Rebecca’s hair had been blond, the same color as the doll he held.
They knew who The Collector was now. In the hunt, they were light-years ahead of where they’d been even that morning. But a hard wave of disappointment passed through him. They didn’t have the bastard, not yet.
He was still out there somewhere.
37
Eric watched from the doorway as forensics techs sprayed the workshop with Luminol, a chemical agent used to illuminate latent bloodstains. As they dimmed the lights, he felt his jaw clench at the telltale, glowing blue. The vinyl sheeting had protected only the walls. The amount of blood on the floor was shocking.
“Goddamned slaughterhouse,” one of the techs muttered.
The area around the drain in the room’s center was especially revealing. Levi had used a hose and bleach on the concrete after each kill, pushing the blood and water into the grate. A fluorescent cobalt hue practically pulsated around it.
“Get it on video,” Eric instructed somberly. He went back out into the clearing and took a deep breath of humid night air. A sedan with two FBI agents had been covertly stationed on the rural road, in case Levi returned. His vehicle was a black van with Clay County, Florida tags. It was currently missing from the property.
Eric didn’t know yet how Levi had escaped the DMV checks in Maryland and Virginia, but they had his license plate number and the make of his vehicle here. An APB had been issued. It was only a matter of time, unless he was driving around in another stolen car, his van ditched somewhere.
“Macfarlane, we need your sign-off,” another agent called to him.
He went over to an SUV with a raised back door. As lead over the investigation, chain of custody procedure required Eric to sign off on evidence seized and removed from the site. The vehicle held a number of items, already bagged and labeled. His eyes scanned the vials that contained fingernails and teeth, CDs with the audio recordings, the ten dolls taken from Gladys’s bedroom, as well as the knife that had been plunged into her heart. Inside the cinder-block building, it was likely the Luminol would reveal other objects used for torture and murder.
Eric thought of the mess inside the ranch house. For someone compulsively neat, Levi hadn’t attempted to conceal the bodies or clean up. That wasn’t his practice. It was another sign he was losing control.
He signed the evidence forms and then stepped to the edge of the clearing, away from the others where it wasn’t as noisy. In the rural area far removed from city lights, the night sky had darkened to an inky, starless black. Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he requested a patch-through to the deputies watching the beach house.
“What’s the status?” he asked the one who answered the call.
“All’s quiet here, Agent.”
He recognized the deep voice as belonging to the heavier of the two men who’d been assigned the evening duty. “When’s the last time you checked on her?”
“I knocked on the door about a half hour ago. Ms. Hale said she had a headache and was going to lie down for a while. We saw the lights go off in the bedroom a little after that.”
He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly 9:00 p.m. “Let her sleep another twenty minutes. Then go up and tell her I ordered you to stay inside with her. She’s going to argue, but do it anyway.”
“You got it, Agent.”
He closed the phone. Mia wouldn’t be happy about the intrusion, but the scene out here had spooked him and he wanted her in the deputies’ direct line of sight.
Cameron approached, carrying a padded envelope.
“Where was it?”
“Inside one of the drawers in the workbench.” He handed him the unsealed package. Like the others, it was addressed to Eric at the Jacksonville Bureau offices. Something Levi hadn’t yet had a chance to mail, apparently. He wondered if it contained the audio of Anna Lynn Gomez or Karen Diambro’s murder, or both.
“There’s something in it besides the recorder.” Cameron appeared tense. “Like I said, you really pissed him off with the psychological profile.”
Eric opened the envelope and took out the sheet of paper with its familiar, neat script.
You’re a dead man, Macfarlane. I’m going to enjoy making you suffer as much as I did your wife.
At the threat, he simply pressed his lips together. He placed the note back inside the envelope.
“More evidence,” he said tersely.
The bungalow sat like a moonlit seashell, the last in its row of run-down beach houses. From where Allan stood, hidden deep in the shadows of the unrented property, he could hear the tinkle of wind chimes on its porch.
A while ago, one of the deputies had gotten out of the squad car and knocked at the bungalow door. He had briefly glimpsed her sleek, dark hair as she spoke to the man, the sight of her whetting his appetite. Then she’d closed the door again and the deputy had returned to the unit. Jittery, Allan scrubbed a hand over his burning eyes.
The gun equipped with a silencer felt both heavy and thrilling in his hand.
He itched to sneak up on the squad car and take out both men, like the bad guy on a television show. But common sense told him his chances with such an approach were limited. He might get one before the other shot him. And Allan had no intention of dying tonight.
So he continued watching.
Tall pampas grass grew along the edge of the driveway, their white-fringed fronds waving at him in the night air. Nearby, the squad car’s powerful engine was running to keep the air-conditioning going in its interior. Allan leaned against the house’s siding, eyes narrowed, biding his time. He let his dark fantasies entertain him. And they were very dark. He could wait forever—Gladys was no longer his problem. A brief spark of grief ignited, then died out.
Another long stretch of time passed before the unit’s engine died. The driver’s side of the squad car opened again and one of the deputies emerged. Allan stood alert.
“Look, I’m starving,” the deputy said to the one still inside the car. Allan strained his ears to hear. “You go on in. I’m going to make a run to the convenience store around the corner first. You want anything?”
He couldn’t make out the response from the vehicle’s interior, but the one who had exited jogged off down the road. They were going inside. Allan felt his pulse speed up. With the two officers separated, this could be his best—and only—chance.
Although the cruiser’s interior light remained on, the other man hadn’t yet exited. The deputy’s head was bent, as if he were completing paperwork. Another sign this was meant to be.
Now or never.
Leaving the protection of the shadow of the house, Allan crept carefully across the dead-end street, gun poised and avoiding the reach of the streetlight. His blood coursed. He prayed the deputy remained engrossed in whatever he was doing. Reaching the hardy pampas grass, he ducked down behind it and waited.
Finally, the deputy got out and stretched. He was tall and beefy, with a blond crew cut. He lumbered over the sand and grass lawn, passing the metal sign that indicated the bungalow had a security system. Perspiring, his nerves thrumming, Allan stood from his hiding place and fell silently into step behind him. When the man went onto the porch, he quickly advanced. Sensing his presence, the deputy began to whirl, but the tip of the gun barrel pressing against the back of his head made him halt.
“If you want to live, you knock on the door and get her to open up,” Allan ordered in his ear, voice low. “Do it now.”
He jabbed the barrel hard for emphasis. He could feel the deputy quiver in his uniform. Thinking he had gone stupid with fear, he repeated, “Do. It. Now.”
The deputy hesitated, then knocked. Head buzzing with excitement, Allan shrank down behind his larger form. It took a minute, but he saw the curtain move at the front of the house. There were four muted beeps as the alarm was turned off inside.
And then the door opened. He heard her voice.
“Everything’s still fine in here, Deputy. I—”
“You scream and he’s dead.” Allan kicked the door closed behind him.
He grinned at her.
Then he shot the deputy in the back of the head, anyway.
38
The silencer muted the noise, making a satisfying thwap as the man toppled. Blood poured from the wound in his skull, soaking the bristle-blond hair. Allan swung the barrel toward Mia. She looked exquisite—hair disheveled around her face, her mouth open in shock and horror.
With a choked cry, she sprinted down the hallway, her only free path. Allan launched after her, wedging his shoulder into the door she tried to slam closed. He rammed it open with such force she fell backward onto the carpet. His excitement spiked at the terror he saw in her eyes.
Crawling, she reached the rumpled bed and pulled herself up. What was she searching for? Her purse. It lay on the comforter. She was going for her cell phone. Allan lunged and tore the bag from her hands. Cornered, she picked up a brass lamp from the nightstand and threw it at him. He deflected it with his forearm but felt the bruising contact. She’ll pay for that. She dove across the bed, still trying to escape. He caught her by the waistband of her shorts before she made it off the mattress. Screaming, she turned and kicked, her bare heel catching him painfully in the thigh and missing his groin by inches.
He grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her back across the bed, jerking her up. If he didn’t quiet her, the other deputy would hear from outside. Warding off her small fists, he slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand, a bone-jarring blow. She fell back onto the mattress.
Allan leaped on top of her and wrapped his hands around her slender throat. He began to squeeze, thrilling at the bob of her small Adam’s apple under his thumbs. Mia kicked and scratched, gasping for air. He continued choking her, kept his fingers clamped around her throat until her movements grew clumsier and her eyes finally fluttered closed, her hands dropping limply onto the bed.
Breathing hard, he loosened his grip. He wanted her out, not dead. At least not yet. He ran his hands over her soft skin.
His eyes latched on to the bedroom closet. There was a collection of men’s silk ties—tasteful, expensive—hanging inside. Allan went over and removed two. He used the first to bind her wrists together. Already, she was starting to come around. She resisted weakly, coughing as he knotted the second one and forced it between her teeth, tying it at the back of her head.
Then Allan scooped her up and carried her to the closet. Dumping her onto its floor, he slammed the door closed and put a chair under its knob. That should keep her quiet long enough to dispose of deputy number two.
He couldn’t help but smile. Things were going so much better than he’d ever imagined. Before, his only hint of a plan had been to somehow kill the guardsmen and burst through the bungalow’s door, spiriting Mia away as the alarm screeched like a banshee. It would have been a haphazard approach. So much could have gone wrong. Here, hidden snugly inside the house, he had the element of surprise and so much more to gain.
Reentering the living room, he pulled the gun from his waistband and stepped around the deputy’s body that lay facedown in a spreading pool of blood. He was just in time, he thought, as a knock came at the door. Allan peeped out from behind the curtain, liking what he saw. The other deputy stood with hands full, bearing two plastic soda bottles, chips and hot dogs.
He swung the door open, his gun pointed. The man startled.
Thwap.
He fell backward onto the porch. Bright crimson bloomed on the tan uniform. He’d shot him in the chest. Allan looked around for witnesses as the deputy writhed and gasped for air. He saw no one.
“Who sent you inside the house?” Leaning over him, Allan nudged him hard with his shoe and wielded the gun. “On whose orders?”
“Macfarlane,” he managed to croak out. Pink froth formed on his lips. Pleased, Allan shot him a second time, putting him out of his misery.
He picked up the man’s booted feet and dragged him over the threshold and inside, lining him up next to his partner. Then Allan went back out to the porch, noticing the bloodstain on the thick, woven doormat. He flipped it over to hide the mess, then picked up the drinks and food and went back inside.
Looking around the quaint but comfortable interior, Allan removed one of the hot dogs from its paper packaging and took a bite, smiling to himself as he thoughtfully chewed. He had some time to play with her before Macfarlane returned.
And then he would have them both.
Monsters lived in the dark closet. Her mother had told her they liked to eat bad little girls.
Mia banged on the inside of the door, her face wet with tears. “Please, Mommy. I’m afraid! Let me out!”
But all she heard in return was silence.
Mia awoke with a start, disoriented and in blackness, her right cheekbone throbbing as it pressed into the carpeting’s scratchy pile. It took a few seconds for her mind to flash back to what had just occurred.
He was here, inside the house. He’d killed the deputy in front of her.
She couldn’t stop her rising panic. Hot tears leaked from her eyes. All of it came flooding back to her. Her windpipe felt raw and bruised. She’d expected to die right there with him straddling her and his big hands squeezing her throat, but she now realized he was saving her for something far worse. The thought caused a cold sweat to break out on her body. Desperate, she twisted her wrists, trying to loosen the binding as her tongue pushed against the hard knot of fabric in her mouth. She was panting and not getting enough air through her nose, the lack of oxygen feeding her terror. It took all of her willpower to concentrate on her breathing, to force it to slow down or else lose consciousness again.
Good, Mia. In and out.
Managing to get to her knees in the cramped, unlit space, she pushed at the door but it wouldn’t budge. What had happened to the other deputy? Was he dead, too? Or maybe he was looking for her. She had to make some noise. Whimpering through her gag, she pounded on the wooden panel with her bound fists. She prayed for someone to find her before the real-life monster returned.
The low voice that came through the door sent ice water trickling down her spine.
“I can hear you crying, Mia.”
Her heart stopped. Oh, God. No.
“You’ve been a very bad girl. Running away from me. Twice.” He chuckled. “That’s not going to happen again.”
The closet door swung open. His bland face studied her, his pale blue eyes curious and cold. Then he grabbed her by her bound wrists, hauling her to her feet. Mia’s head swam at his closeness. There were spots of blood on his shirt from where he’d shot the deputy at point-blank range. The gun was tucked into the waistband of his chinos.
“You and I have some catching up to do.”
He walked her into the hall, keeping a hand braced firmly on the back of her neck. Her skin was damp with perspiration, and her knees felt like gelatin as he pushed her forward into the living room where the nightmare had begun. Mia cried out, the sound muffled by the cloth in her mouth. The two deputies lay on the floor side by side, a large circle of blood beneath them. More of it flecked the white wall.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a spindle-back, wooden armchair he’d moved from the dining area. The chair now faced the sofa. When Mia hesitated, he dragged her over and shoved her down hard.
She trembled as he strolled around behind her, unsure of what he was about to do.
“If you start screaming, it goes back in. Do I make myself clear?” When she gave a small nod, he untied the gag. She took a quavering breath, filling her lungs with air. He then dropped down on the couch facing her, appearing smug. He pulled her chair closer so their knees touched.
“Do you know who I am?”
She blinked back tears, struggling to fi
nd her voice. Mia knew the answer in her gut.
“Your name…is Allan Levi.” The words were rusty in her damaged throat. When he seemed to be waiting for something else, she added, “You abducted Joy Rourke in front of me twenty-five years ago.”
A chilling smile spread over his face. “You do remember. I was at the group home that day to drop off papers for Mother. I never made it inside. I was too entranced by the little girls sitting on the sidewalk holding hands. So sweet and innocent.”
She wanted to add “helpless.” It was why he’d started out on a child. He reached out and ran possessive hands over her forearms. “You still remind me of a little girl. So small and delicate.”
Biting her lip, she closed her eyes, her skin crawling at his touch.
“Joy was an easy mark. Trusting. But you ran from me. Imagine my surprise when I recognized you in the newspaper all these years later, covering my…work. It was as if it was meant to be. Well, I had to take you, didn’t I?”
She thought of the dead women. Disgust filled her. “How…how did you find me?”
“You mean at this run-down beach shanty? I suspected you weren’t at your apartment, since there were no lights on and you’ve been keeping the place lit like a church on Christmas Eve. But a call to your office receptionist confirmed you were still working, even though I haven’t seen your name in the paper lately. What did they do—bump you down to obits because of me?”
He indicated the two dead men. “When I saw the squad car leaving the employee parking garage yesterday, I suspected you were inside it, being delivered to wherever the FBI had stashed you. I trailed it here, and I’ve been watching and waiting ever since for the right opportunity.”
Her desire to keep working had gotten those men killed.
“You should have come to me that day outside the foster care home.” His clammy hand squeezed her bare thigh. It was all she could do not to use her bound hands to shove him away, but his size and the gun at his side were a constant threat. He leered at her. “I’m not a fan of disobedience.”
Edge of Midnight Page 29