Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  She had to stop this silly crying. It clogged her nose so she couldn’t breathe.

  Dixie would come.

  Dixie would know exactly where she’d gone this morning, probably was already on campus, headed to Hamman Hall right now.

  Sarina wished her shoe had a James Bond razor built into it. Or a Star Voyager laser blaster. The real thing, not f/x.

  She wished she could stop shaking.

  She wished she knew what was making that scuffling noise.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  “I saw her, sure. Noticed her hair. Wouldn’t mind having mine done simple like that, with those cute highlights. That’s why I noticed.”

  The young woman seemed familiar with the campus, willowy body, asymmetrical sandy hair, a complexion nearly the same hue. She carried a red book bag stuffed with software manuals and was the twentieth person Dixie had shown the photograph to.

  “Could you tell where she was headed?”

  “Toward Hamman. That direction, anyway. I have an audition there later today, for a part in Tiny Alice. That’s why I noticed. Wondered if auditions had already started. But I’m sure they’re later, way later, like four o’clock. Thought I’d check the schedule, just to be sure. But I’d remember. I’m perfect for this role, wouldn’t want to miss out—being late, you know, for tryouts—and somebody else get the part, my part, just because I was late. Huh-uh. I know they’re at four.”

  Dixie prayed for patience. “Anything happening at Hamman Hall to do with the film festival?”

  “No, you want the Media Center. Nothing’s at Hamman today except, like I said, tryouts at four o’clock.”

  “But you saw this girl—headed toward Hamman Hall?”

  “Yeah. Nice-looking man with her.”

  Maybe Sarina had met another “soul mate” like Alroy Duncan, and they’d gone for a walk. Or had she developed an interest in special effects for live theater? “What else is around that area that might be part of the festival?”

  “Nothing. Natural Science: Geology Lab.” She hefted her load in preparation for moving on. “Bet that cast itches. Say, how do you think I’d look with red highlights?”

  Jaundiced. But Dixie’s cast hadn’t itched, until now. “Go for it.”

  Nice-looking man with her. As Dixie walked, the cast itching like crazy, a single raindrop fell on her cheek. She frowned at the threatening cloud bank, quickened her pace, and dialed Belle’s number. What the devil would’ve taken Sarina so far from the Illusions hubbub? Something felt wrong about it.

  “Are you certain Hap Eggert got on that plane last night?” The cell phone worked fine after she’d replaced the battery and twisted a rubber band around the plastic piece that held it in.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Probably nothing. Sarina was already gone when I arrived at the hotel, so I assumed she went to this festival she’s been yammering about. So far I haven’t located her. Maybe I just haven’t walked enough yet.” Dixie disconnected, wishing now that she’d brought the car. Hamman Hall hadn’t looked nearly as far on the map.

  To take her mind off her aching foot, she dialed Ben Rashly. “Anything new?”

  “The Thomases and Foxworths are coming in for interviews. But our killer beat us to Regan Salles.”

  Dixie stopped walking. “Regan’s dead?” She pictured the woman’s eager face as she’d realized Sarina might be her ticket to a Hollywood hair salon. “How?”

  “Strangled with a scarf, same as your friend.”

  “Rash, I saw Regan yesterday afternoon. How long—?”

  “Dead twelve to eighteen hours. We know she left the salon about three.”

  Right after she’d finished Sarina’s hair.

  “Looked like she was packing for a trip,” Rashly continued. “We found another mask in her apartment, like the one at Benson’s. This one with a blond wig.”

  “Neither Coombs nor Carlson described their assailants as masked, did they?”

  “No…”

  He hesitated, and Dixie knew he was debating whether to disclose a piece of information. Pushing him wouldn’t help. She could hear the draw of air through his pipe.

  “We found another body,” he said, finally. “Sexual assault. This one looks a whole lot like the work of Lawrence Coombs, except this time he used a knife. Went all the way.”

  Oh, God, not Gail Benson.

  “White woman,” Rashly continued. “Thirty-five. ID’d as Dottie Anderson.”

  Not Gail. Not Julie or Clarissa Thomas or Grace Foxworth. Didn’t make the death any less terrible, but less personal.

  “How?” Dixie asked.

  “Bled to death. Sometime Wednesday night. Another interesting item—Marianne Coombs died early this morning. Stroke. Her son, who makes up his own come-and-go privileges at the nursing home, had been sitting with his mother for an hour when it happened.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for him? Why the fuck didn’t we lock the bastard away when we had the chance?”

  “We, Flannigan? We at Homicide slam the bastards in jail. It’s you lawyers who let ’em out.” He banged the phone down.

  Dixie didn’t blame him for being mad. The body count was mounting, and his clues led nowhere. She wondered if Dottie Anderson was the vivacious brunette Coombs had danced with at the Parrot Lounge the night he’d broken her foot. Seemed like an eternity ago. Virtually every woman in the club that night was envious. How would they feel now? And how the hell could a man be so charming one moment and so malevolently savage the next?

  By the time she reached Hamman Hall, leaning heavily on the cane, storm clouds had turned the sky that mottled purple that warned of heavy rain. The air felt fresh with ozone. Dixie’s clothes and hair were damp. She hobbled up the steps as the first cloud opened.

  Wide brick steps swept from the sidewalk, through glass panels, into the lobby. Dixie saw no one around. The place was lighted and the doors were unlocked. But the building felt deserted, the way an office building feels in the dead of night, with only the mechanical hum of a heating unit, fluorescent lighting, and computer equipment to fill the silence.

  Outside, the rain had dropped a curtain around the building, blurring the landscape into a watery mosaic. At least ducking in here had kept her from getting drenched.

  A flyer tacked beside the ticket window announced try-outs for Tiny Alice at four o’clock. Double doors led to the auditorium. Two more doors appeared to be office entrances. To the right of the auditorium, a tiled ramp angled downward, another angled upward. The lobby’s architecture was designed for longevity, efficiency, and handicap access. Dixie definitely could use the latter.

  In the auditorium a steep semicircular bank of red chairs led down to the empty stage. Heavy brown curtains flanked the walls, absorbing sound and softening the light. Not a soul visible, not a sound to indicate anyone backstage. Perhaps there were discussion rooms downstairs, handling overflow from the Media Center. The acoustics probably dampened any sound from below.

  Dixie spied an exit door to the right of the stage. The ramp from the lobby likely led to the same area, but she decided to cut through the auditorium, in case something was happening directly behind the curtain—a tour, perhaps, that she couldn’t hear from fifty feet away.

  Halfway down the stairs, the silence became oppressive. Dixie could no longer hear the rain pelting the brick walkway outside. The building felt as if it were wrapped in dense blankets. Obviously, the acoustics were well designed to amplify from the stage upward and dampen any noise coming from outside or elsewhere in the building. Beyond the exit door, there might be dozens of people.

  But when she opened the door, more silence greeted her. Only the hum from the furnace seemed louder.

  The area had been roughly sectioned off into smaller rooms, all painted white. This was the work area, behind the scenes, the guts of the building. Most of the lights were off, probably to conserve energy until the building was in use, which meant it was not in use now. Nothing go
ing on, so why would Sarina and her friend have come here? Perhaps the young woman Dixie stopped had been mistaken.

  While she was here, though, might as well check the remaining rooms. The first door she opened was a closet. Mops, brooms, and a rolling cart with cleaning fluids blocked the passage to a row of cluttered shelves on the back wall. The next door opened to an empty room.

  Around a corner, Dixie saw a faint light under a door marked REHEARSAL ROOM A.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Sissy lay cramped in the dark.

  Trapped.

  The stench of her own sweat and blood and urine invaded her nostrils. Her head throbbed. Pain seared her lungs with each breath.

  Where was she?

  Panic gripped her as she tried to move. Hands tied. Aching from constriction. Darkness wrapped her completely.

  Sweat dampened her skin. Her clothes felt soaked with it.

  Ankles tied, knees drawn painfully against her chest. She lay on her side, hardness beneath her.

  Where was she?

  She remembered going to Brenda’s. Pleading with her to complete the task God had given them. To walk the path God had lighted. Regan was a mistake. Sissy told her. Regan was weak, and God had called her home, but Brenda—

  Brenda was strong.

  The death of Gary Ingles had been an omen. God had reached out and touched Ingles’ heart, stopping it. A sign that He was with them.

  Man’s law, mankind’s justice? A joke! Strength was in the people, rising up together to demand their own justice.

  Sissy coughed. Pain knifed her ribs.

  Where was she?

  She lifted her bound hands to explore the darkness.

  Plastic.

  Dear Lord, this could not be happening.

  Oh, dear God. Plastic! Her stomach knotted in dry heaves.

  A whimper escaped her lips. Her mind raced … and words spilled in a hoarse whisper—

  The Lord is my shepherd … I shall not want….

  A thudding blow halted her prayer.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Sarina worked her arms behind her back, trying to loosen the tape that bound them together. She’d been sitting here in the dark forever. The silence was crazy-making. What was he waiting for?

  He stood near the door, in the shadows. Just standing there! Not moving, not talking.

  “Shhh!” he’d said when Sarina tried to tell him, grunting behind the tape, that her nose was running and she couldn’t breathe. He’d noticed, and jerked her head back, wiped her nose ungently with his handkerchief. Then he told her in a low, hard voice to keep quiet.

  The noises started again behind the sofa. He’d kicked something, and the noises stopped.

  After that, Sarina kept absolutely still, trying hard not to provoke him. But her nose continued running, and she couldn’t stop sniffling.

  The doorknob turned.

  Sarina froze. Had he seen the knob turn?

  She wanted to scream a warning, out with me tape, and her nose clogged, she could only make this small, sick little squeal. She scuffled her feet on the floor, bumping, bumping, banging as hard as she could.

  “Shhhhh!”

  The door swung open.

  Seeing Dixie in the doorway Sarina squealed and scuffled louder than ever. Dixie wouldn’t see him standing beside the door, wouldn’t be able to see anything but his stupid stage.

  Dixie raised her hand and felt along the wall beside the door, probably for a light switch.

  “Sarina?”

  Chapter Sixty

  A hand clamped over Dixie’s wrist and jerked her into the room.

  “Seems like we’ve had this dance before, pretty lady. Now it’s my turn to lead.”

  She choked down on the cane and swung the brass knob at Coombs’ ribs.

  He dodged.

  She kicked her heavy cast at his shin, connecting, but not hard enough. His broad palm slammed the side of her head, sending a volley of pain through her jaw and cheekbone. Before she could recover, he grabbed her arms, yanked them behind her. She heard the rip of tape coming off a roll.

  Move! While he’s busy with the tape—

  Gulping a breath to clear her head, she wrenched sideways, stomped with the cast where she hoped his foot would be—

  But he was too quick. He whipped the tape around her wrists, thrust a hand in her hair, and jerked her head up, forcing her to look at him.

  His minted breath caressed her cheek.

  “I do like the way you fight, darlin’.” He tossed her cane in a dark comer. “But here we are in this fine theater, and this is my show. You’re only a player.”

  Probing her pockets, he found the Kubaton, then ripped the cell phone off her belt and tossed them both. His hands cupped her breasts. Giving one cruel squeeze, he shoved her against the wall.

  Hands bound, the cast throwing her off balance, Dixie slumped to the floor in a heap. Her good leg twisted painfully beneath her. Trying to right herself, she heard a choking whimper—

  And with sparkling clarity Dixie realized how fast her mildly annoying morning had turned to stone disaster. Sarina!

  Squirming around, she spotted the girl, mouth taped, eyes wide, legs thrust out straight and duct-taped together at the ankles. A bruise stained her temple. Otherwise she appeared to be okay, just scared.

  Just scared? She was a kid, she was terrified.

  Along with the fear in Sarina’s eyes, Dixie recognized something that turned her heart to jelly … hope and expectation. She expected Dixie to make the horror go away.

  Of course she did.

  Dixie’s body felt rigid—with contrition and her own measure of fear. Her one purpose had been to keep this child safe. Yet, Sarina was in severe danger because Dixie attracted a monster into their wake.

  Wriggling upright, she scooted toward the girl, willing her face to butch up. Show some resolve.

  “It’s okay, kid,” she lied.

  Coombs jerked Dixie’s feet out straight, thumping her against the wall. A jolt ricocheted down her spine.

  “Relax, pretty lady. You talk when I say to talk.” He taped her cast, binding it to her other ankle. “We have hours to play, and no one to bother us. I’ve already tested the sound.” He crossed to the door and twisted the lock. “You can scream until your lungs burst.”

  Dixie scanned the room desperately, cataloging details, searching for opportunities. Four plain white walls. Concrete floor. Boxes. Sofa. Two chairs. And a carefully assembled scene in one lighted comer.

  When she glanced back, Coombs was watching her.

  “Nice, yes? Remind you of anything?” He tenderly repositioned a silk ficus nearer the lamp. “It’s not a real park bench, but close enough.”

  Dixie’s heart drummed into double time. Regan Salles—beaten, raped, and found tied to a park bench. And then Coombs. Beaten, sodomized. Tied to a bench.

  She strained her wrists to loosen the bonds. Scrubbed the tape on her cast against the floor. Ignored Coombs’ confident chuckle.

  A sound came from behind the sofa. Coombs’ head snapped toward it. He smiled.

  “Ahhh.” He reached behind to drag out a bulging leaf bag.

  Something inside the bag moved. Something alive.

  Dixie recalled the open box of green plastic garden bags strewn across Brenda’s kitchen. Someone had kicked Brenda’s back door open. Someone strong.

  But Brenda was killed in the garage, in the front seat of her Miata.

  And her sister Gail was still missing. On a handshaking tour, she’d said.

  A moan came from the bag as Coombs muscled it upright against the wall.

  Had he killed Brenda? Or had he merely been there when she was murdered? Watching. Plotting his revenge—the foreplays over, darlin—when the killer left the garage, Brenda already dead, and entered the house, using Brenda’s keys.

  A woman’s habit, to lock a door behind her, any door. A cautious woman in a dangerous city always locked doors. One of the Angels?

/>   Coombs, following the killer, kicks in the locked door. Catches the killer searching Brenda’s bedroom.

  It’s the two of them who scatter the wig, the clothes, the mask—break the bottle of Shalimar.

  Once Brenda’s killer is knocked out, convenient to use a leaf bag for camouflage. Carry it through the trees to his car. Toss it in the trunk—the noise outside Brenda’s house….

  On the bathroom floor, beside the black wig, Dixie could see Brenda’s key chain—dropped there by the killer….

  Gail wouldn’t need Brenda’s keys to enter her own house.

  And Dixie remembered now why the green and red scarf around Brenda’s neck had looked familiar. She’d seen it first outside the courthouse.

  Coombs tossed away the plastic tie securing the leaf bag, and skinned the plastic down over a semiconscious body. Hair snarled, mouth taped. Face and arms bruised. Eyes dazed, unfocused.

  Brenda’s killer.

  “Pretty maids all in a row,” Coombs drawled.

  Rashley could stop looking for Julie Colby. Had she been in that damn bag all night?

  Dropping to one knee, Coombs tore the tape from Julie’s mouth. When she cried out, he stroked her tangled hair, almost lovingly, then pulled her roughly forward and pressed his mouth to hers. She tried to twist away, but he gripped her chin, fingers digging into her bruised cheek. She whimpered.

  “Heard your mother died this morning, Coombs. Guess she never realized what a monster she raised.”

  Coombs lifted his face from Julie’s.

  “You, darlin’, don’t know shit” His fist shot out, busting Dixie across the mouth.

  Behind her, Dixie heard Sarina gasp.

  Quiet, kid. Don’t draw his attention.

  He wiped a fingertip across Dixie’s lip. The finger came away smeared with blood.

  “Blood kin, now, aren’t we, darlin?” His eyes held a malicious glow as he touched the ruddy scar on his mouth. “You taste mine, I taste yours …? And this lady—” His tone went hard, his words aimed like darts at Julie’s face as he separated a strand of her hair. “Did you think I’d ever forget your voice—cunt?”