Rising Heat (102 page)

He didn’t move toward the basement door, but disappeared through another doorway to the left. I heard him stomping through the house, doing or looking for something. And then I heard a door open and close.

It sounded like he had left the house. A moment later, I heard an engine start. A truck? It didn’t sound like a car engine. I scolded myself. What the hell difference did it make what he drove? Like I was going to get out of here and report it to the police. The police. I wondered if Detectives Cutter or Westin had an inkling that I had been kidnapped. That Hawk had been kidnapped too.

I lay there for several moments, listening to the sound of the engine die away. Then, filling my lungs, I tried to shout as loud as I could. “Hawk! Hawk, can you hear me?”

I heard the sound of his voice from downstairs, followed by a roar of rage. I could imagine that he was trying to struggle free. The beating the serial killer had meted out to him had been severe. I glanced around the room again, looking for anything I might use to help me escape, or help Hawk. Nothing. The house looked like it had been abandoned quite some time ago, only a few pieces of furniture left.

But I had to do something. I couldn’t just lay here all trussed up and wait to be slaughtered. It took several tries, but I finally managed to roll myself over. I gritted my teeth against the pain. Holding my breath, I rolled off the sofa. I landed on the shag carpet with a loud thud. Pain surged through me. My ears buzzed and I felt the darkness, like a veil, doing its best to overcome my senses.

“Tracy!”

I took several deep breaths and then rolled myself onto my stomach, tried to crawl toward the doorway that led down to the cellar. It was difficult with my feet tied. Every time I placed weight on my left forearm, I felt like I would pass out from the pain. I’d made it halfway across the living room floor, one excruciating inch at a time it seemed. I grew exhausted in a matter of minutes. Exhaustion from fear, the constant surge of adrenaline and the pain of my wounds, although not life-threatening, had left me weak.

I don’t know how much time passed. I think I blacked out for a little while, because when I opened my eyes, shadows in the room had deepened. The house was silent.

“Hawk?” His name came out as a dry croak. I swallowed, trying to get some saliva down my throat. I tried again, this time managing a little louder. “Hawk!”

“Tracy, where is he?”

I tried to crawl a few more inches toward the door, but an overwhelming lethargy swept through me. No, I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t give up. I knew it was only a matter of time before he came back. I managed to pull my weight onto my elbows and filled my lungs with air.

“He’s gone,” I called down. “I’m trying to get to the basement door!”

Just that little bit took a lot of effort. I was appalled. I wasn’t hurt that bad, was I? I glanced down at my leg. My jeans were bloody, but it didn’t look like a life-threatening loss of blood. Of course, what did I know?

“Tracy, try to get out of the house!”

“I’m tied up!” I cried. “I can’t!”

I wiggled and squirmed and rolled my way toward the basement doorway, but after what seemed like an interminable amount of time, I heard a noise above the pounding of my heart and my harsh breathing.

I froze. It was the sound of an engine. Getting closer. I listened harder. It was definitely approaching the house. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. My hopes that I might somehow, that we might somehow, get out of this were dashed.

“He’s coming back!”

I wasn’t sure if Hawk heard me. I didn’t know what to do. Continue forward toward the basement stairs or back to the sofa? I realized that it wouldn’t make any difference. I wouldn’t reach either before the killer got back into the house. I heard a car door slam. Moments later, the door opened in another room. Slammed shut.

And then he was there, standing in the doorway, that horrid mask once again covering his features. He saw me in the middle of the room and laughed. I watched as he paused in the doorway, next to the shelves imbedded into the wall. He removed his belt and twisted it around each hand. My heart crashed to my stomach. Then the bastard grinned and placed the belt on the shelf. Then he reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet and placed it next to the belt. Taking his time, he reached into his front pocket and pulled his flip-top cell phone from it and placed it next to the other items. I glanced at the items, then back at him.

“Going somewhere?”

I said nothing. He stepped toward me and I rolled onto my back, once again trying to ignore the pain that ripped through me. With every ounce of strength I had, I tried to scoot away from him. When he reached down to grab me, I cocked my legs, groaning against the pain and tried to kick him in the balls. He stepped back just in time, once again laughing at my pitiful efforts.

He reached for me. He was strong, no doubt about that. He grabbed onto my left forearm, the one he’d stabbed. The one that throbbed and burned. His grip around my wrist was hard and unyielding. The pressure caused me to cry out in pain. It didn’t stop him. He literally dragged me toward the basement doorway.

“You want to go see your lover? You want to see him that bad?”

He moved toward the open basement doorway and began to descend the steps, dragging me after him. Why had he brought me upstairs? Had he decided that it was more fun to have an audience? That whatever he did to me would be more pleasurable if Hawk was watching? Angry now, frustrated by my own helplessness, I cursed him, much as Hawk had done earlier. Every foul word I could think of gushed out of my mouth. He held tightly to my wrist as he dragged me down, one step at a time.

“You can be quite the gutter mouth, can’t you?”

“Fuck you!”

I banged my ribs, my breasts, my hips. The knife wound on my right thigh bounced against the edge of a step, causing me to howl in enraged pain. Near the bottom of the stairs, Hawk began cursing again. Shouting at the killer, taunting him, trying to get him to pull his attention away from me and back onto him.

Every bounce, every jarring step down sent waves of pain through me. My ears buzzed. My mouth felt dry and my stomach heaved. I have no idea why I didn’t faint from it. I almost wished I had. Every breath I took, every step we descended, either brought a gasp of pain or a curse. Rage and anger bloomed. For several blessed seconds, my terror disappeared. All I felt was fury.

But I couldn’t do anything about it; couldn’t do anything to save myself or to stop him. And then, at the bottom of the stairs, with pain thrumming through every nerve in my body, I choked back a sob of self-pity.

I saw the hard-packed dirt floor beneath me. He dragged me toward Hawk’s chair and then released me. My upper torso landed hard as he dumped me unceremoniously at Hawk’s feet. A pained grunt escaped my throat as I landed on my side. Instinctively, I reached for Hawk’s leg, grasped the fabric of his jeans as if my life depended on it. My arms were trembling, not only from the exertion I’d expended trying to protect myself as he’d dragged me down the stairs, but what I was afraid were the last vestiges of adrenaline.

Every muscle in my body ached. My muscles felt stiff. I wasn’t sure if that was because of my fear or because of every new injury. I felt bruised and battered, like I had been run over by a truck, and then again. When would this end? When would this bastard get tired of the game he was playing?

Hawk was cursing now, threatening the killer that if he got his hands on him he’d—

“Playtime is over,” the killer said, his voice rough.

He moved to the table and sat down on it, swinging his legs idly back and forth. He stared at me, and then at Hawk for several moments. He shook his head.

“What do you see in him?”

He was talking to me. I struggled to sit up, trying to lean against Hawk’s leg, but every muscle I moved screamed in pain. I didn’t answer. I didn’t really think he was expecting one, and I had no desire to carry on a stupid conversation with the man who was going to kill me anyway. I remained silent.

“I don’t understand it. He’s got nothing to offer anyone. Never has and never will.”

Never has? That got my attention. He was talking as if he knew Hawk. I felt Hawk stiffen beside me. He had noticed the same. The killer laughed, leaning back on the table as if he had not a care in the world.

“You’re dying to know who I am, aren’t you?” He laughed again. “Get it? Dying?” He sobered. “And you’re going to, you know. You both know that, don’t you? That you’re both going to die? I just don’t know which one of you I want to dispose of first… which would be more fun.”

He paused a moment, maybe disappointed that neither one of us reacted.

“I’m not sure which would give me more pleasure. Him watching you suffer, or you watching him suffer.” He thought about it a moment and then nodded. “I have a feeling you’d express more emotion, maybe even beg if I killed him first. Slowly.”

Panic snaked through me. I’m sure he saw the expression on my face.

“Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’ll kill him first, but it will be slow. You can watch him bleed to death. Maybe, if I have my way, he’ll even beg for me to end it.” He stared at Hawk for several moments. “But maybe he won’t. Maybe you’ll be the one to beg me to end it all, to slit his throat. What do you say, Tracy?”

“Fuck you.”

“Tsk tsk, not very ladylike of you.”

I watched him watch us. What did he want? Begging? I might succumb to begging, but I didn’t want to. Liked to think that I was strong enough to withstand such desperation, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I didn’t want him to torture me, but I didn’t want him to torture Hawk either. What I didn’t want was for him to die. Too bad I didn’t have any power to resist either.

The room grew quiet. The seconds passed. Then minutes. No one said anything.

I had a feeling the killer was enjoying this. Had he played this game with his other victims? Had he made them suffer? Had he made them think that they might, just might, escape from him with their lives?

The killer was gloating, and maybe with good reason, but be that as it may, I didn’t want to stroke his ego. I remained silent, as did Hawk.

“You want to know who I am, don’t you?” It was the second time he had asked the question. As if he felt anxious to reveal his identity.

“Not particularly,” Hawk said.

I glanced up at him and cringed. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. His nose looked broken. His bottom lip was cut in two places. His face bruised, his right cheekbone starting to swell. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, to tell him how sorry I was that he had gotten involved with me in the first place. Maybe if I hadn’t taken Cutter’s suggestion and hired him, he wouldn’t be down here with me, on the verge of death by the hands of the serial killer. Maybe I should’ve left town the moment I’d received that flower and that first note.

Armchair quarterbacking was wonderful, wasn’t it? Now I was second-guessing every move I made. “Hawk, I’m sorry I got you into this—”

“You think this is just about you?”

That came from the killer. I turned to him, unable to hide my surprise. “What the hell do you want?”

“You know, the moment I saw you arrive in town, I knew I wanted you. I could tell right away that you were special… that I had to have you.” He tilted his head as if contemplating. “But best of all, I knew I could have both of you.”

That startled me. “What are you talking about?”

The legs stop swinging. He sat upright, his gaze riveted on Hawk’s face. I glanced from him to Hawk, and then back again. Hawk held himself stiffly, his eyes meeting the gaze of the killer. He didn’t look scared. He just looked totally pissed off.

“I’ve always hated you, you know.”

And then, slowly, he reached up and began to remove the mask. I saw his chin, his mouth, and then his nose. My eyes widened. My heart thumped and then nearly stopped. A cold chill swept through me.

Oh my God.

A
t first, I didn’t want to believe my eyes. I was frozen, stunned beyond words. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. How was this possible? I stared, disbelieving. I cast a quick glance at the Hawk and saw on his face just as much surprise as I probably had on mine.

I turned back, my gaze searching Detective Cutter’s face as he grinned in what I presumed was delirious enjoyment at our shock. He looked so different. Younger. His expression no longer hidden behind a calm demeanor. No, the grin on his face was filled with evil intent.

How could this be? This had to be some cruel joke, a prank, but it wasn’t. His was the last I’d expected to see behind that mask.

“Detective Cutter?” The name was wrenched from my throat in disbelief.

He laughed. “It’s funny. I always get that look of shock. I never get tired of seeing it.”

“What the hell?”

The question erupted from Hawk’s mouth. Cutter stared at both of us in amusement. I felt sick to my stomach. He had killed those women? He had cut their hearts out? He’d kill that poor older woman? And the cop at the end of my driveway?

“Surprise,” Cutter said in a singsong voice.

“But why?” The words came out of my mouth in a horrified wail. “You’re a police officer, a detective! You’re supposed to save lives, not—”

“Oh, don’t confuse the issue, Tracy,” Cutter said, his amusement gone. “I’m not a cop who became a serial killer. I’m a serial killer who became a cop.” He paused as he slowly paced the floor between the table and Hawk’s chair. “What easier way to stalk my prey, above suspicion?”

“But—” I clamped my mouth shut and stared. I firmly believed that no question I asked would satisfy my desire to understand. Hawk and he had been friends since high school and yet… I glanced again at Hawk. He watched Cutter with a frown, struggling the same as I to somehow put the pieces of the puzzle together.

“Brilliant, don’t you think?” Cutter remarked.

I looked at him with new eyes. Like when I met him at the airport, he looked more vigorous; stronger and filled with purpose. The sloppy middle-aged detective had vanished. He was not on the far side of middle-aged after all. The saying that clothes make the man? It was true… to an extent. His hair dropped over his forehead now, not slicked back. His cheeks were clean shaven, not the stubbled I-haven’t-had-a-chance-to-go-home-and-shave look he usually presented at the police station. The black cargo pants and ribbed sweater he wore, even though still bulky, had taken at least a dozen pounds off the detective wearing that frumpy off-the-rack suit at work.