Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  Josephine had painted blood and pain as if she was intimately acquainted with it. But those memories were old. Time for a refresher course.

  ***

  Special Agent Steve Dancer stumbled out of the back door of the Brooklyn PD and climbed into Marsh’s Beemer, his face as white as china clay.

  “You okay?” Marsh asked, cataloguing the lines of strain around the other man’s mouth. He’d been patched up, but still looked like shit.

  Dancer nodded, clearly unable to speak. Closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. The only light was the blotchy liquid reflection of yellow streetlights on the rain-splattered windshield.

  Christ. Marsh couldn’t begin to think what Dancer had gone through, but right now they needed to concentrate on finding Josephine. There was no time for healing, no time for acceptance, or recovery. No time for the man suffering by his side.

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of there, boss.” Dancer twisted his face toward him and peered through the dark interior. “Thanks.”

  If it hadn’t been for Marsh pulling strings, he wouldn’t have for a long time.

  So much for law and order.

  Marsh tightened his hands on the leather steering wheel. The rule of law wasn’t enough to deal with an SOB who twisted the rules and sacrificed people like a chess player sacrificed pawns. Fear crawled up his belly and landed in his throat. Rain lashed down from a moonless night, battering the glass and tempered steel that encased them.

  “He’s got her, Steve.” His voice vibrated. No matter how hard he gripped that wheel he couldn’t stop his fear from leaking out.

  “What?” The expression of defeat on Dancer’s face morphed into alarm, then anger. “What about Vince?”

  Marsh ground his teeth together and bit down on his emotions. Sweat gathered on his skin despite the autumn chill. He turned on the wipers, the dull rhythmic whoosh steadying his heart.

  “Ran him over with an SUV.” Marsh turned to the backseat, grabbed Dancer’s laptop that he’d retrieved from Special Agent Walker—who hadn’t been able to crack the passwords anyway—and maneuvered it awkwardly through the gap between the seats. “The Blade Hunter is none other than Philip Faraday—”

  “The art dealer?” Snarling, Steve banged his head against the headrest. “That puny shit killed all those women?”

  “And set you up.” Marsh finished, “Yeah. Smarter than he looks.” He buried the acid terror beneath professional impatience. “We’ve got to find him, before Josie ends up like Prudence Duvall.”

  Blood leeched from Dancer’s face.

  “She was still alive when the cops got there, you know that? They could maybe have saved her.” Dancer frowned, still concentrating on the past when Marsh needed him to think about the future.

  “Steve, I need you. We’ve got to find Josie before he kills her too.” His voice broke.

  Dancer gave him a blank look, which suddenly cleared. “The transmitter?” He swiped his unruly hair out of his face as he began to unzip the laptop from its case. “I’d forgotten about it.”

  Marsh had implanted the transmitter into Josephine without her knowledge last April when they’d been hoping she’d lead them to Elizabeth. Right now that little bit of moral impropriety was the only thing keeping an infinitesimal speck of hope alive in his heart.

  Dancer booted up, battered through a whole series of passwords to access encrypted files, fierce concentration on his face. “Those transmitters may only last a couple of months. It could be dead by now,” Dancer warned.

  Marsh knew there was little hope, but without that signal, Josephine was on her own with a vicious serial killer. Gloria Faraday was telling them squat. Maybe she didn’t know anything, but Walker had her in custody and Marsh hadn’t been able to get near her.

  The need for air forced a breath into his lungs as Dancer clicked on the tracking program.

  Please God. Please God…

  Dread and uncertainty ravaged his nerves. Even if they found Josephine this second it might already be too late. She might be dead. The SOB had had her for one-hundred and fifty-six minutes. The terror was unbearable, crippling, and Marsh shoved the feelings away. Concentrated on the need to find her. He needed to find her. She was going to be OK. They were going to have a life together.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Thank God.

  “Where is she?” Grim determination filled him. This bastard wasn’t getting away this time. Whatever he’d done to Josephine Marsh was going to reap ten-fold on the twisted fucker’s body.

  Dancer looked up. And Marsh knew he was thinking the exact same thing.

  “Signal is stationary. North Fork of Long Island, but we don’t have an address yet. Should we alert the locals?”

  Sticking the car in gear, Marsh shook his head and checked his watch. “I don’t fancy their chances against this guy. They’ll spook him and if Josephine isn’t already dead, she will be when they arrive all sirens blazing.”

  Steve stared intently at the screen of the computer. “It might be better that way,” he said quietly.

  “Goddamn it, Dancer, don’t quit on me now.”

  “How the hell are we going to get there before he—” Dancer cut himself off, unable to say the words neither of them wanted to hear.

  “Call Walker and tell him to get HRT ready.” Marsh scrambled in his pocket and lobbed his cell phone at Steve. “First call Dora. I want a chopper and a pilot ready to fly at La Guardia in fifteen minutes.”

  “Ah fuck.” Dancer was terrified of helicopters, but he dialed the number and got through to Dora straight away.

  Marsh shot him a glance, but didn’t say a word, just pressed his foot to the floor and headed for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, turning on the siren and driving hard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ____________________

  Lightning flared and thunder vibrated through the air, waking her. Shivers wracked her body as she registered the icy temperature.

  Where am I?

  Waves crashed, the scent of brine pervading the air, so thick it filled her nostrils. Mystic? Visiting Elizabeth? Her tongue felt swollen and parched; she tried to swallow but there was no moisture in her mouth to ease the dryness. She went to sit up, but had to lie back down as she reeled, breathing hard. Her brain was slow. The light hurt. She turned away from it.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake.”

  A bolt of terror shot straight through her. She tried to swallow, but the muscles bunched and clenched in her dry throat, constricting her airway, choking her. She squinted, though her eyes didn’t like it. She needed to see.

  A man stood in front of her. Lean, not overly tall; the cold steel of his eyes matching the knife that glinted in the lamplight. Her oldest foe. The man who’d killed her mother and shaped her life. Her arms and legs jerked instinctively, only to be brought up short by a rope on each limb. She glanced upward and saw the painting she’d done of blood and death hanging on the wall like the promise of a sacrifice.

  The lights flickered as he watched her.

  “Why?” her voice cracked. The more she strained, the tighter the bindings became, cutting off her blood supply, making her hands and feet go numb. Not good. Not good at all. She forced herself to relax.

  “Why what?” His voice was as cold and flat as his eyes.

  Vague bits of memory floated along her consciousness like fish darting in a pond.

  The screech of car tires then the muffled thump of a body hitting the asphalt.

  “Is Vince okay?” she asked slowly.

  He shrugged. “I doubt it. I hit him pretty hard.” He smiled, but no light reached his eyes.

  The horror of Vince being hurt made her stomach wrench. And, oh god. Marsh. He was gonna freak and figure this was all his fault—as if he could keep everyone he cared about safe when this man was hell bent on destruction. Tears filled her eyes. The love she felt for him was so strong, his dedication to the law so convincing, she’d almost believed they h
ad a chance of something normal. But this wasn’t normal, and if the guy with the knife had his way she’d be dead soon. She didn’t want to be dead. She didn’t want to miss her chance of something normal, something wonderful.

  She was fully clothed. He’d taken her boots, but thankfully not her clothes. Yet. There was blood on her t-shirt and she frowned.

  “Why?” she asked again. She narrowed her eyes at him, glared with every ounce of hatred she held in her heart. “Why are you doing this?”

  He slapped her cheek. He stood breathing heavily beside the bed, the knife gripped between whitened fingers. And then she recognized him from a vague childhood memory.

  “You’re the missionary’s son.”

  Shadows flickered in the depths of his eyes.

  “I saw them together, you know.”

  His eyes flashed.

  “You don’t think their actions hurt me just as much as they hurt you? You selfish miserable asshole.” Anger gave her voice strength. “You killed her, didn’t you? You killed my mother.”

  “Your mother was a whore.” Teeth flashed as he bared them, leaning close. “She dragged my father into hell and he burned!”

  “He looked like he was in Heaven the last time I saw him—”

  Blood exploded on her tongue as he backhanded her.

  “He was a good man.”

  “What the hell happened to you then?” she yelled.

  It was foolish. The knife was at her throat, stinging her flesh as he held her down, hand so tight to her scalp her eyes stung. They stared at one another for a long moment. The strength in his body incredible, the light in his eyes pure evil.

  “When I found you on that fire escape I was going to kill you.” His breath touched her lip, the tiniest bit of spittle hitting her. Revulsion was ice cold on her skin. “But you were so pathetic, the look on your face. Sorrow. Heartbreak. Anguish.

  “Maybe that’s why I didn’t kill you—all that little girl innocence destroyed right in front of my eyes by adults who should have known better.” He laughed and she flinched. “I felt sorry for you. Then when I looked for you again all these years later, and heard you were an artist in NYC—I knew. You were waiting for me.” He glanced toward the painting then looked back and caught her gaze. “It’s a circle of death and it closes tonight.”

  The light in his eyes was crazed…and yet he seemed incredibly controlled as his fingers gripped her hair and the knife, already slick with blood, pressed against her flesh. Fear was growing inside her, the need to scream out her terror all consuming. He’d admitted killing her mom without an ounce of compassion. The sonofabitch made it sound like it had been her mother’s own fault.

  “Did you kill him too?” God, she hated him, with every atom of her being. “Your father? Did you kill that cheating bastard?”

  Breathing hard, he blinked, released her and heaved himself away from the bed.

  “She killed him.” He turned to face the window as lightning illuminated everything in cold blue before thunder shook the house again. “We’d been in Africa for ten years and the trip to America was supposed to be special. My father offered to look after someone’s plants while they were away on a week’s vacation.” He shrugged and walked closer. “It was the sort of thing he did all the time. We never gave it any thought, until I spotted the secretary from church walking along the sidewalk, and I saw her go into that apartment. I knew what was going on then.” His eyes grew hard again. “He committed suicide when we got back to Africa—condemned himself to purgatory. Because of her.

  “She was beautiful, your mother.” He leaned over the bed, closer, and she held absolutely still as he nicked her earlobe with the point of the knife. It hurt like hell, but she kept her mouth shut. I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound. “Just like you. She cried so hard when I put my knife inside her.” His smile was evil incarnate. “She screamed out my name.”

  All these years she’d strived only to survive; not to live, to survive. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. “There’s something wrong with you. You’re twisted and warped—”

  He lunged at her, but she jerked to the side, the knife sinking into the pillow beside her head. Shit. Why the hell couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

  Because fear wasn’t enough. Survival wasn’t enough.

  But death didn’t look so great either.

  She froze as he lay sprawled on top of her. She could feel his heartbeat thumping through his black sweater, through her t-shirt and into her body. This was not a good time to discover she needed help.

  Marsh. Damn you. Save me. Please, save me.

  He moved until he sat astride her, the fury in his eyes making her wish for their previous flatness.

  The knife tore through her t-shirt as if it were silk. Severed her bra with the same stroke and there she was, exposed from the waist up, the indelible scars on her flesh catching the light in a series of crosses.

  “You like your handiwork?” The bitterness was ripe on her tongue, but his mood had changed. The anger gone. Calm back in its place. He slammed his fist into her jaw and the world tilted on its axis as her eyes rolled back.

  ***

  Riding through an electrical storm in a helicopter was not a way to deal with someone’s phobia. But right now he and Dancer were both facing their worst nightmares.

  Marsh wore a dark t-shirt from the gym bag he kept stowed in the trunk of his car. He’d left on the tailored slacks because they were deep navy but swapped his shoes for dark-colored trainers. Both he and Dancer had on bulletproof vests.

  Walker had called them en route with the news that Senator Duvall had a beach house in the vicinity of the signal coming from Josie, and Marsh had to believe this was the right place. He forced the image of her blood-soaked corpse from his mind.

  Lightning flashed across the heavens, making the froth of the breakers glow in the blackness of the night. The pilot placed the chopper gently on the beach, sand whipping in every direction. Trees struggled against the wind and rain blotted out the landscape.

  Marsh could barely hear the chopper over the storm. Dancer was deathly pale but had a determined look in his eyes Marsh hadn’t seen before. This was personal. For both of them.

  Marsh jogged up the sand, the footing heavy, debris stinging his cheeks and making him squint. There it was, up ahead—a rambling old beach house on the North Fork.

  Marsh’s heart kicked up a gear as he spotted a light on in one of the upstairs rooms.

  Josie.

  He ran, not caring if Dancer could keep up or not, desperate to get to Josie before Philip Faraday hurt her.

  And still the loose sand slowed him down, filled his running shoes and made his legs move agonizingly slowly. There was grit in his mouth that he spat out.

  It had come down to this.

  With most law enforcement agencies in the world looking for Faraday, it had come down to Marsh and Dancer running along a sandy beach, racing to beat the clock.

  Fuck.

  There was a path up through the dunes and Marsh took off, immediately hitting a boardwalk and picking up speed. Dancer was right behind him, the thunder and wind drowning out any noise they made.

  Marsh crashed to a halt. There were outdoor security lights.

  Shit.

  Marsh didn’t know if they worked or not. He looked up at the window and saw a shadow cross in front of it. And then over the howl of the wind, over the boom of a storm-crazed sky, he was sure he heard Josie screaming his name.

  Chapter Twenty

  __________________

  She screamed as he cut off her pants and left her lying naked on the bed like a damn pig waiting for butchery. She trembled with fear. Her carefully choreographed fate was spelled out in the monster’s eyes.

  He smiled.

  Fury blinded her.

  Without him seeing, she’d managed to loosen one wrist from the bindings. The monster with the knife paced a few feet from where she lay, muttering. And she’d loosened one lousy wrist.


  She was going to be sick.

  Lightning flashed and held for a few seconds before thunder rolled and the night went black.

  She watched the knife. Him constantly squeezing and stroking it. Revulsion and terror warred inside, but mainly she was pissed.

  The mattress sank as he climbed over the end of the bed and she wished to God she’d freed a leg so she could kick him in the face.

  Her friend Elizabeth had been raped.

  That idea terrified her even though he hadn’t raped the other victims. Ugh, her stomach roiled. Finally she had to accept she was a victim. Josephine squeezed her eyes shut and tried to keep her knees close together, remembering her shattered friend the night after Andrew DeLattio had finished with her. Well, Andrew DeLattio had gotten his and this bastard would get his too.

  What had Elizabeth said?

  Fingers gripped her knees and yanked them roughly apart. She flinched as cold metal pressed against her leg. Bit her lip, knowing begging wouldn’t help. Rape was about domination. That’s all she remembered and right now it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure he was dominating her in every way.

  The knife moved up her body, scratched her soft skin in a scoured line along her abdomen. Blood welled where the blade occasionally sank deeper. Death by a thousand cuts.

  She gritted her teeth on a flinch. “Why does it turn you on so much?”

  His eyes glittered, his voice hoarse. “It’s the only thing that turns me on.”

  “Not sex itself?”

  He flinched.

  “Have you ever had sex?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Do you even have a dick?”

  His lips pulled back, madness in his eyes. “Is that what you want? Me to fuck you? Are you nothing but a dirty whore like your bitch of a mother?”

  She slammed the base of her palm into his nose the way Elizabeth had taught her. He screamed and reared back. She tried to free her other wrist but he was back, lunging at her. She grabbed for his knife hand, desperate to keep it away from her body. Knowing she wasn’t strong enough. Knowing he would kill her but unwilling to lie silent like a doll as he hurt her. Not this time.