by Lisa Jackson
“Just a coincidence,” she said aloud, and glanced at the picture she kept on her night table. Picking up the silver frame, she studied the snapshot taken nearly thirty years before of identical twin girls, toddlers in shorts and matching T-shirts. Their arms were flung around each other as they stood at the prow of a fishing boat, the sea and sky sparking behind them. Brianna traced her finger along the small face of her identical sibling and her heart cracked a little. Arianna had been gone for so long, and yet she still missed her intensely. Especially on nights like this.
And though she was loath to admit it, Brianna did believe there was something to Tanisha’s feelings about disturbances in the twin universe. Hadn’t she, too, experienced the pain of separation? And to be honest, she had to admit that separation played a part in her dream, in which one twin’s bones had scattered away through the desert.
She thought about the two skeletons she’d seen in her nightmare, how she’d known they belonged to the missing Reeves brothers. She had no idea how she knew that fact; she simply did.
Worse yet, deep in her heart, she knew more. She knew that he was out there, and he had made another move. She squeezed her eyes shut against the knowledge that filled her with dread: the 21 Killer had struck yet again.
Exhausted, Zoe swam with the current, faster and faster, trying to put as much space between her and the freak as she could. Chloe had escaped, she felt sure of that. So in the chilly water Zoe bolstered her own spirits by telling herself that her sister was okay. Now it was her turn to find safety.
Any normal person would give up chase at this point, but Zoe couldn’t be certain how the freak would act. So she let the current carry her on farther downstream all the while trying not to think of the alligators that lived in these murky waters. It would be awful to have escaped the naked pervert only to become gator bait.
Don’t go there.
Don’t freak out.
You’ve come this far, just keep going!
When she considered her ordeal, she felt safer facing gators than him. To think that she and Chloe has actually been kidnapped and stripped naked and held by a madman for some bizarre birthday ritual . . . it was crazy. But they’d thwarted him. Well, at least for now. Since she and Chloe could identify the psycho, he would probably keep hunting them down.
No, the ordeal was far from over.
She’d never make it; not without rest. A cold-blooded chill pervaded her body and every muscle ached. She fantasized about a warm bath, her own bed. As she rounded a bend in the river, she spied lights in the distance. Hope glimmered in those lights—a town on the shores of the river. There, she hoped, she would find a Good Samaritan to call the police. She would tell the authorities what had happened to her, reconnect with Chloe, and hopefully end this madness. She headed toward civilization. She hoped.
Oh, God, please, she silently prayed as she felt something slithery and wet slide through her legs.
For the love of Mary. She brushed at the object, kicked away from it, and tried to maintain a steady stroke in the water. Her ankle was throbbing, her muscles beginning to weaken, but she kept swimming, putting distance between herself and the freak’s lair as she eased closer to the town.
Just a few more strokes.
She stretched her arm forward and felt something slimy and wet just before the heavy object struck her head.
Bam!
Pain slammed through her brain.
She slid under the surface as a fat, rough log rolled over her, threatening to pin her down.
Frantically she thrashed in the darkness.
The air in her lungs came out in streams of bubbles as she shielded her head and pushed away from the log. She managed to free herself, but which way was up? She needed air. She gasped, taking in river water as she tried to surface.
Her lungs recoiled and she shot upward, barely missing the heavy log again.
Fight, Zoe, fight!
Sputtering and coughing, she tried to expel the water in her lungs as she gasped for air.
The world spun.
She didn’t know up from down, night sky from inky black water.
Instinctively she reached forward. Her fingers collided with a narrow end of the log and she grabbed on, wildly clutching a fork in the limb. This could be her raft, her lifesaver. She hung on, letting it pull her downstream. She blinked and coughed, aware of her vulnerability in the black river. She knew it would be easier to just let go, to let the river and the night swallow her.
Don’t!
Surrender was seductive, but she couldn’t allow herself to let go now. So she hung on, clinging to the log and the hope of life, battling to keep unconsciousness at bay, all the time praying that Chloe had gotten away.
A gate? There was a gate blocking her escape? Chloe couldn’t believe it, but the beams of the headlights washed upon the obstacle.
After she’d slipped her hands from his loosely tied bonds and while he was desperate to track down Zoe, Chloe had managed to yank off her gag and take advantage of the keys he’d moronically left in the ignition.
Now there was a gate blocking her escape?
Damn! Chloe couldn’t believe her bad luck. She stood on the brakes of the van and climbed out. She had to get away. Had to! It was her only chance. And Zoe, oh, Jesus, what about Zoe? She’d had to fight the urge to stay at the river and find her twin, but Zoe, always the bolder of the two, the planner, the leader, had ordered her to escape. And Chloe was not going to let her sister down. She’d get help, of course she would, and she’d return to the river to rescue her sister, and Zoe would be okay. She was cagey and smart and athletic and . . . Holy shit, why did there have to be a damned gate?
She scrambled out of the van, leaving the driver’s door open, the interior light glowing, the damned seat belt alarm dinging. Her headlights were trained on the aluminum slats of the gate, where she fumbled with the padlocked latch. A damned padlock.
Really? He’d locked them in? Now what? Think, Chloe, think!
With all her strength she yanked on the lock.
Nothing.
Again, she threw her weight against it and again she failed. Well, of course. What lock would give way to a girl?
But maybe he had a tool in the van, a hacksaw or . . . or a key! Maybe there was a key on the ring that held the van’s ignition. She ran back to the van and thought she heard something in the trees. Twigs breaking. An animal on the prowl? Or could it be him?
No!
Leaping onto the driver’s seat, she fumbled for the keys, found that only a single key was attached to the ring. “Shit!” Quickly she searched around the front seat, the glove box, and the console, looking for another set of keys or a saw or—
A quick glance in the rearview mirror. Beyond her own image, she saw him. Huge. Naked. Covered in blood and dirt. Dark hair plastered to his head.
Hell! She didn’t think twice but pulled the driver’s door closed, slapped on the automatic locks, threw the van into Drive, and hit the gas. Wheels spun, spitting dirt and gravel. The Dodge hurtled forward and crashed into the gate. With a groan the aluminum twisted and bent, but didn’t give. Damn!
Chloe rammed the van into Reverse and, spying the man running forward, didn’t hesitate. “Die, fucker!” she said through gritted teeth, and punched it. The van’s engine roared, the huge vehicle streaking backward.
Thunk!
Oh, God, she actually hit him!
Too bad.
Or not.
Her stomach revolted and she fought the urge to gag. She had to hold it together now. Throwing the gearshift lever into Drive, she punched it, hoping there was enough distance for the acceleration necessary to break through the gate. Tires whirred as the Dodge spurted forward, hitting the gate and stopping so quickly Chloe was thrown against the steering wheel. “Ooof!” She caught her breath. Had to keep moving. “Come on, come on,” she moaned through her pain, and tromped on the accelerator again.
Whining, the tires dug deep into the lane.
>
Thunk! That same awful sound she’d heard before when she’d run over the bastard. But the van wasn’t moving. No matter how hard she stepped on the gas. Frantic, she rammed the Dodge into Reverse again to take another run at the gate.
Thunk!
What?
Crash!
The passenger door window shattered.
Glass sprayed.
A beefy hand shot through.
Chloe screamed.
The door flew open.
The huge whack job stood in the frail light cast by an interior lamp.
Clutched in one of his massive hands was a heavy stick, most likely the branch he’d used to thump against the van.
“No!” Terrified, she scrabbled for the door lock. She had to get out. To run!
Cowering against the driver’s door, she tried to find the handle, but the evil smile that crawled over his bruised and bloodied face petrified her. He knew she couldn’t escape.
A weak, mewling sound slipped from her throat.
He yanked the key from the ignition and opened the glove box.
Her fingers found the door handle.
She pulled.
Her door gave way, but as she dove to the left to escape the van something closed over her arm. He had grabbed her with one meaty hand.
“Not so fast,” he muttered against her ear as she fought, flailing and clawing at him. She tried to wrench free, but the sound of a metal click matched the manacle he was tightening over her wrist.
Handcuffs. He’d taken them from the glove box.
Before she could react he yanked her over his lap and twisted her arms behind her. Over her own cries, she heard the horrifying click of the second cuff locking, and she knew it was over.
He would never let down his guard again.
She was as good as dead.
CHAPTER 5
After a fitful night’s sleep, Brianna showered, then scraped her curly hair into a loose, dark knot before throwing on yesterday’s faded jeans and her favorite cotton tee. While St. Ives preened himself, she went to the kitchen to make coffee and clean a few dishes that seemed to have multiplied on their own in her sink.
Last night’s dreams still lingered with their disturbing images, but in the predawn hours she had convinced herself that her dreams were hers to own, period. It was silly to think that skeletons in the desert had any connection to Tanisha’s nightmares. “It’s all just some weird cosmic coincidence,” she muttered as the doorbell pealed.
She glanced at the clock on her stove.
The sun wasn’t even up yet.
No one stopped by this early.
Wiping her hands, she made her way to the front door, peered through one of the sidelights, and spied Selma Denning on the front stoop. Selma stood in a cloud of smoke, pulling hard on a cigarette.
Brianna felt a chill deep inside. Selma had given up smoking years ago, and it wasn’t like her to drop by so early in the morning. Pale as death, her graying hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, Selma looked unkempt and stark under the porch light. Dawn was breaking, fingers of gray light crawling through the city streets, chasing away the shadows, but from the looks of Selma’s rumpled shorts, T-shirt, and cardigan sweater, Brianna suspected that she hadn’t slept a wink.
As Brianna unlocked and opened the door, Selma quickly squashed her cigarette.
“Selma?”
“It’s the twins,” Selma said before Brianna could ask any questions. “Zoe and Chloe. They’re . . . they’re missing!” Her face was twisted in pain, her eyes red behind her rimless glasses.
Brianna held the front door open. “Come in, come in . . . please. And start over at the beginning.”
“It was their birthday. I mean, it is their birthday and oh, God.” Selma didn’t budge from her spot on the porch as her eyes filled with tears. She dropped her face into her hands and hiccuped a sob. “I know it hasn’t been all that long, but I just know something has gone wrong. I can feel it in my bones, you know?”
Brianna nodded. Although she wasn’t a mother, she did understand the invisible connections between people. Now Tanisha’s call and her own dreams of a disturbance, a separation in the universe, took on a new significance. The soft ping of alarm deep inside her began to swell.
“Something’s happened. Oh, God.” Selma clamped a bony hand over her mouth for a second, then let it fall. “You don’t think . . . I mean, it’s impossible that the two of them together were . . . kidnapped.” Her voice trailed off as she considered the horrible possibility.
Brianna’s heart turned stone cold. “I don’t know what to think,” she said, half-lying. “But come in, come in.” She waved Selma inside and stepped out of the doorway, casting a quick glance to the still-dark street. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. She pulled the door firmly shut. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Sensing the dread in her new companion, Brianna ushered Selma past the living area to the back of the house where a pot of coffee was brewing, the last of the water gurgling through the grounds. St. Ives was stretched out on a rug near the French doors, which gave the tabby a view of the backyard. Brianna imagined the cat looking forward to the day’s activity in the yard, where birds would flit across the stone paths and splash in the fountain, and squirrels would tease from the twisted branches of the live oak trees that shaded a small café table. Such a simple life.
“Coffee?” Brianna offered, opening a cupboard and scrounging inside to locate a cup that wasn’t chipped. “Black, right?”
“Yes, that’s . . . that’ll be fine.” Selma struggled against tears as she dropped onto a bar stool at the counter.
“So why don’t you start over? At the beginning.” Ignoring the icy feeling seeping through her blood, she tried to convince herself that this was just a coincidence. That was all. Of course, Selma’s twin daughters were fine. Right?
“As I said, today is their birthday.” Selma’s voice was a dry whisper. “Their twenty-first.”
Oh, God.
That was why the fear in Selma’s pale eyes was so real, so visceral.
Brianna tried to keep calm. “Just because they were turning—”
“Don’t!” Selma ordered, her voice surprisingly fierce, her blue eyes sparking. “Just don’t . . . don’t patronize me. Okay?” She sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “We’ve been friends too long for that.”
Fair enough. “Okay.”
“Good. We both know what this could mean.” Her chin wobbled and she closed her eyes. “You, especially.”
That much was true. They both knew that Brianna had been studying the 21 Killer for years. Dubbed “21” by the press, the killer had terrorized Southern California a few years back. The police had finally arrested Donovan Caldwell, who had been tried and convicted as the killer.
But Brianna didn’t believe Caldwell capable of the ritualistic murders, and she feared that 21 was killing again, broadening his hunting ground. But here, in Louisiana? She held her tongue as she poured coffee into two cups. “Let’s not go immediately to the worst-case scenario,” she said, even as her mind was leaping ahead.
“Didn’t you go there? Sweet Mother Mary, they turned twenty-one and I can’t find them!” Selma’s voice cracked. “And what if . . . what if he’s out there? You’ve worked on this for years, right? You don’t believe that monster they call the 21 Killer is Donovan Caldwell. You’ve said as much.”
Brianna couldn’t argue the fact. Plenty of people knew that she had been studying the 21 Killer and pursuing the possibility of Donovan Caldwell’s innocence. A psychologist, she’d tried to “look into the mind” of 21, at least from a psychological perspective, based on any information she had found on the crimes. What most people did not know was that Donovan was her cousin. The Caldwells were on her mother’s side, a California branch of the family she had barely known growing up. However, when she had learned that 21’s first victims were her own cousins, said to be murdered by their brother, Brianna had felt a perso
nal stake in the case. Over the years she had followed the developing details of the murders, investigating as a concerned family member and twin, and later a psychologist. She had always tried to hide her family connection to the murders.
That was about to change. It was time to go public with her concerns about his imprisonment and what she now knew. During her last visit to the California prison, she’d told him that she would take care of things. She was going to make sure the truth was known. But her campaign did little to bring Donovan out of his depression.
“No one will ever believe I didn’t do it,” he’d said morosely on the other side of the thick glass in the prison, the phone pressed to his ear. “It’s true, I didn’t like my sisters. I admit it. But I didn’t kill them. I didn’t!” For a second there had been fire in his eyes. “And the others that they think I murdered?” Phone pressed to his ear, he’d let out a bone-weary sigh. “No way. I didn’t even know them.”
“I know. I know. I believe you and I swear, I’ll help,” she’d promised, but the look in his eyes had been that of a doomed man, one without a sliver of hope. “You just have to be patient.”
“I can’t. I’m going crazy in here.”
“Please, just hang on,” she’d said, her heart heavy at the thought of leaving him penned up for God knew how long.
“I don’t know if I can,” he’d said before the guard had ended their short conversation.
With fierce disappointment, Brianna had left California without any real progress on Donovan’s case. The state bureaucracy seemed impenetrable, and the LAPD was not interested in reviewing the case against one of the state’s most notorious serial killers.