The Inquisitor

by Gayle Wilson

  Despite the chill in the air, Jenna’s body was covered with sweat. Although she couldn’t see the wrist she’d worked raw against the tape, she believed that part of the moisture she could feel on it was blood.

  Undeterred, she continued to twist and turn her arm. The wetness, whatever its cause, should make it easier to slip her hand out of the bonds. The tape had already stretched enough to encourage her to redouble her efforts. If only—

  There was another of those incremental relaxations of the plastic. Heartened by that success, she once more attempted to pull the widest part of her hand through the opening.

  This time it moved. Not a lot, but enough to tell her that, despite his record of successes, the Inquisitor wasn’t invincible. She used every remaining ounce of strength she possessed to try to pull her arm out of the grip of the tape.

  Almost. Almost…

  She folded her thumb against her palm, at the same time applying as much pressure as she could. Unbelievably, she felt her hand slip free.

  In spite of her work and determination, she was stunned at the success. She lifted her arm, holding it in front of her face. Her wrist looked as if it had been through a meat grinder. Only when a drop of blood fell onto her chin did her sense of urgency replace her euphoria.

  She reached up, trying to locate by feel the end of the tape that was wrapped around her head. Her fingers searched along every inch, moving from side to side as far as she could reach. Obviously that was not far enough.

  She changed tactics, inserting her thumb under the tape to push it upward as she twisted her neck in an attempt to pull her head free. The maneuver was immediately effective at the cost of nothing more damaging than a few strands of hair entangled in the adhesive.

  Elated, she started to sit up and was quickly reminded of the injury to her right arm. Moving gingerly, she propped herself on her right elbow, ignoring the pain as she tried to free her other hand. That necessitated reaching under the mattress to find and then unwrap the tape that secured it to the metal framework of the bed.

  Now only her feet remained bound. Using her good arm, she pushed herself into a sitting position, cradling the right against her body. As she did, the bedsprings creaked. She froze once more, listening for a reaction.

  After a moment—all she dared to wait—she began to struggle to untie her ankles, which had been bound by looping the tape around the wooden slats of the footboard. Working left-handed, she found the end and unwound it. Once that was done, she threw the sticky mess to the side.

  Moving carefully in an attempt to keep the springs silent, she swung her legs off the bed, conscious of the soft noise she was making. Seated on its edge, she paused again. The sound of the water was still there, but she could hear nothing else.

  As she eased herself off the bed, its metal springs made one last protest. High on the rush of adrenaline created by the fact that she was free, she didn’t hesitate this time.

  She ran to the window, pushing the limp curtain aside to see out. Firewood was stacked directly under the sill. Beyond it stretched a dense wood, mostly pines and other southern conifers.

  Daylight, she realized. With the way the sun was filtered by the trees, however, she couldn’t begin to guess how late it was.

  She laid her cheek against the cold glass, trying to see if there was a driveway or road nearby. She could see nothing but forest, not even the water she could hear more distinctly now.

  In this case, any unknown, no matter what, was infinitely better than the known. Nothing mattered except getting out of this cabin. And to do that—

  She turned the latch at the top of lower part of the window and tried to push up the sash with her left hand. Even adding what little strength she had in her damaged right, she couldn’t budge it. The wood was either swollen from the surrounding moisture or the window had been painted shut.

  She turned to look for something to break out the glass. Instead, her eyes focused on the closed door of the bedroom.

  If the killer was inside the cabin, with the noise the bed had made, he would have come to investigate. Since he hadn’t, it stood to reason that the house was empty, which meant she didn’t have to go out through the window.

  She examined the conclusion, looking for holes in her logic. If he were somewhere outside, but nearby, the sound of shattering glass might bring him back. Opening the door as carefully as she could, however…

  As the thought had formed she started across the floor, bare feet making no sound on the rough-hewn planks. She stopped at the door, putting her ear against it.

  For a moment she could hear nothing. Then, fainter even than the ever-present noise of running water, came the distant sound of a car’s engine, straining as if to pull up a slope.

  “It’s still early. You can’t expect—”

  “The hell I can’t,” Sean said. “Somebody in this town sold that bastard a house. Or rented him a storage shed. Somebody knows where he takes them. They don’t know it yet, but all they have to do is look at his picture and remember.”

  The local affiliates as well as the cable news stations had been flooding the airways with Evers’s picture since Bingham had put out the APB. The cops were asking anyone who’d had any property dealings with the psychologist to come forward.

  They were also searching the records of every real estate purchase between the time Carlisle had hired him and the first murder, betting that he would have had everything in place long before he’d taken Sandra Reynolds. So far, the media blitz hadn’t produced the results they’d been hoping for.

  “Something like this can take days,” the detective warned.

  “We don’t have days.”

  “Every indication we have is that he keeps them alive—”

  “Don’t,” Sean demanded harshly.

  He didn’t want to hear how long the sadist would keep Jenna alive. He wanted to know where the fuck he was. And when he did—

  “They got a call you should hear.”

  They both looked up at the cop who’d stuck his head into the door of the lieutenant’s office. Sean could read nothing from his expression, but then everybody on the local task force was aware of how grim the situation was.

  “Whatcha got?” Bingham asked, straightening away from the desk he’d propped his hip on as they’d watched the media coverage of the search.

  “Some lady thinks she remembers Evers. She says she may have sold him a cabin on the Warrior.”

  “That wasn’t the name he used. I looked it up to be sure, but the news said he might have used an alias. I’m almost positive it was the same man.”

  “When was this, Ms. Clem?”

  “July, summer before last. Hot as Hades. And I remember getting eaten alive by mosquitoes,” the disembodied female voice on the other end of the phone line said. “He wanted something isolated. That was almost the only requirement. That there were no other places nearby. Peace and quiet, he kept saying. I tried to show him some mobile homes, but he was set on having a house. And he didn’t quibble over the price.”

  “You’re saying you found him a place?”

  In the background papers rustled. “I thought you understood. I told the other gentleman I talked to. I don’t remember his name, but—”

  “You have the address?” Sean broke in, closing his eyes as the words to Hail Mary, something he hadn’t uttered in years, slipped through his brain.

  “I do, but I doubt you’ll be able to locate the place from that. You know how river property is.”

  He didn’t, but he’d be willing to bet that someone in the area’s law enforcement community would. “Just give me what you have. We’ll find it.”

  This time she didn’t hesitate. Since she couldn’t see a road from the window, whoever was approaching wouldn’t be able to see her. As she ran across the room, she grabbed the rush-bottom ladderback that had been pulled to the side of the bedside table.

  It was then that she saw the flat black leather case on top of the nightstand. The con
tainer for whatever he’d drugged her with? Or for something more sinister? The tools of his sick trade?

  The thought lent strength to her swing. Despite that, the chair bounced off the glass, which refused to break. Panicked now, she grasped the rails on either side of the ladderback and, ignoring the jolt of pain through her forearm, brought the seat and the legs as far around as she could.

  This time the window cracked, glass flying out onto the stack of wood. She dropped the chair, reaching through the opening to grab one of the split logs. She used it to knock out the larger pieces that clung to the frame.

  As she worked, she listened, trying to hear the approaching car. She couldn’t, but she knew that she hadn’t been mistaken. Either the Inquisitor was returning or someone else was coming to the cabin. In either case, she needed to be outside.

  She righted the chair and then climbed onto the seat to step across the sill. Holding on to the top of the lower frame, she stepped onto the woodpile, immediately feeling the log she was on shift beneath her foot. It rolled, setting off a chain reaction that sent others tumbling to the ground.

  She fell with them, losing her left-handed grip on the frame. She hit hard, but she scrambled up immediately, stumbling over the scattered wood.

  She still couldn’t see the road, but out here the sound of the car engine was frighteningly close. She bolted toward the line of trees, perhaps ten feet away, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and the cabin.

  She was aware of the roughness of the ground she ran across, but there was nothing she could do about the toll it was taking on her bare feet. The terrain sloped slightly, the forest becoming denser the farther away she got from the clearing where the cabin had been erected.

  Panting, she darted between the trunks. She threw a glance over her shoulder, trying to spot the vehicle she’d heard through the trees. As she did, her toe caught in an exposed root, sending her careening into a massive pine. The right side of her body slammed into the tree, eliciting an outcry, which she cut off by locking her teeth into her bottom lip.

  Although she regained her balance without falling, the onslaught of pain was enough that her forward progress came to a halt. Body hunched, she cradled the injured arm against her stomach, left hand under its elbow. Sobbing, she tried to draw air into her aching lungs.

  Some noise behind her brought her head up. She looked back in the direction from which she’d come. Something was moving along the forest floor, disturbing the pattern of dappled sunlight and shade.

  That was enough to send her forward again. She used her good hand to push off against the trunk, no longer conscious of her injury. She ran, this time concentrating on the ground in front of her. She couldn’t afford to fall again.

  Behind her she could hear the sounds of pursuit. He was crashing through the underbrush, obviously uncaring of how much noise he made.

  She flew, sheer terror driving her flight. The loam under her feet was littered with pinecones, rocks and roots, but she was almost unconscious of her torn and battered feet. There had to be another cabin. A road. Some vestige of civilization.

  She had no idea where she was. Or where she was going. All she knew…

  The sound of the running water had gradually been getting stronger, but still, she was surprised when the woods ended abruptly. She skidded to a stop, the small rocks and dirt disturbed by her feet sliding down the two-foot drop into the water.

  The inlet was perhaps two hundred feet across. On the far side was the same dense growth of pine. She was a relatively good swimmer, but with a broken arm—

  Now that she’d stopped, even above her gasping breaths, even above the sound of the water trickling over the beaver dam, she could hear him behind her. Decision made, she turned to her left, running along the relatively open riverbank. Although her progress was easier, she was too exposed.

  She dared not look back to see how close he was. She knew by sound alone that he was gaining on her. She could hear his breathing, sawing in and out just like hers.

  Her only chance was to cut back into the woods and try to find a house or the road he’d followed here. She’d begun to turn when her bare foot slipped on the layer of rotted vegetation that covered the bank. Thrown off balance, she went down on one knee, the fingers of her left hand scrabbling for purchase that would allow her to pull herself to her feet.

  They didn’t find it. Instead, her right arm was gripped above the elbow and pulled back. The force he applied was enough to turn her so that for an instant she was looking up into his face.

  No longer covered by the ski mask he’d worn last night, his features were distorted by his efforts. Mouth open, stretched into a parody of the pleasant expression he’d always worn, Gary Evers looked down at her for perhaps two or three seconds before he brought his fist back to strike her.

  She dodged so that the blow that would have broken her nose struck the side of her face instead. Ears ringing, she kicked out at him, but her bare toes had little impact. She began to backpedal, feet moving against the slippery slope in an attempt to get away.

  “Stop it,” he yelled, spittle showering her face as he attempted to jerk her upright by exerting an ever greater pressure on her arm.

  She screamed, her eyes closing against the pain. Before she could open them again, another blow exploded under her chin.

  Thirty

  The chopper low-leveled, swooping down until the shallows and deeper barge channels were clearly distinguishable by shadings in the water below. The sound of the blades overhead had kept conversation to a minimum during their journey. The grizzled Jefferson County Sheriff’s deputy, here because of his lifelong knowledge of the river, leaned across to put his mouth near Sean’s ear.

  “Getting close now.” He glanced down at his watch. “The ground units should be approaching the turnoff.”

  The planned assault on Evers’s cabin was two-pronged. Bingham was traveling with the SWAT teams, one of which had been borrowed from the same department as the guide on this particular helicopter unit. This section of the Warrior, which crossed numerous counties and jurisdictions, fell into theirs. Like all the agencies the task force had called on this morning, the sheriff’s department had been more than willing to help.

  “That’s the slough up ahead,” John Vines said, stretching his thin neck in an attempt to see out through the windscreen. “Look just beyond that stand of loblollies, and you should be able to see the road that’ll give ’em access to the property.”

  Sean’s gaze focused in the direction the deputy pointed, searching for the narrow two-lane. When he spotted it, he saw that a flotilla of police cruisers, their light bars flashing, followed its winding ribbon through the trees.

  At this distance, and with the noise the chopper was making, it would have been impossible to hear sirens. He could only hope those units were obeying the orders to maintain radio silence as the rescue attempt was carried out. They’d found a police scanner in Evers’s house and they weren’t taking any chances on repeating the mistake Bingham had made in that earlier raid.

  Evers had been there this morning, as evidenced by the smoke-saturated clothing in the bathroom hamper. That was something Sean had gotten wrong. Evers had apparently been planning to show up for work today. Arrogance or psychosis. And at this point, it hardly mattered.

  The only thing that mattered now was reaching the isolated cabin where they believed Jenna was being held before the psychologist could. No one, not even the FBI profilers, would venture a guess as to how the killer would react to the knowledge that it was finally over.

  “What the hell?”

  Sean’s eyes jerked from the line of cars back to Vines. The deputy was staring through the door on the left side of the helicopter, tension in every line of his body.

  “What is it?”

  “Down there,” Vines shouted to be heard above the dual noises of turning blades and the jet engine.

  Below them on the riverbank a man was struggling to subdue
a kneeling woman. Sean’s recognition of both was instantaneous, his relief so powerful that for a few seconds he couldn’t think about anything other than the fact that Jenna was alive.

  As the chopper began to roll in on them, Evers turned to look up at it, mouth open in shock. Jenna wasted no time in taking advantage of his distraction.

  She struck at his head with her fist. Despite the blow, Evers refused to let go of her other arm. Instead, he turned back to her and twisted it behind her back, using it to force her to her feet.

  It quickly became obvious that she was injured. The hold rendered her incapable of resisting. She almost fell again as Evers began to drag her backward, careful to keep Jenna’s body between his and the helicopter.

  Sean leaned forward, tapping the pilot on the back. When the man glanced over his shoulder, Sean motioned toward the bank, trying to indicate he should set the helicopter down. The pilot shook his head, shouting words Sean didn’t catch.

  “Not enough room,” Vines interpreted, again leaning close. “We can land on the road or in the clearing where the cabin—”

  “Too late.” He wasn’t going to back off long enough to give the bastard a chance to finish what he’d started. The image of the blood pooled under Daniels’s body was too fresh.

  Holy Mother of God, please don’t let him do that to Jenna. Don’t let him kill her when I’m this close.

  Evers was still dragging Jenna along in front of him, using her body as a shield in case they might be desperate enough to take what would be an impossible shot. Despite the season, the mostly conifer forest would be dense enough to provide cover once he reached it.

  “I’m going in.” Sean began to peel off his jacket as he pushed between the deputy and the back of the pilot’s seat, heading toward the side of the chopper that was over the water.

  Vines grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back. “That ain’t the river, son. This time of year, that slough may not be more ’an a couple of feet deep.”