Death Notice

by Lolli Powell

  Just like Artie’s distractions had worked. He remembered leaving the park restroom and getting into his car. He’d called the number left in the envelope, using his last disposable phone, and just as it started ringing, he’d heard a noise behind him, followed by something hitting him hard on the side of the head. He realized now that the pill had been a distraction to make him think that Artie would wait for him to pass out. It was probably nothing more than an aspirin, but he’d been so focused on it and on making the call that he hadn’t checked the floor of the back seat.

  The car’s radio was playing what sounded like a country song, and a man’s voice started singing along with it. Will lay still and tried to identify the voice, but it wasn’t clear enough. Was the driver someone they’d interviewed, or was it someone they hadn’t even suspected? He knew he wasn’t in the trunk of a Corvette, but if Steve Cochran was their man, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to drive a car that would stand out.

  He gave up trying to identify the voice and turned his attention to his leg restraints. He pulled and pushed and tried to rub his legs up and down against one another, but the most he could accomplish was to move them a fraction of an inch against one another. Maybe the rope would eventually loosen, but combined with the belt, he wasn’t holding out hope. If he had enough time, maybe, but he doubted Artie was going to give him that much time.

  What would happen at the end of the ride? The end of the ride in more ways than one—the end for him and for Jen, unless he could do something or the others managed to find them. It wouldn’t be quick. Of that, Will was certain. Artie would take his time, enjoying the pain he would inflict. Jen was likely alive, Will realized. Artie would want Will to witness the torture he’d inflict on her because that would cause Will more pain than if he went first. Until the phone conversations with Artie, he hadn’t realized how much Artie wanted revenge for him being the one to capture his father. He would force Will to watch as he killed Jen slowly and painfully, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

  He felt the car slow and turn. A jolt, then the sound of gravel crunching under the tires. Several minutes passed as the car traversed what had to be a gravel lane. Will felt his body move toward the rear of the car and guessed they were traveling uphill. Country, he thought. We must be in the country. Not many gravel lanes were found in cities and towns, plus he’d heard very little traffic since he’d regained consciousness and none at all since they’d made the turn. Wherever they were going, it was some place Artie could indulge his sick fantasies without worrying about other people intruding.

  After what he estimated to be five to ten minutes, the car slowed even more and stopped. Only a couple of seconds passed before the engine shut off. He can’t wait to get started, Will thought.

  He heard a squeak as the driver’s door opened and then shut. Gravel crunched beneath feet that moved to the rear of the car and stopped. A pop as the release button on a remote was pressed, and the trunk lid started to rise. Before he could see the face of the man Arthur Kelty had become, a spotlight flashed on, blinding him, and he heard a man laugh.

  “And here I thought FBI guys were so tough,” the voice said. “Detective Dillon got out of her ropes. She even got her cuffs in front of her and tried to fight me. Not that it did her any good, but I have to say it was impressive. I expected more out of you, Agent Anderson, but here you are—still all trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

  “Where’s Jen?”

  “Now, now, be patient. You’ll see her in just a few minutes. In fact, she’s about to star in a show just for you. It’s going to be so much fun.”

  “If you’ve hurt her—”

  “You’ll what?” The humor was gone from the voice. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make threats, Agent Anderson. Now get out of the trunk. In case you think you can try something, know I’ve got a gun pointed at you. I won’t shoot to kill because I have other plans for you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t shoot. A foot, a hand—that would probably hurt, don’t you think?”

  It was a struggle to maneuver his way out of the trunk with his hands behind his back and his legs tied together, but Will finally managed by hooking his bound legs over the edge and pushing from behind with his hands. He’d just made it to his feet, lightheaded and swaying unsteadily, when Artie kicked him in the back of the knees, knocking him face-first to the ground.

  “Oops,” Artie said and burst out laughing.

  A second later Will felt his feet being lifted off the ground. Artie had taken hold of the belt or the rope—Will couldn’t tell which—and began dragging him across the gravel. Will arched his neck, keeping his face off the gravel most of the time, but as his body slid across the uneven ground, he wasn’t always successful. The thin T-shirt Artie had made him change into provided little protection to his chest and shoulders. He felt the cloth tear first and then his skin. It seemed to go on forever, but when he felt himself being dragged across the wooden threshold of a cabin, he opened his eyes and saw the car was only thirty or so feet away. Gravel covered the ground between the cabin and the car. Artie could have pulled right up to the door, but then that wouldn’t have been as much fun.

  He was dragged into a room empty except for a single wooden chair facing a long wooden table. Artie was panting hard after his exertion, and Will felt a bit of satisfaction at that. The overhead light was on, and the only two windows in the room were covered with plywood. Two closed doors broke the smoothness of the wall opposite the door. Was Jen behind one of them? He had no doubt she was alive. Artie was saving her to torture in front of Will, but had he already hurt her? He opened his mouth to call her name, but before he could get a sound out, Artie yanked his cuffed hands and pulled him to his knees.

  “Get up.”

  “How do you expect me to get up with my legs tied!” Will spat out the words, unable to control the anger that filled him.

  “You’d better try.” Artie began lifting up on the cuffs, and Will felt his shoulders protest. “It might not be easy now, but it’s going to be a lot harder when I shoot you in the foot.”

  Will sat back on his heels, his toes bent, and using every muscle in his legs, began pushing himself upward, while Artie pulled on his arms. He finally made it to a standing position.

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Artie laughed again.

  With one hand, Artie kept hold of the chain connecting the cuffs, and with the other, he slid the chair against the back of Will’s legs.

  “Sit,” he ordered and pulled back harder on Will’s arms.

  Will started to protest that he’d sit, that Artie didn’t need to dislocate his shoulders, but then he felt the chair back between his hands and back. As he sat down hard on the chair’s seat, his cuffed hands slid farther down over the back. He might not be cuffed to the chair, but his position would make it difficult to get up, giving Artie plenty of time to thwart any move Will might try to make.

  “Comfy?” Artie giggled from behind him.

  “You know you’re not going to get away with this, don’t you?” Will said the words, but he realized the emptiness of the threat. Artie’s laughter proved he recognized it, too.

  “I don’t plan on sticking around after I’m done here,” Artie said. “It’s a shame, too. I like this identity, and I like my job. But sometimes you just have to suck it up and move on. Know what I mean?”

  His job? His identity? Will had tried, but he’d been unable to identify the voice.

  “What identity is that?” he said, trying to sound calm. “The least you can do is show me your face.”

  Artie gave an exaggerated sigh, the sound of a man giving serious thought to something and finally making a decision.

  “I guess you’re right, Agent Anderson. It’s the least I can do. I had thought about waiting till after the show—you know, like a playwright taking a bow after the final curtain. But that would be pointless, wouldn’t it? You and the lovely Detective Dillon won’t be in any shape to applaud after the curtai
n comes down.”

  The laughter again, filled with so much evil Will couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  “So—ta da!”

  Artie stepped around the chair and took an exaggerated bow, hiding his face for a few seconds more. Will started, recognizing the form, but before he could put a name to it, Artie stood, and Will found himself staring into the amused eyes of Carter Holiday.

  CHAPTER 61

  Al, Lonnie, and the marked units following them converged on Holiday’s home at the same time, but Al saw Don had beat them there. He’d pulled his rental parallel to the house with the passenger side toward the house and was getting out of the car in a crouch, gun drawn. The rest of them spread out behind Don and bailed out of their cars.

  “I got the rear,” Al said, not waiting for Lonnie to issue orders.

  Lonnie just nodded and motioned to two of the uniformed officers to go with Al. The three of them took off for the left side of the white, two-story frame house. A light was on in an upstairs window, but otherwise the house was dark. As they reached the corner, Al saw two more uniformed officers disappear around the right side.

  The house was small with only two windows on the left side and none in the rear except for the one in the top half of the back door. Inside it was dark. Al moved quickly to the other side of the door, expecting the sound of a shot at any time, but none came. The screen door opened on well-oiled hinges when he gave it a tug, but the back door was locked.

  Something was off. If Holiday had taken Jen and Will, Al suddenly knew he hadn’t brought them here. Although Al knew his gut wasn’t proof, the house felt unoccupied. Had he been wrong to think the fact that the background check had been unable to come up with any evidence of Carter Holiday’s existence more than fourteen years back? Maybe the Feds just hadn’t been thorough enough, or maybe Holiday had been out of the country or—

  The crackle of his radio coming to life interrupted his doubts.

  “We’re going in,” Lonnie said.

  He’d no sooner finished speaking than Al heard the sound of a door being kicked open. He stepped back on the landing and delivered his own kick to the back door. The door flew open, striking the wall, and he moved fast into what appeared to be a laundry room. The uniformed officers followed him in, but Al stopped one.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Make sure no unfriendly comes in behind us.”

  The officer nodded and took up a position in front of the dryer where he could see both the back door and the half-open door leading into the rest of the house.

  Al pushed the door leading out of the laundry room open another foot and quickly slipped through. He stepped to one side and the other officer followed him through. They were in a small kitchen. A light on the refrigerator’s ice dispenser showed the usual appliances, a sink, and a small wooden table with two chairs. An opening in the left wall of the kitchen provided access to the rest of the house, and Al could hear the others moving toward them from the front. Above him, he heard the creaking of stairs.

  He and the uniformed officer moved into the room next to the kitchen just as Don and another uniform moved into it from the front. It had probably been a formal dining room at one time, but as the uniform with Don shined his flashlight around the room, Al saw what it had become thanks to its madman resident. The furniture was sparse—a cluttered desk and a chair against the opposite wall, a bookcase to one side of the desk, and a six-foot-long folding table in the center of the room. Six photo albums and pictures were spread across the top of the table, and Al cursed as he saw pictures of Trish and the other victims, some of them taken at the crime scenes. One of the albums lay open, and he saw pictures of Trish behind the plastic overlays—Trish coming out of her house, Trish in uniform walking out to her patrol car, Trish in tights entering BodyFit. Arthur Kelty had learned to be a predator at his father’s knee, and he’d apparently learned well. Al spotted a photo of Trish’s crime scene sticking out from under the album and turned away as he felt his stomach turn.

  Six albums. Counting Trish, there had been four victims so far. Were the other two albums designated for Jen and Will? Stupid question, he thought, feeling tears stinging his eyes. Of course they are.

  “The upstairs is empty,” Lonnie strode into the room and stopped short when he saw the table spotlighted by Don’s flashlight. “My God!”

  God didn’t have anything to do with this, Al thought and turned, moving through the kitchen and the laundry room in a stumbling run. Outside he bent over and dry-heaved, thankful he hadn’t been able to eat since noon. As he straightened up, the moon came from behind the clouds. The grass stretched to the fence that bordered the yard on two sides and the back, but on the other side of the fence on the left, Al saw gravel. He moved to the fence and looked up the lane away from the road. The gravel continued into the trees that covered the hill behind Holiday’s house.

  Al turned and ran for his car. He heard the uniformed officer he’d left watching the back door call out, but he didn’t stop. He jumped in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and tore out of the front yard, around the end of the fence to the pavement, and up the gravel lane. As he passed the rear yard on his right, he noted Lonnie, Don, and the other officers staring open-mouthed at him.

  They’ll figure it out, he thought and floored it.

  CHAPTER 62

  “You know who no one pays attention to?” Carter Holiday strutted back and forth in front of Will. “The mailman. He comes every day, but I bet most people couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. I gave you a clue when I told you a mailman could learn a lot about a person from their mail, but you were too stupid to pick up on it. You would never have caught my father had it not been for that dog…”

  He stopped strutting and glared at Will.

  “I’ve dreamed about this for so long,” he whispered. “Making you pay for taking him from me. He was all I had after my worthless mother abandoned us, and you took him.”

  “Do you really believe your mother left you?” Will said. “You know what your father was. Didn’t you ever consider that maybe he killed your mother like he killed those other women?”

  “Liar!”

  Artie screamed the word and lashed out, hitting Will with the back of his left hand. The chair’s left legs came off the floor. For a second, Will thought he was going to tip over, but before he did, Artie grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked the chair back down. He turned and stomped to the other side of the room, his back to Will, and stood, mumbling something to himself that was too low for Will to understand. He stopped, shook his head, and mumbled some more, almost as if he was having an argument with himself. Finally he stopped mumbling and turned. The look on his face caused Will to shudder. It was the look of a man teetering on the edge of violent insanity.

  “It’s time.”

  He spoke the words quietly before turning to the door closest to him. He opened it, and Will saw it was a closet. Artie reached in and pulled out a wheeled utility cart with three shelves, one of those things his own mother had called a hostess cart. He couldn’t see all the items on it well enough to identify each and every one of them, but the ones he could see were enough. A handsaw, a drill, pliers, several knives, and a metal pan for—what? He didn’t want to think what it might be intended to hold.

  “Please.” His voice cracked. “Please. Just let her go. You want me, you got me, but let her go. She’s got a son, for Christ’s sake!”

  “My father had a son!” Holiday—Artie—shouted at him. “Did you care about that?”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Will said. “Your father was a murderer whose luck ran out that night.”

  “My father was a hunter. He culled the herd of the sluts that prey on men. He—”

  “Sluts like your mother?” Will spat out the words. If he could focus Artie’s anger on himself, maybe he could gain some time. The others would be searching for him and Jen, and if he gave them enough time, maybe…

  “Enough!” Artie picked up the
metal pan and threw it. His aim was off, and it struck Will on the shoulder and bounced off. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  He stormed across the room, a knife in his right hand, stopping in front of Will.

  “I should cut out your filthy tongue!”

  They stared at each other, Artie’s hand shaking, Will expecting him to follow through on his threat any second. Suddenly Artie’s features relaxed, and he began to laugh.

  “No, no. Not yet. Maybe later.” He turned, went back to the cart and laid the knife on the top shelf. “For now, I want you to be able to talk. I want to hear you plead and beg for mercy when I start carving up the lovely Detective Dillon.”

  He raised his left arm and made a show of looking at his watch.

  “Speaking of, I think it’s time for the show to start, don’t you?”

  He walked past Will to the other door in the wall. Will twisted around enough to see the door as Artie opened it. The room Artie stepped into was dark except where Artie’s handheld spotlight was shining. No furniture, old linoleum, bare walls, but no Jen. Artie swung the spotlight around to shine behind the door.

  “Time to party, Detective—”

  That was as far as he got before Jen launched herself from the opposite side of the open doorway, her cuffed hands going over Artie’s head, bringing the chain down around his neck, as she jumped on his back and wrapped her legs around his waist. Artie let out a strangled cry, his free hand going instinctively to the chain pressing against his Adam’s apple, but he kept his footing. He moved back into the open doorway and slammed Jen against the doorframe, once, twice, and a third time. She let out a cry of pain, but she hung on.

  Will stretched his arms back as far as he could and began working them up off the back of the chair. He was nearly there when Artie and Jen stumbled into the main room, Artie striking blindly at Jen’s head with the spotlight. Just as Will finally got his arms free of the chair back, Artie made contact with Jen’s forehead, splitting it open. Dazed, she loosened her hold, and Artie dropped the spotlight, grabbed her hands with both of his, and pushed up. Still stunned, she fell backward and in seconds he was free.