He stood from his squat and walked toward the staircase where Rachel was.
Tears glazed over my eyes as I continued coughing, his actions only a blur. Within a few seconds, he had returned. He let a plastic water bottle fall from his grip then lightly kicked it in my direction. It was warmer than room temperature, but I was desperate for anything. The buildup of mucus and blood, now coated in chalky dust, had induced more bile to erupt from my stomach.
I reached behind me, searching for the bottle of water, and choked on my own spit. The thin plastic bottle crushed under my grasp as I brought it in front of me and twisted the cap. Water poured from the spout as I brought it to my mouth and began to drink. Between coughs, I swallowed the lukewarm liquid, letting it wash down my throat and slosh in my stomach. I swished another gulp, collecting the congealed bits of blood that had suctioned to my teeth, and spit it out.
I loosely held the half-empty bottle in my left hand as I got up on all fours and breathed in the damp air. I didn’t care that my lungs felt as if they were going to split at the sides from a bruised rib. I needed oxygen. In two quick scrapes of his shoe, he kicked the bottle out of my hand, sending it—and all the water inside it—soaring across the room. Streams of water splashed against the concrete, and the bottle landed against the wall with a hollow thud.
My body collapsed at the deafening sound of defeat, and I wiped the tears from my eyes as I sat upright. He quickly turned away from me and walked toward the staircase. Angela’s blond hair fluttered as he took each forceful step. He placed his hand on the wooden rail of the staircase and paused.
“Don’t you two get any ideas,” he said as he walked up the stairs, never acknowledging the state he was leaving me in. The door opened with the same high-pitched squeak and then slammed shut. A series of clicks rumbled down the staircase as he locked the door behind him.
With the room fully illuminated, I saw Rachel Sanzone cuffed at the wrist and ankles near the bottom of the staircase. Was that why I only had one cuff? Did he not have enough for two captives?
She sat on a tattered twin mattress, two rusty springs shooting through the fabric. Her cheeks were stained with mascara-colored tears. She bit down on her lip to keep it from quivering when we made eye contact. Her long, auburn hair slicked to the side of her head. It looked as if she hadn’t showered in at least five days.
Five days, I thought. Was I to be her replacement?
With the light still on, I was able to see the room more clearly. The cinder-block walls reached from floor to ceiling. Not a single window in sight. The only escape was through the locked door at the top of the staircase.
I stood from the ground, using the wall to gain my balance before attempting to walk. This chain wasn’t exactly quiet, and any scraping would be an invitation for him to come back downstairs. I picked up the chain to keep it from skidding across the ground as I took a step forward. The workbench was at least twenty feet away from me. The chain was ten feet, and I was five foot seven. Even if I lied down and stretched my arm as far as I could, I would be two to three feet short of being able to reach the workbench.
Even if I could reach it, what was on there that could be of use? He emptied my gun, and my cell phone was nowhere in sight. And I couldn’t very well assemble an engine and drive myself out of here. Unless there was screwdriver or knife on the table, anything else was worthless.
“You’re… you’re a detective?” Rachel’s voice shook.
She didn’t have the hopeful tone I was expecting her to have. Instead, she sounded even more despondent—as if knowing her captor had also caught the person who was supposed to save her was the final nail in her coffin. In that one whimper of a question, she had come to terms with her demise.
“Yes.” I answered.
“You’ll have people looking for you,” she said, hope slowly maturing in her voice. “They’ll find you. They’ll find us.”
“Yeah,” I lied.
Had I not been so eager to solve this case on my own—to show that condescending reporter and the rest of this town that I was good at my job—I would have waited for backup. I would have told Captain Fluellen what I had found.
I knew that skinning someone would require privacy and a lot of it. It had to be in a desolate area and probably one close to the dumping site. I highly doubted the killer would be daring enough to travel a far distance with a faceless corpse in his backseat. He may be psychotic, but he wasn’t stupid.
After I had viewed dozens of satellite images of abandoned and foreclosed homes in the area, I found something: a ranch-style house nestled far away from the other homes in the neighborhood, with a backyard that led directly into Mirror Woods. It was just a spec on the screen from an aerial view, but when zoomed in, it had become the largest piece of the puzzle.
But if I was able to find this place—an abandoned house so rundown no one would think to look twice at it—then maybe another detective would be able to as well. Once they realized I was missing, they would search my desk and computer. It was only a matter of time before they figured out I had looked into this house.
How long it would take them to find me, though—and in what condition? Perhaps that’s what the Faceless Killer meant when he said he was “counting on it.” Would the officers see him—with my face—and initially think it was me?
Before I could swallow the thought, the bright overhead light suddenly shut off. It left a single bulb as the sole source of light. I picked up the chain as I eased back toward the wall and sank to the ground. He was toying with me. He had confined me to his workspace, and he left my empty gun on the table. He rationed water and light. He was trying to break me. It was worse than being a fish in barrel. At least the fish didn’t know it was going to be shot.
I knew more than anyone what was in store for me. I had studied his victims. I could surmise the last moments of their lives with precise detail. I was the fortuneteller looking at my own demise as it played in the crystal ball.
“They’ll come,” Rachel said, as if singing herself a lullaby while being rocked to sleep. “They’ll come.”
Underneath the workbench, barely visible by the dull light, was a Styrofoam mannequin head. It’s pale face— ghostlike and undefined—was covered in a rich red, resembling the color of blood.
Because that’s exactly what it was.
My vision focused in and out as my eyes adjusted to this dimly lit tomb of a basement. I was sure that the mannequin’s head had been purposely placed in my line of sight—as a daunting reminder that this was my fate.
And certainly Rachel’s if I didn’t act soon.
I brought my knees to my chest and lowered my head as I wrapped my arms around my legs. Thoughts of what this beast was going to do to Rachel—and eventually me—flooded my head like a dam that had been split in half. I caught myself rocking back and forth as the image of Angela Truman’s face cut in between flashes of everything I was going to miss in life.
Family and friends, my girlfriend, the series finale of The Simpsons—I was going to miss all of it. Everything I had worked for—being an honest detective, saving for retirement. The hope of one day getting married. Mowing the yard—I hated yard work, but I was going to miss it. This creature was going to steal everything I had ever wanted away from me.
He had no right.
This was my life. Mine! What I had in life may not have amounted to much monetarily, but it was still worth fighting for. And that’s exactly what I intended to do.
A sharp pain, like a dagger being twisted in my side, shot through my rib cage. I hugged myself tighter and hoped it would pass as the tips of my fingers skimmed the underwire of my bra, and I froze.
Something flat, I recalled. I needed something flat and slender.
I took in a deep breath and quickly took off my blazer. It fell to the ground as I reached behind my back and unfastened the two metal loops holding my bra together. Paste-like sweat glued the cups to my breasts, and a blast of cold air swept over my ski
n as I gathered the cloth in my hands.
I followed the underwire to the edge of the cup and worked the curved tip through the padded fabric. The thin wire gradually poked through the silky mesh, and I slid it the rest of the way out.
My bra fell to the ground as I measured the tip of the underwire against the lock. It was too wide. The underwire was too wide. With a shaky hand, I scraped the rounded tip against the cement wall. I sawed it back and forth until each side was a forty-five degree angle. The tip was now a sharp point that resembled a prison shank, and I pressed my index finger against it. It poked through the top layer of my skin, and I inserted the pointed edge into the lock.
“What are you doing?” Rachel asked from the dark corner.
“Quiet,” I whispered. It was possible we were being listened to. Any inquisition from Rachel could send him barreling down the stairs.
I twisted and turned the makeshift key alongside the latch. The wire bent between my fingers as it fought against the lock. Suddenly a soft pop vibrated through the underwire, and the cuff loosened around my ankle. I wrapped my hands around the plates and slowly pulled them apart, a soft click-click-click resounded in the room as I separated the cuff’s teeth from the latch. The hinge opened like a smile.
“Are you free?” Rachel asked, her voice echoed in the room.
“Shut up,” I angrily whispered. The cuff lifelessly fell from my ankle.
I stood from the ground and tip-toed to the workbench where my gun and badge were. I picked up my gun, the cold metal absorbing into my skin, and I held it at my right side. Even without bullets, it was familiar, comforting, and better than nothing.
“What are you doing?” Rachel cried from her corner.
I placed my finger over my lips and mouthed Sshhhh to Rachel before making my way over her. The dim light barely led the way, and she was more shadow than person the closer I got to her. I squatted in front of her and cupped my hand behind her head, her greasy hair matted to her scalp.
“I’m going to come back for you,” I said in a low voice. “I need you to stay here and keep quiet.”
“No,” she shook her head, her voice coated in tears. “He’ll come down here.”
“Stay quiet,” I repeated. “I promise I will come back for you. I can’t look after you and myself. You have to stay here,” I pleaded.
She nodded as her breath became panicked puffs, and she trembled beneath me.
“Have you ever heard him talk to anyone?” I asked. “Does he have a partner?”
“No,” she cried. “It’s only been him.”
Only him, I thought to myself. Good. I had a chance.
I stood from my position and lightly took three steps back. I felt around the workbench, looking for any type of weapon to give to Rachel in case I didn’t come back. Not because I was going to abandon her but because I honestly didn’t know if I would survive this.
I gripped my hand around the smooth, plastic handles of two flathead screwdrivers—too wide and thick to pry open her chains, but thin enough to stab him with. I placed one of the screwdrivers in my back pocket and handed the other to her.
“Just in case,” I whispered as I squatted next to her again. “I’ll be back. Stay here.” I squeezed her hand as I stood once more and took in a deep breath.
I made one tiny footstep after the other until the tip of my shoe hit against the bottom step. A light pop echoed in the room, and I carefully stepped onto the bottom stair and lifted my body with ninja silence.
I pressed my back against the staircase railing and took one stair at a time. I froze in paralyzed fear each time a step would squeak. By the fifth step, I was able to see the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. A half-inch of artificial light stretched in a horizontal line.
The light was too yellow for it to be sunlight. It had to be past sunset if he had a light on. It was early afternoon when I was abducted from Mirror Woods. I could have been down here for six hours or thirty-six hours.
I sat down on the third step from the top and peered through the gap. The light ricocheted off the linoleum floor that stretched at least ten feet until it reached a dirty baseboard. I held my breath as I scanned the length of the door. I looked for any movement or shadow that would indicate where he was.
Nothing.
I blinked twice. A surge of courage patiently waited behind my chest as I decided what to do next. Before I reached for the doorknob, a harsh shadow stepped in front of the door. Slowly, locks of blond, matted hair eased onto the floor, soon followed by the chunky, fleshy mask of Angela Truman’s face.
His cold eyes stared at me through her empty eye sockets, and he rested his and her cheek on the ground as he peered into the gap under the door. I let out a shrill shriek just as he stood from the ground and unlocked the door. Before I could run down the stairs, he opened the door, reached inside, and grabbed the back of my head. He yanked me through the doorway, my hair pulling at the scalp, and he threw me into the wall.
My right shoulder landed against the wall, and I dropped my gun. It skidded across the floor as my back and head hit the wall. My breath shot from my mouth as my lungs hollowed. My vision went black then slowly came to a blur as I slid down the wall.
My head bobbed up and down as the room spun in slow motion. In the corner of my eye, I saw him charge at me. The grimy T-shirt under his coveralls fit tightly against his biceps.
He wrapped his right hand around my neck and lifted me from the ground, holding me high above his head, my back pressed against the wall. My legs kicked out as I gasped for air, his massive grip squeezing the air from my throat.
I slapped and clawed at his arm, but my meager attempts only made him squeeze harder. I kicked against the wall, trying desperately to break from his grasp. My lungs burned as they ached for oxygen, and my vision continued to blur as I struggled for air.
White noise coated the room. Slowly, my kicks came to a lingering halt, and my hands fell to my sides. My head lowered as I felt what little life I had left in me escape from my lips.
This was it. This was my end.
My body sank lower into his grasp. I locked eyes with him, my vision fogging over. His arctic blue eyes stared into mine, and Angela’s face wrinkled at the cheeks as he smiled.
I can’t, I thought to myself. I can’t let him win.
A jolt of adrenaline coursed through my body and erupted from my hands. I reached behind my back and pulled the flathead screwdriver from my pocket. I swung my fist like a boxer delivering the final blow. The screwdriver stuck straight out from my fist, and I drove the long blade into his left ear. It crunched as it entered his ear canal, and I twisted the blade like a key starting a car engine.
He squealed out in pain, a scream so blood curdling it could’ve been heard from miles away, and he retracted the steel grip he had on me.
I fell to the ground and sucked in a tankful of air. I breathed out then took in another. The static slowly faded as my vision returned, and I looked around the room, my chest heaving as I continued to swallow air.
Lying on the ground next to me, with a six-inch screwdriver sticking out of his ear, was that vile and disgusting demon. His chest rose in uneven breaths as he coughed up a thick trail of blood. It slowly emerged from the thin lips of Angela’s face.
His bleak eyes were barely visible as they rolled to the back of his head. With each cough, spurts of blood burst from his mouth, covering Angela Truman’s chin and cheek. His shoulders and legs convulsed as he watched me slowly turn onto my stomach and army-crawl toward my gun, which was still on the floor.
He grabbed at my legs, his firm grip cutting off the circulation at my ankle, and he pulled me back to him. My gun was a little over an arm’s reach away. I kicked out of his grip, my boot landing hard into his rib cage, and I continued to crawl on the floor, my stomach sliding on the dirty linoleum.
I picked up my gun, its cold barrel breathing life into my body. With my last bit of energy draining, I slammed the blunt end of t
he gun against the handle of the screwdriver. A piercing crunch exploded through the room as the entire blade drove deeper into his ear canal. The screwdriver pounded into the floor beneath him, and his skull caved at the temple.
His body shot upward as his head stayed nailed against the ground. His backside landed with a thick thwack, a geyser of blood gushing from his mouth. I watched him take his final, labored breath as I stared into his cold, dead eyes.
CHAPTER | ONE
WITH A FEROCIOUS GASP, I shot up from the bed. The comforter rustled against the sheets as I sat paralyzed, my mouth agape, and I struggled to catch my breath. My chest was thick and heavy, like tar had been poured down my throat. Sweat trickled down my hairline and pooled in the pockets of my clavicle. My eyes shifted to the right and then to the left.
He was no longer next to me. I was alone.
I wasn’t in Mirror Woods being terrorized by Lathan Collins, the man behind the mask and murders. I was home—in bed. The only light in the room was provided by the neon blue numbers on the alarm clock. 4:36 a.m.
A cascade of thunder rolled outside as raindrops bounced off my windowsill.
It was a dream.
I was awake.
It was a dream, and I was safe now. He couldn’t hurt me.
I took a deep breath and let it out.
Water. I needed water.
I swallowed the desert heat that sizzled in the back of my throat and pushed the comforter off me. The down feathers stuffed between the two thin pieces of fabric crinkled as they bunched together. The flannel material of my pants caught between my thighs as I slid off the mattress, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and I walked into the bathroom connected to the upstairs bedroom.
I winced as I turned on the light. A burst of brightness reflected off the mirror, and I blinked away the sting as my eyes began to focus. Next to the chrome faucet handles of the porcelain sink was an empty glass and a prescription bottle. Both called to me.
Skin Deep Page 2