Snake Skin (15 page)

She found herself gulping, swallowing air,
her tongue so parched it filled her mouth like a dead dish rag. As
dead as she'd be if she didn't find the water. Dead, bloated,
rotting, stinking, dead. Dead. Dead.

Terror blinded her more than the lack of
light. She tried to scream, to wail, to cry for help, but couldn't
force any sound other than a weak whelp. Her entire body rattled
with pain and fear.

Had someone moved the water? Taken it away?
Was someone there with her, watching her? Invisible, silent?

After what felt like hours of searching,
thrashing, crawling, her body pressed against the floor the only
thing telling her which direction was up, she surrendered.

Sprawled on the floor like a drunk in the
gutter, her fingers and toes and face numb, heartbeat thundering in
her head, eyes blinking, unseeing but still able to squeeze out a
few tears.

"Move, dammit, move." The sound of her voice
was better than the sound of her frantic sobbing.

She lay frozen except for her chest heaving,
breathing so hard and fast, she was dizzy as if falling and there
was no bottom. Nothing except another level of Hell, she thought
with an absurd giggle.

This wasn't Shadow World. This was no game.
"I can't. I can't do this. I'm going to die."

She knew she should be thinking of all the
good times, of her parents, of her friends...but her mind was a
total blank. What good times? She had a faint memory of a little
girl being pushed on a swing, but it didn't feel like it had
happened to her, it felt like something she'd seen once in a movie.
Or a Hallmark commercial.

And her parents? They probably hadn't
noticed she was gone. Maybe they were even happy, relived they
wouldn't have to bother with her anymore. Friends? There was only
Bobby...

That thought brought fresh tears. What if
the man had caught Bobby, killed Bobby—because of her?

He didn't deserve that, he'd only been
trying to help her. God, if he was dead, it was all her fault...and
the worst thing was, she'd never even had the chance to finally
meet him in person, to tell him how she felt about him.

The pattern from the linoleum imprinted
itself on her face as she lay there, weeping tears so thick with
salt they scratched her eyes and refused to fall.

She wasn't stupid, she knew what the man was
going to do to her, she'd heard the stories, seen the movies. Raped
and tortured and beaten and killed. That's how they all ended.

There were never any happy endings.
Never.

Ashley squeezed her eyes so tight it made
her head hurt. No, she wasn't going to think about that. She was
going to get control and get the hell out of here.

Focus. She started with simple things:
breathing. Slow, deep, steady.

She sat there for several minutes,
concentrating on her breathing, her mind still reeling from her
panic attack. No more. She was in control. Just like Vixen, her
character in Shadow World.

That thought brought a laugh. Shadow World,
a land of darkness where characters fought overwhelming odds to
survive. She'd won, beaten everyone—well, not her, but her
character, Vixen had.

Vixen was at home in darkness. Darkness was
her friend. Too bad Vixen wasn't here instead of Ashley.

Her heart still fluttered with fear, but the
pounding in her head vanished. Soon she could feel her hands and
feet again.
Good. Now keep moving, find the water. You need the
water to survive.
This time it wasn't her voice, but Vixen's
giving her direction. Giving her strength.

She started crawling once more, slower, her
hands searching the floor before her. The darkness was so complete
that it felt as if her hands weren't part of her. Disconnected. How
well she knew that feeling, it had gotten her through a lot of hard
times.

Harder times yet to come
, the voice
behind her eyes whispered. She froze. Lay there on the dirty floor,
sweltering in the stench of death, divided between the here and the
gone. It would be so very easy to let go. Go away. Maybe forever
this time?

No. Not until she found the water. She
wasn't going to give the bastard the satisfaction of surrendering
so quickly. She had to stay alive. She would—

Her hand flailed out, searching for the
bucket. Hit it too hard, too fast, sent it rolling over onto its
side.

Warm water spread out along the floor, her
palms slip-sliding through it as she yanked the bucket, tilted it
upright. Had she saved enough?

She lowered her hand into the depths of the
five-gallon bucket. Found a scant inch remaining at the bottom.

Splashed the water as if that could
magically multiply it. Brought her hand, dripping, out of the
bucket, and squeezed the water and sweat into her mouth. Her shirt
was soaking wet, clammy with the heat, stinking of sweat and fear.
She took it off, desperately wrung it out over the bucket.

Lowered her hand again, measured the water
with her finger. Just shy of her first knuckle.

Shit.
She swallowed. Her mouth was
dry. The air was too heavy to breath; she was going to drown in it
even as she died from dehydration. Heat stroke. It drove people
crazy, she'd seen a video in health class on it.

Things had just gotten a hell of a lot
worse.

She rolled over on her back. The view was
the same as when she was on her belly, unremitting blackness
swallowing her whole. Lay her head back, kept her eyes open—looking
for what, she didn't know.

Bottom line, she was going to die. Not even
Vixen could save her this time.

Chapter 13

Saturday, 5:22 pm

When they arrived back at the Yeager house,
Lucy wasn't surprised to see that Walden had anticipated her needs.
She and Burroughs found him sitting at the dining room table, an
art deco glass and chrome monstrosity that could seat twelve,
leafing through the family photo albums.

"Got anything?" she asked, taking the chair
beside him and reaching for a stack of prints.

She flipped through them: all of Melissa in
her modeling days, gaunt and hungry looking, her body almost as
flat as a boy's. These weren't professional shots, they were candid
pictures, presumably taken by Gerald.

"Plenty more like that," Walden said,
indicating the numerous shots of Melissa. "Not so many of the
kid."

"Not too surprised," Burroughs said. "Turns
out dad's into boys these days."

Walden raised an eyebrow.

"Legal boys," Lucy clarified. "Barely.
Where's the mom?"

"Convinced her to take a shower, change
clothes. She's been real quiet since you left. The Sheriff sent two
deputies to camp out for the duration. They're handling all
communications through their command center. And we've got mom's
sister from Philly coming to stay with her—she wasn't real happy
about that, though."

"The body in Murrysville wasn't hers,"
Burroughs told Walden. "But Ashley's wallet was found nearby. And
someone definitely didn't want this body to be identified
quickly."

"Think they were trying to pull a switch?
Make us think Ashley was dead?"

Lucy looked up at that. "Not unless they
think we're blind. The girls were the same general build and
coloring but what kind of idiot wouldn't notice the piercings?"

"An adolescent idiot," Burroughs said,
apparently channeling Nick. "Someone nervous, exhilarated with
getting away with murder, not thinking clearly."

"You think the kid is working with the
Unsub?" Walden asked. His face was its usual impassive blank slate,
but his eyes had narrowed ever so slightly. "Or she
is
the
Unsub?"

"I'm just saying, don't assume anything,"
Burroughs replied.

They all nodded to that. It was Cop 101.
Trust no one, assume nothing.

Still, it wasn't a leap in logic Lucy was
ready to make. She glanced through the windows to where the
butt-ugly command center still sat. "Any problems?"

"Nope. They're doing a pretty good job of
coordinating everything. As long as Dunmar has the press's ear,
he's happy."

"Fine with me. Did you eat?"

He seemed surprised by the question. "Yeah,
had some pizza."

"Good." She shivered in the cold house and
didn't think it was from the air-conditioning. "Gather up this
stuff and write out a receipt. I'll go tell mom we're leaving." She
turned to Burroughs. "You want to tag along? We can always use an
extra pair of eyes."

"You're gonna let little old me in that big,
fancy federal building of yours?" He said with wide-eyed innocence,
batting his lashes. "I thought you feds never asked for help from
us local yokels."

Lucy smiled at his use of the term. "This
one does. But only if you don't have anything better to do."

"Got some dirty socks that need washing,
guess they can wait."

Walden left, hauling the photo albums with
him. Burroughs stood by as Lucy searched for her car. She clicked
the remote but no chirp answered her. The cul-de-sac was empty of
cop cars except for Burroughs' Impala, the dreaded Mobile Command
Center, Dunmar's Expedition, and a Plum Borough squad. The other
official vehicles had been replaced by news vans, cameramen at the
ready.

"Where did you leave it?" he asked, barely
hiding his amusement.

"I left it with a local yok—an officer from
Plum Borough PD," she told him. Shadows were lengthening,
transforming the tall, boxy houses into grim gothic
strongholds.

She jogged down to the end of the street
where the initial police barricade had been. The Subaru sat a block
away, parked at the curb in front of a fire hydrant.

Burroughs laughed. "Two to one he left you a
ticket."

She ignored him, still uncertain of what to
make of the detective's constant hovering. He'd been helpful, but
also attentive above and beyond inter-agency cooperation. Lucy's
cell phone rang. "Guardino here."

"LT, I got something from the IM messages,"
Taylor's voice loud, buzzed with excitement. "Dozens of messages
from some guy, screen name of Draco. They end about a month ago,
but I traced the guy and he's in Pittsburgh. Real name is Fegley,
Robert Fegley."

"Give me the address." She repeated it to
Burroughs who scribbled it in his notebook. He grabbed his cell
phone as she spoke with Taylor. "Background?"

"Nada. Clean slate. Kid's only seventeen,
though. There could be something in a sealed juvie record."

She glanced at Burroughs who was working his
own phone. "Nothing from us. Guys at Zone Five don't show any
history with the address either."

"What about her computer?" she asked
Taylor.

"Still working on it. Oh yeah, that ICE guy
Fletcher's pissed he has to work tomorrow. Even tried to con me
into going instead, said he'd come in and work Ashley's computer
for us."

Just what she needed, cybernerds in a turf
war. "You saying you need help?"

"Nah, I'm good. Collared some of the High
Tech taskforce guys to help with the minor stuff. We've got pizza
coming—"

"This isn't a party, Taylor." The High Tech
Computer Crimes Taskforce was where Taylor had worked before he
left to attend Quantico and become a full agent. "Do you need
Fletcher or not? I can get ICE to sign off if you think he'd be
helpful."

"The guy isn't even an agent or a computer
forensic specialist, he's just a glorified desk jockey—"

Taylor still suffered from FNG Syndrome. On
top of an already overly healthy ego. "So were you until this
year," she reminded him. "If you need him, call him. Either way, he
still has to work the UC op tomorrow."

"No, seriously boss, I'm in the zone here. I
can handle it, honest."

"A girl's life may depend on it," she
reminded him as she reached the Subaru. She was relieved when he
took a minute to digest that before replying.

"I'll think about it. Don't worry, we'll
bring her home, LT."

She opened her car door and suppressed an
oath. Nowicki had left her car unlocked. Taylor's voice still
prattled in her ear, something about sectors and frags. Lucy
reached below the driver's seat, checked her back up Glock 27 that
was hidden there. Magazine was intact, one round still
chambered.

The seat was moved back, probably to
accommodate the six-something uniformed officer when he parked the
car. She re-adjusted it to fit her five-five frame but then paused.
Sonofabitch.

She didn't realize she'd said it out loud
until Taylor went silent. "What's wrong, LT?"

"Hang on a sec, Taylor." The passenger seat
was moved back as well. Just far enough for someone to get
comfortable while they rifled through her glove box. Lucy didn't
keep anything personal in there—kept her registration and insurance
papers with her driver's license in her wallet.

An image of Megan sitting in that seat this
morning, a slip of paper in her fingers....Shit. She reached over
to the compartment on the passenger door. Found the doctor's bill
from this morning. With Megan's name, their address and phone
number printed oh-so-neatly on it.

Folded into it was a business card.
Belonging to Cindy Ames. On the back was drawn a smiley face with
hearts for eyes.

Lucy scrunched the card into a wad of sharp
edges, squeezing it into her fist.

Burroughs had pulled his car up beside hers,
waiting. He rolled down his window. "What's up?"

"That reporter, Ames. You said she put your
family on the news? She'd really sink that far, endanger a couple
of kids that way?"

A vertical crease formed between his
eyebrows as he frowned. "Yeah, she really would."

"I'm going to have to play hardball with
her. My car's been searched by her."

"You can't know that."

"She left her calling card." She tossed the
balled up business card through the window at him and raised her
phone once more. "Taylor, I need you to track down the station
manager for—" She looked to Burroughs.