Cut to the Bone (23 page)

Hollis found the seedy low-rise without difficulty. She pushed into the small lobby where the reek of a thousand cheap meals, unwashed diapers, and cat urine assailed her. She fumbled in her shoulder bag for a scarf to put over her nose but came up empty. The lobby was awash in discarded flyers and envelopes. The mailboxes, some of them pried open, told her C. Ross lived in 312. There was no buzzer, no inner door to protect the tenants from unwanted visitors, and no elevator. A glance upward in the unlit stairwell revealed empty sockets where light bulbs had once been. At night when she walked the dogs, she always pocketed a flashlight to enable her to pick up after them. She scrabbled in her bag before she remembered she'd left it at home hanging up with the leashes by the door. How she wished she had it now. In her purse her hand touched her cell phone and she hauled it out.

It was turned off.

How could she have been so careless? She allowed a minute or two for it to pick up messages. A text message from Rhona asked her to call.

She tapped in the number and was instructed to leave a message.

“I've found Darlene. I'll call again when I've warned her.” She picked her way upwards.

On the third floor a dirty window at the end of the corridor allowed her to see the numbers on the doors. Her target, 312, was at the end.

She knocked but there was no answer, which was odd, as the girl who'd given the lead said Darlene had gone home to bed. A second flurry of banging also elicited no response. Maybe the girl was asleep or had gulped down so many pills that she'd passed out. Hollis tried the door and found it unlocked. To enter or not? Darlene might need help if she'd taken too much medication. Ill or not, she needed to be warned about Tim O'Toole.

Hollis pushed the door open and braked as her eyes registered what her mind was unwilling to believe.

Tim O'Toole stood facing her with one arm clutching Darlene and the second holding a knife to her throat. A thin line of blood trickled down her neck. Darlene's ashen face told the tale, as did the smell of urine and fear.

“My god,” Hollis said. Her stomach lurched and her mouth went dry.

“Close the door and lock it. Don't make a sudden move or I'll slit her throat.”

Hollis reached behind her, grabbed the metal knob, and clicked her fingers against it to make a sound she hoped would convince O'Toole that she'd locked it.

At that moment Darlene coughed. A harsh hacking noise filled the room as she sagged back against Tim. “I'm sick,” she moaned.

“Not for long,” Tim said and produced what must have been intended as a laugh but came out as a croak. “Nosy landlady. Couldn't leave well enough alone. Had to meddle. Too bad. Your daughter and your dogs will miss you.”

Why hadn't she waited to actually talk to Rhona? What did this insane man plan to do? Surely he wouldn't murder both of them in a downtown apartment building in the middle of the day. What was she thinking? What did the time of day have to do with it? Should she scream? In this neighbourhood screams were not uncommon and were probably ignored. A scream would enrage Tim O'Toole. No. She'd try to play it cool, try to talk him down, try to buy time hoping that Rhona would figure out where she was, although that wasn't likely.

She was on her own.

“I'm going to enjoy this,” O'Toole said. “Usually I wait until my ladies are asleep. It's the gurgle, the spurting blood that I enjoy, but now I can do it bit by bit. This could take a long time. It can take hours for a person to bleed out.”

“The police know it's you,” Hollis said and regretted the wimpy statement almost immediately.

“Maybe so, but they have to catch me.” He frog-walked Darlene across the room to the kitchen table in front of an open window. He pushed her down on one of two chrome-and-red-plastic kitchen chairs oozing kapok stuffing. “Maybe decorations would be fun,” he said. “Tattoos? Now what would be appropriate for these two?”

Decorations? Tattoos? He was mad. She shifted from one foot to the other and wondered if it would be worth it to bolt.

“If you run, she's dead,” O'Toole said in a level voice. He kept the knife at Darlene's throat and pulled two pieces of yellow plastic rope from his jacket pocket. “You,” he nodded at Hollis, “come over here and tie Miss High and Mighty Too Good to Have Sex With Me to the chair. I know knots and I'll tell you how.”

Could she knock him over and get them out? What if she refused to move? He couldn't grab her because he was holding Darlene. But Darlene wouldn't be any help. Hollis mentally measured the distance.

As if he'd read her thoughts, O'Toole said, “Move or I kill her.” His lips curled. “I'll enjoy it.”

“Please do what he says,” Darlene begged and coughed.

“Bitch, put your hands behind you and behind the chair,” he ordered.

Darlene lifted her shaking hands but seemed unable to make them move.

O'Toole gave her a jab with the tip of the knife. “Hurry up.” The blood trickling down her neck flowed faster.

Still holding the knife to her throat, once her hands were positioned, he moved to the side. “Bitch landlady, wind the rope around her hands and around the chair then tie a simple knot, left over right, right over left, and under.”

Hollis gauged whether she could shove him aside but dismissed the thought. She couldn't risk Darlene's life. She obeyed.

“Bitch, now it's your turn. Pull that chair,” he pointed to a second chair, “over here and back it up against the first one.”

Hollis's cell phone rang. She looked at O'Toole.

“A little excitement. Go ahead. Let's see what kind of an actress you are. Say you're busy and you'll call them back,” O'Toole instructed.

God, she hoped it was Rhona. And that she could think fast enough to find the right words to alert her. There wasn't much time. Her knees felt like they might give way and her mouth was so dry she didn't know if words would come out.

It was Rhona. Tears blurred her vision. Maybe they had a chance. She listened and responded. “No. Not now. I left it at the Golden Goose restaurant.” Could she risk leaving it on, hoping Rhona would hear the conversation?

“Turn it off,” O'Toole ordered.

She clicked it off, praying Rhona had heard him and would get what she'd tried to communicate.

O'Toole left Darlene for a moment and lurched toward Hollis, wielding the knife. “What did you leave at the restaurant?” he demanded.

Think fast. Something plausible and non-threatening. “That was my daughter. I borrowed her iPod the other day and left it in a bag at the restaurant.” She tried a smile. “You know how kids are. They love their gadgets.”

O'Toole stared at her. “Toss the phone on the table. No more calls. We have decorating to do.” He stepped back, moved the knife an inch or two away from Darlene's neck, and ran his finger gently along the blade. “Nice and sharp. Good for a tattoo. Bitches, choose what you want me to make.”

A sadistic, chilling laugh.

Damn him. I'll play his fucking game,
Hollis thought. “Takes an artist to make a tattoo,” she said. “Takes more than an amateur's couple of cuts.”

He sneered. “How 'bout X's and O's. Don't need to be an artist for that, it's pretty simple. Hold out your arm.”

Hollis gritted her teeth and extended it.

“You can play too. Won't that be fun?”

Hollis said nothing.

O'Toole incised a line on her hand. Blood welled.

“No. Your hand has too many veins, too bumpy. Your wrist would be better. I can always slit it if I get bored. Turn your arm over.”

When Hollis did as she was told, blood dripped on the floor.

Two parallel lines and two vertical.

It hurt like hell.

O'Toole smiled.

Hollis shivered. It was technically a smile, because his lips curved upward, but it was a predator's victorious acknowledgement that he had his victims and like a cat intended to amuse himself with them, watch their terror and pain until he'd satisfied himself.

O'Toole stepped away from Hollis and pointed to her hand. “Not flowing fast enough to kill you. I think I'll have a smoke and watch you two. You stand over there beside Darlene. I'll run through the options of how to kill you, and I'll let you choose which one you prefer. Maybe you'll each choose a different one — that would be fun.”

After Hollis moved and still holding the knife at Darlene's throat, he slid a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, pulled out a lighter, and lit up.

Hollis hated cigarettes, but right now she welcomed anything that slowed him down and would give the police a chance to find them if Rhona had picked up and understood her message.

He used his free hand to blow smoke in Darlene's face as he leaned forward and again jabbed her neck. He chuckled as blood welled and dribbled down.

Darlene coughed before she sobbed. “Please let us go. We won't tell anyone.”

Hollis recognized the futility of pleading. A sadist loved to watch his victims, and there was no doubt that they were in the clutches of a sadist. Their only hope was to distract him. She would call on every acting skill she possessed to feed his need to enjoy their pain the pain and terror she felt.

Not that it would be hard. The fine line would be keeping him on the hook without antagonizing him to the point where he got fed up and killed them.

“You won't tell anyone,” O'Toole said. “Isn't that rich? You'd run screaming to the cops the second you had a chance.” He shook his head. “Where were you when they were handing out brains? You probably thought they said ‘trains' and decided you'd rather fly. I'm not stupid, so don't insult my intelligence.”

He sucked on his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring.

“How did you do that?” Hollis asked, although she didn't give a crap. Anything to keep him occupied.

“Why? You thinking of taking up smoking?”

“I used to smoke. Everybody used to smoke, but I could never make one of those,” Hollis said.

“Now the fucking do-gooders won't let you smoke anywhere,” O'Toole said, taking another deep drag. He considered Hollis. “You used to smoke, did you?”

She nodded.

“Well how about you do it again and I'll teach you how to blow smoke rings. Acquire a new skill before you die.”

Shit. She'd throw up. The truth was she'd never smoked and hate the smell of it.

“But how do I do that?” He leaned forward and passed her the lit cigarette. “Remember? You suck in the smoke and exhale.”

Hollis did as she was told. It was vile. Beyond vile. She gagged.

O'Toole watched her. “Makes you feel sick, doesn't it? Good. Now hold a mouthful and then curl your tongue, make a perfect circle with your mouth, and exhale.”

After several unsuccessful attempts, Hollis felt woozy and uncentred, as if her legs might give way. “Could I sit down before I fall down?” she asked.

“I'd rather see you fall down,” O'Toole said. “You keep standing and keep smoking.”

Hollis's cigarette had burned down to her fingers.

“Keep holding it. A little taste of the pain to come,” he said.

Shit, enough was enough. Hollis dropped it. If she didn't step on it, it might start a fire. Would the fire department get there in time to save them? Not likely and even more unlikely the O'Toole would let it happen. She stomped on the butt.

“Tut, tut, you're not being an obedient girl. Disobedient girls must be punished,” O'Toole said and slapped her face.

Hollis recoiled. Her face burned.

“More, much more if you don't do what I tell you,” O'Toole said as he lit another cigarette and passed it to Hollis.

She resolved to take small puffs to make it last longer.

Ten cigarettes later, Hollis, overcome with nausea, sank to the floor, landing in a puddle of her own blood, which had dripped steadily as she underwent torture by smoke.

While O'Toole had been toying with Hollis, he'd ignored Darlene, who slumped on her chair. Her coughing accelerated as Hollis filled the room with smoke.

O'Toole booted Hollis. “Get up, bitch. I'm not finished,” he said.

Hollis rolled on her hands and knees and attempted to rise.

O'Toole kicked her hands and she collapsed again. “Stand up,” he ordered.

Darlene coughed, choked, coughed again, and spewed vomit.

“Shit.” O'Toole said. “Enough of these games. Time for the real stuff.”

Back in the department Rhona questioned whether she should have entrusted the search for Tim O'Toole's possible next victim to Hollis. Before she formulated an answer, her phone buzzed. It was Ian, who'd remained at the O'Toole apartment.

“He was a spy tech nut,” Ian said.

“What did you find?”

“Long distance scopes, night vision goggles, lock picks, a variety of bugs. Surprisingly, given his fascination with these things, his computer didn't require a password and we accessed it immediately.”

“Keep going.”

“We found a computer program that tracks any bug he's planted. An officer with us activated a search and,” he paused.

“Never mind the high drama,” Rhona said.

“Sorry, not intentional. An officer just showed me two ingenious devices. I've seen the outlet adapter listening device before but not the calculator. Anyway, what I was about to say was that somehow O'Toole managed to attach a bug to the pink coat we found at the murder scene. He'd been tracking Sabrina.”

“That's how he knew she was sleeping in Ginny's apartment. Sabrina
was
the intended victim.” Rhona thought of Hollis following up leads to find the Aboriginal woman who might have given Tim O'Toole a hard time. Hollis could be in trouble if O'Toole had bugged the woman. An adrenalin rush. She'd made a serious mistake. She shouldn't have asked Hollis to find the prostitute. “Any other active ones?”

“One at a location we identified as the Goodwill store on Richmond Street. I've sent an officer there to find it.”

“If it's a Goodwill shopper we'll pick her up. He's out there somewhere. Now that we know how he pinpoints his target, we have to get to her first. Anything else?”

“Collection of knives. Seventeen very sharp ones, and he has an electric knife sharpener.”

“Bring everything in for forensics. We should find traces of the two victims' blood. I'll check for a missing or murdered prostitute. He targeted the ones who turned him down.”

Rhona punched in Hollis's cell phone number. It went to message immediately. Did that mean Hollis had turned it off or that she was in trouble? Surely, because of her daughter, Hollis always kept it on, and if it was turned off, Hollis needed help. How could Rhona find her? Stupidly, she hadn't asked the name of the restaurant on Jarvis Street, but when Hollis mentioned its name, she'd had a fleeting thought. What had it been? She wanted to reach up in her subconscious and retrieve the information. A fairy story, it had related to a fairy story, and had something to do with food. She wanted to scream.

What had it been called?

Maybe one of the beat cops could tell her, but how would she phrase the question? A wild goose chase. Wild goose? Golden Goose — that was it, the goose that laid the golden egg. She picked up the phone and set the machinery in motion to have an officer check to see if Hollis had been there and if anyone knew where she'd gone.

While she waited she ignored the uneasy feeling in her stomach and returned to her search for the possible first victim. She fed information into her computer and waited for the cross-referencing to find a victim. In short order she read that a young drug addict from the burbs who'd hustled on Jarvis Street to pay for a drug habit had disappeared the previous month. They'd start with this woman. If her DNA matched the blood in the Winners bag, finding the body would be the next problem. She thought of the Russell Williams case, in which the perp had given precise directions to find his victim. Maybe they'd have that kind of luck when they tracked down Tim O'Toole.

Her phone buzzed again.

“The bug is attached to a woman's jacket donated to Goodwill.”

Not a useful lead. Why hadn't Hollis turned on her cell phone? Rhona punched in the numbers again. Four rings.

“Yes.”

“Hollis, are you okay?”

“No. Not now. I left it at the Golden Goose restaurant.”

Rhona heard a man's voice tell Hollis to hang up.

He had her.

Were they in the restaurant or was Hollis telling her that someone at the restaurant knew where she was? She called for a car, grabbed her bulletproof vest from her locker, and had the siren screaming as they headed to Jarvis Street.

Officers, guns drawn, went in first. Everyone inside froze. The police moved through the restaurant into the kitchen and returned.

“Not here,” one said to Rhona, who'd waited outside. Inside, Rhona stopped just inside the door and addressed the patrons who sat in stunned silence. “I'm looking for Hollis Grant, who came here looking for another woman.”

A waitress stepped forward. “I'm Bridget. Hollis came here less than an hour ago and asked about a woman named Darlene. Because I didn't know where Darlene lived, I sent her to a friend of hers on Shuter Street, because I was sure she did know.” Her lips curved into a nervous smile. “I have the address.” She pulled her order pad from her pocket and scribbled on it.

“Thanks,” Rhona said over her shoulder on her way out the door. She directed the waiting officers.

They approached the apartment carefully, believing Tim O'Toole might have caught Hollis there, but they were out of luck. Darlene's friend's eyes widened as the police swept through her apartment. When she saw Rhona, the only woman officer in the group, she gravitated to her.

“What are you looking for?”

“Your friend Darlene and it's urgent. Give me her address.” Rhona handed her notebook and pen to the young woman, who wrote the address in large, loopy script.

The tactical squad regrouped outside the building.

“If he's holding the women, we proceed with caution,” Rhona said. “It's a third-floor apartment. What's the best way to get them out?”

“We'll locate the apartment and the fire escapes. We'll have officers outside as well as in and on the fire escape in case the perp makes a run for it. We go in quietly. Knock on the door. Tell him we're there and see what happens.”

“Guessing that when he sees there's no way out he'll give up?” Rhona asked.

“That's the hope. Let's go.”

Rhona had seen Hollis in tough situations before but none quite as bad as this.