by Irene Hannon
She shoved the bolt back. Twisted the knob. Pulled.
Nothing.
The door had a dead bolt.
Her hopes crashed.
But there was still the front door.
She swung back toward the room. Blaine hadn’t yet straightened up. She darted past him.
Not fast enough.
He grabbed her arm, whipped her around, and sent a hard right straight to her jaw.
Bright colors exploded behind her eyes, and she staggered back. Tasted blood. Lost her balance. Before she could recover her senses and equilibrium, he shoved her into the chair. The next thing she knew, he was binding her hands behind her. When he finished with that, he dropped to one knee and began to secure her ankles to the legs of the chair.
Things were going downhill fast.
But as the disorienting effect of the blow waned and her brain began to process again, she noticed something interesting.
His hands were shaking.
Did that telltale sign suggest he had no stomach for what he was doing? That he wasn’t just a cold-blooded killer with no conscience?
His next comment seemed to confirm that conjecture.
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.” He looked up at her as he tightened the knot on the rope.
The contrition in his eyes was real.
How weird.
But could she use it to her advantage? Play on his apology and what appeared to be genuine remorse to buy some time?
Because that’s what she had to do. Cal must have received her phone messages by now. The ill-timed call on her cell had probably been him trying to reach her. And since she hadn’t answered . . . since he’d found no promised follow-up call from her in his voice mail . . . she’d be willing to bet he was already all over this situation.
Best of all, he knew exactly where she was.
A fact she did not intend to share with Blaine.
She watched as the doctor crossed to the sink, dug a dishcloth out of a drawer, and dampened it with water, her mind racing as she tried to formulate a plan.
When he rejoined her and lifted his hand, she tensed. What was he up to?
But he simply dabbed at the scrape on her cheek and wiped away the blood trickling down her chin, his touch gentle.
“I’m sorry. A doctor is supposed to help, not hurt.”
She tried to read his face as he continued to clean her injuries. Was he sorry he’d hit her—or sorry for what he was going to do later?
Perhaps both, since he couldn’t let her walk away.
Yet his regret appeared to be genuine.
The man was a study in contradictions.
Talk to him, Moira. Engage him in conversation. Distract him from making plans for how he’s going to deal with you.
Right. She wasn’t here to figure out what made him tick. She just needed to use up some time—and keep trying to loosen the cord that bound her wrists.
“Were you sorry about Olivia too?”
At her soft question, his hand stilled and twin creases appeared on his brow. “That wasn’t my fault.”
“But you killed her, didn’t you?” She tried for a conversational tone. She wanted to divert his attention, not rile him.
He shook his head and moved a few feet away, gripping the bloody cloth in his fist. “No. You killed her.”
She blinked at his unexpected comeback. “What do you mean?”
“You hit her with your car. She suffered critical injuries. No one could have saved her.”
“Did you try?”
He regarded the red-stained cloth, threw it onto the kitchen table, and sank into a straight-backed chair, shoulders slumped, head bowed. “She couldn’t live.”
“Why not?”
“She suspected too much. Just like you do.”
Moira did her best to ignore the obvious implication. Letting panic get the upper hand wasn’t an indulgence she could afford.
Focus on loosening the rope. Keep him talking.
“She knew about the people at the nursing homes, didn’t she? The ones you gave injections to—like Verna Hafer.”
His head jerked up, denial in his eyes. “They were all dying, anyway. I merely smoothed out the process. Made it easier for them with a little morphine. They’re all in a better place now. It was the compassionate thing to do. They slipped away easily, without pain. And all my children benefited.”
It took her a second to grasp his meaning.
“You mean the children at the clinic in Guatemala?”
“Yes. Verna and all the others—their deaths were a blessing in many ways. I gave their lives meaning. It’s what they all wanted, you know. To be useful again. To matter. They told me that. I only fulfilled their wish, like I did for Dad. But Olivia wouldn’t have understood.” He sighed.
What did his father have to do with the people he’d killed?
This was getting creepier by the minute.
“She saw me with Ed, you see,” Blaine continued, his attention fixed on the bloody rag. “And then again with Clara. It was just bad timing.”
When he fell silent, she gave him a quiet prompt. “So you decided to take care of her the night of the Opera Theatre benefit.”
Suddenly he rose and began to pace, the taut lines of his body spelling agitation in capital letters.
Moira’s pulse spiked.
Uh-oh.
With such volatile mood swings, this situation could degenerate quickly. The rope was cutting into her wrists worse now, but she worked it harder anyway.
“What happened that night, Doctor?”
His gaze darted around the room, focused on nothing—except perhaps an image in his mind. “We met in the parking lot at McDonald’s. I told her we’d drive around for a while and talk while she drank the strawberry milkshake I’d bought for her. Catch up. And I promised to explain what she’d seen at the nursing homes. But she got nervous when I headed out here—and she drank too slowly. The midazolam didn’t kick in as fast as I hoped.”
Midazolam. Moira frowned. That was a sedative of some kind, wasn’t it?
He stopped beside the window that offered a view to the back, toward the hole he’d been digging. Not that he could see out. All the shades in the cabin were drawn. Nevertheless, he watched the blank white surface as if it was a movie screen.
“So what did she do?”
He clenched his fists at his sides. “She demanded that I stop and let her out. She was woozy by then, but when I kept driving she started grabbing at the wheel. I realized I’d have to give her the morphine sooner than I planned, so I pulled over—but the second the car slowed, she opened the door and bolted out into the rain.” Blaine turned toward her with an expression almost of wonder. “Funny thing how she ran right in front of your car. Let you finish the job I began. It’s strange how God works, isn’t it? That was a message of vindication, don’t you think?”
Hardly. But she remained silent.
He continued without waiting for a response, as if he hadn’t expected an answer.
“All I had to do was end her suffering. And there was plenty of morphine left in the syringe for that after I put you out of commission.”
Moira stared at him. The nonexistent broken glass in her car . . . the bruise on her thigh . . . the loss of consciousness Cal had always thought suspect—all the pieces fell into place with a sickening thud.
She swallowed past the fear tightening her throat. “And you buried her here.”
“Yes. That was part of my plan. I dug the hole a few days before, then covered it with pine branches. I’ve always been a meticulous planner. Like Dad. It would have worked flawlessly too, if you’d minded your own business. I never intended to move Olivia until you came along . . . and now you know even more than she did. But I don’t have any morphine with me.”
He resumed pacing, his movements stiff. Jerky. Panic rippled through his eyes, and his face contorted. Finally he stopped and looked up, as if toward the heavens, and anguish splintered t
he words he uttered. “What should I do, Dad?”
As she watched the man in front of her crumble, Moira began to tremble. Blaine was fast losing whatever tenuous hold he had on his sanity—as well as whatever diminished ability he still had to distinguish between right and wrong. Soon, his survival instinct would take over—and she would be history. Letting her live would destroy the foundation of lies on which his life was built.
All at once he walked to the counter, yanked open a drawer, and removed a dish towel. He ripped it in half lengthwise, tied the ends together, and approached her. Aiming for her neck.
“No!” She twisted away, trying to evade the length of cloth, and opened her mouth to scream.
But he slipped the cloth between her teeth and tied it tight behind her head before she could utter a sound.
Then he moved to the back door. Extracted a key from his pocket. Unlocked the dead bolt. And exited without a word or a backward glance.
Chest heaving, Moira renewed her struggle with the cording on her wrists. She had to free herself. Cal might not arrive in time, and it was clear Blaine was done talking. Even in the unlikely event she had the opportunity to try and convince him he’d never get away with yet another murder . . . that people were already aware she was in danger . . . that they knew where she was . . . she had a sinking feeling the eminent surgeon and humanitarian of the year had already lost his grip on reality.
This time for good.
23
You holding up okay?” Cal shot Dev a quick look as he barreled down I-94, taking the curves at speeds far faster than the posted limit. The rocking motion must be playing havoc with his buddy’s stomach.
“I’m fine.”
The gritted-teeth delivery said otherwise, but it couldn’t be helped. Moira came first.
“In five hundred yards, exit right.”
Following the mechanical voice instructions of his TomTom, Cal slowed and flipped on his blinker, checking in his rearview mirror to verify Connor was in sync. The Taurus followed him onto the secondary road.
Cal killed his lights.
Connor followed suit.
Half a mile up the road, as they approached the spur that led to the cabin owned by Blaine’s neighbor, a dark shape became visible off to the side of the road.
“Is that a car?” Dev squinted and leaned forward.
“Yeah.” They were too far away to make out color or model, but Cal would lay odds it was Moira’s Camry.
He pulled onto the miniscule shoulder. Connor did likewise. “I’m going to take a look. Get Connor on the phone. Fill him in. I’ll be back in two minutes. Keep him on the line.”
Without waiting for a response, he killed the dome light, opened his door, and pulled out his Sig—the regular duty model he’d carried on the Mexico assignment. It had gone unused there.
He hoped it didn’t see service tonight, either.
In a half crouch, he covered the distance to the car in less than thirty seconds.
It was Moira’s.
And it was empty.
He retraced his route to the Explorer and slid back in. “Connor, you with us?”
“Yeah.” The other man’s voice came over the speaker phone.
“It’s Moira’s. There’s no sign of her. You have your earpiece handy?”
“Already out.”
Leave it to Connor to anticipate tactical moves.
“We need to get in close and check this out.” He grabbed his bag off the backseat and rooted around for his own earpiece, then fitted it into place as Dev did the same. “Dev can come in from the front.” The man next to him was in no shape to be crawling around in the woods, but at least a front approach would require him to cover the least amount of terrain. “I’ll circle to the back from the right. You take the left.”
“Got it. You want to notify the sheriff’s department?”
Cal hesitated. So far, they had no hard evidence of wrongdoing. And if Moira had been discovered and was in danger, he’d rather not have a bunch of local deputies muddling things up. The three of them probably had more tactical training and experience than the whole sheriff’s department combined.
“I want to wait until we see what we have.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
Dev ditched his jacket, tossing it in the backseat before exiting on his side of the Explorer, night-vision binoculars in hand. Cal dispensed with his jacket as well, then grabbed his own binoculars and melted into the woods that rimmed the road.
After half a minute of picking his way through the dense undergrowth, he spotted a cabin through the leafy branches. A dim light shone behind shades that hid the interior from view.
“I have the cabin in sight.”
“Copy. I do too,” Dev confirmed.
“So do I.” Connor’s voice was calm and cool, as always—no matter the danger.
“I’m circling around to the back.” Cal did his best to minimize noise as he approached—not easy in the heavy brush. The last thing they wanted to do was alert Blaine to their presence by crashing through the foliage like a startled deer.
“There’s a dark-colored Lexus parked in the back.” Connor’s voice again.
“That’s Blaine’s car.” As Cal reached the rear of the cabin, he spotted the car as well. The trunk was open, and he trained his night vision binoculars on it—then paused. Listened. “I hear some noise at ten o’clock, behind the cabin.”
“I’ll check it out. I’m moving that direction anyway,” Connor said.
Cal adjusted the binoculars and refocused on the trunk. Frowned. Concrete blocks? Coils of rope?
Odd cargo for a pediatric surgeon.
“I have Blaine in view. He’s digging. A rather large, grave-sized hole.”
As Connor reported that news, the unusual items in Blaine’s car suddenly made perfect sense—if the man was hoping to dispose of a body in water.
But where was Moira?
In the cabin, perhaps?
If so, they could get her out before Blaine even noticed she was missing—assuming she was okay . . . and they were in time.
And he was holding fast to those assumptions. No other option was acceptable.
“I’m going to work my way closer to the cabin and—”
The distinctive crunch of tires on gravel, back near the main road, echoed in the night.
What the . . . ?
“Dev . . . what have we got?” As Cal snapped out the question, his pulse took a leap.
“I’m changing position to take a look.”
“Our subject’s on the move.” This from Connor.
Even as he spoke, a shadowy figure emerged from the trees on the far side of the cabin and darted toward the back door.
Though Cal couldn’t get a clear view of him, it had to be Blaine.
And despite some serious jockeying, the leafy branches foiled his efforts to get an unobstructed line of sight with his Sig before the man shoved through the door and slammed it behind him.
Their best chance of getting inside easily had just evaporated.
Deputy Sheila Orr spoke into the microphone as she drove slowly down the gravel lane to check out the reported scream heard by an adjacent landowner.
“I’m not seeing any activity on site, but there’s a light in the window, and there are three cars parked near the entrance on Mendelson Road.”
“Copy. You want some backup?”
“Could be just a family gathering. And that reported scream could have been the loser in a coon fight.” The city slickers who owned a lot of these spreads were notorious for reporting the sounds of nature as danger signs. She shook her head.
Her radio crackled back to life. “We did have a request from the owner to keep an eye on the property. He said he’s rarely there. A Ted Lauer.”
“Okay.” She stopped the car a hundred feet away from the cabin. “Someone’s here, that’s for sure. Maybe Lauer’s making one of his rare visits. Let me check it out. I’l
l let you know if there’s any suspicious activity.”
“Copy.”
Sheila pushed the door open, secured her radio on her belt, and put her hand on her sidearm as she started toward the cabin. She’d never had to use her weapon in the line of duty, but there was always a first time.
She hoped this wasn’t it.
Something was going on.
Adrenaline surging, Moira looked with trepidation toward the hall Blaine had charged down moments ago after securing the sliding bolt in the back door and locking the dead bolt. Now frenetic noise was coming from the adjacent room.
It sounded as if he was ripping the place apart.
Then the noise stopped.
Ten seconds later, Blaine reappeared in the doorway—holding a revolver.
Her heart stuttered, but he spared her no more than a quick glance as he raced to the front of the house.
What was happening?
Was Cal here?
Had Blaine spotted him?
She worked harder at the rope securing her wrists, ignoring the burning protest of her raw skin. Whatever was going on had spooked Blaine badly. And that could mean only one thing.
Time was running out.
Slouching down as far as she could in the chair, she tipped her head back and tried to use one of the upright spindles to shove the gag higher and loosen it, all the while continuing to twist her wrists. If she could get her hands free or regain the use of her voice, she’d be able to . . .
A knock sounded at the front door.
Moira froze.
That wasn’t Cal.
He wouldn’t knock.
She heard Blaine twist the lock on the door. When it creaked open, she strained to hear the conversation.
“Can I help you?”
“Good evening, sir.” A woman’s voice. Muffled. “I’m Deputy Orr from St. Charles County. Are you Mr. Lauer?”
“No. I’m a neighbor of his from St. Louis. He often lets me use this place for weekend getaways.”
“May I see an ID.”
A slight hesitation. “Sure.”
Fifteen seconds of silence.
“Thank you, sir. And you brought guests?”
Two more beats of silence ticked by.
