Down & Dirty: A McCray Crime Collection

by McCray, Carolyn

  Michael answered, “Our friend was tortured, then crucified.”

  “No, seriously,” the PR woman said. “I need to know what is going on.”

  The nurse stepped forward, cleaning blood from her hands. “It’s true. The girl was assaulted multiple times, and then crucified.”

  The PR woman snapped her fingers at the mime usher. “Go to my mobile office by the stage and get some confidentiality agreements.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cecilia asked, leaving Michael’s arms. “My friend is dead. She was killed. Here at this concert.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the woman said. “That’s a lot of conjecture there, bordering on slander and libel, so let’s just sit down and think this through.”

  “Think it through?” Cecilia repeated, absolutely certain she must have misheard the PR woman. Her best friend was dead. Her very best … “Oh, my God! Frannie! We’ve got to find Frannie!”

  “And Quentin and Connor!”

  But the security guard stepped forward. “Settle down. This is my show.”

  “Oh, like you’ve done a great job so far!” Michael shouted back.

  “I’ve already ordered a sweep of the back halls and—”

  “A sweep?” Cecilia said. “You have got to shut down the concert and get the cops out here!”

  “Hold on, there. A little horse before the cart,” the PR woman said.

  “My uncle is a detective,” Cecilia said. “We’ve got to call him!”

  “Okay,” the PR woman said, trying to act all reassuring. “I understand that a sad, tragic, unfortunate accident and—”

  Cecilia pointed to Helen’s wounds. “Her name is Helen and she was tortured, then strung up on a cross with barbed wire.”

  Michael’s face went ashen. “Quentin. He left with her and that usher …”

  Cecilia turned to the security guard, but he only shrugged. “Sounds like we’ve already got our prime suspect.”

  “He never—” Michael sputtered. “He could never have done this! This is twisted.”

  “Like most Dahmer fans.”

  Michael went to rush the guard, but the PR woman stepped between them. “Now, now. Arguing isn’t going to help anyone. Let’s let security do their jobs, and let’s get you two some complimentary sodas.”

  “Sodas?” Cecilia hissed. “We don’t want drinks! We want—”

  Michael grabbed her arm, though. “No, Cec. She’s right.”

  Cecilia turned around and stared at Michael. What in the hell was he thinking? Their friend was dead—right next to them—and he wanted to go out and get refreshments?

  His voice was tight. “We can’t let grief cloud our judgment. We’ve got to think of Frannie and the others.” Cecilia scanned his face. What was he talking about? That was exactly what she was thinking of. Michael continued, “Your first plan was your best plan.”

  The PR woman’s radio burst to life. She hit the Speak button. “Not now.”

  But the person on the other end of the line was hysterical. Was it another dead body?

  “Deb, some kids broke into the green room and ate all of Diana’s caviar. He is coming off of this set without caviar. I repeat, without caviar.”

  Michael grabbed Cecilia’s hand. “I’m going to take her out for that soda.”

  The PR woman just waved them away as she yelled at the security guard. “How many times did I tell you to post three guards at his room?”

  Cecilia watched as Michael snatched a penlight from the desk and slipped it into his pocket. Now she understood. Michael wasn’t giving up on Frannie, Connor, and Quentin. He was taking charge of the search.

  As the security chief and PR woman argued, she and Michael slipped out the door. She allowed herself a tight smile. No one else may care about their friends, but they were going to find them.

  Hand in hand, they took off for the back halls.

  * * *

  Paxton teetered, one foot on the dock and one on the railing, as he helped Ruth across. She moved forward, then back.

  “Hurry up! My boat’s getting banged up!”

  Paxton found Ruth’s eyes amongst the pouring rain and smiled. “I’ve got you.”

  His partner gritted her teeth and leapt. Paxton made sure she was over, but Gimpy certainly didn’t, as he gunned the boat. Paxton lost his balance and, arms flailing, nearly fell over backward. Then a strong hand caught his.

  “I’ve got you,” Ruth repeated to him.

  With a heave, she pulled them both to the dock. Their momentum, though, carried them too far over, and they landed in a tumble on the slick wooden planks. Their limbs were entangled, and the top button of her shirt popped open, right at eye level. If they hadn’t just endured the Weebles Wobble boat ride over to the island to catch the maniac serial killer endangering both of their families, Paxton might have enjoyed the contact and the view. But as it was, they needed to get to the concert ASAP.

  Mumbling his apologies, Paxton untangled himself and looked the other way while Ruth buttoned up.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be another boat here? The one the kids came on?” Paxton asked,

  “Remember,” Ruth said as she joined him, “the commander said that the yacht more than likely had to go back out to sea so that it wasn’t crushed against the dock.”

  “No, I don’t remember that,” he said as he turned over the scenario in his head. “Um, so basically, now we’re stranded on the island with hundreds of endangered teens and a serial killer?”

  “Yep,” Ruth answered.

  Paxton checked his watch. 12:18. “And it is now officially All Hallow’s Day.”

  “Again. Yep.” Ruth indicated the glowing mansion atop the hill. “Just about everyone up there is now an official target.”

  “Great,” he said as they started the hike. “Just great.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The walls pulsed in time with the music above them. Clearly, Diana Dahmer did not believe in subtlety. Cecilia tried to block everything out, except their search. They had already gone through about a dozen rooms and found nothing more dangerous than teenagers making out.

  Whether the couples actually believed Cecilia’s and Michael’s story of a crucifying killer on the loose, those kids made a beeline back to the concert. Let’s just say that tonight, she and Michael were the buzzkillers. The rest of the partiers may not appreciate it, but their lives were probably saved. Or at least their virginity.

  It all still seemed unreal. Like they were going to find Helen around the next corner, probably trying to French-kiss Quentin. But then the image of Helen, staked to a cross swinging overhead, would fill her vision. Then her friend’s pale, pale lips. Her last rattling breath. Then it became all too real.

  And what had Helen meant by “he is one of us?” How could the person who did all of those horrible things go to their school? How could he be a classmate? Cecilia hugged herself. What if they had seen him tonight?

  Michael jiggled the next-door handle. It was locked. He got out of the way as Cecilia knelt down and worked her bobby pin magic. The lock clicked opened. As Cecilia repositioned the pin back in her hair, Michael opened the door a crack.

  The room was dark. He swept his light across some old, covered furniture.

  “Anybody in here? … Doing things I would rather not witness?”

  Silence answered. Michael took another step into the room. “Anybody?”

  Cecilia peered around Michael’s shoulder. The KMNY people hadn’t even decorated this room. It seemed old and musty.

  “I think we’re good,” Michael said, but Cecilia strained to hear over the thrumming from the concert.

  “Wait. Did you hear that?” Cecilia asked.

  It sounded like a little girl’s giggle, only with the volume turned down.

  “Frannie?”

  Another giggle, this time louder. Michael grabbed a lamp from a side table and raised it like a weapon. “If anybody is in here, come out now.”

  Michael motioned f
or her to stay back, but Cecilia was right on his heel.

  “Francesca?”

  This time, the giggle could not be mistaken for anything but a giggle.

  “Frannie, this isn’t funny!”

  But the only response was another giggle. They approached a large wing-back chair. The sound was coming from behind there. Cecelia tensed. What would they find? What horror lay on the other side?

  Michael looked at Cecilia. Was she ready? The truthful answer was no, but she nodded anyway. They were going to have to look at some point.

  He swung around the corner, shining the light behind the chair.

  “Boo!” a figure said, jumping out at them.

  Michael went to take a swing with the lamp, but Cecilia grabbed his wrist. “No!”

  The figure stumbled forward, still giggling.

  “It’s Frannie.”

  “Ha, ha, ha! I scared you!” Frannie slurred.

  She let go of Michael’s wrist and grabbed Frannie by the shoulders. “Frannie, this isn’t funny. Are you hurt?”

  “No, but I want some more brownies.” Her eyes widened as her head lolled back. “They were really, really, really good.”

  Frannie started to slump, so Michael steadied her. “Who gave you the brownies?”

  But Frannie went nearly limp as she slid to the floor. “That funny man with the hawk face.”

  Cecilia looked at Michael. That was the usher who took Helen.

  Michael shook Frannie. “Where’s Connor? And Quentin?”

  “I don’t know. The hawk man told me I wasn’t one of the chosen… But Connor was…” Frannie fished around in her pocket. “Here’s the card. Connor said to keep it—that it’d be worth a lot someday.

  Her friend looked up at her and licked her lips. “Are you sure you don’t have something to eat? I’m really hungry.”

  Michael turned to Cecilia. “He must have laced those brownies with weed.”

  “But why didn’t he take her?” Cecilia asked.

  “Worse, why did he take Connor?” Michael knelt over her friend. “Frannie, this is really important. Which way did the usher take Connor?”

  “Down a rabbit hole!” she answered, giggling again.

  “Damn it,” Michael said, as gritting his teeth. “This isn’t funny! Where did they go?”

  Frannie’s just laughed, though. “Why is everyone so uptight?”

  Cecilia knelt next to her friend. “Frannie, you need to listen carefully. Helen is dead and Quentin and Connor are missing.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Frannie said, giggling.

  “I’m not joking, Frannie. That usher killed Helen. Now, where did he take Connor?”

  “You really need to practice telling jokes, Cec, you are so bad at it.”

  Michael scooped his arm around Frannie’s waist. “That’s it. We’ve just got to take her with us.”

  “Wait! Hold on!” Frannie yelled, as she beat against Michael’s arm. “Why are you being such a jerk?”

  Michael looked the girl in the eye. “Because Helen really is dead and my two best friends are missing. Now, which way did they go?”

  Frannie blinked as her giggles faded away. “They went down the hallway to the left… I think.” More gently, she pushed away from Michael. “And I can stand on my own.”

  As Michael headed for the door, Cecilia put Frannie’s arm over her shoulder, helping her walk. Tears glazed over Frannie’s bloodshot eyes.

  “You were kidding, right?… About Helen?”

  Cecilia shook her head. How she wished that she was! “No.”

  A sob broke out of Frannie’s throat. Her friend cried on her shoulder as Cecilia led them out of the room. Michael was already checking the room to the left.

  If Connor were one of the “chosen,” like Helen ...

  Cecilia refused to believe it. They would find Connor just as stoned as Frannie.

  Yeah, right.

  * * *

  Paxton hurried to catch up with Ruth as they approached the huge mansion doors. Guess Ruth running 3K every day did come in handy. He was gasping for air, and she wasn’t even breathing heavily. Of course, they were both soaked to the skin from the storm, but that did not slow Ruth down one bit.

  His partner tried to open the doors, only to find them locked. Ruth pounded her fist against the wood.

  “Police!” she yelled into the wind.

  Paxton added his fist to the pounding. “Open up!”

  Finally, the doors creaked open and the mime’s face popped out.

  “Great, just freaking great,” Paxton grumbled.

  Ruth flashed her badge. “Police. Let us in.”

  The mime was making some stupid hand gestures, so Paxton hauled back and kicked the door open. The mime scrambled back.

  “Normally, I would say that amount of force was unnecessary,” Ruth said as they entered. “But under the circumstances …”

  The mime tried to scurry away, but Paxton caught him by the back of his black turtleneck. “Not so fast.”

  “We need to talk to your head of security. Do you know where he is?” Ruth asked. “And so help me, if you make another stupid box…”

  “He’s this way,” the mime croaked.

  Paxton kept ahold of the guy’s collar as they entered the mansion’s main ballroom. Strobe lights flashed, and Paxton could only guess that it was Diana Dahmer, in some kind of man-corset, who strutted along the stage. The place was crammed with jumping, yelling, and near-rioting fans. The decibel level made his ears ring. He guessed he shouldn’t have listened to Pink Floyd quite so loudly when he was a teen.

  But he took the undulating mass of audience to mean that nothing too bad could have happened. It couldn’t have, if the concert was still in full swing, right? But Paxton’s gut was telling him something different. Either that, or it was complaining about another missed dinner.

  The mime guided them past the food buffet, which looked more like the remains of a massacre. That sight was enough to squelch his appetite again. Finally, the mime pointed toward a sign that announced, “Dahmer’s Pre-Morgue.”

  When the head of security was camped out at the first aid station, this was not a good sign. Hopefully, the chief was there for nothing more than a sprained ankle.

  As they entered the “Pre-Morgue,” Paxton released the scrawny mime.

  “If you want to keep your job,” a tall woman stated to the head of security, “then you will—”

  Ruth flashed her badge. “Officers Matte and Prover.” She turned to the security chief. “We need to talk.”

  The guy nearly blanched. “Damn! You guys must be psychic. We just tried to call the station, but all the lines are down.”

  “Tell us about it,” Paxton added.

  “Why were you calling 9-1-1?” Ruth asked, her face etched with concern. Paxton knew that this wasn’t just any case. Not with Jeremy and Evan on the island.

  “Follow me,” the security chief directed.

  “Now, before we go jumping off the deep end, as head of the PR department from KMNY, I am technically in charge.” the tall woman jabbered on. “We need to remember how much this concert has cost the station and—”

  But not even she could keep up talking as the security chief pulled the sheet back from a dead girl’s body. Paxton staggered back a step. It couldn’t be.

  “The kids who found her said that she had been crucified.”

  Ruth stepped forward to inspect the body more closely. “Do we have a name yet?”

  “No.”

  “Helen,” Paxton croaked, but he had to clear his throat before he finished. “Helen. Her last name is Desmond, I believe.” Ruth turned his way. He could barely get out the next few words. “She is Cecilia’s best friend. Or was, at least.”

  Thank God that Ruth was on point as she turned to the security guard. “Where are the kids who found her?”

  Sorry, they left before we could get their info.”

  Paxton stepped forward, asking intently, “Was one
of them blonde? On the quiet side?”

  “I guess. I mean they were pretty freaked out,” the security chief stammered.

  Ruth looked like she was ready to smack him. “With a dead body, why in the hell haven’t you shut this place down?”

  “That’s exactly what I was about—”

  The tall woman tried to intercede. “As sad as this tragic accident is—”

  Ruth got nose to nose with the woman. “This was no accident. We’ve got a serial killer on the loose, and the first thing we are going to do—”

  Paxton had no idea what Ruth said next, as the crowd outside the first aid station went berserk. The group rushed out to the ballroom. A large metal cage, like a human-sized parrot enclosure, lowered over the stage. A half naked girl in a lace bra and thong thrashed inside, her hands tied above her.

  The security chief turned to the PR chick. “I thought I told you—no more stunts!”

  The woman paled. “That’s not us.”

  “No,” Ruth stated. “That’s the killer.” She turned to the security chief. “Get her down. Now!”

  Before he could act, though, electricity coursed through the metal frame, sparking and crackling high above the audience. The girl arched back in agony as the voltage hit her full-on.

  “Get the electricity cut off!” Ruth yelled to the security chief.

  He hit his radio. “Any available guard to the electrical room! We need that breaker thrown!”

  But before he was even done with his sentence, the electricity stopped.

  “That girl’s name is Barbara, and if you don’t get that breaker turned off, she is going to die.”

  The security chief nodded vigorously, yelling into his radio.

  Paxton came up next to Ruth. “Do you know her?”

  “No,” Ruth said, “but this scenario is from—”

  Suddenly, another arc of electricity lit up the cage and tore through the girl. She wasn’t even sobbing anymore. Paxton forced himself to keep his eyes upon her, waiting to see if she even breathed. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, reminding him why he never became a firefighter.