by LENA DIAZ,
He moved with a swiftness that was terrifying. Too late, she tried to twist away. But the sound of one of the cuffs ratcheting onto her left wrist echoed in the foyer. He yanked her wrist down toward the floor. She fell to her knees, sliding in the sticky wet blood. Bryson’s blood.
Dear, sweet Bryson. Lying on the floor, his face turned toward her. Eyes closed forever.
His murderer slapped the other handcuff onto Bryson’s right wrist and ratcheted it closed, anchoring her to his body. She looked up in question. He’d retrieved the bat, but instead of slamming it down on her, ending this, he turned away. His shoes clomped across the floor as he headed down the hall to the left. Dress pants. He was wearing gray dress pants and a white shirt. A formerly white shirt. Had he just left work? What kind of person did this—entered someone’s house and beat them to death after getting off work, like it was a normal part of their day?
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, but died before reaching her lips. The monster had opened a door and headed inside. A muffled sound echoed from the room. Was someone else there? The sickening unmistakable crunch of wood on bone had her gasping in horror. The other half of the couple who lived here, Mr. Broderick. He must have been in the room, probably tied up. A bribe so that his wife would do what the monster told her to do.
Bile rose again in her throat. She turned away from Bryson’s body just in time to empty the contents of her stomach against the foyer wall. She shuddered and wiped her mouth.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, the whisper finally passing through her tight throat. “Please let me die quickly. And don’t let me grovel or beg for my life. Give me strength. Please, God. Help me.”
Something fluttered against her shoe.
She gasped and whirled around. The fingers of Bryson’s right hand moved against her, tapped her toe. She shot him a look of shock, and met his pain-filled startling blue gaze.
“Bryson,” she whispered. “You’re alive. Oh my God. Bryson.” She lifted her shaking right hand to his face and gently cupped it. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
His eyes seemed unfocused. He coughed and blood dribbled out of his mouth to the floor.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Don’t try to talk.” She jerked her head up, realizing there weren’t any sounds in the other room anymore. He’d be coming out soon. Coming for her and Bryson. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Play dead. He thinks you’re dead. Just, no matter what happens to me, just lay there. Don’t move. Do you hear me? Play dead. It’s your only chance.”
His fingers tapped her again and his lips moved.
She glanced down the hall, then leaned down, trying to hear what he was saying.
“Run. Get. Away.” His whisper was so low she could barely make it out. “Go.”
Tears splashed onto his face and she realized she was crying. “Oh, Bryson. I’m sorry. I thought you were... I thought it was too late. And I couldn’t make myself leave you. And now, I can’t.” She lifted her left hand, showing him the handcuffs that bound them together. “It’s okay, though,” she whispered, looking down the hall again. What was taking the monster so long? What was he doing in there? “It’s okay,” she repeated. “There’s nothing I can do to save myself. I accept that. But he thinks you’re already dead. Lie very still. No matter what. You’ll make it. Just play dead.”
His lips moved again, his eyes pleading with her to listen. “Cane. Get. Cane.”
“You think you can stand?” A rush of hope flooded through her. “Here. I’ll help you.”
“Cane,” his hoarse whisper was louder now. “Get the cane.”
She stretched out their linked hands and scrambled over, reaching out her right hand as far as she could. It took some contorting, but she was finally able to grab it. “Got it.”
“I’ll take that.” The monster jerked it out of her hand and backed up several feet. “Getting feisty, Teagan? Planning on trying to beat me over the head with this like I did your friend?” He chuckled and motioned toward Bryson. “Give me his cell phone. And yours. Hurry.”
“Mine is in my purse.” She motioned toward her purse where it had fallen to the foyer floor earlier.
“Prove it. Turn your shorts pockets inside out.”
She did as he asked.
“Now his. Get his cell phone and toss it to me so I can verify that you don’t do something stupid, like try to press 911 before you give it to me. If you do that, you’re both dead. Understood?”
She drew a ragged breath and nodded, then dug in Bryson’s suit jacket pockets until she found his phone. For the briefest second, she hesitated, desperately wanting to press the three precious keys that would call for help. But the monster was watching. And he’d shifted the aim of his gun toward Bryson’s head as if in warning. She hurriedly stood as best she could with her arm cuffed to Bryson and tossed him the phone.
After checking the screen, he threw the phone on the couch, then motioned toward Bryson again. “Take that watch thing off his wrist and get rid of it. I don’t know what it can do, whether you can make calls with it. I’m not taking chances.”
She quickly took it off and tossed it down the foyer.
“Help him up. We’ll bring him with us. I need to know how much he knows before I kill him.”
She hesitated. “He’s already dead. Just uncuff me and I’ll go with you.”
He made a clucking, disapproving sound with his mouth. “Now, Teagan. Don’t lie to me. I doubt I hit him hard enough to kill him. But if you’d rather I take care of things right now, to make it easier for you so you don’t have to help him walk, I can get the bat—”
“No!” She shook her head. “Please. Don’t. Just...give me the cane. I’ll help him. But I need the cane to get him on his feet, to help him walk.”
He tossed the cane down beside her. “I’d help but I don’t want to get his blood on my nice clean shirt.”
She blinked and realized he was wearing a different shirt now, a light blue one tucked into navy blue dress pants. Even his shoes, which had been black earlier had been exchanged for gunmetal gray ones. He must have washed himself off and changed into some of Mr. Broderick’s clothes. Right after killing the poor man.
Swallowing hard, she looked down. Bryson’s eyes were open again. He was staring at her.
I’m so sorry, she mouthed, regret heavy in her heart that she’d wasted her chance to get help for him. Had she suspected he was still alive, she would have forced herself to turn around, to run to the nearest neighbor and call 911. Instead, she’d been frozen by fear and the belief that he’d been killed. She’d given up. And because of her cowardly actions, now he was still in horrible danger, when she might have been able to save him.
“Get him on his feet. Now. If you take too long, I’ll shoot you both and be done with it.”
She wanted to demand that he be done with it right now. But that was no longer an option. It wasn’t just her life on the line now. She had to be brave, strong, and somehow figure out how to get Bryson out of this mess. She awkwardly straightened his legs, apologizing profusely every time she jostled him because of their hands being handcuffed together.
Finally she got him into a sitting position with his back pressed against the opposite wall of the foyer from where she’d been sick. White lines around his mouth clearly mirrored his pain. His hip had to be excruciating right now, on top of the awful bump on his head. She reached up to test it and he winced, ducking away from her hand.
“You’re not bleeding anymore,” she whispered. “That’s a good sign.”
“Hurry up,” the monster ordered. “The daughter will be home soon.”
Teagan and Bryson exchanged a look of horror. The idea of a daughter coming home to find her parents slaughtered by this man was beyond awful. But still being here when she got home would ensure that she too would be killed. As if coming to the same realization
, Bryson began pushing against the wall, struggling to get to his feet.
She faced him, their hands clasped together as she helped him up the rest of the way. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t about to fall, she got the cane and put it in his left hand. He normally held it in his right, to compensate for his bad left hip when he raised his right leg. But with his right hand cuffed to hers, that wasn’t an option. It would be rough going. She hoped she had the strength to keep him from falling.
“Come on. Out the back.” The monster was holding a gun now. Bryson’s gun. He motioned with it and stepped out of reach of the cane or a well-aimed kick, not that they could manage either one shackled together with Bryson hurt.
More from willpower than physical strength, the two of them managed to hobble out the open French door, across the patio, all while being directed by the gunman. He closed the door behind them, probably to throw off anyone trying to find the perpetrator who’d murdered the Brodericks. But where was he going? He stopped at the six-foot-tall wooden privacy fence that encircled the large backyard.
He motioned them forward with the gun. When they stopped a few feet away, he lifted one of the sections of fence back from the post it should have been nailed to. Perhaps this was the way he’d gotten into the Brodericks’ home? He’d come from behind them, loosening the section of fence to act much like a gate.
Just the way he’d abducted Teagan years earlier? Until this very moment, she’d never remembered how he’d managed to get her off the path without anyone seeing her. It had always been a confusing image in her mind—a creaking sound that she’d attributed to the breezes in the branches overhead, but that she now realized must have been him opening a pre-loosened section of fence; her turning around just as the bite of a needle plunged into her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth. Darkness descending around the edges of her vision as he’d tossed her over his shoulder. That creaking sound again. He’d closed the fence behind them. That must have been what happened.
“Teagan?” Bryson whispered, between lips white with pain. “We have to move.”
The gunman was pointing the pistol at her. He must have told her to get going and was threatening to shoot her. She squeezed Bryson’s hand, then struggled forward with him leaning heavily against her, their cuffed hands clutched tightly together.
The gunman waved them toward the back of the house whose yard they were now in while he secured the section of fence behind them. As they reached the screened-in porch, the cut screen on the door told the story that she had feared. She exchanged a look of misery with Bryson before helping him through the door that the killer had obviously gone through earlier.
But how had he known that she would be at the Brodericks’?
That question was eating at her. And she had no answers. She wanted to ask Bryson, but doubted he could think much beyond the pain that was clearly radiating through his whole body. It was taking everything he had to remain upright, as evidenced by how hard he was leaning on her and how often he stumbled. It didn’t help that the house was carpeted. It was much harder for him to keep his balance, and he fell against the wall more than once.
“To the garage, that door over there.” The gunman motioned ahead to the right, then ducked through an archway to their left into the kitchen.
“Where are we?” Bryson whispered as they hobbled toward the garage.
“Bentwater Place,” she whispered back. “The subdivision directly behind The Woods. The entrance to this subdivision is about a mile, maybe more, from the Hodges Boulevard entrance to The Woods.”
He nodded as they reached the door that led from the house into the garage. It was standing wide open, revealing a small package delivery truck inside. Any hope that Teagan had that he hadn’t hurt the driver died when she saw the piles of packages taking up most of the space on the other side of the garage. No driver would have willingly allowed someone to dump the contents of his truck. How many people had to be hurt or die because of whatever sick fantasies this guy had?
“Find the button that opens the garage door,” Bryson urged. “If someone’s outside, we can try to get their attention.”
“Do it and I’ll shoot both of you,” the killer said from behind them.
Teagan stiffened and looked over her shoulder. His dark, empty eyes bored into hers. The maw of the pistol was pointed directly at the back of Bryson’s head.
“What do you want us to do now?” She steadied Bryson’s shaking body against the garage wall beside the doorway. He was so pale she was afraid he was about to pass out.
“Get in the back of the truck.” The sound of sirens filled the air, coming from somewhere behind them. The killer froze, cocking his head to listen. The sirens got louder. There could be no mistake. They were racing toward the Brodericks’ house. The daughter must have gotten home and called 911. And the police had to have been close by to be responding this quickly. Any minute now, they’d be standing in the home that was separated from this one by about fifty feet of grass and a privacy fence.
If she screamed, would they hear her?
As if reading the intention in her expression, the killer shoved the gun’s muzzle against the back of Bryson’s head. “In the truck. Now. If you scream, if you do anything to alert the police, I’ll shoot both of you, him first. Then I’ll find another family a few houses down to kill and drive away in their car as the police try to figure out where the shots came from. You’ll be dead, another family will be dead, but I’ll be just fine. Is that what you want? Me to kill your boyfriend and another innocent family, all because you refuse to follow instructions?”
“We’re going.” She forced the words out between clenched teeth.
Bryson looked like he wanted to argue. But he was in no physical condition to do so. They hobbled to the end of the truck. The gunman twisted the handles and yanked open both of the doors. Just as expected, it was empty. No windows. No pass-through to the cab. Just a metal box, with no way out but the back doors. Which required getting past their armed escort.
It took some grunting and contorting because of how their hands were cuffed together to get both of them into the back. As soon as their feet cleared the doors, one of them slammed shut.
The gunman paused in the opening of the other door. “I’ll take that cane for now. Don’t want you trying to poke me with it when I open the door again.” He yanked the cane away from Bryson and sealed them inside.
Chapter Thirteen
“He didn’t blindfold us,” Teagan said.
Bryson hated the fear in her tone. He knew exactly what she was afraid of, that because the man who’d abducted them hadn’t blindfolded them, it meant he intended to kill them. He wasn’t worried about witnesses, or that they could identify him later. But reassuring her right now was beyond Bryson’s abilities. He was struggling just to stay conscious. That blow to his head had really done a number on him.
The darkness in the back of the truck was absolute, which was disorienting enough. But his aching hip and throbbing head were each trying to outdo the other in the pain department, which made his efforts to wrangle his scattered thoughts next to impossible.
“Bryson?” She moved her left hand against his right one and interlaced their fingers. “How bad does it hurt? Your head?”
He gently squeezed her fingers. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Maybe if you said that without pain making your voice so raspy I’d believe you.” She clasped her right hand over their joined hands. “I’m so sorry. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for me involving you. I never should have gone to Gatlinburg and interfered with your life. That was beyond selfish. And now, we’re both going to die—”
“Hey, hey. Stop that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the professional. I should have been on guard against this type of possibility. But what matters right now is that you don’t give up. You hear me, Teagan Ray? Don’t
you dare give up.” He waited, but when she didn’t respond he said, “If you’re nodding or shaking that beautiful head of yours, or making some kind of rude gesture, your effort’s wasted. I completely forgot to pack my night-vision goggles this trip.”
A brief laugh reassured him like nothing else could have. He needed her present, engaged, not frozen and helpless the way he’d seen her in the foyer after he’d finally managed to swim through the darkness that had threatened to drag him under. He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there after that awful slam of the bat against his head. He hadn’t even seen the bat until later, when they were leaving, lying on one of the chairs. It had shocked him that he was still alive with the amount of blood covering the bat.
Then he’d seen Mrs. Broderick.
She’d been curled in a lifeless heap on the other side of the room. He knew then that not all of the blood on the bat was his. The poor woman had been brutally attacked. Even though it didn’t feel like it, he was lucky to be alive. For now.
“Aren’t you going to say I told you so?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He had to draw several deep breaths to push back the hazy fog that kept trying to drag him into unconsciousness. What had she said? Something about I told you so. “What are you talking about?”
“Avarice Lowe. I’d pegged him all along as the man who’d abducted me. But I was wrong. It’s this man. Whoever’s driving this stupid truck. The thing is, Lowe never seemed to fit the image of the monster in my head. I know it sounds wonky. But I always thought I’d know my abductor if I ever saw him, by the way he was built, his profile, something. Nothing ever clicked for me when I saw Lowe’s pictures. And, to be honest, nothing clicked when I saw this guy today. Not really. I mean, his voice, yes. Definitely. And yet, even though he seems familiar, he doesn’t seem...right. It’s still not clicking.” He could feel her shoulders move against him as she shrugged. “Listen to me. I’m not even making sense.”
“Always...trust your instincts.” He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. Obviously he had a concussion. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Or throw up. Or both. He cleared his throat and tried again to follow the conversation. “Instincts. They’re telling you something. What did you mean when you said he seemed familiar?”