by C. A. Shives
Though she hadn't been hungry when he brought the sandwich, Charlotte had eaten every last morsel of the food. She wanted to stay strong. Capable. She wouldn't let her plans of escape be thwarted by the weakness and dizziness that came from being malnourished.
The food had been finished hours before, but her stomach didn’t grumble with complaint. The meals that he fed her—the simple sandwich fare of a man who could not or would not cook—sat like rocks in her belly. But she didn’t bother to waste time fantasizing about the delicious meals of her life. The sushi. The burgers and fries. The steaks. The spaghetti covered in buttery sauce and delicate flakes of Parmesan cheese. Instead, she worked on freeing the mattress coil.
Then she had heard him walking upstairs. And then she had nothing to do but wait.
She sat on the thin mattress, her legs crossed, like a kindergarten kid during "Circle Time." The elastic in her bra and panties—now grayed with dirt—was starting to fray. She’d grown accustomed to the chill of the basement and had long ago accepted that she might never feel warm again. Her head bowed as she listened the rhythmic pace of his footsteps. She reached deep inside of herself, gathering her strength, until she heard the click of the basement door as Trout unlocked it. Then she was helpless to prevent the shudder of fear that shook her body.
He seemed even larger to her today, though she knew it was an illusion created by the dread that invaded her mind. Trout's muscles flexed beneath his white tee-shirt. He raised his hand and showed her the sock. It looked lumpy, and Charlotte was unable to determine its contents.
"Guess what's inside the sock today?" he asked.
"The key to this damn chain around my neck?" Charlotte retorted.
Unlike the previous times she’d issued a sarcastic reply, Trout did not seem amused. "Oh no, Charlotte. You're not going to get that lucky today." He glanced at the empty paper plate and water bottle on the floor. "I see you finished your daily meal. You must have been hungry."
"It's hard to resist such gourmet fare," Charlotte said. "Although I do worry that such abundance will start to go to my waistline. A girl has to watch her weight."
Trout's eyes narrowed, and Charlotte saw again that he wasn't in a lighthearted mood. "You've got an awfully smart mouth for someone in your situation," he snarled. "Maybe it's time for us to take our punishment a little further. Maybe it's time for you to really understand the seriousness of your situation."
Charlotte's mouth went dry when she saw the sadistic glimmer in his eyes. She held up her hands in a defensive motion. "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I'm coping with this as best as I can."
"You have no idea what it means to cope with something," Trout said. "I suffered years of abuse because of you and your friends. I had to cope every single day. Every hour. Every minute. If I kept you here for eight years you might begin to know what coping is really about. But I don't have that kind of time." His grin glittered in the dull glow of the basement light bulb. "No need to worry about that, Charlotte. You won't be around for the next eight years."
He held up the sock and jiggled it so she could see the weight it held. "Potatoes," he said. "They're nice and hard, but they still have a little give to them. And they've got rounded edges. So you can count your blessings today. Soon we'll be moving on to bigger and better things. Things that are harder. Things that are sharp. Things that will really hurt."
Charlotte found it impossible to imagine anything that would hurt more than potatoes pounding her delicate flesh.
The first swing of his arm was targeted at her chest. She twisted her torso just in time, crying out as the hard weapon stung the skin on her arm. Then she curled in a ball as the blows reigned on her body, protecting her vulnerable spots—her face, her breasts, her belly, her neck—with the rest of her limbs. Unbidden, tears slipped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks, and inwardly she cursed her weakness.
She prayed that she would become numb to the searing pain. She begged God to dull the agony. To lighten her torment. To ease her misery.
But God didn't answer.
CHAPTER 17
NOVEMBER 9 — FRIDAY MORNING
The grease clung to the air like a blanket of smog, and Herne felt as if his skin had been coated in Crisco. The clatter of silverware and the din of the other patrons filled the room. Unbidden, Sherry brought him black coffee. He sipped it, the acrid liquid an inadequate substitute for the drink he truly craved.
Tucker slid into the booth across from him. "Jesus," he said. "It smells like the fryer exploded in the kitchen. This place reeks of grease."
Herne shrugged. "It is a diner."
"Yeah, I know. Don't fuckin' remind me." Tucker glanced at Sherry, who had appeared at the edge of their table with an extra coffee cup for the Chief of Police. "I'll have two scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and home fries," he told her.
"You have an appetite today," Herne remarked as Sherry walked away.
"Don't give me any shit," Tucker said. "I've got to keep up my energy. Any new theories about Charlotte?"
Herne shook his head. "Not really. If her disappearance is related to these murders—and I'd give you ten to one odds that it is—then she was likely abducted by someone local. Which means if she's still alive, she's being held somewhere close. Either in town or on the outskirts."
"Hell, the outskirts of Hurricane include five hundred square miles of farmland. We've got hundreds of farms sitting on anywhere from ten to two hundred acres or more. If she's being kept in a farmhouse or hunting cabin somewhere, we'll never find her by combing the area."
"No," Herne agreed, shaking his head. "Combing the area isn't the solution. We have to find her kidnapper. We have to find the killer. We're only going to find Charlotte if we can identify our murderer."
"And how are we going to do that?" Tucker asked. "So far we only have dead ends and theories. We have no evidence."
"Then it's time to apply a little pressure." As Herne spoke, his gray eyes gleamed with pleasure, and he was unable to stop the half smile that curled his lips.
"Nothing illegal, Art."
Herne shrugged as if unconcerned. "I'm not even officially connected to this case, Rex. You haven't hired me. I'm just looking into a few things as a favor to Elizabeth. So if I bend a few rules or fracture a few laws, it won't come back on you."
Tucker snorted. "Yes it will, and you know it. The whole damn town connects you with the department, ever since you helped with The Healer case."
For a moment Herne's mind was filled with fire and smoke and blood, and then he shook away the memories and met his friend's eyes. "If Charlotte is still alive—and we both know the odds of that are remote—time is short. I have to find her soon, and if that means someone needs the information beat out of them, then so be it."
Tucker raised a bushy eyebrow. Herne met his gaze with his own gray eyes. Finally, Tucker sighed. "Where do you want to start?"
"First, I'd like to revisit everyone connected with Hayes Construction."
The bell above the door of Shady Hill Diner tinkled, and Tucker swiveled his head to look at the entrance. Herne didn't need to turn his head. He had chosen a seat that put his back to the wall and the entire restaurant in his line of vision. Selecting the best vantage point was a habit from his years as a street cop, and he'd never been able to break it.
Officer Johnson walked in, his broad shoulders almost brushing against the door frame as he entered the diner. He glanced around before his gaze settled on the two men. He strode toward them.
"Got something?" Tucker asked.
Johnson nodded. "I finished the research on the murder weapon," he said. "Doc Lee gave me the particulars about what the blade probably looked like, and I spent some time looking around for knives that fit the description."
Tucker nodded to the seat next to him in the booth, and Johnson slid into it.
"What did you find?" Tucker asked.
"Well, Doc Lee says the blade was thin, sharp, and flexible. One of the most common knives
that fits the bill is a boning or fillet knife." Johnson’s voice was low and heavy despite the din of the restaurant, and Herne had to strain to hear his words.
"For fish?" Herne said.
"Yeah, but one typically comes in every set of standard kitchen knives. You know, the kind that are sold in a block of wood with six or so knives in it."
"Are there any other knives that fit Doc’s description of the murder weapon?" Herne asked.
"Well, sort of," Johnson replied. "The other knives aren't so common, but they're not really unusual. Know what I mean? I mean, not everyone has one, but it's not like they're so rare they sell on eBay for a million bucks."
"We get it," Tucker said. "What are they?"
"A scalpel was a possibility. Like a doctor would use for operating. So was a sashimi knife."
"Like a sushi chef would use?" Herne asked.
Johnson nodded. "A fruit testing knife was another one that could fit."
"What the fuck is a fruit testing knife?" Tucker asked.
"It's usually a folding knife with a long, very thin blade," Johnson said. "Farmers in Florida and places like that use it to test oranges and grapefruits for ripeness."
"Not a lot of grapefruit trees in Pennsylvania," Tucker said. "I think we can eliminate that one."
"Not necessarily," Herne said. "Maybe our guy is a transplant. Maybe he's not local. Maybe he lived in Florida or California at some point in his life."
Tucker shrugged. "Maybe. But at least we can eliminate the possibility of a sashimi knife. Unless you guys feel like barging into Woo's Chinese Restaurant."
"Mr. Woo is ancient," Johnson said. "I'm always surprised he can handle chopsticks without shaking. Doubt he'd be able to commit murders like this.”
Herne's gray eyes turned to the officer. "Don't let him fool you," Herne said. "Don't let anyone fool you. There is no such thing as someone unable to commit a crime."
Johnson nodded and turned his head, a red flush spreading across his cheeks.
Is he embarrassed because I chastised him? Herne thought. Or is he blushing for another reason?
"Thanks for the information, Johnson," Tucker said.
It was a dismissal. Johnson nodded and slid his bulk out of the booth.
Tucker and Herne sat in silence, each man staring at the inside of his empty coffee cup. Sherry, distracted by an angry patron, had neglected to bring them refills.
"Elizabeth is pissed as hell at me," Tucker said, breaking the silence.
Elizabeth. Herne didn't want to think about her. Didn't want to hear her husband utter her name.
She brought me into this case, Herne thought. She knew it might destroy me, but she did it anyway. I should hate her.
But he couldn't. And he wouldn't. His desire for her—a desire he kept buried in the bottom of his gut like a rock thrown into the sea—made it impossible for him to hate her.
Herne didn't respond to his friend's statement. His feelings for Elizabeth made him ambivalent about Tucker's marriage. His only choice—the only honorable thing to do—was to remain silent.
"She thinks I don't give a shit about finding Charlotte. And in her crazy woman mind, she thinks that means I don't give a shit about her."
Herne thought about Tucker's confession—over a year ago—that he and Lieutenant Saxon had almost had an affair. He thought about how close they stood to each other when they were together at a crime scene. He thought about the glances between them—some angry, some intimate. And he thought that maybe his friend had actually stopped caring for his wife.
But he remained silent.
"I've tried to explain to her that you're looking for Charlotte," Tucker said. The tone of his voice—usually commanding—almost seemed to be pleading with Herne. "You're the best. Better than me."
Herne started to shake his head, but Tucker just snorted.
"Fuck that fake modesty, Art," Tucker said. "We both know that I don't have the same kind of, uh, skills that you do. I can't crawl into the head of a killer. I can't think like someone who's completely deviant."
"Neither can I," Herne said. It's not the killer's mind that torments me, he thought. It's the victim's feelings. I can feel their pain. And I can hear their screams.
Tucker continued, unaware of Herne’s internal dialogue. "You can find Charlotte and her kidnapper faster than I can. You have a better chance of catching the guy who did this. I tried to explain that to Elizabeth. Tried to explain that I'd only be in your way if you wanted to try an, uh, unorthodox method of obtaining information."
For a moment Herne's gray eyes glinted in the florescent lights of the diner, and his upper lip curled into a small smile.
"She knows I'm right,” Tucker said. “She knows she has a better chance of finding her cousin if you're on the case. But she's still pissed at me anyway."
Despite his effort to remain silent, Herne spoke. "She's going through a lot right now," he said. "Maybe all she needs is some support."
"I guess," Tucker said bleakly. "But I just don't have time to give her the support she needs. I've got a fucking killer to catch. Look, Art. Can you do me a favor? Saturday night when you come to dinner, will you talk to Elizabeth? Maybe explain to her that you're doing everything you can to find Charlotte? Tell her that I'd only be in the way of your investigation?"
Herne nodded. It seemed easier to agree than to balk at his friend's request. And at the moment, he only wanted the conversation to end. Talking about Elizabeth—thinking about her heartache and tears and pain—had caused Herne to clench his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached.
"Thanks, buddy," Tucker said. "I knew I could count on you."
As he slid out of the booth he gave Herne a light punch on the arm and a small smile, and for one moment Herne was transported back to their freshmen year of college.
When Sherry slid the bill on Herne's table, he reached into his pocket for the sterling silver money clip that held his cash. The elegant clip, purchased from Tiffany's and engraved with his initials, had been a gift from his wife and seemed out of place against Herne's faded jeans, black leather jacket, and black boots. It was scarred with time and use, but he refused to relegate it to the back of a drawer in his house. He still liked to have that one clear memory—that one regular reminder—of the woman he had once loved unconditionally.
But now he didn't have time to think about his money clip. He didn't have time to think about his wife. He didn't have time to worry about the gnawing desire for a drink that grew stronger with every passing minute. It was time for him to go to work.
And he was looking forward to it.
~ ~ ~ ~
Bill slid onto a stool at the diner's counter and nodded to the waitress when she held up a coffee pot. He tried to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder at the door every time the bell tinkled. He'd been glancing over his shoulder a lot these days. Peeking under his bed. Locking doors. Staying alert. He knew the jittery movement of his leg and the tapping of his pudgy fingers against the tabletop made him look like a nervous freak. But he couldn't stop himself. It took all his strength not to hyperventilate with the fear that pervaded his mind every day.
He almost screamed when he felt someone slide onto the stool next to him.
It was Artemis Herne, the detective who had questioned them about Charlotte and Gabe and Jason. At that first meeting Bill had thought that Herne seemed like a big bull. Thick. Heavy. Determined. But now that the detective's cold gray eyes were only a few inches from Bill's face, he realized he had been wrong. Herne didn't have the angry empty expression of a bull in a fight. Not at all. Instead, he had the hungry grin of a wild dog. A smart wild dog. Bill found himself staring into eyes that looked eager for blood.
"You seem a little nervous," Herne said. His voice, deep and gravely, seemed tinged with amusement.
Now more than ever, Bill thought. "Hell, yes, I'm nervous," he said. "Someone's killing off all the crew members of Hayes Construction. I might be next."
Herne shru
gged as if unconcerned. "Maybe."
"That's cold, man. Real cold," Bill said. "But I've heard about you. Heard about you on the news and read about you in the paper. I know about you."
Herne leaned close to Bill and grinned, showing his white teeth. Bill turned his head away from the wolfish smile, wishing he had kept his stupid mouth shut. "And what do you think you know?" Herne asked.
Bill gulped, wondering what he could say to placate the man beside him. "They say, uh, you're a good detective. That you're smart."
Herne threw back his head and laughed, a hearty chuckle that seemed incongruent with the seriousness of his eyes. "I doubt that's what they say about me," he said. His eyes glittered with amusement.
He thinks it's funny that I'm scared of him, Bill thought.
"I'd like to ask you some more questions about Eric Barber," Herne said.
Bill nodded and gulped his coffee.
"You knew him in high school?" Herne asked.
"Yeah. We played on the soccer team together. But we weren’t tight. We ran with different crowds."
"What about after graduation? Did you stay in contact with him?"
"Sure. I mean, you always run into people from high school around town. We’d talk if we saw each other at the bar. Maybe shoot a game of pool. Chat about our high school days and which chicks had gotten fat. You know how it is. Guy stuff."
Herne thought about the man he had almost beaten to death when he'd been in college. He suspected that his idea of "guy stuff" was different from Bill's vision.
"How did you end up at Hayes Construction?"
"Jason married a girl with money and decided to open up his own business. I mean, it's a small operation compared to the big guys. But we had a pretty good reputation around town. Anyway, of course he hired us all to work his crew. We were his posse."
"But not Eric. He wasn’t a buddy in your group."
“Jason hired him a little later, after the business was running steady and we needed another laborer. He put an ad in the paper. Eric applied and got hired. It was that simple.”
