Текст книги "Never Die Alone"

Автор книги: Lisa Jackson

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 17

“O wwwwrrrrr!”

Son of a bitch!

The pathetic little bitch had blindsided him!

Launching herself at his back from the dark corner of the cell, she’d wrapped her legs around his torso and clamped herself on. Holding on with her legs, she’d reached over his shoulder and, using both hands, rammed something sharp and hard into his cheek.

He roared and bucked, his cell phone flying from his hand.

Pain shot through his cheek and she thrust upward, slicing through skin and muscle, scraping against bone.

Jesus effin’ Christ, she was trying to put the knife or scissors or whatever it was into his eye, drag the blade into his orbital socket with the intent to blind him.

Goddammit, how had this happened?

“You little shit!” he screamed, grabbing hold of her hand, forcing it away from his face as blood poured from the wound.

“Die, die, die!” she shrieked, frantic.

Twisting in the air, he forced her arm backward and heard a sucking sound as her weapon was forced from his flesh. The pain! It felt like his face was ripped open. He bucked again. This time her legs lost their hold.

Squealing, she went flying across the room.

Thud!

Her body hit the concrete wall, probably rattling her bones, possibly cracking her skull as she slid limply to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. He lunged at her, hot, sticky blood dripping from his chin. For the love of Christ, what was wrong with her? Didn’t she know he could snuff her life out in an instant? He could’ve killed her at any moment, but instead he’d kept her alive.

Because you have to. This one, she has to die second as she was born second. Besides, she’s bait for the other one.

Bleeding like a stuck pig, he reached down, intent on subduing her. But there was no need. She’d obviously been knocked senseless. But he could take no chances. This time he wouldn’t be so foolish. He would tie her as he had originally, feet and hands bound together behind her back. Fuck her need for food and water. So she had to piss or shit? Who cared? She could foul herself. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

He grabbed for her arms, intent on hauling her to her feet so he could adjust her manacles.

One leg shot upward. Bang! Her knee connected with his groin. “Owwwww!”heroared, fury and pain ripping through him, his crotch on fire. Immobilized, he doubled over. Held himself. Crumpled from the sheer agony radiating from the juncture of his legs.

“Bastard,” she hissed, and scrambled quickly away.

From the corner of his eye he saw her scuttle to the spot where his phone had landed.

No!

Through a veil of raw pain he saw her snag the cell, then clamber ungainly up the damned ladder.

For the love of Christ, why had he left it down? Holding his nuts and willing the pain to lessen, he could only ride the wave of pain and watch her flee. God, it hurt. It hurt so damned bad. But he couldn’t let her get away.

Sucking his breath through his teeth, he rolled to his knees and made the laborious crawl to the base of the ladder. But she was already up and out. Fuck! He nearly passed out again, and paused to drag in deep breaths.

He was trying to breathe through the searing pain when the ladder moved.

What?

The ends of the rails scraped against the floor and then slowly, the ladder started to lift. No! That little bitch was going to take away his only means of escape from this place? Leave him in here to wait to rot? All of a sudden his private sanctuary, where he’d always felt safe from the world, began to close in around him like a tomb. A dark, wet, hopeless dungeon.

Hell, no!

The end of the ladder was moving upward, inching its way through the opening. Christ Almighty!

Forcing himself to his feet, he took a swing at the bottom rung.

Missed.

Up it went a bit farther.

“NO!”

Another swipe.

Another miss!

God, his balls ached. Shit! His heart was thudding, a new fear sweeping through him as the idea that he was going to be trapped like a rat became more of a reality. His groin throbbed as the ladder moved steadily upward.

He coiled, released, and jumped. This time, the fingers of one hand curled around the lowest rung. The ladder stopped—his weight was too much for her—but just then she gave it a shake and his hand started to slip.

No damned way.

With all his strength he grabbed hold with his free hand and then gave a loud, sharp whistle. A second later he heard a responsive bark and knew old Red had heard him.

The dog would come running. She would let the ladder slip through her fingers and—

Swish!

His fingers had slid from the ladder and he was falling backward. His feet slipped out from under him as he went down, hard.

Craaack! He landed hard on his back. His head slammed against the cement floor. For a second, blackness swirled around him. He blinked just as the ladder, a massive projectile, shot downward, straight at him.

Reflexively, his arms flew up.

Too late! The wooden missile twisted, the bottom of the side rail, ramming his throat. Pain exploded in his neck. For a split second he thought his Adam’s apple and larynx had been crushed.

The room went dark and he fought to stay conscious. Struggled to breathe.

Overhead he heard the dog’s warning growl.

Old Red had come to save the day. If only it wasn’t too late. Over the throbbing in his body, he felt a moment’s relief. If he could just pull himself to his feet, ignore the pain radiating from his skull, throat, and groin, then he might be able to set the ladder up and—

“Good boy, it’s all right,” Chloe was saying, actually trying to talk to the dog.

No!

“Red, attack! Sic ’em!” He tried to call out to the dog, but his voice failed him, and all that came was a whistle of air from his lungs. Damn! He tried again. “Red! Attack!” But once more all that he was able to do was a whistle.

He hoped the dog would understand and detain her. Even if she managed to get away, Red would track her down. The dog had been trained that way. He found the ladder and started to right it when he heard the dog bark an alarm. Good. Probably had the bitch pinned down.

In the next moment a banging sound startled him as the trapdoor overhead dropped into place.

Wait! She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . .

Over Red’s now-muted but furious barking, he heard the trapdoor shut with a heavy thunk. Then, the distinctive click of a lock snapping shut.

Shit!

That fuckin’ little bitch, the girl he thought was a complete wimp, an absolute coward, had not only duped him. She’d locked him in his own damned dungeon.

Worse yet, she had his cell phone.

True to his word, Jonas Hayes had sent over the 21 Killer file via the Internet. For the second night in a row, Bentz sat at his computer, but instead of drinking beer, he was letting a cup of coffee go cold on a side table. Also, tonight he wasn’t staring at footage of Father John exiting the prison where he’d left his last victim, but was skimming the reports and notes on the Diana and Delta Caldwell murders. Trial testimony was included, as well as interviews with Donovan Caldwell, who repeatedly maintained his innocence.

Hayes had also sent information on Lucy and Laney Springer, twenty-one-year-old twins who had been killed more recently in the same ritualistic manner as the Caldwell sisters. Although the DA did not have a strong enough case to indict Donovan Caldwell for the Springer twins’ homicides, it had been generally assumed that Caldwell was the murderer. Evidence at the Springer crime scene and the circumstances of the killing followed the patterns of the Caldwell homicides.

Not only were both the crime scenes in the Caldwell and Springer homicides nearly identical, down to the way the victims were found hog-tied and naked near their neatly stacked clothes, but the same kind of heavy-duty Christmas ribbon had been found at each scene. The ribbon of choice was red, with wires running through it. This detail had been hidden from the press and public until Donovan Caldwell’s trial, of course, when all of the evidence had been presented. The differences in the ribbon, Bentz figured, was one of the reasons that the prosecution did not try Caldwell for both sets of murders at the same time, as it wasn’t an exact match. Very close, but not from the same “batch.” And the DA hadn’t wanted to give the defense any discrepancies that might weaken the charges against Caldwell. They only needed the killer to be found guilty of one set of murders to get him off the streets.

Bentz’s chair groaned in protest as he leaned back and sorted through some of the images on file, stopping at a series of photos of the victims, their naked bodies bruised with ligature marks that indicated how they’d been held captive before they died.

“Sick son of a bitch,” he said, and felt his stomach turn just as it did when he first visited a crime scene and saw the victims. It was literally a gut reaction, one he couldn’t control, and had been the cause of many a sneering joke from Brinkman.

“What’s wrong, Bentz? Can’t keep your cornflakes down this morning?” Brinkman had asked at one scene where the victim’s head was nearly severed and Bentz’s stomach had roiled. Watching Bentz turn green, Brinkman had smirked and smoked a cigarette. At another gruesome crime scene where a domestic dispute had turned deadly and both husband and wife lay dead in their blood-soaked bed, their flesh turning fetid from the days of summer heat, their bodies bloated, Bentz had fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. But Brinkman had waltzed in, noticed that Bentz was struggling, and said, “Smells great in here, doesn’t it? Makes me want a ham sandwich. How ’bout you, Bentz? Or is your system too delicate for it?”

“Jerk,” Bentz said to himself. He studied the bodies and listened with half an ear to Midnight Confessions as once more Dr. Sam gave out advice over the airwaves. Somewhere, Bentz was certain, Father John was also listening intently. Bentz was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice his wife step into the room.

“Rick?”

He glanced up.

Olivia was standing on the other side of the desk. In her arms was their daughter, Ginny, all of eight months, with what little hair she had sticking up as if she’d just put her finger in a light socket.

His heart melted at the sight of his sleeping child, tiny head resting on her mother’s breast.

“Hey.” He met his wife’s sleepy eyes. “What about our vow to let sleeping kids lie?”

Dressed in oversized pajamas, her own hair a crown of wild curls, Olivia didn’t crack a smile. “I took that oath when I thought there was a chance our daughter might actually get to see her father once in a while.”

“Oooh. Low blow.”

“Not low enough,” she muttered, and rounded the desk to perch on the extension that had once housed a typewriter. With a glance at the computer screen and a view of the photo of Laney Springer’s corpse, Olivia scowled.

“Nice,” she said. “Healthy environment for our daughter to grow up in, don’t you think?”

He clicked off the monitor. “You knew I was a homicide cop,” he said, touching her knee. “If you don’t remember, that’s how we met.”

“Oh, I remember.” A little smile toyed at her lips and she met his gaze with the gorgeous round eyes that had seen into a killer’s mind. “Like it was yesterday.” She handed the baby off to him. “And it’s not a good thing.”

“Our meeting?”

“The circumstances of it.” Cradling his child against him, he felt the ruffle of Ginny’s downy hair against his neck, smelled her clean baby scent, watched in fascination as rosebud lips let out a sigh.

“I know it bothers you—”

“A lot,” she responded quickly.

“Okay, I get it. Really. But this is my job for now. And I can’t just turn my back on my cases. You know that. And come on, how would you have felt if I’d ignored you when you came storming into my office, ranting and raving about seeing women as they were being murdered?”

She winced at the memory. “I know.”

“Look, if I hadn’t followed my gut, if I hadn’t believed in you and tried to help you, a murderer might still be stalking the streets of New Orleans.”

“Another murderer,” she corrected.

“Yeah, another one.”

“I know your job’s important. Don’t get me wrong. But you’ve done it a long time.” She let out a sigh through her nose. “Let someone else do it. There are other cops at the department. Younger cops.”

“They have families, too.” His daughter nestled closer to him, and he felt her soft breath against the base of his neck.

“Are you going to try and make me feel guilty for wanting you to be around to watch your daughter grow up?” Olivia cocked her head to look at him more closely. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Because it won’t work.”

“It’s my—”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve already said. But think about it. You’ve got enough years in. You could retire.”

He thought for a second. The same old arguments played through his head. “I’m not even fifty.”

“I’m not saying quit working, I’m just saying change jobs. Do consulting. Become a PI. Go back to school. Teach. Whatever.” She threw up a hand. “Just something less dangerous. Okay?” Little worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “I’d like you to see Ginny graduate from college and become the greatest nuclear physicist, or a senator, or the researcher who cures cancer.”

“Not the first female president of the United States?”

“Hopefully by then, the second or third woman who’s been elected, but, sure, Ginny could handle that in her spare time.”

He chuckled and the baby reacted, startled a bit, but didn’t wake. “Lofty aspirations, Mom.” He pressed his lips to Ginny’s head.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. Your job is dangerous. Dear God, I almost lost you a few years back.”

“True.” Didn’t his leg still bother him, a constant reminder? He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “And I’ve nearly lost both you and Kristi.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he replayed the horror he’d felt knowing those who were dearest to him were at the mercy of monsters, psychos seeking revenge. “More than once.”

They stared at each other. Silently. Didn’t state the obvious, what they were both thinking: Bentz’s profession could potentially put their precious, innocent daughter at risk. His mouth went dry at the thought. He replayed his fears when both Olivia and Kristi had been kidnapped, each of them more than once, each of them nearly losing her life at the hands of a homicidal maniac, a killer Bentz had been chasing.

Bentz hunted the monsters.

And he attracted them.

Involuntarily his arms tightened around his daughter, and Ginny let out a soft little sigh. No, he thought as he breathed in the sweet smell of baby lotion, he could never put her at risk.

“Let Montoya handle the cases. He can partner up with . . . Lynn Zaroster or . . . or Brinkman or whoever.

In his mind’s eye Bentz thought about the younger junior detective. Zaroster was a little green, but eager and smart. Then there was Brinkman, past middle age and repellant. A decent-enough cop, Brinkman got the job done, but was a foulmouthed misogynist whose off-color jokes and offensive remarks cost him several wives and brought him few friends, rebukes from the brass, and disdain from his colleagues.

“If he ended up with Brinkman, Montoya would cut my retirement short by personally shooting me.”

“See what I mean? All this violence!”

“I was just kidding.”

“But that”—she pointed at the now-blank monitor—“that’s no joke.”

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “But this is someone I need to put away.”

“You mean 21?”

He nodded.

“And the other one? The reason why you’re listening to psychobabble in the middle of the night? Father John. I suppose he’s another one you need to lock up.”

“Yes, two of the worst I’ve dealt with. It’s a personal thing with me. Both slipped through my fingers. Well, I thought 21 was behind bars, but I have to be sure. These guys, they’re bad men, and I want to make certain both of them are locked away forever.”

“It’s your personal mission?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, blond curls dancing around her face. “When will it ever end? No, don’t answer that because you don’t know. No one does. And that end I’m asking about? It could be bad, Rick. For all of us.”

In his arms the baby stretched, her nearly nonexistent neck straightening, her little chin pointing upward for a second before she burrowed against him again. He knew Olivia was right. He could never do anything to put this precious child in danger. Nothing was worth that.

Not even his damned job.

CHAPTER 18

Sitting on the edge of the bed in her one-room apartment, Tiffany Elite waited. She checked her watch.

He was late.

Great.

Face it, he might not show.

That would really piss her off.

She crossed to the front window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked past the bars. Her apartment was located half a block from Chartres and just enough outside the French Quarter to be affordable, but easy enough for her clients to locate. The place was a bit of a dive, but the good thing about it was the manager turned a blind eye to the happenings within the old building. In return, the occupants didn’t complain too much about dripping faucets or a rat or two that scurried around the corners of the crumbling brick and mortar apartment house. Well, except for Mrs. Kowalski. That old hag bitched about everything from her high electric bill, to the street noise, to a toilet that wouldn’t quit running. Tiffany wanted to say, “Hey, lady, you live in New Orleans in an apartment that’s older than you. Get used to it!” But she’d always just smiled, afraid to rattle the older woman who might suddenly take offense to her nocturnal visitors and call the cops. Nosy busybody.

Her A/C was on the blink again, and the first-floor unit got a little stuffy. She opened the window over the sink in the area that was the designated kitchen, barely more than a closet with a hot plate and microwave sufficing as the stove, and a refrigerator that couldn’t hold much more than a quart of milk. Not that she cooked much anyway. In Tiffany’s opinion, culinary skills were highly overrated.

Sounds of the night filtered in, though it was late enough that there was little traffic. There was the occasional hum of wheels on the city streets, or an engine purring as it passed, but at least there were no horns honking, no damned sirens screaming. A peaceful time in the city.

From this window she had a direct view of the apartment building just beyond the alley, but the unit across the small space was dark. Its occupants had probably gone to bed already. The elderly couple who occupied it kept opposite hours from Tiffany. The Sorensons were just getting up and shuffling around about the time that Tiffany turned out the lights. Once in a while Tiffany would peer through the window and catch the old lady in her bathrobe and hairnet, studiously making coffee while Tiffany was downing her last shot of vodka for the night.

“Different strokes,” she murmured, and felt a breath of night air against her skin. Was that the scent of magnolia on the breeze, or her imagination?

Again, she glanced at the clock.

Ten more minutes had passed. If he ever had the balls to show up, she’d charge him extra. With each passing minute, she became a little more agitated. She figured the john could at least be prompt. She was a working girl, had to stagger appointments. Fortunately this guy, not one of her regulars, was her last client of the night. A good thing, ’cause she was beat. Besides this gig, which she considered her side job, she worked part-time as a waitress at a restaurant in the brewery-turned-shopping mall on Decatur. Usually she covered the lunch shift, but sometimes dinner as well. For all her work at Sylvia Black’s, she collected a few piddly tips for umpteen orders of po’boys, gumbo, and crawfish étouffée. So she supplemented.

“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all night,” she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. So far there was no sign of gray in the springy black curls that she’d highlighted with a few thin gold streaks. She told herself the lines on her face just added a little character, and there weren’t many. Not yet. Her eyes were still clear, a light brown with flecks of green. Tonight, they were sultry, rimmed in glittery shadow and thick mascara.

Unbuttoned to her navel, her oversized blouse was sheer and showed off her figure as well as offering a peek-a-boo glimpse of her breasts, still firm and high despite having a child and pushing thirty. She’d compressed them into a leopard print bra with cups at least one size too small so that she appeared to be spilling out of it.

She was fit. Trim. Waitress work kept her in shape and she’d given up her pack-a-day habit. Well, not entirely, but at least she could make her pack stretch for three or four days. An improvement, right? Wasn’t that what life was all about? She’d kicked the meth and most of the booze, now the cigs. Well, almost. By the time she was forty she’d be so damned healthy she wouldn’t be able to stand herself, and then maybe she’d get joint custody of Logan back. Her heart turned a little cold at the thought of her son. He was nine already. Nine? Oh, man, she’d already missed so much and by the time she turned forty he would be . . . oh, sweet Jesus, he’d be twenty, the age she was when she bore him. No, no, no. It was going too fast! She couldn’t wait that long. She needed her baby boy back now. Somehow she’d have to clean up her act and—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Finally, knuckles knocked sharply on her door.

She straightened her short skirt, made sure it was snug and even across her buttocks, tossed her hair over her shoulders, licked her lips, and stepped into her heels before crossing to the door. Placing a hand over the top lock, she said, “Who is it?”

“John.”

That was what he’d said his name was. Really? Some of her first-timers used it as an alias, thinking it was funny, but that was just fine. As long as they paid. She unlocked the first dead bolt, then the second, opened the door a crack, and peered through to the outside.

He stood beneath the porch light. A tall man dressed in black, with thick, coffee-colored hair, this one was leaner and fitter than her average customer. A pair of Ray-Bans covered his eyes as if he were hiding his identity. No surprise there.

He smiled. A disarming grin showed a flash of white teeth. “I have an appointment.” he said. “You’re Tiffany?”

“That’s right,” she said in a cool tone. At night she was definitely Tiffany Elite, not Teri Gaines, the waitress who hopped from table to table, mopping up spilled soda and beer while smiling at her customer’s stupid jokes in order to catch a fatter tip. No, tonight Tiffany was definitely in the house. She unlocked the chain and held the door for him. “Come on in.” As he stepped through, she felt a little tingle of warning run up the back of her neck. What was it?

No worries. He was already reaching for his wallet and placing a bill on the table, a hundred-dollar bill from the looks of it, though it was marred. “Let’s take care of business first,” he said, leaving the C-note faceup.

Dear God, were Ben Franklin’s eyes actually blackened?

Weird.

But it would spend.

“So,” she said with a coy smile. “What can I do for you? That”—she pointed at the bill on the table—“will get you started, but you won’t go far.”

“Let’s see how far we can go,” he said. “Why don’t you start by stripping?”

She lifted an eyebrow, as if she found his request fascinating when really, wasn’t it the normal routine?

“All right,” she said, “but I don’t like to party alone.” Bending over, offering him more than a little glimpse of her cleavage, she slid off one red heel, then slowly, the other. If he wanted a striptease, she was going to make it worth his while. She probably should leave the shoes on—guys liked her in nothing but garters and stockings and mile-high heels—but she wasn’t going to make the mistake of wobbling while she undressed like she did last week when she fell. That john had laughed at her discomfiture, damn him. As for nylons and garters, she wasn’t into that unless a client specifically requested an outfit; then, of course, she’d accommodate him. And charge accordingly.

This one hadn’t asked for anything. Just an appointment.

She kicked off the heels and suddenly lost four inches so that now she was a good foot shorter than he. To be expected. Looking up at him, she noticed that he wasn’t just fit, but muscular as well. Strong. His black shirt, buttoned to his neck, seemed off somehow. Something odd about it. But it didn’t really matter.

Watching him, she slid out of the sheer blouse, let it fall to the floor, and then slowly wiggled out of the tiny skirt.

Was he getting off?

She couldn’t tell.

No bulge appeared in his black jeans, but whatever. He wasn’t complaining.

“Want to help?” she asked, fingering her bra.

“You do it.”

“Whatever you want.” She tamped down her boredom and tried to sound breathless, as if she were turning herself on. Though it was all an act, a routine she’d gone through a thousand times. “Why don’t you take off some of your clothes?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Why don’t you help me?” he said.

That was more like it.

She looked up at him and offered a sexy smile along with what she hoped was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. “Sure, baby,” she said, and sauntered closer to him. “Let’s start with these.” Reaching up, she tried to remove his glasses, but he caught her hand.

“They stay.” Firm. Almost angry. He jerked his head back.

“Sure . . . sure. Whatever you say.”

He let go of her arm and she tried to recover. The guy was a little freaky . . . quick to ignite. Best to do him and get it over with; escort him out the door and turn the lock behind him. She didn’t like the edgy ones, but she needed the money.

“How ’bout we start here?” she suggested, and slid her fingers down the waistband of his pants.

“How ’bout?” he agreed, and lifted one hand to tangle his fingers in her hair.

She slipped the button out of its hole, then slid his zipper down slowly and noticed that he wasn’t even starting to get hard, no evidence of any erection whatsoever. Damn, this was going to take more work than she’d planned. Big, healthy man, in the prime of his life, and not turned on by her?

Her fingers touched his skin and he flinched, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a chain.

She paused.

What the hell?

No, not a chain, a necklace.

Really? Some kind of kinky thing?

No, not a necklace. A rosary! Oh, God, was he some kind of religious nut, here to try and save her or himself?

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, trying not to frown as she looked up and saw that his jaw had hardened. “What’s going on with—”

He struck quickly, looping the rosary over her head and neck.

“Hey! Wait!” she yelled as the linked beads tightened. She tried to scream, but the air was caught in her lungs. What the fuck was he doing? Trying to scare her? Asphyxiate her?

Tighter and tighter, the holy noose was twisted, closing her throat, her airways, her lifeline.

This was no sex game. No way! She started hitting at him. Kicking. Her lungs were burning. Her eyes felt as if they were beginning to bulge.

No, please God, no!

No amount of kicking could stop him, and her arms flailed uselessly. She grabbed at the links of beads, hoping to get her fingers beneath the string, hoping to break the damned thing, but she couldn’t get a grip on it. The beads were sharp, the wire holding it together strong.

He lifted the chord and raised her off the floor. The world started to spin as she struggled, her legs kicking wildly, her lungs ready to explode. She couldn’t die . . . she wouldn’t die. Not like this. Not without seeing her son . . .

With a grunt he jerked hard.

Her head snapped back, and she caught a glimpse of her distorted image in his dark glasses.

Then nothing.

“Stay!” Chloe ordered the dog as she slammed the padlock shut and rose to her feet. Though totally freaked out, she glared at the dog and tried like hell to seem calm, in charge. She’d heard the monster down in the dungeon whistle to the hound, who appeared more confused than anything else. “Good dog,” she said as she edged back. She had to be firm . . . steady. “You just stay there.” Backing away, she made her way to the door as the dog stared at the shut trapdoor and whined. “He’ll be fine,” she assured the dog, though she hoped the son of a bitch rotted in hell for all eternity and then some.

At last, she stepped outside, but the damn dog was following. She grabbed the door to fling it shut behind her, then hesitated. Should she close the dog up in the house? Locked away from water? Trapped in the heat? Crap! She left the door open behind her and kept one eye on the doorway. The dog seemed disinterested, whining and pacing in and out of the house.

Fine.

She had her own problems. But at least she could breathe gain. Outside the night was thick, the air heavy and sultry, the sound of crickets competing with a chorus of frogs. The stars were out, shining behind high clouds, and a bit of moon cast silver shadows. A plane flew high overhead, lights winking.

She tried to get her bearings as she stood there shaking. She wanted nothing more than to put some distance between her and this god-awful place. But first . . . with trembling fingers she punched 9-1-1 onto the face of the phone.

Nothing.

What? No!

Wait. The screen was dark. Think, Chloe, think. She switched the cell on, but no lights began to glow, no numbers lit. She tried again to make the call. The freak had just been talking on the damned thing to that Myra nutcase, and . . .

Again, she only heard dead air.

“What the hell?” Disbelieving, she turned her head to the sky. “Why?” How could the phone be dead? The device wasn’t searching for a cell phone tower, and there was no indication of low signal strength. No. The phone was dead. She wanted to throw the useless piece of shit as far as she could, but she restrained herself. The phone was evidence and could link the bastard to Myra, the freakin’ mastermind. Holy crap, what kind of mess had she and Zoe stepped into?

Zoe!

Her throat closed. Where was her sister? Why hadn’t she returned with the police and guns blazing? Chloe bit her lip. For the first time since escaping from the dungeon, now that her adrenaline rush had worn off, she felt the pain of her injuries. Every muscle in her body hurt, and exhaustion tugged at her. But she couldn’t give up. Not yet.