Carved in Stone

by Julia Shupe

  Looking at her body in the dim light of the small square window, she realized she no longer recognized herself. She would die, and soon. It was now or never. There was nothing left to lose; it was time to fight back. If he were planning to kill her, she wouldn’t make it easy. Summoning what remained of her strength, she moved, lunged for the glass, and dashed it to the floor. It broke into slivers, the noise deafening in the small enclosure. Fragments bounced off the walls and hit her legs, and when she opened her eyes, she nearly cried out. The base of the glass had miraculously held its shape. Reaching for it, she held it in her palm. The weight of it thrilled her, the firmness, the sturdiness—as did the sight of the long sliver still attached to one side. It was perfect, sharp. It was her only defense.

  She coiled in the corner like a viper and waited. She’d cut him. Deep. She’d fight like hell.

  A shadow passed in front of the small window.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jacob led us down a winding hallway. The orphanage was an old building, long abandoned, and quiet like a grave. An industrialist owned it now, but had let it fall into disrepair. It had served different purposes over the years. I was sure it looked different when Carlton Tubbs was here. But despite the remodeling on the upper levels, little had been done to the basement. There were many original fixtures and doors. Most were closed, and many were locked.

  It was a dreary building with dark wood and high ceilings, a place that could easily swallow a frightened boy. It was hard to imagine young children living here, but this was the place Carlton Tubbs had called home, the place where he had first met Smith.

  Smith—what little we knew of him, of course—had never been a resident of LifeHaven Children’s Home. Dr. Waite had said he was a privileged child, with parents, siblings, a home, even a dog. He was someone Carlton had admired—for a time, and though he’d never lived here, I hoped the place meant something to him. It made perfect sense to me now: the situation. He’d been following Carlton for years. He’d used him, confused him, studied his weaknesses, and then ultimately set him on a very dark path. Smith wouldn’t let his protégé stray far. The thought sent shivers up my spine. How many people shadowed other people’s lives? How many of us walked through life while unknowingly stalked by a predator?

  We hunched along the dark corridor, Gil’s silhouette blocking my view of the opposite end of the hall. We would open every door in this building if we had to, break every lock, tear this entire place apart.

  I heard a crash like the sound of glass breaking, from behind a door we hadn’t yet opened.

  I froze, listening.

  Jacob held up a hand.

  My heart was racing. We all stood still, and after a moment, crept forward on the balls of our feet. Jacob pressed an ear to the door. Angela could be crouched on the other side of it, but Smith could be too, I thought with rising panic. Jacob stepped aside and nodded, making way for the swat team and their industrial-sized pry bar. I braced myself as they opened the door, but the revelation—when it came—was anticlimactic. Beyond the door, the room was empty, save for stacks of decaying boxes and several water heaters, rusting in the corner. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find, but that noise had come from this room. I was certain.

  Jacob raised a finger to his lips. We fanned out, peeking behind every corner, ever nook. The water damage in this room was severe. A pipe had burst and been left untended, and every surface had warped and faded. The wood was discolored, the furniture buckled, but that wasn’t what caught my attention.

  It was the mold.

  The room, I now noticed, was teeming with it. Furry fingers crawled up the walls to the ceiling. Black spots bloomed in circular patterns on the floor, further evidence that we’d found the right place. Hearing a shuffling sound, I gripped my gun. Gil dropped into a protective crouch.

  “There,” I pointed. “Behind that desk.”

  It was a small enclosure, only five feet tall, blocked by a heavy desk, covered in mold. A crude square hole had been cut into the top—presumably a window. I wasn’t quite sure. We took our positions around the desk. I was tense as Jacob approached it. First, he listened then nodded at Gil, and the two lifted the desk as quietly as they could. Despite their efforts, it scraped across the floor, a sound that set my teeth on edge.

  As Jacob reached for the iron handle, I widened my stance and readied myself.

  ~ ~ ~

  She braced her one good foot against the wall behind her. He was just outside the door. She listened. He seemed to have moved whatever object blocked it. She knew his patterns, each and every sound, and when he opened that door, she would pounce.

  Waiting to hear the key rattle inside the lock, she gripped the base of the broken water glass, the sharp point slicing into her finger like a knife. She was intensely focused; the pain barely registered. As the tension in her body found its way to her jaw, she clenched her teeth and braced herself. There was only one chance to get this right or she would die. She’d go for his neck, or his soft inner thigh, stab an eye, or the side of his head. It had to be a place that would inflict the most damage. She’d cut his flesh as deep as she could, use her teeth and fingernails, watch him bleed out.

  As another silent moment passed, she began to lose her nerve. What was he doing? Something wasn’t right. Why was he taking so long? Had he heard the glass when it shattered on the floor? He was waiting her out, it seemed. She could practically feel him on the other side of the door, biding his time, selecting his tools. Fear was a tangible pall on her back. It shrouded her, choked her, made her heart beat wildly. She made a mewling sound in the base of her throat, and before she was ready, the door burst open, slamming on its hinges like a loud clap of thunder. Without a second thought, she lunged.

  ~ ~ ~

  I wasn’t sure what came out of the darkness: an animal, a wraith, but certainly not a person. It lunged—as far as its chain would let it, and with a guttural sound, it sliced the bottom of Jake’s jeans.

  He let out a yelp, and I almost squeezed the trigger. If it weren’t for Gil, I would have killed her right there.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “Vanessa. Fall back.”

  He shined his flashlight inside the damp hole, where a girl was snarling like a wild rabid beast. She blinked as her eyes slowly adjusted to the burst of light, and she was swinging her arm in widening circles, stabbing at the air, while trying to reach us. A red ribbon of blood was coursing down her arm, and she was naked, shivering, battered, and bruised.

  “Angela,” I croaked, my heart swelling with pride. “Angela Harlow. Is that you?”

  She couldn’t have heard me, for her arm kept swinging. She was ready for a fight. I admired her strength.

  “Angela, stop. My name is Detective Vanessa Stone. We’re here to rescue you. Please put down your weapon.”

  Her eyes went wide, her arm freezing mid-air, and the sound she made broke my heart in two. Dropping her arm, she whimpered like an injured dog.

  “Daddy,” she begged me. “I want to see my daddy.”

  “We’ll get him, baby.” I dropped to my knees. “Now listen to me. This is very important. Is he somewhere in the building right now? The bad man? Is he somewhere close? When did you last see him?”

  “Too long,” she whispered. “Too long. No water.”

  I glanced at Jake and he ran for the door. Gil was on the phone, calling the station.

  “It’s okay,” I said, shrugging my coat from my shoulders. “We’ll get you something to drink. Right now.”

  The smell hit me first, before the thickness of the air. Angela Harlow was a very sick girl. She was cowering in the hole, knees drawn to her chest, and I could see the source of the smell on her legs. There were deep gashes, infected and swollen, and one of her ankles appeared to be broken.

  “Can you come out?” I asked gently. “Can you put down the glass? Or if you put down the glass, I can come inside.”

  “Ness,” Gil warned as I crawled through the opening. I paid him no mind. I was
certain the danger had passed.

  “I’m coming inside,” I warned her quietly, and she scuttled to a corner like a crab. Her movements were hampered by a large metal cuff, which was clamped to her ankle and attached to a length of chain. I followed the links to a bolt in the wall. This girl was a prisoner in this Godforsaken cell; she couldn’t come out, even if she wanted to.

  When I crept through the opening, I couldn’t see her anymore. It was black as pitch, and stuffy like a sauna. With fragments of glass cutting into my palms, I slid closer to the curled up shadow of her body. The place was covered in glittering glass. Smart girl, I thought, admiring her work. She had clearly been waiting to ambush him here.

  Wadding my coat, I pushed it toward her. “Here,” I said. “Cover yourself.”

  “Can’t,” she whispered, lifting a horribly misshapen hand. “My hand is broken. I can’t put it on.” With a nod, I crawled closer and draped it across her shoulders. I was afraid this rescue would take us all night. Only a power saw or bolt-cutter could break that chain. She could be stuck in this hole for a few more hours, but I vowed she wouldn’t be there alone. I’d stay with her for as long as it took.

  As I tried to untangle my arms and legs, I studied the chamber with growing horror. The space was so small it could barely contain the two of us. I had to fold my body to fit inside of it, but I somehow managed to squeeze in beside her, and after draping my coat around her slim shoulders, I took a moment to examine the construction. The workmanship was crude and unrefined, the stone held together by homemade mortar, which was mostly sand, and crumbled to the touch. He’d bolted a large iron ring into the wall, which held the chain that circled her ankle. I tried to envision the past few weeks, how she’d survived this hell without losing her mind. How had she lived in this darkness and filth?

  “You’re a brave girl,” I said to her quietly.

  She dropped her head to my shoulder. I touched her hand. There were a million questions I wanted to ask her: what did Smith looked like? What color was his hair? How tall was he in comparison to her? But I bit them all back and settled on one.

  “What’s his name, Angela? What did he call himself?”

  For a moment, the silence engulfed us. I could hear water trickling behind the thick walls. I could feel the heat coming off her body in waves.

  “You’re sick,” I murmured. “You have a high fever.” She allowed me to pull her body closer to mine.

  “Archer,” she whispered. “His name is Carl Archer.”

  Carl, I reflected. Of course. What other name would he choose for himself? It was too damn predictable, almost a disappointment.

  “What if he comes back?” she whispered in the dark. “He’s late. He’s never left me alone for this long.”

  “He’s not coming back. He won’t touch you again. It’s over, Angela. He knows we finally found him.”

  “But how do you know that? You can’t know that for sure.”

  “I know because I think he’s been watching us for days. I think he’s been observing our progress. And,” I added, “because he’s insanely arrogant; this is a man who doesn’t want to be caught.”

  “You can’t catch him,” she said.

  “Of course I can.” I held her tighter. “And I will. I promise. Today was a breakthrough. Today we made him incredibly angry, and when people are angry, they often make mistakes.”

  Chapter 49

  My eyes were burning. My back was aching. I’d been sitting at my desk for hours, without a break.

  “Time to call it, Ness. You’ve been at it all night. Turn off the computer and stretch your damn legs. Or better yet, come to the diner with me. Get a beer. Get drunk. Get something. This is pathetic.”

  “A beer? The sun is rising, Gil. It’s almost morning and you want to get drunk?”

  “What I need right now is sleep,” he clarified, “but I won’t get a wink if I don’t get a beer.”

  I couldn’t disagree with his logic.

  It had taken an hour and a half to free Angela, and another twenty minutes to coax her from that stinking hole. She was paralyzed with fear that Smith would come back. I think it was the water that finally worked, or the soft wool blanket and the socks. Or the fact that her father had finally arrived.

  The paramedics had been standing by, eager to transport her to the hospital. While I, on the other hand, wanted to get back to my office. I pressed my fists to my eyes. I was exhausted. For hours, I’d been staring at my computer, watching an endless sea of strange faces parade across the screen. I had watched every patron enter and exit Oceantide Perks—three times.

  Sitting beside me, Gil leaned on an elbow. “Do you think that’s really going to help?” He touched my hand. “What are you even looking for? How will you know him, even if you see him?”

  “I won’t. But I have to try something. I can look for patterns, or repeat customers, for odd conversations. I don’t know.” I heaved a sigh. “It just feels wrong to do nothing.”

  “Half the people on that feed have coffee addictions, Ness. Addictions are nothing if not patterns. I think that’s the textbook definition.”

  He was right. I knew what I was doing would yield us nothing, but it was something I just had to do. I had to look. I had to see the faces again. I was fascinated by the idea that I’d seen him before, that I’d logged his movements and matched his receipts. I’d already studied the curve of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, the arch of his brow. The whole thing was making me mad. I’d already seen his face. I just didn’t know which one it was.

  I eyed the tablet and the pen in my hand. I hadn’t written a note in an hour. This was doing absolutely no good. Gil was right. Time to call it. Feeling like a failure, I turned off the monitor.

  On the way to the diner, Gil attempted to keep the conversation light, but I was a dog with a bone. I couldn’t let it go.

  “How the hell will we find him, Gil? We’ve killed his muse; we’ve toppled his castle. At this point, he’ll have to develop a new MO. He may be smart, but that’s a tough thing to do. Serial killers love the kill and the hunt, but you know they love the ritual even more.”

  Gil pulled into the parking space beside Jacob’s rental. “I’m not so sure about that—in this case. For all we know, he might already have another MO. How would we know if he did, or if he didn’t? Was skinning and chopping his ritual, or was it Tubbs’?” Throwing the car into park, he pulled his phone from his pocket. “But we will find him, Ness, because we’re good at what we do. Besides,” he added, as he studied his phone, “We’ve thrown him off his game. We’ve mixed things up.”

  “Yeah,” I said, frowning, “if you call killing his muse ‘mixing things up’.”

  Opening the passenger door, Jacob entered the conversation. “Carlton wasn’t Smith’s muse, Vanessa.”

  “Says you,” I countered. “Look at the facts. He killed Carlton’s mother then shadowed Carlton for decades. He killed his victims the way Carlton did. He skinned them, beat them, cut off their feet.”

  “True,” Jacob said. “But you’re just making my point for me. Smith doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Carlton Tubbs. Don’t you see what he did? It’s ingenious. Smith is nothing but a shadow. He’s been framing his friend for his entire adult life, picking victims that implicate Tubbs. Yes, he stalked Tubbs: I get that part. But not for the reasons you think. It’s much darker. He followed Tubbs so he could pick the right victims, people who would lead straight to Tubbs, and not to him. Consider the Cowpen Does for a minute: a high school student from a school where Carlton tended the grounds, employees of two separate businesses where Carlton planted the flowers. Every victim leads to Tubbs’ front door, while Smith stays safely hidden. It’s perfect. Hell, it’s shrewd. Smith is an actual ghost. We’ll never find him. He’s left no trail.”

  Climbing out of the car, I glanced at Gil, who was leaving another message—for his wife, I presumed. “Care to weigh in on this, Casanova? Carlton vs. Smith: name that relationship. Bromance,
or predator and prey?”

  He was frowning at his phone as he mumbled his answer. “Sorry, Ness, but I have to side with Jake. From what I’ve seen, Smith is a cold freak of nature. I don’t think he cares about anyone but himself. He’s not capable of having a bromance.”

  “So he was just using Tubbs, like everyone else?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “That’s almost depressing.”

  Jacob held the door open for me. When I ducked beneath his arm, the smell of coffee hit my face like a Mack truck. “Smith was just being Smith,” he explained. “A dangerous predator who preys on the weak. He sets his sight on the weakest member of the herd. Carlton Tubbs never had a chance in hell. From the day they met, he’s been Smith’s scapegoat. I wonder how long it took for Smith to hatch the plan.”

  The whole thing was sickening to me. It was too Machiavellian for words. I needed eggs, sausage, and a gallon of coffee.

  Gil was leaving a voice message again.

  “Give her a break,” I said. “It’s barely six-thirty.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, putting the phone on the table. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Forget it.” Turning to face Jacob, I asked, “So where did you go after we left the orphanage?”

  “I went to the hospital with Angela, followed the ambulance, tried to get a brief statement from her. I figured, at this point, anything would help.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “No statement. Not yet. But I will say this: that girl is a fighter. She said we could send a sketch artist tomorrow morning.”

  “But today is tomorrow.”

  “Then tomorrow tomorrow. Today, she needs medical attention, and rest.” He grinned. “After that, I called Meghan Newton.”