by Mike Omer
But all he could see was Daniel, still in the kitchen, pressing the towel to the back of his head.
“Can you get me some water?” the woman gasped.
He nodded and got a glass of water from the tap. He put down the bloody scalpel and helped her drink, holding the glass to her lips, tipping it slowly. She gulped some, and then, as the glass tipped too much, she coughed again. He took the glass away.
“More?” he asked when she stopped coughing.
She shook her head. Behind him, he heard a door slamming. He glanced back, saw Daniel had returned to his room, shutting the door behind him.
“You can’t let him near me,” she said. “He’ll kill me.”
“I won’t let him. He knows that he shouldn’t.”
“Just don’t let him near me.”
He took the gag and placed it in her mouth. Then, unable to stop himself, he bent forward and licked the blood off her neck. It was sublime. How could he have thought the blood was corrupted? He licked it all, until her skin was clean; then he sucked the remnants of blood from her shirt collar. She groaned, tried to get away from him, but it was no use.
Her skin was hot. “You have a fever,” he muttered.
There was nothing in the house to treat a fever. He’d have to buy something tomorrow.
But could he leave her alone with the tumor?
CHAPTER 54
Zoe was back in the motel, sitting on her bed. She read her notes, scrolling through the images on her laptop. She’d decided that Rhea’s abduction was a good enough reason to break her promise to Tatum and work into the night.
It had taken her and Albert four hours to go through all the pictures. He hadn’t recognized all the people in the photos, but he’d been familiar with the majority. He’d also managed to find phone numbers for thirteen of them. Catherine’s phone would have many of them as contacts, and Zoe could work with that tomorrow.
Now she did what she could to find the rest of the members’ names. The tall bald guy, who in two separate images was talking to Rod Glover, was unnamed. But he appeared in seven different images with a man named Donald Holcomb. After a quick search, she found Holcomb’s profile on Facebook. And there was the unnamed tall guy, listed as one of Holcomb’s 147 friends. His name, according to Facebook, was Bobby Cross. And she could glean a lot from both of Holcomb’s and Cross’s profiles. Age, other friends. Cross was single, Holcomb married with a fourteen-year-old daughter. She scribbled in her notebook, her mind already mapping the likelihood of any of those men being the killer. And Cross had another of the unnamed people as his friend.
She kept working, checking the images, the social media, adding notes to members, sometimes circling one of the names.
The photographer also had a knack for catching small hidden moments. A hissed argument between husband and wife. A man tearing up at church. A child outside picking flowers from a freshly planted flower bed, his mom running toward him, her face twisted in anger. These were invaluable for Zoe.
When she’d left Albert’s home, that’s all they had been. A list of names, with the occasional detail—profession or age. Now, these people started to grow in her mind. Jeremy Finn had started out as a thirty-year-old married man. But after two hours of seeing him over and over in the pictures and checking his social media account, he metamorphosed. His wife appeared in only two pictures with him; in the rest, he appeared talking or standing nearby a much younger, perky congregation member. In one of them, he was touching her shoulder. And on his Facebook profile, half his “friends” were women in underwear—probably bots.
Archie Mann was the man whose eyes in the pictures always seemed distant, even when he was talking to someone. And his hands were always in his pockets.
Kyle Raker kept checking out men, his wife apparently oblivious.
Vincent Greer had sweaty armpits.
They grew in her mind, people she’d never met, each becoming a character in a macabre years-long play that ended in a violent death.
And throughout those pictures, playing their parts, smiling, talking, sometimes aware of the camera, sometimes not, were Rod Glover and Catherine Lamb. In the earlier pictures Glover was missing, and Catherine was an angel-faced teenager, usually standing by her mother’s side. But a bit later, Glover made his first appearance, and both he and Catherine started dominating the pictures as they became the focal point of the church’s community. In the final couple of years, they both appeared more in the photos than either Albert Lamb or Patrick Carpenter. Catherine had taken her mother’s place, so that made sense. But it was a testament to Glover’s charisma that he’d managed to make himself such a crucial part of the church community’s life.
CHAPTER 55
Rhea shivered in the darkness, the bathroom walls spinning. She had a high fever and was weak from hunger, thirst, and loss of blood. It was hard to concentrate. Maybe it wouldn’t be the men who’d kill her after all. Maybe it would be the infection.
She could feel the prickle underneath her leg, her one tiny hope. It had been so easy to shift her leg slightly, hide the scalpel. The one who’d helped her drink had been so frantic, so confused, he hadn’t even noticed the blade had gone missing. Now she had to force herself to wait. She could still hear movement outside the bathroom door. One of the men was still awake. And if they came in while the scalpel was visible . . .
No, she’d wait.
Her shoulders and back ached from the unnatural position she was tied in. And she was cold. So cold.
Was it late enough? She’d been in the darkness for hours, for days. Surely the two men had gone to sleep.
She moved her leg. It was hard to see the small scalpel on the floor. Impossible to reach with her hands, but she could do it with her feet. She kicked off her shoes, then carefully slid off one of her socks. She wiggled her toes, increasing the blood flow into them. Then she tried to grab the scalpel between her big toe and her index toe. It seemed to take ages. The angle was all wrong, the scalpel flat, and she kept trembling. Come on, come on, come on.
Finally, to her amazement, she managed it. The scalpel was held loosely in the air between her toes. Now, all she needed to do was get the scalpel to her hand. Once she did that, she could maybe cut the plastic zip ties. There were only two.
It turned out to be impossible.
She could almost get the scalpel to her hand. If she bent her knee and stretched against the plastic zip ties, her fingers were inches away from it. But it wasn’t enough. And then the scalpel dropped, tumbled to the floor by her waist.
Footsteps. Someone was coming. Panicking, she twisted her body, throwing herself on the scalpel. Her shoulder exploded in pain as she twisted it.
The door opened. It was that guy Daniel. His eyes glimmered in the darkness. Now he’d kill her, when his friend was asleep. She whimpered.
“What are you doing, Daniel?” a voice asked in the dark.
Daniel turned around. “Nothing,” he said, his voice casual. “I couldn’t sleep. I need my pills. They’re in the bathroom cabinet. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah. Just making sure.”
Daniel shook his head, going for the cabinet. “Fucking psycho,” he muttered, taking something from the cabinet. Then he stepped over Rhea, ignoring her completely, opening the tap. She could hear the sound of running water and then a different sound as he filled a cup. Then she felt a sudden cold shock as water started dripping on her. The pipe she was tied to leaked.
He swallowed the pills, drank the water, and left the bathroom, not even glancing her way. She heard a door shut.
Then movement. The other man. He was dragging something. A mattress. He placed it in front of the bathroom door. He was going to sleep in the doorway.
To Rhea’s relief, he shut the door. He groaned as he settled down to sleep.
She moved off the scalpel, her shoulder aching. She might have dislocated it. Her brain was flooded with pain and cold. This was what hell was like.
There was no w
ay she could get the scalpel to her hands. And frankly, even if she could, she doubted she could cut the zip ties in this position.
New plan.
She examined the pipe she was shackled to. Back home, her sink had a plastic thing connected to the drain . . . was it called a trap? She’d actually taken it apart once when it was clogged. It had been easy. There was one plastic nut that twisted easily by hand, and once she unscrewed it, she could just twist the thing off. It had been messy, and she’d nearly ruined her shirt, but she’d gotten a sense of satisfaction in managing it by herself.
This drain had no plastic parts. The twisting part of the pipe was connected with two metal nuts—one to the sink and one to the wall. She could slide her tied hands up and down the pipe easily enough, reach both nuts with her fingers. Theoretically, if she unscrewed both, she could dismantle it easily.
But both the pipe and the nuts were corroded, and when she tried twisting them, nothing moved.
Maybe if she just unscrewed the part that connected to the sink, she would be able to twist the pipe off. That would mean she only had to unscrew one of those damn things.
She grasped it and twisted. It was wet, and her palm slipped. But she tried again and again.
Finally, it seemed to budge. Just a little.
She could get it unscrewed. And then she’d be free, with a scalpel for a weapon and the element of surprise. It wasn’t a lot, she knew. But it was something.
CHAPTER 56
After a while, flipping through the images of the congregation felt like a saga. Zoe found small stories woven into the collection. For example, at first when the photographs began documenting the church’s events, most of the events were picnics. But then, when Catherine became more dominant in the images, perhaps taking a more active role in the administration, there seemed to be more volunteer work, more events revolving around the neighborhood.
But there were other, banal stories in that tapestry. A married couple that for a few years were close seemed to drift apart as the years went by, and finally, the husband disappeared altogether, only the wife left. A sweetly smiling child growing up into a sullen teenager. A teenage girl becoming thinner in every picture, then disappearing completely for almost a year. And when she returned to appear in the photos, she seemed healthier, but distant, never smiling.
Some of it she probably imagined. As the hours went by, her tiredness grew, and she seemed to spot tenuous connections. Was Holcomb’s marriage falling apart? Two pictures in which he and his wife were staring in opposite directions made Zoe think so. But maybe not. She couldn’t make assumptions.
Something nagged at her. A connection she hadn’t managed to pinpoint. A piece missing in the puzzle.
She was almost sure she had a list of likely candidates. Not even ten names. Eight. She sent the list to O’Donnell. Then she scrolled through them all again to verify her choices. Her eyes slowly shut, the photos still flickering on the screen.
In her dreams, she kept seeing the pictures, but they were moving, and she could hear the people talking. One of them, she knew, was a killer, Glover’s accomplice. She kept trying to find him, but he moved, always remaining in her peripheral vision, and she couldn’t get a good look at him. She whirled and whirled, the people around her becoming insubstantial, the one man she was trying to see staying one step ahead of her. And Rod Glover moved through the crowd as if it were made of mist, walking straight for her, his lips twisted in a malicious grin.
CHAPTER 57
Saturday, October 22, 2016
The door creaked open, and Rhea blearily raised her eyes. It was the blood drinker. He held a glass of water.
Her palm throbbed. She’d spent the night struggling against the pipe until finally she’d sunk into unconsciousness. Had she done it? She definitely remembered it budging a bit more. But she’d been too weak to keep going. It had been easier to give up.
He crouched by her side, removed the gag from her mouth, and put the glass to her lips. She drank greedily, doing her best not to spill anything. She emptied the entire thing.
He put his hand on her forehead and said, “Your fever is still high.”
“Infection,” she whispered. “I need some antibiotics.”
“We don’t have any here.”
“I need to see a doctor. The infection and the fever could kill me.” He seemed to care if she lived or died. Perhaps he could be persuaded.
He didn’t listen, staring at her neck. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“That cut.” He touched the place where he’d cut her the day before.
“You did this with the scalpel yesterday, remember?”
He frowned. “No, I didn’t. I did the one on the leg.”
“And the arm and the neck.”
“I didn’t. I would have remembered. I would definitely have remembered. I bled you only once. I remember. Once. And not on the neck, never on the neck, I wouldn’t have . . .”
“No . . . you did those too,” she said desperately. “You cut me several times.”
“I . . . didn’t. I’m not . . . it’s impossible.” He shook his head violently. “You did those. You’re trying to bleed yourself to death to take the blood from me!”
Spit flew from his mouth, his eyes bulging. Fury twisted his face, turning him into a beast. He was going to kill her. Heart thrumming in her chest, she blurted, “It was the other guy. Daniel, he did this.”
He paused, frowning. “Daniel?”
The man had clearly lost any connection with reality. Could she use it? “He came in at night. Stepped over you when you were sleeping,” she said, voice trembling. “He cut me and drank my blood. He wants all the blood for himself. He wants to bleed me dry.”
He seemed to struggle with the concept. “It wasn’t Daniel.”
“It was. I swear.”
“No, it was the tumor. The tumor took control over him. Now he wants to infect us. It’s the tumor. Rod Glover. The tumor.”
“That’s right,” she babbled. “It’s his tumor. It came here, it drank my blood. It was the tumor, I remember now. You have to help me. The tumor wants to steal your blood.”
“Yes. You’re right. I need to take care of it.” His lips quivered. “I need to take it out.”
“Exactly. Cut him up and take it out. It’s the only way.” She could do it. Get him to kill his partner.
He thought about it. “No. I’m going to buy you some antibiotics. I’ll ask them if they have something for the tumor. I’ll ask them.”
If he left the house, his friend would kill her for sure. “Don’t leave! He’ll kill me. Take care of him first!”
“Don’t worry.” He took the rag, shoved it into her mouth. She struggled, tried to spit it out, and he tightened the knot, making sure the rag stayed in her mouth. “He took his pills last night. He sleeps until noon when he does that. I’ll be back long before.”
He got up. She screamed through the gag, tried to dislodge it with her tongue. It was no use.
“Just don’t make too much noise. He’ll sleep right through,” he told her and shut the door.
She wasn’t going to wait for this maniac to come back. One guy had left; the other one was sleeping, medicated. If she freed herself now, armed with the scalpel, she had more than just a slight hope. She had a real chance.
Invigorated by that thought, she twisted the nut connected to the sink’s drainpipe with all her strength.
And with a rusty squeak, it turned.
CHAPTER 58
Zoe woke up with a start, nightmares lingering in the back of her mind, her breath short. She was on the brink of figuring something out, an important detail in the photos she hadn’t noticed before. What was it? Perhaps a significant look exchanged between Glover and one of the other congregation members? Or someone who repeatedly appeared with Glover in the photos?
But she’d scrutinized the photos in which Glover appeared so many times that by now she knew them by heart. She could recite th
e names of all the people who appeared in those photos. In fact, she’d made a note in her list of how many times each person was photographed talking or engaging somehow with Glover. The person who seemed closest to him was a guy named Dennis Blake. He was one of Zoe’s top eight. Unmarried, aged thirty-six, worked as a sales associate at Walmart. It was likely that he was used to being managed, that he was the type who would let Glover boss him around. And Glover would have noticed it immediately.
That was what niggled at her. He was significantly more likely to be their unsub. She picked up her phone, about to dial Tatum’s number.
No.
She didn’t sense the relief of putting her finger on what was bothering her. Whatever it was, it wasn’t related to Dennis Blake at all.
What bothered her wasn’t what she’d seen in the picture. It was something that was missing.
Someone who made a point of avoiding being photographed with Glover? There were thirteen men in the photos who didn’t appear with Glover even once. She thought about each of them in turn. Nothing clicked.
The problem was, she was focused on Glover. How people related to him in the photos. If they talked to him, did he smile at them, or at their spouses, or their children? It was as if she couldn’t profile the unsub without pointing out how every characteristic related to Glover. The unsub is Caucasian like Glover, his height average like Glover. He has a mental illness, which Glover used to manipulate him. He is a follower, which is what Glover would look for in an accomplice.
The unsub was a killer as well. Maybe Glover had pried the beast out, but it had been there before, lurking. And his characteristics weren’t related to Glover at all. This was her own problem, the problem that hounded her. When Rod Glover appeared, she viewed the world differently. Through a warped lens.
After turning on her laptop, she scrolled through the entire photo collection, this time focusing on the photos in which Glover didn’t appear. Searching them for anything. Anything at all.
She found it within twenty minutes.