by Anne Frasier
"This is one of my favorites," she said as the opening credits for Harvey began to roll.
"Jimmy Stewart was so cool."
"Did you see Rear Window?"
"I love that movie! Did you see the digitally remastered version when it was at Oak Street Cinema?"
"Yeah!"
"No way! Me too! And even though I'd seen it maybe five times on TV, I swear my mouth was hanging open, it was so awesome to finally see it on a movie screen. Wouldn't it have been cool to have lived then, and dressed like Grace Kelly? When she came in with that net thing on her hat, and she raised her arms like this and folded it back away from her face. That was too cool."
The opening scene began. They fell silent and directed their attention to the TV screen.
Even though the movie was one she loved, Gillian began to drift off. The last three nights-nights in which she'd been unable to sleep-were catching up with her.
One time she woke to see that Holly was watching the third movie. It was a more recent release, something Gillian didn't think looked very good. The candles had burned down and gone out by themselves, and the room was dark except for a blue glow coming from the television.
Holly glanced over at her and smiled. "Go to sleep, silly!" she said, seeing how hard it was for Gillian to stay awake. Gillian let out a sleep-drugged laugh and closed her eyes.
Holly turned back to the movie. It was boring and hard to follow, but she finished watching it anyway. That's how she was. She could never stop reading a book halfway through, no matter how bad it was, and she could never stop watching a movie.
When it was over, she rewound the tape and put it back in the case. Leaving the television tuned to MTV, she turned down the volume and settled back on the futon, pulling the blanket to her chin. She always liked to have something on when she was going to sleep- the radio or TV. It didn't matter. Just sound to fill the silence.
As soon as she fell asleep, she began to dream. And the dreams were all mixed up. Gillian and Jimmy Stewart were there, and a rabbit in a birdcage. Suddenly Gillian turned into Grace Kelly. Over her face was black netting. "You look like a movie star," Holly told her in the dream.
Gillian was walking toward her, her footsteps light. Holly felt pressure on her shoulder, turning her around, turning her over.
She smelled adhesive.
Suddenly a hand pressed a wide band of tape across her lips, extending from cheek to cheek, almost to her ears. She felt hot breath on her skin while something cold and metallic was shoved into her neck.
Gillian came awake with a start to see a silhouetted figure backlit by the flickering glow of the TV. The man wore a* dark, bulky jacket and a ski mask over his face. Standing, his arm clamped around her stomach, was Holly. Her mouth was sealed, her eyes large and terrified.
She made a sound deep in her throat-a scream halted by the tape.
"Please-" Gillian slowly sat up, swinging her feet to the floor, struggling to keep her voice calm. "Don't hurt her."
How is this happening?
He shifted slightly. Something caught in the flickering light. A gun. Her own gun was upstairs. Too far away.
"Lie down on the floor," he told her. "Hurry. Now! Or I'll kill her." His voice was neither deep nor high-pitched, and he didn't sound especially agitated-not a good sign. Some of the most horrendous killers in history remained calm and emotionally detached throughout their attacks of violence.
Gillian dropped to her knees. He lashed out with a booted foot, kicking her in the back of the head. The impact sent her sprawling, her chin smacking wood. She didn't feel anything. He shoved Holly facedown into the futon. "Stay there. Don't move."
He knelt above Gillian, wrenched her arms behind her, and wrapped her wrists with duct tape. He tore off another piece. Before he could silence her with it, knowing this was her last chance, she rolled to her back, her arms and hands crushed beneath her.
Two thoughts raced through her mind simultaneously.
This is the Lucia Killer.
Gavin is in jail.
She tried to remember everything she'd learned about the killer, his likes and dislikes and what he wanted in a victim. Her sister's words came back to her. You fit the victimology.
"Take me," she said, looking up at him, adrenaline and fear pumping through her veins. "Don't take her, take me."
The shabby ski mask stared at her.
"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" Gillian asked. "You've come for Holly?"
Inside the oval holes, eyes blinked. Seemingly curious, he reached down and fiddled with her hair, rubbing it between his gloved fingers.
On TV, a psychic was telling people to call for a free reading: "I know you're lonely," the psychic said. "I can help you find your perfect soul mate."
The psychic's words seemed to be Gillian's cue. "Holly isn't right for you. And the others-they weren't right for you either." Don't lay it on too thick. He might not believe you. You might make him mad. "But I've studied you-enough to know we're a lot alike. We're both-"
"Stop talking."
He slapped the tape over Gillian's mouth, then jerked her to her feet, pulling her against him. His next words were a startling revelation. "I came for you," he whispered against her cheek, the wool of his mask rubbing her skin, his breath lifting her hair in puffs. "You're the one I've been watching. You're the one I want."
Tate? she wondered. Was the Lucia Killer Sebastian Tate after all? The height was right. Was the voice? She didn't know. Couldn't remember.
He shoved her away from him, then pressed the tip of the gun to the back of Holly's head.
Even though her mouth was sealed, Gillian let out an anguished cry. NO!
He paused and looked at her.
NO! Don't do it! she begged him with her eyes. Please. Don't do it!
Inside the ski mask, he didn't seem fully human. Still, he pulled the gun away from Holly's head, turning it on Gillian.
He shoved Holly's face against the pillow until she began to struggle. He let her up long enough to take a breath, then forced her down again. "Stay there for fifteen minutes," he commanded. "You hear me?"
She nodded. Her entire body trembled, muffled whimpers coming from her throat.
"A full fifteen minutes."
She nodded again.
He hustled Gillian in front of him, shoving her out the door into the dark night and down the sidewalk. For a moment, she thought of making a run for it, but discarded the idea. With her hands behind her back and her mouth covered, he'd quickly overtake her. And in his anger, what would he do? Kill her and abduct Holly? Kill them both?
He opened the trunk of his car. Gillian stared in horror at the dark, gaping hole. No. She couldn't get in there. She could already smell it-a cloying, rotten corpse odor. This was not a trunk but the death pit that had held the bodies of the murdered girls. Of Bambi, April, Justine, and Charlotte.
Reason vanished. She was a terrified animal fighting for her life. She tensed, struggling to keep her feet on the ground, pushing against him, a panic-filled keening coming from her throat.
In one smooth motion, he lifted and pushed her forward, slamming the trunk lid behind her.
Chapter 26
Gillian struggled for breath, fear sending her heart rate several notches higher, her chest rising and falling in accelerated panic.
Had Holly gotten up as soon as they left and called the police? If so, cops would be swarming all over looking for her right now.
And the guy. The guy driving the car. Not Gavin. Definitely not Gavin. Was it Tate? What the hell was going on?
Bile rose in her throat. She thought about Charlotte Henning choking to death on her own vomit.
Calm down.
She forced her muscles to relax and started counting to regulate her breathing.
Don't think. Don't think about anything but staying calm.
Holly waited until she was sure fifteen minutes had passed.
Then she waited another ten.
W
ith her mouth and wrists taped, she struggled to her feet, shoving her forehead against the couch as she pushed herself upright.
After repeated tries, using her elbow and the side of her bound arm, she was finally able to get the doorknob unlocked and turned. In her socks and sleep T-shirt, she ran across the frost-covered yard into the street.
Every part, of her wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but the only sound that came out was a muffled roar from deep in her throat.
The street was deserted. Two blocks away were some college hangouts-Chinese restaurants, cafes, bars, and bookstores. Even though it was early morning and nothing would be open, she ran in that direction, unmindful of the near-freezing temperatures.
She heard a car in the distance, heard it slow, heard it turn.
Was it him, coming back?
She wanted to jump behind a mailbox and hide. But Gillian was in trouble. She forced herself to remain in the center of the street. The car came at her, then, at the last minute swerved, honking the horn as it disappeared into the darkness.
She turned and hurried back in the direction she'd come, running to the porch of the first house she saw, using her elbow to ring the doorbell. She rang it and rang it and rang it until an angry man jerked the door open.
"What the hell's going-?" He stopped. "Oh my God. Judy. Come here!" he shouted behind him. "Judy!"
Holly jumped up and down and shook her head. Take off the tape. Take off the tape!
"Hold still," he said, "an' I'll pull that off. This'll hurt."
I don't care! Just do it! Do it!
He ripped off the tape. At first she felt no pain; then fire spread across her face. She began shouting. "Call the police! Call the police!"
By that time his wife had shown up and joined her husband in his horrified reaction. "Oh, you poor dear. You poor thing." She pulled her into the warmth of the house. "Her hands are taped, John. Get a knife. Hurry!"
"No! Call the police!" Holly shouted. "You have to call the police-NOW!"
"Okay, honey. We will. Let's get you loose first."
She was about ready to kick somebody when the husband handed his wife a knife. "You cut her loose. I'll call."
While the guy dialed 911, his wife worked on Holly's hands. As soon as the tape dropped away, Holly pounced for the phone. She tried to grab it from the man, but her fingers were numb. He held it to her ear while she composed herself enough to tell the dispatcher what had happened.
Gillian lost all sense of time. It seemed that she'd been in the trunk for at least an hour and a half, but she was in no state to confirm such an opinion. That didn't keep her from trying to figure out how far from Minneapolis a ninety-minute drive could take her. Going south, they could be all the way to Iowa. Going east, into Wisconsin, past Eau Claire.
The last thirty minutes had been spent bouncing over a rough road made of gravel or dirt, judging from the dust drifting in the cracks. There had been several turns, several times when she thought they were at their destination, only to feel the weight of the car shift as they rounded another corner before accelerating again.
They went up a steep hill to eventually level out, slow, then stop.
The engine was shut off.
She heard a car door.
She listened to footfalls approach. Heard the key in the lock.
The trunk opened.
Mary had been in the business long enough to know a call that came before sunrise was never good. But having a case that was all but settled left her thinking the ringing phone had to be Anthony, calling too early from the East Coast, maybe with a new case that required her immediate attention. When she realized it was Elliot Senatra on the other end of the line, she was doubly puzzled.
"I have some bad news."
He sounded upset. She immediately ran through a short list of the people she cared most about: her mother, who was in the house with her; Gillian; and Anthony. She latched on to the last name. Had something happened to Anthony?
"Gillian has been abducted."
She pushed herself up in bed, thinking she must have misunderstood. "Say that again."
"Gillian's been abducted." He told her that Holly had spent the night with her sister, and someone had broken into the apartment. "Holly swears it's the same guy who kidnapped her."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm on my way to your sister's. Wakefield's already on the scene."
"Where's Holly?"
"She's been taken down to the station to get her statement."
"I'll be there as quickly as I can."
She hung up.
Shit. Oh, shit.
She opened her mobile phone and punched number one. As soon as Anthony answered, she began blathering, trying to tell him what she knew in one sentence. She stopped and took a breath, realizing she was close to tears, close to flipping out. "I'm not thinking straight," she said, her throat tight. "Christ. This is bad, Anthony. Really bad." The phone call had taken her back to another time when she'd felt hopeless, the time Fiona had been killed. She pressed her lips together, then asked, "Will you come?"
"I'm on my way."
She fought off a fresh wave of tears. "When?"
"Soon. Today. This afternoon, if possible."
"Thanks."
She disconnected, then went to give her mother the news.
Blythe was already standing in the hallway. "I heard," she said before Mary could say anything. "Where? When?"
Blythe followed her back to the bedroom.
"Someone broke into her apartment." Mary began throwing on clothes-a pair of jeans. A shirt. A sweater. "About an hour ago. Holly Lindstrom was there. She thinks it's the same guy who abducted her."
"I don't understand. I thought Gavin Hitchcock did it. Isn't he in custody?" She covered her mouth with one hand, eyes large with shock and disbelief. "What about the photo? What about the girl he tied to his bed?"
"I don't know." Mary strapped on her gun. "Maybe I was too anxious to find Hitchcock guilty," she said miserably.
"Where are you going?"
"Gillian's apartment. After that, I'm going to talk to Holly."
"I'm coming with you."
Mary didn't like the thought of her mother being at the scene of the crime, but she also knew she had every right to be there. "The police will probably want to take our statements."
Mary drove too fast through streets that* were beginning to show signs of life even though the sun wasn't yet up. They rode in silence until Blythe broke down.
"I can't believe this is happening again. What's wrong with this world?" she said, her voice choked with tears. She shook her head. "After Fiona died, I should have moved. I thought about it, but I didn't want to leave here. And the law of averages was on our side. It's like when I know you're going to be flying, and I worry about the plane crashing, then I hear about a crash somewhere else, I think, Okay, there's the one plane crash. Now I can relax because I know your plane isn't going to crash. And then I feel guilty. Because of all the people on the plane, but I can't help feeling a little less worried for you. Oh God. I'm babbling."
"That's okay."
Mary turned down the street that led to Gillian's apartment. As she spotted the crime van, her stomach dropped. Blythe was right. This couldn't be happening.
They had to park two blocks away. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung around the front yard, all the way out past the sidewalk.
"It looks like somebody's been murdered here," Blythe said.
"Nobody's been murdered," Mary reassured her. "They've cordoned everything off so no evidence is destroyed."
A police officer stopped them before they got to the yellow tape. Mary flashed her ID. "We're also the mother and sister of the victim."
They were allowed to pass.
Wakefield met them at the door. The loss of Gillian had left its mark on him too. "He cut the window with a glass cutter, removed the glass, and unlocked the lock."
"Any leads?"
"We're working on
fingerprints, but so far the ones we've lifted are all small. Women's, most likely. This asshole's too smart to go without gloves."
"Anybody see or hear anything?"
"We have officers canvassing the neighborhood, but so far nothing. People aren't too cooperative this time of the morning."
"What about Sebastian Tate?"
"His roommates don't know where he is. Say he hasn't been home in two days, but we've got every cop in the state looking for him."
Inside the apartment, technicians were dusting for prints and collecting evidence. A couple of detectives stood with tablets in hand, making notes and taking the statements of the first officers on the scene.
Senatra separated himself long enough to give Mary's arm a comforting squeeze and tell Blythe how sorry he was. Then he got back to work.
"What about Holly?" Mary asked Wakefield. "You said she thinks it's the same guy."
"She seemed sure of it. If it is, it means he followed her here. Then, for some reason he took Gillian instead. Holly claims she ran for help as soon as the kidnapper left with your sister. The first officers on the scene were here within two minutes of the 911 call. At that time, six patrol units surrounded the area, but didn't find anybody."
"Did Holly have a description of the car?"
He shook his head. "Which makes me wonder how quickly she really went for help."
"Is she still at the station?"
"Let me check." He called the police station, then nodded to Mary. "Don't let her go," he said into the phone. "I have an FBI agent here who wants to talk to her."
Leaving Blythe with Wakefield and Senatra, Mary hurried back to her car and headed downtown to City Hall and the police station.
She immetliately found inconsistencies in Holly's story. Sometimes in cases in which somebody was left behind, or someone escaped uninjured, guilt played a part in their account of what happened. Mary suspected that's what was going on with Holly. Mary also suspected that the time between the kidnapper's departure and the time Holly actually went for help was longer than the "minute at the most" Holly was describing.
"Would you mind if I spoke to her alone?" Mary asked Holly's parents.