93
DAY THIRTEEN-SEPTEMBER 17
SATURDAY-3:45 A.M.
In the middle of the night, Davica Holland walked on silent tiptoes from her bedroom to the other one and studied Jack Draven from the doorway. His body made a big lump under the covers. His breathing came deep and heavy. His clothes made a dark pile on the floor. She held her breath and snuck in.
She found his knife in the sheath, on the floor near the clothes.
She slipped it out.
Then she walked back into her bedroom and hid it under the pillow. She lay on her back in the bed, naked, and moved her hand under the pillow and got the knife properly positioned.
Moonlight filtered into the room.
“Draven, are you awake?” she shouted.
Mumbled words came from the other bedroom.
“Wake up and come over here,” she said. “I need you to screw me.”
Draven walked in, groggy, not much more than a naked shape in the dark.
She spread her legs and then raised her arms above her head.
“Come here,” she said. “Make me feel good.”
He straddled her chest and then inched up until his cock was on her mouth. “Get me hard,” he said.
She did.
Using her tongue.
Then he slid down, put his arms under her legs and opened them wide. She bit her lower lip while he inserted himself. Then he rocked inside her with a steady up and down motion.
It was too bad for Draven that he had raped her-twice-and made her change her mind about him. It was too bad that she was no longer interested in giving him an alibi or having him as a business partner. It was too bad that she no longer felt comfortable that he knew what she looked like.
It was too bad that she’d be better off if he was dead.
She reached under the pillow and got the knife in her hand. He didn’t notice as she slipped it out. Then she raised it in the dark and brought it down as hard as she could into his back.
He immediately twitched and made an awful sound.
She pulled it out and stabbed him again.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Then stuck it in one final time and twisted.
He went limp, no longer fighting death. Warm blood ran down his sides and onto her breasts and stomach. She fought to get out from under him and then rolled him off the bed.
“Asshole.”
She brought his pants in from the other room, pulled his cell phone out of his front pocket, and then threw them on the floor at the foot of the bed.
She chained one of her ankles to the bed frame.
She made herself as hysterical as she could and then called Teffinger.
94
DAY THIRTEEN-SEPTEMBER 17
SATURDAY-4:00 A.M.
When Teffinger got back to Davica’s house at four in the morning, she wasn’t home and hadn’t left a note. He called her cell phone and got no answer.
Weird.
Maybe she’d gone to a girlfriend’s.
He brushed his teeth, took out his contacts, dropped onto the bed, and immediately fell asleep.
Then his cell phone woke him up.
Davica’s voice came though.
Hysterical.
Crying.
Talking a mile a minute.
Something about she’d been abducted.
Something about killing a man with a knife.
He got her calmed down enough to make sense. She was chained to a bed in a cabin in the mountains, but had no idea where it was. He threw on clothes, put his contacts back in and pointed the Tundra west.
On the way, he woke up Sydney and had her work with the cell phone company to pinpoint the location of the phone that Davica was calling from. Almost an hour later he pulled off Highway 119 onto a gravel road and took it west. In a mile it dead-ended at a cabin.
No lights were on inside.
A green VW Jetta sat out front.
He drew his weapon and approached.
Carefully.
Inside, he found Davica in a bedroom with an ankle chained to the bed frame, screaming for him to get her out of there. She was covered in blood. On the floor, next to the bed, lay a naked man with a knife in his back.
He looked like an Indian.
95
ONE MONTH LATER
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
Teffinger was on a country road north of Denver, halfway to Loveland, when he found a pastoral scene that moved him. He pulled onto the shoulder, killed the engine, and stepped out. The temperature was only about sixty, but under a full Colorado sun and without a wisp of wind, it seemed like seventy-five.
He felt a little guilty about taking off work early.
Not guilty enough to go back, though.
He set up the easel and positioned an eight-by-ten canvas on it. Then he squeezed Windsor amp; Newton oils onto a worn wooden pallet, limiting his selection to Alizarin Crimson, Cadmium Yellow Pale, Cadmium Red, French Ultramarine, Burnt Sienna, and Titanium White.
From those six tubes he could mix any color he wanted.
And a few he didn’t.
He solidified the composition in his mind and then laid in the lights and darks with a Burnt Sienna wash, until the painting looked like an old one-tone photograph.
Then he started to lay in the color.
The place was deserted.
There was no vehicle traffic at all.
Not a sound came from anywhere.
Off in the distance a hawk floated on large quiet wings. A butterfly fluttered to Teffinger’s left, one of the last summer holdouts. As he painted, his thoughts turned to the events of the last month.
