Nowhere to Hide

by Bush, Nancy

  But he made sure each time he showed up at Grandview that he would detour from Navarone’s office to the common room and watch the other freaks in the hospital. He thought about taking them to the park. In the open fields, under God’s eyes.

  He stopped the van toward the back of the park. Where the grassy area turned up a hill to a thick stand of Douglas firs. He couldn’t go back toward Laurelton because he would give himself away. Maybe already had.

  He’d left the noose around the bitch’s neck. Now, he grabbed his knife and walked around to the back. She was lying as he’d left her but he could make out the shallow rise and fall of her breaths.

  He pulled her out by her feet, slung her over his shoulder, quickly took her to the trees, and laid her on the needle-covered ground. She looked peaceful and his mind moved back to September. Yes . . . she was September. The words she’d spoken at the bar crowded his mind anew and he almost lost the moment, but then he saw her hair, remembering the red glints he’d seen under the lights. He stripped down her pants and ripped open her blouse. He kept glancing around, his heart pounding with excitement. This was closer to other houses than he’d been. There was more danger.

  Quickly, he pulled a condom from his pocket, and pulled down his own pants. His member shot out and suddenly there was a shriek and she sat up and clawed his face, her nails ripping the skin in front of his left ear.

  Shocked, he grabbed the noose and pulled and pulled and pulled until she flopped around on the ground and finally lay still. Fury kept him holding the cord. It actually bit into his skin and he had to stop before blood could fall, though he wanted to kill her again and again.

  He had tools in his van. And solvents. And bleach. You just never knew . . .

  With cold fury sliding through his veins, he ran back to the van, pulled out a bottle of bleach, popped off the child-proof top, took it back to the bitch and poured it over her hands, then her face. He stopped then, holding his breath, listening, but all was quiet. Picking up his knife from where he’d dropped it, he glared down at her bare torso.

  Do Unto Others screamed across his mind.

  He stabbed downward into her soft flesh and then he heard the noise. Voices. Soft laughter.

  Laughter.

  No time. No time.

  Swiftly, his thoughts on September, he moved the knife, making his mark. Dragging her by her feet, he slid her out into the grass.

  . . . in fields where they lay . . .

  Lightly he ran across the grass, jumping into his van, twisting the ignition and sliding out of the lot. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the dark line on his face where her nails had dug, filled with his own blood.

  As he drove away his mood grew darker. The reckoning was coming sooner than he’d expected. It was time for him and Nine to make their last stand together.

  His last disquieting thought was that the bitch he’d just killed had been right: he’d screwed up.

  Chapter 21

  September hadn’t said a lot on the way over to Hague’s apartment. She and Liv didn’t know each other that well, and after the sleepless night September had just had, she wasn’t much in the mood for chatter. Now, as she and Liv walked into the building and the elevator cage, she turned off the sound on her cell phone so she wouldn’t receive a call that could possibly disturb Hague.

  “Auggie was called out to a crime scene early, so I didn’t have to lie about what I was doing,” Liv told her.

  “I’ll call him as soon as we’re done, I promise,” September said. “Sorry to put you in this position. I just didn’t want to hear about it before I talked to Hague.”

  “I hope you get what you’re looking for,” Liv said as she shut the accordion-like gate of the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. “Della’s not going to be very welcoming.”

  September understood the implied message: this is your last shot. Liv had used September’s cell to call Della on the way over and from what September could hear of the conversation, she knew they were lucky to be getting past Della, the gatekeeper, at all.

  At the door Della’s icy blue eyes glared at them, and September wanted to roll her own eyes, but managed to keep from doing it. She’d debated on what tack to use with Hague, and decided to go straight to the heart of things. If he faded out on her, well, that was that.

  Della warned Liv, “Every time you come you upset him.”

  “I wish it were different,” Liv responded, as they were reluctantly led to Hague’s room. “But you’re holding the reins, not me.”

  “I’m the only one who knows what’s best for him,” Della declared.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Liv muttered softly.

  September shot a glance at Della, but she’d moved toward Hague’s chair and had missed the remark. She kinda thought she might like Liv more than she’d expected.

  “Hague,” Della was saying, leaning over him in a motherly manner.

  “Give me some room,” he said, shooting Della a dark look.

  She snapped up straight, hurt. “Your sister’s here, with that detective.”

  “September Rafferty,” September introduced herself, taking a step forward.

  He regarded September stonily beneath bushy brows. Without looking over, he said, “Hi, Liv.”

  “Hi, Hague,” Liv answered. “You okay?”

  His eyes held September’s. “So far.”

  “Mr. Dugan, the last time I was here, you mentioned the name Wart, and then you went away.”

  “I went into a fugue state,” he corrected her. “It’s Hague.”

  She nodded. “Who is Wart?”

  “He was Navarone’s patient. I had Dr. Tambor.”

  September had that much already. “Wart was a friend of yours?”

  Della made an involuntary movement, but pressed her lips together. She was trying hard to let Hague tell his tale in his own way, but it was against her nature.

  “Friend . . .” Hague said, as if trying out the flavor of the word. “I thought so. I was fourteen or fifteen and messed up.”

  Della put in, “We all know this. And we know whose fault it is.”

  “I don’t know,” September reminded her.

  “Wart told stories,” Hague said. “He didn’t listen to me about the government. He pretended to, but he didn’t listen. He doesn’t know. He wanted to talk. That’s all.”

  “What’s Wart’s real name?” September tried. She didn’t want to send Hague down some obsessive path.

  Hague stared off into space for nearly a minute. September was afraid she’d lost him, and she had so many more questions. Della started to say something, but Liv grabbed her by the arm in a death grip. Della’s eyes shot fire, but Liv ignored her.

  “I heard someone call him Peter once,” Hague said carefully.

  “Peter,” September repeated, feeling a jolt of excitement. Finally, she was getting somewhere. “He had Dr. Navarone,” she reiterated, trying to keep him going.

  “Jeff had him, too.” He made a face and seemed to pull in on himself.

  “He doesn’t like talking about Navarone, and this Wart wasn’t even there at the same time Hague was,” Della burst in. “He was older. He wasn’t at the hospital when Jeff and Hague were there. And his being with Glenda Navarone is an urban legend. I told you that.”

  “No, it’s true,” Hague said. “It’s true.” He looked at September as if for support. “Wart took her on the examining table. He wanted the girls with dark hair.” Hague’s eyes zeroed in on her auburn tresses that September had clipped back. “The doctors . . . out of the sides of my eyes . . .” he said, glancing sharply around the room.

  “Hague,” Liv warned.

  “But he had a knife,” he said. “He could cut the receivers out of his head.”

  His hands started to come up again like blinders, and Della bit out in a low voice, “He does this when he talks about Wart. It’s a shield, I think.” To Hague, she added more loudly, “He’s not here. Wart is not her
e. You’re safe.”

  “Safe,” he said, his lip curling as he stared past her. “He came to the west hallway. He waited till they were gone and then he would tell us about them. The bad things. He said he took both of them behind the counter.”

  Della shook her head. “There was no examining table. There was no counter. Whoever Wart was, he scared Hague,” she said. “I never saw him, but his name comes up sometimes when he’s under stress.”

  September understood that Della didn’t believe there was a “Wart.” But she knew someone with that nickname existed. “Does Peter have a last name?” she asked Hague.

  “No.” His gaze had been wandering around the room, but now it came back to her. “No, it’s Louie!” he suddenly shouted, making September jump. “Louie took the girls behind the counter. They screamed, but he had the knife.” He looked around wildly. “The government tells him to do it. They put receivers in the folds of your brain, so they know what you’re thinking. They KNOW.”

  “Louie?” September repeated a bit breathlessly.

  “He never told them about the bad thing, the doctors . . . They aren’t real . . . they keep their hands in his pockets. They have rigor smiles and they keep their hands in their pockets.”

  Della shot Liv and September a fulminating look, then said, “Shhh, Hague. Don’t think about it.” She grabbed September’s arm and practically spun her around, dragging her back to the door. “I’m not going to let you torture him anymore. He doesn’t know anything. You’re just poking at his fears!” She whirled on Liv, who’d come up quick, thinking apparently that she needed to save September. “This is over, Olivia. I won’t have it again. Don’t come back.”

  “Don’t leave, Livvie!” Hague yelled at Della, angry.

  “I’ll be back, Hague. Don’t worry,” Liv told her brother.

  “You can’t—” Della started.

  “Shut up, Della,” she cut her off, getting in her face.

  “I—” Della sputtered.

  “My brother’s my brother,” Liv told her in a low voice that nevertheless packed a punch. “I’ll see you both again. I won’t let you stop me.”

  Della’s mouth was open as September and Liv left the apartment and got into the elevator. Liv muttered about Della’s highhandedness all the way out to the street, then she took a hard look at September. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She heard her own voice and it was a stranger’s.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  September let out a breath. She felt like she was floating. “No . . . no . . . it’s good. He said Wart’s name is Peter.”

  “Or Louie. Hague’s not very clear at the best of times,” Liv apologized for her brother.

  September lapsed into silence. She couldn’t talk anymore. She could feel Liv’s eyes studying her, and it was all she could do to act normally after Hague’s comments.

  Louie took the girls behind the counter.

  She felt sick with a chill. Starved for air. She had to get to her car, and the station, and talk to Sandler, and Jake. . . .

  I’ll call you.

  She wanted to laugh hysterically and cry and ululate. Jake didn’t want to talk to her. But she could call him. She should call him.

  But what she was thinking was crazy. She knew it. She knew she had a weakness for making connections too soon.

  Yet . . . yet . . . Louie’s was the burger spot where May and Erin had been killed. Erin worked behind the counter and the killer had a knife.

  He’s good with a noose. Hague had said that about Wart—Peter—too. And May and Erin had been subdued and killed by strangling first.

  No . . . no . . .

  Wart and the Do Unto Others case . . . it wasn’t about her sister!

  Liv dropped her off at her apartment and like an automaton September drove to the station. It was Saturday. She wasn’t supposed to work, although she knew everyone else would be clocking overtime on Do Unto Others. Vaguely she saw Guy Urlacher’s mouth moving but there was only white noise in her ears. Fugue state . . . she thought distantly.

  The people in the squad room seemed watery and elongated. Agents Bethwick and Donley weren’t there, but George Thompkins seemed to have lost thirty pounds and Sandler looked stern and rail-thin but kind of loopy, too, as she leaned into September.

  Through watery pools and ripples she heard: “Did Auggie reach you? He called the station.”

  “No . . .”

  “How—did—you—hear?”

  “What?”

  Did she say that? Was it her voice? She wondered if she was having some kind of breakdown.

  Gretchen was frowning at her. “How did you hear about Georgia Friedman? Your brother and Frick and Frack are on the scene. How did you know?”

  “Who?”

  “Nine, what the hell?” She snapped her fingers in front of her face.

  September came back slowly. She was following her own internal dialog so closely that the world faded away. “Who’s Georgia Friedman?”

  “The vic found at Haverly Park in southeast.”

  “I didn’t know. I just came in,” September said.

  “Auggie called on the station line, looking for you. The 911 call went to the Portland police.”

  “I’ll call him, but—”

  “It’s our doer, Nine,” Gretchen said grimly. “He caught up with her outside a bar. But he screwed up this time. She scratched him and though he poured bleach on her, there’s flesh under her fingernails. Might be able to get some DNA anyway.”

  “Good.” She shook her head, clearing her mind. She needed to think.

  “There’s something else,” Gretchen said, shooting a look to George, who shared something unspoken between them.

  “What?”

  “He carved into her skin.”

  She got a cold feeling in the small of her back by the way she was acting. “Not ‘Do Unto Others,’ I take it . . .”

  Gretchen shook her head, her almond-shaped blue eyes serious as they gazed into September’s. “This time, he carved the Roman numeral nine into her skin.”

  “Oh, shit . . .” September expelled, and sank into her chair.

  He stared stonily at the face in the mirror. The vertical lines beneath his left ear were a dark branding. Sociopath . . .

  You screwed up!

  There was no more waiting.

  He’d been following Nine around all summer. It was time to stop.

  It was time for them to be together.

  September stared across the squad room. Concerned, Gretchen had brought her a cup of hot coffee, but she hadn’t touched it. She couldn’t process. It was too much information. The doer had carved IX in the latest victim’s torso. That was another message to her, no doubt. But did any of this have to do with May’s death?

  Feeling herself trembling inside, she inhaled and exhaled several times, then put a call in to Jake. She didn’t care if he didn’t want her to call. She couldn’t wait. When the call went straight to voice mail she ground her teeth, and sent him a text:

  Please call. I need to talk to you. I’m sorry.

  It was pathetic but she was past caring. There were so many pieces of information vying for attention inside her head she was shut down and overwhelmed. She sat quietly at her desk as they waited for more information from the federal agents. Auggie called again and was relieved to get hold of her. He’d been working with the Portland police and was called out to the scene with Donley and Bethwick. He wanted to make sure she was all right, and September assured him she was. She didn’t have to tell him about visiting Hague; he was too absorbed in what he was doing.

  Off the phone, her gaze traveled to the bulletin board with the first three victims’ pictures and bullet points. Lulu Luxe had been added under her real name, Dolores Werner, and now Georgia Friedman had joined the board.

  And what about May Rafferty? Should she be there, too?

  September had planned to spill the information to Gretch
en as soon as she walked in, but she’d been blindsided by Do Unto Others’s latest kill. Now, she got up from her desk and walked down the hall to the break room and went to her locker. There was nothing in it. She hadn’t even put her messenger bag in.

  She stood there a moment, thinking hard. Then she turned quickly and found the steps to the basement and the evidence room. There was a uniform at the counter reading a copy of People. Seeing her approach, the man quickly put it aside. September showed him her badge and said, “I need the evidence box on a cold case from fifteen years ago.”

  “Write down the date and name,” he said, sliding her a form. She filled it out and slid it back to him, and he punched the information into a computer, stared at it a minute, then headed through a steel door. Before it closed behind him, she saw row upon row of metal racks filled with boxes that held information on unsolved cases.

  It took him a while, but he returned with a box, and said, “You wanna take this upstairs, we gotta couple more forms to fill out.”

  September was staring down at the name, MAY RAFFERTY. “Maybe. I’ll just stay here for a minute and see.” She took the box to a counter on the far wall and opened the lid. Inside were plastic bags with her sister’s bloody clothes and sneakers. She’d been casually visiting her friend at the burger spot. There was no knife; the killer had brought it with him and taken it away. The thin cord he’d used to strangle her was in a separate plastic bag, however. She glanced at it, shying away from the sight of her sister’s dried blood.

  It was the report that interested her that was nestled in the box alongside the evidence. It, too, was in a plastic bag, but that was mainly for safekeeping. She wouldn’t be contaminating evidence by looking at it as it had been created by the detectives who’d worked the case.

  She read through it quickly. Knowing it was her sister’s, she found each word stung her even more than other homicide cases. It didn’t take long, and she slipped it back in its plastic sleeve.