She had been going to Calloway's out on the ocean. Into the bar. She used the fake ID she'd bought at school. Billy Trotter had been behind the bar; he knew very well she wasn't twenty-one, but he'd been cool about it. Even given her a free drink when the bartender wasn't looking.
Kristen remembered that she had gone to the bar to meet Amy and Sarah and a couple of cute guys from Pennsylvania who they had met at work today. The one guy who was supposed to be her date turned out to be a jerk. She'd only had a couple of drinks so she walked out, thinking she'd just go home. She remembered being in the parking lot. The guy followed her. Chase was it? He followed her outside. He was pretty wasted. Hollering at her. Accusing her of being a tease.
Someone had told him to take a hike. Someone she knew. Then he'd been nice enough to walk her to her car.
Kristen began to shake all over as she fought tears and nausea. How had she gotten in the trunk of this car? Had Chase put her in his trunk? Where was he taking her?
No, no she didn't need to think about that. What she needed to think about was how to get out of here. She racked her fuzzy brain. Maybe she'd had more to drink than she thought. Nothing was processing smoothly. Her head was full of random thoughts.
How to get out of the trunk of a car.
She'd seen it on a talk show once. Someone, Oprah maybe, had had guests who had escaped train wrecks, plane crashes, and kidnappings. Make noise. Get someone's attention.
She tried to scream. She lifted her feet that were tied together somehow at the ankles and tried to hit the lid of the trunk above her. Her arms were taped painfully behind her, so on her back, they were under her. She managed to bang on the lid several times.
The radio got louder. It was a local rock station. 98.8 The Beach.
And the car was moving. Fast. How would anyone hear her?
Then she remembered the story about the taillights. It was Oprah. A woman had been kidnapped by her ex-husband and she got another motorist's attention by kicking the taillight out and sticking her hand or fingers or something though the hole.
Kristen rolled onto her side and wiggled forward, trying to figure out in the dark where the taillights must be. Something crackled under her—some kind of plastic. She drew back her feet and kicked hard. She thought maybe she heard something snap. She kicked again.
The car slowed and she began to panic. She kicked hard, again and again, tears running down her face. Her makeup stung her eyes, and something in the trunk was jabbing into her side. "Please, please," she cried silently.
The car slowed further. Turned. The surface changed. It wasn't smooth any more. It was bumpy. So bumpy that she was thrown almost onto her stomach, then onto her side again.
Kristen thought she heard a dog bark as the car rolled to a stop. She knew she couldn't really scream, but she did it anyway.
The engine cut off along with the radio.
It was definitely a dog she heard. Then a man's voice. He was talking to the dog in a nice voice. Friendly. Calling him "buddy."
Maybe he would be nice to her?
Kristen heard the trunk lock pop and she instinctively kicked hard, pushing herself as far into the trunk away from him as she could. No light came on in the trunk; it was so dark out that she couldn't see him. Just his form.
"Hmmm. Now, what do we have here? Awake, are we?"
It was the same male voice she remembered in the parking lot. Chase. No, not Chase. The other voice. The man who had come to her rescue. Been so nice to her.
A flashlight clicked on and she recoiled at the bright light that burned her eyes. In just that instant, before he fixed the beam on her, she saw his face. Recognized him.
Then she realized this wasn't a horny guy, kidnapping her to rape her. She knew who he was. Knew she wouldn't live.
* * *
From the bathroom, Jillian heard banging on the door. "Jilly!"
It was Ty and she could tell immediately that something was wrong. In bra and panties, toothbrush in her mouth, she hurried to the front door. Ty hadn't left until two in the morning, and he had to be on the beach to lifeguard by ten. She knew he wouldn't be up before eight in the morning if he didn't have to be.
She unlocked the door and opened it. "What's wrong?" she asked, her words garbled by the toothbrush still in her mouth.
His hair was rumpled, his face still sleepy. He was wearing the same clothes he'd worn the night before, now wrinkled as if they had been slept in. "Kristen never came home last night."
Jillian walked to the kitchen sink to rinse her mouth. "At a girlfriend's maybe?"
"Mom doesn't think so. She's always good about coming in at night. Letting my parents know she's home. If she had stayed at a girlfriend's, she would have called."
Jillian splashed water on her face and then tapped the wet toothbrush on the rim of the old stainless steel sink. "Maybe she went out drinking with friends, had a little too much, and was embarrassed—"
"Mom's afraid she's been kidnapped. You know, by the killer."
Jillian turned to look at him. "I thought everyone thinks it was Ralph. That he's been arrested and hauled off so women are safe again in Albany Beach."
Ty brushed his bed-rumpled hair out of his face, his concern obvious. "What if they're wrong?"
His simple statement of fact was enough. Jillian went down the hallway. "Did you call the police?"
"Not yet." He followed her to the bedroom. "Mom and Dad are driving around looking for her car, just in case she is at a girlfriend's or something. I'm supposed to be looking, too."
"Her cell phone?"
"Turned off. Which isn't like her, either."
Jillian pulled on her shorts and reached for the sleeveless button-up shirt she'd left on the bed before taking her shower. "Ty, we need to call the police, now."
"You think so?" He began to pace in front of the window he'd climbed through the night before. "I thought so maybe, too. But I wasn't sure. She's going to be pissed if she's sleeping off a drunk on a friend's couch." He pushed his hair back again. "Or some guy's place. And we call out the cavalry."
"You have your cell phone?" She dropped to the floor to find her sandals under the bed.
"Yeah."
"Call the police, then call your parents and tell them you've contacted them."
He hesitated.
"Do it now, Ty. The women who were kidnapped were always missing twenty-four hours before they were found. If this nut did kidnap Kristen, she might still be alive." Locating her sandals at last, she got up and dropped them to the floor to slip into them.
Ty pulled his phone from his pocket.
"I'll be ready to go with you in just a second," she said. "If she's in town, we'll find her."
"Don't you have to get to work this morning?" he called down the hallway.
She stepped into the bathroom to run a brush through her wet hair and twist it up on her head. "Millie will understand. Call the police."
* * *
"Where are they now?" Claire cradled the phone with her shoulder as she hopped on one foot to pull on her uniform trousers.
"Here in the station," Officer Marsh said quietly.
"You know what information we need." Claire fastened her pants and ripped the dry-cleaning bag off her shirt hanging on the closest door.
"Yes, Chief."
"Keep them calm, and don't you dare let on like this is any more than a girl sleeping off too many frozen frufru drinks on somebody's couch."
"I understand, Chief."
"In the meantime"—she punched one fist into her shirt and then the other—"you call everyone in. Everyone. I want Jerry and Al on their bicycles. I want every car we have on the road."
"We offering time and a half? It's a Sunday, Chief."
"We're offering whatever it takes to get everyone on the force who's not out of state or drunk on a Sunday morning on the road looking for this girl."
"You coming in now?"
"Give me fifteen minutes, twenty tops." She hurried to the s
mall safe in her closet where she kept her service revolver.
Claire heard a female voice in the background, then Marsh spoke into the phone again. "Jillian Deere is here with the Addisons. You know her, she's—"
"I know her." She turned the dial on the combination lock, missed her mark, cursed under her breath, and tried again. "What's she saying?"
"She says to tell you this is a not a young woman who would take off without telling anyone. She and the Addison boy found her car in Calloway's parking lot."
"That's where she was last seen?" Claire finally got the safe open and grabbed her revolver.
"They don't know. She was out with girlfriends last night. Probably underage drinking."
"Time to crack down on Calloway's again," Claire muttered, trying to strap on the holster for her gun.
"I've got Mrs. Addison and her son making a list of the other girls Kristen might have gone out with last night," Marsh said. "And I got a call in to the manager at Calloway's. I'll see who we can talk to who might have seen her last night. Bartenders, waitresses. Maybe regulars."
"Good work, Marsh." Claire hurried down the hall, slipping her feet into her shoes as she went. She'd tie them when she got to the car. "I'll see you in a few minutes."
Hanging up the phone, Claire walked past Ashley's door, then backed up. Hesitated. The teen would be furious with her mother if she woke her this early on a Sunday morning, but Claire couldn't help herself. Another young blond woman missing? It scared her to death, and her first instinct was to be sure her daughter was all right.
Claire quietly opened the bedroom door to see Ashley sprawled in her bed asleep, her dyed black hair spilling across the blue cloud pillowcase. Claire hated the dyed hair, the black makeup, the skull T-shirts, but this morning, she was almost glad her daughter wasn't a pretty blond.
Taking one last look at Ashley, she backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She scribbled a quick note for her daughter to call her when she rose at the crack of noon, and then set the house alarm, locking Ashley safely inside. As Claire hurried out into the muggy summer morning, she prayed the body of Kristen Addison wasn't waiting in some Dumpster for her today.
* * *
"Please," Kristen whispered. She barely had the strength to speak now. Her head was too heavy to hold up any longer. It hung, putting painful pressure on her neck.
"What do you need?" he asked, almost tenderly. "Some more ice chips?"
She managed to shake her head no, then let it fall back, loose like a rag doll's. Water, at this point, she reasoned, might just prolong the inevitable.
Kristen wasn't afraid anymore. The worst was over. Her hands were now numb, taped down for so long. She couldn't really feel her feet anymore, though if she opened her eyes, she could see them there on the bloodstained sawdust floor of the old barn.
She knew she was going to die. Was resigned to it. And she knew that when she did die, she would go to heaven. It was her parents she was so upset about. And Aunt Alice and Uncle Richard. Her cousin Ty.
"Kristen," her captor said softly. "Try to drink a little." He lifted a cup to her lips, but she refused.
"No. I'm not thirsty."
He brushed her hair off her face and she flinched, trying to get away from him. She couldn't, of course, and the energy it took to move was only wasted.
"Sleepy," she murmured.
"I know. But don't go to sleep. Not yet. Please?"
His last word was almost desperate and she was surprised that she felt a twinge of pity for him.
Early on, when she'd still had the strength, she'd asked him why he was doing this to her, to any woman.
Why was he kidnapping women... killing them this way?
He wouldn't tell her. Instead he'd wanted to talk about other things.
Now she didn't care why. It didn't really matter anymore.
Kristen saw a flutter of white wings out of the corner of her eye, and they drew her attention. What on earth was that? Angels?
Her mother liked angels. She collected them. Glass ones, ceramic ones. Even little wooden cut-out ones. Last Christmas Kristen had given her a little silver angel on a chain to wear around her neck. Her mother wore it all the time.
There were more wings now. All around her. Kristen could hear them fluttering.
"Kristen? Kristen? You can't go to sleep yet," her captor ordered. He grabbed her T-shirt and shook her, but she didn't move. She was too fascinated by the flickering angel wings around her.
"Kristen!" His voice barely penetrated her mind now.
"Kristen?" This time it was her grandma's voice she heard.
She had loved her grandmother so much. Had been so sad when she passed away last year. Now Grandma was here, here in the old barn with that... that sick guy who she'd actually been nice to the other day. Her eyelids flickered, and she saw his face again. He was calling her name, trying to get her to answer.
"Kristen, don't worry about him," her grandmother said gently, drawing Kristen's attention back to her again with a brush of her fingertips on her granddaughter's chin. "He'll get his in due time. Have no fear of that." Grandma laughed, as if she had a secret, and then began to magically pull away the duct tape that held Kristen to the old wooden chair.
"Grandma, I didn't know you were here," Kirsten said, feeling oddly stronger now.
"I just arrived in town." She was smiling as she stooped to remove the tape from Kristen's ankles. She was still wearing one of those silly flowered housecoats she liked. And the thin, pink terrycloth slippers. But she seemed so much more agile than Kristen remembered her. And her mind was sharp again.
"You hungry, sweetie?" Grandma asked.
Kristen rubbed her ankles where they were sore and stood up. The blood that had pooled in the sawdust was gone. Her captor was gone; she wondered where. Only the dog was still there. Watching her curiously.
"Sorry, old boy," Kristen told the dog, giving him a pat on the head.
He whined.
"I have to go," she told him.
He looked at her with big, sad brown eyes and whined again.
Kristen looked to her grandmother, who was already on her way across the barn floor, headed for the door. "Grandma, do I have to leave him?"
"Sorry, sweetie, you know your grandfather won't want another dog. We've got seven... or is it eight?" She chuckled.
Kristen hesitated, feeling bad that she had to leave the nice dog behind with that son of a bitch who had done this to her. But she understood that her grandparents couldn't take in every stray dog she felt sorry for.
"Kristen, come on," her grandmother urged. "It's almost time to eat."
Kristen looked up. "I am hungry. Did you make fried chicken?" she asked as she hurried after her, leaving the whining dog behind.
"Of course I made chicken. I know it's your favorite."
Grandma opened the barn door and bright white light spilled in. Kristen knew that morning had come... maybe even afternoon, but the sunlight seemed even more brilliant.
Grandma reached back with one hand, and Kristen took it.
"Come along now," Grandma urged.
As Kristen stepped out of the barn, into the light, she heard her captor behind her, calling her name. He was crying. Sobbing. But the frying chicken smelled too good, and her grandmother's hand was too comforting in hers, for Kristen to look back.
* * *
"Kristen," the Bloodsucker said softly. Then louder. "Kristen!" He reached out with one shaky hand. He touched her cheek, wishing he didn't have the latex of the glove between them. She was still warm, but her chest wasn't rising and falling anymore. "Kristen," he wailed, pressing his fingertips to the artery in her neck. The one that should have been pulsing...
"No." He shook his head. "No, not yet. Not yet!" he screamed at her, kicking the chair.
Her body moved. Her head rolled, but he knew she was dead. Dead and gone. She had left him!
"You weren't supposed to die," he shouted at her. "Not yet! Did
n't you hear what I told you? Didn't you!" He kicked Kristen's chair so hard that it tipped on two legs, hitting the plastic table beside it and knocking it over before settling upright again. Kristen's head rolled like a rag doll's.
The plastic table hit the makeshift wall he had built of plastic sheeting and two-by-fours, sending the cup of ice flying. The Bloodsucker gave the table a vicious kick and it flew out into the barn.
The table skittered across the hard-packed dirt floor and Max gave a yip of fright and took off.
"Not yet. Don't leave me!" the Bloodsucker howled, falling to his knees in the damp, dark sawdust. He rested his cheek on Kristen's knee and felt her warmth as tears ran down his cheeks. "Don't leave me," he whispered, rocking side to side.
He lay there another minute, sniffling, and then took a deep breath. Another. He was still shaking, but not so badly. He had to pull himself together. He knew that.
Slowly he got to his feet, brushed the blood-soaked sawdust off his plastic-covered knees, and turned toward the picnic table. To his horror, Max was cowering beneath it.
"Oh, Max. I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you. You all right, boy?"
The dog gave a pathetic whine.
"Ah, poor doggy," the Bloodsucker said. He knelt in front of the picnic table and peered between the bench and the table. Slowly he slid his hand toward the dog. "It's okay," he crooned. "It's okay, Max. I would never hurt you. You know that."
The dog whined again, then twisted his head to let his master pet him.
"That's a good boy. Good Max." He scratched behind the dog's ear. "Would you like a treat? How about a treat for such a good boy?" He reached above him to the table and picked up a half-eaten bologna sandwich he had tried to get Kristen to share with him earlier. "Some of this?" He tore a piece off, not too big, though. He wouldn't want Max to choke.
The dog took the bread and meat from his hand.
"That's such a good boy," the Bloodsucker cooed. "Bad old Kristen. She left, didn't she? But Max will never leave. No he won't."
Chapter 14
She'll Never Know Page 22