Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  Unfortunately, Vlad, despite his age, was surprisingly fit and, as I turned a corner and entered the big room, he caught up to me and grabbed me by the neck of my sweatshirt, spinning me around. I fought him as best I could, but he was bigger and stronger and with my hands still bound, I really didn’t have a chance.

  “You little minx,” he laughed pushing me forward. “Thought you could get away, didn’t you? Well, not from me.”

  He continued shoving me toward the far wall, where I could now see a row of what looked like dog kennels. At first I was puzzled, why would there be dogs in the tunnels, but then in a flash it came to me.

  Human trafficking.

  My mother’s journal had said something about keeping girls in cages. But Raoul had turned down that proposition. Had he, in the intervening years, had a change of heart?

  As all this raced through my mind, Vlad unlatched the door to the first kennel, opened it, then pushed me against the wall.

  “Stand still,” he said, putting one hand on the back of my head as he pushed my face against the rock facade.

  Quickly and efficiently, he frisked me, removing my cell phone.

  “Now turn around and bend down,” he ordered. “Or you’ll hurt your head.”

  I did as he said and he pushed me to my knees on the stone floor and then shoved me inside the kennel. I landed face down on the cold stone floor and, before I could recover, he closed the door and re-latched it.

  He stood staring at me as he pocketed my cell phone. “Well, Dr. Pomeroy, it looks like you’ve been brought down a notch, doesn’t it?”

  He laughed, not expecting a reply. “Your uncle will be by to see you shortly. Enjoy your stay at our Ritz Hilton. We hope you enjoy the accommodations.”

  Continuing to laugh, he strode away, leaving me alone in the dark, dank cage.

  I watched until he was out of sight and the room, once again, became cloaked in darkness. Trying to keep my wits about me, I surveyed my surroundings.

  The kennel wasn’t spacious. It was about eight feet long and four feet high. There was no “bed,” only the hard, cold, stone floor. A bucket was attached to one end that was, I assumed, for water. I crawled toward it only to find it empty.

  Knowing time was of the essence, I studied the latch. Maybe there was a way to undo it from the inside. But my hands were still bound behind my back, making that effort almost impossible. Untying them would be my first priority. But how?

  I looked around for something to help me. I was in the last kennel on the end of the row and I could see there were some loose rocks near the rear wall. Possibly one of them would be sharp enough to cut the rope that bound me. But how would I get to them? The bars on the kennel were set close together and I scooted with my back to the rear wall, trying to bend them apart with my fingers.

  I tried for about fifteen minutes, but this dog kennel was well made and there was no way I could bend or even fit my foot through the bars. So, hands still tied, I scooted around, positioning my back to the front door, and tried to find a way to undo the latch.

  Finally, with no success, I gave up and leaned back against the cage, trying to calm the fear that was building inside of me. What were they going to do? Kill me or sell me?

  My bladder was full and I began to feel an increasing need to empty it. But with my hands bound, there was no way I could pull down my jeans. So, I held it in as I waited.

  Hours creeped by. My throat was parched and I wondered if I had simply been left to die down here.

  I drifted off for a while. For how long, I don’t know.

  I was abruptly wakened by the sound of footsteps coming in my direction, followed by the bright light of a lantern as someone entered the room.

  At first I thought it was Vlad, coming back to finish me off. But as the figure came closer, I could see it was a female – my aunt.

  She was dressed in a long robe, her hair hanging loosely down her back. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and, for the first time, I thought she looked old. She was carrying a tray that held a soup tureen and a matching cup.

  “Auntie!” I cried. “Help me!”

  My aunt closed her eyes and sighed as she approached the cage. “I can’t, honey. But I brought you some soup.”

  I stared at her. She looked beaten down and I knew that she had most likely argued with Raoul about me. I also knew that she had lost that argument.

  “Can’t you at least untie my hands? My shoulders ache and I need to pee really bad.”

  She nodded and pulled a small knife from the pocket of her robe. “Back up to the kennel door and I’ll cut you free.”

  I did as she instructed, wondering if I could somehow wrestle the knife from her. But she was quick and efficient and held the blade firmly.

  I rubbed my wrists and then stretched, working out the cramped muscles in my arms and shoulders.

  Hettie watched silently. “Urinate in the back of the kennel,” she said. “If I hear anyone coming, I’ll stop them.”

  I nodded and pulled down my jeans and, like a dog, relieved myself in the farthest corner of the cage. Then I hastily pulled my pants back up and returned to the front where Hettie now knelt on the stone floor, ladling soup into the cup.

  “Here, have some while it’s hot.”

  I looked at the cup, then back up at her. “What’s in it?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Just soup, dear. Homemade. See.”

  She picked up the ladle, took a scoop from the tureen, and drank. “There’s no drugs, Kate. That part of this whole fiasco is over. Now drink. You’re going to need your strength.”

  She unlatched a small pass-through at the front of the cage and placed the cup inside.

  I stared at it for a moment until my thirst overwhelmed my caution. Nodding, I picked it up and drank.

  It was delicious.

  I finished the soup in two or three big gulps than pushed the cup forward. “More,” I said.

  Hettie nodded as she refilled it and placed it in the pass-through.

  This time, I drank slowly, savoring the soup’s flavor.

  Hettie watched me, a sad smile on her face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, Kate,” she said. “I had Raoul convinced you knew nothing. Why on earth did you go into the tunnels?”

  “My mother’s journal … the one from that last summer. I found it. It describes the conversation she overheard between Raoul and Vlad. They were arguing about drugs and human trafficking. I was taking it to show my father when Vlad attacked me.”

  “Where is it now?” she asked.

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I dropped it when Vlad….”

  Hettie nodded. “All this because your mother was a little sneak.”

  “That’s not fair. Raoul murdered her, didn’t he?”

  Hettie flinched and tears fell from her eyes. “Yes, he did. But I didn’t know until after it was done. If she’d only stayed out of these damned tunnels.”

  “How did all this start – the drugs and everything?”

  “It wasn’t all bad, dear. I only wanted to help my patients.”

  “With coke and meth?” I asked sarcastically.

  She shook her head. “No, not like that. It started with drugs that were already on the market in Europe and the Far East. Miracle drugs. U.S. pharmaceutical companies didn’t want the competition, so they lobbied the FDA to deny approval here. They spent millions and the result was death to many. I wanted to bring these medicines to the terminally ill. Give them a shot at a few more months or, possibly, years.”

  “Okay, I get that. But why did you branch out into addictive drugs? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Hettie stared down at the floor, the sadness in her eyes speaking volumes.

  “I know, I know,” she finally said. “It started small … a way to make money to get the good drugs to the people who needed them. And, when it expanded, Raoul convinced me. Said the drugs would get here anyway and, unlike others, we were using the money to do good.”

  “You go
tta be kidding.”

  Hettie sighed. “In hindsight, it does sound foolish. But I was in love and Raoul can be very persuasive.”

  “What about this Vlad character? How does he fit in?”

  “He’s an old friend of Raoul’s. They’ve know each other for years and were already business partners in the antiquity game.”

  “He’s a thug and a sleaze.”

  “You’re right and I never liked him. Never wanted him in my house.”

  “And what about these?” I asked, slamming my hand against the side of the cage. “Mom’s journal said that Raoul refused to go along with trafficking in women. Looks like he changed his mind.”

  “No, no, he didn’t. But, against my will, he allowed Vlad to ‘store’ the women here. Other than that, the whole operation is Vlad’s.”

  “And you just let it happen? Let him kidnap and sell women to the highest bidder? You let that happen here, in your own home?”

  Hettie took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Yes, I suppose I did. And, I bear my share of guilt and regret. I know it’s no excuse, but things just snowballed.”

  “And what happens now? Is Raoul going to kill me, too? Or are you going to let Vlad sell me?”

  “No, no. Neither of those things will happen. I won’t let it. You’ll be all right in the end. I will see to it.”

  “How?”

  She was silent.

  She took the cup and poured one last portion of soup and slid it through the slot to me. “Here. Finish it. I have to go now. You rest as best you can. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

  “Wait,” I cried. “Can’t you just let me go? I promise I won’t say anything. I’ll leave Storm. Go far away. Maybe Europe. You’ll never see me again. Please. You can say I overpowered you or tricked you or something. Please, Aunt Hettie, please.”

  She stared at me for a moment as if thinking it over, then shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “You not a shrinking violet. You’d go to the authorities.”

  I started to protest, but, without another word, she rose and, putting the empty tureen on the tray, took her lantern and left the room.

  Darkness once again surrounded me. The only sound was that of water dripping down the walls. I quickly finished the soup and, not knowing what else to do, curled myself into a ball and tried to get some rest.

  A Taste Of Blood

  I DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. When I finally woke, I hurt all over. The dampness had crept into my joints and I struggled to stretch and get them working again. I rubbed my eyes, trying to see anything in the gloom that surrounded me.

  My watch, which had illumination, said it was seven-thirty p.m. When would they finally come for me? And, what would they do once they got here?

  I again tried to undo the latch. I broke the porcelain cup Hettie left behind and attempted to use the shard’s sharp edge to wedge the lock open. But all I managed to do was cut my finger in the process.

  I thought about Sloane. I had missed our meeting. Would my absence spur him into action? Would he somehow find the courage to brave these tunnels? I tried calling out, but all I got for my effort was the echo of my own voice.

  It was getting colder and my body began to shiver uncontrollably. I hugged myself, wondering how long I could stand it down here before hypothermia set in.

  I was about to try calling out for help again, when I heard footsteps coming in my direction. I struggled to see who it was.

  A light shining directly in my eyes blinded me.

  “Well, well, Dr. Pomeroy. You look pretty damn bad.”

  Vlad’s heavily accented voice echoed and I felt a sharp stab of fear enter my core.

  I scooted to the back of the cage and sat cowering as he slowly walked toward me.

  He laughed. “Don’t look so scared. I won’t bite … at least, not today. Come, I’m taking you out of here.”

  “Where?” I asked, my voice quavering.

  He grinned. “Why, up to Stormview, of course. Your uncle and aunt are waiting for you. Now come.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Have you grown so accustomed to the cage that you’ve come to like it? Like a dog in his crate? It’s safe, isn’t it? But time is wasting. Come or I’ll drag you out by your hair.”

  I believed he would do it, so I reluctantly crawled to the front of the cage. He unlocked the door, then grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out.

  Without warning, I slashed at him with the shard from the soup cup I’d kept hidden in my fist. I caught him across the face, cutting deeply.

  He cried out in surprise and, instinctively, dropped my arm.

  This was my chance. If only I could make it back to the carriage house.

  I started to run, but my legs, cramped and partially numb from inactivity and the cold, gave way and I fell to the stone floor.

  Vlad recovered quickly and, as I tried to get to my feet, grabbed me and slapped me viciously across the face.

  “You will pay for this, girl,” he said, slapping me again. “Now, get a move on. Raoul is waiting.”

  He pushed me forward with his free hand. His other pressed a handkerchief to the wound on his face, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  It wasn’t far to the staircase that led to Stormview. Vlad continued to push me and, when I stumbled on the stairs, kicked me and called me names in his native tongue.

  Finally, we reached the closet in Raoul’s study my mother had described so vividly. The door to the study was open and I could see my uncle waiting by the desk. The look on his face was fierce and I could tell he could barely contain his anger.

  Vlad pushed me into the room. “Goodbye for now, princess,” he said mockingly. “Till we meet again. She’s all yours, Raoul.”

  He turned to go, but stopped.

  “I forgot,” he said as he pulled my cell from his jacket pocket and handed it to Raoul. “This is Dr. Pomeroy’s. Perhaps you will find it useful.”

  Then without further ado, Vlad descended again into the tunnels and I was left alone with my uncle.

  Raoul smiled at me, then pocketed my cell phone.

  “Katherine, why have you done this?” he asked. “Now, you leave me no choice.”

  I straightened up. I would not let on to him how frightened I was.

  “Are you going to hang me from ceiling fan like you did my mother?” I challenged.

  Raoul laughed. “Mmmm, I hadn’t thought of that. But, no, I have other things in mind for you. Come.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to go with him.

  “Oh, Katherine. I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

  As he spoke, he pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at me.

  “Come,” he reiterated. “And don’t make me ask you a third time.”

  I took a deep breath and walked toward the door.

  “To the dining room,” he commanded.

  The dining room was just down the stairs and to our right and, confused and frightened by the gun, I did as he said.

  “Sit,” he demanded, indicating one of the straight-backed chairs.

  I sat meekly in the chair and watched as he pulled a length of rope from the china cupboard and quickly trussed me up. When I was secure, he opened another drawer and grabbed what looked like a pair of surgical gloves and snapped them on. Then he went to the sideboard and extracted a butcher knife from an ornate wooden block.

  Brandishing the knife before my eyes, he smiled. “Now, you stay right here. I’ll be back in a jiffy. This is almost over, Katherine.”

  Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the room and, once he was gone, I struggled against the rope that secured me to the chair. In vain, my eyes searched the room for a sharp object – anything that I could use to cut my bonds.

  The wood block that had held the butcher knife was now empty, but there might be other knives in the drawers, so I tried to maneuver my chair toward the sideboard.

  Unfortunately, all I man
aged to do was tip the chair over and I went crashing to the floor.

  I lay there panting as I absorbed the pain from the fall. I tried to right the chair, but the way I was bound hampered any movement.

  And, it didn’t matter. Footsteps were approaching. Raoul was back.

  When he entered the room, at first he looked around, surprised. Then he caught sight of me on the floor and began to laugh.

  “Oh, Katherine. I’m going to miss you.”

  He leaned over and, extracting a stiletto blade from his pocket, cut the rope that tied me to the chair.

  “Get up,” he said. “You’re needed in your father’s room. I believe he’s had an accident.”

  I stared at him. His hands, still sheathed in the surgeon’s gloves, were stained red.

  Blood.

  “No!” I cried, running from the room toward the guest bedroom.

  The door was ajar and I hurried inside.

  My father was lying on the bed, the butcher knife embedded deeply in his chest. There was blood everywhere.

  I raced to him, my fingers seeking out any sign of a pulse.

  “Thank God,” I whispered when I located a faint beat.

  Without thinking, I pulled the knife from his chest and began to apply pressure on the wound. Blood spurted everywhere and my free hand searched the bed for something staunch the flow.

  My father groaned and then was still. I searched again for a pulse but this time I came up empty.

  In vain, I pounded on his chest, wishing desperately that I had a portable defibrillator. But all my machinations were futile. He was not coming back. He was dead.

  Tears stained my cheeks as I sat back on my haunches, staring at my dad’s corpse. I leaned forward and closed his eyes, then kissed him on the cheek.

  Raoul would pay for this.

  Staggering slightly, I left the room. Raoul was standing just outside, grinning.

  “How could you?” I screamed.

  “Settle down, little Katherine,” he answered as he closed the door to my father’s room. “You are now free to go. However, I shall be calling the police in a few minutes.”

  “The police?” I asked, stunned. “Are you going to confess?”