“Beth, have I told you I—” The ringing of the phone interrupted him.
Jack reached for the cordless and squinted at the Caller ID display. He frowned. “It’s the police chief.” He stabbed the talk button with his finger. “Hey, Mike.” Jack’s eyes opened wide as he listened for a minute. His eyes lit up with interest. “No shit?”
A few minutes later, he returned the receiver to its stand. “Mike’s arrested Will Martin for Mary Ann’s murder.”
“Really?”
Jack nodded. They were both silent as the sadness of the waitress’s death hung between them.
The teakettle whistled, and Beth poured water into one of the mugs.
“He wants some advice.” Energy vibrated from Jack.
“The police chief needs your help.” She smiled. “You’d better go.”
“Are you sure?” His feet were already pointing toward the door as he asked.
“Positive. The situation with Richard is settled. The Riverside Killer’s been arrested. I’m going to drink my tea, watch something mindless on TV, and try to put all of this out of my head for a while.” She didn’t believe that was possible, but she’d felt Jack’s pride surge at the police chief’s request. He needed to go.
“OK.” He leaned down to kiss her. “Lock the door and set the alarm after I leave.”
She nodded. Outside the French door, Jack leaned on his cane and waited until she’d secured the house. Though the danger had passed, they were all going to be paranoid for a long while.
Jack hadn’t been gone for more than a half hour when Beth returned to the kitchen. She rinsed her mug and placed it in the dishwasher, glancing out the French door to the brightly lit lawn beyond.
“Oh, no.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Four horses grazed in the back yard, which was lit up like a football stadium with the new security lights. They must have broken the gate or a fence board. Not an unusual occurrence for big animals, but she was too tired to deal with their antics tonight.
Too bad no one else was home.
She scribbled a note and left it on the counter in case anyone came looking for her. Grabbing Henry’s little-used leash, she listened for the sound of his dog tags but heard nothing. Henry had gone to bed with Katie. Obviously it would take more than a few horses on the lawn to disturb him.
With a sigh, Beth reset the alarm, stepped out the door, and locked it behind her before walking across the thick grass. She passed under the massive oak tree in the center of the yard. Above her head, branches swayed in the cool, wet breeze that promised rain. In the gunmetal gray sky, patchy clouds drifted in front of a nearly full moon.
Using the leash, she trekked the three geldings back to the pasture one by one. As she’d expected, the latch on the gate was broken. She looped her belt around the posts to hold it closed. Lucy was limping, and Beth led her directly to the barn. She passed through the bright circle cast by the barn’s new overhead light, opened the heavy sliding doors, and led the mare into the building, flicking on the light switch in the aisle as she passed.
The empty stable smelled of hay and dust. Something to her left rustled in the straw. Beth paused mid-stride and made a mental note to visit the pound for a couple of big tomcats as soon as possible. Rats could get out of hand in a flash.
“Now, Lucy. What did you do to yourself?” Standing in the bright aisle, she focused her attention upon the horse’s leg. Blood ran down the bronze foreleg from a stitch-worthy cut above the knee, which must have happened when the mare busted through the gate. Beth put Lucy on the crossties and went into the tack room for the first-aid kit. She punched the vet’s number into the new phone on the wall while gathering the necessary first-aid items in a clean bucket. Dr. White’s machine picked up. Beth left a detailed message. The vet would show up as soon as he could. In the meantime, she’d clean and bandage the wound.
She stepped back out into the aisle, bucket loaded with gauze pads, soap, and a leg wrap. An arm snaked out from the next stall, wrapping around her neck and jerking her backwards into the dark. The bucket clattered to the floor.
A scream rose in her throat, but the pressure from the viselike grip strangled the sound. She twisted, but another arm circled her shoulders, arching her backward and pinning her arms to her chest. Her lungs screamed from lack of oxygen as she kicked ineffectually against her attacker’s shins.
With both hands she grabbed at the thick arm encircling her neck and pulled down. She managed to relieve enough pressure to suck in a lung full of air. She threw her head backward. A grunt sounded in her ear as she connected with his chin, but his grip remained strong.
He shifted. The arm fell away from her shoulders. Before she could break free, something sharp pricked her cheek. Hot blood trickled along the side of her face. Beth froze.
“Stop it, bitch! It’s not what I had planned, but I’ll cut your throat right here.” Even in whispered tones, she knew that cold voice. Richard pressed his lips to her ear. “Why didn’t you just run when my men cut through your ladder or ran you off the road? God, you’re a pain in the ass.”
Hatred and anger thickened his speech, but his grip loosened slightly as he spoke, allowing her to gulp the moist air greedily. Beth’s eyes darted around the dark stall, looking for some weapon, anything she could use to get away from him, but the stall was empty. Lucy moved restlessly in the aisle, tossing her head, jangling the metal clips on the ends of the ropes that connected her to the walls.
“There’s no such thing as an acceptable divorce for a politician, no matter how my PR people spin it. Being a widower, however, will send my popularity ratings through the roof. Poor me, dedicated to my mentally ill wife, devastated when her dead body washes up somewhere. I’m practically a saint already.” His hot breath burned her neck. “You promised to stay with me until death do us part. Guess which one of us is going to die?”
Richard loosened his grip around her waist, spun her around, and shoved her. Her back and head struck the wall. Pain lanced through her head. Nausea rose in her throat, and her vision blurred.
The noise startled the horse. Beth heard her bolt, breaking the crossties. Hoofbeats passed the stall door, then faded.
Three feet away, Richard waved the knife. Beth’s heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped wild animal. She sidestepped toward the doorway. If she could just put some distance between them, she could draw her gun from its ankle holster. This close, she’d never get it out fast enough. In her pocket the pepper spray Jack insisted she carry pressed against her hip. It was her only chance.
The cold gleam on the blade reflected the evil glint in his flat blue eyes. He stabbed the knife at her face in a taunting arc. She blocked its thrust with her arm instinctively, barely feeling the blade slice through the skin. Warm blood ran down her forearm. He jabbed at her belly, and again she blocked the knife’s path with her arm. Blood dripped from her fingertips into the straw.
Beth steadied herself, balancing on the balls of her feet and ignoring the pain, as he lunged forward again. She stepped aside, drew the pepper spray from her pocket, and sprayed it at his face. He was in motion, so she missed at first, but the tail end of the arcing liquid hit its mark. He threw a hand over his eyes, blinded by the tears pouring down his face.
“You’re dead!” he roared, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Beth darted out of the stall, her feet slowed by the deep straw bedding.
“Thanks for coming, Jack.”
“Glad to help.” Jack shook the police chief’s hand and lowered himself into the worn visitors’ chair. He hung his cane on the wooden back, trying not to look too excited at the prospect of discussing a murder. But damn, his blood practically hummed. “What do you have?”
Across the scarred desk, the chief’s leather chair creaked as he settled his bulk back into it. “Two long, dark hairs and a couple of drops of blood in Martin’s trunk.”
“No way.” To say Jack was shocked was an understatement. Sure, Martin was scum, but a mu
rderer? “Are you shittin’ me?”
“No.” Mike shook his head. “I got an anonymous tip that Martin’s car was seen following Mary Ann out of the diner parking lot the night she was abducted.”
The skeptic in Jack zeroed in on the key word. “Anonymous?”
“Yeah. I know. Convenient.” Mike ran a hand through his thick red hair. His uniform was wrinkled. The bags under his bleary eyes attested to the number of hours he’d been working Mary Ann’s case. “Call came in from the pay phone at the Stop ‘N Shop.”
The hair on Jack’s neck stood up. “Security cameras?”
“Not on the pay phone. And nobody saw anything, of course.” Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. “Along with the altercation he’d had with Mary Ann at the diner, it was enough to get a warrant. Found the evidence in the trunk right away. Lab put a rush on the DNA tests. State crime scene unit went to the house. We’ll see when the results all come back in.”
Jack scratched chin. “So, other than the suspicious nature of the call, what else is bugging you?”
“One, he has an alibi. According to his father, they were unloading a tractor trailer full of feed that night.”
“Dad could be lying.”
“I know.” Mike rose and crossed to the window. “It’s just a feeling, Jack. I don’t think he’s smart enough to be the Riverside Killer.”
Jack didn’t believe Martin had the gray matter to pull it off, either. “What’s the profiler say?”
“Mixed feelings there. Even though he’s never been charged, Martin’s got a history of sexual harassment. He’s the right age and race, a bully with a beef against women. On the other hand, he’s thick as an ox, loud-mouthed, and has a whole horde of drinking buddies. Not exactly genius, solitary, serial killer material. But profiling’s not an exact science, as the FBI keeps reminding me.”
“Does he have access to acepromazine?”
“He says he doesn’t use it. His horse is a stud, and apparently Ace causes some sort of penile paralysis in stallions.”
“Huh.” Jack didn’t have a reply to that one.
“It’s not that hard to get hold of Ace, so that wouldn’t necessarily rule him out anyway.”
“Maybe he just copied the Killer to get Mary Ann,” Jack suggested.
Mike turned back to his desk and sank into the chair. “That’s one theory the profiler suggested, but until all the evidence from his house and car has been processed, who knows?”
Hysterical barking woke Ben. He rose from his bed and padded barefoot into the hall to listen. Downstairs, Henry was going ballistic about something. He glanced in his mom’s room. Empty. After looking in Katie’s room and making sure she was still sleeping, Ben quickly trotted down the steps.
“Mom?” He ducked his head in the living room, then the study. His mother wasn’t in either room. Henry began to whine. Ben followed the noise to the kitchen where the big dog was digging frantically at the bottom of the French door.
His mom wasn’t in the kitchen either. Where was she?
The hackles on the back of the dog’s neck were raised. “What is it, Henry?”
At the sound of Ben’s voice, the dog grew more agitated, looking from Ben to the door. He began to growl and snarl at the closed door.
The note on the counter drew his attention. Mom was down at the barn. Ben was suddenly certain something bad was happening. The hair on his neck rose to mimic the dog’s.
He called his mom one more time. No answer. He picked up the phone and dialed Jack’s cell, but Henry was making such a racket, he could hardly hear the ringing on the other end of the line. Scanning the yard quickly, he looked down at the insistent dog. After turning off the alarm the way Jack had showed him, Ben opened the door. Henry raced through the opening and headed across the back lawn toward the path that led to the barn.
Ben quickly closed the door and reset the alarm. No matter what happened, he couldn’t leave Katie. He’d promised to take care of her.
“Hello?” Jack’s voice came over the line, and Ben turned his attention to the telephone.
Beth took three awkward running strides in the barn aisle before Richard’s hand clamped around her ankle and pulled her to the ground. She landed on her face in the packed dirt, kicking frantically at his strong grip with her free foot. He grabbed the other ankle and hauled her back across the floor toward him. Flipping her over, he straddled her thighs, shifting his grip to her wrists, now slippery with blood. Her blood.
He pinned a hand on each side of her head and moved his body forward onto her stomach. She kicked and bucked futilely under him. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, blocking out the pain of the knife wounds.
“Hold still. You’re just going to wear yourself out. I’d rather not do this here. You’re leaving with me.” He was breathing hard with the effort of holding her down, and she realized she’d never fought back before.
If he thought she was going with him without a fight, he was the one that was delusional.
He pulled her hands over her head to hold both wrists together in one hand and brought his free fist down across her cheekbone. Pain exploded under her eye. The room went out of focus; images blurred and flashed before her: Richard’s chiseled face contorted by rage, the gossamer cobwebs along the ceiling of the barn, the flash of light on the steel blade of the knife he’d set down next to his leg. She lost track of time. All she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears and the drumbeat of her heart.
Her intention to fight like a demon leaked out like air from a slashed tire.
Taking advantage of her momentary stillness, Richard reached into his pocket and withdrew a hypodermic syringe. Her eyes focused instantly upon the needle. Charged by renewed fear, gasping for breath, she writhed in the dirt under him, trying to avoid the hand bringing the needle toward her leg. Near hysterical at the thought of being drugged and helpless with him, she bucked and twisted her body enough to bring her knee up and into his exposed groin. The closeness of their bodies prevented her putting any real force into the motion but it slowed him down. He grunted and his jaw tightened with pain.
He stuck the syringe between his teeth and punched her again. The pain burst through her jaw in a kaleidoscope of colors. Blackness crept around the edges of her vision. She waited for the prick of a needle, but Richard’s weight jerked on top of her body.
“Ahh!” Snarling drowned out Richard’s shocked cry. His weight jolted back down onto her legs.
Beth shook her head and blinked hard to clear her sight. A large tan and black shape hung from Richard’s arm. She barely recognized Henry. His teeth were closed on Richard’s biceps, ripping the fabric of his black shirt, knifelike fangs tearing through the flesh like a true predator. Blood flowed down Richard’s tanned arm and over the gold Rolex on his wrist. Savage, guttural sounds came from the infuriated dog. Henry jerked his huge head from side to side, pulling Richard off Beth’s body.
Beth scooted backward. Clawing at her hem, she yanked up her pant leg and pulled the Sig from its holster. The metal was slippery with her blood, and she fumbled with the gun. Richard screamed as the dog’s sharp teeth shredded the skin and muscle of his arm. Beth gripped the gun in both hands. Richard tried to rise, pushing to his feet with the dog still attached to his arm. He stretched forward. His hand clamped around the hilt of the knife lying in the dirt. He raised the weapon over the dog.
Sighting on the center of his chest, Beth squeezed the trigger.
Jack leaped from the patrol car as the chief stopped in front of the barn. Mike’s footsteps thudded in the dirt behind him. A mixture of screaming and snarling emanated from the barn. A gunshot. Then silence.
Ignoring the pain lancing through his leg, Jack broke into an awkward run. He drew his gun as his eyes took in the details: wide-open doors, interior lights blazing. Lucy stood at the far side of the barnyard, long ropes dragging from her head. Blood dripped down her slender foreleg.
Mike headed around back.
Heart sl
amming, Jack stepped to the door with his back to the wood, gun drawn up in front of his chest. Then he turned his head to look around the doorframe.
A man lay face up in the aisle. A large dark red splotch bloomed across his chest. Beyond the body, Beth sat against the wall in an upright fetal position—a gun in her two-fisted grip pointed at the body in front of her. Blood trickled down the side of her face and soaked her T-shirt and jeans. Next to her, Henry sat quietly. His head rested on Beth’s knee.
At the other end of the aisle, Mike’s head peered around the door. His eyes scanned the scene, held on Beth’s gun.
Jack caught the chief’s gaze and shook his head.
“Beth? It’s Jack. I’m coming in,” he called out as he eased around the corner. As soon as she saw him, she lowered the gun until it pointed at the floor. Either dead or soon to be, the man on the floor was no longer a threat. Barely glancing at him, Jack rushed to Beth’s side. He dropped to his good knee and closed his hand around hers, gently twisting the gun from her limp grasp and engaging the safety.
She turned toward him, her eyes glassy with shock, while he attempted to determine the extent of her injuries. Long gashes in her forearms were smeared with blood and dirt. Her face was swollen and bruised. Blood dripped from a split lip.
Mike checked the rest of the stable with his gun drawn before kneeling down next to the man’s body and pressing two fingers against the man’s neck. “Holy shit! It’s Congressman Baker.”
“He dead?”
“Nope.”
“Too bad.”
Mike jogged out of the barn and returned a minute later with the first-aid kit from his patrol car in his hand and a couple of blankets over his arm. “Ambulance is on the way.” But Jack ceased paying attention. He knew Mike had to apply basic first aid, but as far as he was concerned, the bastard couldn’t die fast enough.
Jack grabbed some rolled gauze from Mike’s kit and wrapped Beth’s arms to stop the bleeding.
She Can Run Page 24