Her suspicions about Detrick might sound outrageous, but she had a good head on her shoulders. More importantly, she was a good cop. If her suspicions were correct, there could be a serial murderer with a badge on the prowl in Painters Mill.
While waiting for an accident to clear on Highway 16 out of Newark, he tried her cell, but got voice mail. He left a message, then tried her home phone. Something darker than worry gripped him when he got her machine.
“Where the hell are you?” he muttered and disconnected.
He still had Glock’s number on his cell, so John tried him next. To his relief, he answered. “Have you seen Kate?”
“Not since earlier today. What’s up?”
He debated on how much to tell. “I was wondering if you could swing by her house and check on her.”
“I can go by there right now.” He paused. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”
John inched past a jackknifed eighteen wheeler where EMTs pulled the driver from a mangled cab. “I can’t get into it, Glock.”
“I’m officially fuckin’ worried now, Tomasetti.”
“Check on her. I’ll fill you in when I get there.” Squinting through the snow flying at his windshield, he jacked the speedometer to forty and hoped like hell Kate was wrong.
I’m aware of being dragged from my vehicle. Snow on my face. In my hair. Spilling down my collar. I’m in terrible trouble, but I’m in no shape to do anything about it.
Another
Pain rocks my body, jumbles my brain. My muscles lock up. I’m facedown in the snow. It’s in my mouth and eyes. Cold against my face. I sense Detrick kneeling beside me. My hands being yanked behind my back. I try to fight, end up flopping around like a fish.
“You should have let it go, Kate.”
I try to scream, but my mouth is full of snow and I manage only a sputter. I try to shake off the disorientation. But it’s as if I’m locked in a fog.
He hits me with the stun gun again. Pain wrenches a groan from me. My muscles go rigid. I feel my eyes roll back. Consciousness slips and the world goes monochrome. I’m aware of him tromping through the snow. Moving around. But I’m too dazed to determine what he’s doing. I tug on the bindings at my wrists, but they remain tight. Rolling, I raise my head and look around. Snow swirls down from a black sky. I see headlights. And then Detrick is standing over me.
“You’re not quite so smart now, are you?”
The next thing I know his hands are beneath my arms and he’s dragging me. I try to kick, realize my feet are bound. He opens the trunk of my Mustang, lifts me as if I weigh nothing, and throws me inside. I land hard on my shoulder. I feel his hands at my ankles, yanking them up and behind me, and I realize he’s hog-tying me.
“Help me!” I scream as loud as I can.
“Shut up.”
“Help me
Grasping my hair, he yanks my head back and shoves a wad of fabric into my mouth. Before I can spit it out, he wraps a length of tape over my mouth and around my head.
Reaching into the trunk, he yanks the emergency trunk release cable, disabling it. “So you don’t get any ideas about climbing out.”
The trunk slams and I’m engulfed in darkness. I hear myself breathing hard through my nose. My pulse roars in my ears. I hear the engine start. Not my vehicle, but his. A moment later the Mustang moves, and I realize he’s towing my car. In that moment, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. I know Detrick is going to kill me. I’ve seen his bloody handiwork. Panic rears inside me and I begin to struggle mindlessly. Animalistic grunts tear from my throat only to be trapped by the gag. I writhe and buck until my entire body trembles with exhaustion and adrenaline.
After what seems like an eternity, I force myself to calm down. I take deep breaths. I focus on relaxing my arms, then my legs. After a few moments my head clears and I can think. He disabled the emergency trunk release, but I know there’s a hatch between the trunk and the back seat. If I can find it, I might be able to escape.
Maneuvering around in the trunk is awkward and agonizingly slow. I feel for the seat latch with my face. It takes several minutes, but I finally find it in the forward right corner. I need my teeth, but my mouth is taped. Pressing my face against the latch, I use it to peel away the tape. I feel the sharp edge cutting my lip, but I don’t care. Slowly, the tape peels back. Clamping down with my teeth, I pull hard on the latch, and the mechanism clicks. I butt the seatback with my head. A muffled sob of relief escapes me when the seat folds down.
It takes every ounce of strength I possess to squirm from the trunk to the back seat. Using my shoulders and hips and head, I push myself to the floor, then worm forward until I’m wedged between the front seats. I’m nearly to the driver’s seat when the vehicle stops.
Panic descends. I squirm frantically, somehow make it over the console, and roll onto the driver’s seat. Using my forehead, I hit the automatic door locks. Then I press my chin against the horn. Relief flits through me at the sound. I think of the Kimber in my pocket, and try to think of a way to get to it. I see my cell phone on the passenger seat. Without thinking, I writhe toward it, grab it with my teeth. Can’t get it to my pocket, so I duck my head, drop it down my shirt.
A hand reaches through the broken window. An instant later, the door swings open. Grinning, Detrick thrusts the stun gun at me.
Vivid pain explodes through my body. My muscles seize. I catch a glimpse of his face as he reaches for me. I lean my weight against the horn, reveling in the blare of it, praying someone hears it. Rough hands yank me from the vehicle. I land in the snow. The next thing I know I’m being dragged by my hair. Pain zings across my scalp. I hear hair being torn from its roots. Snow goes down my collar. I twist, try to get my bearings. We’re in a clearing, surrounded by trees. Ahead, I see the dark silhouette of a farmhouse. A silo beyond. A drooping barn.
All thoughts leave my head as I’m dragged up the steps. I flounder, trying desperately to free my hands and feet. My head strikes the top step hard enough to send a scatter of stars across my vision. My coat scrapes against wood as I’m hauled across the porch. Detrick lets go of me, shoves open the door. I smell mildew and cold, dirty air. He lugs me over the threshold as if I were a sack of grain. Claustrophobia threatens when the door slams. All I can think is that the monster has taken me to its lair.
Terror leaches into my brain, drop by terrible drop. I’m paralyzed with it. I think of Amanda Horner, Ellen Augspurger and Brenda Johnston. In my mind’s eye I see their brutalized bodies. I wonder if this is part of what they endured before he killed them. I wonder if I’ll perish the same way.
The door opens and then slams. I’m alone, but I know he’ll be back. The wood floor is cold and rough against my cheek. I lay on my side, breathing as if I’ve just run a mile. My back aches from the uncomfortable position, but I know the worse is yet to come.
My pulse is in the red zone. I can’t stop shaking. I need to think. Fight. Escape. Kill the son of a bitch if I get the chance. Raising my head, I look around. I’m in an old house. There’s no furniture. Probably abandoned. Vaguely, I wonder if this is one of the properties on the list, and then I remember I’d put Detrick in charge of checking them out. Chances are, it never got done.
He returns carrying a kerosene heater and a toolbox. A shudder moves through me when he makes eye contact. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I knew you figured out my little secret.”
I stare at him.
“Your buddy with the Indiana State Police called for you. He wanted to talk to you about a cold case in Indiana. For some reason, he thought you were still the chief. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you?”
He sets down the heater and kneels next to it. I work at the bindings at my wrists as he lights it. I don’t know what he used to tie me up with, but it’s soft and not easily undone.
Yellow light floods the room when the heater is lit. Straightening, he crosses to me and rips the remaining tape from my mouth. I spit out the wad of fabric and for several seconds all I can do is gulp air and choke back sobs. I spot the knife in his hand. A scream pours from my throat when he leans close, but he only cuts the rope
