“What? Like you’ve handled it so far? This bastard has taken six other girls, and you guys haven’t so much as turned up a hair or a fingerprint. No offense, Kurt, but like I told you earlier in the station…I’m going to find this sick sonofabitch, and I’m going to take care of it, once again. You do what you have to do, but do not try to stand in my way.”
Kurt shot up from his chair, knocking it to the floor. “Damn it, Frankie! Can’t you see that revenge is what put you in this position to begin with? If you’d let me handle it…if you’d let the police handle it, Mollie would still be safe and sound at Kitty’s right now. You’re the most stubborn asshole I’ve ever known.” He walked toward the swinging door and slammed his hand into it, causing it to flap violently against the wall.
Bruno looked up from his table and over at Frankie, a silent request to let him show Kurt the way out, but Frankie just shook his head.
Kurt spun around and pointed at Frankie. “You let me do my job this time…do you hear me? I promise, I’ll find Mollie. Just stay out of it.”
Frankie knew there was no point in arguing, but he wasn’t about to agree to Kurt’s demands, either. He stood, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded once. “I hear you, Detective.”
Kurt looked like he was going to literally explode. A dark blue vein appeared and pulsed at his temple. “Shit, Frankie.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but blew out a huff of air, turned around, and stormed out of the back room. Frankie watched as his old friend stomped through the restaurant and out the front door.
“You want I should follow him, boss?” Bruno asked from his corner.
Frankie waved him off then leaned back in his chair again. He rubbed his temples as his mind wandered back to June 30, 1978.
It was a warm, sunny Saturday in mid-summer, and Frankie and Kurt were hanging out in Frankie’s basement listening to Led Zeppelin’s album, Physical Graffiti. Robert Plant was singing “Stairway to Heaven,” and the boys were high as kites. He could still see his mother’s pale face when she came down the stairs and said she needed to talk to Kurt. Frankie knew it was serious when his mother didn’t say a word about the obvious stench of pot smoke in the air.
“It’s Addie,” Luanne Cartwright had said in a shaky whisper. “Sh-she’s…I’m af-fraid she’s…oh, Kurt, I’m so s-sorry. Your sister…they f-found her body in the river…”
The rest of her words trailed off, and the world tilted on its axis. Kurt stood, dumbfounded, apparently unable to move for the shock of the news, but Frankie had bolted past his mother, up the stairs, out the front door, and all the way to the river. He was nearly out of breath when he arrived at the top of the hill and saw a swarm of police cars with their blue and red lights pulsating through the fields. He watched as the coroner’s van drove up the embankment and past where he stood on knees that felt like soggy noodles. Frankie’s heart was in his throat, and for the first time since he was a little boy, he cried uncontrollably.
“I’ve got it!”
The shout snapped Frankie back to the present, and he looked around the room for the source of the interruption. It only took a second to realize it came from Lynx. She was waving at Frankie and smiling, which was a rarity for her.
Frankie shot up out of his seat and walked over to her table. “Did you find her?”
“Well,” she said, biting her bottom lip which was pierced with a silver hoop. “Not her, necessarily. But I found her phone’s last location. It’s right there.” She pointed a ring-clad finger at the screen. All Frankie saw was a map with a red dot in the middle and a large red circle around it.
“Where is that?” Frankie asked, his excitement mounting.
“It’s an abandoned grocery store out on Delong Road. About five miles outside the city proper. Just on the edge of the county.”
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s where she is. I’ve got to go find her. I’ve got to—”
“Hold on, boss,” Lynx said cautiously. “Remember…her phone stopped pinging last night about half an hour after she was taken. I highly doubt this is where she is now. If the kidnapper had any sense at all, he ditched or destroyed her phone somewhere near that red dot. But I’d say he kept moving on from there.”
“Still,” he said, clinging to hope, “it gives us a general direction, at least. Right?”
“It should. It’s definitely worth looking into.”
Frankie grabbed his winter coat from the back of his chair and headed for the swinging door.
“Where are you going, boss?” Lynx asked.
“I’m going to get my granddaughter.”
With a curt nod, he turned and pushed through the door. He felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation at what he might find when he reached the isolated location, but his desire to find Mollie and make Julian McAllister’s son disappear, just like his father, spurred him forward.
Chapter 11
Collin
Collin McAllister sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Mollie, who sat shivering in the corner of The Vault. He’d feel sorry for her if he had a conscience. Unfortunately for this young girl, Collin was born without one. Whether it was genetics or environment was anybody’s guess. It was the age-old debate of nature versus nurture. If nature was the determining factor, a lot could be explained about his lack of empathy for other people. He knew what his father had been, that he was a ruthless, vicious man with no moral compass and no capacity for human emotions. Julian McAllister had been the worst of the worst. He’d been a collector of girls and a killer. It wasn’t such a leap to say the apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree.
But if it was nurture, well, then the explanation was more elusive. His mother, God rest her soul, had been a saint. Saint Martha McAllister. A strict Catholic, his mother had done her best to raise Collin in the church and instill in him the morals and values of her faith. Perhaps she overcompensated because she knew what Julian was. Perhaps she even saw a flicker of Julian in her son’s eyes at an early age. Either way, she’d done her best with curfews, chores, and rules, but it was all for naught. Her son had turned out to be just like her late husband. She’d prayed and prayed for him all the way up until the bitter end when she’d died of cancer in her bed. In fact, her last words to her son were, “It’s never too late, son.”
It was too late for Collin, of course. Even if Collin had been less resistant to his mother’s efforts to reform him, he still had to honor his posthumous promise to Julian that he would find a way to avenge his death and punish Franklin Cartwright for stealing his father away from him. He’d dreamed of ways to get back at Franklin since he was thirty years old and his mother had finally told him the truth about his father’s last days. Back then, when he’d figured out who had killed his father, the fantasies always centered around Franklin’s death. Collin had conceived of every way possible to kill him, but it wasn’t until around the age of thirty-five he realized the best way to get revenge on his father’s killer was not to take his life. No, that would be too quick and too easy. He deserved a fate worse than death. And what could be worse for a man than death itself than to lose a child?
At first, Collin had planned to kill one of Franklin’s sons, or better yet, his only daughter, Katherine. But by the time he’d come up with this plan, the boys were grown men bigger than himself, and Katherine was a woman with a small child. He’d been watching Franklin one day at the park and saw the love the old man had for the little girl, and that was when it hit him. It would destroy Franklin to lose his granddaughter as much or more than if he lost his daughter, so, he formulated a plan to snatch Mollie right out from under the old man’s nose.
It wouldn’t be easy, he knew, so he decided to practice first. It took six tries to get it right. Collin had some fun with the first six girls. Why not? He already had them right there in The Vault, and they were so pretty. No girls had ever given him the time of day growing up, despite his striking good looks, probably because he was admittedly shy and a bit reclusive. S
o, when he had these girls’ undivided attention, well, he thought there would be no harm in satisfying his male needs and his fantasies all at the same time. Besides, he was going to kill them either way. It seemed like a complete waste to just keep them for a few days then dispose of them without getting what he wanted—no, needed—from them.
Mollie was different.
Mollie served a higher purpose. Though he could take his pleasures with her if he wanted, he didn’t see her the same way he saw the first six girls. She was almost like…family, in a twisted sort of way. Even though they’d never met, they shared a common history, which made her seem like a cousin, or even a sister. Collin may have been a lot of things, but he was not incestuous. Instead, he would keep her chained to the wall of The Vault for as long as it took for her grandfather to see the error of his ways and show some honest to goodness contrition. It wouldn’t be enough to say he was sorry. Collin wanted to bring Franklin Cartwright to his knees and make him beg for Mollie’s life. To truly repent of his sins the way Raskolnikov had in Crime and Punishment.
Not that Collin planned on forgiving the old man, or returning his granddaughter to him. There was no way he could let her live, not if he wanted to survive himself. No amount of begging and pleading and atonement from Franklin was going to save his granddaughter. But Collin wanted his father’s killer to be there and watch as the life drained from Mollie’s face, the way Franklin had watched Julian die, slowly and painfully.
Collin had to put up with Mollie’s sniveling, crying, begging, and pleading as he waited for Franklin to realize the error of his ways and repent on bended knee. What he would do with her in the meantime, Collin wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to have his way with her; that would be wrong on so many levels. But he had to do something to motivate the old man and show him how serious he was. It was as he sat there thinking that it occurred to him he needed to up the ante. Light a fire under the man’s ass, so to speak. So, what could he do? He’d already called Franklin and told him what was required of him. But the stubborn old sonofabitch didn’t sound like he fully understood what he needed to do.
“Please,” Mollie whimpered, breaking his concentration. “Please, let me go. Whatever my grandfather did to you, I’m sure he’s very sorry. And he has money. Lots of money. He’d pay anything to get me home unharmed. I know he would. Just call him again. I know he’ll—”
“Shut up,” Collin said in a quiet, monotonous voice.
Mollie’s mouth snapped shut, and tears poured down her cheeks.
“No amount of money is going to get you out of this. Your pops needs to know exactly why I took you. I dropped him a little hint, but I’m not sure he’s figured it out. I think it’s time we sent him another message, don’t you?”
The girl shook her head slowly. “Please. Don’t hurt me. I’m begging you. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything. Just don’t hurt me.”
Collin could see the fear in her pretty sapphire eyes. Eyes just like her grandfather. He didn’t want to hurt her, but Franklin had forced his hand. And if hurting Mollie meant getting the old bastard to fully understand the situation, then that was what had to happen. He could cut off one of her fingers and send it to Franklin, but Collin didn’t want to ruin her beauty in any way. No, it had to be something that would keep her beauty intact but also sufficiently motivate his rival and make him truly regret what he’d done.
It came to him like an unexpected electric shock. He stood from the edge of the bed and walked over to the little kitchenette his own grandfather had installed during the Second World War. He grabbed the large knife lying on the countertop, the one he’d used to threaten her into submission when she’d tried to escape earlier, and turned to face her.
She must have seen what was in his hand, because she shook her head again, vehemently now. Her bottom lip was quivering, and more tears spilled down her face. “No, please, n-n-no. I’ll d-do anything you want. P-please, no.”
Collin regretted that he had to do this, but he reminded himself it wasn’t his fault. Franklin Cartwright had brought this upon himself and upon his favorite grandchild when he killed Collin’s father. He’d been the one to pull the first thread and unraveled the tapestry of Collin’s life. The man had forced his hand.
He walked deliberately across the floor of The Vault to where Mollie was cowering in the corner, trying to get as far away from him as she could. The knife felt heavy in his hand, but he gripped it tightly and crouched before the frightened girl, who was now squeezing her eyes shut and mumbling something under her breath. A prayer, perhaps?
It was pointless, he told her. This had to be done. He had to send a message.
He raised the knife and held the blade to Mollie’s neck.
Chapter 12
Kurt
He was still fuming when he pulled his vintage red Camaro into the driveway of his little modern ranch house at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was nearly eight o’clock and well past dark this time of year. Kurt needed a shower and a change of clothes if he was going to be up all night working this case. And it was becoming more and more apparent he would be doing just that.
He ambled through the garage door, threw his keys on the kitchen counter, and leaned with both hands against the sink. He was tired, and his back hurt like a bitch. Standing there with his head hung low, Kurt thought about the events of the past several hours, and he had to fight the urge to punch the wall. He might have done it twenty years ago, but at the age of fifty-six, he’d probably break every bone in his hand, and then some.
Frankie was driving him bat shit crazy. How could he not see that he was making things much worse for himself and for Mollie by insisting on finding her on his own and punishing her kidnapper the same way he had punished the man who’d killed Addie?
He’d been thinking of her all day, ever since Frankie had strolled into his office and thrown her name out like a grenade. Thinking of all the fun times they had together growing up. How they looked nothing alike, though they were fraternal twins. Kurt had always been shorter and a bit stocky with shaggy brown hair and standard-issue hazel eyes, while Addie had been tall and slender with long blonde hair and bewitchingly pale blue eyes. It was no wonder Frankie thought of Addie when he looked at his own granddaughter. Kurt had seen the resemblance in the very first photograph of her he’d seen, and it had taken his breath away.
And the similarities didn’t end with their stunning good looks, either. Both girls had been kidnapped in their late teens. Addie by Julian McAllister and Mollie by his son, whatever his name was. They’d both been taken in the dead of night on their way home from work. The only difference in their stories was that Mollie could still be alive. Addie hadn’t been lucky enough to live more than twelve hours. At least, that was what the police had told his family back in 1978. Kurt’s parents had sheltered him from the worst of the details about his twin sister’s murder, but years later, when he’d become a cop, he’d used his resources and connections to open his sister’s file and was able to see and read much more than he was prepared for.
According to the autopsy report written by then ME Harold Fortney, Addie had been severely beaten, raped, and eventually strangled with the killer’s bare hands before being dumped in the mouth of the Kentucky River, only a mile from the Jamison farmhouse. Kurt had thrown up in the wastebasket near his desk when he’d read this and seen the autopsy photos. His once beautiful eighteen-year-old sister’s body was white as alabaster. Green, purple, and blue bruises covered her arms, legs, torso, and face, and dark fingermarks were evident on her throat. It was the one and only time in his life he’d been thankful to Frankie for handling Julian McAllister his way instead of letting the law deal with him.
Remembering the file and the photos of his sister brought bile up the back of Kurt’s throat, and he spit it out into the sink. As he rinsed away the sickness, his mind went back to the day Frankie’s mother had come down into the basement where the two best friends were sharing a joint and arguing over whether Ji
mmy Page or Robert Plant was the true frontrunner of Led Zeppelin.
When Mrs. Cartwright said, “It’s Addie,” and told Kurt that her body had been found at the creek, Kurt stood frozen like a deer in headlights while Frankie had pushed past them both and bolted up the stairs. He didn’t know where Frankie was going, and he didn’t care, either. He stood there like a statue wondering how on earth it could have happened. As far as Kurt and his parents knew, Addie was spending the night with a friend after her shift at the local ice cream shop. No one had even known she was missing, let alone how her body wound up in the river.
His first assumption had been that she and her friends had gone down to hang out by the river, as most kids in the area did in those days. Perhaps she’d been drinking with her buddies and lost her footing or drowned in the treacherous undercurrent while swimming at night. It never once occurred to him that she’d been abducted, held prisoner, beaten, raped, and murdered by a madman. Kurt would go on assuming this until later that night when Frankie showed up at his doorstep insisting on seeing him, though Kurt had told his parents no visitors.
Kurt could still see the rabid look on Frankie’s face when he’d stepped out into the warm summer night and found his friend out of breath and rambling on about how he was going to catch the psychopath and make him pay.
“What psychopath?” Kurt had asked, still puzzled by his friend’s fury.
“The one who killed Addie,” Frankie had replied.
“She wasn’t murdered. She drowned in the river. She must have been goofing off or swimming or—”
“Shut up, Kurt!”
A Necessary Evil Page 7