Slaves to Evil - 11 (9 page)

But when Matt returned to the building, he discovered that this particular dilemma had already been solved. Elena was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

Matt was horrified to find the frayed piece of rope hanging from the doorknob. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but that didn’t matter now. He ran out of the building and scanned the street. Maybe she hadn’t gotten too far. Had he passed her on the road from the downtown area? He didn’t remember seeing her, but he hadn’t been looking. He’d been zipping along in the Mustang, happy to have upgraded from the bicycle. For all he knew, he’d driven right by her. As a matter of fact, he had. Elena hadn’t noticed Matt either, behind the wheel of Sheridan’s car.

Now he hurried back toward town on foot, knowing it was probably useless to look for her. Elena would have reached help by now. The Breckenridge PD could already be on their way to arrest him. Or maybe she’d gotten hold of another gun somehow, still intent on her revenge. But he kept looking around each building and parked car he passed. He had to find her.

Few businesses had opened yet when Elena reached downtown Breckenridge. By sheer luck, she saw a policewoman coming out of a coffee shop with a frothy, steaming drink. Elena approached her. “Excuse me, Officer?”

“Yes?” Ross replied.

“I was kidnapped three days ago and held captive. I escaped and I need your help.”

The cop looked at her, evaluating whether the girl seemed crazy or high. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Elena assured her. “The man who took me is Matt Cahill. He also murdered my brother two months ago.”

“OK,” said Ross. “I’ll take you to the station and you can make a complaint.”

“Thank you.” Elena smiled, overwhelmed by relief. She’d escaped.

Matt searched for two hours in the Mustang and couldn’t find her. She was gone. He had to accept the fact and move on.

But first he needed to check out the house at Grand Lake. There might be nothing up there, he knew, but he just couldn’t ignore the images of those women.

He had to be sure.

Then he’d get the hell out of Breckenridge.

Matt got a local map out of the glove box and looked at the area around the lake. There seemed to be only a few residential streets. He drove the ten miles or so to the small, peaceful lake. Sheridan had been right about most of the homes being empty in November. They were far enough apart that, even in the height of summer, you wouldn’t have to worry about the prying eyes of your neighbors.

Matt went to each house, whether it looked occupied or not, and carefully peered in the windows. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for but hoped he’d recognize a clue if he stumbled on it. He skipped one house when a fiftyish woman came out to get the mail and gave him a friendly wave. He’d come back to that one if necessary.

Then he got to a large, gray, Cape Cod-style home with one unusual feature. There were security bars over the second-story windows. Matt supposed the homeowner could be especially security conscious—except there were no bars on the first floor. He saw two cars parked in the driveway but no other signs of life. The house was quiet. Every window was blocked by shutters or drapes. Matt approached, using the square-cut hedges as cover. He didn’t want some housewife to see him creeping through her yard and call the cops.

He got to the front door. There were several small ceramic pots on the wide front step, containing what smelled like herbs. He picked up a few of them and took cover behind the hedge. Matt threw one of the pots onto the front walk. It landed with a sharp crack, breaking into pieces. He waited. No response. He tossed a second pot onto the flagstone. Crack.

This time the front door opened and a woman peered out. It was Ross. She looked out, saw nothing amiss, and started to close the door when Matt threw a little pot onto the grass. It made a muffled thump. That was enough to bring the policewoman out to investigate. She ventured a few steps down the walk, her mummified flesh rustling like dry leaves against her clothes. She scanned the yard. Matt had a clear shot but didn’t want to announce his presence with gunfire. He raised the ax over his shoulder like a batter waiting for a pitch.

When Ross got close enough, he swung. The blunt end of the axe hit the back of the woman’s head and she fell forward onto the flagstone. Matt was on her in a second, pulling the gun from the holster at her hip.

But Ross hadn’t been knocked out or apparently even stunned. She rolled into Matt, pushing him off balance. He staggered back a few steps, dropping the gun but staying on his feet. As she reached for the weapon, Matt brought down the ax. The blade went through her forearm, and it snapped like a dry twig. Her hand landed softly on the grass.

They both stared at it for a horrified moment. Then Ross swept her leg across both of his, and now he did fall, landing on his wounded shoulder. The bolt of pain drove the breath right out of him. Matt saw the cop getting to her feet, heading toward the house, and he forced himself to move. He lunged forward, grabbing her ankle with his good hand. She stumbled. Matt half-tackled her, forcing her the rest of the way down. Holding the ax handle with both hands, he pressed it against her neck.

Ross thrashed. Matt straddled her body, pushing down on the handle with as much force as his shoulder could bear. She reached up with her remaining hand and scratched him with her clawlike fingers. She went for his eyes and almost got to the left one, digging furrows in Matt’s cheek. He kept pressing down, feeling her trachea start to collapse under his weight. She managed a choking gasp, then one more, and was still. Matt kept the pressure on her neck until he saw Ross’ mummified flesh bloom back into apparent health. Blood now leaked from her severed arm. He relaxed his grip. He suspected he’d be seeing that dead, dry hand in his dreams tonight.

He climbed off the body and looked up at the house. Had anyone heard them? A quiet minute passed and no one came out. He sat on the lawn for a moment, his shoulder throbbing. At least, thought Matt, he knew he had the right place.

He picked up Ross’s gun and approached the front door. He pushed it open and stepped into the combination living/dining room, which took up most of the main floor. There was a stairway up to the second floor and another set of stairs going down.

He crept up the stairs, waiting for the telltale creak that would give him away. It didn’t come. The upstairs hallway led to four doors, all closed. He went to the first door and pressed his ear against it. Nothing. Maybe no one was in there. Or maybe one of the police officers was waiting silently on the other side of the door.

Matt opened the door quickly, gun ready. No ambush by cop. He was in a little boy’s bedroom, with a prominent football theme. On the child-sized bed was a pale, dark-haired woman with one hand cuffed to the headboard. Her face was swollen and bruised. Her chest was covered in cigarette burns. She wore a thin negligee. And the big leather dog collar.

She shrank back as he approached. Matt couldn’t blame her. He was a kidnapper himself, after all. He put the revolver in his pocket and held up empty hands. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “I’m going to help you.”

She didn’t answer, still wary. He slowly came closer and examined the handcuffs. No T-shirt rope here. He should have searched Ross for a handcuff key. Now he’d have to get one from the other cops.

All he could do at the moment was take off that collar. He tossed it aside with disgust. “I’ll come back for you,” he told her.

Matt ventured back into the hallway. He went to the next door and listened. More silence. He charged in dramatically, only to be startled by the reflection of himself, his face streaked with blood from the scratches under his eye. It was a bathroom, as spotlessly clean as a catalog photo, thankfully unoccupied. A second door led to the next room. As he leaned in to listen again, Matt felt his heart pounding. Each door was a new unknown. What would be waiting for him—the lady or the tiger?

For a moment he actually thought he heard growling. Then he realized it was a low groan—a male voice, groaning with pleasure. Which meant the guy was distracted.

He burst in to find a beefy man with his pants around his ankles, getting a blow job from a blond girl who didn’t look more than thirteen. Matt realized that he recognized him from a picture accompanying a news story he’d read about Lennox. It was hizzoner himself, Mayor Perkins, looking almost comically surprised by the interruption. Matt’s fist shot out, delivering a very satisfying uppercut to the mayor’s jaw. The man’s pants caught around his feet and he fell to the floor hard.

Matt figured that the thud would attract attention, and he was right. In a moment there was a soft knock at the door and a voice asking, “Is everything all right, sir?”

Matt stood by the doorway and gave a pained moan. Officer O’Neill quickly stepped in. Matt pressed the barrel of his gun to O’Neill’s cheek, just above the line of rot extending from his neck. “Not a sound.”

He moved O’Neill inside and closed the door. They were in another bedroom, this one with more adult decor. The bed had an elaborate wrought-iron frame. He gestured toward the foot of the bed with his gun and told O’Neill, “Put your arm through the frame.”

The young cop glared at him. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

“Actually, I do.” Matt aimed right between the cop’s eyes. O’Neill looked at him, evaluating how seriously to take this guy. Then he threaded one arm between the bars.

Matt pulled the handcuffs off the man’s belt and snapped one around his wrist. He turned to the other man and held up the other manacle. “Mr. Mayor?”

Perkins looked on the verge of tears. “I have money,” he pleaded.

“Congratulations,” said Matt. “Give me your hand.”

The mayor obeyed. Matt cuffed him to O’Neill, both of them now attached to the iron bed frame. He pulled a pair of briefs loose from the pants on the floor and stuffed them into Perkins’s mouth as a crude gag. He looked around for something to use for O’Neill.

The blond girl picked up a loose sock and handed it to him. Matt smiled at her. “Thanks.” He wondered how she had ended up here, how any of the women had.

He crammed the sock into the young officer’s mouth. Not ideal, but it would have to do. He dug into the cop’s pockets and found a little handcuff key.

He returned to woman in the first room. He unlocked her cuffs and brought her back to join the blond girl. The woman flinched at the sight of O’Neill and Perkins, then saw their situation and relaxed a bit.

“I want you to stay here and stay quiet until I come back for you,” Matt told them. “OK?”

“OK,” said the girl. The dark-haired woman didn’t seem to understand. Matt gestured with his hand for her to stay put. She nodded.

He checked the last room. No one there. He went to the stairs and carefully stepped down to the main floor of the house. Most of it was the open living/dining space. There were two doors at the far end of the room and one near the front entrance, most likely to a coat closet.

Even as he thought this, he heard a toilet flush behind it. The door opened, revealing a powder room. Lennox emerged.

Their eyes met in mutual surprise. Matt raised his gun as the chief drew his. Both fired. The sound was enormous as it echoed in the house. Matt felt the bullet graze his scalp. He had no cover and the cop was already adjusting his aim. He dove for the staircase leading down to the basement.

He jolted and bumped down the stairs, landing hard on his good shoulder, which now hurt as well. Matt rolled away from the stairway opening before Lennox could get another clear shot. He found himself in what could only be described as a man cave, complete with leather sofa and a huge flat-screen TV.

He saw Woronicz coming at him with a straight razor just in time to raise his right arm and block the strike. Instead of slicing his face, the blade cut open his forearm. Woronicz tried to grab the gun from his hand, but Matt held on to it. He pushed Woronicz a step back, and then the cop redirected his force and Matt stumbled to the right, just managing to keep his balance. The men almost seemed to be dancing. Woronicz bumped into a tall CD rack. It tipped over, scattering jewel cases on the floor. The cop stepped on one, slipped, and fell, yanking Matt down with him. Which was fortunate for Matt, because Lennox was now at the base of the stairs, shooting at the space where his head had just been.