I picked up the phone. I needed help, and it couldn’t come from law enforcement. I only knew one phone number here. I dialed. A recording of Lindsay’s voice, the Californian woman I’d met at the revival, came on.
“What are you doing?” Professor Wellington stood at the opening, looking between Toga man and me. He’d pulled on a Phantom of the Opera mask but otherwise was in street clothes.
Toga man groaned and cradled his injured parts as he continued to thrash on the floor.
A man in a doctor’s coat and a woman in a mime outfit pushed in behind him. “Is this where all the action is?” the woman slurred.
Wellington glared at the drunk couple.
One chance. My daughter’s life was at stake. I smiled at all of them, my jaw clenched. “Just let me finish this phone call. Yes, hi, Lindsay, this is Gwen. I just wanted you to buzz Blake for me. Tell him thanks for the comment on Aynslee’s Scripture. No. No.” The phone continued to record. “Just say I’m not very protected here.” I hung up.
Wellington smiled without showing his teeth. “You must be here for your daughter. Let me take you to her.”
The two partygoers staggered away.
I assessed the situation. Wellington was out of kicking distance and blocked the only exit from the room. Backing up, I collided with the printer. I risked taking my eyes off the man to search for a weapon. Nothing was nearby but a ream of paper. When I looked back at Wellington, he had a smirk on his face. His gaze started at my spiky hair, then moved past my broken hand to the long skirt. He cautiously approached.
Keeping the table between us, I matched him step for step.
He dodged left.
I dashed for the door. My sprained ankle slowed me too much.
Wellington grabbed my broken hand.
Liquid fire ran up my arm. I tried to scream. He yanked me close and whispered in my ear, “One sound out of you and your daughter’s dead. Do you understand?”
Clamping down a scream from the pain, I nodded. Tears burned my cheeks.
Shifting his grip to my wrist, he grasped the waistband of my skirt with his other hand and propelled me forward. “Come with me.”
My feet barely touched the ground as we headed to the patio doors. Letting go of my skirt, he reached out and turned the knob. Locked. He rattled it for a moment, then cursed.
Grabbing my clothing again, he turned and headed into the hall. If he takes me upstairs, I can break free. Even if they’re drunk, someone would help. Aynslee must be nearby.
He hauled me up the stairs, yanking when I stumbled. Not stopping when we reached the living room, he plowed through the partygoers. Voices were louder, laughter more frantic, and “Highway to Hell” pounded from the sound system.
I sucked in a deep breath to scream.
He jerked me close and whispered, “If you yell or say one word, you’ll never see your daughter again.”
My body was freezing. The room swirled around me.
“How did you get out of the basement snake room, Devin?” I asked the professor.
He waved in Junior’s direction. “A most accommodating deputy was performing his door-to-door search when he found me. He was shocked that you’d attacked me. And ruined my car. I said you might have gone nuts and would show up here. They’re going to arrest you.”
“I’ll tell them the truth, Devin.”
“Why are you calling me that name? Just another reason to think you’re crazy.”
We’d almost reached the patio when the music abruptly ceased and the lights came up. The guests on the patio headed inside in a steady stream of costumed bodies, forcing us backward into the room.
Arless, looking like Errol Flynn in a dashing Robin Hood outfit, called out, “It’s midnight. Everyone, remove your masks!” The partygoers slowly took off their masks as Arless grinned, showing his perfect teeth. “Now I have an announcement.” He put his arm out to Blanche, who’d glided up next to him. “I’ll be stepping down from the state senate, and stepping up to the race for the White House.” The revelers applauded wildly. He gazed around the room and waved. He spotted me. His eyes widened, mouth dropped, and face grew pale.
Blanche clapped while smiling at the room. She looked over at Arless and paused, then followed his stare. Her hand flew to her chest and her expression dropped. After a moment, she approached. “Oh, my dear, oh my,” she whispered. “What happened to you? Wellington, take her to my car in the garage. She needs a hospital. Don’t make a fuss. We don’t want others to get upset and leave.”
Wellington slid his arm around my waist and moved through the guests, who were now loading up on another round of drinks. None of them turned around as we passed. Whiffs of expensive perfume fought against late-night body odor and spilled drinks.
Someone, please notice me. Call the police. Help.
I spotted Junior by the window. I stared hard at him, willing him to look my way. He started to turn just as we reached the kitchen.
The catering staff was busily scrubbing down the already-immaculate surfaces. Disinfectant cleaner replaced the smell of fried food and spices. None looked up, even when Wellington dropped his Phantom mask on the counter. He forced me through to the garage beyond. The three parked cars blazed with showroom polish. Brassy fluorescent lights bounced off the stark white walls and illuminated every corner. I could easily see the entire room from the raised concrete platform. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Ah, Aynslee’s had quite the party. She enjoyed several Long Island iced teas. I told her they were a special, nonalcoholic recipe. The last one had a special addition to it. My own special blend of GHB.”
“What! The date-rape drug?”
“Yes, and so tricky, especially mixed with alcohol. She’s passed out in one of the bedrooms. Or by now, she could be—”
Wrenching free, I dashed down the three steps to the spotless garage floor and raced toward the door on the far side.
“Stop!”
Risking a glance over my shoulder, I froze.
Wellington had a pistol pointed at my head.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THOUGH MY HEART POUNDED LIKE A DRUM, I turned to face him.
The kitchen door opened and Blanche and Arless poured onto the raised concrete area, looking like actors entering a stage, complete with costumes. Wellington slipped the pistol into his pocket.
I spun and raced for the garage door. Before I could reach it, Clay and Junior stepped in.
Backing away, I studied the assembled group. Blanche looked surprised; Arless, stunned; Clay, dazed; and Junior, confused.
I stared at each of their faces. The truth stared back at me. I’d been wrong.
My mind whirled, putting the new information together. It fit. It all fit. I turned to Junior. “Junior, arrest Professor Wellington as the Hillbilly Rapist and for the murders of Ina Jo Cummings, Trish Garlock, and Elijah and Ruby Adkins. He may be responsible for other murders as well.”
Junior’s head jerked back and eyes opened wide. He reached for his sidearm.
“That’s ridiculous,” Blanche said. “Dr. Wellington’s a highly respected, tenured professor at the university. From the look of your injuries, you’ve probably hurt your head. You don’t even make sense.”
My face grew warm. “My head’s fine. I suspect you’ll find a lot of similar cases of rape and torture at or around that very university. Using date-rape drugs.” I took a step toward Junior and Clay. I had to get Aynslee to a hospital.
“You’re right, Blanche,” Sheriff Reed said. “She does need to get help.” He looked at me and said in a condescending tone, “Jason Morrow’s dead, shot while trying to escape being arrested for the rapes and murder, and Trish was an accident. She fell. You were there. You found her body.”
I shook my head violently. “No! Trish was murdered. She didn’t have an accident on the way to the cabin. She arrived there just fine. Then Wellington killed her.”
“Really, Gwen,” Arless said. “Blanche is right. You mu
st have a head injury. Why would you say something like that?”
“Wellington got careless.” I slid my foot back another step. “Everyone headed to the cabin was given a map for how to get there. But on the first morning here, Trish told me Wellington grew up in Pikeville. He’s also been driving around the countryside to do his research. He wouldn’t have needed a map to get to the cabin, yet there was a map on the table—”
Wellington actually laughed. “That’s it? Pretty thin evidence—”
I worked some spit into my mouth. “That’s just the start. There’s tons of evidence. Trish was going to give me a magazine article about the serpent handlers. You were out of the room, Wellington, when she said that. If Trish were killed before she arrived at the cabin, why was her article in the cabin, under the map Blanche gave her?” I looked at Junior.
Wellington leaped forward, flying over the three steps, and grabbed my arm before I could run. “I think you need to . . .” His gaze darted to the people on the platform, then to Clay and Junior. “Um, get to that doctor as soon as possible. Get in the car. I’ll drive you.”
I can’t get in that car. I’ll disappear and Aynslee will die. I ignored Wellington and continued to press Junior. “Arless suggested I stay at the cabin with my daughter, a place that Wellington had been using for his perverted attacks. Big oops. He’d just kidnapped his next victim, Ina Jo Cummings. He didn’t have time to complete his ritual—”
Wellington grabbed my injured arm and pinched hard.
Pain shot up my arm. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I continued. “With us arriving, Wellington needed to get rid of her and hide the evidence of his work. So he killed her and threw her in the river. He returned to the cabin to clean up, but Trish appeared and caught him at it. He murdered Trish and made it look like an accident.”
Wellington shifted his grip closer to my broken hand and squeezed again. “You’re raving. You need medical attention.”
The pain was so intense I could barely draw a breath. “Junior. It’s up to you. Have your crime-scene technicians go over the Campbell cabin, especially the stain on the underside of the mattress,” I gasped out. “Remember Locard’s exchange principle. The transference of evidence occurs—”
I ran out of air.
“No one’s buying this, Gwen,” Wellington whispered in my ear. “Junior is incapable of doing anything useful. But you know what I’m capable of. And I have your daughter. Just wait—”
Adrenaline surged through my veins. “You’ll also find,” I continued in a louder voice, “a camera that has been hidden in the smoke alarm. I bet, with a subpoena, you’d find a collection of very interesting tapes in Wellington’s possession.”
Wellington squeezed harder.
The sheriff’s gaze moved from me to Wellington. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.
The pistol quivered in Junior’s hand. He looked at Clay. “Dad?”
I spoke even faster to Junior. “Your dad loves you, but he was afraid you were the rapist. He has a DNA report under the tray in his desk. He’s had the evidence of who gave twelve-year-old Mary Adkins poison since April, but he’s been terrified of comparing your DNA because it would confirm who the killer was. So he did nothing. And more people died.” I looked at Clay. “But that DNA won’t match Junior.”
Clay swiped at the sweat on his face and held out his hand toward Wellington. “Son, I’d appreciate it if you’d let go of Gwen and let me take her to the hospital.”
“No.” Wellington pulled the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the sheriff. “First of all, I’m not your son. But speaking of sons, let me remind you you’re in this mess up to your neck. You have political ambitions, which would be dashed by having a rapist son. He’s a mental midget—”
“He’s not.” I had to keep the sheriff on my side, even though he’d made some foolish mistakes. “Junior has Asperger’s syndrome. High-functioning autism. I finally recognized the—”
Wellington squeezed harder.
“You might want to shut up about my boy,” Clay said. “Before I—”
“Before you what?” Wellington swung his pistol, now aiming it at Junior. “Both of you, move to the platform and drop your weapons.”
Both men remained motionless.
“Or shall we talk about”—Wellington wiggled the gun—“how a backwoods, small-town sheriff can afford a Rolex Daytona watch, worth, what is it? Ten, fifteen thousand? And there’s that gold cigarette lighter. You’ve been well paid to look the other way.”
Clay stared at him. “They were gifts. I was going to be Arless’s campaign manager.”
“Really?” Wellington said. “Did Arless tell you that? Or were you led to believe that lie? Think about it. You failed at your own attempts at getting elected for anything but sheriff. Why would Arless hire you when, with his money, he could have anyone?”
“Clay, please, do the right thing.” I reached out my good hand toward him. “Too many people are dead. Too much pain and suffering. It has to end.”
“And end it will,” Wellington whispered in my ear.
Clay, with Junior trailing, moved to the platform. Reluctantly, he pulled a snub-nosed .38 from his back holster and placed it on the concrete floor of the garage. He turned to Junior. “Put your gun down, son.”
Junior’s hands fluttered for a moment, then he unbuckled his service belt and set it on the platform next to his father’s weapon.
“See?” Wellington whispered.
“What is going on here?” Arless asked.
“Blanche,” Wellington said. “Pick up the guns.”
Blanche scooped them up. The modern weapons looked incongruous with her Renaissance dress. “Now what are you going to do?” she asked Wellington.
“Take her someplace where she can get the help she needs.”
“Good,” Blanche said. “I have no idea what’s going on, but we can sort this out in the morning. Darling”—she touched her husband’s cheek—“please go back to our guests.”
Arless shook his head.
Wellington dragged me toward the car and said under his breath, “I’m going to get rid of you. And your daughter.”
My blood ran cold. Wellington once again gripped my arm. “Move.”
I squeezed my eyes shut in pain. Once in that car, I would be dead. And Devin would win.
I jerked my arm as hard as I could, breaking free of the professor’s grasp. The pain made me stagger for a moment. Sucking in air that smelled of gasoline, tires, and wax, I leaned against the car, then turned toward Arless. “You said it was time for the masks to come off. I agree. I think it’s high time for Devin Maynard to unmask.”
All the expressions around me looked confused. All but two.
“I know the truth, Devin.” I looked straight at the killer.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arless said. “Oh, wait. Are you referring to the name in that old Bible?”
“I’m talking about your wife, Arless. Blanche Campbell, or should I say, Devin Maynard Campbell. The daughter of Grady Maynard. And a cold-blooded killer.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ARLESS STIFFENED. “YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT my wife.”
“Yes.”
Blanche’s eyes were black, stone-cold pools of fury. “Very theatrical, Gwen.”
“Impossible,” Clay snapped. “I grew up around here. Everyone would have recognized a looker like her the moment she returned to Pikeville, even married with a different name.”
“But she wasn’t a ‘looker,’ as you so tactfully put it, Clay. Twenty years ago she would have left town as a holiness woman, with long hair, no makeup, and old-fashioned, frumpy clothes. No one would have looked twice at her. I’m guessing, after viewing her dad, that she had a nose job.” I looked at Blanche. “How long did you save up for that, I wonder.”
Blanche gripped the gun tighter.
“Elocution lessons, new hair, makeup, and voilà! A new woman. But your ears, Blanche. I not
iced your ears at dinner the first night I was here. One ear smaller than the other and ever so slightly deformed. I figured you had grade one microtia. In a very small percentage of people, that malformation can be inherited. When I saw your dad in that rock grave where you shoved him all those many years ago, he was well preserved. Every feature: nose, lips, and ears. He had grade three microtia. I put it all together—”
“I don’t know what’s going on here.” Arless looked from one person to the other. “But I think it’s gone on long enough. Blanche, dear, give the sheriff back his guns. Wellington, I have no idea what Gwen is talking about, but I’m going to look into it. Someone needs to get Gwen to a doctor—”
“Arless, listen to me.” I spoke fast, not knowing how long I had to make my case. “Blanche hated her father, hated his church, and hated the practice of snake handling. I’d bet her early life was one of being different, ostracized by her classmates.”
Air hissed between Blanche’s clenched teeth.
“Ridiculous.” Arless made a dismissive wave with his hand. “She’s always been beautiful and popular.”
“I bet she’s the one who pressed you to increase the punishment for serpent handling in Kentucky.”
Arless didn’t answer, but his eyebrows rose.
“She threw her own father into a cave to die, but before he did, he wrote a message. I have that note. I used it as bait to hopefully identify Grady’s killer. I’d bet when Wellington told you I was at the cabin and what I had, you sent him up there to kill me.”
Blanche’s mask slipped further. “Shut up, Gwen. You’re delusional.”
Arless looked at his wife and frowned. “Don’t be upset, dear. Gwen is obviously ill.”
“I marked his grave,” I said.
“Wellington, drive her to the hospital,” Blanche said through tight lips. “Clay, Junior, please rejoin the party.”
Clay stared at her, his hands forming fists.
That reminded me of something. “Clay, the body you found in the river so many years ago, the unidentified one . . .”
When Death Draws Near Page 24
