Web of Lies

by Brandilyn Collins

  Before we could change our minds, Jenna returned the officer’s call. “Could you hand your phone to Mr. Waking for a moment?” She paused. “Hi, this is Jenna Gerralon, Annie Kingston’s sister.” She pounded out the words like a no-nonsense judge. “We’re going to let you in. But if you don’t behave yourself, I’m throwing you right back out. Got it?”

  She punched off the line and tossed her head. “Here goes. You two better crank up your prayer machines.”

  Chapter 33

  Milt Waking might as well have entered a lions’ den. Jenna opened the door, shoulders arched, claws ready if the man made one false move. I hung behind her, glaring and wary. Chelsea lurked off to the side, arms crossed. Milt made eye contact with each of us, surprise flitting across his face, then quickly fading. “Ladies.” He dipped his head, and that charm-ridden Waking smile spread across his movie-star features. His thick dark hair was perfectly combed, as if he stood before the camera. “Thank you for seeing me.” His gaze wandered back to Jenna and hung there, approval in his brown eyes. She stared up at him, features stern. But her shoulders sank the tiniest bit. Milt’s eyes warmed and he smiled wider.

  Uh-oh. I saw that spark.

  My sister lifted her chin. “I’m Jenna. I suppose you’ve deduced that.”

  He inclined his head like a prince to a princess. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  They gazed at each other.

  Jenna swept her arm toward me. “You know my sister, Annie Kingston.”

  “Yes, of course, nice to see you again. And Ms. Adams. It’s been a while.”

  Chelsea muttered a stiff greeting.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Waking.” Jenna lifted a hand toward the furniture around the fireplace. “You need something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. And call me Milt.”

  He trod across the hardwood floor, hands clasped, feigned humility blanketing his shoulders. He stood about six one, wearing casual khaki pants and a designer knit shirt. Traveling clothes. I’d never seen him in anything but the suit and tie of his profession. He seated himself on the end of a couch, knees apart. Even in his purposeful casualness a certain power emanated from him. This was a man who knew his own charisma and how to use it. The effect may have held little sway over Chelsea and me, but I could already see the churnings within my sister.

  Why had I let this man in my house?

  Milt’s gaze traveled around the room. “You’ve got a great-looking place here.”

  “Thank you.” I sat in the armchair between the two couches, Milt on my left. Chelsea chose to sit to my right, as far away from Milt as she could get. Jenna slipped onto the other end of the couch Milt had taken, angling her body slightly toward him.

  I took a deep breath. “All right, we have no time for games. Why are you here and what do you want? And we expect the truth.”

  “Fine, I’m going to lay all my cards on the table.” He raised his eyebrows, sincerity his middle name.

  Chelsea gave him a look: That’ll be the day.

  “First, let me tell you what’s happened to me since the Salad King case.” He cleared his throat. “As you can imagine, I found myself in high demand. First I moved up to anchorman for our San Francisco station, then went to FOX News. I took that job with one quid pro quo, which I’ll tell you in a minute.” He flashed a little smile at Jenna. “Two years ago, Annie, you made national headlines. Then a second and third time. But I was always on the other side of the country.” Milt turned his hands palm up. “So I told my boss the next time you came up in the news, I had to be here.”

  I pressed back in my chair, trying to keep my face impassive. He couldn’t possibly understand what his words did to me. Every time I’d ended up in danger, I promised myself it would never happen again. Now to hear from a reporter this was simply a given? Indignation spiraled through me. I was a person. A sister and a mother. Not some sensational news story waiting to happen.

  Milt laced his fingers. “So I started watching this area. Making some contacts.”

  Contacts. In other words, sources who’d leak him information.

  “I’ve been covering a story in San Diego. I saw the local article about you witnessing a crime. I checked with my producer, saying I may need to come up here. Then I read this morning’s Redding paper. All the stuff about you two.” He looked to Chelsea. “Your vision, your photo with Annie. I took the next plane.” He spread his hands.

  “And the quid pro quo?” Distrust laced Jenna’s tone.

  Milt looked at Chelsea. “Ms. Adams, you shouldn’t find it hard to believe I’ve been watching for news of you too. My condition for leaving the Bay Area was — ” a sheepish expression crossed his face — “if you ever made headlines again, I’d be able to drop everything to pursue the story. So when I saw both of you, together, I knew something was really up.”

  No doubt. He must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Chelsea eagled-eyed Milt but said nothing. Jenna crossed her arms. “So what do you want from us? You’ve got your contacts — go talk to them.”

  “True, but . . .” Milt turned to me. “I want to know what you need.”

  Chelsea stared at him in disbelief. “We don’t need anything from you.”

  “Yes, you do.” Milt looked her in the eye. “I know you don’t like me, Ms. Adams. But you let me in here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you thought I might help you in some way.”

  Chelsea dropped her gaze. Jenna’s expression showed grudging admiration that Milt had seen through her before he even walked in the door. I sought a zinger, some comment caustic enough to shoot down this man’s grandiose notions. But my tongue lay dead.

  Milt sought each of our faces. “Have you talked to anybody in the Police Department today after these stories hit? Do you know what’s going on?”

  Here it came — reining us in with knowledge we were desperate to have. I gave him a slow blink. “I suppose you do.”

  He scratched his cheek. “Well, I know a few things. Like the findings of the department’s handwriting expert? He compared that threatening note to some of Orwin Neese’s handwriting. The results are inconclusive. Not surprising, I suppose, with that purposeful block lettering. Still, the police have no reason to think it wasn’t written by Neese.”

  An analysis of the note already? Blanche hadn’t even bothered to tell me. Not that it mattered; we knew Neese left the note. But how had Milt found this out so soon?

  Sudden reality sledgehammered my chest. No matter what we did, Milt Waking was going to get his story. He’d plaster my face and Chelsea’s on national news — and there wasn’t one thing we could do to stop it.

  Oh, God, help.

  Milt sighed. “I have to be honest with you. The police aren’t going to talk to you much anymore. They’ve clamped down, particularly after your phone conversation with Blanche this afternoon.”

  Violation heated my cheeks. “Who told you about that?”

  He shrugged. “From what I hear, Tim Blanche is a real controlling guy. He doesn’t want people thinking he’ll fall for this ‘vision from God’ stuff.” Milt leaned forward. “Which means he’s not going to give that drawing to the paper.”

  “Mr. Waking — ” Chelsea sounded cool — “I don’t see how you expect to impress us with all this inside knowledge. You’re only succeeding in violating our privacy.”

  He shook his head. “Ms. Adams, I know you believe in that vision of yours. But surprise, surprise, the police aren’t listening. So here I am — coming to your rescue.” He turned to me. “I know you’ve got a copy of that drawing. Forget Blanche; give the drawing to me. I’ll put it on national TV, where everyone will see it.”

  My mouth dropped open. What had this man done, bugged our kitchen? “Why in the world would I join forces with you?”

  Milt spread his hands. “Let’s drop the pretenses, shall we? You obviously believe in Ms. Adams’s vision. I’ve seen her in action enough to believe it too. I don’t understand it, but I believe
it.” He leaned toward Chelsea, voice intensifying. “You’ve been in this position before — when the police wouldn’t listen. And what did you do? You took matters into your own hands because you had to. Now you need to again.”

  Chelsea stared. “Odd, but I hadn’t come to that conclusion.”

  “Yet. But you were headed there.”

  “Uh, Mr. Know-it-all-reporter,” Jenna cut in. “You seem to forget that wouldn’t be Chelsea’s call. The drawing belongs to Annie.”

  Milt offered her a hint of a smile, then turned to me.

  “She’s right.” I shook my head. “And I’m afraid my hands are tied. There are ethics in my field, Mr. Waking.” Unlike yours, my tone implied. “It’s not appropriate for a forensic artist to — ”

  Chelsea’s breath hitched. I glanced at her and stilled. Her face had gone slack, eyes glazing. “Chelsea?”

  Her mouth opened but no sound came.

  “What’s wrong?” Jenna started to rise.

  Milt laid a hand on her arm. “Wait, I know that look. She’s having a vision.”

  Chapter 34

  The dirt ants were back.

  Somehow he had to ignore them. Too much work to do.

  He stood in his basement, panting. The door to the little room was closed. All his creepy crawly friends were in there now, doing their thing.

  Little ant feet pricked up his ankles. He swiped them away. No, no, you’re not here, you’re not!

  Quit thinking about ’em. Focus on the future. The truth would die here, that’s what mattered. He’d be safe again. He could go back to doing fun stuff. Get himself a steady woman. Start traveling again, maybe leave this town for good. They could end up anywhere — Africa, South America, Timbuktu. She’d have to be loyal. Take real good care of him . . .

  Tiny legs scurried on his bare feet, like cold needles. “Get off!” He doubled over, scrubbed at a foot with both hands. His heart did that funny grind thing, started to pound.

  Okay, okay. I can handle this.

  He sank down on the floor. Pulled both pant legs up to his knees. See? Nothing there.

  Man, he had to beat this thing before he ended up in the loony bin. Fact was, those people deserved to die. They’d gotten in his way, so he took care of them. Big deal. He wasn’t some mama’s boy. Some haunted soul. He didn’t even have a soul.

  Hey —

  His head jerked at a terrible thought.

  What if Chelsea Adams could see him right now? What if she told everybody about the dirt ants and the long showers? His fingers curled into his palms. People would laugh at him. Think he was psycho.

  Anger blazed in his stomach. He arched his back, giving himself room to breathe. You wanna watch, Chelsea Adams? Fine. I’ll show you what I can do.

  “So, uh . . . Amy!” He threw the words toward the closed door. “Any poisonous ones get you yet?” He barked out a laugh. It felt so good, he laughed a second time. Silence answered him. “Not talking, I see. So how about you, man-without-a-name? Did you know that’s what they’re calling you? How many times have you been bitten?”

  Snickers and guffaws rolled off his lips.

  Way to go, man. He felt better already. This was the ticket. Every time those dirt ants came, he’d just show ’em who was boss.

  Hey.

  His neck straightened. And his spine. He pulled his hands into his lap. Sat still, closed his eyes . . .

  Feeling . . .

  Nothing on his feet.

  The dirt ants were gone.

  He examined his ankles to be sure. Nothing. Not one prickly feeling.

  It worked.

  “Hah!” He scrabbled to his feet, elated. He’d hit on something. He’d really found it!

  The power lay in the role, man; it was all in the role. He just had to keep playing it.

  Grinning, he slapped off the lights and headed for the stairs.

  “Bye now!” he singsonged to the door of the little room. “Bye, Amy; bye, man-without-a-name. Bye-bye till you die-die!”

  Hammering the stairwell with a victorious fist, he bounced up the steps toward civilization.

  Chapter 35

  Chelsea fell headlong into the vision . . .

  And landed with a sickening crack.

  What?

  Where?

  Sensations flooded her. Evil. All around her. Within her.

  No!

  She ventured a terrified gaze — and saw the world through his eyes.

  The oppression within him enclosed her, wrapped clammy hands around her neck. His mind writhed with paranoia, hatred, malevolence. He would deceive and plan and kill. Anything to protect himself.

  Scenes of him formed, flipping from one to the next, like TV channels. He

  hunches over a kitchen table, reading the newspaper. Seething, stunned. Forming his next move.

  Flip. He

  croons at spiders in a glass terrarium, fascinated by them and their ability to wound. Using a stick, he captures them into a jar. They will go down to his basement, into the little room.

  Flip.

  He is scrubbing at his feet, panic-stricken, mind screaming that he will overcome.

  Flash, he’s

  yelling at Amy and the “man-with-no-name” through the closed door. “How many times have you been bitten?”

  The scenes froze.

  Disappeared.

  A powerful force ripped Chelsea from the man’s horrifying mind. She spun . . . tumbled . . . landed outside on the ground. There she stared at an oval window, then its surroundings . . .

  Her world undulated.

  The vision faded.

  Her next sensation was the feel of the couch beneath her legs.

  Annie’s house?

  Chelsea couldn’t move. The evil of the man’s soul lingered, nibbling at her lungs. Help me, God, please!

  She opened half-focused eyes.

  Navy blue fabric. Her pants.

  Hands in a lap. Her own.

  Someone called her name. She lifted her head, feeling the return to her own body as if she’d fallen from an alien planet.

  “Chelsea. Are you all right?”

  Annie’s voice. Chelsea blinked at her, dazed. Her tongue felt thick. “Yes. Yes, I’m . . . here now.”

  Her gaze pulled to Milt Waking, who ogled her with a half-open mouth. Two words surged into Chelsea’s mind, quiet words of thunderous authority.

  Tell him.

  Chapter 36

  I stared at Chelsea, my breath caught. “I’m here now”? Where had she gone?

  Jenna half rose. “Chelsea! Talk to us!” Milt craned his neck like some jack-in-the-box waiting to spring, bristling with anticipation. I could have punched him.

  Chelsea lay a trembling hand across her cheek. Swallowed. “I . . . I saw him. I was inside his mind. He was yelling at Amy and the man through a door. Taunting them.”

  She shuddered, drew her arms across her chest. My mind spun. Taunting two captives? Then Orwin Neese did have them both. And they were still alive.

  “What did you see, what did you see?” Milt could barely contain himself.

  Chelsea shivered. “It was the same man. But this time I felt his thoughts. He’s so terrified of being caught, and he’ll kill to keep that from happening.” She focused on me. “Then I saw scenes of him. Sort of like I was in his head and watching him on TV at the same time. He saw the paper this morning and didn’t like what he read. People are going to pay.” Her eyes grew distant. “I saw him standing before terrariums that held different kinds of spiders. He was taking spiders out of them, putting them into jars. He’s going to release them in that little room.”

  The words hit me like rampant electricity. Jenna and I exchanged a horrified glance.

  “Wait, wait — you mean the little room with the shelves?” Milt spoke rapidly, as if to pull everything he could from Chelsea before she clammed up. “Where he’s keeping those two people?”

  “Chelsea, don’t answer.” I seared him with a look. “You alr
eady got more than you bargained for, Milt. I think it’s time you left.”

  “No.” Chelsea’s voice firmed. She straightened. “No, Milt, don’t go. Annie, he needs to stay.”

  I gawked at her. “Why?”

  “Because he’s supposed to know. Don’t you see the timing? It’s God’s planning, Annie. I have to tell him.”

  No, huh-uh. This “timing” was sheer bad luck. Coincidence. And I wanted Milt Waking out of my house. “I don’t think — ”

  “I saw something new, something important.” Chelsea raked in a breath. “Remember the oval window? I saw it from the outside. The top half is just above ground level, and there’s a semicircular well cut out of the dirt at its lower half, with a little stone retaining wall. I was sitting near that well, looking down, so I could see the whole window. At the bottom of the well is cement, with a drain.”

  “The room must be in a basement,” Jenna breathed. “Would you recognize that window if you saw it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Unusual shape.” Milt spoke half to himself. “Why would a basement window be oval?”

  Chelsea shook her head, then looked meaningfully at me. I blinked at her, beginning to understand. The police should be told about the window. It was a solid lead.

  And one Blanche would never listen to.

  Sickness coiled through my stomach. Now what? Why had God placed us in such an untenable position? The police wouldn’t want to hear our story, while here sat Milt Waking, a reporter, hanging on Chelsea’s every word. If the situation weren’t so frightening, I’d laugh.

  Almost.

  Milt rubbed his chin, as if already spinning the news story. “How many homes in this area have basements? I’d bet not that many.”

  “Maybe not a total basement, but it could be like ours.” Jenna gestured toward the door leading downstairs. “That lower level is a basement in front, but a walk-out in back because the lot slopes. You see only two stories from the front of the house, but three from the back.” She pushed to her feet and paced toward the fireplace, energy bristling from her. “The room Chelsea saw could be toward the middle of a basement, where the lot has leveled down some, but not completely.”