Dead in Her Tracks

by Kendra Elliot

A trophy.

  She swallowed hard, tasting tears. Not while I’m still breathing, you bastard.

  If Donald thought she would go down easy, he was in for a surprise.

  “Can you swing by Donald’s house?” Zane asked Kenny. “And ask if Stevie picked up Bruce’s medication?”

  “Not a problem,” said Kenny. “He only lives a mile or two from me.”

  “I found a phone number under his mother’s name, and it must have been a landline in her house at some point, but it’s been disconnected. I asked around for his cell number, but no one has it.”

  “A lot of people have disconnected their landlines,” remarked Kenny. “I’ll call you back after I talk to him.”

  Zane ended the call. It was just after eight o’clock. No reason Donald wouldn’t still be up.

  His brain churned. If Stevie had picked up the medication but hadn’t made it out to her mother’s home, she could have gone off the road anywhere between the two locations. He mentally drove the five-mile route, looking for a place she might have slid off the road. The snow had mostly melted and the roads shouldn’t be icy, but even wet they could be treacherous. He grabbed his hat and keys, needing to take action instead of making phone calls.

  This feels like the search for Bruce.

  It’d been less than a week since another member of the Taylor family had been missing.

  Zane wanted a quicker and safer resolution for Stevie.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When the locks clicked on the heavy metal door, Stevie felt as if she’d been waiting for hours. She’d stared at the door for a long time, squinting at the brown streaks that raked the concrete blocks next to the doorframe. The more she’d looked at them, the more she’d been able to envision a woman clawing her fingers bloody on the concrete, trying desperately to escape.

  By her legs there were brown stains on the mattress. Like blood had pooled.

  Her mind had tried to shut down as she’d stared at them. How many women died on this mattress?

  The door opened and Donald strode in with a confidence she’d never seen in the quiet man. He practically strutted. She hid her surprise and simply stared at him.

  Show no fear.

  She knew a victim’s fear would feed a man like him. It was all about power.

  How had he become this person? She’d known Donald and his mother most of her life. Her parents had considered him a close acquaintance, if not a friend. As the town’s longtime pharmacist and sole Realtor, he’d been a large chunk of the town’s foundation. Now he was a cancer that ate away at their town from the inside, slithering in the shadows, striking out at vulnerable women.

  Stevie wasn’t vulnerable. And she would let him know it.

  The chains on her ankles clanked. Maybe I’m a bit vulnerable.

  He stopped a full three feet away from the metal-framed bed and ran a proud gaze over her. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  She said nothing, keeping her eyes trained on his face. He’s staying a safe distance away. He’s not entirely confident.

  “I’ve always liked you, Stevie,” he said. “You were one of those girls in town that drew everyone’s attention. Beautiful, outgoing, energetic. And talented. I’d forgotten how you can sing.” A dreamy smile filled his face. “When you sang the other night, it blew me away. Your whole family is quite talented. I’d always had a thing for your mother, you know. Her voice was incredible. Does she wonder what might have happened with her singing career if she hadn’t married your father?” He tilted his head to the side as he asked the question.

  She stayed silent.

  His face fell. “So it’s going to be like that, is it? This will go a lot easier for you if you’re polite, Stevie. I don’t think Patsy raised you to be rude.”

  Her mother’s name on his lips made her want to vomit.

  Play along or keep silent?

  He stared at her a moment longer and then sighed. He grabbed a chair, pulled it closer—but not too close—and sat. He worked his lips as he studied her, twisting and pressing them.

  He looked more like an owl than ever. His big round eyeglasses frames were from a different decade, making him seem meek and mild.

  “My mother was a strong woman like yours is,” he said. “She raised me right. Taught me the manners that so many of today’s youth are missing.” His expression indicated that he lumped her, given her current behavior, with “today’s youth.” “Young women simply aren’t taught how to behave these days.”

  Someone has mommy issues.

  She couldn’t remember much about Donald’s mother. She’d always been called Mrs. Montgomery. If she’d had a first name, it had never been used. Stevie faintly recalled a tall, heavy-boned woman with white hair. She’d always worn a housedress and carried a patent leather purse. Stevie was struck by a dim recollection of standing on the main street in Solitude and making faces at her reflection in Mrs. Montgomery’s purse as her mother spoke very loudly with Donald’s mother. The woman had lost her hearing as she aged, and Patsy said she rarely left the house the last few years of her life. Stevie had no memory of Donald’s father. She knew only that he’d been the town pharmacist before his son took over.

  “I don’t know why you’re a cop,” Donald said. “It’s a very unfeminine role. It’s almost like you’re trying to prove something, like you’re not just a pretty face with beautiful hair.” He reached out and touched her hair, an admiring expression on his face.

  Internally Stevie cringed, keeping her expression neutral as his fingers stroked her hair. The Medford women, Samantha Lyle, Vanessa Phillips. All long wavy or curly hair.

  Bile burned the back of her throat.

  His fingers hesitantly touched her cheek. She froze.

  “Ah, Stevie. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

  She turned her face to the wall, unable to look at him any longer. Down low, right where the mattress met the wall, she spotted initials scratched into the concrete block.

  V.P.

  She held back a scream.

  Zane slowly drove the country road, watching for skid marks or a sign that a car had plunged into the brush. He’d put in a call to Stevie’s brother-in-law Seth with the county sheriff’s department, explaining the situation. Seth had immediately gotten some county vehicles on the roads, doing a search similar to Zane’s. Carly was in full investigation mode, calling every friend of Stevie’s to see if she’d stopped by.

  Donald had told Kenny that Stevie had picked up the medication soon after five o’clock and left. Donald had had the impression she was headed straight to her mother’s house to make the delivery.

  After getting Kenny’s report on Donald, Zane had sent Kenny to Fletcher’s and the Wayward Motel. He wanted Kenny to talk to Charlie and Jake, see with his own eyes that Stevie wasn’t with them. He also ordered Kenny to bang on every motel door. Zane didn’t care if the guests were disturbed. He wanted someone to get a look in every room, especially Tim Sessions’s. Too much of both murder investigations had centered on Fletcher’s and the motel.

  Zane changed his mind and abruptly pulled a U-turn. County could search the roads. He wanted to see Jake Powers’s face and look in his eyes when he said he hadn’t seen Stevie that evening.

  Jake was a horrible liar.

  “Bob Fletcher was one of my closest friends,” Donald said. He’d been rambling for a few minutes as he stroked Stevie’s hair. She’d stayed mum, but when he mentioned Bob she narrowed her gaze at him.

  Donald and Bob?

  “He was!” Donald said at the disbelief in her eyes. “We had a lot in common.”

  “Bullshit. You’re nothing like Bob.” Tread carefully.

  Fury filled his face. “He liked me. He helped me out at one of the lowest times of my life . . . when my mother died. He was my friend.”

  “You didn’t
act that way when you told me there were drugs being dealt at the truck stop. You practically pointed at Bob as the head of the operation.”

  He sneered. “I had you going, huh?”

  She stared at him. He’d said all that to mislead her? And the police? Why?

  Did he kill Bob?

  A piece of the puzzle tentatively fell into place.

  Donald supplied Bob with the oxy. Kept him addicted.

  But why kill him?

  “Why did you consider Bob a friend?” she asked slowly, dying to ask if he’d killed the man he claimed had been a friend.

  Donald looked away. “I’m not the best at getting women to like me.”

  You think? She bit her tongue. Maybe it’s the shackles and basement. “Bob paved the way for you to meet women?”

  Donald nodded. “He’d loosen them up a little bit for me. They always were compliant at first.”

  “You mean he put something in their drinks at the bar.”

  He scowled. “It’s not like that. They were there to drink and meet men anyway. The Rohypnol just sped up the process a bit. Eliminated a step.”

  Her mind whirled. Bob drugged women for Donald to have sex with. And then he killed them?

  The stash of bills in Bob’s house. Donald gave him cash and oxy in payment.

  “Bob knew what I liked in a woman. He’d let me know when one came into the bar alone. At first I’d simply take them to the motel, and they’d leave the next morning, usually embarrassed and angry.”

  None of them called the police? Stevie wanted to cry for all the women he’d raped. He must have made them believe they’d simply drunk too much. And that it’d been their fault.

  Donald stared off into space. “I wanted more time with them. So many of them just ran off. We decided to bring them here.”

  Where were those manners you preached to me about?

  “Donald, what did your mother think of this?” she whispered.

  Horror crossed his face. “Oh, I didn’t do it before Mother died. Of course not. My evenings were spent with her. She would have been shocked to know that I started going to Fletcher’s.”

  Stevie didn’t want to know what he’d done in the evenings with his mother.

  He glared at her. “My mother would have hated you if she could see you today. She always thought Patsy’s girls were good girls, but you’re clearly a whore. Whoring around with the chief of police.” He jerked his hand away from her hair, pulling a chunk out of her head.

  Tears welled at the sting.

  He stood, shoving his chair backward, and strode toward the door.

  “Mother will be happy that I can redeem you.”

  The door slammed behind him and three locks slid into place.

  Redeem me how?

  “I haven’t seen Stevie tonight,” Jake stated. “I’m sorry she’s missing, but I don’t know anything about it!”

  Zane had the man’s shirt in his grip, pressing Jake’s back against the wall in the dark hallway next to the men’s room at Fletcher’s. It stank.

  Jake didn’t look scared; he looked pissed.

  Zane searched his eyes in the poor light. He believed him. “Fuck!” He gave Jake a shove to the side and slammed his fist into the wall where the man had stood. The wood paneling cracked.

  “Holy shit,” Kenny muttered beside him. “Watch it, Zane.”

  Zane counted to ten. “Jake.” He didn’t look at the man. “Someone’s taken Stevie. The same person who killed Vanessa Phillips and possibly a few other women. You know Bob was caught on video putting Vanessa’s body in his SUV. Where was he taking her?”

  “Well, you don’t have proof that Bob put—”

  “Jake! We have the footage! It’s proof! You claim you were a close friend. You tried to beat up Tony Cooper because you thought he’d killed Bob. There’s a good chance whoever was helping Bob with these women is the one who has Stevie right now. Who else did Bob trust? Who’d you see him with?”

  Jake shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ceiling, gnawing on his lower lip. “Well, I always thought his conversations with the pharmacist were weird. What did Bob see in that old loser? Each time he stepped foot in the bar, Bob kissed his ass.”

  “Donald Montgomery?” Ice shot through Zane’s limbs.

  The last person who saw Stevie.

  “Yeah, I didn’t get it. I had orders to give the guy all the drinks he wanted on the house. He really wasn’t a big drinker. He’d order one mai tai and nurse it all night. Girly drink. I always wondered if he was gay and Bob felt sorry for him.”

  Zane fought the urge to bang Jake’s head against the paneling.

  “Bob even helped him with some repairs at his house one summer. He hauled concrete blocks for three days. Said Donald’s basement was starting to crumble. Shit. I asked Bob to help me paint a bedroom and he just laughed at me.” Jealousy filled his voice.

  He’ll need a place to hide them. Somewhere he’s comfortable.

  That big old house of his mother’s.

  Acid emptied into his stomach, and Zane looked at Kenny. “Notice anything unusual when you were over there?”

  Kenny shook his head. “Donald seemed real concerned we couldn’t find Stevie. Said to call him if we needed help.” His face cleared. “Security camera. He’s got a camera aimed at the front porch. I noticed one on the corner of the house too, pointing at the side entrance. Think it’s a warning system, not a security system?”

  Basement. Concrete blocks.

  “Let’s go find out.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Let’s get him out of there,” Zane said to Kenny as he drove toward Donald’s home. “Since Donald offered to help with the search, call and tell him we desperately need every extra vehicle on the road. He helped search for Bruce. Tell him we need him again. Don’t let him say no. As soon as he leaves, we’ll go in.”

  “Got it.” In the passenger seat, Kenny pulled out his cell phone. A stricken look crossed his face. “We still don’t have a phone number for him!”

  “Shit.” Zane mentally shifted gears. “You’ll have to knock on the door again. Convince him we need his help.”

  “But what about you?”

  “You’ll drive up his long driveway. Let me out at the road and I’ll sneak up in the shadows. I’ll get into his house somehow.”

  “Zane, you can’t do that.”

  “Right now I don’t really care. Who’s going to fire me? Stevie’s brother?” He looked at his officer. “This is Stevie we’re talking about.”

  “Right.” A determined look crossed Kenny’s face. “But I’m letting the county sheriff know where we’re going. We might need backup.”

  “Not if we can get Donald away from the property.” Zane said a silent prayer. He didn’t give a shit about his job. Every cell in his body told him that Donald had Stevie, and he’d be damned if he let her vanish or turn up dead in a motel room.

  She is going to be my wife.

  Zane pulled over and leaped out of the car, the keys still in the ignition. Kenny came around the back of the car and slid into the seat. “Get him out of that damned house,” Zane repeated, holding eye contact with Kenny. “Keep ringing the doorbell until he answers. I don’t care if he’s in his pajamas. I’m counting on you to sell this.”

  “Got it.” Kenny pulled the door shut and gunned the gas, sending slushy snow flying as he headed up the long driveway.

  Zane ran after him, hoping he didn’t trip and break an arm. He could barely see. Ahead, Kenny’s taillights disappeared around a curve and left Zane in the dark. He kept running, the icy air stinging his lungs. What if she isn’t there?

  She’s there.

  He rounded a curve and the house came into sight. Donald believed in lots of outside lights, but as Kenny had theorized, it was possibly to protect hi
s activities, not his home. Zane kept to the shadows of the trees, swinging wide around the house. On the front porch, Kenny continuously rang the doorbell, calling Donald’s name. He beat on the door with his fist.

  Zane crouched in the dark and waited. Come out, you bastard.

  Or I’m coming in anyway.

  Donald had returned to the basement. He’d changed into a black-and-red basketball jersey and baggy black shorts. His legs were insanely white and his arms were muscular. Much more muscular than Stevie would have expected from the quiet pharmacist.

  Strong enough to slice through Bob Fletcher’s neck?

  His muscles flexed as he set down a coil of thick rope and a stack of neatly folded towels.

  Stevie stared at the items as her brain begged her to look away.

  She held strong.

  He didn’t have the best of her yet.

  How much will he hurt me? She didn’t see any knives or items to create pain. Vanessa’s body hadn’t shown signs of abuse outside of rape and choking. Stevie breathed evenly. She could handle rape. It usually wasn’t sexual for the aggressor; it was about the power over the victim. Take away the power trip and he might lose interest.

  It’s just my body.

  I’ll be damned if he messes with my head.

  Her mental defenses ready, she watched him tie odd knots in the rope. Time for some answers.

  “Why me, Donald?” she asked.

  He blinked his owl eyes at her. “You were meant to be, Stevie. You’ve always been my ideal, you know.” He focused on the rope in his hands. “All the rest were temporary substitutes.”

  “The rest?”

  “Other women. It was all practice leading up to you. When you walked into the pharmacy tonight, I knew it was a sign that it was time.”

  “You’ve always had a thing for me?” she asked in a kind tone.

  He leveled an even gaze at her. “No whore’s tricks. Don’t pretend that I’m your best friend. I know how you see me.”

  “Where are the practice women now, Donald?”