The Devil You Know

by Morgan James

  “Please, Greg, take my advice and speak to Dr. Martin.”

  He stared at her for another moment before spinning abruptly on his heel and striding for the door. “You’ll be the one who regrets this, Victoria.”

  With those final parting words, he swept from the room and seconds later she heard the outer door slam, punctuating his dramatic exit. With a shaky breath, Victoria sank into one of the plush armchairs and dropped her head into her hands. A soft touch to her shoulder made her jump.

  Phyllis’s concerned eyes stared down at her. “You okay?”

  Victoria patted the woman’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a bit shaken up.”

  “Do you want me to have Ms. Dawes reschedule?”

  Victoria shook her head. “No. She probably needs to speak with someone now more than ever. Can you please just give me a minute before sending her in?”

  “Of course.” The receptionist offered her a soft smile and retreated soundlessly from the room.

  Victoria closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the window to wash over her and thaw the ice streaming through her veins. She’d dealt with disgruntled patients before, but for some reason, Greg Andrews had gotten to her on a more personal level. There was something about him that made her uneasy, reminding her of someone long ago. Looking around the room she contemplated her present—and her past. This was a far cry from the place she’d come from, and she was no longer the naïve young girl who trusted too easily. She had to wonder sometimes, did people like Greg even want help? Or was he here for something else?

  Pushing the thought from her mind, Victoria rose from the chair and walked to the doorway just in time to meet her patient as she approached.

  “Rachel.” She offered the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  The young woman made her way over to one of the chairs and sat gingerly. “It’s fine. He just... put me on edge.”

  Victoria closed the door and approached her patient, settling into the seat next to her. “I know, and I truly apologize. Just so you know,” she continued as Rachel opened her mouth to speak, “Mr. Andrews will not be back. What he did goes against our ethics here, so I’ve recommended him to a colleague of mine.”

  The woman shot her a watery smile. “Thank you. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me, you know?”

  Victoria smiled. Rachel had struggled with depression for several years, even trying a variety of medications at the urging of her family and friends. She hadn’t liked the way the drugs had made her feel, though, and she’d opted for a different solution. The barb coming from Greg this morning must have stung, making Rachel feel insecure and incompetent. Since coming to Victoria nearly six months ago, Rachel had been making significant strides.

  “So tell me, Rachel. How have you been?”

  “Great.” She smiled. “I took your advice and joined a gym. I think the exercise has really been helping my mood. There’s, um...” She glanced away for a moment and bit her lip. “There’s this guy there.”

  “Oh?” It was good and bad news, in Victoria’s opinion. While getting out and meeting new people could be good, she wasn’t quite sure that Rachel was ready to get involved romantically.

  “Yeah. I haven’t... we haven’t gone out or anything. But he seems really nice.”

  Victoria nodded. “Well, just don’t forget what we talked about.”

  “I know.” Rachel smiled. “For the first time in a while, I feel really good like everything’s exactly the way it should be.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Victoria smiled at her. “You’ve come a long way, Rachel. I’m really proud of you.”

  “Thanks. Me, too.” The woman smiled and a lightness filled Victoria’s heart. All thoughts of Greg Andrews were pushed from her head as she focused on the good part of her job—the part where she made a difference, just like she was helping the woman sitting across from her.

  THE MAN SHIFTED WHERE he sat behind the house, ensconced in the trees, and he watched as the navy sedan turned into the driveway and parked beside the small house. The woman stepped out of the car and walked to the mailbox. Her blonde hair floated behind her, glimmering in the light of the setting sun as it fell halfway down her back. She reminded him of his first, all those years ago. It’d been almost a year now since he’d allowed himself to hunt, and the urges were getting harder and harder to ignore.

  Would this get the doctor’s attention? He’d been trying to get her to notice him, doing everything he could think of to put himself in her path. And she was a psychologist now, of all things. He smirked at the irony of it. He wondered what she’d say when he finally revealed himself to her. She’d run so far, tried so hard to escape her past, but he’d been right under her nose.

  It had taken a little while to track her down, of course, since she’d changed her name. Her records had been sealed, and for a long time, he’d despaired of ever finding her. But things had changed a couple of years ago when he’d gotten his first lead. A different person himself now, he’d gone back to Ohio and kept his ears low to the ground. Although the tragedy had died down over the years, people still remembered it like it was yesterday. With a few well-placed questions, he finally heard that she’d moved to Texas her senior year.

  He applauded her choice of name when she reinvented herself. Her new surname was Carr, which in many cultures meant survivor. And Victoria for obvious reasons. She believed she’d been the victor of their little game, escaping her fate that day. But he’d come a long way, too. No longer ruled by his impulsive urges, he was more efficient, infinitely more sophisticated. He was an exceptional hunter, always well-prepared, researching for days or weeks before making his move. He prided himself on his perfect execution, and he never rushed into anything. People who hurried made mistakes—and he never made mistakes.

  A feral smile broke across his face as he watched the young nurse stride back up the driveway, head bent as she flipped through the collection of bills and junk mail. Darkness crept over the evening sky, turning it from orange to pink, then finally a dark lapis as daylight bled away completely. Lights flickered to life inside and he watched her shadow move around the small house as she settled in for the night. He’d watched her for more than a week now, and he closed his eyes, mentally tracking her movements from room to room. First, she would head into the kitchen to make dinner—typically a frozen TV dinner, judging from the containers he’d found in the trash can. Afterward, she would move across the house to the bathroom where she’d shower and brush her teeth, then finally to the single bedroom. Alone. Her routine was entirely too predictable. But that was good for him.

  Opening his eyes again, he watched her shadow as she carried her dinner to the couch and turned on the TV. Last night she’d watched that horrendous show about spoiled housewives. What would it be tonight? Forty minutes later the glow of the TV was extinguished, immediately followed by the small lamp on the end table, bathing the room in darkness. The kitchen light came on as she discarded the remains of her dinner, then flicked off again as she made her way down the hall to the bathroom.

  Not long now. Another hour and she’d be asleep, but he’d wait a little longer. People were unpredictable. Never knew when one of the neighbors might step outside for a late-night smoke or let an animal out before going to bed. The house two doors down had some little ankle biter that yapped at everything. It had almost ruined his recon two nights ago, tearing across the yard toward him before being jerked back by the jolt of the electric fence buried in the ground. He’d retreated then, making his way back into the trees and waiting until the owner had called for the dog to get inside. Tonight, it was quiet—so far. He continued to watch, waiting with barely restrained anticipation as night settled fully over the quiet street.

  A little after one o’clock he crept from the trees and approached the house, hunkering down to blend in with the shrubs that separated her lawn from her neighbor to the left. Cu
tting across the narrow strip of yard, he bent down to the basement window that he’d left unlocked several days prior. He’d checked routinely to make sure that it was still open, but apparently the room was seldom-used since she hadn’t yet noticed it was unlocked.

  Swinging the pane inward, he crouched down on the soft, dewy grass and slid feet-first through the narrow rectangle. Dropping swiftly to the floor, he kept one hand on the window to keep it from slamming closed behind him. He quietly lowered it into place and stood stock still as his eyes adjusted to the dark, listening for any sounds of awareness in the house. Only the soft hum of the appliances answered him, and he moved toward the stairs.

  This part was trickier. The house was old, and the wooden stairs groaned and creaked with each step. He placed his left foot on the first step all the way to the left. Slowly transferring his weight, he stepped dead in the middle on the second tread. Methodically he climbed the stairs, moving from the memory of having done it dozens of times one day while she was at work.

  Finally reaching the door, he turned the handle and inched it open a crack. Eyes and ears on alert he scanned the area, but all was quiet. He crept through the kitchen then down the narrow hallway to her room. The door stood open, and he watched her a moment before stepping silently up to the side of her bed.

  The woman lay curled on her side facing away from him, and he stroked a finger down the length of her arm. She shivered at the feather-light touch and rolled toward him, her lashes flickering several times before opening. He could see the wheels turning as she gradually came awake and his presence registered. “Hello, Monique.”

  Her lips parted on a silent scream but he covered her mouth and nose with a gloved hand, one knee pressing into the soft cavity of her stomach. She thrashed beneath him, eyes rolling in terror, and he climbed atop her, using his weight to pin her to the mattress. Incoherent sounds came from low in her throat as she tried to scream, call for help, plead for her life.

  Pulling a roll of duct tape from the pocket of his sweatshirt, he glared down at her. “I’m going to move my hand now. Scream and I’ll kill you. Nod if you understand.”

  Her head moved briskly up and down, and he lifted his hand. Her words came out on a whisper. “Who are you?”

  Ignoring her question, he tore a strip of tape from the roll. “Lift your hands.”

  She did as he asked, and he looped the strip around her hands.

  “Why are you doing this?” Her voice shook, and he pressed his lips into a firm line as he wove the tape in a figure eight around her wrists.

  “Do you know what happens to cheaters, Monique?”

  She blinked up at him, her entire body shaking with fear. “Wh-what?”

  “You’re a dirty slut. Aren’t you?”

  “No!” She shook her head furiously. “No, I—”

  He made a tsk-tsk sound low in his throat as he pulled another strip of tape from the roll. “Come now, Monique. I’ve been watching you.” Her eyes widened, and a grim smile cut across his face. “Oh, yes, I’ve seen you with both of them.”

  “N-no, I...” He placed the duct tape over her mouth. A gamut of emotions flashed in her eyes: fear that he would kill her, despair that she wouldn’t see another day, hope that he would let her go. His free hand lifted the fabric of his ski mask so she could see his face, and recognition dawned across her beautiful features.

  “Yes, Monique.” A cold smile curled his lips. “It’s me.”

  Reaching into his black boot, he retrieved the knife and held it up, the long blade glinting in the moonlight. Her eyes widened, and she fought in earnest, swinging her bound hands like a club. The blade slashed against her forearm and blood trickled from the wound as a thin red line appeared. Her voice was muffled as she tried to scream, hampered by the tape. She yanked her arms away and he shoved them over her head, digging the blade into the fleshy part of her upper arm before slicing into the soft skin. A strangled cry came from beneath the duct tape and he smiled.

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Monique.” He smiled before pulling the ski mask down once more and raising the knife, dousing that last vestige of hope she harbored in those wide green eyes. “You must be punished for what you’ve done.”

  Nearly two hours later, he picked up the woman’s phone sitting on the nightstand and used her lifeless hand to bring up the main screen. Tapping in the number he knew by heart, he placed the woman’s hand at her side on the bed waited for the call to connect.

  His heart leaped in his chest when she answered, her voice husky with sleep, but still his favorite sound in the whole world.

  “This is Dr. Carr. How can I help you?”

  A slow smile spread over his face. “Hello, Bekah.”

  Chapter Three

  The ringing of the phone jarred Victoria from a sound sleep. Bleary red numbers on the digital clock relayed that it was just shy of four a.m., and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand. She propped herself on an elbow and disconnected her phone from where it lay plugged in on her nightstand. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen as the phone pealed its third ring. Biting back a yawn, she swiped her thumb across the screen and held it to her ear.

  “This is Dr. Carr.” Deep, raspy breaths filtered through the phone and she waited a beat, but the caller remained silent. Fatigue pulled at her, and frustration rose to the surface. Keeping her voice as even as possible, she tried again. “How can I help you?”

  The man’s voice was low and dangerous, and she had to strain her ears to make out his words. “Hello, Bekah.”

  Oh, God... That voice. Her blood ran cold. “How... how did you find me?”

  A cruel laugh crackled over the phone line, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “Still so naïve, aren’t you?”

  “What do you want?”

  She heard him draw in a deep breath before exhaling. “I want you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “1143 Woodard Drive. Monique needs your help, Bekah.”

  “What did you do?” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she gripped the phone tightly in both hands.

  “It’s almost time.”

  “Wait, I don’t—”

  Victoria pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the blank screen. Shaking from head to toe, she dialed the police.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “M-my name is Dr. Victoria Carr. I just received a phone call from someone asking for help. 1143 Woodard Drive. I... I think she might be hurt.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Just send help!”

  Victoria hung up before the dispatcher could say another word. Springing from the bed, heart racing, she hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to ward off the chill that snaked through her body. Grabbing up her phone, she ran down the steps, taking only a moment to gather her hair into a ponytail and check her reflection in the mirror that hung in the hallway. Snatching her keys and purse from the side table, she threw the front door open then quickly locked it behind her. She used the key fob to unlock her car as she jumped down the porch steps and sprinted toward the driveway. She slid into the driver seat, simultaneously buckling her seat belt and shoving the key into the ignition to start the car.

  Heart still racing in her chest, she backed down the driveway and sped toward the exit of the allotment. She braked as she passed the guard station, realizing that she had no idea where she was going. Digging her phone from her bag, she spoke into the microphone. “Find directions: 1143 Woodard Drive.”

  The stilted voice in the phone called out directions and she cut across a back road to a small suburb of Dallas. Blue and red lights pierced the dark sky, and dread congealed in her stomach as she pulled up in front of the small house. The men and woman on scene moved slowly, milling around the lawn, and she knew before she even stepped out of the car. She was too late.

  “WHAT EXACTLY DID THE caller say?”

  Victoria wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup, trying to ab
sorb what little warmth filtered through the thick material. “He called me Bekah, told me that the woman—Monique—needed help. I... I was still half asleep, but I remembered the address. I called you guys as soon as I hung up.”

  “You said that a male called you, not Ms. Henderson herself?” Detective Sanchez propped a hip on the table and crossed his arms over his wide chest as he inspected her.

  “Yes. He had a deep voice and the way he said it, to send help soon, I had a feeling something bad had happened. He seemed... familiar.”

  “Because he called you Bekah?”

  “Yes.” She bobbed her head. “But there was something else. I can’t describe it, but... I feel like it’s him.” She lifted her shoulders helplessly.

  Detective Sanchez studied her. “You believe this is the same man who killed Leah Wilson?”

  “He sounds older, more mature... but there was something about his voice. The tone, maybe. Just the sound of it...” A shiver raced down her spine at the memory of his words grating over the phone line, and the coffee sloshed precariously in her cup. She leaned forward and set it on the table before lacing her fingers together and pressing them between her thighs, a nervous gesture she’d never quite outgrown.

  “The only person who knows about my past is my friend Kate—Dr. Winfield. We’ve known each other since college, but I haven’t told anyone else. I moved in with my grandparents in Snyder before my senior year of high school and changed my name. No one here has ever known me by anything other than Victoria.”

  “I see.” Sanchez dipped his chin. “Ms. Henderson was a nurse at St. Mary’s Hospital. Were you ever in contact with her?”

  Victoria shook her head. “No. I’m not a licensed physician, so I don’t have to make rounds. I’ve never met her that I’m aware of.”

  “Did the caller say anything else?”

  “No, not that I can remember.” She wrung her hands together. “Oh—he did say something like ‘it’s almost time.’”