by Joe Conlan
As soon as the cobwebs cleared, she rededicated herself to the work of loosening the twine. Much more relaxed now that she was one hundred percent committed to her mission regardless of the consequences, she counted out at least fifty yanks of the twine. Her wrist was sore and raw by the time she was willing to call it quits. Blood dripped from torn skin adding to the countless red stains soiling the mattress. So long as she had done enough to give herself a shot to grip the scalpel, she could deal with the pain. A five minute break and she would be up to putting it to the test.
Closing her eyes, she visualized stretching her joints to their extremes and using the tips of her thumb, index and middle fingers to get a firm grasp of the handle. When it was time to execute, she didn’t hesitate an instant, commanding the muscles of her right arm to unravel backwards, her knuckles to unhinge toward their target. She grabbed the edge of the handle just below the blade and pulled ever so slightly to coax it out from its crevice. With the dexterity of a surgeon, she teased the slippery surface of the handle, rolling it over her thumb and index finger until she was able to hold it reliably enough to transport it. Pulling it further out from the crack allowed her to add her middle finger to the mix.
With the scalpel free from the crevice, she slowly brought it around the post until her arm was in its normal position behind her head. For almost a minute, she allowed the limb to rest and regain some strength, though she didn’t dare loosen her iron-clad clench on the blade. Dropping it was as good as shoving it into her jugular vein. It would be all over.
When she was ready, the next order of business was to move her purchase down the handle. She laid the bottom half of the scalpel against the palm of her hand and worked her fingers along the handle until she was holding it in a conventional grip. Confident the risk of dropping the scalpel was now minimal, she allowed herself a brief moment of relief.
Though her next chore shouldn’t be as difficult, Annie was determined to maintain her intense focus. She was going to have to control the swaying of the twine while at the same time maneuvering the scalpel forward so that its sharp edge could do its work. Once she got that hand free, the rest should be a piece of cake. With the handle of the scalpel between her index finger and thumb, she pressed it against the twine. The blade sliced through it as if it were paper. The edge was honed so sharp, just a light touch was enough to bisect the synthetic material. There was an audible snap then her right arm was free. The tensile strength of the twine was so high, the back of her hand slammed against the mattress with enough force to send a bolt of pain through her wrist and up her arm. She didn’t take the time to shake it off or allow the tight muscles to stretch before she cut the twine binding her left hand then both ankles.
The exhilaration Annie felt as a result of her liberation gave her a new sense of purpose and helped her forget how dangerously close she was to giving up all hope. Freeing herself of her restraints was a huge accomplishment, but it would be all for naught if she wasn’t able to get out of the room. The ordinary person would think it would take an act of magic to open a locked door without a key or locksmith, especially since the lock installed on her bedroom door was the same used for the typical front door. Being a security expert, Annie was well educated in the field of commercial and home protection and more than capably familiar with the pin-and-tumbler mechanism of the common house lock. With the use of a pick and tension wrench readily improvised from conventional household items, they were relatively easy to open without a key. The scalpel blade was definitely thin enough to act as a tension wrench. It would leave enough room in the keyhole to facilitate maneuvering the pick inside the cylinder. The only trouble would be finding something around the room to serve as a pick in the pitch black. From her vantage point on the old, moldy mattress, when the monster did turn on the lights, she had been able to clearly see the room was vacant except for the bed. With a cutting tool however, she felt she could easily fashion a pick from the wood of the door itself.
Holding her precious scalpel, she climbed out of the bed and crawled on all fours in the general direction of the door, reaching out with her free hand every so often to test the space in front of her. Though she didn’t know it, the first obstruction she came upon was the wall just six inches to the left of the door. She raised herself up on her knees and opted to run her fingers to the right along the wall. The cold bite of the metal hinge followed by the rough, grainy surface of the oak wood told her she had made the correct choice. She scooted over a few inches to shave a six by two inch splinter from the door with the scalpel then whittled the wood down to a perfect pick size gauging her progress with the tips of her fingers. Having only the use of the sense of touch at her disposal, like a seasoned cat burglar, she inserted the scalpel into the keyhole applying the exact amount of torque necessary to push the upper pins out of the cylinder and set them. Holding the tension wrench in place, she wriggled her makeshift pick into the upper part of the keyhole and exerted just enough pressure to the pins to overcome the friction and spring forces. When Annie heard the clicking of the tumbler, she knew she was home free. She squealed with joy as she turned the knob and the door opened.
Before making another move, Annie had to know the time. There was a clock in the kitchen. The challenge was to get there. The rest of the house was just as dark as her room. She just needed to get to the landing of the staircase where there was a light switch. Standing in the threshold of her doorway looking out of the room, the steps were located approximately fifteen feet to the right and seven feet straight ahead. She stepped into the hallway and turned right, placing her right hand against the partition between the hallway and her bedroom. Keeping her hand braced against the wall, she walked forward counting out exactly fifteen steps. She then got back down on her hands and knees and crawled in the direction she assumed would lead her to the stairway. After advancing approximately seven feet, she stretched her right arm out along the floor. She shouted out a joyous yelp once again when her hand slid down the riser of the first step. Creeping as close to the edge of the landing as possible, she felt up the wall until she found the switch. With a flick of her finger there was light.
Annie hurried down the steps as quickly as her sore legs would allow. As she ran to the kitchen, she flipped on every light switch along the way. She could hardly contain her excitement when she saw it was only 6:30am. She had only slept a short time. Her effort to rid herself of the drugs worked. Though she was as happy as she had been in weeks, there was no time to enjoy it. Now, she needed to get to the real work that would get her out of this godforsaken place and with a bit of good fortune save Daniel in the process.
The hopes, wishes, and resolutions of a new year did not translate into the type of good fortune Special Agent Christopher Frye was hoping for in the Drysdale case. He was working as hard as ever to uncover a lead that would give him some idea of the killer’s whereabouts. The disappearance of Patty Lawson in Hazard, Kentucky provided just another small piece of the puzzle. When Frye and his colleagues visited the rural southern town, they took statements from two patrons of the bar where Lawson was last seen and the victim’s ex-husband, all of whom claimed to have gotten a decent view of the suspected abductor. Two witnesses were inside the bar peering through the shutters of the front window watching the events unfold after the ex-husband dragged Patty out the front door. They saw when he crashed his truck into Patty’s Camaro then her conversation with the man who pulled into the parking lot immediately thereafter. They were able to clearly see the pick-up driver’s face after Patty opened the door to climb in and the overhead light switched on. Frye got a positive identification of Damien Drysdale after showing both witnesses a photo lineup of six photographs including Drysdale’s King Cruise Line employee picture.
The ex-husband first saw the pickup truck as he approached the bar. Despite his agitated state of mind, he couldn’t help but notice the vehicle parked on the swale across the street from Billy Bob’s facing northbound. No one ever parked there becaus
e several cars were totaled after accidentally falling into the steep drainage ditch running along the highway. Intent on his mission at that juncture, the ex-husband didn’t bother to pay the least bit of attention to the driver. However, after crashing into Patty’s car on the way out, his headlights shined directly into the suspect’s truck, giving him the look he needed to provide an accurate description. When presented with the photo line-up, he also identified Damien Drysdale.
Subsequently, the task force temporarily moved its base of operations to the FBI field office in Louisville, Kentucky. Frye was relieved to get away from Miami, at least for the moment. Leland was now the Special Agent in Charge but continued to pay unusually close attention to the serial murder case, closer than what Frye felt was appropriate for his new position. He was happy to have some space from Leland to work on clearing up a few matters. The murders that occurred on the Joy of the Seas were becoming an increasing source of concern for Frye. He took it upon himself to interview the residents of the apartment complex in Carol City where the two drug dealers were shot. On the third night visiting the area, he met with an older gentleman who lived in a small house adjacent to the apartments. A series of unusual circumstances helped the witness clearly recall that particular night. His dog had just finished giving birth to a litter of eight puppies. While taking her for a walk to stretch her legs, he caught a glimpse of a white man coming from the dealer’s building, an extremely rare sight in that neighborhood in broad daylight much less at that hour. The bodies were discovered the very next day.
As far as the witness could remember, the stranger was driving an Acura Integra. It was too dark to be sure about the color of the car, but he thought it was red. At the time, he had no reason to memorize the license plate number. When Frye showed him the same photo lineup he showed the witnesses in Hazard, the old man identified the picture of Damien Drysdale. Frye then asked the man if he ever gave a statement to the police. His response was unexpected. No law enforcement authority had ever come to his house to ask questions. After the bodies were found, he didn’t volunteer any information either. It was the steadfast rule of the community to keep one’s mouth shut for fear of reprisal.
To a degree, the idea that Leland or Dallas hadn’t interviewed the man alleviated Frye’s concerns about foul play. It would have made matters much more complicated if they were aware of the witness. On the other hand, it didn’t excuse a more in depth investigation by the task force into the Carol City murders. Frye felt compelled to add these killings to the list attributable to Drysdale. Clues could still be uncovered if the task force did its routine and thorough analysis of the drug murders. Before he had an opportunity to pursue matters in Carol City, the task force moved its base of operations to Louisville when the connection was made between the serial murderer and the disappearance of Patty Lawson.
Frye considered gathering a team in Miami to re-inspect the Carol City murder site for leads and conduct a more comprehensive search for witnesses without consulting Leland. The first time he approached the new Special Agent in Charge about his concerns, he was practically thrown out of his office. Frye would be asking for trouble if he went ahead with the investigation without his boss’ approval. On the one hand, he didn’t want to believe Leland or Dallas deliberately concealed evidence. The flip side of the coin was their obvious reluctance to authorize further analysis of the drug murders. They must have feared it would open up a whole can of worms that would disturb their otherwise rock solid case against Daniel Falcone.
Oftentimes ambitious men were guilty of tunnel vision. Frye really wanted to believe that was the case with Leland. It would be truly disturbing if exculpatory evidence was deliberately suppressed. Updating Leland with the new information from Carol City was probably the right thing to do. At the very least, Frye would be covering his ass. The question was if Leland refused to authorize further investigation, would Frye feel comfortable about leaving it at that?
Annie had already accomplished so much under incredibly difficult circumstances. The work left was going to require just as much physical effort and mental fortitude and perhaps even more luck. Her immediate goal was to find the keys to the shed she had noticed on the property during one of the exercise sessions the monster permitted outdoors. It was on the backside of the cabin, off the beaten path visible through the forest of evergreens from the trail where she and the monster were walking. Two heavy duty padlocks with an industrial strength chain prevented access. It was a much more likely candidate for a hiding place for the monster’s prize possession he used to cut off Deborah Falcone’s head. Finding a way in without leaving evidence of her entry was going to be a challenge. Once she had the murder weapon in her hands, she had every intention of placing it in the mailbox just outside the front gate with a note to the postman. Annie knew he delivered the mail in the mornings sometime after nine. Without fail, in the middle of her chores when the clock struck ten, he would lock her in her room for fifteen minutes or so. Later, he would come back to free her so she could continue her work and she would see him in his office opening letters. There were also times, in the hour or so before the postman was due, she would see the monster running letters through his postage meter. When she first saw it, she wondered why the heck a serial murderer would need such a thing. She had no way of knowing he was actually significantly more wealthy than she and that he managed his fortune himself. She was quite aware of the copious amounts of paperwork it entailed to oversee her own accounts just by the amount of mail she received daily. She left that to the experts. In any event, it was a stroke of luck he had a postage meter and she wasn’t going to waste any time analyzing the reason for it.
The keys necessary to open padlocks wouldn’t be the type one would carry around on a keychain. It was most probable he kept them somewhere in the cabin. Searching inside first was the best option anyway. It would save her a trip outdoors if the surgeon’s saw happened to be hidden in the house. She decided to start with the office. Over the next two hours, she combed through every nook and cranny of the room where the monster spent most of his day, making sure she replaced everything she touched exactly where she found it. It helped, to a point, that he was a fastidiously organized person. It made the search easier to plan. At the same time, her job required astute attention to detail. He was sure to notice the slightest misplacement of a box, file or paper clip.
At 8:30am, when she was satisfied she had conducted an exhaustive search, she resigned herself to the fact neither the keys nor the saw were in the office. While she was rummaging through his paperwork, she was also hoping to find the address of the cabin or some information that could be used to locate her. Initially, her hopes were dashed quite comprehensively. He used white out to conceal each address and company name without exception on every last letterhead and document in the office. She strained her eyes in an attempt to read through the white-out to no avail. There was one piece of information, however, that could prove to be very helpful. He failed to erase the name to which one of the letters was addressed. She didn’t know whether it was his real name or not, but it was possible he used it to purchase the cabin.
Annie thought the most logical place to search next would be his bedroom. Since the first day he allowed her access to the cabin, it had been her responsibility to clean it from top to bottom. His bedroom was the one exception. The door was always closed. She never dared try to enter and assumed it was locked. Prepared with her makeshift pick and tension wrench she had placed in the pocket of her pajamas, she tried the knob. She had mixed feelings about her chances to find what she was looking for when it turned in her hand and she was able to open the door. She was happy to get in, but wondered how likely it was he would keep something precious to him behind an unlocked door. There was only one way to find out. She sifted through every drawer of his dresser, taking each item of clothing out, then replacing it to its original position. She found some keys only to realize they were too small for padlocks. Then, she searched under the bed an
d every other piece of furniture in the room with no luck.
Inside his closet, the clothes were meticulously color-coordinated in order of the type of garment. She checked the pockets of each and every pair of pants, shirt and jacket and found nothing but empty space. Annie finally felt a ray of hope when she found a lockbox behind some folded T-shirts on one of the upper shelves above the hanging clothes. She used one of the keys from the dresser drawer and was able to open it. It was a minor blow that it contained only cash and quite a bit of it for that matter.
With her options running out in his bedroom, Annie was beginning to wonder if the key could possibly be hidden somewhere outside. If that were the case, she doubted she would ever find it. The property was way too vast to be able to search efficiently in the amount of time she had. There weren’t many other places to look that she hadn’t already scrubbed clean. The only other possibility was if he constructed some type of secret hiding place inside the walls or under a panel of the wood flooring. Before she even considered going out into the subzero temperatures, she would examine those areas.
Annie continued her work with unshakable resolve. She refused to give up hope until he walked through the front door. The master bedroom was as good as any other place to start. Once again, she scoured his private space, pushing, tapping and listening to every inch of floor and wall space. The inspection turned up zilch. She looked at his alarm clock on the night stand next to his bed and was shocked to see she had been in his room for more than two hours. At that point, she couldn’t help but feel the tightness of anxiety in her chest. The cabin covered more than three-thousand square feet. The bedroom was maybe fifteen percent of the living space. To continue in this manner would mean it could take her well into the night to finish. If she could just find the key to the shed, everything would go a lot faster. Not ready to give up, she hurried back to the office and repeated the process of checking the floors and walls. After wasting another hour, it also proved to be fruitless. She was quickly arriving at the juncture where she might have to consider placing a letter to the postman in the mailbox without the murder weapon even though it wouldn’t ensure Daniel’s release from prison.