A woman stood in front of Natalie, a long knife in her hands. She was tall, five-ten, and naturally thin, her figure slight, with long, thick, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A few pieces had come loose and hung around her face. She was wearing shorts and a tank top under a clear plastic apron. The apron and much of the exposed skin on her legs and arms were splattered and smeared with blood. She looked like she’d just walked off the set of a horror movie. Only this wasn’t Hollywood, and this wasn’t make-believe. That blood was real. And Natalie’s fear was real.
Worse still, I could identify the woman wielding those torture tools. I’d spent the last three days running all over town, flashing her photo and asking questions. She was Danielle Dillon. When Amerson had assigned her to me in hopes that I’d run into her, this wasn’t how I envisioned our meeting.
Natalie screamed again, and I felt my belly roll. I didn’t have time to be surprised or disappointed. Natalie needed help, and she needed it now. I’d seen two other kitchens recently that left me with absolutely no doubt about Natalie’s fate.
At that thought, I felt a tickling at the edge of my brain. I reached for it, but it eluded me. Without time to waste, I pushed it aside and moved off the patio.
I cut across the darkest part of the yard to the other side of the patio, continuing around the house. As I peeked in windows, I saw no sign of any other occupants, which worried me. Young’s Jaguar was out front; he was here somewhere.
I’d seen a security keypad near the front door and knew the system wasn’t armed. But it might still help me. I had every intention of going inside to get Natalie, but it felt uncomfortably like walking into a trap. I thought I’d feel better about it if I had a contingency plan.
I went to the small box on the side of the house and pulled out my pocketknife. A lot of security systems these days have built in fail-safes, one being an automatic alert sent to police if the system goes offline. I cut the main power line and hoped like hell it was true of this system.
There were only two doors to the house: the front and the patio door. There were a couple accessible windows, but a door would be faster. And from the kitchen, Dillon wouldn’t see me enter through the front. I hurried back around the house, drew my gun, and eased it open slowly.
There was another scream followed by terrified whimpering. I heard another voice speaking but was too far away to make out any words. It was a constant struggle to keep my wits about me; my heartbeat and breathing were too fast.
I moved through the house to the left, cutting through an unlit plush sitting room and through an arched doorway into an enormous and dark formal dining room. Light poured in from another arched doorway on the other end of the room, opening to what I guessed was the kitchen, given the location and the tiled floor.
As I neared the second doorway, I crouched, peering carefully around the corner. I had eyes on Dillon, still in the kitchen with Natalie. But I hadn’t yet come across Young.
There were stairs near the front door, but from the outside, I knew there were no lights on up there. And from what I could tell, the only light on this level was coming from the kitchen and one of the rooms off the hallway to the left. My instincts told me Young was in this house. It seemed likely he was down the hall, wherever that second light source was. Dillon had something I wanted. If I could locate Young, maybe I’d have something she’d trade for.
I waited, watching Dillon for an opportunity. Finally, she went to the stove, turning her back to me. I stood and bolted out of the dining room and down the hall. I was careful to make no sound, and Natalie was too hysterical to notice me.
Gun in front of me, I moved quickly down the hall, making a beeline for the lit room. When I arrived, I discovered it was a bedroom, likely the master suite, and it was empty. Moving through it, I went to the bathroom, which was also lit. I eased the door open, wondering if I’d surprise Lyle Young on the can, and went in. In the end, it was me who got the surprise.
Young was nowhere to be found, but Priscilla Casimir was sprawled in the bathtub, covered in blood and paler than I’d ever seen her. Cursing a blue streak under my breath, I crouched beside the tub, feeling for her pulse. I held my breath as I waited to feel the beat of life in her artery.
Growing up, I’d wanted nothing more than for Priscilla to die. But I’ve had a lot of time since then to learn what that really means, and now I don’t wish death on anyone, not even people worse than Priscilla. And, as much as I hate to admit it, there are people out there worse than Priscilla Casimir. Not to mention, I was almost certain whatever had happened to her had been the direct result of knowing me, which left me feeling responsible for her. I was serious when I said I didn’t want any more bodies on my conscience, not even Priscilla’s.
I was reluctant to think she was dead, but I’d pretty much reached that conclusion until finally I felt the faintest thump on the side of my finger. I adjusted the placement of my fingers and finally found her pulse, which was beating strong and regular. If she hadn’t been covered in blood, slumped on the bottom of a stranger’s bathtub like a discarded, grotesque doll, I would have thought she was just sleeping.
I wanted to revive Priscilla and get her out of the house while Dillon was occupied, but another scream rolled through the house, and I was reminded just how Dillon was occupied. Leaving Priscilla where she was, I left the bathroom. I still hadn’t found Young, but I didn’t have any more bright ideas about where he might have been lurking. It was time to confront Dillon. And I hoped she wouldn’t make me kill her.
19
I made my way back down the hallway. When I came into the kitchen, Dillon had her back to me, bent over Natalie, whispering something in her ear, almost romantically. But I could see Natalie trembling, and I knew Dillon’s words were full of terror, not love.
“Please, don’t,” Natalie sobbed. “Please, please, no.”
Dillon stood upright and pressed a knife to Natalie’s shoulder.
“No!” Natalie cried. “No, please!”
“Excuse me.”
Dillon jerked around. “You!” she snapped.
“Me,” I said. “Listen, I hate to interrupt, but my friend and I need to be leaving. I’m sure you understand.”
Dillon smirked, her brown eyes dark. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped around Natalie and held the knife to her throat. Natalie whimpered.
“I’m not finished yet,” Dillon said.
“I will shoot you.”
Suddenly, Dillon’s stare darted behind me, and her smirk widened to a wicked smile. I thought I knew where Lyle Young was now.
“No, you won’t,” Dillon said with a confidence that was almost taunting.
I felt something unmistakable press against the back of my head.
“Drop it,” Young said.
I complied, the heavy gun clattering to the tile as I raised my hands.
“I got her, babe,” Young said, and I hoped he was looking at Dillon.
I spun around and knocked the gun aside. It flew out of Young’s hand and slid across the floor. At the same time, I let loose a series of blows to his torso and head, then swung back with a roundhouse kick. Young’s head snapped to the side, and he was unconscious before he hit the tile.
I knelt and grabbed up the Glock, raising it in front of me as Natalie screamed. As I sighted Dillon, I could see blood running down Natalie’s neck from under the knife Dillon still held there.
“I’ll kill her,” Dillon said, something in her eyes now that almost resembled glee. To prove her point, she pressed the knife tighter.
Natalie was sobbing, beyond hysterical, consumed by fear.
Before I could really think about it, I had dropped the gun a second time. “Okay, okay,” I said, holding my hands up. “Stop.”
Too late, I realized I was suffering from the same handicap I’d been afraid Amerson would have. I cared about Natalie, and it was affecting my judgment. I hoped it didn’t get us both killed.
Dillon smiled like a gloating v
ictor and released some pressure on the knife.
“Very good,” she cooed. “Now, bring a chair over here.”
I rose and got a chair from the kitchen table, a solid oak one, and placed it where she directed. Then she nodded at the duct tape on the island, next to all her torture tools.
“Tape yourself to the chair,” she directed. “Feet first, then one hand. And no funny business.” She pressed the knife into Natalie’s neck for effect.
But I was already complying. Or, mostly complying.
“Tighter,” she said. “Don’t fuck with me.”
I did as instructed, taping both legs and my left arm to the chair. When I was finished, she moved away from Natalie, dropping the knife onto the island with the others. If she wanted me to stay in this chair, my other wrist would need to be taped, too, and she’d have to do that herself. But if she thought it was any safer for her now that I was down to just one hand, she was seriously mistaken. Of course, my window of opportunity would be very narrow; I’d have to be very accurate. I thought I could be.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Dillon said. “And you came to me. What a treat.”
She walked over, as excited as a kid with a new toy. When she was within striking distance, I tossed the tape at her then swung my fist. I saw her eyes flit to the tape and watch it come toward her, then, suddenly, to something behind me. My first blow was perfect; Dillon was winded and dropped to her knees. But before I could strike again, I felt something connect with the back of my head and everything went black.
When I came back around, the first thing I’d been aware of was the horrendous pain in my head. Once the initial waves of pain and subsequent nausea passed, I became aware of other things. I heard bubbling and muttered talking.
I discovered I was still taped to the chair and both Danielle Dillon and Lyle Young were upright. Guess this went to prove Ellmann’s point: one little misstep could totally upend a situation, no matter how capable I am or incapable my opponent is. And I’m not invincible, however inconvenient that is.
Dillon stood with Young near the island, their heads together, discussing something. Natalie was gone, as was the chair she’d been taped to. There were marks in the blood on the floor that indicated her chair might have been dragged from the room, in the direction of the hallway. Perhaps she was being stored in the master bathroom with Priscilla.
I began to test the integrity of my bindings. From what I could tell, no one had added any tape to the limbs I’d secured, though there was quite a bit more tape on my right arm. Still, everything felt depressingly secure. I leaned to one side and then the other, testing the chair to determine how solid it was. I felt just a tiny bit of give in it when I moved from side to side, enough to keep my spirits up.
I knew my first objective needed to be getting free of the chair. While I was strapped here, I was a sitting duck. I didn’t have any illusions about what would happen to me now that it was my turn in the kitchen. Not only did I want to avoid this, but I thought it was time to get help. Clearly the security alarm thing had not panned out, otherwise the police would have shown up by now.
Young shot a glance in my direction and saw me watching him. He stood and ambled over.
“You’re awake,” he said. “I thought it’d be longer.”
“Sorry if I’m not cooperating. I find all my kidnappers have that complaint. My head hurts, Lyle. That was a good little smack you gave me.”
He smirked and pulled the gun I’d knocked out of his hand earlier from his waistband. Now that I had time for a good look, I recognized it. It was mine. It was my gun. Which added insult to injury, the bastard.
“If you think you’re in pain now,” he said, “just wait ’til she gets started on you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass on the entertainment portion of the evening. I’ll take my gun and my friend and get out of your hair.”
That gun had been in the drawer beside my bed last time I’d seen it. At some point, Young, or perhaps Dillon, had been in my house. Which meant first thing Monday, if I didn’t go to jail, I was having a security system installed. What had the world come to?
Of course, Dillon said she’d been looking for me. It made sense she’d been to my house. And I suspect it had been Young at the Conrad house earlier. He likely followed me from here, after I’d come around asking about Heather Neuman. What I wasn’t totally clear on is why they wanted me.
What I know about torture can’t fill a thimble, but here it is. Torture serves some kind of purpose. That purpose may simply be the pleasure the torturer gets from the act. In other cases, it may be used as a method for brainwashing.
The human mind has a breaking point. That breaking point is different for each person, but once it’s reached, it’s possible for someone else to reach inside that broken mind and rearrange the furniture, or even redecorate altogether. The pain and powerlessness that come from torture are an effective way of accomplishing this.
Torture is also used as a means of extracting information. Either, “Tell me what I want to know or I’ll hurt you,” or, “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll stop hurting you.” This is also very effective, since the human mind is inherently programmed with an aversion to pain.
I guessed this was an information-extraction situation—that they wanted something from me. But I didn’t know what. If I knew something, I didn’t know I knew.
Young stuffed the gun into his waistband then marched around and grabbed the back of the chair. He tipped it back then dragged me roughly across the tile to the spot Natalie had occupied previously. He let go of the chair, and it banged back to the tile violently. I threw my weight forward and felt the strain on the joints of the chair. Perfect.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Dillon said, smiling.
“Maybe I should tell you the story of the last time I was kidnapped. Although, I don’t think you’ll like it. It didn’t have a happy ending for the kidnappers.”
Dillon looked at Young, still standing behind me, and tipped her head. Immediately I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced back and saw Young leave the kitchen.
Dillon brought another chair over from the table and sat down near the island. The pot on the stove was bubbling. The instruments laid out on the island were sharp and painful looking, several of them bloody. Dillon crossed her legs then folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m afraid I’m only interested in one story,” Dillon said.
“You have a thing for kitchens,” I said, looking at the blood covering her and the floor.
That same tickling sensation happened again in the back of my mind. But this time it was much closer. As I looked at the floor and at her, I remembered the Conrads’ kitchen and Grandma Porter’s kitchen. Then the tickling turned into a sharp sting as the thoughts came together in my head.
The Conrads and Grandma Porter were not the only two kitchen crime scene cases I’d come across recently. I’d read a newspaper article about a woman found murdered in her kitchen, a woman whose body showed signs of torture. That woman had once been Desirae Dillon’s boss.
I looked up again at the woman sitting before me. She was smiling darkly.
“They say the kitchen is the heart of the home,” she said. “I say the kitchen has the best tools.”
__________
I took a deep breath and forced myself to think.
The woman in front of me looked like the woman in the photo I’d been flashing all over for the last three days, the woman I believed to be Danielle Dillon. But this woman was covered in blood and seemed to delight in inflicting pain on people. Remembering what I knew to be true about the victims of abuse, and what I knew about Danielle Dillon so far, I had concluded she was the third type, the type that fights back. I’m not an expert, but torturing people isn’t the same as standing up for yourself.
After reading about Desirae Dillon in the old newspaper articles, I’d concluded that she, also the victim of abuse, had become the first type, t
he type that becomes the abuser. Torturing people seemed much more the speed of that type of person. Despite my current circumstance, I stood by these conclusions. Then it hit me.
Grandma Porter had a photo album in her drawer. When I’d looked through it, I’d only seen one girl: Danielle Dillon. But I’d only known it was Danielle Dillon because the girl in those photos was the same as the girl in the police photo I had. My mistake had been believing there was only one girl. There was only one face. Two girls, one face: twins. Danielle and her sister Desirae were identical twins. This made a lot of sense, because I’d wondered why a grandmother would only have pictures of one granddaughter.
This wasn’t Danielle Dillon sitting in front of me. This was Desirae Dillon.
In a small, distant part of my brain, I was disappointed, because this meant I still hadn’t found Danielle.
“Tell me,” I said. “How does one progress from arson to torture?”
“I see you’ve been doing some reading,” she said. “Lyle did say you knew too much. You have a way of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
I nodded. “I get that sometimes. That guy you killed when you were eighteen, was that the first time you killed someone?”
“What is this, therapy?” she asked, standing.
“Probably more like an interrogation, but we could split the difference and call it an ‘interview’ if that would make you feel better.”
She scoffed and went to the island. She picked up a particularly long knife and carried it to the stove, where she deposited it in the pot.
“What made you start torturing people?” I asked. “Your first kill, you used fire. Why change?”
“Any time you do something more than once, you get better at it.”
“Why kill at all?”
“When I was thirteen, I watched that old hag, Martha, kill my uncle.”
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 24