Stalking (The Making of Riley Paige—Book 5)

by Blake Pierce

  Benrud let out a grunt of disgust.

  “I sure do,” he said. “What do you want him for?”

  “I’d rather not say right now,” Jake said. “But I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Would you, now?” Benrud said. “I’m hoping you want to do a lot more than talk to him. I’d love it if you’d arrest his ass and get him out of my hair once and for all.”

  Jake was surprised by the animosity in Benrud’s voice.

  “Has he been giving you trouble?” Jake asked as he and the cops followed Benrud into the building.

  “Has he ever,” Benrud said. “I’m used to having tenants who party too loud or won’t turn down their stereos and TVs. It’s moaning and screaming I’ve got a real problem with. And so do all the people who live on his floor.”

  Jake’s attention was suddenly piqued.

  “Moaning and screaming?” he said. “You mean like—?”

  “Like somebody in there is in a lot of pain,” Benrud said.

  Good God, Jake thought.

  Maybe he’s killing his victims right here in this building.

  As they walked up the stairs and continued on down the second story hallway, Jake could see what a rundown building this was. He guessed that it had once been a fairly nice small-town hotel, but that had surely been a long time ago. Since then it all the rooms had been turned into low-rent apartments.

  Jake thought about what little he knew about Christopher Herron—that he published a newsletter, and that he toured around churches and high schools giving lectures about chastity. Jake had assumed that he must be a reasonably successful businessman. This was hardly the sort of place where Jake would have expected him to live.

  They arrived at the apartment, and Jake knocked sharply on the door.

  He called out, “Christopher Herron, this is Special Agent Jake Crivaro of the FBI. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  There was no reply.

  Jake felt a tingle of apprehension.

  He asked the landlord, “When was the last time anybody heard any noises from in there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Benrud said with a shrug. “I haven’t had any complaints so far today. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been going on. It’s more like the tenants are getting tired of complaining.”

  As Jake stared at the door, his imagination filled with terrible possibilities.

  He might be in there with Larissa, he thought.

  If so, the victim was being awfully quiet.

  Perhaps she was already dead.

  Jake said to Benrud, “I need to get in this room. I’ve got reason to think that violent crimes have been committed in there. There might be a murder in progress.”

  Benrud’s eyes widened.

  “Jesus,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but …”

  Benrud paused and squinted uneasily at the door.

  Jake braced himself for having to talk the landlord into letting him into the room without a warrant. If Jake’s suspicions were the least bit true, they didn’t have time to deal with a judge.

  Then Benrud grunted and said, “Okay, let’s do this thing.”

  Benrud produced a key and opened the door. Benrud and Jake stepped inside, followed by the two cops.

  The apartment was even smaller than Jake had expected, with a tiny built-in kitchen and an unmade bed that doubled as a sofa. The place was filthy and cluttered. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and other plates with uneaten food were lying all about. There were also pamphlets and booklets scattered all over the place. At a glance, Jake could see that some of them were authored by Herron himself.

  Then Jake heard one of the cops speak up.

  “Hey, Agent Crivaro. You’d better have a look at this.”

  Jake turned and saw that the cop was standing beside an open closet, looking a bit queasy.

  Even Jake was startled by what he saw inside.

  The closet was full of what appeared to be instruments of pain—a multi-corded whip, a hair shirt, a spiked collar and garters, a car battery with cables, and what looked like an electric cattle prod.

  Benrud growled, “Well, I guess now we know what all the screaming’s been about.”

  Jake silently agreed. There was no sign of a victim anywhere—indeed, no sign that anybody ever came to this room except the man who lived here. Jake felt sure that Christopher Herron used these devices purely for his own pain and mortification.

  He’s a sick, sick man, Jake thought.

  Jake also had no doubt that Herron was the killer they were looking for.

  *

  Riley stood there staring through the window for a few more moments, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that would tell her more about the owner. Surely there would be something here to reveal the dark side of the man who published these materials. But she saw nothing to suggest that anything violent had ever taken place here. It seemed to be nothing more than a very orderly place of business.

  There’s no point in staying here, she thought.

  She figured she might as well notify Quayle to call off the backup. Then she’d check in with Crivaro and find out whether he was having better luck in Rimrock.

  But as the turned away from the Wholesome Ways office, Riley decided to have a look around the entire outside of the little building. She walked around a corner and toward the back. When she reached the area behind the office, something came into view that made her stop in shock.

  A white utility van was parked there.

  It was very much like the groundskeeper’s vehicle she’d seen last night at Magdalene High School—the kind of van she’d theorized that the killer might use to abduct his victims.

  She could see no one in the driver’s or passenger’s seat. But the back had no windows.

  She dashed over to the van and pounded on the side door.

  “This is the FBI,” she yelled. “Open up this vehicle.”

  She didn’t hear the slightest sound in reply. She tugged on the side door handle and was surprised that the door slid readily open.

  No one was in the back part of the van either.

  But the interior was exactly what she’d expected. The bed of the van was entirely bare, and it was separated from the front two seats by a sturdy wire mesh. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that this was the very vehicle the killer had used to abduct his victims—and that Christopher Herron was that killer.

  But where was he now?

  And where was Larissa Billham?

  Riley whirled back toward the Wholesome Ways building. She saw that a tiny stairwell led down to a basement door.

  Her heart was pounding now.

  He’s in there.

  So is she.

  I’m sure of it.

  But had she arrived too late to save the woman’s life?

  A faint voice in her mind echoed Crivaro’s order to wait for her backup to arrive. But what if she waited and another woman died?

  Riley crept down the stairs until she stood just outside the door. She knew better than to knock or call out. She didn’t want to give any warning of her arrival. Instead, she turned the doorknob, and the door creaked open.

  She found herself staring into total darkness. She drew her weapon, took her penlight out of her handbag, and stepped through the doorway into the basement.

  Before Riley could see anything in the beam of light, she was knocked to the floor by a strong shove from behind her. The door slammed shut, the light went out, and she couldn’t see a thing.

  She heard a sinister voice speak to her in the darkness.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Still gripping her gun, Riley tried to scramble to her feet in the darkness. Her penlight was gone, and she’d lost any sense of her position in the room. A constant soft weeping and moaning from somewhere in the dark obscured the fainter sounds of someone moving about.

  Then came another blow—a much harder and sharper blow from a hard object to the b
ack of her head. The darkness seemed to explode with bright lights and she heard her gun clatter to the concrete floor.

  Riley was afraid she might lose consciousness.

  Hold it together, she told herself.

  She managed to stagger to her feet, but she had no idea where the door leading outside might be. She felt as if she were in some endless ocean of blackness.

  Then she heard the man’s voice again. He was somewhere in front of her now.

  “You’re not supposed to be here. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Are you Christopher Herron?” she asked, surprised at the foggy sound of her own voice.

  There was a brief silence. Then he asked again more sharply, “What are you doing here?”

  Riley struggled to hold onto consciousness, but she was gripped by waves of confusion.

  She found herself wondering…

  Here? What am I doing here?

  Was this another nightmare?

  Then she heard another voice, a woman’s, cry out in the darkness.

  “Help me. Whoever you are, please help me.”

  Everything seemed less real by the moment.

  Who’s calling for help? Riley wondered in her confusion.

  Is that Heidi Wright?

  Or Sister Sandra?

  Or is it…?

  Whoever she was, the woman was weeping bitterly and fearfully.

  Then came a burst of blinding white light, and Riley reflexively shielded her eyes. In a couple of seconds, she realized that her assailant had switched on a flashlight shining directly into her face. She thought it must be what he’d struck her with a moment ago.

  I know where he is now, she thought hopefully.

  But when she reached for her weapon, it wasn’t in her holster.

  What had happened to it?

  Hadn’t she been holding it when she came in here?

  She vaguely remembered hearing it clatter to the floor when she was struck across the head.

  Then a peculiar realization passed through her mind.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I couldn’t use it anyway.

  But why couldn’t she use it?

  Had she become incapable of using deadly force?

  Riley’s own thoughts made no sense to her.

  Knowing she had to take some action, she lunged in the direction of the light. But the man easily dodged out of the way

  A new wave of dizziness swept over Riley and she almost tumbled back to the floor. While she struggled to stay on her feet, he pinned her face again under the flashlight beam.

  Then the man spoke to Riley in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  “Oh, you poor soul. You’ve come to me for help, haven’t you? You want me to save you from corruption. But I can see in your face, it’s too late for you. You’ve lost everything. You’ve lost your purity. Everything that was ever good about you is gone.”

  A tide of irrational thoughts rose up inside Riley.

  Try as she might to hang onto some slender thread of reason, she couldn’t help thinking he was right.

  I’ve failed at everything.

  I’ve let everybody down.

  “There’s only one thing left I can do for you,” the man said.

  Then he tossed the flashlight aside and lunged ferociously at Riley. She was too weak and disoriented to put up any kind of a fight, and he quickly had his hands around her throat. She couldn’t breathe, and she felt a deep tingling through her skull as the blood flow to her head ebbed away.

  As she writhed and twisted in throes of final desperation, Riley glimpsed the captive lying on the floor, bound hand and foot with duct tape. The beam of the fallen flashlight was shining on the victim she’d come here hoping to save. The woman stared at Riley with a pleading expression, as if to say again:

  “Please help me.”

  Riley was overcome with guilt as her last ounce of consciousness began to slip away.

  She’d failed Heidi, and then Sister Sandra, and now this woman.

  I can’t help her, she thought.

  I can’t help anybody.

  I’ve failed.

  Familiar images took over her mind.

  The darkness that surrounded Riley turned into a heavy swirl of falling snow.

  Riley realized she was back at the scene of the shootout in New York State.

  But for a moment, she couldn’t see anything through the dense snowfall.

  Then she could see a shadowy figure approaching her.

  As the figure came closer, Riley gasped to realize who it was.

  “Heidi Wright!” she exclaimed.

  For a moment, her heart leapt with hope.

  Was it possible that she hadn’t killed Heidi after all?

  Had that only been some bad dream?

  But then she saw the gaping, bleeding wound in Heidi’s chest, and the girl’s eyes stared blankly at her. Riley’s heart sank bitterly. Heidi was dead after all. And Riley had killed her.

  Her assailant’s words from a few moments ago seemed to echo in the air.

  “Everything that was ever good about you is gone.”

  It’s true, Riley thought.

  And she could think of no way to get any of her lost goodness back.

  But then she saw that Heidi’s lips were moving.

  What’s she saying? Riley wondered.

  The wind was whistling now, and Heidi’s voice was too weak to hear, but soon Riley found that she could read the girl’s lips as she repeated again and again …

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Riley was dumbfounded. What on earth could Heidi be thanking her for?

  She could now hear Heidi whisper as if in reply.

  “For caring.”

  Those words hit Riley like a thunderbolt of realization.

  Now she understood completely.

  Riley had cared about Heidi’s fate. She’d even grieved for the poor girl. She’d empathized with Heidi in death more than almost anyone had during the girl’s whole sad life. Riley had cared, too, for Sister Sandra, and felt deeply for her loss.

  Suddenly the world seemed wonderfully warm, despite the falling snow.

  Riley almost laughed at how she’d worried about losing her humanity.

  As long as she could feel such deep sorrow for another living soul, she’d always be fully alive…

  And human.

  Heidi smiled as if she could read Riley’s thoughts.

  Before she turned and walked back into the snowfall, she said one more word to Riley.

  “Fight.”

  Despite the man’s hands clenched around her throat, Riley felt a renewed surge of consciousness.

  She remembered vividly the last word Heidi had spoken to her.

  “Fight.”

  And that was exactly what Riley had to do right now.

  She summoned her strength and lifted her knee, landing a sharp blow to the man’s groin. With a groan of agony, he tumbled off her, bumping into the flashlight and whirling it around on the floor so that its beam shone wildly and fleetingly in all directions.

  As the man struggled to regain his footing, he was staring at something that glittered in the scattering light. It was Riley’s fallen weapon.

  He snatched it from the floor and stood up, pointing the gun directly at her.

  “I’ll help you yet,” he snarled. “Only in death can you regain your precious purity.”

  Riley felt a brief spasm of fear.

  I’m going to die now.

  But then she smiled. In her confusion a few moments ago she’d dimly and strangely believed she couldn’t use the gun.

  Now she remembered exactly why.

  Her assailant pulled the trigger, and nothing happened.

  He clicked the trigger again and again.

  Then he stared at the gun as if it had personally betrayed him.

  Riley actually laughed. Before coming here, determined to finish this case without killing anyone, she had removed the cartridg
e from her gun.

  Drawing her weapon upon entering this basement had only been a bluff. And Christopher Herron had now fallen for that bluff more fully than she could have hoped.

  Energy flowed back into Riley’s limbs and she scrambled to her feet. She charged the killer, drew back her fist, and slammed it into his face. Dazed, he tottered onto his knees. Riley deftly began to put him into handcuffs as he knelt helplessly on the basement floor.

  Just then, Riley heard the sound of vehicles pulling up to the building.

  The police had arrived.

  She looked at the woman who still lay bound on the floor.

  “Don’t worry,” Riley said. “We’re getting you out of here.”

  Then she added, as much to herself as to the woman, “You’re going to be all right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Jake felt a calmness settling over him as he watched through the jet window at the Tennessee farmland rolling slowly by far below.

  So peaceful, he thought.

  He breathed long and slowly. The tranquil landscape and the friendly rumble of the jet engine were a welcome relief after all that had happened recently. In the distance he could see a glint of sunlight off the smooth, untroubled surface of the Mississippi River.

  But of course, Jake knew that those waters hid powerful and sometimes dangerous undercurrents.

  Just like the rest of the world, Jake thought.

  And in a way, just like Christopher Herron, whose friendly and righteous demeanor had inspired people’s trust and admiration for many years until …

  Jake shuddered as he remembered Herron’s crazed ranting after his arrest and during his initial questioning. Much of it had made little sense to Jake or anyone else. But at least it was clear that Herron’s childhood mistreatment by his twisted, puritanical mother had left wounds that had festered for many years until they had finally erupted into murderous acts.

  Jake felt confident that the whole truth would emerge in a short time.

  And at least it’s an open-and-shut case, Jake thought.

  Herron had been caught red-handed with his last intended victim, after all. And Jake was sure that plenty of proof was still to follow, including physical evidence from Herron’s van and the basement of his office.