No Chance in Hell

by Jerrie Alexander

  “Maybe this is the break we needed.”

  “I hope so,” Nate said. “Just as a precaution, I’m headed your way. Give me a call in the morning when you’re ready to check out, and I’ll follow you to the office.”

  “Bring Diablo. Let me know when you get here. I’ll come out after him.” Marcus ended the call.

  A second knock on the door pulled Marcus to his feet. Once again, he checked the peephole. A man wearing a red-checked hat and shirt held a pizza box.

  “Who’d you order the pizza from?”

  “Pizza Pete’s.”

  “That’s what his hat says. Let’s not get careless.” Marcus pulled a twenty from his wallet. “Take your pistol and stand out of sight.”

  He cracked the door, leaving the safety chain in place. “How much?”

  The aroma wafted off the pizza and into the room while the man pulled the ticket off the box and handed it to Marcus. “Sixteen forty-eight.”

  Marcus passed him the twenty. “Set the pizza on the floor and keep the change.”

  The guy looked at him as if he were crazy, but did as he was told. He stuffed the cash into his pocket and walked away.

  “I’m starving,” Chris said.

  Marcus opened the door and reached for the box. A pop followed by a flash of color and the back of his head felt as if it had caught fire. Shit. He’d been shot. He staggered, stumbled, trying to keep his feet under him. Chris screamed his name. Another gunshot rang out. Darkness engulfed him.

  ****

  Chris couldn’t breathe. Something covered her entire head. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. Her brain screamed. She’d been tied to a chair.

  She forced herself to stop trying to gulp large quantities of oxygen into her lungs. Small inhales and exhales through her nose proved more productive. She twisted her head, trying to dislodge the encumbrance. The movement sent nausea washing over her. Please, no. She couldn’t throw up.

  Laser-like pain sliced through her at the memory of Marcus lying on the floor, the back of his head bleeding. The pizza man had stepped inside the room, aiming at Marcus’s forehead. She’d fired at him, but her bullet had only clipped his arm. How could she have forgotten to keep firing? In seconds, the man had been on her, wrenching the gun from her hand.

  “You killed him,” she’d screamed.

  “Shut up or you’re next,” an older man, dressed in a suit, said as he entered the room. Disdain had clouded his face as he looked her over from head to toe.

  She’d run toward him, ready to pummel the life out of him, but he shoved her to the floor. An eerie calm had come over her. “Where’s my brother?”

  “We’ll see how brave you are after he gets his hands on you.” He’d grabbed her hair and slapped a rag over her face. “If you weren’t so important to him, I’d enjoy killing you myself.”

  That was the last thing she remembered. Where had they taken her?

  Pain rose like a huge wave, pulling her into the undertow. She couldn’t move anything except her fingers and head. Bound tightly and still barefoot, she wiggled her toes against some kind of rug. Was she hearing crickets chirping? “Marcus,” she moaned. “Where are you?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name,” a voice said from close to her ear. “He’s dead, and you’re all alone with no one who cares for you. How does that feel? Scary? Frightening? Now imagine if you were a child.”

  “Charlie, please.”

  “Don’t call me Charlie,” he screamed.

  The bag was jerked off her head, ripping out a chunk of her hair along with it. Chris bit back a cry, counting on her ability to stay calm. She blinked, trying to adjust to the overhead light. At the same time, she pulled deep breaths into her lungs. Her vision cleared, and she looked into blue eyes filled with hate.

  “Hello, Sis.” He hissed the nickname. The venom in his tone chilled her to the bone.

  “Why?” The moment she’d asked, the expression on his face made her regret the question.

  He placed his foot on the chair and shoved. Helpless to stop the fall, she tumbled backward, landing on her back. Stars flashed behind her eyes as her head bounced on the wood floor.

  “You don’t get to ask questions,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to a breakfast bar. He opened a black bag and began taking items out. “I’ve waited a long time for this. How does it feel to have nothing or no one to come to your rescue?”

  Chris could only imagine what he was carefully lining up on the counter. She pushed her pain out of her thoughts and concentrated on controlling her rising panic. Marcus could not be dead. She refused to even consider that he wouldn’t come for her. What would he want her to do until he arrived? First, he’d want her to know her surroundings.

  A quick scan revealed a high-end, fully furnished, open floor plan. Hardwood flooring, leather furniture, and the tall, beamed ceiling hadn’t come cheap. She spotted two exterior doors. If she could reach one, where would it lead? Did it matter? No. She’d run as hard as she could.

  Over a large rock fireplace hung a knife display, carefully protected by glass. If she could get free, could she break the case and get her hands on the sharpest blade? Had he brought her to his hunting retreat?

  The door opened, and the man who’d put the rag over her mouth walked inside. Dressed in a gray suit that shouted money, he glanced at Charlie and then down at her on the floor.

  “I see you’ve started the party.” He watched as Charlie polished the long blade of a knife. “Her resemblance to you is remarkable. She will truly make a masterpiece.”

  Charlie’s shoe heels echoed as he walked across the hardwood floor. “Michelangelo.” Charlie’s tone sounded almost sad as he pulled the man in for a hug. “Thank you for bringing her to me.”

  Chris couldn’t see what was happening from her position, but Charlie’s arm made a wide swing and the older man grunted. He stumbled backward. Both hands were on his stomach, and blood had already begun to rush from his wound. The man dropped down on his knees. Charlie caught him under the arms and dragged him over to a wall, where he propped him up.

  “DaVinci,” the guy said as blood bubbled from his mouth. “After all I’ve done for you.”

  “You never should have had one of your thugs take a shot at Christine. I warned you there would be consequences.”

  “I did it for you.” The man coughed and blood ran from his nose and mouth.

  “We knew it couldn’t last.” Charlie returned to the breakfast bar and continued lining up different instruments. “I just acted first.”

  DaVinci? Michelangelo? They were role playing.

  The older man tried to push himself to his feet, but his arms gave out, and he fell to the floor. Charlie ignored him as if he hadn’t entered the room.

  Images of the murdered women flashed through her mind. Some had been eviscerated. Was that her destiny? She grasped at her sanity.

  Charlie’s face suddenly loomed over her. He grabbed the back of her chair and restored her to an upright position. The light reflected off the blade of the knife in his hand.

  “Did you get a good look around? Work out an escape plan? This place belongs to him.” His head jerked in the direction of the dead man. “I’ve never actually hunted anything. Well, except you.” His blue eyes glittered with excitement.

  “You hunted and butchered those women.”

  “Nonsense. They went willingly.”

  “You look so much like Chelsea.” Tears threatened. “She didn’t willingly allow you to do those horrible things to her.”

  “She did at the start. She thought I was a John who’d pay for her next fix.” He shook his head. “If you’re trying to postpone your death by trying to make me feel sorry for that tramp, it’s not necessary. I plan on taking my time with you.”

  “How could you do it?”

  He sighed as if her questions were tedious. “Why did you leave me? Did you even ask the Hollands to adopt me? I think not. Besides, I made sure Chelsea knew
who she’d invited into her bed. What do you care why I killed her? Your arrival almost ruined everything.”

  Chris couldn’t take her eyes off the knife he twirled in his hand. “I don’t understand your hate for me.”

  “Sure, you do. You lived the good life, never thinking about what I was going through. Did you think I would forgive and forget?”

  “I was a child.” She couldn’t tell him she’d forgotten he existed. “You can’t hold me responsible for what happened to you.”

  “You have no idea what ‘happened’ to me.” He walked to the dinner table, picked a chair, and dragged it across the room, the legs scraping across the floor. He placed it directly in front of her. “But now you understand what it means to be alone. To have no one to keep the monsters away. You know how it feels to be at the mercy of others. You get it now.” His voice grew louder and louder. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes. I get it. But why torture those other women, especially your own flesh and blood?” Chris’s mouth was dry, making speaking difficult. She had to keep him talking. Had to connect with him. “Chelsea was innocent. I made the promise. Not her. Why did you do those horrible things to her?”

  An evil grin spread across his face. “That was for sport. A contest with Michelangelo.” He pointed the knife at the dead man.

  “Contest?” Her mind scattered. “I’ve seen pictures. I know what you did to them. A sane person wouldn’t think of doing those horrible things. And you’re telling me it was for fun?”

  “It was something to keep me occupied until you’d lost everything and everybody.” He grabbed her hair, and the blade silently swung toward her.

  Chris cried out, but realized he hadn’t stabbed her. He waved a long blond curl in front of her face. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “You’d do better to pray to me.”

  “You killed everyone I loved. Just get it over with.”

  Another swipe, and this time a huge chunk of hair hit the floor. “You’ll do more than ask me to kill you before we’re finished. You’ll beg. And we have days to play. You ready?”

  Fear and anger rolled from deep inside. “You’re sick.”

  “And you’re dying.”

  The knife flashed again, slicing through her jeans.

  Chapter 25

  Police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck, all with flashing lights, forced Marcus to keep his head turned away. Rage was building, and he was seconds from letting it surface. “Just put a fucking bandage on it,” Marcus snapped at the EMT. The madder he got, the more the back of his head throbbed, but he didn’t give a damn. He had to find Chris.

  “He’s right.” Nate leaned around and checked the back of his head. “You need stitches.” He patted the EMT on his arm. “Slap a bandage on it, because Marcus isn’t going to the hospital. Give it up.”

  Marcus growled, “Hell, the bullet just grazed me.” That it knocked him down and out pissed him off. That he’d allowed Chris to be taken was almost more than he could bear. He signed the waiver and joined Nate, Dalton, and Tomas, who’d set up a command post in the manager’s office.

  “Where’s the clerk?” Marcus asked Dalton.

  “He’s fine. Being interviewed. He was bound and gagged behind the front desk.”

  “Where’s Diablo?”

  “I’ll get him.” Nate left and returned with the dog. He passed the leash to Marcus.

  “What have you learned about Charles Bridger?” Marcus couldn’t stand around and do nothing any longer.

  “There’s a few locals with the same name. Only one with the money it would take to pull something like this off. Kay might have been right when she mentioned the art gallery owner by that name.”

  “Yeah,” Tomas spoke. “Take a look at this picture on file with the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Marcus stared into blue eyes the same color as Chris’s.

  “I sent a squad car to his apartment. He’s not there,” Tomas said.

  “Then we talk to his neighbors. Find out who works for him and question them, too.”

  “I’ve got the list on my tablet. I’ll email it to you right now so you have a copy,” Nate said.

  “I’ll take the gallery manager.” Marcus scanned the room, spotted his gun, and picked it up. A drop of blood close to the door caught his eye. He knelt down to inspect it.

  “Chris hit one of the guys.” Tomas supplied the answer.

  “One?”

  “Yeah,” Tomas said. “According to the desk clerk, a Latino came in, looked around as if to size up the place. He motioned to someone outside, and two men came in with guns drawn.”

  “One of them intercepted the pizza guy. He’s dead,” Nate said. “Tomas has men in the apartment building. Dalton and I were going to start on Bridger’s employees.”

  “Do what you want. I’m talking with the gallery manager. That’s usually the one person who knows everything.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Dalton said, patting the badge clipped to his belt. “People tend to be more cooperative when you’re wearing one of these.”

  “Then let’s go.” Marcus lifted Diablo’s leash, and the dog immediately stood.

  “Don’t you think you should put on a shirt?” Dalton closed his laptop, slid it in its case, and then stood. “And leave the dog.”

  “The shirt’s a good idea. Diablo goes with me.” Marcus jerked a pullover out of his suitcase and slipped it on as they walked to the car.

  Nate and Tomas followed, stopping at the plain navy sedan that Dallas detectives drove. “Stay in touch,” Nate said.

  The drive across town was agony. Dalton pushed his rental car hard, weaving in and out of traffic. Still, it seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl. Time they didn’t have to spare. Time Chris might not have to live.

  Dalton had rented a car with navigation, and every now and then, a monotone voice issued instructions, breaking the silence. When the voice announced their destination was on the right, Marcus almost cheered.

  The neighborhood consisted of almost identical rows of town houses. Dalton parked in front of number six eighteen and killed the engine.

  Marcus turned to Diablo. The dog sensed something was wrong. He hadn’t flopped down on the seat as usual. Instead, he’d been moving around. “Easy, boy.”

  “You leaving him in the car?”

  “Never.” Marcus and Dalton wasted no time getting to the door.

  “Who is it?” a female asked through the closed door.

  “FBI. Ms. Janet Kelly? It’s important that we speak with you.” Dalton held up his ID for her to see.

  “Just a minute.”

  “Look,” Dalton said to Marcus. “You’re a scary-looking son of a bitch with the dried blood on your neck and the patch on the back of your head, not to mention the dog. So am I wasting my breath to ask you to let me do the talking?”

  “Not at all. You’re the expert. Lead off, but I may have questions.”

  The door opened, and a wide-eyed young woman blocked the entryway with her body. “What’s happened?”

  “We have some questions concerning Charles Bridger. I think you can help.” Dalton took a step forward.

  Her gaze stopped on Diablo. “He’s harmless,” Marcus said. “May we come in?”

  “Of course,” she said, letting a loud sigh escape. “I thought something had happened to my family.” She led them into a small living room, picked up the remote, and muted the TV. “Please, have a seat.”

  Dalton sat, but Marcus was too edgy to park it anywhere. He and Diablo stood to the side. Her discomfort showed as her gaze kept drifting between him and the dog.

  “Really, they’re both harmless,” Dalton said in an easy, joking manner. “A bullet nicked the back of his head.”

  Marcus wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. At this rate, the questioning would take forever. Then, he realized, she’d leaned back and relaxed, chatting away as if she and Dalton were old friends. When he asked about Bridger’s close fri
ends, she brightened.

  “The only friend I know of is some old guy with a shit-load of money. He’s an art dealer. Richard…let me think. Yes, Richard Franklin.”

  “Excuse us.” Marcus took Diablo and hurried out onto the sidewalk, where he called Nate and relayed the man’s name.

  “You’re on speaker. Tomas is already on it. I’ll get back with you,” Nate said.

  Dalton walked out, followed by the young woman. “I hope Charles is all right. He’s a good boss,” she said, walking inside.

  Dalton slid behind the steering wheel, pulled out his phone, and placed a call. Marcus’s heartbeat had moved to his head. He put Diablo in the back seat and got into the car.

  “We’ll know something on Richard Franklin soon. I’m having him run the database.”

  “Tomas is running his name, too.” Marcus checked his watch. Chris should be here with him, tucked in bed, and sound asleep. Where was she?

  ****

  “Stop cutting me. Please,” Chris pleaded.

  “Okay,” he said. “I am kind of thirsty.” He set the knife on the coffee table and strolled into the kitchen area. “Hmm, red or white. What do you think, Sis? Red? Good choice.” He opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. He returned but sat on the couch this time. “I’m sure Richard won’t mind me drinking vintage.”

  That her hair was scattered across the floor wasn’t Chris’s main concern. Even the acrid scent coming from the man he’d killed had stopped turning her stomach. The burning from her wounds and the pain in her shoulders made it hard for her to focus. She had to control the panic worming its way through her system, threatening to take over her mind.

  Charlie had been running the knife blade along her arms and legs. Not slicing deeply, cutting just enough to cause pain and damage. Blood ran down her limbs and pooled on the floor. The slashes across her thigh had turned her jeans a dark crimson. At this rate, it would take a long time to die.

  Charlie held the glass to his nose and breathed deeply. He took a sip, swishing the deep red liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. He didn’t appear to be angry anymore. In fact, he seemed to be almost giddy.

  “I can’t feel my hands. Will you loosen the knot? Please.”