Closer Than You Think (4 page)

Arianna tugged the rope again. ‘Untie me. Please. I’ll get you out too. I promise.’

The girl drew in a slow breath, still blotting Arianna’s face. ‘I can’t ever leave.’

‘Who says? I’ll take you with me. Please. You’re my only hope.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The girl’s hands froze, and in the silence that followed, Arianna heard footsteps.

The door opened. Arianna heard the girl’s breathing accelerate. ‘I w-was only c-c-cleaning her,’ the girl stammered out. ‘Like you told me to.’

There was a loud crack, his hand slapping the girl’s face. ‘You’ve been talking to her. I told you not to talk to her. I told you not to talk to any of them, but you dare disobey me. Get an empty box from the kitchen and pack my things. Yours too.’

The girl didn’t say anything. Arianna didn’t breathe.
He’s leaving? Why?

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d have to cut her free from the table if he moved her.
That’ll be my chance to escape
.

The girl’s footsteps shuffled across the floor, then the door closed quietly. Arianna could hear him approaching
.
She braced herself, expecting the slap, but it still hurt when it came. Her jaw ached, her cheek burned. But she didn’t cry out.

‘Did you beg her for help?’ he asked silkily. ‘Did you ask her to untie you? She won’t help you, you know. She wouldn’t know how. You are stuck here. Forever. Or until I kill you.’

Gritting her teeth, Arianna waited for the next assault, but he moved away. A moment later she heard the sound of metal clanking.
Knives
, she thought.
He’s packing up his knives, putting them into a box.
There was a loud, flat clang. The lid of the box being slammed down?
Yes. Like a toolbox.

The door slammed and he was gone. Arianna let the air seep out of her lungs. She didn’t know what had just happened, or why, but she knew she had a chance now. She’d survive, she vowed. She’d break free, find Corinne, and they’d get the hell out of this nightmare.

Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 10.25
P.M.

He slammed the door to his torture room, pissed as hell. ‘Roza! Where the fuck are you?’

The blanket that covered her doorway was pushed aside and the girl came out into the hall. ‘I’m here,’ she said quietly.

‘I told you to pack my things. What’re you doing back there?’

She hesitated. Dropped her gaze. ‘You told me to pack my things too.’

That he had, he had to admit. It wasn’t like it would take her long. She owned maybe four things. ‘Okay. Fine. Get back to it.’ But she didn’t move. ‘Well? What’s the problem now?’

She flinched. ‘Wh-wh-what about Mama?’

He stared down at her. She was skinny, but she’d grown taller. Rounder in places she hadn’t been round before. He’d noticed. ‘What about her?’

She glanced down the dark hall that led to her little room. ‘I can’t just . . . leave her here.’

He shook his head. He’d known she was stupid, but she’d really surprised him. ‘You can’t take her with you. That’s just disgusting. She’s not prepared or anything. She’s probably a pile of rotting goo by now.’ The kid’s mother had died when he’d been away last year, and by the time he’d returned she’d buried the bitch all by herself. The body had already started to rot, so he’d left it alone. No matter. Time had not been kind to the woman. He wouldn’t have wanted to preserve her face anyway.

He knew that the kid was attached to her mother’s grave. She talked to it, slept next to it. That he could understand. But taking the remains with her? The child was not right.

‘I left a takeout bag in the kitchen.’ It had grown cold as he’d driven around town, looking for Faith’s red Jeep. ‘Warm it for me. If you eat even one bite, I’ll know. I weighed it.’

‘All right,’ she whispered.

That was better. He’d let her have too much freedom. She’d been talking to his captives when he wasn’t around. He’d been too easy on her since her mother’s death. He’d have to clamp down, show her the meaning of respect. ‘When you’re done with my dinner, I want everything washed down with bleach. Every wall, every inch of the floor. If I see one dry surface . . .’

He’d beat the tar out of her. He was in the mood to do some major violence. God help the child if she got in his way. It was handy that he had Arianna Escobar. She would take the full brunt of his frustration tonight. Arianna thought she was so tough. She thought she’d had the worst of him. She hadn’t seen anything yet.

He hadn’t been able to find Faith. He’d looked everywhere that she’d ever gone while visiting the old bag who’d left this place to her, but he hadn’t seen her red Jeep in any of the places he’d looked.
I should have followed her. I should have shot her tires out and stopped her from leaving.
He was a damn good shot. If only he’d had his rifle loaded.

But he hadn’t. And had he stopped her, she might have called 911 before he could get to her. That was
all
he needed.

As long as she was alive, that she’d enter the house was a given. She’d explore it and then she’d sell it. He’d have realtors underfoot all day long, poking around.
Touching my things
. He had to find her before she got the opportunity to enter. He wanted her dead, but on his own terms, because once she was gone, he’d buy the house himself.

He’d already set the plan in motion, goddammit, so she needed to be gone
soon
.

He went to his office, closed the door, pulled the desk away from the wall, and pried off the cover to his hidey-hole. He had dozens of these hiding places. Some he’d built, but most had come with the house. These old Victorian houses had nooks and crannies galore and he had made good use of them.

He pulled a lockbox from the wall and set it carefully on his desk. It had grown heavy over the years. It held his most treasured collection. This would be the one thing he’d take if he had to make a quick escape.

It was the one thing that could bury him were it found. He unlocked the box and lifted the lid. It was filled with memories – cell phones and wallets and driver’s licenses. Hair bows and earrings, necklaces and rings. Photographs, car keys, and cans of pepper spray never used by their owners because he’d been far too quick. He even had a deputy sheriff’s badge.

Deputy Susan Simpson had been her name. She’d been a feisty one. Tall and buxom and much stronger than she’d looked. But she’d bent to his will eventually, just like the rest. She’d been a real treat, had lasted weeks before she’d finally given up and died. He’d been able to work out an amazing amount of rage and stress on that one.

He was under a far greater strain now than he’d been when he took Deputy Simpson. It had been worse when he’d targeted Corinne Longstreet on Friday night. He’d been watching her for weeks, waiting for just the right time. Friday had been that time. All because of Faith.

On Friday night, he’d been completely wound up. He’d driven straight to King’s College. He’d been tired and hadn’t been thinking properly and had nearly made a mistake that might have cost him everything.

He’d waited for the two women to separate at the fork in the path. Arianna had gone off to her dorm, leaving Corinne alone and vulnerable. Nabbing her had been a piece of cake. But he hadn’t been expecting Arianna to return, to leap to Corinne’s defense. That he’d managed to take Arianna before she’d had a chance to call 911 had been a bit of cosmic good fortune.

He didn’t want to have to kill either of them now. He wasn’t done with them, not by a long shot. He wanted to stay put. Wanted to have his fun. To work out his frustration. He needed to vent somehow. He was on edge.

All because of Faith Frye. Why hadn’t she died like a normal person any of the times he’d tried to kill her? He could feel the agitation growing inside him, spreading into his brain. If he let it go too far, he’d do something inadvisable. Spontaneous. And then he’d get caught. It was inevitable. So he never allowed the agitation to go too far.

By the time he’d finished with Arianna, he’d be calm, cool and collected once again.

He’d find Faith Frye and he’d kill her. His troubles would be far from over, but at least they would be less immediate.

He picked a hotel key card from the lockbox and frowned. He couldn’t remember who’d brought this keycard, but it didn’t really matter right now. What mattered was that Faith possessed one of these. She’d be in a hotel somewhere. It might take a while, but he’d find her, even if he had to call every hotel in the tri-state area.

On his cell phone, he searched for the hotel chain that Faith always used. Such a creature of habit. He dialed the first location. ‘I’d like Faith Frye’s room, please.’

‘Could you spell that?’ the hotel clerk asked pleasantly.

‘Frye. F-R-Y-E.’

‘Are you sure she’s staying here? We don’t have her in our computer.’

It would have been too easy for him to find her on the first try. ‘I could have sworn she said she was staying at this hotel. I’m sorry to have troubled you. Thank you.’

He repeated the call with every location in that hotel chain in the tri-state area, with no luck. He was becoming frustrated again when the girl knocked softly. He flung open the door with a silent snarl to find her standing with a tray in her hands. His supper. He’d nearly forgotten.

Her eyes were down, her arms trembling from the weight of the tray, and probably fear. He grabbed the tray. ‘Do not
spy
on me, girl.’

She kept her eyes down. ‘I wasn’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Go to your room. You can wash my tray tomorrow. Go.
Now
. I’m busy.’ He slammed the door and ate his dinner while he looked up more hotels. He’d have to take a break soon. He was becoming too snippy with the desk clerks. He’d be too memorable if he called them the names that were hovering on the tip of his tongue.

He pushed his empty plate away and went back to his torture room. He’d vent some of his rage on Arianna before his next set of calls. He’d keep at it all night if he had to, calling every hotel in town until her found her.

Cincinnati, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.45
A.M.

No, no, no, don’t make me! Please don’t make me! Faith screamed as she had a million times before, but no one ever heard. No one ever helped. She stood on the very edge, staring down into the blackness that filled her with dread. She knew what was down there. She wouldn’t go there again
.

It was always her own treacherous feet that moved, hovering over the blackness . . . Lowering until . . . they hit a step.
One.
She grabbed the banister, wrapped her arms around it and held on for dear life, but still her feet moved, dragging her down another step
. Two.

Crazy
. Three.
I’m crazy
. Four.
I’m losing my mind
. Five. Six.
No, no, no. Please. She moaned now, but it never made any difference. Her feet kept going down
. Seven, eight. Nine.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
That was all. Now run! But she was always frozen
.

Don’t look. She clenched her eyes shut as her body pivoted against her will. Don’t. Look. She knew what she’d see. Don’t open your eyes. But her eyes always opened.

One red Ked. Just one, swaying gently, bright white shoelaces dragging lazily through the dirt. Don’t look up. Do. Not. Look. Up. But her chin lifted and
—

Faith bolted upright in bed, the air sawing in and out of her lungs, her ears ringing with her own scream. One hand reached for the lamp on the nightstand, the other for the gun under her pillow. She squinted at the light, her mind desperately scrambling to establish her location.

She was in a hotel. In Cincinnati. Surrounded by boxes and suitcases. She was all right. She was all alone. The breath shuddered out of her body, now violently trembling.

The shrill ring of the hotel phone broke the silence and numbly she reached for it. ‘Yes?’ she asked, her voice raspy and raw from the screaming.

‘Dr Corcoran, are you all right? One of the guests on your floor reported hearing a scream.’

Her cheeks heated in humiliation. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘I had a bad dream. I’m sorry I bothered the other guests.’

Faith replaced the phone in the cradle, then got out of bed and turned on the television, keeping the sound low while she found the box containing her Xbox, and unpacked its contents.

A few minutes later she was settling on the floor, controller in hand, picking up the game where she’d left off the last time she had the nightmare.

‘It’s time to kill us some zombies,’ she murmured, because trying to sleep after the nightmare was an exercise in futility. This she’d learned twenty-three very long years ago.

Chapter Two

Cincinnati, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 8.45
A.M.

She’d wised up, he thought, watching Faith take a ticket at the entrance to a parking garage near Fountain Square. All the attempts he’d made on her life had made her careful.

Good for her. Bad for me.
He’d finally found her in a long-term-stay hotel with valet parking, which had kept her Jeep out of his sight. He’d waited all night until she reappeared. Once he caught her, she’d pay for the sleepless nights she’d caused.

She’d finally come through the hotel’s front door an hour ago, dressed to the nines in an emerald-green suit and matching heels. At first he’d assumed she was going to see her attorney, but she hadn’t. Instead she’d driven into the heart of downtown. Where she was still being careful. The parking garage she’d chosen had cameras at the entrance. Probably on every floor.

It was centrally located on one of the busiest blocks in the city, so she could walk to her destination, losing herself among the pedestrians. He was unlikely to catch her alone, but that was okay. He wasn’t going to kill her here anyway – it would be insanity to even consider it. He was biding his time until he could lure her to an isolated spot. One that was
not
near his basement.

He followed her into the garage, unconcerned with the camera that snapped his picture when he took a ticket from the machine. His face was disguised and no one could link him to the Tennessee license plates on his van. The plates had been taken off a car driven by a drifter who’d decided that because the O’Bannions had abandoned their house, he could use it as his personal hotel. That had been a bad decision. The drifter hadn’t lasted nearly as long as the woman currently tied to his table. He’d screamed like a little girl at the first slice of the knife.

The memory made him eager to return to Arianna.
Patience.
He’d be able to enjoy his newest guests once he took care of Faith. Now that he’d located her, he wouldn’t have to take the drastic step of evacuating the house.

He slowly rounded a corner in the garage, pretending to look for a space when he was really looking for Faith’s red Jeep. Instead, he saw Faith’s red hair.

There she was in her vivid green suit, a dark coat draped over one arm, crossing the garage right in front of him. She dropped her keys and bent over to pick them up, and he had to stem the urge to gun his engine. She was the perfect target.
End her. Now.

But that would be beyond stupid. The garage was busy this time of the morning. He probably wouldn’t make it to the street before the cops were on his tail. She couldn’t just disappear like the others. The cops would search all the places she’d recently been. Which included the cemetery, and the house.
So stick to the plan.
She wasn’t worth risking everything.

He parked the van and, getting out slowly, made a show of gripping his cane as he closed the door. Shuffling with his back hunched, he knew he looked every day of ninety. A full beard covered his face, spectacles covered his eyes, and a hat covered his head. And as always, gloves covered his hands. He’d never left a fingerprint he hadn’t meant to leave.

When he got to the Jeep, he dropped a pen so that it rolled under her fender. He lowered himself to one knee, pressing a hand to his back for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, now or later. As he picked up the pen, he took the tracking device he’d brought from his coat pocket and slipped it under the fender.

There.
His phone would beep when she moved the Jeep. He didn’t care where she went while in the city. He wanted to know when she left the city to head his way. Because he had to kill her before she came back to the house.

Miami, Florida, Monday 3 November, 9.30
A.M.

Detective Catalina Vega placed the cup of
colada
on her boss’s desk and waited for the aroma to get his attention. The Cuban espresso was his weakness and the shop in Cat’s neighborhood made the very best.

Lieutenant Neil Davies drew a deep, appreciative breath before looking up from his computer screen, his expression wary. ‘What do you want, Vega?’

She flashed a grin as she put two smaller plastic cups on his desk and filled them with the thick, sweet brew. ‘What I always want. A promotion, a new ride, a swank office like yours.’

Davies leaned back in his chair, looking around his office. It was barely larger than a coat closet, one side of his desk piled high with folders, each one an unsolved homicide.

‘Then I’d say you’re even crazier than I am,’ he said mildly. He tossed back the shot of espresso, then held the cup out for more. ‘What
else
do you want?’

‘This.’ She laid a photograph on his desk.

‘This is a wrecked car,’ he said slowly. ‘Why do you want a wrecked car?’

‘Because that’s the Prius that caused that four-car pile-up on I-75 yesterday morning.’

His gaze jerked up to meet hers. ‘I take it you’re telling me that it wasn’t an accident.’

‘No, it was not. The garage techs found that both the steering and brakes had been tampered with. Either one would have resulted in an accident, but both together . . .’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘The car crossed the median, plowed into ongoing traffic, hit three cars as it spun out, then got slammed by a semi. The driver of the Prius died at the scene, her son died later. Four of the injured are in serious condition, the other two are critical.’

Davies sighed. ‘It’s a tragedy, Cat, but not our case. Traffic Homicide is handling this. Why are you even involved? Let them do their job. You have your own caseload.’

‘Hear me out. Traffic already talked with the driver’s family. She’d bought the car only the day before. The title hadn’t been changed over yet. The previous owner was Faith Frye.’

‘I know her name. Where did I read it?’

‘In my report on the Shue homicide.’ She ran her finger down the stack of folders on his desk, pulling out the one she wanted and handing it to him. ‘Gordon Shue was the director of a women’s crisis center. They counseled victims of rape, incest and various cases of domestic violence. Four weeks ago he was shot in the chest as he was leaving his office, then again in the head. The woman standing next to him was his employee, Dr Faith Frye.’

He sat back again, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ve got my attention now. Go on.’

‘Frye gave me several leads on Shue’s killer – initially all of them were husbands or partners of their clients. I remember her touching a wicked-looking scar on her throat when she said it and so later I checked up on her. Four years ago she was attacked by one of her own clients – a sex offender on probation. He slit her throat. She almost died.’

‘Social work can be a dangerous business,’ Davies said quietly.

The lieutenant’s wife was a social worker and he worried about her constantly, Cat knew. ‘I think your wife knows how to defend herself better than most.’

‘I know she does, because I taught her how.’ Davies closed the Shue file. ‘So how did Frye go from being a homicide witness to having her old car tampered with?’

‘My search yielded more than the throat-slitting incident. Peter Combs, the guy who almost killed her? After he was paroled, he began stalking her. For a year.’

‘Did she report it?’

Vega nodded soberly. ‘Thirty times.’

Davies’s brows shot up. ‘Holy shit. Did she think she was the target and not Shue?’

‘Not at first. Not until she claimed that Combs had tried again.’

‘She
claimed
? You didn’t believe her?’

‘I did, actually, but there was no evidence her stalker had made any attempts on her life other than the one he went to jail for four years ago. I couldn’t even prove he still lives in Miami. There was nothing connecting Peter Combs to the murder of Gordon Shue. Not until now.’

‘There’s still nothing connecting Frye’s stalker to Shue’s killer, or the car for that matter,’ Davies pointed out. ‘Even if this tampering was targeted at her, you’re assuming her stalker did it. And even if you’re right, it doesn’t mean that Shue’s bullet had her name on it. But you are right that someone did something to that car for a reason. You’ve found a good place to start with that one. Go ahead.’

Cat took the photo back. ‘Thanks, sir.’

He gave her a small nod, then pointed at the cup on his desk. ‘What about the
colada
?’

‘My gift to you.
Salud
.’

Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.45
P.M.

Arianna lay on the table, teeth gritted, every muscle tensed as she waited for the next slice of his knife. He’d come to her whistling. So damn happy. He’d been gone for hours, but now he was back and in high spirits. Whatever had rattled him enough to tell the girl to pack was no longer a threat. Apparently they weren’t leaving. There would be no escape.

He’d whistled all the time he’d unpacked his knives. Whistled all the time he’d used those knives. On her. Not a single slice deep enough to kill. All deep enough to hurt like hell. Each one slicing away a little bit more of her hope.
I’m going to die here. Alone.

And then, abruptly, he froze, snarling a curse. Through the blindfold Arianna saw the strobing light, just as she had before. And just like he had before, he went ballistic.

‘Sonofa
bitch
,’ he growled. ‘She can’t be back. The phone didn’t beep. It was supposed to goddamn beep. I should have stayed and watched her.’ She heard the pounding of his feet, then the tapping of computer keys, followed by another vicious curse. ‘Fuck.
Fuck her
.’

Hope rose anew. Someone
was
coming.

He ran to the door, threw it open. ‘Roza!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here. Now!’

Shuffling footsteps. ‘Yes?’

‘Bandage her. I don’t want her bleeding everywhere. When you’re done, get the bleach and spray down this room. Then put the box of your things at the bottom of the stairs.’

Yes! They’re leaving after all!
Arianna wanted to sing
.
Somebody had scared him again.
He’ll have to untie me when he moves me. That will be my only chance.
She flexed her fingers, hoping he wasn’t watching. She’d been tied for so long that her muscles were stiff. But she was stronger than she looked.
I can take him. I have to.

She heard the clinking of glass. ‘Give her this first,’ he ordered. ‘Fill the glass to this line. No more. No less. Make sure she swallows every drop. When you’re done, give the other one the same amount. Don’t fuck it up, girl, or I’ll beat you till you can’t see. I’ll be back.’

Of course he would, Arianna thought as the door slammed.
But I’ll be ready
. Whatever he’d told the girl to make her swallow, she’d spit out. She would not let this opportunity to escape slip through her fingers.

Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.48
P.M.

He ran up the stairs, his happy mood gone.
The power company
. Faith had called the goddamn power company. A fucking meter reader was standing at the back of the house.

He burst out of the basement and slowed his pace, creeping out of sight of the windows until he got to the kitchen door. Carefully he unlocked it and eased it open, gratified when he heard no hinges creak. He kept them well-oiled for a reason.

He’d slipped from the house more than once to catch a trespasser unawares. The trespassers never knew what had hit them and neither would the meter reader. Palming his pistol, he dropped into a crouch when he reached the back corner, leaning forward far enough to catch sight of the intruder.

He could see the name ‘Ken Beatty’ written clearly on the man’s ID tag. Ken stood at the meter, studying it with an annoyed frown.
Of course he’s noticed.
He would have to be blind not to note the discrepancy between the actual meter reading and what the power company had on file.

He’d been stealing power for quite some time. Ken would report him if he weren’t stopped, so he pointed the pistol at the man’s leg. Abruptly Ken looked up, his eyes growing alarmed.

Goddammit.
Ken took off at a run, but along with a beer gut, he had a serious limp.

Luckily I have neither.
Sprinting, he reached the man as he rounded the east corner. He fired once and Ken went down, clutching his thigh with a shriek of pain.

‘Okay, okay,’ the man babbled. ‘So you’re stealing power. No biggie. I won’t tell, I promise. I’ll pretend I was never here.’

‘Too late,’ he said. ‘I saw you make a call on your cell when you arrived. I have to assume that was to inform your boss of your whereabouts.’ Ignoring Ken’s pleas for mercy, he rapped the man’s head with the butt of his pistol and then lowered his now limp body to the ground.

Now for the hard part
. He shoved his pistol into his waistband, grabbed handfuls of the man’s jacket and gave a mighty tug. As soon as he’d hidden Ken in the basement, he’d use the guy’s cell to text his boss that he’d finished connecting the power and was headed to his next appointment. Then he’d drive the power company’s truck back into the city and abandon it near a bar. Everyone would believe Mr Beer Gut had stopped for a brewski or two.

Halfway across the back of the house he took a breather, releasing the man’s jacket, letting the body slump to the ground. He straightened his back, his lungs working overtime.