Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

  Whoever said time was the great healer was full of shit. He had reason to know that demons could lurk endlessly in the subconscious, just waiting for defenses to be lowered before leaping forth again. Memory could be a ravenous predator, a Technicolor replay of details far better forgotten.

  He hoped like hell that Barbara Billings was strong enough to cope with what was to come. The worst wasn’t necessarily behind her. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 3

  Abbie ducked under the police tape and followed Ryne through the open front door of the Billings house. She was pleasantly surprised—and not a little relieved—to see open boxes of latex gloves and shoe covers sitting right inside the door. She paused to don pairs of both. Surprisingly, even in this day and age, she’d been to scenes where the police had to be reminded to wear gloves.

  Raiker, of course, would prefer investigators wear totally sterile Tyvek suits over their clothes. But she was satisfied with the paper shoe covers that prevented them from carrying in particles that could be confused with trace evidence.

  She signed in on the security log and, hands behind her back, stepped inside the home. Plastic evidence markers dotted the area. A crime scene tech was standing in the dining room directly ahead of her, operating the electronic crime scene scanner.

  Robel was talking to Cantrell, so she moved away from them and continued through the house, stepping carefully around the markers. More CSU techs were in the bedroom in the back, going over grids of the carpet with handheld forensic vacuum units. The bed had already been stripped, the bedding individually bagged and tagged. Black fingerprint dust remained on the white woodwork and glass of the windows. An alternate light source and two sets of goggles sat on the floor next to the bed. From the looks of things, the techs were nearly done with the area. One of the detectives, she thought it was Cantrell, was taking notes of the contents of the closet and drawers.

  She halted in the doorway, her gaze traveling around the room slowly. It was unmistakably feminine. Framed matted prints of flowers hung on pale pink walls. The ruffled curtains were neatly folded in bags. The bed was an intricately wrought white metal. And the nude mattress that sat on top of it was patterned with dark brown stains that would turn out to be Barbara Billings’s blood.

  The evidence of the brutality that had taken place there provided sharp contrast to the delicate décor. A chill worked over Abbie’s skin and she moved her shoulders impatiently, shrugging it off. She turned abruptly, nearly running into a large detective she remembered from the conference room that morning. McElroy, the one with the sarcastic tongue.

  “What’s the matter, squeamish?” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “If you’re gonna puke, do it across the street so you don’t contaminate the scene.”

  “If and when I puke, I’ll be sure to clear it with you first.” Since he didn’t appear inclined to move, she brushed past him to get a look at the rest of the house.

  Staying clear of the other detectives, she found the side door that would lead to the garage, then traced Barbara’s journey to the kitchen. She stopped even with the shelf on the wall, the one the rapist had leaned against, while he’d watched his quarry.

  He’d have been filled with adrenaline. The scene he’d planned for, fantasized about, playing out according to his specifications. How long had he watched her? A minute? Two? All the while the anticipation would have built to an unbearable rush.

  Abbie wasn’t even aware that she’d taken up the rapist’s stance, a shoulder against the wall, as she stared blindly toward the kitchen. The instant the victim had seen him would have been delicious. That first expression of shock. That quick transformation to fear. And then amusement would flare when she hunted desperately for the knives that wouldn’t be there. Of course they wouldn’t. Every precaution had been taken. So there was no harm in playing with her a little. Letting her run for those sliding doors that had been left locked, with the portion of wood she’d jammed in the track to keep out intruders.

  He’d allow her to fumble with the lock for a few moments before pouncing. Her struggles would have knocked over that chair that still lay on the carpet. The privacy fence around the small backyard provided assurance that they’d play this scene out without interference from nosy neighbors.

  Abbie curled one hand into her palm, as if gripping the syringe. Billings had said she’d been injected shortly after that initial struggle so the rapist had to have had it ready. In a pocket, or up a sleeve, she mused. With a plastic tip covering the needle to avoid pricking himself by mistake.

  She felt, rather than saw, Robel’s presence beside her. “Which arm was she injected in?” she murmured, her mind still filled with the scene that had played out here two days ago.

  “Left.”

  “Which would almost certainly mean he used his right hand. She said she was on the floor before he injected her.” She looked at him then, the movement snapping her out of the surreal mindset of the rapist. “You asked her which fist he hit her with . . .”

  “And she said both. I see where you’re going with this, but the first two victims were injected initially from behind in their left arms, which would suggest a left-handed attacker. The last two suggest a right-hander. Either he uses both hands equally well, or he’s switching things up to throw us off.”

  “Discovering that he’s ambidextrous would be important information, too,” she said mildly. “Have they found the set of knives yet?”

  Robel nodded. “Garbage can in the garage. The set’s already been dusted.” Someone called him and he moved away. Abbie saw a couple men in the backyard checking windows for signs of tampering. If he’d gained access from one of them, there’d be little chance of signs left in the ground below. It hadn’t rained in the vicinity for days, according to the online weather source she’d checked on the plane en route to Savannah.

  A thought struck her and she retraced her steps to the front door, taking off the shoe covers before slipping outside. The porch was a small slab of cement punctuated with two posts that supported the overhang. Between the porch and the driveway was a small area with carefully tended hydrangeas clustered for maximum effect.

  She rounded the area and eyed the shrubs. Nearly five feet high, they’d provide ample cover for someone crouched behind them, ready to roll into the garage as the door opened and its owner was backing her car out. If he timed it right and stayed down, the door would have been lowering before Billings could have caught sight of him over the hood of her vehicle. The car itself could have provided him cover as he tucked himself into the corner of the garage until the door was safely down.

  She scanned the area around the bushes, but the crushed rock filler would leave no sign of footprints.

  Billings had indicated she’d left the door leading to the house from the garage unlocked. She wouldn’t be the only one lulled into a false sense of security with an electric door. Abbie walked into the garage. There were no other outside doors, and only one window too small to allow an adult entry.

  Peering into the window of the red Sebring convertible housed there, she saw an opener clipped to the visor. Abbie returned to the front door so she could don shoe covers again before continuing into the house toward the garage entrance. Billings’s keys still lay on a table in the hallway there, next to a spare electric opener.

  She went in search of Robel, found him in the kitchen on his cell phone. From the gist of his side of the conversation, she figured he was relaying information to a superior. She waited for him to finish before asking, “Have you determined the point of entry yet?”

  The hard line of his jaw was beginning to show five o’clock shadow. With a start, she realized it was nearing sup pertime. “No windows broken. All are locked. No doors appear to have been jimmied.”

  “He could have had a key.”

  “Billings claimed no one else had a key to the place other than her mother. Never lived here with her ex,” he reminded her.

  She remembered. She also knew that
sometimes victims intentionally withheld information that might cause trouble for people they cared about. “We should follow up on that. An old boyfriend could have had access to the place at one time, could even make a set without her knowing. But it’s also possible the perp came in through the garage as she headed out in the morning.” Briefly, she filled him in on the scenario she’d checked out, concluding, “Billings said she didn’t usually lock the door leading from the house to the garage. But even if she had, the seclusion would have offered him all the time he needed to pick the lock.”

  There was a half smile on his face as he listened to her. It didn’t soften his expression appreciably. “That’s how Holmes and McElroy figured it, too. The extra opener would have given the perp access after he went back for his things.”

  “He probably stashed a vehicle nearby.” There would have been a bag or case of some sort to carry the paraphernalia necessary to carry out his ritual. Using Billings’s car to transport her wouldn’t have given him much maneuvering room, and why risk leaving trace evidence in a car that could be easily identified as missing?

  “I’ve got some uniforms out canvassing the neighbors.” Someone called his name and he looked away, nodded, before glancing back at her. “We’ve got it pretty well covered in here. Why don’t you go out and give them a hand so we can wrap things up this evening?”

  It was a blatant dismissal. He couldn’t have said more plainly that he neither needed nor wanted her help. And if she objected, she’d cement his opinion of her as a trouble-maker on the task force, one who rejected his role as leader. If she agreed, however, she risked looking like a doormat.

  She considered her options for a couple seconds before reaching a decision. “Sure.” The insincerity in her smile matched his. “You might want to remind your techs to process the garage as carefully as they did the bedroom. Although it’s possible he used the victim’s car, most likely he parked his own vehicle right next to hers prior to transporting her. And tell them to take a sample from the crushed rock around the bushes by the porch.”

  Her pointing out the obvious was enough to wipe that smile off his face, so Abbie strolled away, temper simmering. She had enough experience to know the battle had merely been delayed. Robel was stuck with her, but he wasn’t about to welcome her into the inner circle of his task force.

  Which meant she’d earn his respect the old-fashioned way. By contributing something no one else could.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Abbie was still wired as she unlocked the door of her temporary home. The familiar rush of adrenaline hadn’t yet dissipated. After being dismissed from the scene by Robel, she’d talked to an elderly woman two blocks south of the crime scene. Even after learning a serious crime had been committed in her neighborhood, the woman’s outrage had been reserved for the small black SUV that had been parked in front of her house most of the day. Some of the women in her weekly bridge group had had to park down the block as a result.

  In her indignation, the woman had jotted down the license number.

  After catching a ride back to headquarters, a trace had shown the plates as stolen. And it had been satisfying to already have a DMV list of older-model SUVs fitting the color, make, and model of the woman’s description ready for Robel when he’d returned. Almost as satisfying as the flicker of surprise in his eyes when she’d handed it to him.

  She walked through the kitchen to the small living room, and set the accordion file she still carried on top of the desk tucked into the corner. It was unusual for the agency to arrange lodging in a house, rather than a motel. But Dixon had demanded immediate assistance, and apparently there was a sellout concert in town, making motel rooms scarce. It didn’t surprise her that in twenty-four hours a furnished rental property had been subleased, while she’d flown to Savannah. Where Adam Raiker was involved, achieving the impossible was a daily expectation.

  She ought to eat. Although she hadn’t done any shopping yet, she could have something delivered. If she got immersed in the details of the case, hours would pass before she thought of anything else again.

  But the halfhearted intention wasn’t strong enough to keep her from emptying the file on the desk. As she’d noticed earlier, Robel had the contents organized chronologically. She pulled out the chair and sank into it, switching on the lamp. There was a lot of catching up to do. From what Commander Dixon had said, the task force had been formed five weeks ago, shortly after the second rape.

  Abbie studied the pictures first. Bundy had favored pretty dark-haired co-eds, but the women in the photos spread before her shared no such physical similarity. All were attractive, and their ages ranged from nineteen to thirty-eight.

  It wasn’t unusual for some sexual predators to strike indiscriminately, like a kid in a candy store grabbing whatever he could get his hands on. But this guy was patient. A planner . He chose his victims carefully and it was evident he spent a great deal of time learning their routines.

  So, why these women? Abbie dug through the piles until she found copies of reports detailing the task force’s workup until that point. Scanning it rapidly, she found the information she was seeking and slowed to read more carefully.

  No solid link had been established between the first three victims. There were no commonalities in their jobs, neighborhoods, or churches. They even shopped at different grocery stores. Two, counting Barbara Billings, were divorced. One had been single, not yet out of her teens, and one a housewife, assaulted in her home when her husband had been out of town on business.

  It looked like this angle had been exhaustively investigated, but she was still anxious to see if she could connect Barbara to any of the other victims. These hadn’t been random attacks. Either they’d come into contact with the rapist at some point, or he’d selected them because they somehow fit his own bizarre ritual. And if she could figure out why he chose them, they’d be a long way toward establishing his motivation, and one step closer to nailing him.

  Something had been nagging at her since she and Robel had talked about the victims earlier, and she dug through the pile of papers documenting the second assault. Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, hadn’t been assaulted by a man hiding in her home. For her, the rapist had used a blitz-style attack, grabbing her one evening as she crossed the college campus from her job as cashier in the student union. But she’d been transported to the mayor’s beach home for the attack, and Abbie thought there was something critical about that.

  Attacks them in familiar surroundings, she wrote. After jotting down a few more notes, she laid her pencil down and picked up the first pile, the one concerning the rape and torture of Ashley Hornby. Adjusting the lamp for better lighting, she began to read.

  It was well after midnight before she sat back, rubbing her eyes. A glance at the clock on the wall had her groaning. She usually got up at six to work out before getting ready for work. But she knew herself well enough to know she’d be hitting the snooze button several times before being able to rouse herself out of bed the next day. To say she wasn’t a morning person was putting it charitably.

  She took the time to replace the contents of the file so she could return it the next day. Then she readied for bed, mind still preoccupied with the case. She’d want her own copies of the file contents; she’d talk to Robel about it tomorrow. It would be several more nights like this one before she felt like she had a solid handle on the background. But she was itching to get started on a victim grid, a process she always used for establishing intersections in the victimology. Switching on the lamp on the bedside table, she padded back to turn off the overhead light before getting into bed.

  She’d long ago learned the trick of emptying her mind, inviting sleep, and tonight exhaustion hastened the process. In only minutes she’d drifted into a deep dreamless slumber.

  It was the darkness that wakened her. Complete. Suffocating. Abbie opened her eyes, disoriented. Then she bolted upright in bed, fumbling for the lamp on the table. Two quick click
s confirmed what her sleep-fogged mind should have already figured. It wasn’t working. The bulb was probably burned out.

  Lungs strangled, she took a deep breath, beating back the old ghosts that threatened to pounce.

  Are you alone in the dark, little girl?

  The insidious whisper snaked across her mind, leaving a trail of ice. Stumbling from bed, she lurched across the room toward the light switch.

  In her haste, her knee banged against the dresser, and she nearly fell. The shadows in the room seemed to rush in, grow more oppressive.

  You don’t have to be alone. Open the door and let me in.

  Her breath sawed in and out. Her pulse pounded like a locomotive. She could feel herself moving, but the distance didn’t seem to lessen. She stretched out her hand. Her fingers felt the switch plate, slipped off. Swearing, she lunged to the wall, her palm slapping blindly for the switch. An instant later her fingers found it, and she snapped it on, flooding the room with light.

  Her knees went to water then, and she sank in a graceless heap to the floor. She swiped at the chilly sweat on her face with the tail of her nightshirt and waited for her pulse to quiet.

  Are you alone in the dark, little girl?

  With the strength of long practice, she beat back the echoes of that voice, and the sinister memories it summoned. She wasn’t a girl anymore. She wasn’t helpless.

  And for more years than she could count, she’d made very certain that she’d never be alone in the dark again.

  Chapter 4

  The woman on the computer screen struggled feebly, her eyes rounded with terror. Blood oozed from the slashes across her breasts and over her stomach. A click of a button had her screams sounding, muted but shrill enough to summon a rush of arousal. An echo of that initial blast of power.