and for a few minutes Chyna felt as if she simply could not go on without her. Michelle, sensing her distress, laid her blond head on Chyna’s knee. She rubbed the dog’s ears and face, and in return, Michelle gently licked Chyna’s hand. “I’m so glad I brought you,” she said to the dog. Michelle licked Chyna’s hand again and looked up at her expectantly. “And I’m showing my gratitude by not giving you your dinner. Are you hungry?” Chyna thought it might have been her imagination, but the dog suddenly looked joyful. “Dinner it is, girl,” Chyna said. “Maybe some food will make both of us feel better.”
Food seemed just the ticket for Michelle, who ate with gusto. Chyna, however, couldn’t even finish a bowl of soup and a sandwich she’d made for herself. She’d thought she was hungry, but the food simply would not go down. Every time she tried to swallow, Rusty Burtram’s tortured face flashed in front of her. Then she would remember Owen’s hard, cold eyes gazing with disgust at his son. Chyna had felt afraid for Rusty when she’d seen Owen’s face. Rusty had felt afraid, too. Hell, we were all afraid, she thought, remembering Gage’s look of frozen helplessness and how Rex’s customary expression of careless ease had vanished in seconds.
Chyna was glad Rex had made an excuse to follow Owen home for a talk about investing in the mortuary business. Rusty didn’t live with Owen, but it was clear that Owen intended something nasty for Rusty—a punishment of some sort, as if Rusty were a little boy. Rex’s excuse had been lame, but he’d skillfully managed to force Owen into accepting his company for the evening. Owen couldn’t immedi
ately vent his wrath on Rusty, thanks to Rex. That would probably come tomorrow, Chyna thought, and was proud of Rex for stepping in to delay or, she hoped, diffuse what could have become a disgraceful, even violent situation, at least for a while.
She’d watched the three of them leave, Owen walking toward his black Lincoln with a solid, measured step, jaw tight and lips clamped shut. Anyone could tell he was seething. Rusty had trailed behind, still shaking, his head hanging. He and his father had come in Owen’s car and Chyna was cringing inside, thinking of what that ride home would be like for Rusty, when Rex suddenly grabbed Rusty’s arm and said, “Why don’t you take the wheel of my car? I’ve had a couple of drinks and I don’t want to get arrested for drinking and driving. You live just a couple of blocks from your dad. You can get out at your house, and I can certainly make it two blocks without causing an accident.” Rusty had looked as if he were going to fall at Rex’s feet in gratitude.
Poor Rusty, Chyna thought, feeling almost sick as she thought of his agonized face and his uncontrolled shaking. He hadn’t done the right thing when he saw young Nancy fall and he felt wretched about it.
Chyna suddenly dropped her soupspoon. Or did he?
She sat at the kitchen table, her bowl of soup growing cold, and replayed every word Rusty had said to her. First he’d talked about how Nancy had always interested him; “fascinated” was the word he’d used. He’d said he was homely and clumsy, a disappointment to his family. Chyna had no trouble believing Owen considered Rusty a letdown. The man thought he was perfect and would expect his child to be perfect. Suddenly she remembered Rusty asking her if she’d been intimidated by her father. The question had startled her because she’d focused on her own childhood. Edward Greer had been distant but always loving and accepting. Rusty’s experience must have been different, Chyna realized. Growing up, Rusty no doubt had feared his father. The way he looked at his father standing cold and unyielding in the doorway today told her Rusty still feared Owen.
Nancy had been different. Rusty had said she wasn’t just beautiful but also extroverted. She seemed to excel at everything she did. Rusty said he thought that if he watched her enough, he could learn how she managed to do everything right, to make people love her. He’d watched her all of her life. He even kept an eye on her when she went out running, because studying her had become customary for him.
Chyna sat up straighter in her chair. She understood how watching Nancy perform in society could have become a habit with Rusty if he wanted to see how she managed to charm people, to win them over with her wit and poise. But how could watching the girl run every evening possibly help Rusty? He didn’t want to become a runner. But when she ran, especially in summer, she probably wore tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt over a sports bra. Could Rusty have been watching her run in the evenings because she looked tantalizing? After all, even the surgical improvements he’d made in his looks didn’t seem to have made him more popular with women. He’d been stumped when Beverly had asked him to come to dinner and bring a date. He clearly didn’t have a girlfriend now. Chyna wondered if he’d ever had a serious relationship with a woman.
Chyna sighed in sympathy for him. He’d had a lifetime of being thought of as awkward, homely, a disappointment at best, more likely an embarrassing misfit, by his father. No amount of plastic surgery could correct those mental scars. Rusty had probably been emotionally crippled for life.
But did his emotional scars make him an object of pity or one of danger? He’d watched Nancy constantly. That certainly wasn’t normal. And in spite of what he’d said to Chyna on the terrace, he hadn’t watched Nancy just so he could learn and imitate her style. At the funeral home he’d said, “Nancy did as she pleased. Always. I suppose quite a few people would consider her spoiled.” And Chyna had known he felt the same way. He’d admired Nancy and hated her at the same time.
And then there was the matter of the path. Nancy had run on the same path for years. Rusty had said he’d always
watched her on that path. Then he’d suddenly decided his behavior was ridiculous and he’d started taking his evening walk on a different path. And miraculously, just two weeks later, Nancy ran down that path instead of her regular one? Quite a coincidence. In fact, it was too much of a coincidence for Chyna to accept. She was almost certain that Rusty had not accidentally been on the path Nancy never used except on the night of her death. And he’d said he hadn’t called for help because he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been watching her. If he’d used a cell phone or called 911 from home, his call could have been traced. But he could easily have called from a pay phone.
If he’d really wanted to help her.
If there hadn’t been a mysterious, unseen person chasing Nancy.
If the person responsible for Nancy’s fall had actually been Rusty himself!
Chyna stood up abruptly from the table. She’d felt sorry for Rusty this afternoon. She’d been glad Rex had gone home with Owen, a move obviously meant to protect Rusty from Owen’s fury.
But maybe Rusty didn’t need to be protected from Owen. Maybe Owen needed to protect other people from his own son, and Rex had only managed to allow Rusty his freedom, the freedom he needed to save himself because he’d seen something in Chyna’s eyes earlier today, something he’d tried to fix by painting himself to her as a man who’d made a terrible mistake and considered himself beneath pity. It had actually worked for a while, but if Rusty had earlier sensed that she’d been aware of his memories of that night, then maybe he would realize that in spite of his efforts to “explain” his actions to her today, she would later analyze them and recognize that his story didn’t make sense. What if he decided he’d done more harm than good by spinning that tale for her this afternoon?
Then he would conclude that she was a danger to him. And here she sat in this big house, all alone, with a possible killer thinking of her as his only real threat.
2
Deirdre awakened with a start. Waking up without being able to open her eyes felt beyond strange, but the odd sensation was quickly overwhelmed by the stiff, cold throbbing of her body. She was lying on her side, and drawing in a deep breath, she managed to flip herself onto her back. Pain shot along her backbone. She could barely feel her feet for a moment, which terrified her.
Then the pins and needles of returning circulation stabbed them. She groaned partly from misery, partly from the relief of knowing that her feet weren’t frostbitten. Frostbite could mean amputation…
I’m getting out of here, Deirdre thought with sudden ferocity. I am not going to lie here on this cold floor, waiting for God knew who to come back and murder me. I will live!
She began violently twisting her wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. She could barely move her wrists, but it seemed to her that her ankles weren’t as firmly bound as they had been last night, right after she’d regained consciousness to find herself lying on this concrete floor. She wriggled her feet, then tried jerking them up and down.
There seemed to be some movement, not just of her feet, but also of her ankles, which had been bound by what she knew was duct tape. She tried again. Yes! She could definitely feel movement in the area of her ankles.
The cold, she suddenly thought in triumph. The glue on the duct tape had grown stiff and begun to lose its adhesiveness in the cold. The tape around her wrists was almost unbearably tight, but it hadn’t been possible for her abductor to tape her ankles as tightly because of the bone structure. The inside ankle joints, the tibias, were pressed tightly together, but above and below them lay small spaces where the cold air had crept in. If her captor had used more tape, firmly securing the ankles above and below the joints, all of the air would have been shut out. But maybe the person had been in a hurry. Or maybe careless. Or maybe just not aware that cold had any effect on glue. Maybe her captor wasn’t a chemistry buff,
Deirdre thought with hope, and that simple fact might cause a plan to hold her until she could be murdered to fail for good. Neither she nor any other girls could be kidnapped and killed if she escaped and told everything she knew.
Deirdre took a moment to slow her breathing. She needed to concentrate, not hyperventilate and lose her focus. It didn’t matter that she was cold and hungry and scared. All that mattered was the loose duct tape on her ankles.
She moved her ankles back and forth. The movement was so minimal that it almost didn’t seem worth the effort. But there was movement, she reminded herself, and any movement at all was worth every bit of energy she had left.
Using her thighs, she began to move her legs up and down. Such tiny movements, she thought. Such pathetic little movements. But movements nevertheless. And unless her imagination was running away with her, the tape felt just a bit looser. Just a fraction looser, but still looser. Yes, there was no denying it. She was making progress. Slow, slow progress, but…
Deirdre heard a door squeak. Although she was already cold, even colder air rushed over her. She went perfectly still, like a young rabbit caught in the sights of a fox. If I hold still enough, maybe he won’t see me, she thought wildly. Maybe he’ll think I’m dead. Maybe he’ll decide tonight is not the night…
“Chilly in here.” Deirdre’s heart pounded at the sound of the casual voice. “Of course, it’s chilly all over this part of the country considering the time of year. Nights don’t usually get this cold until late November. Thanksgiving time. I’ve always liked Thanksgiving. I think it’s funny, our giving thanks for all God provided for us. Actually, the Indians provided. We showed our gratitude by killing them. Of course, they got a few of us, too.”
A sigh. “But it’s the way of the world. At least, that’s my opinion. What’s yours?” A long pause. “Oh, you can’t answer. I’ll bet you have an opinion, though. I’ll bet you have opinions on just about everything. You smart girls think you know it all. It’s like being pretty. Pretty girls think they can get it all, too—everything the world has to offer. And there
you are, Deirdre—both smart and pretty. You’d have an unbeatable combination if there weren’t people like me to stop you from taking everything away from the rest of us.”
Daddy, Daddy, help me, Deirdre thought wildly. I know you’d save me if you knew where I was. But you don’t. And I don’t, either. Only one person knows where I am. The person at the door. The person who’s going to kill me.
“Bet it’s been a long day for you,” the voice went on relentlessly. “When you’re just left to lie around and think about your life the way it used to be, to wonder what’s going to happen to you eventually—well, that must be pretty tiresome. Not what you’re used to. Not at all what a smart, pretty girl is used to doing with her time.”
Deirdre had been aware of the voice drawing nearer. Now she felt a touch, fingers trailing over her forehead near her hairline, running down her temples, over her cheeks, across her throat. Lingering at her throat. She expected to feel the fingers of a second hand brushing over the same area before the fingers moved back to her neck and hands tightened, cutting off her air, strangling her. Is this what happened to the other girls? she wondered. Had they all died by strangulation? If that’s what is going to happen, please don’t let it take a long time, she prayed. Even if I don’t die quickly, please let me black out. Don’t leave me conscious to feel every horrible second of what’s to come.
But no second hand touched her. Instead, the first moved downward, pulling back the thin blanket. Cold air washed over her abdomen and she shuddered.
“So slender. Not an ounce of fat. And such soft skin,” the person muttered. “The soft skin of a young woman. I hate old people’s skin, all dry and wrinkled. And there’s a smell about old people. The smell of decay.” Deirdre felt a face touch just above her belly button, then heard a deep inhalation. “Sweet. Even after a night and day out here, you still bear the sweet smell of youth.”
By now Deirdre was jittering. She tried to focus on a different time, a different place. She thought of a picnic she’d
gone on with her parents when she was about ten. Her mother had spread out a blanket and laid cartons and plates and containers all over it. “Good heavens, honey!” Deirdre’s father had exclaimed, beaming at her pretty mother. “Are you a genie or something? How on earth did you get so much food in that little picnic basket?” She had only smiled. “We’ll never be able to eat all of that,” Deirdre’s father had laughed. “We’re going to have a ton of leftovers.”
But there had been no leftovers. They’d eaten until they were too full to move. Then they’d lain on the ground, staring up at the sky, trying to make shapes out of clouds. “That one is an elephant,” her mother had said. “And she has her baby elephant with her. Don’t you see it, Deirdre?” And Deirdre had said she could, even though she hadn’t seen anything except a big blob of a cloud. Her mother was the one who made even the clouds seem magical and fun. Her mother was the one who’d made the whole world seem magical and fun, for Deirdre and Ben.
Maybe I’ll see her again if all that stuff about meeting your loved ones in Heaven is true, Deirdre thought as this creep hung over her, sniffing her “young flesh,” flesh that now felt foul. Maybe death won’t be so bad, she mused. It had to be better than this.
Suddenly Deirdre heard a noise. A car engine. A noisy car engine. The engine of an old car, not a new car whose engine purred. The fondling stopped. The person above her stiffened and let out one quick huff of air that signaled fear. Oh God, has someone come to save me? Deirdre thought desperately. Has something miraculous happened?
Warm breath in her ear. “Do not make a sound.” All she could have done was squeal beneath her duct tape, but tempting as it was to let someone know she was here, Deirdre knew any move from her, any sound from her, would be fatal. The rumble of the engine drew nearer. Please, please, please, Deirdre’s mind screamed. Voices. She heard voices. Male voices. The person above her seemed to have stopped breathing. This is it, Deirdre exulted mentally. I’m being saved! Mama sent someone to save me!
Deirdre’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her ribs. And then, just as her jubilation grew almost beyond the point of endurance, she heard laughter, girls squealing in a tangle of fear and delight.
Who was out there? Deirdre wondered. A bunch of teenagers? A bunch of laughing teenagers
just like the ones at the party last night when she’d been taken by this lunatic who now held her captive.
“I don’t want to go in there!” a girl squealed. “I’ve heard the guy that owns this place has guns and if he catches us out here—”
“What? He’s gonna kill us?” one of the guys challenged. “He might try to scare us, but he’s not gonna let himself get arrested for murder. Come on, Cookie. You need another beer or somethin’? ’Cause you didn’t used to be such a wimp!”
A girl began giggling wildly. “Okay, okay, if you’re gonna get all jerked out of shape, I’ll go. We’ll all go, right?”
A car door opened and slammed shut. A cheer went up. A cheer of how many people? Three? No, four, Deirdre decided, and they said they were coming in! Someone had already gotten out of that car. Someone was going to come in? More than one person. Surely to God they’d do something. They’d save her!
Then she heard the engine revving. It slowed. More laughter. More of that infuriating squealing. A car door slammed again. Was it slamming because someone else was emerging from the car? Yes, that had to be it. That just had to be what was happening.
“Ah, it’s not worth the trouble. I’ve got someplace better in mind for tonight,” one of the guys yelled to the others.
“Yeah,” the girl called Cookie agreed. “Let’s go someplace better. Whatcha got in mind?”
“Someplace spooky!”
The girls shrieked and fell into nearly hysterical giggling. Then the engine revved. It slowed and revved again. Then Deirdre heard the spinning of gravel beneath tires. The engine rumbled again as the car spun away. Away! No! No, it was impossible that people had come so close and now they
were going away. Speeding away! This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t be leaving her!
Last Seen Alive Page 22
