Nowhere to Hide (28 page)

She stared at the mute phone.

Please, please be alive, Ellen.

Forty

I’m in the hospital,
she thought.
I got hit by a car
.
My schoolbooks flew everywhere. She had to tell someone to get them for her. Someone said they tried to get her mother to ride in the ambulance, but they couldn’t wake her up because she was too drunk, and no one could find Daddy.

"Do you know your name, dear?" the woman said. "No, don’t move, honey. Just lie still."

"I’m Ellen Sarah Morgan," she heard herself say. "And I’m eight years old. I didn’t cross against the light, honest."

"It’s not your fault, Ellen. Now don’t try to talk anymore."

Why was it so cold? Why didn’t Mommy come? I hurt, Mommy. I hurt so
bad
.

And then the hurt faded as the darkness slipped over her again.

Forty-one

3:20 a.m.

Back at the station, Mike studied the printout Artie handed him, though Artie had already related the information. "Okay. So, we’ve got one hundred forty seven registered vans in and around Evansdale," he said. "Let’s start eliminating."

"Son-of-bitch," Gabe muttered, shaking his head. "If only I’d thought to get the damn license number." He was leaning against the wall by the door, arms folded. "I can’t even tell you for sure what color the van was."

"You did say it was dark."

"Yeah—maybe dark blue or black."

"Strike all light-colored vans, Artie.
New model?"

"Uh, no.
Possibly eight, ten years old.
Smooth running, though, well-maintained."

"Toss all vans four years old and newer," Artie said before Mike could open his mouth. "That oughta trim ’em down pretty good."

Mike thought about the profile Ellen had put together for him. She’d written that the killer might be driving an "old car" further on suggesting a van.
Probably with lots of miles on it, tinted windows.

What else? Mike picked up the now bulging folder from his desk and slid out the stapled, yellow sheets, flipped back a page and reread: "He could have a job that takes him around the country. That way he can travel wherever he chooses without arousing suspicion.
A salesman, maybe?
He’s likeable on the surface, has learned to mimic appropriate behavior.
May live by himself or with his mother.
Despises women, perhaps starting with her.
Reason can be real or imagined.
Addicted to pornography, the more violent the better.
A loner except when he’s working."

Other general stuff.
Mike slid the pages back into the folder, wondered heavily how different the profile might be if, at the time Ellen compiled it, she’d been in possession of all the facts. Maybe it wouldn’t be any different.

Running a hand through his hair, Mike looked around at his equally bleary-eyed colleagues. Everything that could be done was being done. Now they could only wait and hope for a break.

"Let’s get some shut-eye, guys," he said. "We’ll meet back here at..." He looked at his watch "six-thirty."

"Tonight?"
Olsen piped up.

Mike didn’t trust himself to answer.

"This morning, ‘old son’," Gabe said, playing on the name "Olsen," and grinning wryly at his newest wet-behind-the-ears partner.

~ * ~

It was exactly quarter to four when Mike slipped his key into the lock and let himself into the house. Mrs. Balena was asleep on the sofa, snoring softly. He hated to wake her, but she’d be more comfortable in the bed, anyway.

"Sorry to be so late," he whispered, getting out of his jacket. "I’ve got to go out again in a couple of hours. Can you stay?"

"No problem." She stifled a yawn, rose on one elbow. "Oh, a man called while you were out—just after midnight. He said to give you a message. It was a very weird message, Mike. I wrote it down, but it’s not that hard to remember."

"Oh?" He felt a cold dread in his gut. What was it?"

"He just said, ‘Tell the lieutenant, ‘Ding-dong, the witch is dead.’"

Mike’s breath caught somewhere in his chest and stayed there. He couldn’t seem to expel it. After a moment, he said, "What else?"

"That’s all.
Just ‘Ding-dong, the witch is dead.’
Then he laughed."

Forty-two

4:05 a.m.

"Ellen—it’s time to wake up, Ellen."

The voice seemed to come from far off, but she knew it was the doctor. She wanted to do what he asked, but her eyes felt swollen shut. They hurt. Everything hurt.

"I’m Ellen Sarah Morgan," she whispered again, running her tongue over dry, bruised lips. "Where’s my Mommy?"

"She’s not here, Ellen. She abandoned you. Your mother’s just a drunken whore."

Instant tears welled behind her lids. Why would the doctor say something so mean? Mommy drinks sometimes, but she’s not the bad word he said. She could hear the wind howling outside
. I’m so cold. Why doesn’t someone cover me?

Gradually, Ellen became aware of the smells in the air—not the medicinal ones of the hospital, but old, musty smells—sort of the way her grandmother’s attic used to smell, except for the cold. Soon, Ellen grew conscious of the hard floor beneath her, unrelieved by the thin, stinking blanket she lay on. She was curled on her side. She tried to move her hands, felt the rope bite into her flesh. Her hands were bound behind her.

Everything came rushing back to her now, like a train speeding through the night to its destination. There was no way to stop it. She was not a child suffering some minor bruising and a broken leg from a confrontation with a car, and this was anything but a hospital.

"Do you know me?" Horribly soft-spoken words uttered from the darkness, chilling her with a deeper, far more malicious cold that had little to do with the temperature. He had sensed her return to the present.

She tried again to open her eyes. This time, out of small slits, she peered into the inky blackness. She heard a faint click and suddenly his face was floating above her, glowing, disembodied, a nightmare jack-o-lantern come to life.

She tried to scream, but no sound came.

And then, realizing he was holding a flashlight under his chin, grinning down at her, she began to cry.
You bastard.
You cruel, sick bastard.

He laughed as though she’d spoken the words aloud. "It’s a joke, Ellen.
Just a little joke.
What’s the matter? Don’t witches have a sense of humor?" He snapped off the flashlight, instantly returning them both to darkness.

She felt his fingers brush her cheek. She winced. "Please—please don’t hurt me anymore."

He removed his hand. "I’m not going to hurt you, Ellen," he said, sounded wounded at being misunderstood. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

This new, gentle tone left her feeling confused. Was it another "joke"?

"Yes, please," she whispered. It didn’t hurt as much to speak if she remembered to open her mouth just a little. She ventured further. "Would you untie me?" Even if he agreed, which was unlikely, she didn’t know if she’d be able to walk, or even to stand. But she had to try. Ellen knew she was badly hurt, but at least she was still alive.

She didn’t question why.

"Yes, Ellen, of course I’ll untie you. You just lie still now. You must be very cold. There’s a bad storm brewing. I’ll bring you some blankets."

But he’d promised to untie her so she could use the bathroom. Where was he going? Had he brought her to his house? It didn’t feel like a real house where people lived. Ellen lay listening to the hollow sounds his boots made on the wood floor. Finally, she could no longer hear them. She tried to tune in to other sounds that might give her some clues as to where she was, but other than the odd creaking sound, and an ominous scurrying in the wall, there was only the raging of the wind outside.

The wind sounded so close. She felt strangely as if she were at the center of the storm. There were no windows, so the walls must be very thin. No insulation to muffle the sound. Perhaps she was in an attic, after all.
Or a barn.

Ellen started as his voice leaped out of the darkness. "Is Lieutenant Mike Oldfield your boyfriend, Ellen? Is he the man you lay with?" The hard edge was back in his voice, all pretense of gentleness gone.

"No," she said, her heart racing with the fright of hearing him so unexpectedly, and the sense of her complete helplessness. He must have tiptoed back.
Why?
Where did he think she could go in her condition?
Aside from being tied up.

"Are you sure? I found a scrap of paper beside your telephone with his name and number on it. And I’ve seen you with him—once through the window of a restaurant.
Pretty damning evidence, Ellen.
I don’t much like being played for a fool.

Ellen said nothing.

There was no answer.

Forty-three

Mike collapsed on the sofa, closing his eyes for maybe twenty minutes,
then
he showered and shaved, drank two cups of black coffee and was back at the station by six-fifteen.

"We’re on the right track, finally," he said the instant Levine walked in the door. "It just hit me—so damned simple I don’t know why we didn’t make the connection before."

"What, Mike? What connection?"

"It is the guy who sold her the painting. He’s our killer. He’s the one who has Ellen."

Levine shrugged.
"Maybe."

"No maybe about it, Gabe. It’s why he took the painting. Who else would take it? It wasn’t valuable as a piece of art. No, he took it, okay.
For one obvious reason.
It links him with Cindy Miller.
An irrational, impulsive action.
A mistake.
We need a name, Gabe. We need to find out who this guy works for."

By seven o’clock Mike had in his possession a newly wrought artist’s drawing of the man A.J. Booker saw in the
Shelton Room
on the night Gail was murdered—this time without the dark glasses, or longish, blond curly hair. Mike’s foot hard on the gas pedal, the cruiser went screaming out to Cutter’s Road, parting traffic all the way.

Carl Thompson needed only one look before he said, "You were right, Lieutenant. That’s him, okay. Maybe not exact, but close enough. That’s definitely the guy I saw in Anderson’s Insurance selling oil paintings."

Mike laid a grateful hand on Carl’s shoulder. "Good man. Carl, you didn’t happen to hear anyone call him by name? Or maybe mention the company he worked for?"

"No. But I knew a fella once who was into the same line of work.
Sold paintings all over the country.
Did okay, too, according to him.
I think he sent his orders along with his check to some post office box he saw in an ad. They’d ship the paintings to him. He got to keep everything over and above what he paid."

Damn, Mike thought. Ferreting out some shady, if not downright illegal operation in God knows where could take weeks. He didn’t have weeks. If that phone call Mrs. Balena got last night was on the level, maybe he had no time at all.

"I’m just making a pot of coffee, Lieutenant. Care to join me?"

"Uh, no thanks, anyway, Carl," he said to the big man in the brown rumpled robe, whose own face spoke of a hell of a long night. "Smells tempting but if you don’t mind, I’ll take a rain check. I’m going to try and confirm your ID with the staff at Anderson Insurance. Not that it’s absolutely necessary, but it can’t hurt. How’s your wife
coping.
"