Damn it! Tyler could be doing it right now. But wait. There was nothing to see in the bathroom darkness. Thank God.
But as soon as he hit daylight, and it had to be daylight out there by now, his point of view might blaze into Tyler’s subconscious full-force. He’d gone to all this effort for nothing. He had been trapped here by far more than four plastic zip ties since the moment Tyler dragged him through the garage door. He just didn’t know it.
Mr. Jitters came knocking. Hard and long. The tingle of an anxiety attack began to stir. Brian pushed it back. He couldn’t quit now, couldn’t give up after he’d gotten this far. A plan formed in his head. A long shot. But it beat waiting for Tyler to waltz into the bathroom and see that Brian had freed himself.
Brian closed his eyes tight. His connections to Tyler were video only, and he hoped that worked the same both ways. He pulled his shorts up to his waist. Grabbing the edge of the sink, he raised himself up on his right foot. Leg muscles threatened to shred at the unaccustomed motion. Blood surged down to his left foot and it felt like someone was pounding it with a mallet in time with his thudding heart.
He stagger-hopped to the bathroom door, felt for the knob and turned it slowly. He pulled the door open without a sound. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the outside world was brighter. That worked into his plan.
He stood in the doorway and listened. Silence. Another good sign.
Now he had to get to the laptop computer he saw yesterday in the living room, assuming it was still there. Tyler wouldn’t have had time to move it, nor a need to, as far as Brian could tell. Brian couldn’t risk opening his eyes to find out. He’d just have to pray it was still there.
He dropped to his hands and knees. He crossed his left ankle over his right to cradle his pounding, smashed foot, then began a slow, awkward crawl across the living-room carpet.
He drew a mental picture of the furniture as he remembered it. The couch, the repositioned recliner, the end tables, including the one with the laptop. He aimed himself in the direction of the couch and crawled. Each pull of his arms opened the gash on his wrist a bit wider. The carpet ignited friction burns on his knees with each skidding inch across the rough fibers.
His shoulder grazed the couch. The vinyl sheet was still in place, an unwelcome reminder that Tyler probably planned for the two of them to deal a few more playing cards together here. He inched along the perimeter of the couch, found the corner, then the end table where he’d last seen the laptop. He raised himself up, took a deep breath, and ran a hand across the tabletop. Disappointment mounted as he found nothing there. Then his fingers touched something hard and thin. They ran across a keyboard. Brian smiled.
He swept the laptop off and into one hand. It felt cold. He prayed that just meant it was off, not dead.
He crawled back across the carpet, aiming for the hallway. His hands hit tile and he edged to the right. He touched the hall closet door. He reached up, turned the handle, and crawled inside. He dragged his throbbing left foot in after him and shut the door.
Back in near total darkness, he dared open his eyes. The closet smelled musty. The sleeves of a few windbreakers brushed his head. A collection of shoes dug into his butt. The bones in his left foot felt like a collection of darning needles jabbing into each other. He positioned his foot across a pair of boots so it could stay suspended. That felt a little better. He pushed the laptop’s On button, and hoped for a charged battery.
The machine hummed and began to boot up. He closed his eyes again. Until he was ready to put his plan in motion, he didn’t want any visions interrupting Tyler’s slumber. He couldn’t risk more than a split-second of an image every now and then.
The hard drive stopped humming. He took a quick peek at the screen and then shut his eyes again. No log-on code, just a message saying ‘Hi, Benjamin!’ This must have been the homeowner’s laptop and Tyler had appropriated it along with the rest of the house. Good news for Brian.
He glanced long enough at the screen to find an internet browser icon and clicked on it. He waited a few seconds for the page to spool up. Then he blind-typed in www.planetearthview.com, knowing the address would end up in the search box. He hit Enter.
He’d used this site for years. Planet Earth View had used a fleet of VW Beetles with bulbous rooftop cameras to do street views of damn near everywhere. There was one place he knew for sure was in the database, because he’d checked it out before moving last year.
Still without opening his eyes, he typed in the address of his apartment complex and hit Enter. He moved closer to the laptop screen. He counted to ten and opened his eyes.
His apartment complex dazzled on the screen, high definition and lit in beautiful Florida sunshine. He made sure that no edge of the laptop screen was in his field of view. Then he tapped the left arrow key and began a slow virtual stroll through his neighborhood. With the minimal pixelization, and filtered into black and white, and with his view in motion, the scene might not look as static as it really was. Now he just needed Tyler to take the bait.
Brian started a second lap around his block and began to think of REM cycles and what combination of sleep patterns enabled his connection with his brother. He started to worry about how much battery old Benjamin had left in the laptop, but wasn’t about to break his neighborhood view to find out.
“Goddamn it!” Tyler shouted from the bedroom. A door slammed. Bare feet slapped the hallway tile. Another door opened with a crash against a wall. “Goddamn fucking shit!”
Tyler had bought it. He’d tapped into Brian’s point of view, and recognized the apartment complex. Brian imagined him bolting out of the bedroom and the fury in his face when he saw the bathroom prison empty. He wished he could have seen it.
Muffled profanity continued to spew from the other side of the door. Several items crashed, no doubt thrown in frustration. Then the door to the garage opened and slammed closed. The exterior rollup door began its muffled, slow, groaning climb. The Camry fired up and screeched out of the garage before the door even stopped moving.
Brian sighed with relief and popped open the door. Fuzzy sunlight filled the closet. He took a deep breath and for the first time in days, relaxed.
Now he had to get out of here.
Walking was out of the question. Calling the cops would leave him in jail and Tyler in the wind. Calling his parents would be the same thing as calling the cops. His mother probably had Detective Weissbard’s number on speed dial. Only one person might listen to him long enough to agree to get him out of here, and give him a chance to contact the police on his own terms.
He didn’t have a phone, but he had the next best thing, the internet. He called up SnappyWords, the instant messaging service Daniela always had active on her phone. He searched her name, then typed a message.
ITS BRIAN. NEED YOUR HELP. IM INNOCENT, SETUP. KIDNAPPED.
He waited. Would she answer? Was she showing her phone screen to a cop right now?
A reply popped up. WHERE ARE YOU?
He pumped a fist in joy and typed in PALM BAY PRESERVE IN OSCEOLA COUNTY and hit Send.
That wouldn’t be enough. The complex was huge. He needed an address, at least a house number. He put the laptop on the floor, grabbed the door knob and pulled himself up. He hopped over to the long window next to the front door. There’d be a house number here, or across the street. If he was at a corner, maybe even a street sign. Wouldn’t that be great! He leaned against the glass and looked outside. His heart stopped.
The silver Camry was in the driveway.
“Hey, brother,” Tyler said from behind him.
Brian whirled around. Tyler swung a fist and it crashed into Brian’s jaw. Brian fell on his broken foot, screamed and collapsed on the ground in unbearable pain. Tyler pounced on him, pinned his arms to the ground with his knees and wrapped his hands around Brian’s throat. He squeezed and Brian choked. He t
ried in vain to buck Tyler off, but searing pain rendered his left foot and leg useless. Tyler squeezed harder and Brian stopped struggling. Tyler relaxed his grip and Brian took a breath.
“Seconds down the road,” Tyler said, “and I figured, hey, wait, there’s no way you could get so far away with that foot I gave you. Then I realized it was cloudy, and in the dream vision, it was sunny. I didn’t know how, but somehow you’d tricked me. Nothing fit. Back I came to find you still here. The question is, how in the hell.…”
Tyler looked around the hallway and into the open closet. He left one hand clamped on Brian’s throat. He reached over with the other and batted out the laptop. Planet Earth View and SnappyWords were still open. Tyler focused on the bright picture of Brian’s apartment complex. “Ah, clever, little bro. Almost clever enough.”
Tyler’s gaze shifted down to the SnappyWords window. “And what the hell is this?” He scrutinized the window. Wrath filled his face as he realized what it was. “Motherfucker! A message? To.…” He searched for the name. “Shit! Daniela! Well, you’ve done your best to fuck this all to hell, haven’t you?”
At the sound of her name, Brian went numb. He’d just put her in Tyler’s crosshairs.
Tyler squeezed harder. Brian gagged and his lungs screamed for air. The edges of Brian’s vision turned black. He felt his body going numb.
“No worries, bro,” Tyler said from somewhere that seemed really far away. “I’m going to set all this straight. And you just inspired me how.”
Then everything went dark and quiet.
Chapter Fifty
Tampa Bay’s morning had dawned lousy. The thick, pregnant kind of raindrops that only the tropics could deliver pounded the ground, and a sky full of black clouds promised a full day of it. Some low-pressure mess had settled off the coast and the forecast guaranteed a full day of wet.
Weissbard’s mood matched the weather. No good news awaited him when he arrived at work. No one on the task force had dug up any promising leads. Calls to the tip line had dropped to near zero, and the ones who did call were obvious crackpots. Sheridan’s unsealed birth records weren’t waiting in his email inbox, either. His police-friendly judge had issued the order, but who knew how long it would take the state of Virginia to comply? Even then, the records might add up to nothing.
Detective Sergeant Francisco rushed in from the hallway. He looked worse for the wear from the Playing Card Killer case. The supposed quick victory he’d snatched from Weissbard had morphed into a quagmire and his usual big smiles and glib comments couldn’t extract him this time. Every shining hair on his head was still in perfect place, but dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his face appeared pallid and drawn. The last few days he’d snapped at every question anyone asked, barked every order he’d given. Weissbard guessed he’d just returned from giving the chain of command a briefing on the manhunt for Sheridan. He also guessed that it hadn’t gone well.
Francisco eyed Weissbard and grimaced. This whole event had done nothing to make their working relationship any better. Out of all the other detectives, Francisco made a beeline for Weissbard.
“Tell me you’re working some productive angle, Swissbard?”
“Double-checked the ex-girlfriend, didn’t pan out. Neither did a tip-line sighting report.”
Francisco didn’t seem in the mood to hear Weissbard’s theory that Sheridan might not be their man. Weissbard wasn’t in the mood to share it with the prick anyway.
“Well, why don’t you work on something that does pan out?” Francisco said. “This isn’t up north. We solve cases here.”
He stormed off. More than ever, Weissbard wanted to split this case wide open. His phone rang and displayed an unfamiliar number. He picked up.
“This is Detective Weissbard.”
“Hi, this is Daniela Schiavetta. You left me your card when we talked about Brian Sheridan.”
Weissbard perked up. She wouldn’t be calling just to say hello.
“Of course, Daniela. Has something come up?”
“Brian might have texted me. Now I’m scared to death.”
“Daniela, there’s a uniformed officer parked across from your apartment. I’ve had someone watching over you for days. You have nothing to be afraid of. Are you sure it was Brian contacting you?” Calling Sheridan anything but Sheridan really stuck in Weissbard’s throat, but he wanted a softer tone with Daniela.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I didn’t recognize the SnappyWords account. I messaged him back, but then he didn’t answer. His message was strange, some craziness about being kidnapped in Osceola county. Come here and I’ll even give you my phone so maybe some CSI kind of guy can track down where the message came from.”
Hell, yeah! Weissbard thought. “Of course.”
“I’m at home. I need to leave for work soon and can’t be late. Can you make it over before I go?”
“I’m on my way. Don’t leave before I get there.”
Weissbard hung up, flush with adrenaline. Sheridan had shown his hand. Guilty or not, it would all be easier to sort out once he was back in custody.
Chapter Fifty-One
Pain summoned Brian to consciousness. Breathing hurt like hell. Tyler had crushed his neck and it felt bruised from the inside out. His attempted escape had sent his mangled foot into an even deeper circle of trauma-induced Hell. He was sure that bones were floating around in a soup of shredded muscle under his skin. His right wrist felt like it was on fire, so an infection had no doubt set in where the zip tie had sliced him.
He opened his eyes. The light, muted as it was, still felt like needles through his retinas. He wondered if he’d gotten a concussion when he hit the hall floor.
He was sitting up. He tried to move and looked down. He was zip-tied back in a chair, a different one, heavy, very high backed, made of solid wood, like from a dining room table. And this time with a half-dozen zip ties on each arm and leg. He couldn’t even flex a muscle.
He squinted against the light. He was in the kitchen. The table and chairs were gone and he sat alone in the middle of the tile floor, facing the door to the garage. Closed blinds kept him from seeing out through the French doors. But rain pattered against the glass and the dull illumination that oozed through the blinds conjured a dreary outside world. He tried to twist his head around to see a clock, but the pain in his swollen, damaged neck made it impossible.
“Tyler,” Brian managed to croak. Whatever sick shit his brother had in mind probably included ending Brian’s life. Given the pain he was in, he might as well get it over with. “Tyler!” This time it came out a whisper.
No answer. The house was silent. He thought the bastard might just be playing with him, then figured that Tyler couldn’t resist taunting and torturing Brian if he’d been there.
Yesterday he’d have used this alone time to devise an escape, to investigate what he might make use of in the kitchen. Today, he didn’t care. His body was broken a half-dozen ways. Escape from this chair would be impossible, let alone getting out of the house. His only getaway would be as a corpse in the trunk of the Camry.
This should certainly have been Mr. Jitters’ cue to come on stage. If minor events brought a swell of anxiety, this situation should have summoned a tsunami. But he felt nothing of the kind. Was he over the drug withdrawal, or just over the idea of living? He couldn’t tell.
The garage door grumbled open. Brian’s head sagged in defeat, then the pain of bending his battered neck made him jerk it back upright. The sound of the Camry’s engine grew louder as it drove into the garage. The transmission thunked into park, and the engine cut off. Brian thought how odd it was to know that the rest his life was measurable in seconds, and that he didn’t care. The garage door growled shut.
A car door opened and closed, then the door to the garage opened to reveal Tyler. He was soaking wet, his spiky blond hair all matted to his head. His red
-rimmed eyes focused on Brian as soon as he passed through the doorway. Water dripped from his sodden clothing and puddled on the floor. He left the door open behind him. He’d backed the Camry into the garage, with just feet to spare before hitting the home gym. A surge of rain lashed the glass doors to Brian’s left. Distant thunder rumbled.
“Brother, brother, brother,” Tyler said. His voice was harp-string tense. “Look at what you’ve put me through, put us through. When I think of it.…” His turned a deep red, his lips curled back in fury. He shook like he was about to explode.
Subconscious waves of Tyler’s unmitigated anger washed through Brian’s mind. The sensation was stronger now than it had been any time before. He could practically read Tyler’s desire to strike him. Tyler jumped forward and backhanded Brian across the face.
Brian’s head snapped sideways and his neck felt like it was about to tear in half. He could barely manage a groan.
“Dude,” Tyler said, the flush draining from his face. “That’s what you drive me to, hitting my own brother. How much lower could I sink?”
Brian wanted to say murderer, but he couldn’t summon the strength.
Tyler began to pace the kitchen, hands clasped before him, fingers flexing back and forth like a seething ball of tiny snakes. He looked at his shoes as he spoke.
“I really had it all set up. I had a great plan. So much to show you, so much to teach you, to make you as strong, as adapted as me. And you just threw it all away. No, worse, you threw it back in my face. You’re just a weak, drugged version of me, but you act like you’re somehow better than me.”
“I am better,” Brian managed to whisper.
Tyler didn’t react. He probably wouldn’t have reacted if Brian had been able to shout it. He seemed deep in his own reality.
“Then you tried to leave, to abandon your only real family, and tried to bring the cops down on me in the bargain. Wouldn’t be enough to maybe say, ‘Hey, Ty, this isn’t my thing’ and we go separate ways, no harm, no foul. You want to be only half a fucking man the rest of your life, that’s your issue. But you’re jealous of my strength, of my passion, so you had to try and destroy me. Dude, that’s not what brothers do.”
The Playing Card Killer Page 23
