She could smell it, smell the fumes that were filling the confines of the motor home.
He was moving toward her, holding the rag in his hand, his eyes fixing on her the way those of a rattlesnake fix on its prey in the moments before it strikes. She felt hypnotized by his gaze, and when he reached out to press the rag over her nose and mouth, her fear robbed her even of the power to turn away.
Taking a deep breath, Heather closed her eyes and prayed that Richard Kraven hadn’t lied to her, that at least she would feel nothing as he reached inside her body to touch her heart.
Touch her, and kill her.
CHAPTER 70
Anne burst out of the mouth of the dirt road, stumbling as her foot struck a rock hidden by the blackness of the night and the thick grass of the meadow. Mark Blakemoor caught her arm, steadying her, even as he played the brilliant beam of a halogen light over the area. Despite the rain, there were still a pair of curving tracks where the grass had been crushed by the weight of a car driving through it recently. “This is the place Kevin told us about,” he said, almost shouting to make himself heard above the howling wind.
“But where are they?” Anne cried. “You said they’d be here—”
“I said we’ll find them, and we will!” Mark replied. He moved closer to the river and played his light on the opposite bank. A moment later he found what he was looking for — the pile of stones Kevin said his father had been looking through. Mark started toward the river, keeping the light steady on the rocks, and even before he’d waded into the stream, Anne knew what he was going to do.
“Are you crazy?” she shouted. “You’ll never make it — you’ll drown!” But he ignored her words, striding into the river, slowing down only enough to make sure of his footing on the rocky bottom. She stood shivering in the rain, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin as the rain sluiced over her, her teeth chattering, her eyes glued to the bobbing beam of the halogen flashlight. After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, he was back.
“Come on,” he said, his voice taking on a new urgency. “I think we might be running out of time.”
“You found him, didn’t you?” Anne asked as they started back up the road, half walking, half scrambling through the mud, clinging to each other and whatever else they could find to keep themselves from sliding backward down the slippery track. “You found Danny Harrar.”
Blakemoor nodded, seeing no point in trying to keep what he’d found from Anne. He’d been so certain he’d find nothing in the pile of rocks, that even if the knife Glen had found that morning were indeed Danny Harrar’s, it meant nothing more than that the boy had dropped it somewhere along the river long ago. What he’d found beneath the rocks, though, had finally convinced him that however bizarre Anne’s theory might sound, it was at least an explanation for something he could rationalize no other way. And if it was Richard Kraven that Heather was with instead of her father …
Even the veteran homicide detective couldn’t bring himself to think about what might be happening to her.
Both of them panting, they finally arrived back at the car. “You drive,” Mark told Anne, getting into the passenger seat. “I want to concentrate on the radio. I can’t believe that by now this whole area isn’t crawling with cops!” As Anne started the car, put it in gear, and headed up the road, Mark Blakemoor grabbed the radio’s microphone, attempting to raise the police dispatcher. Another sheet of lightning tore at the darkness, and a roar of thunder drowned out the static that was all that emerged from the radio’s speakers.
Anne struggled to see through the rain-streaked windshield. The wipers couldn’t even begin to keep up with the wind-driven torrent running down the glass in wide rivulets. Mark suddenly grabbed her arm. “Stop the car!”
Startled by his command, Anne shifted her foot from the accelerator to the brake, hitting it so hard the car lost its traction, the rear end fishtailing wildly before she released the brake, steered into a skid, and felt the tires grab the wet pavement. As the car rolled to a stop, Mark cranked his window down and stuck his head out into the force of the storm. “Back up,” he cried, his words all but inaudible, immediately carried away by the wind. Her heart pounding, Anne carefully began backing down the slope. Suddenly the headlights caught a sign with the familiar symbol of a picnic table.
Was it possible? Could Mark have seen the motor home?
Before she could ask him, he was back on the radio, once again desperately trying to make himself heard through the interference of the storm.
CHAPTER 71
Heather felt as if she were drowning.
She could barely breathe, and her mind felt fogged.
But she could hear something.
A steady rumble, as if a train were going past.
Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a terrible crash, and the fog began to disperse.
The motor home.
She was in the motor home with her father — no, not her father! — and there was a storm.
Frightened. She was terribly frightened. So frightened she hadn’t even been able to move when the man had held the rag over her mouth.
All she’d been able to do was take a single, deep breath, hold it as long as she could, then let herself go limp, as if she’d passed out. But it hadn’t worked. The man kept the rag over her face, and finally she had to breathe in the fumes, and she felt herself starting to pass out. Somehow, she’d managed to hold still, not to struggle, not to give any sign at all that she was still even half conscious.
More of the fog lifted, and finally she could open her eyes a tiny bit, just enough to see.
The motor home had changed. Everywhere she looked, everything was blurry, as if covered by some kind of thick not-quite-transparent plastic.
A movement caught her eye, a movement just below her range of vision. She shifted her eyes slightly, and then she saw it: poised above her breast was a hand.
The hand held a knife.
A razor-sharp knife that was moving closer and closer to her.
Her eyes refocused on the face beyond the knife. Her father’s face!
A scream rose in her throat and instantly erupted from her mouth. “No! Dad! Oh, God, no! Dad, don’t!”
As Heather’s howl of terror crashed against his eardrums, Richard Kraven froze, the knife with which he’d been about to make the first perfect incision into Heather Jeffers’s flesh hovering a fraction of an inch above the pale skin of her breast.
Deep within his mind, something stirred.
As the girl on the bed screamed again, the being inside him, the being he thought he’d succeeded in crushing, surged back into consciousness.
For Glen, it was like being jerked out of a deep sleep. One moment there was nothing, and the next he was fully awake. Then, as Heather cried out to him again, all the nightmares he’d had since his heart attack came rushing back to him. All the fleeting images coalesced into a terrible picture of blood, carnage, and death.
And now, in his hand, he held a knife, poised above his daughter’s naked breast, and even as he struggled against the terrible force inside him, he felt an almost irresistible urge to use the knife.
To cut Heather’s skin and flesh.
To expose the bone beneath.
