by T. R. Ragan
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sawyer sat up and listened.
Something had awakened her—a noise, a grunt.
She sat motionless, the beat of her heart drumming against her ribs. An owl hooted in the distance. She’d forgotten about her bruised face until her head began to throb. Another noise. Definitely human. Someone was outside the window.
A branch snapped.
Slowly, she moved the covers and slipped her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the floor. She bent over, found her bag in the dark, and reached inside. Her fingers brushed against her wallet, a pen, the notebook she carried everywhere, and her keys. Careful not to make any noise, she held her keys in a fist and slowly pulled them out. She then removed the canister of pepper spray from the ring. It was no bigger than a tube of lipstick. She grabbed her phone too, then put the purse quietly back on the floor.
Both the window and the door were locked, but it wouldn’t take much effort to break in. A forceful shove against the door would do the trick. She’d removed the curtain from the window, so it was bare. A shadow caught her eye. She lay back against the pillow and tossed the covers over her legs just as a bright beam of light shot into the room. Clamping her eyes shut, she feigned sleep as the light from the flashlight fell across her face.
She considered yelling to possibly scare him or her off, but she wanted to know who was prowling around in the middle of the night, so she waited. Beneath the covers she used her thumb to ready the nozzle on the pepper spray.
The room fell into darkness. She thought she heard the window being jiggled. Then all was quiet until a moment later when the doorknob turned to the right and left. Every muscle tensed as she waited for the door to be kicked open. Seconds turned to minutes. She didn’t move. She just lay there, eyes wide open.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Once again, Malice questioned her sanity. It was 3:30 a.m. on Sunday. It was dark except for a few random stars, and here she was, sitting behind the wheel of a cargo van, watching and waiting. She had no idea where Psycho had gotten the vehicle, and she didn’t want to know.
The only sound was the hoot of an owl.
Malice wore the same black wig she’d had on when they’d dealt with Brad. She also had on a dark hoodie that she kept low over her face. The eye mask was in her backpack. If Otto Radley, the man who had kidnapped Psycho twenty years ago, showed up, she’d put it on.
But that was a big if.
What sort of moron would walk the streets late at night, mere hours after being released from prison?
Leaning forward, she narrowed her eyes to better see. And there was her answer.
Holy shit. It was him. Psycho had called it.
Otto Radley was back, and he was going straight for the bait, which was in the shapely form of their friend Cleo. This was the second time Cleo had volunteered to put herself at risk in the name of vengeance.
The run-down apartment where Otto was staying was a few blocks from a park in North Highlands. Cleo was sitting on a bench, leaning back, legs crossed, taking a hit from her cigarette.
Otto Radley was a giant, his arms like battering rams and his neck as big as a tree stump. His chest was round and thick, and even without seeing his face, he scared the shit out of her. He could easily break Cleo in two without any effort.
They were fucked.
Adrenaline pumping, Malice glanced to her right, where she could barely make out Psycho wearing all black and standing tall as she tried to meld into the trunk of one of the trees dotting the park. Behind her was a grassy field where people spent summer days throwing Frisbees and running after their kids.
Malice wrapped her fingers around the key, ready to turn on the ignition. Otto towered over Cleo like a skyscraper. He must have asked her for a cigarette because she was pulling a pack from the purse hanging from her shoulder.
No. No. No. Psycho had warned Cleo he wouldn’t waste any time taking action. If he approached, Cleo was told to tase him. Immediately. Without hesitation. But she hadn’t, and Otto was quicker than Malice imagined. Before Cleo knew what hit her, Otto had Cleo clutched tight to his chest, carrying her away. He stepped across the cement curb, taking her into the park, past the tree where Psycho was hiding.
Malice leaned forward, her heart beating fast.
Psycho stepped out of hiding and tased Otto in the back of the head.
Malice inhaled, turned on the ignition, and brought the van closer to the action where she could see three bodies rolling around on the ground. Through the open window she heard groans and grunts. Malice grabbed her pepper spray and slipped her wrist through the strap on her stun gun, jumped out of the van, and opened the back cargo doors. A dog barked in the distance as she approached three entwined bodies.
She saw Cleo break away. She was clutching her arm and wincing in pain. Psycho was fighting for her life. Apparently one hit of the Taser hadn’t been enough. Otto was a beast.
Anger filled Malice as she brought the stun gun to his shoulder and held tight. He flinched but didn’t go down as she’d hoped. His elbow came back hard. She grunted but kept her balance, put the Taser to his neck, and finally his chest, firing in short intervals.
Otto fell back, his head thumping hard against the ground.
Psycho used her legs to push away from the bulk of his frame. Malice wasn’t taking any chances. She took the pepper spray and squirted it into his eyes, blinding him.
“Hurry,” Psycho said as she jumped to her feet. “Let’s get him out of sight.”
It took all three of them to drag him to the curb and get him into the van. Psycho jumped into the back with him. Malice shut the cargo doors, ran back to the front, and slipped in behind the wheel. Cleo hardly had time to shut the passenger door before Malice took off.
“We have a problem,” Psycho said. “Find an alleyway, any place dark, and stop the van.”
Cleo held tight to her right arm as she looked over her left shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Psycho growled. “He’s wearing a fucking ankle monitor.”
“Is he secure?” Before setting off earlier that evening, they had gone over their plan. Once Otto was inside the van, the first thing Psycho needed to do was use duct tape and rope to fasten his wrists to the metal bars under the two front seats. His legs would also be bound together, but there was nothing to secure his ankles to, which would leave Psycho susceptible to getting jabbed with a foot or knee if he had the strength. They would zap him multiple times with the Taser or stun gun if needed, but getting zapped too many times could kill him.
Malice glanced at Cleo. “Know anything about monitoring devices?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Call the others and see if anyone knows how they work.”
Malice kept her eyes on the road and on the lookout for a decent spot to pull over.
“I have Bug on the line,” Cleo said. “She wants to know if the strap on the device has any hooks—small plastic hooks.”
“Yes,” Psycho said. “There are hooks.”
“You’ll need a tool, maybe a screwdriver, to spread the strap apart until it breaks free. Be careful, though, because it will need to be put back together.”
“Why?”
“If done fast enough, Bug says the base where the device is monitored will think it looked like a glitch, and it won’t get reported.”
“There’s a screwdriver in the toolbox,” Malice said.
“What else does she have?”
“If the strap around his ankle is loose, you might be able to use a lubricant like lotion to slide it off or use a lighter to heat the strap and make it expand.”
Psycho cursed. “Nope. Too tight.”
Malice drove into an old shopping center. The parking lot was empty. A couple of the buildings had sheets of plywood where windows used to be. She drove around to the back where a large metal dumpster overflowed with cardboard and trash. “You motherfucker!” Psycho shouted.
Malice put the va
n in park and looked behind her to see what was going on.
Otto had managed to knee Psycho in her side. Big mistake on his part. The ongoing electrical chatter coming from Psycho’s Taser made Malice wince. It was much louder in a confined place. A minute or so later, Otto lay semi-unconscious, and Psycho quickly grabbed the scissors from the box of tools they’d brought and cut off his monitor.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to toss this thing and be done with it.”
Cleo looked at Malice, the phone still at her ear. “Bug says she’s right about that.”
Malice got out of the van and opened the back doors to let Psycho out. Cleo and Malice watched as Psycho used her shirt to wipe prints off the monitor before shoving it into a dark crevice at the top of the dumpster. She then ran back and jumped into the cargo van.
Malice shut the back doors, slipped in behind the wheel, and resumed driving. “How’s your arm?” Malice asked Cleo.
“It could be broken. I’ll wait until morning to have it looked at.”
“Step on it,” Psycho told Malice. “The Taser hardly affects this guy, and we still need to drag him into the warehouse when we get there and make sure he’s fastened good and tight to the steel pipes. It’s not going to be easy with only two of us.”
Cleo put her phone away. “You’ll have plenty of help. Bug and Lily are going to meet us there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The thought of a dark shadow looming over her jolted Sawyer awake. Her mouth was dry, her throat sore. She slipped on her shoes, grabbed the pepper spray that had rolled to the other side of the bed, and stepped outside. Despite being fully dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt from yesterday, the morning air chilled her.
Brittle leaves crunched beneath the soles of her shoes as she made her way around the side of the cottage where a row of blooming rosebushes greeted her. Directly beneath the window, a good portion of a rosebush suffered broken branches. Pink rose petals were scattered about the ground. She followed footprints in the weed-covered dirt around the cottage until leaves and debris from the trees made it difficult to track. One trail of footprints led toward the woods. Another trail led to the house, but she could be looking at her own footprints from yesterday. It was hard to tell.
She checked the cottage door for any signs of attempted entry. Nothing. Even though she’d only be here for a few days, she wondered if she should pick up a lock and chain. Easy enough to install.
Groggy from lack of sleep, she returned to the cottage to get a change of clothes. The cottage bathroom consisted of a toilet and a sink. If she wanted to take a shower, she’d have to go inside the main house.
The side door to the kitchen was locked. She used the key Dad had left her to get inside. There was a note on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of fruit. “Be back later—Dad.”
Her stomach grumbled, prompting her to put her clothes and purse on the counter and open the refrigerator. There wasn’t much inside. A half a loaf of bread. Some milk, ketchup, mustard, a block of cheddar cheese. She pulled out a glass dish. It was a casserole. She took a few bites before putting the casserole away and opting for a bruised banana instead.
On her way to the bathroom shower, she paused outside Dad’s office. She reached out and rested her hand around the doorknob. Her heart raced. Seconds ticked by before she attempted to open the door.
It was locked.
Growing up, she and her sisters were never allowed inside his office. The only time she’d ever seen her dad get angry was when he’d found Sawyer and her friend Rebecca playing in his office. Rebecca had run from the room the second he walked in, but Sawyer had been hiding under his desk. The look on his face when he found her and dragged her out remained fresh in her mind: the bulging veins in his neck, the flared nostrils, and the whites of his eyes as he shook her so hard she’d thought he might accidentally break her in half.
Sawyer released her hold on the doorknob and continued on. Nothing about the home she’d grown up in brought her comfort. The walls felt as if they were closing in on her, every piece of furniture heavy with sorrow, the ceiling weighted down with grief, threatening to cave in at any moment.
In the bathroom, she set her things down and locked the door. As she waited for the shower water to heat up, she stripped down and caught her reflection in the mirror. She’d suffered much more than a bump to the head. Her left eye was bruised. She looked as if she’d gone a few rounds in the ring. A thick line of blood had dried on the side of her face. Her throat was dotted with bruises where Jonathan Lane’s thumbs had pressed hardest.
Once again, she wondered if he’d killed Isabella. Had Isabella tried to end things between them and possibly pushed him over the edge?
She stepped into the shower. She was getting nowhere. Uncle Theo and Jonathan Lane were both on her list of suspects. Uncle Theo was a rapist who had been convicted and jailed. Jonathan Lane was a pedophile. Nobody could tell her otherwise. And he was violent.
Putting together a list of suspects wasn’t easy.
There was a one-in-three chance that the police would never identify a victim’s killer. She could have driven by the person who killed Isabella. Maybe they’d been at Gramma’s funeral.
She needed to keep talking to people around town, which wouldn’t be easy. People tended to clam up because they didn’t want to get involved.
As hot water rushed over the top of her head, images of Kylie and Isabella floated around in her mind. Both dead. Eyes wide open, calling her forth, begging for help.
Sawyer had found an entry for Uncle Theo in her mom’s address book tucked away in the kitchen drawer. He lived at 201 Glen Road. His home was a glorified shed, with a sagging porch and metal roof. The two windows, yellowed by time, looked jaundiced. The woodpile out front was covered with an old tarp. The grass and weeds obscured the pathway leading to the front door.
As Sawyer reached out to knock on the door, her hand began to tremble, and her heart skipped a beat. No. She couldn’t handle an anxiety attack. Tips on how to handle her stress ran through her mind. She needed to relax before she could regain control of her thoughts.
She took a breath, then pulled out her phone and left a text message for Aria, letting her know where she was in case anything went wrong.
Once that was done, she focused on inhaling and exhaling.
She was at Uncle Theo’s house. He wasn’t the same man he was all those years ago. He was frail and weak. She would be fine. Whatever she was feeling, it was temporary.
With that thought in mind, she knocked. It was still early. Uncle Theo was probably sleeping. She knocked again. As she waited, she launched the camera app on her cell phone and swiped across to video mode.
The door creaked open.
She aimed the screen in his direction and tapped the “Record” button.
Her phone was vibrating. Someone was calling her. She ignored it.
Uncle Theo rubbed his bony fingers over his face. His unwashed hair hung in limp strands over bloodshot eyes. “Are you recording me?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
She straightened her spine, thankful when her hands stopped shaking. “I have questions that I need you to answer.”
His shoulders drooped. “You said you never wanted to talk to me again.”
She kept the video rolling. “That was before you murdered Isabella Estrada.”
He squinted. “I didn’t murder anyone, and I’ve never heard of that person.”
She had no idea whether or not Uncle Theo knew Isabella, let alone killed her, but after seeing him at her parents’ house and then again at the funeral, she could tell he’d been worn down by the hardships of life and might easily break down and tell her if he was responsible in any way. His red face and broken blood vessels told her he’d most likely been using alcohol as a crutch. He looked thin and dehydrated, nothing like the Uncle Theo she remembered. She nudged her way inside his place and looked around. “Why did you kill
her?”
“You’re crazy.”
She knew all about the accusatory method that interrogators used to get a confession. Sawyer pivoted on her feet, circling in place, video rolling as she got a 360-degree view of his living space before landing back on his face. “You killed them all, didn’t you?”
She kept her eyes on him. Watched his body language for any sign that he might be lying.
“What are you doing here?” he cried out.
“Explain it to me, Uncle Theo. After spending ten years locked up, they let your sorry ass out of jail, and one of the first things you did was commit murder?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“For all those years you were locked up, there were no murders. But you’re released, and another young girl is murdered. Coincidence?”
“I swear to you, I didn’t do it. I’m on a new path.”
It irked her that she actually believed him. But that wasn’t going to stop her from poking and prodding. If he knew anything about Isabella’s murder, she planned to make him talk. “Asking for forgiveness because you’ve found God is such a crock of shit,” she said. “Guys like you can’t just stop assaulting young girls. It’s in your DNA. It’s in your blood. It’s what you do. So stop with the finding-God shit, okay?”
“I wish I could take back everything I ever did to you and your sister.”
Sawyer narrowed her eyes. “But you can’t.”
“It doesn’t go away,” he said with a shake of his head. “I wish it did.”
“What doesn’t go away?” Sawyer asked. “I want to hear you say it.”
“The urge to sin, to do the wrong thing and make bad choices. I got a lot of therapy inside, plenty of solitude to think about things I did. I would never harm another person.”
“That’s bullshit.”
He shook his head adamantly. “No. It’s the solemn truth. I mean it. Never again.”
“Maybe you told yourself that you would never rape another innocent girl, but the urge was too great, so you killed Isabella instead.”