by Maris Soule
Vince continued to act as a blockade between her and the reporters, but the moment she was back on the lawn, the questions began. “What did you find? Whose Tahoe is this? Why did you want that letter?”
She ignored them all, and, keeping her voice low, spoke to Vince. “I need to get to my cruiser.”
“Done,” he said, and turned to face the reporters. “Okay, everyone, out of our way.”
He barged forward and Katherine followed, staying close and ignoring the questions and complaints the reporters threw their way. She saw Mattie try to step closer, but Sarah’s mother was blocked by a cameraman, as Katherine passed.
Never had the distance across her grandfather’s small front lawn seemed so far, and Katherine’s nerves were on edge by the time Vince stepped aside to give her access to her cruiser. She jerked open the driver’s-side door and slid in, then groped in her trouser pocket for the ignition key. She’d barely had time to look into her rearview mirror before shifting into reverse when the passenger-side door opened. “No,” she automatically responded, even before she realized it was Vince getting in.
“No,” she repeated. “You can’t come with me. Charles said I had to go alone. If he sees anyone with me, he’ll kill my grandfather and the girls.”
“And, if you don’t kill him, and he gets you, he’ll still kill your grandfather and the girls,” Vince said, just as forcefully. “Get us out of here.”
Katherine saw the reporters behind the cruiser, blocking their way. Stepping on the brake the same time she revved the motor, she hoped they would get the message. Still, she backed out of the driveway carefully, hoping there wasn’t an idiot in the crowd who placed a news story above his life. Only when she was on the street and driving away from the house did she give a sigh of relief.
Although she could see several of the reporters scrambling for their cars, once Katherine reached the corner, she put on the brake. “Out!” she ordered, looking at Vince.
“No.” He shook his head. “One thing I learned in the service: you don’t go into a danger zone alone. When we get there, you can let me off down the street. I can keep out of sight and work my way around to the back of the house.”
He might be right about the need for backup, but he had no idea what he was getting into. At least, she didn’t think he did. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“No, but I take it you do.”
Two of the reporters’ cars were pulling away from her grandfather’s house, making U-turns to follow her. Katherine handed Vince the envelope she’d taken from the tan Tahoe and again drove forward, making a quick turn to the left and then a right at the next corner. Although she kept watch for the reporters following them, from the corner of her eye she saw Vince’s expression as he read the address on the envelope. Saw when he understood.
“He’s at the Graysons’ place?”
She nodded and made another turn, hoping to shake the remaining car following them. “I’m afraid Cora’s right. Something has happened to the Graysons. I just hope he has them tied up and not—”
She couldn’t finish. She didn’t know John and Martha Grayson well but her grandfather did. She’d been to their house a couple times, once when Martha called the police because she thought John was having a heart attack, another time to deliver John’s wallet after a tourist found it and turned it in at the police department. They were nice people. Warm, welcoming people. The kind of people who would innocently welcome someone like Charles into their home.
Katherine hated what she was thinking. “The Graysons’ house is a perfect place for Charles to have the girls. It’s set back from the Dyea Road and hidden behind a stand of trees. Even if the girls yelled for help, I doubt anyone would hear them.”
“Stop the mail and cancel the newspaper and everyone would think they were away,” Vince added. “And they evidently have a fax machine, which would allow Bell to send those faxes to my office in Seattle.” Vince pulled out his cell phone. “Bob should have tracked that down by now. I wonder if he called Tom. Your boss, Gordon, may also know Bell’s at the Graysons’ place.”
“Which means we need to get there first.” Katherine stepped on the gas. This was one case when the arrival of the cavalry would not be good.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Bob didn’t answer his phone, and when Vince called the office number his call was diverted to leaving a message. He didn’t bother, put his cell phone away, and tightened his seatbelt. The way Katherine was driving, siren on, lights flashing, he hoped there weren’t any more stupid people thinking of crossing the street. Only when they were sure they’d lost the reporters did she slow down and turn off the lights and siren. As she drove along Dyea Road, she described how the Graysons’ driveway not only went back a long ways from the road but also curved slightly to the south.
“If you work your way straight back,” she said, “you should end up behind the house, but if you notice you’re starting to climb, you’ve gone too far.”
Katherine stopped the Tahoe at the side of the road, and Vince looked at the wooded area in front of him. Ground cover made it difficult to see the slope of the land, but it seemed to him the terrain immediately angled upward. “When you say climb . . .” Using the flat of his hand, he indicated a gradual tilt upward.
“I mean climb,” she answered, showing him with her hand an angle of thirty degrees or more. “Once you get behind their house, you will be mountain climbing. And, watch out for bears. I heard one’s been hanging around here.”
Just what he didn’t need to hear. “And, if I see one?”
“The best way to avoid bears is to make noise so they know you’re coming.” He could see when she realized what she’d said. “But—”
“But, be quiet so Bell doesn’t know I’m there. I understand.” Vince crossed his fingers. “Let’s hope I don’t see any bears.”
“Be careful,” she said.
He nodded. If he’d thought it would work, he would have changed places with her, but he knew neither Katherine nor Bell would allow that. All he said was, “Same to you. Now give me a bit of a head start.”
Vince realized his idea of a head start and Katherine’s weren’t the same when he heard the Tahoe slip into gear and a moment later the crunch of tires on gravel. He also realized she’d been right about the density of the underbrush. Surrounded by Sitka spruce and shore pine, he had to work his way through devil’s club and yarrow and over jagged granite rocks. Rain soaked branches dripped water on his head and down his back, and he wished he were wearing a hat.
He found hurrying actually slowed him down, and, if he didn’t keep watch, the wet, slippery underbrush would trip him, but, after a while, more light seemed to penetrate the trees, and he thought he saw a corner of a house up ahead. He figured if he angled slightly to the right, he could work his way around to the back of the house without being seen. Most houses had a back or side door. With luck, this one would be unlocked or easy to enter.
A few feet closer, and he realized luck wasn’t going to be with him.
At first Vince didn’t understand the thump he heard or the blur of off-white he saw near the back of the house. Cautiously, he inched his way closer, then stopped, his stomach lurching into his throat. The owner of the house, in order to keep bears out of his garbage, had built an enclosed stockade just a few feet away from the back corner of the house. Logs set vertically into the ground, their skyward ends topped by a slanted roof, were being attacked by a bear.
For a moment Vince thought it was a polar bear, but, when it turned its head toward him, he realized, in spite of the white coloring, the size and shape of the animal weren’t right for a polar bear. Not that it mattered. A bear was a bear, and, at the moment, this one was between him and the house.
Vince gave a start when he heard a door open and a male voice from the front of the house yell out, “Get away from there!”
Although Vince couldn’t see the shouter, he wasn’t sure if he could be seen or not. Was he
the one being yelled at? Or the bear?
Vince took a step back, moving slowly to avoid stepping on a branch and alerting the bear or the man. “Go!” the man shouted, coming around the corner of the house, waving his arms. “Scat!”
Hello, Charles Bell, Vince thought, the moment he got a clear view of the man. Although the quality of the photos the hospital had faxed to Katherine wasn’t great, the man standing by the corner of the house, waving his arms and yelling, had the same facial features and body shape as Charles Bell, aka The Beekeeper.
Go get him, Vince mentally urged the bear. It would certainly make rescuing the girls and Katherine’s grandfather easier if the bear in front of him eliminated Bell as a threat.
The bear didn’t cooperate. With a grunt, it moved away from the log structure and headed for the woods.
Headed directly toward Vince.
Bell stood where he was, watching, and Vince didn’t dare yell or wave his arms. He didn’t dare move.
With each lumbering step, the bear came closer. Vince could see spots of dirt on its fur, a briar caught in the ruff near its head. He also saw Bell turn around and again disappear from sight.
Vince had no idea where Katherine was. Had she reached the house?
God, how he wished he had a gun.
The bear stopped and began sniffing the air, its beady, black eyes scanning the woods in front of him.
Vince didn’t move. Stopped breathing.
The bear was looking directly at him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Katherine left her cruiser out of sight of the house and slowly walked up the driveway. Still out of sight of the house, she heard a man shout, “Get away from there.”
Katherine stopped where she was, her right hand automatically going to her holster. Pistol at the ready, she scanned the woods and driveway ahead of her and tried to suppress the memories flashing through her mind. Once again she was fourteen years old, trembling with fear.
Closing her eyes, she remembered the feelings. How she didn’t want him mad at her. How, when she made him mad, he punished her. How he made her do things she didn’t want to do, did things to her that she didn’t want to remember.
Bile rose in her throat, and she fought back a surge of nausea. For years she’d experienced nightmares, dreamt he was out of the hospital and had come after her. And, here he was. Outside of the house. Once she made it around the corner, made it past the trees blocking her view, she would see him.
So move, she told her legs, but they didn’t move. Her breathing had turned rapid and shallow, her limbs lead weights. Her therapist, during Katherine’s sessions, had told her to visualize herself in control of the situation, to see herself as the victor, not the victim. And, Katherine had, sometimes picturing herself shooting him. Sometimes stabbing him with a knife. And, sometimes beating him to a pulp using a board or a baseball bat. She always made him beg for mercy before she killed him. Made him apologize for killing her family, and for everything he did to her.
In those images, she was in charge, empowered. Bold and brave. And, if this were simply a visualization, she wouldn’t have had any trouble closing the gap between them and putting him under arrest.
But, this was reality, and she was shaking, unable to move.
She heard him yell, “Go! Scat!” and knew he was chasing something away. She half expected a dog or cat to come running toward her. But, nothing appeared, and she next heard a door slam shut.
He’d gone back inside. She’d lost her advantage.
“Damn you,” she moaned, cussing herself as well as him. It scared her to realize how much power he still had over her.
“Are you a wimp or a woman?” she asked herself, the Glock in her hand becoming unbearably heavy. Either she walked up to that door and faced him, or she called Gordon . . . and jeopardized her grandfather’s life, as well as the girls’.
Keeping her weapon out and ready, Katherine made it around the bend in the driveway and sprinted to the side of the house. Drapes had been drawn, allowing the living room’s plate-glass window to reflect the cloudy sky and swaying tree tops. Although she couldn’t see into the house, if Charles was peeking out, he would have seen her. She waited, every nerve ending on edge.
She heard a sound, but couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe Vince. Maybe one tree branch rubbing another. All she knew was it came from the opposite end of the house, out towards the woods. From inside the house, she heard nothing.
Creeping forward, she ducked below the window’s ledge, and made her way to the front door. She kept her body flat against the side of the house, her gun in her right hand, and tried the door knob with her left.
To her surprise, the knob turned.
The door creaked as it opened, and Katherine moved forward just enough to look inside. She could see most of the living room and part of a dining area but little else. No sign of Charles.
Her grandfather sat on a kitchen chair directly across the room from the front door. Strips of material had been wrapped around his ankles and tied to the legs of the chair. She assumed similar strips of sheeting bound his wrists behind his back. His head was tilted down, his chin resting against his chest, and she could see a wide strip of duct tape covering his mouth. His eyes were closed, but she sighed with relief. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, accompanied by a soft, guttural sound, told her he was asleep.
Katherine knew Charles had placed her grandfather on that chair as a trap, and hoped Vince had found his way around to the back of the house. She stood where she was, listening for any sound that might indicate where Charles or Vince might be.
Still nothing.
Cautiously, she stepped into the house, scanning every part of the room she could see. In the three years she’d worked in Skagway, she hadn’t had one instance when she or her fellow officers had needed to enter a hostile environment. Mentally, she practiced the drill, silently announcing “Clear.”
She would have moved on to the next room, but her grandfather woke at that moment. His head jerked up and his eyes widened when he saw her. He started to twist about in the chair, and she feared he’d tip it over and break a bone in his efforts to free himself.
“Don’t move,” she mouthed, holding up a hand to still him.
He made a sound, and she cringed, glancing around as she moved closer. Charles had to know she was in the house. Where was he?
Katherine had her gun in one hand and a knife in the other by the time she reached her grandfather. Alert for any noise, she crouched behind the chair and made a quick slice through the sheeting strips holding his hands together. She was about to move to the front of the chair and free his legs when she felt the barrel of a gun press against her head.
“Put the gun and the knife on the floor,” Bell said, “then stand up slowly and face me.”
She did as he ordered, and he pushed both her gun and knife away with the side of a stocking covered foot.
No shoes, no noise. Why couldn’t a floor board have creaked? She switched her gaze from his feet to his face. His smile was triumphant. He’d lured her into his web . . . no, into his hive. Once again she’d played the fool.
“You, stay where you are,” he ordered her grandfather, then took her by the arm and led her away from the chair. “Want to see my girls? Maybe join them for a while? It’ll be just like old times, Kit Kat.”
What she wanted to do was puke.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Vince fought back the urge to run—he knew he wouldn’t have a chance if he did—but he couldn’t stop the adrenaline from pulsing through his body, and he realized he was clenching his fists. Time slowed, every second dragging into an eternity as the bear sniffed the air for his scent.
Thoughts collided in his mind. Was Katherine in the house? How long would the bear simply stand there? If he yelled softly, would Bell hear him? If he stood perfectly still, would the bear go away? If he waved his arms, would that be enough?
The summer before, Vince had flown to A
laska’s interior for a fishing trip. The guide for the trip had also given instructions on how to avoid encounters with bears. Whenever they traveled from one spot to another, they talked and made noise, and the only bears Vince ever saw were on distant slopes or the opposite sides of the lakes. Last summer, he’d spotted both grizzlies and black bears, admired their size and wild beauty. Standing less than a hundred yards away from this bear, all he noticed were its long teeth, massive muscles, and lethal claws.
Dammit all, he was a computer tech. He should be back at his office, decoding spyware programs and stopping hackers, not debating how to save his own life. None of the self-defense maneuvers he’d learned during boot camp or in the martial arts classes he’d taken dealt with fighting a five-hundred-pound bear.
Go away, he willed.
“Girls, I’ve brought company,” Charles said, dragging Katherine into a darkened bedroom.
She could make out two beds against the far wall with a nightstand between the two. On each bed, a blanket covered what looked like a body.
Charles released his hold on her arm and a light came on, allowing Katherine a clearer view of the room. She recognized Misty from the picture Crystal had given them, though the girl’s hair was a tangled mess of curls and a bruise was forming on her right cheek. Sarah looked a little better, except for the haunted look in her eyes.
Both girls were tied like animals, strips of sheeting binding their wrists to opposite sides of old-fashioned, wrought-iron headboards. With their arms above their heads, the blankets covering the girls stopped just above their breasts and under their armpits. The only differences in how the girls looked were that Sarah’s blanket didn’t completely cover her bare feet, and she had only a single strip of sheeting connecting her wrists and ankles. Each of Misty’s wrists and ankles was tied using two strips of sheeting.
Katherine remembered the first week of her confinement. Like this room, the cell Charles Bell had created in his basement had been totally dark. The only time she saw light was when he appeared. Stripped naked and tied to a cot, she’d been at his mercy. For days he controlled when she could eat, drink, or use the bathroom, and, in time, she stopped yelling for help and stopped begging him not to rape her.
