She knew she was drugged, but since she was, she just couldn’t really care. Her one driving desire was to rip the burlap from his head.
She didn’t understand where she was going. First, he was walking, and she didn’t think they could have walked that far.
Were they in an alley? Was she going to die in an alley—maybe even in a dumpster?
She still couldn’t really care. But then, somewhere in her mind, she thought of Brodie. She thought of what they had gone through together, what they had lost—and what they had gained. She thought about the way he looked, his smile, the way he touched her—the wedding they were trying to plan, with blessings from his brothers and friends, and all manner of suggestions from his parents. And how she always smiled, thinking Maeve and Hamish really gave such new meaning to being haunted by one’s in-laws.
Would they let her join them? Would she haunt the place with them, watch Brodie go through life, watch…her love, his pain, life, moving on?
Brodie. She loved him and wanted a life with him. She wanted a wedding, a honeymoon, and even their crazy situation with Maeve and Hamish…
As Brodie had told her, they were often busy ‘haunting’ his brothers, and then again, there was always another show or movie to be seen. The two had their own lives—or after-lives.
She almost smiled at the thought.
And that was good, because her lips twitched.
Fight, fight, fight it, she thought.
If her lips began to move, she could come to where her limbs would begin to move. Her heart was beating; she could hear her heart beating. She was breathing.
And where there was breath, there was life.
She stared up at the scarecrow, determined she would not die.
“You had everything, every opportunity. You were such a damned princess. Always protected, offered everything…and you let it all go. You just let it all go.”
It had never been about the theater. But the theater had provided an exceptional platform. His ideas might have been percolating for years, ideas on how to kill and get away with it. And specifically, to kill her and get away with it…
Jealousy and frustration…
“I had talent. I had great talent. And no one would see it. Because I wasn’t the child of a great rock star. Michael McCoy wasn’t my dad. Michael McCoy…”
Staring up at the scarecrow, she suddenly knew who he was. And she wondered if he had just found out about Timothy Bainbridge…
Or if, somewhere in his twisted mind, he hadn’t theorized—as she had—that Bainbridge had killed Judson Newby—and been murdered in turn.
They will find the truth, you know, she longed to say. They will find you, and you will go to prison for the rest of your life, and rot in the swill of your jealousy and twisted mind.
She didn’t think she could form the words as she wanted them to sound. But that was all right. She didn’t want him to know she was regaining the power to move. He could hit her with something again, and then she would die, as he wanted…
She didn’t know where they were—her vision was still blurred. She thought she saw all kinds of things and faces around her. Faces…masks.
The death’s head mask was there. And she knew.
She was in the theater.
She didn’t know how they could be in the theater—they would have had to have gone through the box office area, through the audience, and the stage, and down the stairs…
Unless he had maneuvered the emergency exit? Maneuvered it to open now because he needed it open now. He had never needed it open before, and so, if the police had examined it, they’d have seen that it was locked, the alarm on.
He’d worked it all out. All through the Halloween season. Maybe he’d waited half his life, a decade at least, and when she had come here…
His insanity had been fully fueled.
Yes, he was sick. He had killed before, she was certain. He had then amped up his insanity, perhaps because of Halloween allowing him so much freedom…
He’d killed, but he really wanted her dead.
She suddenly felt herself falling; felt as her body hit an obstruction. Then something was closing over her, and she knew.
She was in the prop room, stuffed into a trunk.
Yes, she was to die.
Somehow.
In a pool of blood.
He was just waiting for the right, theatrical moment.
Chapter 10
Brodie had just entered the theater when Clara called.
“She’s gone,” Clara told him, her tone hysterical. “I stepped inside while she was just staring around. I thought she was coming right in. When she didn’t, I went outside. But she disappeared. I wasn’t fifty feet from her—and then she was gone, just gone! Brodie, please, get here—get here quickly. She’s gone—the scarecrow took her! Get troops out, get them searching the alley! Everywhere—oh, my God, how did I let this happen?”
“Clara,” he heard himself say, “you didn’t let this happen.”
Jackson was staring at him. Adam had come from the audience out to the box office area. It felt as if his limbs had frozen, as if his blood had gone to ice as well.
But he had to function, and he would function. And he’d find her, he’d find Kody. She was strong, she was a fighter, not an agent. But she was intuitive and…
“He’s got Kody. She disappeared from the alley. We need—”
Adam Harrison was on the phone even as he spoke, calling the police and Krewe headquarters.
The area would be flooded and a perimeter would be set. Agents and cops would tear the streets apart.
But this killer had something else in mind. He had been after Kody, but he’d had a connection to the theater, too.
“We need to get going,” Jackson told him.
He turned to Jackson, slowly shaking his head. “Let the troops go. We need to stay here.”
Neither Adam nor Jackson argued that.
They looked at him. As they did so, Jackson’s phone rang.
It was Angela. She must have told him she had something because Jackson put her on speaker.
“Timothy Bainbridge supposedly disappeared at sea, and that was why the theater went into hock and wound up in foreclosure when it was bought by Judson Newby. But I poured through every ancestry site I could find. There is a letter from one of his men up on a site, saying he had been in the city after he was supposedly dead—lost at sea.”
“So he might have killed Newby for buying his theater? Someone would have bought it,” Jackson said.
“But Newby did buy it. I also found out Bainbridge supposedly left a dozen or so illegitimate children. Seven were adults at the time Newby bought the theater—and died.”
Brodie spoke quickly. “So it’s possible. Bainbridge came here, bitter, and killed Caroline and Judson. But why would his children have killed him?”
“I don’t think they would have killed him. I think someone did, though I don’t know who. I’m searching records on any possible relatives or descendants of Caroline and Judson now.”
“Did you do any research on Michael McCoy and the Bone Island Boys?” Brodie asked.
“Yes. They had several auditions for back-up singers—they had studio back-up and hired people when they went on tour. Obviously, people were rejected. I’m working on that now, too.”
“Thank you—Kody is missing now, Angela,” Brodie said.
“I’ll get an army on the computers,” Angela said flatly. “Go—find her.”
She hung up.
“We can get an army in here too,” Adam said. “We’ll tear the place apart again—”
“No, Adam. Thank you, but no. It has to be us. This killer. He’s a performer—a rejected performer. An actor or singer who became…”
“Became a stage hand, or a costumer, or…no.”
“Kody…Kody wasn’t a performer until she came here.”
“No. But she could always sing. Now and then, she got on stage with her dad. She knew w
hat his life had been before he met her mother. She loved singing with him, or with friends of his. But she had her own path in life, things she loved more.” Brodie stopped talking. “It has to be just us. And we must move quietly. We have to find him—before his grand performance.”
None of them said it.
Her grand performance.
Dying in a pool of blood.
* * * *
Kody waited.
There were good reasons to wait.
First, her would-be killer had to prepare himself. A performer always prepared for the stage.
For her, there would be no costuming or makeup.
Another reason to wait was her fight—a fight she was trying to wage with everything in her—her mind, her limbs, her very cells. She had to will herself to fight the effects of the drug.
How long—how long did she have?
No time. The trunk re-opened and she felt herself being lifted. She’d had her eyes open, and she kept them open. She made a point not to focus on the killer.
She made a point to be limp in his arms.
She wished she could will herself to be heavier, but he was a dancer. He was in prime physical condition.
A talented dancer. How had he come to be so twisted? Had his only audience ever been on the streets? And how was it he had taken those who had loved his work, kidnapped or killed them, kept them somewhere in a drugged and disoriented state?
She stared at him as if she were sightless, but she was not.
She saw his face. He was now dressed up as a Pilgrim—but a Pilgrim wearing the death’s head mask. His holidays were all combining.
There was someone at his side. She couldn’t see clearly and she almost blinked.
For a moment—one fleeting moment—she saw a woman. A beautiful young woman in a long period dress, her shimmering blond hair swept up with pins.
And she heard the image cry out.
“No, not again. It will not happen again!”
Kody’s would-be killer tripped on a step and swore.
But he regained his footing.
They reached the backstage area. He made his way through the curtains.
On stage, he looked out at the audience. “You’re here! I know you’re here!” he shouted. “Come, see the final performance! You fools—she is talentless, but always offered everything! She is in the right place at the right time! Precious girl, child of the great Michael McCoy!”
The audience area was darkened, but Kody saw Adam Harrison was there. He walked toward the stage.
“About to take a front-row seat? Well, that’s just excellent. Is it just you—Deputy Assistant Director Harrison? But of course—I’m sure that fool McFadden is down by the store, tearing dumpsters apart. Well, I have never minded an audience of one. But I also love a show that draws out the tension, don’t you, sir? I’d really love for this to be seen by just a few more. And since you don’t want to rush the end, you won’t rush me—and you won’t threaten me. You’ll note the musket and knife—excellent costuming. But there is no rubber blade on this knife—and the musket is loaded. Not with blanks—with the real thing.”
Adam stood where he was.
Time.
Her captor was playing for time.
He wanted Brodie to see her die.
“I do not intend to rush you, sir. And as for Miss McCoy, you are sadly mistaken in your jealousy. She did nothing to you.”
“Oh, sir! I have mulled ways to kill this girl for years and years. And in my wildest imagination, I had not thought she might come here. I had planned ways to strike at an ultimate moment in Key West. I practiced my techniques on others. This…ah, the taste of this is so sweet. I don’t mind drawing out the moment at all.”
Kody saw the woman again. She was standing behind them and just to the right. There was a man there with her now, a handsome fellow in a Victorian suit with a brocade vest.
“We must stop him, not again, not again, this cannot happen again!” the woman said.
Her partner tugged at the man holding Kody, all to no avail. “We haven’t the strength!” he cried.
Kody knew that yes, indeed, the spirits of Caroline and Judson were haunting the theater.
Maybe she would join them shortly.
* * * *
Brodie and Jackson started from opposite sides of the prep area beneath the stage and the audience. There were half a dozen dressing rooms, costume rooms, prop rooms…
They needed to move swiftly. Time was an enemy now. But if the place began to crawl with police, there would be no chance to save Kody. The killer would either die or be apprehended.
But Kody would die, too.
And they had to stop that stage action from taking place.
Brodie started with Brent’s dressing room, nearly tearing it to shreds. Nothing—and no hint of anything. He tried the green room, and then he paused, heading to the hallway to check the emergency door at the back. The door that was always kept locked, only there in case of fire…
Today, it was open. The killer had dressed as a scarecrow, set himself up in the display window at the shop, knowing Kody would come that way to the theater. He had probably even known Clara would be with her. Thankfully, Clara had gone in—the killer might have intended to kill her on the spot.
Only Kody was needed for this performance.
The man had taken her from behind the shop, hurried along the alley and in the background until he’d reached the fire exit. He’d marked his time—leaving it secure for the police search, and only killing the alarm and opening the door today.
The killer must plan on dying along with his last victim. He’d have staged his final performance—but he would have to know that if he hurt Kody, they would gun him down.
Murder—and then suicide by cop. Or agent, in this case.
The killer didn’t care about his own life. That made this situation even more dangerous.
His phone started to ring, and he answered it quickly, not wanting the murderer to hear.
But as he did, he heard voices filtering down from above.
The performance had already begun.
“Angela?” he whispered into the phone.
“This seems really sick, but it’s all I can find. The Bone Island Boys auditioned for a major tour fifteen years ago. They turned down several back-up vocalists and dancers. They were only hiring four for their tour. Among them was a man who had worked as a chorus member, majored in performance at NYU, minored in dance. Ten years ago, he had his name legally changed, and he started working in NYC as a stage hand. Brodie, when he auditioned for the Bone Island Boys, his name was Bainbridge. I think I know your killer—”
“Brodie, come now!”
He was startled by his father’s voice. Hamish was standing before him, a look of desperation on his ghostly countenance.
Brodie nodded.
“I know him, too,” Brodie said. He hung up and followed his father.
It was time for his own performance to begin.
* * * *
Kody knew she could move. What she didn’t know was the right time to move.
When to move to save her life.
The ghost of Judson Newby was still there, accompanied by his Caroline, and he was tugging away at Percy Ainsworth’s arms, but to little avail.
Ainsworth felt them, though, she thought.
He kept twitching.
In fact, he was shivering.
Anticipation of what he was about to do—or did he feel the dead tugging at him?
She kept her eyes unfocused, even though Percy Ainsworth was now engaged with Adam.
Adam, of course, was keeping him talking. Tall, dignified, and a handsome man despite his age, Adam had dealt with the worst of humanity many times. He was gifted in a way Ainsworth might not have expected.
Something inside her quickened with hope.
She could see Brodie had come quietly to the stage-right wing. He wasn’t alone. Hamish was at his side and Kody realized Maeve had
been watching over her.
Percy Ainsworth didn’t see the ghosts.
Nor, it seemed, did he see Brodie, weighing the situation from the wings.
Suddenly, Percy Ainsworth went to his knees and deposited her on the floor.
“Late! Where is Brodie McFadden?” he cried out dramatically. “Ah, and there he is!” He turned suddenly, seeing Brodie in the wings.
Brodie…but?
Not the ghosts.
“Ah, sir, and there you are. The great tragedy! Help so close—yet even the most agile, powerful, incredible man could not stop this. Shoot me? I shall collapse upon her with my knife aimed at her heart. Tackle me, and yes, she dies! So relish it, sir—relish this great tragedy. Our beautiful heroine, rendered helpless. The great hero, in the wings, powerless, and then…the death! The death of beauty and innocence!”
Percy Ainsworth stripped away his mask.
He raised his arms, the knife held high—right over Kody’s heart.
“Stop him, we must stop him!” Caroline Hartford cried.
“We haven’t the strength—” Judson wailed.
“But with us, you might!” Hamish McFadden’s ghostly image cried. He and Maeve raced onto the stage.
Percy twisted slightly, gasping, as if he did feel the pull of something on him.
And Brodie took that second. He didn’t shoot – the knife might have fallen on her.
Instead, he seemed to fly across the stage.
Ainsworth tried to lower the knife but struggled to do so.
As it came down, Kody used her carefully gathered bit of strength and rolled.
And at the same time, Brodie came down with his flesh and blood power upon Percy Ainsworth, slamming his fist aside with such strength the knife went flying. He then wrestled the musket away from the Pilgrim belt Ainsworth had worn, and it too was sliding across the stage as he wrenched the man to his feet.
“Kill me, kill me, you lackluster coward!” the man screamed. Then, not looking at Brodie, he let out a cry of horror. He was being pummeled from the front, back, and on both sides.
Haunted Be the Holidays: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Page 11