But there was the subject of Cait. If she was here—and alive—every second I wasted put her further in jeopardy. If she needed medical attention, she couldn’t wait for a Good Samaritan to call in the crash. She couldn’t wait for Flu to connect the dots. Her rescue had to happen now.
I reached down and felt the cuff again. Even if I had to break my ankle, I was going to get out of this restraint. I pushed the cuff down my ankle, and the cold metal dug into my skin. I clenched my jaw as a surge of pain attacked every part of my body. I took another deep breath and forced the cuff down further. The skin around my ankle broke. A cry escaped my lips as I let my breath out. I paused as the pain settled.
I had moved the cuff less than a millimeter, and it was the worst pain I had ever felt, like razor blades had been shoved into my skin, digging deeper into the muscle with each push. I cupped my hands around my ankle and squeezed. I hoped the pressure would alleviate some of the pain. My fingers rested along my boot and landed against the zipper. My pinky finger lightly skimmed the thin, flat pull tab of the zipper.
The thin, flat pull tab. The thin and flat pull tab. If I could break the pull tab off the slider, that might be exactly what I needed to pick the cuff’s lock.
I gripped the tab between my thumb and index finger and twisted it to the side. I felt the slider bend as I twisted harder. The tab imbedded itself into my skin as I applied more pressure. It felt as if the pull tab had sunk so deep into my skin that it rested against bone—but it hurt less than sliding the cuff down my ankle.
I rocked the pull tab back and forth, twisting it with all my might. I took another deep breath and held it as forced the pull tab to break through the slider. A low snap echoed in the otherwise quiet room as the tab broke from the slider. There, between my index finger and thumb, was a possible key to my escape.
I lowered it to the cuff and pushed it into the keyhole. I pried it back and forth until I felt the lock give way. The cuff loosened as the release opened. I gripped the cuff in both hands and pulled it open. The shackle fell to the cement floor with a low rattle, and I stared at the restraint with euphoria.
I was free.
Excitement rose through my body, but before I could stand, a slow clap sounded from the darkest edge of the basement. I turned my head to the corner opposite the staircase and peered into the darkness. The clap picked up speed until it sounded like one-man applause. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a shadowed silhouette against the wall. The clap continued.
The shadow took a step toward the light. All I could see were tan work boots and the bottoms of blue coveralls. The same pants I saw walking toward the car after the accident. The man clasped his hands together as he took another step forward. I could only see his torso.
“I’m impressed.”
“Abram,” I muttered. But before I could come back with any type of retort, he bolted from the shadows like a dragster and screeched to a halt as he knelt in front of me.
My mouth fell open as my eyes swelled with tears at the horrific sight in front of me. I immediately recognized the person in front of me—the face that covered Abram’s.
Rachel Sanzone’s pared skin had been stretched over Abram’s head, masking his face with hers. His hazel eyes peeked from the open sockets where Rachel’s eyes should have been. I stared into his pupils, and a kaleidoscope of terror stared back at me. I shook as anger and grief grew inside me.
Everything I feared was right before my eyes. I failed the one person who needed me the most. I didn’t rescue Rachel from Lathan; I only prolonged her torture. A year’s worth of PTSD and sleepless nights as she relived that nightmare every day—all because of me. Everything Rachel did to survive her time with Lathan was for nothing.
Abram paused in front of me, as if he wanted me to marvel at what he had done. He looked proud of his achievement, and his smile beneath Rachel’s cheeks proved it. He sucked in a deep breath as his sinister smile widened.
Bile rose from deep within my stomach and scorched the back of my throat. Tears welled over my eyes and poured down my cheeks. “No….” I quietly sobbed. As I locked eyes with the monster before me, all I could see was Rachel. Her once beautiful face stretched into a massacre of carnage over his. What this sick beast did to her was more grotesque than anything Lathan had done. Abram took his girlfriend’s trust and used it against her. He manipulated and tortured her. He made her suffer through excruciating betrayal because he had a grander plan in mind.
And she went through all of it because of me.
I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to save her. If I had figured out who the Casting Call Killer was just a few days sooner, Rachel would still be alive. She would still have her face.
Anger jump-started my heart into a blind fury, and I lunged at Abram. Tears streamed down my face as hatred coursed through my veins. He was nothing more than a predator attacking a child—a coward feasting off the weak. Disgust raged through my body as I fixated on ending him. I visualized pulling his limbs from his body, heard the hollow rip of skin tearing from skin.
He sneered as I clasped my hands around his throat and squeezed. I squeezed so hard I could have crumbled a brick into dust, but Abram just continued to laugh. My arms shook as all my strength went into the grip I had on him. I wasn’t doing this for me. I was doing this for Rachel, and for the four other women he’d murdered. They were the strength I needed to end him.
My hands were still around his throat when he brought his fist back and fired it like a cannonball against my already broken nose. A gruesome cracking rang through the room as I shot back against the cement. My head hit the wall, and I slumped to ground. As I gasped for air, the taste of mildew filled my mouth, and I lied in the fetal position as I succumbed to the womb of his madness.
Abram stood above me, his fists clenched and his breath heavy. I tried to stand. My numb limbs caved under my weight, and I collapsed to the ground again. “Get up,” Abram growled. “Get. Up.” His voice rose with distinct loathing.
As I steadied myself, he grabbed my hair. His fist pressed against my neck as he yanked me back. It felt as if my scalp was going to rip from my skull as he pulled me up. I stumbled as he dragged me up the stairs. My knees banged against each step as I was forcibly taken hostage.
I knew where he was leading me, but I didn’t know why. Up the stairs, past the door, was where I had fought Lathan and barely won. As Abram led me upward, I grabbed at his firm grasp on my hair and tried to pry his fingers loose. He was too strong. When he reached the top of the stairs, he pushed the door open and shoved me through it. I fell to the floor and slid along the linoleum.
I crashed into the dilapidated kitchen cabinets, and Abram immediately brought me to my feet again. He dragged me alongside him then shoved me onto a wooden chair in the center of the kitchen, which led straight into the wood-paneled living room. That’s where I saw Abram’s horrifying artistry displayed.
Taped to the living room walls were newspaper clippings, much like the ones downstairs. These articles, however, were editorials about the Casting Call Killer. My eyes drifted from the articles down to what was in front of the wall—a casket surrounded by dozens of thick, white candles. Each candle sat upon individual iron candleholders, ranging in height from two to four feet tall. The flames flickered in the drafty space, creating a dramatic glow around his altar.
Interspersed within the candles were three white plaster podiums, each three feet tall. On top of each podium was a single Styrofoam head. They were the same as the ones in Abram’s secret lair, minus the painted eyes.
I followed the candlelight until I reached the main focal piece: the casket. The lid was propped open, revealing an off-white silk sheet and matching pillow. The mahogany wood reflected the candles’ glow, and my lungs stopped mid-breath as my eyes widened. Resting inside the coffin was what was left of Rachel Sanzone.
Her body was intact, except for her face. She wore a light purple dress, and her arms and hands were neatly folded over her chest.
Her eyelids were the only skin remaining on her head. Stubborn chunks of muscle and tendons decorated her skull as she lied motionless, like a plastic doll tossed aside.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I stared, horrified, at the grotesque display. Nausea rendered my limbs lifeless. Abram appeared in front of me and plopped a stack of papers on my lap.
I looked down. There, upon my lap, was the script to Lathan’s story. I brought my eyes up to Abram as I glared at his audacious attempt to turn me into his pawn.
“Page seventy-three,” Abram directed from behind Rachel’s face. I defied his command as he walked toward the kitchen counter, which served as a divider to the living room. With his back to me, he pulled out a camcorder attached to a tripod. In a rhythmic stride, almost as if it was part of a dance, Abram placed the tripod ten feet in front of me. He pointed the camcorder in my direction. “Page seventy-three,” he repeated with a stricter tone. He turned on the camcorder.
I looked at him the same way a rebellious student looks at a mandatory homework assignment. I was not going to be a part of his game. I was not going to be the final brush stroke he needed to complete this sadistic painting. If he wanted me to read this script, he was going to have to move my cold, dead jaw and read it for me.
Abram believed he was in control of the situation. He was in control with Pamela Westlake and Fionna Michaels. He was in control with Wilma Reynolds and Kristen Valeri. He even had control with Rachel.
But not with me.
He was able to overpower his victims because he had their trust. He falsely dangled their dreams in front of them. He also had an assistant. He had neither in this scenario. I took his sidekick from him. And he did not have my trust. I was already aware of the evil inside him.
He did not have control.
As my defiance filled the room, so did Abram’s obvious frustration. He walked toward me with heavy feet and grabbed the script from my lap. He fumbled through the pages until he landed on the correct page. He scooped my hand in his and slapped the script inside it. We stared at each other as the battle for control continued.
“Read it,” he snarled.
I peered down at the pages in my hand, and I silently read the words that described Abram’s admiration for Lathan. Lathan was more than Abram’s mentor; he was his heart and soul. Lathan was the reason Abram lived.
“How could you love a monster?” I cried. “What he did to those women—what you’ve done to those women. Carmine Jenkins, Angela Truman, Lisa Johnson—”
“Those women?” Abram shouted. “Those women humiliated him. They laughed at him, so he laughed at them. He took their skin and wore it, laughing the entire time.”
“They laughed at him?” I repeated. It had been difficult for us to piece together Lathan’s motives. Murders that heinous were usually lust-fueled. But with Lathan’s victims, there were no indications of sexual assault.
“Lathan was a brilliant man, and they treated him like an imbecile,” Abram replied. “They’re not laughing now, are they?” He smirked from under the mask.
During the course of the initial investigation, we’d discovered that Lathan had a history of being bullied. He’d been tormented in middle school and high school. He’d even been expelled for bringing a knife to school—in an admitted attempt to physically hurt the kids who’d taunted him. If he did feel belittled by these women, it could have sent him into heightened sense of rage.
“Read!” Abram’s demand impaled my thoughts. Then he paused, as if he’d just reached a malicious epiphany. “You need a scene reader.” He grinned. He took a few steps away from me and disappeared behind the wall that separated the kitchen and living room. My heart froze as scraping sounds soured the silent air.
A high-pitched squeal belched from behind the wall as Abram reappeared. He was dragging a chair behind him as he re-entered the kitchen. With a loud plop, Abram placed the chair adjacent to the camcorder.
Tied to the chair, with her mouth taped shut, was Cait. Her face was bruised and cut from the accident, but she was alive. At least, she appeared to be. She sat bound to the chair in a lifeless slump. If she was dead, though, Abram wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of incapacitating her.
The hope that Cait was alive was exactly the fuel I needed to rise from this weakened state and overpower Abram. The last bit of strength inside me amplified. With the script still in my hand, I tackled Abram like a linebacker on steroids. He fell to the ground as I landed on top of him, and pages of the script scattered around us as our crashing bodies knocked the camcorder and tripod to the ground.
We rolled on the floor, our limbs intertwined, as we wrestled for control. We both threw frantic punches in an attempt for domination. I braced my body for impact as one of Abram’s lucky blows collided with the side of my rib cage.
I choked on my own breath as it launched from my lungs, and Abram stood up. He stretched his long arms in front of him and curled his fingers around my neck. With the strength of what felt like a dozen men, he picked me off the ground and shot me against the kitchen wall.
I clamped my hands around his as he held me high above the ground. My legs kicked out as I tried to break free, but each strike to his shins and legs was like a toddler kicking a steel pipe. I couldn’t break free.
Abram tightened his grip around my neck as I wrapped my fingers around his. I gasped for air as he continued to hold me in place. His eyes were full of rage, and I prepared for his vengeance. It was only a matter of seconds before he inevitably crushed my throat.
I was sparring with a demon. And I was losing.
I looked past Abram, past Rachel’s blood-soaked hair matted against his head. I focused on the newspaper articles on the wall behind him. Every name on that wall was because of me. Had I done my job correctly, all of those women would be alive right now. Abram’s victims were a casualty of my careless detective work. And if Lathan was still alive—if I hadn’t gone into the house alone last year—Abram might not have sought revenge for his hero’s death.
Maybe I deserved to be here, captive in Abram’s clutch. This was my doing. And I should know what it’s like to be the one to suffer at Abram’s hands.
As the room grew dark, I made peace with my demise. I would no longer be responsible for this murder investigation. I would no longer disappoint the victims or their families. Even if I could catch the bad guy, I wouldn’t be able to beat him.
A black haze coated my vision as my focus returned to Abram. He tilted his head as he stared at me. He looked at me with such wonderment, as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually won. I squeezed my eyes closed as I prepared to hear the crunch of my crushed esophagus. Abram took a deep breath, and I pictured his sinister smile as it crinkled the corners of Rachel’s lips. It was the last surge of energy he needed to destroy me.
I instinctually gasped for one last breath as the force of Abram’s grip lightly loosened. I opened my eyes. Why won’t he just kill me? It’s what he’s wanted since the beginning.
Abram’s arms shook as he held back the might within his hands. He wasn’t allowing himself to kill me. Maybe this was all part of his game, to torture me into briefly believing I was going to live.
But that didn’t match the look in his eyes.
It was as if I was his favorite toy—and killing me would kill the only thrill he had to live for. Tormenting me and stalking me had become his obsession. I had become his obsession. And if he killed me, he would no longer have a purpose.
Why did he care, though? He would soon find a new obsession. Once he’d completed his mission of solidifying Lathan’s legacy, he would continue his mayhem. He had more than a taste for it. It was more than an addiction. It was a part of him now.
My eyes drifted from Abram, past Rachel’s ceremoniously displayed body, and over to Cait. Once he was finished with me, he would move on to her. Even if she was already dead, that didn’t mean he didn’t have plans for her. Those three Styrofoam heads on those three podiums had a purpose. They
were there to display Abram’s handy work. It didn’t take a police sergeant to figure out one was for Rachel, one was for me, and one was reserved for Cait.
She didn’t deserve to be part of Abram’s perversions. She deserved to be laid to rest in peace and intact. Her family didn’t deserve the burden of knowing she had been part of some psychopath’s cruel sport. I was the one who brought her here, and I had to be the one to get her out.
The image of Cait’s raw flesh drooping over a Styrofoam head as chunks of blood clung to her sliced skin drove a rush of adrenaline directly to my core. The will I needed to live awoke with a ferocious desire to obliterate Abram for good.
As that spark ignited, Abram’s grip tightened around my throat. My hands fell away from his, and I placed my hands on top of his mask. I peeled Rachel’s raw skin from Abram’s face; pieces of her fell to the ground like strips of frayed fabric. There, beneath her torn skin, was Abram’s true self: still a monster, but no longer hiding behind a mask.
Skin Deep Page 36