by Lisa Gardner
Meg jerked awake with a scream. Her legs had given out beneath her, and her arms screamed at the sudden impact of her dead weight. Hastily she scrambled to get her footing on the rough dirt floor. Perversely enough, her arms and shoulders ached worse.
A sound. Up above. A door opening. Footsteps moving quickly across a wooden floor.
Meg couldn’t help herself. The College Hill Rapist was back, and she was grateful. Her bloody wrists stung, her bound ankles hurt. She couldn’t stand the feel of her urine-soaked jeans plastered against her skin. She wanted down. She wanted out. She wished . . . she wished so badly to feel human again.
She turned her head to where she believed the staircase was, and held her breath in anticipation of his approach.
Another click, the door opening at the top of the stairs. And then, “Hi, honey,” David Price’s voice sang out clearly, “I’m home!”
Through her gag, Meg started to scream.
Five blocks from Griffin’s old home, Fitz hit the brakes. Adrenaline demanded that they roar up to the front door and leap out, guns blazing. Prudence advised a different course. The three men gazed studiously around the neighborhood for any sign of David Price while Fitz drove a grid.
Up one street, down another. Around this block, around another. Clock ticking, tension mounting. Griffin could feel the knots bulging in his shoulders, while Waters cracked his knuckles incessantly.
The streets were quiet. The sun was beginning to sink and firing the sky bright orange and deep crimson.
They got within one block of Griffin’s former home, where he had lived and loved and lost his wife. Then Fitz pulled over.
“How many points of entry?” he asked quietly.
“Three. Front door, side patio door and basement bulkhead.”
“We split up,” Waters murmured.
“Finesse job,” Griffin said. “David’s armed and he won’t hesitate to use Meg as a shield. Basically, it’s a hostage situation that, given the neighborhood, could rapidly grow worse.”
“Contain him,” Fitz muttered.
“Yeah. Meg is bad enough. We don’t want him to end up in another home, with an entire family to torment.”
No one asked the next logical question—at what point did they sacrifice Meg to contain Price? They had to hope it wouldn’t come down to that.
“All right,” Griffin said.
They got out of the car, got out their firearms, and one by one disappeared into the fiery dusk.
The doctors poured in. Kids, really, in oversized lab coats raced into Carol’s room and surrounded Dan’s wife. Her left leg was twitching, her right arm thrashing. The machine beeped and the doctors shouted strange codes to the nurses, who were already pushing Dan aside as they scrambled for more equipment and one helluva big syringe.
“Carol, Carol, Carol . . .”
“You need to leave, sir.”
“My wife . . .”
“A doctor will be with you shortly, sir.”
“Carol—”
The nurse shut him firmly out of the room. He stood outside, alone in the hallway, while the doctors yelled, the machine beeped and his wife’s body convulsed on the bed.
David touched her. His fingers stroked Meg’s cheek and gently feathered back her hair. She tried to turn away, but she couldn’t escape. He had taken off her blindfold first thing. All the better to see you, my dear, he’d crooned. The sudden glare of the bare overhead light hurt her eyes.
“You grew up,” David said now. “Pity.”
He ran one finger up her arm, then raised it to his lips and sucked her blood off his fingertip.
“You’ve been busy, my dear. Look at the mess you’ve made. It didn’t help you at all, but it’s sweet that you tried. Did Ronnie tell you I was coming, Meg? Did you work yourself into such a state, simply for me?”
She still had the gag in her mouth, so she didn’t bother to reply.
“Well, I really can’t delay too long,” David said briskly. “So let’s get you unhooked and down to business.”
Meg eyed him warily. She could see the butt of a gun sticking up from the waistband of his pants. One side of his shirt carried a red stain, and his right cheek was flecked with blood. He reeked of gunpowder and death. She had no illusions what that meant.
He slipped his hand behind his back. It emerged with an ugly, black-sheathed knife.
“Courtesy of Jerry,” he told her, though she didn’t understand whom he meant.
She watched him unsnap the leather sheath. She watched the large, serrated hunting knife slide into view, the overhead light caressing the menacing edge. She should’ve worked the wall anchor more. She should’ve tried harder. Who cares that her arms and shoulders had ached. Whatever David did to her now was going to hurt far, far worse.
He rested the tip of the blade against her collarbone. It felt cool and sharp against her sweat-soaked skin.
She closed her eyes, pressed her back against the wall and tried to tell herself it couldn’t hurt forever. Everything, even pain, had to end. Poor Molly. Poor Mom and Dad. Poor Jillian and Carol . . . Poor Meg. She had been getting things together. Really, even without a memory, she had been looking forward to getting on with her life. And now . . . The knife moved. She whimpered helplessly . . .
And David cut her down.
Her arms fell forward abruptly, her bound hands hitting her stomach like a rock. In the next instant, blood flow returned to her strained limbs, prickling nerve endings to sudden life, and she nearly screamed at the sudden whomp of pain.
Watching her, David laughed. “Yeah, sometimes the recovery is worse than the injury. You know, I’ve spent the last year getting into yoga. Take it from me, if you had conditioned your muscles properly to begin with, it wouldn’t hurt so much now. Jesus, Meg, did you wet your pants?”
She wanted to hit him. She couldn’t move her arms. They felt strange and rubbery, as if they no longer belonged to her. And her shoulders felt different, overly loose. Parts were assembled, but someone hadn’t done the wiring right.
“I had planned on playing here for a while,” David announced matter-of-factly, “but the fact that Ronnie’s absent leads me to believe he might have been detained, and if Ronnie’s been detained, then this house is no longer safe. In the good-news department, I see he’s already procured a car. What do you say, Meg? Let’s go for a ride. For no reason at all, I’m going to have you start the engine first.”
He stepped toward the stairs and when she didn’t automatically follow, he looked back at her with a frown. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Then his gaze fell and he finally noticed her bound ankles. “Well, well, looks like Ronnie didn’t like to leave anything to chance. Believe me when I say I know exactly how you feel. Come on, I need you to walk.”
David got the knife back out. He bent and started sawing through the latex ties. The material finally snapped free. He looked up at her with a smile.
Meg smiled back. And then she drove her knee as hard as she could into the underside of his chin. His jaw cracked sharply. His face went bone-white as the pain ricocheted up to his forehead. David stumbled back, still gripping the knife.
Don’t give him time to recover, their self-defense instructor had told them. Don’t give your attacker time to think.
Meg lashed her foot out at David’s groin; he blocked her with his thigh. She drove her foot down into his tender instep. He made a funny noise in the back of his throat. She went after the side of his kneecap and he finally went down.
She wanted his gun. She wanted his knife. She wanted to stick her fingers in his eye sockets and dig for his brain. But her fingers wouldn’t move, her arms wouldn’t obey.
Meg whirled toward the wooden staircase with her useless, bloody arms. She started to run.
Behind her, David yelled, “One more step, you fucking bitch, and I will blow you away!”
Meg didn’t stop.
David opened fire.
Griffin was easing along the front of the house,
approaching the front door, when he heard the first gunshot. It was quickly followed by many more. He ducked low, grabbed the doorknob with his left hand while holding his Beretta with his right. Twist, turn, he rolled into the front entryway and came up in time to see David Price standing at the top of the basement stairs only four feet away. David was bellowing, “I’M GONNA KILL YOU, BITCH!” and brandishing a gun that matched Griffin’s own—apparently David had armed himself courtesy of his state police escorts.
Griffin squeezed the trigger just as David spotted him, dodged right and returned fire. Shit! Griffin hurtled himself into the room on the left, getting off a few wild shots while David splintered the floorboards at his feet. Another shape suddenly appeared on Griffin’s left—Fitz, emerging through the side patio door.
Griffin yelled: “Down!”
David raised the barrel and squeezed off another shot as Fitz hit the ground.
Griffin fired again. David whirled around the corner into the kitchen, where he had access to the next flight of stairs.
“Damn!” Fitz swore into Griffin’s ear, crawling to his feet. “I think he took out the last of my hair.”
“Where’s Meg?”
“I don’t know, but he shot the hell out of something in the basement.”
“You go down, I go up.”
“And let you have all the fun?”
“You get the girl.”
“Oh yeah. Enough said.”
Griffin scrambled across the floor, on his hands and knees now and finding the shattered flooring the hard way. He drove four splinters into his forearms before he finally arrived at the entranceway to the kitchen. He reached in with one hand, toppled a small table onto its side and dove behind it for cover.
Then he waited, letting his eyes readjust to the gloomy interior. A light glowed from the bottom of the basement, but apparently that was the only light on in the tightly shuttered house. Griffin blinked, worked on catching his breath, then turned his gaze to the ceiling above him.
Not a sound from overhead. Not a footstep, a scuffle or a muttered curse.
Seven-oh-five P.M. The house was deathly still as the sun began its final descent, and the combatants prepared for round two.
Jillian was trying to drive and read a printout from maps.com detailing how to get to Price’s former address, which she’d found listed in old news stories detailing his arrest. The first time she drove right by the street. She went to do an illegal U-turn, then realized it was better this way; she would have a better chance at surprise if she approached the house on foot.
She had one canister of pepper spray in her hand, another in her pocket. Spray worked best up close. Go for the eyes and nose, get it in the mucous membranes. For someone like her, that would require stealth. David was looking for the police, after all. He probably had his hands full battling seasoned professionals like Griffin. Maybe he was even having difficulty controlling Meg. They would be the distraction.
She thought of Trish’s apartment again. The man’s weight pressing her to the floor, pinning her in place while her sister suffocated and died on the bed. The man laughing at her futile efforts. The man promising to fuck her good.
But she needed to keep those memories at bay. She needed to focus on the sidewalk beneath her feet, the cool metal canister in her hand and the house looming near.
Trish had died, the man had won. You couldn’t change the past. Time to move forward. Focus on Meg. Think of the lessons she had learned.
And then return home to her mother, who truly needed her.
Jillian homed in on the house. She was still trying to figure out how to approach, when she heard a low moan, then a male voice shouted, “Jesus Christ, Waters. Oh man. Oh . . . Jesus . . . Hang in there, buddy. Oh man, we need a doctor quick!”
Meg was breathing hard. Her body had started trembling uncontrollably and she had to remain plastered to the bedroom wall or she was afraid she’d shatter into a million pieces. As she’d raced up the basement stairs, she’d heard gunfire behind her. At first she’d ducked instinctively, dodging imaginary bullets, then she’d realized that even more gunfire came from behind David. Someone had penetrated the bulkhead. For one moment, her spirits had soared. She was being rescued! The cavalry had arrived. Then she had heard a man’s sudden, sharp exclamation. A stranger’s voice. Someone else, not David, had been hit.
She had run and run. And still she had heard shots, coming steadily closer and gaining fresh intensity in the foyer. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. No more shots, just David’s harsh exclamation as he careened up the first-floor stairs.
If the police had come, then he’d shot them all. Because David didn’t seem to be running away. Instead, from what she could tell, he was now on the second floor with her. Somewhere down that shadowed hallway, he was looking for her.
Her gaze went around the dusky bedroom, now searching for some means of escape. The blinds were pulled, casting the room into a deep gray pall that made every shadow sinister and every piece of furniture a hulking monster waiting to attack. She spotted the bed in the room’s far corner. Her first temptation was to crawl underneath, push herself to the back and curl up her legs and hide. He would look under the beds, of course. And once he found her, she’d be trapped, helpless. He’d grab her by the ankles and drag her out, his knife already in hand.
She couldn’t get boxed in. She needed to preserve her options. She was trying to think: What would Jillian do?
The bathroom. Maybe she could find a razor or hairspray. Of course, a razor didn’t exactly compete with a hunting knife and hairspray hadn’t been known to checkmate a gun. Halt or I’ll spritz you to death!
She almost giggled, then realized she was becoming hysterical and bit her lower lip. The movement pressed the gag deeper into the corners of her parched mouth. Her eyes teared.
What if she could make it to the bedroom window? She could open it, maybe get onto the roof. Or if the house didn’t have a first-story overhang, she could always just jump. It would probably hurt. She might break a leg or worse. But given the alternative . . .
She heard a sound. It was a whisper, slithering down the long dark hall.
“Oh Meg, pretty Meg,” David crooned softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Fight or flight? Not much time left . . .
Poor beaten Meg made her decision.
Griffin had to get up to the second story. He wasn’t sure how. As in so many small New England homes, the staircase was narrow and steep. With his build, he’d be a walking target all the way up. All Price had to do was hear him coming, turn the corner and open fire.
Then again . . .
Floorboards creaked up above. Price was on the move.
And then Griffin heard another sound. More old wood groaning, then the telltale squeak of a window finally giving way. But this noise came from the opposite corner from the first noise.
There was a second person upstairs. Oh no, Meg . . .
Griffin didn’t have a choice anymore. He abandoned the cover of the table and made his move.
Jillian came around the side of the old house. The first thing she saw was Fitz on the ground, kneeling over another man. “Come on, buddy, come on, hang in there.”
“Detective Fitzpatrick?” she called softly.
He jerked around sharply. It was hard to see his features in the rapidly growing dusk, but his movements appeared dazed.
“Jillian, what are you . . . Never mind. Got a cell phone? I need it now!”
“Is he . . .”
“That son of a bitch David Price shot him as he opened up the basement bulkhead. Guess David was already waiting in the cellar.”
“Meg . . .” the man on the ground murmured. “Price . . . going to shoot . . . her.”
“Shhhh, Griffin’s got her.”
“She’s still in the house?” Jillian dropped down on her knees next to Fitz, then dug in her purse for her cell phone. The downed detective didn’t look good. S
he could see the stain growing rapidly along his left side. His thin face was abnormally pale, sweat beaded his brow. He was going into shock.
“Here.” She thrust her phone out to Fitz, then took off her long coat and draped it over the man’s chest. He was starting to shake now. The cold grass wasn’t good for him, but she didn’t know if they should move him. She glanced nervously around the bare yard. They were five feet from a house with an armed killer and the damn landscaping didn’t even offer a bush or tree for cover.
Fitz was on the phone. In a quiet, controlled rush he was demanding backup, demanding an ambulance, demanding assistance for an officer down. “Detective Waters has been shot,” he said. “Repeat, we require immediate medical assistance.”
Jillian took Waters’s hand. His fingers felt cold and clammy to the touch. “M-M-Meg.”
“Meg’s fine,” Jillian lied. “Please don’t worry.”
“Got up . . . basement stairs. I . . . distracted . . . Price.”
“Shhhh, it’s going to be all right, Detective. Relax now. You heard Fitz. Griffin’s inside. Griffin will take care of Meg.”
Fitz was done with the phone and was now looking from her to Waters frantically. Jillian understood his dilemma.
“I’ll stay with him,” she said. “You go help Griffin.”
“He’s a good guy,” Fitz said gruffly, still torn as he looked at a downed fellow officer.
“I have Detective Waters,” Jillian repeated firmly. “You help Meg.”
Fitz gave Waters one last look. The detective wearily, blearily waved him off. “G-G-Go.”
Fitz turned. He ran back around to the front of the house, where David Price waited with a gun, where Griffin stalked a killer and where Meg fought for her life.
Jillian sat down in the cold, damp grass. She clasped Waters’s hand in hers. “Stay with me, Detective,” she murmured. “We’re going to get through this. I promise you, we’re all going to get out of this alive.”
Meg was at the window, exposed and vulnerable to the partially open doorway. She could hear movement now, creaking down the hall, growing rapidly closer. David was coming. Slowly but surely, he was checking out each small, bare room.