Just Try to Stop Me

by Gregg Olsen

  “Let’s pray together.”

  Kelly started the Lord’s Prayer. She could hear her friend echoing her words through the stall. With each word, she’d dig just a little deeper. She was going to get them out of there.

  If it was the last thing she’d ever do.

  * * *

  “Got something for you, Detective.”

  It was Tony Collins on the line. He’d never let her down, and she had a genuine fondness for him. He was techy enough to burrow into the really deep stuff, but aware enough to know that sometimes investigators like Kendall Stark didn’t want the labor pains.

  Just the baby.

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” Kendall said, pulling off an earring and planting the phone next to her ear.

  “No chance of that,” the tech said. “The sticker is state-issued ID. I can’t make out the number, but I’m pretty certain whoever owned that car was an employee of a state agency or office and needed credentials to park.”

  Kendall pondered that. “No way to tell where?”

  “Sorry, no,” he said. “But I did manage to capture the make and model of the car.

  “Subaru Forester,” she said. “That much we already knew.”

  “Yeah, but I narrowed it to four model years. Unfortunately, the color isn’t clear in all the smoke and flames.”

  He didn’t mention the burning teenager.

  “I ran it against the state employee DB,” Tony went on. “I have one hundred and sixty-five names. I’ll shoot ’em over to you.”

  That was a big number. Too big to go through quickly. They were running out of time. Brenda hadn’t posted a video yet that day. She lived for attention and there was no doubt she’d post something soon.

  “Any locals?” Kendall asked.

  “Nope,” Tony said. “At least none that I could see. I just sent you the list.”

  Kendall hung up. She opened the email he’d sent and scrolled through the names. Which one of you unleashed a monster? Who’s up to their neck in the blood of Brenda’s victims? None of the names jumped out. With a manipulator like Brenda Nevins, no one could be off limits. No man. No woman. No age. No nothing. Brenda was an equal opportunity schemer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  “This is good, babe,” Sherman said, watching the video feed from the barn. “Kelly and Amber are praying together.”

  Brenda looked up from her nail file.

  “Religion never helped anyone,” she said, taking in the video, before returning to her manicure. “Least of all me. My parents took me to church, and the pastor molested me once a week for a year.”

  “Holy crap,” Sherman said. “You never told me that. God, I’m sorry.”

  “God had everything to do with it,” she said.

  He stood next to the bed. “You’ve been through so much,” he said. “I just want to take away all of the hurt. I want to keep you safe. That’s my purpose.”

  Brenda looked at him in that same way that pulled him in when they met at the prison. It was a look that telegraphed sex and promises of more to come. It told him without words that he was something to be desired. That whatever Susan had thought of him in the bedroom or in life had been so far from reality.

  “Make love to me, Sherman,” she said. “Show me how a man takes away a woman’s pain. I need you now.”

  He moved away from the laptop and went to her.

  “I’ll show you,” he said.

  Brenda was already naked. She got up and undid his belt buckle, keeping her eyes on his the entire time. She slid off his pants and tugged at his boxers.

  “Somebody’s sure excited,” she said.

  He dipped his head and reached for her.

  “No,” she said, teasing. “I’m going to do all the work here. I’m going to show you how much I love you. I’m going to record this for everyone to see. They need to see how it’s done.”

  By then Sherman Wilder didn’t care if anyone identified him from those videos. It didn’t matter anymore.

  He’d never leave her. She was the Brenda Nevins. Wherever they went, she’d be known. He didn’t mind the risk. He was certain the police or the FBI would never catch them. Law enforcement was stupid. They, on the other had, were anything but.

  They were invincible.

  Brenda turned on the camera, returned to the bed, and pulled him downward.

  “I’m going to be on top,” she said. “And I’m going to ride you until you can no longer take it.”

  “I want you to,” he said. “I want you to do whatever you want to me, baby. I’ve never felt so alive.”

  Brenda smiled at his words. She mounted him and started to move, up and down, just the right amount . . . and then more . . . he closed his eyes like he always did.

  She lowered herself onto his chest, rubbing her nipples against his flabby torso.

  He moaned at her touch. Sweat collected on his brow. He moved with her like an ocean wave.

  “God, you feel good!” he called out. The headboard banged against the wall like Morse code pounding out his words.

  “I do. I do too,” she said. She reached under the pillow. In doing so, she slowed her rhythm.

  Sherman, his eyes still shut, made a face.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  “I’m going.” She positioned herself back on top of him and made a quick turn to look at the camera.

  “Are you there yet?” she asked.

  Sherman panted. “I’m there,” he said. “I’m there! Are you?”

  “Open your eyes,” she said. “I want you to see me.”

  Sherman did as he was asked. He always did. His eyes popped open.

  As though she’d rehearsed it, she swung the razor at Sherman’s neck with all the strength that she had. His hand went up to stop her, but it was too late. Way too late. Blood shot from his jugular like a small geyser. He gasped and gurgled and tried to fight her. She stayed on top of him, tossing the razor aside and holding him down while the blood poured over them.

  “Damn you, Brenda,” he said, his voice coming from the gash in his neck.

  Then she let go. She sat there a second, watching the life ebb from her lover.

  “You stupid old man,” she said as the blood oozed from his neck onto her naked body. She rolled off him and looked at the camera, dead on. She shook herself a little. She could see herself in the mirror over the bureau. Red was everywhere. Her face. Her hair. It was as though she was a candy apple and she’d been dipped in a sticky vat of red.

  Sherman’s foot twitched. Brenda watched it with a strange fascination.

  She was thinking. Deciding what to say. She took a damp towel from the bedside and mopped her face. Streaks of blood burnished her skin like mahogany. She stepped closer to the camera and spoke.

  “I know this will go viral. That’s what I want. So please, share. I’d been thinking about it for the past couple of days. Really trying to make sure that I’m doing the right thing. Have I gotten all that I could from him? Would he be useful to me tomorrow? Next week? It’s hard to see beyond the moment that you’re in. Making plans is a risk. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you want them to, and then what? What good were the plans to begin with?”

  She tilted her head and ran her fingers through her bloody hair. She’d never had so much blood on her in her life. It smelled metallic. It was slightly viscous. And the color. It was more beautiful than any shade of red she’d ever seen. Her nails were ready for polishing, and the color looked lovely on them.

  “You think you saw it all?” she asked. “You’ve only seen what I want you to see. You didn’t see how he’d drugged me and raped me. You didn’t see him threaten to kill my own mother if I didn’t succumb to his wishes. He was a pig. That’s what you didn’t see.”

  She looked over at Sherman on the Jackson Pollock red down comforter. His eyes stared upward at the ceiling. Not a flicker of life remained in his body.

  “A cut pig,” she said, her eyes once more fixed on the lens. Sh
e reached over to turn off the camera.

  * * *

  While sweat collected on the nape of her neck, Kendall worked her way through the catalog of names. She was frantic. Minutes or seconds could make the difference. She did not have access to state employee records, but she did know how to use Google. She disregarded any individuals east of the mountains—too far. She also scratched off the names of women—she was all but certain that Brenda Nevins had the help of a man. She thought back to that prison video. It had been made for the benefit of a male. She’d used her sex appeal to lure in someone who could do what she wanted done. Janie Thomas had been only a means to an end.

  Janie’s end.

  One name in particular caught her attention. It came with an interesting work history.

  Sherman Wilder, IT versatilist, DATA, Inc.

  Bingo.

  She dialed Fenton Becker at the women’s prison. When he got on the line, he acted put out.

  “What do you know about Sherman Wilder?”

  Fenton stalled. “Him? Why do you ask?”

  “Fenton, I need to know,” she said, her voice rising. “I need to know right now. You know him, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “By reputation only. I saw his file. Superintendent Thomas fired him. She had to let him go.”

  “What was he doing?” Kendall asked. “Why was he terminated?”

  “He worked in the information technology department. Systems engineer, I think. I really don’t know the details. I only know that my predecessor thought he was inappropriate for the job.”

  “Can you get to the point, please? Inappropriate how?”

  “Something about the security system at the institution. I gather that he messed with it and she caught him. It’s vague.”

  Kendall wished she could reach into the phone and throttle him. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me this?”

  “Don’t get snippy with me, missy.”

  He didn’t? Did he?

  “Did you really just call me that?” she asked.

  Fenton back-pedaled. “Sorry, we have about the blackest mark against us you can imagine. The media keeps camping out across the street. We’re a damn laughingstock. A serial killer got out of our facility and killed some people. A lot of people. It came from the very top that we were not to talk about the IT breach.”

  Throttle him. Good.

  “You moron,” Kendall said, unable to hold it inside. “Those girls are dead because of you.”

  “You should have caught her when you had the chance,” he said, his tone defensive. “Not our fault.”

  Kendall wanted to yell into the phone.

  “I need you to tell me everything you can about Wilder.”

  “You’ll need a subpoena. Employee records are confidential.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You tell me what I need to know or I go on CNN and tell the world that you’ve covered up details that could have saved the lives of some young girls. Have you seen the videos?”

  He was quiet.

  “Yes,” he said. “They make me sick. But—”

  “But nothing. Talk. Now. Or be on the front page of every paper in the country as the creep that protected a serial killer’s accomplice.”

  “You don’t think Sherman Wilder is an accomplice. It was Janie who caused all of this.”

  “Keep talking. Now.”

  Kendall could hear him hitting the keys of his computer.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be covering up, Fenton.”

  Fenton was nervous. His words choked in his throat. “Yeah. Right. Cover-up. Headlines could get real ugly.”

  “Brenda Nevins ugly,” Kendall said.

  “Okay. Fine. Sherman Wilder . . . let’s see . . . what do you want to know?”

  Must this be so hard?

  “Everything,” she said. “Get on with it.”

  “Worked on contract in Olympia, first at the state tourism bureau then later in systems at the insurance commissioner’s office,” he said. “Worked here for a year. His history looks good until his termination. He even volunteered to teach.”

  “What subject?” Kendall asked, though she already knew.

  “Internet and new media,” he said.

  Kendall could feel her blood pressure rise. “What else does his file say, Fenton? I need details and I need them now.”

  “Divorced. Has one dependent, a daughter. His forwarding address is 48 Elwha River Road, Port Angeles.”

  “Ex-wife? Daughter?”

  “Sue Ellen Turner is the wife. She’s still listed as the emergency contact, though he’s got his daughter as a secondary contact. It’s a 876 number, Port Orchard.”

  “Amber,” Kendall said.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Read the papers,” she said. “She’s one of the missing girls, Fenton.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Violet Wilder wasn’t sure if she was dead or if she was dreaming. Time and space seemed foggy. For a second or two, she didn’t remember where she was. Who she was. What had happened to her. When all of that came back it was like a punch to the stomach. Hard. Tear-inducing.

  She lay on the floor of the stable in a bed of hay. It was Monty’s stall. While she couldn’t see much, she could feel the presence of her favorite horse. It was as though his spirit was still there in that space where she’d put him after a long ride up the ridge; where she brushed his shiny black coat longer than she needed to because he loved the attention she gave him.

  Violet shifted her body and bit her lip as the throbbing spiked. It was a fierce pain, one that she’d never experienced before. Something was broken. Leg? Ribs? The agony fell over her like a long, dark shadow on a winter’s day. Starting at her toes and then running to her neck, her temples.

  She tried to take herself out of that thought by remembering the day that she got Monty. It wasn’t that long ago. She was an old woman. A widow. The kids were all but grown. She’d busied herself on the farm doing all the things she’d done. Nevertheless she felt alone.

  When a neighbor a few miles down the road told her that she was selling her horse, Violet, who’d admired the handsome black gelding, knew she had to have him. She’d watched him in the pasture over the past couple of years and she always felt that he had watched her back when she’d pass by. She didn’t tell her kids because they wouldn’t understand. They’d say she was too old; her bones were too brittle. That she couldn’t manage one more animal on the farm. That she already had horses. They couldn’t understand the connection because their lives were full.

  “You know me,” Violet had said, when she first brought Monty home.

  When the horse nuzzled her, she told herself that he was answering back.

  “Yes, I do.”

  There in the dark, she cried for the loss of that horse. More than the hideous predicament of her captivity, the animal she loved was on her mind. She had hoped that her son had sold the horse to a good home. But she wasn’t sure if he had. She wasn’t sure about much—but one thing.

  Her son had killed Tansy. He’d actually killed someone. This couldn’t be happening. She wanted to shut out that thought. Think of the horse. She knew that her life would be over soon.

  If Monty were dead, she’d be with him again.

  Her tired bones hurt. She could barely lift her head. That was okay. She wanted to go to heaven.

  “Can you hear me?” a voice came to her.

  Violet turned toward the sound.

  “Can you hear me?”

  It was a girl’s voice.

  An angel? Have I died?

  “My name is Kelly,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Violet Wilder,” she answered, still unsure if she had heard right.

  “We have to get out of here,” Kelly said, her whisper ragged.

  Violet wished she could move closer to the sound, but she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t do anything she wanted it to. She tried to li
ft her head and turn. It was useless.

  “Hey,” Kelly said, “are you all right?”

  Neither of them is all right, of course.

  “What’s happening to us?” Violet said.

  “They are going to kill us. All of us.”

  Violet hoped she wasn’t hearing things correctly.

  “Are you listening to me?” Kelly said.

  Violet moved her head. “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “If we don’t do something, those two will kill us.”

  “Those two?” It wasn’t really a question, but a way for Violet’s brain to process what the girl on the other side of the wall was saying to her.

  “Yeah, that bitch and her sicko boyfriend.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  It had been quiet in the barn. Kelly and Amber hadn’t said a word to one another after they’d prayed. Kelly kept digging, her heart pounding, her arms growing tired. Yet that didn’t stop her. She’d never been a quitter. She had everything on the line. When she broke through to the other side of the wall and a pool of light formed around the small opening, she didn’t think twice. Kelly Sullivan clawed her way under the wall.

  I’m a gopher. I’m a snake! I can fit!

  A nail or a sharp piece of wood sliced through her back and she didn’t even cry out.

  I’m a badger. I’m getting us out of here!

  She was out of the stall; out of the barn. The light of day was like a dream. She questioned if it was real. She looked up at the house. At the garden. Nothing about the scene was menacing, but she was so very scared.

  In her bloody hand was the horseshoe. She held tight to it and ran. It didn’t cross her mind to head through the orchard and beyond to the forest. Or to the river. A way to get the hell out of there.

  Instead, Kelly went back for the others.

  I’m a badger! I really am!

  She rounded the barn and slipped into a door. The entry to the tack room was wide open; the computers and camera equipment twinkled cheerfully. She wondered what all of that meant. None of it made sense. As fast and as quietly as she could, Kelly started to open the stall doors. She didn’t call out to the girls because to do so would be to alert the monsters who had taken them and killed Patty Sparks. She was fairly certain that Chloe and Blake had been removed from the barn—neither had made a sound for what seemed like an eternity. Her eyes scanned the dark space of the first stall. Empty. Blake was gone.