The Broken Trail: A Chilling Serial Killer Thriller (Harriet Harper Thriller Book 3)

by Dominika Best

  It was useless. The window stayed in one piece while her fists throbbed in pain. More pain to deal with, she thought. She shuffled back to the bed and saw the tray of food next to the door. She lifted the top cover and found a plate of fried chicken, French fries, coleslaw, and a thermos of ice water. Seeing the ice water made her realize how incredibly thirsty she was. She gulped it down too fast and coughed hard, straining her neck. Would the pain ever stop?

  She waited for the water to settle in her empty stomach before grabbing a chicken leg and stuffing it into her mouth. Debi stayed with her back against the door, hoping the camera wouldn’t catch her desperate eating. After the chicken leg, came the French fries, surprisingly still warm, then the coleslaw. She ate with her hands as there were no utensils, but there were paper napkins.

  Her stomach growled. She went from being famished to feeling ill. Again. She’d eaten too fast and drank too much water and everything was swishing around. She didn’t want to puke up her only sustenance.

  Debi stumbled back to the bed and sat there trying to get her digestive system under control while swallowing down bile.

  What had they done to her that she couldn’t even keep food down? A sudden wave of dizziness washed over, and she vomited all over her hands and the carpeted floor.

  Gross, she thought. At least, she’d missed the bed.

  Debi hobbled over to the small bathroom that had a sink and a toilet and washed the vomit off her hands. She grabbed one of the towels and did her best to clean up the vomit next to the bed so she wouldn’t have to smell it.

  A strange feeling crept over her body, causing her vision to swim and her legs to feel weak. She crumpled to the floor again. The walls looked like they were falling on top of her head. She lifted her hands up to protect herself, but nothing hit her. Laying on the floor, next to the partially cleaned-up vomit, Debi realized what had just happened.

  The food or the water had been drugged. She’d fallen for it again. Why had she eaten? Why did she drink the water when could have gotten some from the tap?

  They were coming in when she was passed out and doing things to her while she was out. Her last thought before she lost consciousness again was how long she could survive only drinking water.

  Her world turned black.

  When Debi awoke, she was back in the narrow bed. Her hair had been washed because and smelled of shampoo. Her body had been scrubbed clean, too. She was wearing a soft, plush robe and nothing else. It felt so good against her skin and she lay there, curled up in a ball, stroking the sleeve.

  Next to her lay a skimpy dress and a black lace bra and panties set. She didn’t want to put the clothes on, but what choice did she have? What would they do to her if she refused?

  Debi lay on her side on the bed in her prison. Flashes of dark rooms, people laughing, the smell of alcohol and marijuana filled her senses. Had they taken her out of this room already? She tried to remember, but the little movie clips in her mind slipped away.

  If her vomit had prevented her from ingesting all the drugs they’d given her, then maybe she could keep it together to make a run for it. Getting out of this room had been her only goal. Now, with her growing awareness of the situation she was in, she came up with a new plan. A plan that involved staying coherent.

  If they let her out of this room, then that changed everything. She wouldn’t drink or eat anything else they gave her. Water was important, though. She had fresh water coming out of the sink. How could she pretend she was eating and drinking what they gave her? Could she hide it and flush it down the toilet?

  Now that Debi could think clearly, her mind raced to find solutions. She would pretend to eat and drink what they gave her if she was ever put back in the prison. Maybe that wouldn’t happen, though.

  She would put on the clothes. They wanted to dress her up for something, but what? Was she leaving the room or was someone coming in? No, whoever they were dressing her up for wasn’t coming to this disgusting prison cell, she thought.

  Tonight, would be the night she’d run for it. They first had to come and get her out of the room. With less drugs in her system, she’d finally have a chance to escape. Bolstered by hope, she pulled on the sexy panties. She kept the robe on for another minute. It reminded her of the robe she had at home.

  Debi would make it back home. It was a promise she would keep to herself.

  29

  Day 4 – Early Evening

  Harri opted to call Lydia Marcos to make sure she would be home for the meeting. Lydia invited her to come immediately and gave her an address far up in the Hollywood Hills above Bel Air on Mulholland Drive.

  For someone who lost their entire Hollywood career, Lydia Marcos’ address spoke of wealth and privilege, not a ruined life. Harri was encouraged by that.

  Guilt weighed heavily on Harri as she replayed the interview she’d had with Roxanne in her mind. Had she pushed her too hard? She’d been lucky Roxanne had given her Lydia’s number. She could have just as easily kicked her out of her home.

  Whatever Roxanne had done was eating her up. Like a sick ripple effect, the repercussions reverberating over the years of this organization’s twisted actions echoed all over the city in the damage it did to its victims. Harri wanted justice for all each one of them.

  She drove up Laurel Canyon all the way to the crest of the hill and turned left onto Mulholland Drive. The drive was a famous street in Los Angeles that ran all the way to the ocean. It was mostly a twisty two-lane road with multiple million-dollar homes flanking either side.

  It was also the road where people regularly got into accidents due to speeding around curves while staring out into the lush beauty of the Los Angeles Basin with wonder. The whole city could be seen from that vantage point.

  A screeching of tires made her look in her rearview mirror. She frowned when she saw a black sports car speeding toward her at breakneck speed. Harri was going around a sharp curve with no shoulder. She couldn’t get out of the car’s way.

  She flashed her brake light several times. If the car went that fast around the curve, it would definitely hit her. Harri drove well enough, but she wasn’t skilled at evasive driving and there was nowhere to go. If she went into the opposite lane to avoid him, she could be in a head-on collision, as there was no visibility to oncoming traffic.

  The sports car revved its engine behind her. She looked back in the mirror and it was right on her tail.

  Harri flashed her brake lights again.

  The sports car hit her hard.

  Harri’s car lurched forward and she almost lost her grip on the steering wheel.

  And there was another curve coming up. She sped up to get some space between her and the sports car.

  It sped up, too and hit her again, even harder this time. Her sweaty palms gripped the wheel as if her life depended on it because it did. Harri scanned the road for any sign of a shoulder.

  There was no room between the road and rocky incline to her right.

  Harri gunned the engine even more. The speed limit here was only forty miles an hour and rightly so with the blind curves coming every half a mile. She was now going well past that.

  The black sports car gave chase.

  Crap. She couldn’t go any faster.

  Harri was in a standard black police cruiser. If it hit the cruiser on the side instead of behind, it would likely receive more damage than the cruiser. Harri gently pressed on the brake. The black car didn’t and hit her again.

  Harri scanned for any driveways she could use to get out of this car’s way. Seeing a clearing up ahead, Harri let the wheel drift to her right while also slowing down.

  The black sports car’s engine whined as the curve forced him to brake as well. Harri took that as her opportunity.

  She twisted the steering wheel hard to the right as she jammed the breaks. She held on as tightly as she could, praying she wouldn’t spin out. Her tires held and her car slowed way down, hitting grass and gravel on the lawn of a massive mansion.<
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  The black sports car whizzed by her, unable to brake as hard and disappeared around the car. With Harri’s adrenaline messing with her focus, she didn’t catch his plate.

  Panic washed over her as her system went into total fight or flight. Harri placed her forehead on the steering wheel and let the stress wrack her body as she breathed deeply.

  Someone had tried to run her off the road. There was no doubt that this time, it wasn’t a warning. If this yard hadn’t come up when it had, she would be smashed into a dirt wall.

  Harri focused on her breathing until the trembling throughout her body began to fade. She knew what was happening and worked to ride it out. It wasn’t every day someone tried to kill you, she thought.

  30

  Day 4 – Early Evening

  Harri sat in her car working through the aftereffects of being run off the road for close to an hour.

  In that time, she’d called Lydia Marcos to make sure she was still home and would speak to her. Harri preferred to arrive unannounced so witnesses couldn’t prepare their statements ahead of time. With her near-death experience, Harri decided to call again to reconfirm she would be available.

  Roxanne’s description of Lydia’s potentially fragile mental state had given her pause. She didn’t want to trigger her as she had with Roxanne.

  To Harri’s surprise, Lydia told her to come right over. The mansion was only ten minutes away from where the accident happened. Harri parked the cruiser behind a Mercedes. She walked behind and looked at the damage. She wanted to laugh, but held it in. There were some dings and scratches, but no real damage. Did a little black sports car really think it could take an LAPD cruiser? She shook her head and smiled. Harri really needed that change in mood.

  She was walking up the drive when the door opened. A slim woman with silvery white hair emerged from the shadows of the doorway and smiled.

  “You must be Detective Harper,” she said. “Welcome.”

  “I am and thank you for giving me your time,” Harri said and joined her at the door.

  “You are too good-looking to be a cop,” Lydia said with a friendly smile.

  Harri waved her comment off. “Detective actually.”

  “My bad, sorry. It's impressive that you're a detective,” Lydia said. “And a detective who investigates murders? You must have seen some things.”

  She led Harri through a foyer that was open to the third floor. Paintings of various sized covered the wall all the way to the top. Harri glanced around. Everything was elegant and inviting. Harri knew it had to have been designed by an interior decorator. Harri had been in multi-millionaire’s homes before, but nothing as grand as this.

  “I know what you're thinking ‘how did a washed-up actress land digs like these’. Am I right?”

  “Your artwork is impressive,” Harri said.

  “I married well,” Lydia said as she led Harri through what might be the living room, or parlor, or? Harri wasn’t sure. It was big, elegant, with a fireplace. “My husband works in finance.”

  “Smart husband,” Harri said.

  “It also helps that I came from money,” Lydia said with a smile.

  Harri liked the no-nonsense attitude of this woman. She didn't seem unstable as Roxanne indicated. Lydia had a striking square face, with full lips, and pale blue eyes. And that silvery white blonde hair.

  “Your hair, such a unique color,” Harri said.

  “It’s gray,” Lydia smiled. “I stopped coloring it and went natural. I got lucky it’s turned out such a nice shade.”

  “Gray? You can’t be older than thirty?” Harri asked.

  “I’m thirty-two. Premature gray runs in my family. I already had gray hairs as a teenager.”

  “What color was it before?” Harri asked.

  “A pale blonde, but I like this better. I was ready for a change,” she said and led Harri into the kitchen. Harri glanced around and took in the space. It was simple, clean, and classic with white cabinetry reminiscent of a country home and top-of-the-line appliances. The walls were a pale yellow and the floor was black-and-white checkered pattern of marble. The diamond-paned windows overlooked the greenery of what Harri guessed was a backyard as lush as a home like this demanded.

  Lydia approached a central island where a pitcher of pink lemonade, a crystal bucket of ice, and two glasses had been set.

  “Would you like some lemonade? I was craving something sweet, but sour” Lydia explained as she sat on one of the stools and grabbed a glass.

  “I would love some,” Harri said as she sat next to her.

  Lydia poured her a glass and handed it to her, then sighed lightly. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Why didn’t your complaint go public?” Harri asked. “When I did a search on you nothing came up.”

  “My husband,” Lydia said simply. “He was my boyfriend at the time and wanted to protect me. He deals with vicious people all the time in the work that he does, and he didn’t think the police could do a damn thing for me.”

  Harri was disappointed to hear that.

  “What exactly does her husband do?” Harri asked.

  “He runs a fund, to put it simply. He deals with all kinds, and every day he has to navigate deals with people who…like to walk on the shady side of the street, if you understand my meaning.”

  Harri nodded. She didn’t know much about the world of finance, but she could guess. That’s the world Jerome Wexler thrived in, after all.

  “So, I chose to go to HR instead.” Lydia said. “Thinking that something could be done quietly in the system. How naïve was I? The studios don’t publicize those kinds of complaints and I’d chosen the wrong people to bring it to.”

  Harri raised an eyebrow. “Okay backup, what were you doing when this happened?” Harri asked, retrieving her notebook out of her bag.

  “I had a supporting role in a feature film and was shooting on one of the studio lots. It was a pretty big studio picture. A good hundred million and they had a top-of-the-line director. Have you ever heard of Bryan Mortimer?” Lydia asked.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Harri said. “He's done some of the biggest films in the last decade?”

  “Exactly. You say his name and people in the business start tossing out terms like genius and auteur,” Lydia said as she rolled her eyes and took a sip.

  “Was your HR complaint against Bryan Mortimer?”

  “It was,” she said. “He’s the worst of them all.”

  Harri looked up sharply. “What do you mean the worst of them all?” she asked.

  “If you’ve spoken to Roxanne, you already know the basic story,” Lydia said.Harri nodded. “I need to hear about your experience,” Harri said. “I realize this will be difficult, but in order to see the differences and similarities in your stories, I have to get first-person accounts. You were also a victim?”

  “I was worse than a victim,” Lydia said carefully.

  Harri had an idea of what she was getting at.

  “What is worse than a victim?” Harri asked.

  “Being both victim and perpetrator,” Lydia said.

  “Explain this to me because I don’t understand how.”.”

  “I had auditioned and booked my second supporting part on a feature film,” Lydia began. “Yay me. I was only seventeen and I was ecstatic to be working with a big director like Bryan. He was friendly and professional, and I thought he was treating me like a grown up. At first, I mean. That was during rehearsals and for the first days of shooting and then things got weird.”

  Harri nodded, staying silent and jotting down the story.

  “One of our days ran really late and I was in one of the last scenes on the schedule. We finished the scene and I went back to the trailer to pack up to go home. One of the production assistants knocked on my door and said Bryan wanted to see me before I left.

  “Is this kind of thing normal on film sets?” Harri asked.

  “It's normal when it's not Bryan Mortimer,” Lydia
said. “He was a famous director. I had two lines in the scene, eight lines in the entire film. I was pretty much a nobody. He had no reason to need to speak to me,” she said, shaking her head. “It was only my second feature film and I thought I’d made it,” she said and laughed.

  Her composure had changed as had the tone of the laugh. Harri noted an air of sadness had entered their conversation. Harri fought the urge to take Lydia’s hand and comfort her.

  “Then what happened?” Harri asked.

  Lydia took another sip of lemonade and hesitated a moment before continuing. “So, I get to his trailer and he's there all by himself. He comes at me telling me how good I was and how he wishes my part was bigger. He's thinking of having the screenwriter beef up my part. I was such a fool. I was surprised, but I believed him, thinking I was some sort of hot shit. He offered me a drink to celebrate my new breakout role. Of course, I took the drink.”

  “And then?”

  Lydia paused again and Harri waited patiently until she spoke again.

  “And then I woke up in a prison.”

  Harri waited again.

  “It was a disgusting little room with a window and a door. The door was locked, the window opaque glass, but I could see bars were on the outside. There was a toilet and a sink.”

  Harri waited for Lydia to continue.

  “My lady bits were on fire and I saw blood on the sheets of the bed,” Lydia said, her voice a soft monotone.

  “He sexually assaulted you?” Harri asked.

  “I was sexually assaulted, yes. I don’t know by who.”

  “Bryan Mortimer imprisoned you?”

  Lydia nodded. “For what I found out was two days. He let me out and told me the screenwriter had finished the new scenes and I was now one of the main bad guys. He gave me some bullshit story of wanting to see how I would react if I was imprisoned. For the film, of course. Method acting.”

  “What about the sexual assault?”