by K. L. Murphy
He awkwardly pulled down his pants while still keeping her in his grasp. She locked on his eyes, watching and waiting. Naked from the waist down, he slid her legs apart, bending over her. His flushed face was close, and sweat from his brow dripped on her forehead.
She fought her panic, desperate to distract him. “I know who you are,” she said, her voice soft.
He paused, half smiling. “Yeah, I guess you fucking do. Would be hard not to, now wouldn’t it?” Crouching, he dropped on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight. His naked, sweaty skin pressed against her legs. His hot breath smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes. She turned away, fighting the bile rising in her throat, and focused on the upturned mixing bowl and dangling strap.
He stroked her hair with his fingers and whispered, “You’re mine now.” His breath burned her ears.
Everything about him repulsed her, and every ounce of her being wanted to fight and fight hard. But she knew that wouldn’t save her life. “Yes,” she whispered, tears rolling down her face. “I’m yours.”
He blinked. Then his eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s not the way it goes.”
“I’m doing what you want. I’m yours.” She did not move a muscle. He seemed to soften. Was she imagining it?
“This is bullshit.”
“No.”
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he said again. A vein in his forehead pulsed, and his face reddened. “Fine. Let’s see how you fucking like this.” With his eyes locked on her, he balled one hand into a fist and punched between her legs. White light and hot pain flooded everything. Her body bucked, but she managed to swallow the scream, releasing only a small, guttural cry. He punched again, but Nikki braced, ready this time. She welcomed the pain; she was alive. “You bitch,” he said, his jaw clenched. His penis lay flaccid against her leg. Joy and a sense of power rose inside her. “You’re playing games with me.”
“No, I’m not. I wouldn’t,” she said, the words pouring out in a rush. “I’ll do anything you want. I swear.” She tried desperately for a neutral tone. If he was the man she thought he was, he would enjoy her begging almost as much as her fighting. She had to be careful.
“For fucking cryin’ out loud,” he muttered, scrambling to his feet. His erection gone, he hurried into his pants. “Have it your way then. We’re gonna have to do this the hard way.” He pulled a thick rope from his pocket and threw the leggings in her face. “Get up and put your pants on.”
Exhaling, she moved slowly, the pain in her head and between her legs almost knocking her down. With each movement, she focused on the book bag, just a few feet out of her reach.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he hissed.
With one leg on, she pretended to stumble toward the countertop, reaching out to catch herself. Her fingers landed on the cold granite inches from her bag. Pulling herself up, she kept her eyes on him and slowly put her right leg in her pants. His gaze drifted to the large kitchen window, drawn by the squawk of crows.
This was the moment. Sliding her hand across the counter, she found the hard, cold metal on top of the bag. When his eyes came back to hers, he stared down the barrel of a gun.
Chapter Sixty-Six
TALBOT SAT FORWARD. “Killed her? What do you mean?”
A single tear trailed down the old man’s wrinkled cheek. “What he did to her—what he did to us—it killed her.” His voice shook. “God forgive me, I’ve never spoken of it.”
“Take your time,” Cancini said, the words soft. The professor took several loud, noisy gulps of air. When the man calmed, Cancini leaned forward. “When did this happen?”
“1991. Before the attacks. But I should have said something then . . .”
“It’s okay. You’re telling us now.”
Simon nodded. “Lilleth and I were engaged to be married. She was so beautiful, so lovely.” He paused. “She’d only been teaching at Blue Hill for two years when we decided to marry. I was older, but she swore it didn’t bother her. We laughed about it sometimes . . .” The tears flowed now. “A few weeks before the wedding, Baldwin asked her to join one of his research teams. She was thrilled to be noticed and didn’t mind the extra hours. I didn’t think anything about it.” He stopped, his words muffled through the sobs. Cancini and Talbot waited, silent. After a few moments, the professor spoke again. “One night, she didn’t show up for dinner. At first, I assumed she’d had to stay late to work with Baldwin on the project, but when she didn’t call, I went to her apartment. The windows were dark, but her car was in the parking lot. I knocked and waited. I knew she was home. I could hear her crying through the door. I knocked some more, but she wouldn’t let me in. I didn’t know what to do. I waited for close to two hours, but when she still wouldn’t let me in, I had no choice but to go home.”
Cancini’s shoulders tightened and he swallowed. Next to him, Talbot cleared his throat.
“The next morning, I went to her apartment again. I knew she wouldn’t have a class until ten. At first, she refused to see me. I said I wasn’t leaving and told her I’d canceled all my classes for the day. Eventually, she opened the door.” He shuddered as he spoke. “Her eyes were swollen and red and I knew she’d cried all night. There was a bump on her head and bruises on her arms. I asked what happened, but she wouldn’t answer and shook her head. I tried to take her in my arms, but she backed away from me. ‘I’m dirty,’ she said. I had no idea what she was talking about.” He paused again, his old hands tightening into fists. “It took hours to get it out of her, but—” He raised his eyes again. “Baldwin forced himself on her.” His tone hardened. “They were alone in the lab and he told her how lonely it was being a widower, how he had needs. Lilleth wasn’t like that. She was a virgin. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She fought as best she could, but . . .” his voice died.
The old man hung his head, his slight shoulders rocking. The minutes ticked by until Cancini asked, “What happened after that?”
Simon shook his head again, sniffling. Finally, he said, “Lilleth was so ashamed. She gave me back my ring, told me she was unworthy of marriage. She blamed herself. I told her I loved her, but nothing I said made any difference. A few days later, she swallowed a bottle of pills and she was gone.”
Talbot spoke then, “And Baldwin?”
“He denied it. Said Lilleth had fallen in love with him on the project, but he’d refused her for my sake. He said she was angry and hit him over and over. She lost her balance and hit her head. He made it sound so logical.” He twisted the napkin in his hand.
“And you never told anyone?” Cancini asked.
The professor blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “Who would have believed me? You don’t know how convincing he could be. God forgive me, I almost believed him myself.” His shoulders seemed to sink further into his chest. Cancini looked away. Professor Simon wasn’t the first man to make such a mistake, to lose a woman he loved. But the depths of his sadness and guilt were his alone.
Cancini had the truth, though he didn’t know which truth. The professor’s story didn’t add up to evidence, at least not the kind the FBI could use, but it did paint a picture of the past. And it framed the present, an ugly and twisted picture of the present, and possibly, the future. The old man had no reason to lie. Lilleth was long gone, having taken her own life only days before their planned wedding. The professor, immobilized by grief, had done nothing. When the shock had faded, still he’d done nothing, his grief matched by fear. Now, he was near the end of his life, that time when men with regrets seek redemption and forgiveness. It was sweet relief to speak the words he’d kept inside so long.
Cancini stood, pushing back his chair. Simon needed to be alone with his memories. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”
The old man nodded but did not raise his head. He sat still, knotted hands folded in his lap, his heavily lined face wet and tired.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Talbot said. They left the man in the kitchen and walked back through the spotless house, letting themselves out. Neither said a word as they got into the car. Cancini gazed out the window at houses and yards slipping in and out of view. They passed through the campus, the bluestone buildings fading into gray sky.
Talbot turned onto the highway and headed back to town. He broke the silence. “Simon’s an old man, Mike. Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off. Cancini understood. Finding certain truths was the worst part of the job, and what did it really tell you? Where could it lead? The answers were sometimes the worst part of all. “You knew Baldwin’s father. Do you believe him?”
Cancini rubbed at the edges of his notebook. The stories carried some truth after all. They both knew the man wasn’t lying, but knowing and wanting to know weren’t the same thing. “Yeah, I believe him.”
Talbot was quiet a moment. “Yeah, okay, I do, too. There was more going on in this town than I would have thought.” He clucked his tongue. “Strange to think about the president of a Christian college being . . . doing the things he did.” Cancini said nothing. “But President Baldwin is dead. I don’t see how it ties in now.”
It was a good question. The past and the present. Cancini didn’t know how they were connected, but he guessed Teddy had learned what his father was like, particularly as he got older and the rumors spread. According to the professor, the father-son relationship had been strained after Mrs. Baldwin’s death and Cancini knew this to be true. He just hadn’t fully understood the reasons until now. And Simon was right. Teddy had always worn his heart on his sleeve, always struggled to rein in his emotions. Cancini’s neck ached and his head pounded. Teddy hadn’t changed.
“Maybe it doesn’t,” he said. “But Teddy’s father, the things he did. It means something. I know it does. I just can’t put my finger on it yet.”
The men rode another couple of miles in silence.
Talbot pulled the car onto Main Street, finding a spot near the hotel. The lobby teemed with reporters, many of them nodding toward Talbot and Cancini as they entered. Cancini scanned the crowd. Julia wasn’t there.
Talbot shifted his weight, keeping his eyes on the reporters. “I’m heading to the office. Coming?”
“Yeah, in a minute. I’ve got something to take care of, and then I’ll be right over.”
The old church bell chimed ten times, echoing down the street. The early services had ended. Cancini wasn’t a man of faith, at least not the way most people defined it. Still, he understood many locals in Little Springs were, and, as the professor had reminded them, the college was founded on religious principles. When the sounds faded away, he went to the front desk.
“Could you ring Ms. Manning’s room, please?”
The clerk nodded. After a moment, he shook his head. “There’s no answer, sir.”
The detective looked around the lobby. “Have you seen her this morning?”
“No, sir.” The phone on the desk rang. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No,” Cancini said, frowning. He walked toward the elevators, staying out of sight of the reporters. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It rang five times, then six, then seven. Walking through the lobby again, he checked the street outside. He checked the bar and the business center. He dialed her again. Still no answer. She’d called him several times over the last two days, and now she didn’t pick up. Something was wrong.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
HE INHALED SHARPLY but didn’t panic at the sight of the gun in her hands. Instead, he smiled. She was a smart little thing, a convincing actress, and the realization sent another surge of excitement through him. She was fucking good. He’d almost believed her. Her fight was different, but it was a fight just the same. Pleased, he stood up straight, tucked in his shirt, and straightened his belt. He wrapped the rope around his hand. Keeping his eyes on her face, ignoring the gun, he said, “The folks will be getting out of church soon and be wanting some breakfast.” He nodded at the griddle smoking on the stove. “Unfortunately, they will have to make it themselves. I can’t leave you here now.”
Nikki stood in front of him, both hands gripping the gun. Eyes round in her pale, tear-streaked face, she licked her lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. Waving the gun toward the back door, she promised, “Go on. This is your chance to get out of here. If you go, I won’t tell anyone. It will be between us. I promise.”
He raised his eyebrows. She stared back and ignored the smoke billowing up toward the ceiling. She tightened her grip on the gun and struggled to hold it steady. His eyes flickered to the weapon. She knew how to hold it, but it seemed heavy in her hands.
“I don’t know if I can take that chance, Nikki.” His words were soft, tender. He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We’re in this together now.”
She shook her head. “No. We’re not together. Ever.” She breathed hard. Her arms had dropped an inch, the gun aimed now at his stomach. “You’re going to leave, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you.”
Time was running short. The clock hanging on the wall told him the church service would be over in ten minutes. The congregation would slowly rise from their pews, gathering first in the lobby, then again on the steps and across the manicured lawn. They would shake the hands of Father Donahue and nod about the good sermon, and then their faces would take on somber expressions. “It’s a terrible thing that’s been going on.” “We’re praying for the families of those girls.” And on and on it would go—the good people of Little Springs wearing their piousness on their sleeves. But when church was over and Sunday had passed, he knew the truth. He’d seen the bruise marks on Mrs. Orion’s arms. He’d seen countless men stumble home from bars. He knew about the wives who did not honor and obey their husbands. He’d witnessed the drug deals on the high school campus. They were fucking hypocrites—all of them. He considered the girl standing in front of him. In spite of her fear, she remained relatively calm. She might actually shoot him. The girl had spunk.
He slowly unwound the rope from his hand, putting it back in his pocket. “I guess you win.” He raised his hands again, palms up.
A car horn sounded down the road, and the girl flinched. He lunged toward her, grabbing at the gun with one hand and reaching for her with the other. They fell together, bodies crashing to the floor, the gun between them. His elbow slammed into the hard tile floor, and he grunted, the gun slipping from his grip. The girl tried to point the gun at him but was no match for his strength. They rolled once on the floor until he pinned her, the gun wedged between them. She spit in his face, the saliva landing on his lower lip, dribbling down his chin.
“Bitch.” With one hand on the gun, he punched her with the other, his fist smashing into her face, the crack of her jaw breaking loud and sharp.
His admiration for her grew. Even after the crunch of bone in her jaw, she wouldn’t let go of the gun. She tried to head-butt him and wriggle out from under his weight. He hit her again, this time connecting with her right eye. He felt her weaken. Time was running short, and he knew he couldn’t risk any more time with her. He twisted the pistol until the tip was pointed at her, the butt of the gun pressing into his abdomen. He looked into her wide eyes as he pressed the trigger, watching her accept the inevitable. The gun blast obliterated all other sounds. When its echo faded, the only noise left was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
HER RIPPED SKIN bled where the rope cut into her wrists and ankles. Ignoring the pain, Julia struggled against the restraints. He’d tied her hands together, securing them to a wooden pole in the small cabin. He’d tied her at the ankles, as well. She rubbed the rope against the wooden pole, hoping to wear it down. She screamed in frustration, the sound dying in the empty cabin.
Her eyes welled, and she swallowed a sob. No one
could possibly hear her. It was no wonder he hadn’t bothered to cover her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said. “I don’t want to do this, but there’s something I have to take care of first. This is the only way.”
She’d tried to argue with him. “But I won’t tell anyone where you are. I . . . I won’t tell anyone anything. I promise. I’ll be careful.”
She’d fought back tears when he shook his head. “There’s no time.” He’d stared into her eyes, unblinking. “You know too much.”
He’d taken her keys and left. The tires of her rental car had rolled over the gravel and dirt road, the sound disappearing with the car. She’d been left lying on the floor, alone. She blinked, forcing herself to look around the cabin. She had to get it together and find a way out. She had to get out before he returned.
Tipping her head back, she looked up at her burning wrists. The rope was tight, probably even tighter as a result of her struggles. But maybe if she could twist her hands a little, she might get free. The minutes ticked by. Beads of sweat hung on her forehead, and blood dripped from her wrists. She twisted more. Finally, she touched the edges of the rope with her fingers.
It was no use. The tips of her fingers oozed blood, every fingernail ripped off, and still she was no closer to loosening the knots. Tears streamed down her face. Chin quivering, she gave in to the sobs that wracked her body. Fear and exhaustion took over; she hung her head.
I’m going to die here. The thought pressed in, and she had trouble breathing. Would he come back, or would he leave her there? Spradlin had told her everything. He’d started at Cheryl Fornak and left nothing out. When he’d spoken about his hands around the girls’ necks, she hadn’t been able to look at him.
“Cheryl wasn’t a bad person,” he’d said. “I didn’t plan it. If you’d asked me that morning, or even earlier that night, if I was going to murder her, or anyone, I would have said no.”