Once Lured

by Blake Pierce

  It was jarring to think of the horror that lurked in the heart of this wholesome community—perhaps right in front of her at this very moment.

  She wondered whether the killer was religious. It was entirely possible. Schizophrenics often suffered from religious delusions. If so, did he refrain from torture and murder on Sundays? Riley doubted it.

  There was a phone number on the door. Riley pulled out her phone and dialed it. She got an outgoing message with an elderly woman’s voice.

  “You’ve reached Gorski Jewelers, and this is Irina Gorski. Please leave a message at the tone.”

  After the tone, Riley said, “If you’re there, please pick up the phone. This is an emergency.”

  There was a click, and the same woman’s voice answered.

  “An emergency? What on earth are you talking about?”

  Looking through the glass door, Riley saw a tiny, white-haired woman at the back of the store. She was holding a telephone and staring straight at Riley. She realized that this was who she was talking to.

  Riley felt deflated. She wasn’t looking for a woman, much less an elderly one. Could Irina Gorski possibly have anything to do with the murders? She had to find out.

  Riley rapped on the window and said into the phone, “Please let me in, Ms. Gorski. My name is Riley Paige, and—”

  Riley was about to say she was an FBI agent. But if the woman asked her for her ID, she had none to show her.

  Instead, she simply said, “I’m hunting for the ‘clock killer.’”

  The woman’s eyes widened with interest. She opened the door and let Riley in.

  “Are you some sort of detective?” she asked.

  “Something like that,” Riley said. “I’ve got a, uh, strong personal interest in the case.”

  The woman looked at Riley attentively. Then with a wink, she said, “What can I do to help you rule me out as a suspect?”

  Riley was sure that this diminutive old woman had nothing to do with the murders. Even so, there was a question she had to ask.

  “Do you have a basement?” she asked.

  “No, just this one floor,” the woman said.

  Riley looked around. The shop was very small, and she saw no doors that might open to a basement. Still, she had a strong feeling that she had come to the right person for information.

  “Could we talk?” Riley said. “I’ve got a few questions you might be able to answer.”

  “Certainly,” the woman said, leading Riley behind the counter to a couple of chairs. “Have a seat.”

  Riley sat down.

  “Ms. Gorski, do you know anyone in town who is obsessed with clocks and time?”

  Irina Gorski’s brow knitted with thought.

  “That’s an interesting question,” she said. “No, not anymore. But a long time ago …”

  She paused as if reaching back into her memory.

  “There used to be a strange fellow in town—Tyrone Phipps was his name. He operated a shop out of his house, on the main floor. He was the last true clockmaker in this whole area. A ‘horologist,’ he called himself—that’s someone who studies and measures time. Oh, he really was obsessed with time.”

  Riley’s attention quickened.

  “Tell me more about him,” she said.

  Irina Gorski scratched her chin thoughtfully.

  “Well, he had other obsessions, too. He had this thing about the Cold War. He was always sure that a nuclear holocaust was about to happen, and that it would be the end of the world. I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis back in 1962—well, you weren’t even born, I guess. It very nearly happened. The end of all of us.”

  She shook her head at the memory.

  “And Tyrone was running from door to door, knocking and yelling, ‘Are you ready? Are you ready?’ Well, when he came around to my place, I said, ‘Are you?’ I mean, what a question! What could anybody do to prepare for the end of civilization?”

  She let out a sad little sigh.

  “What happened to him?” Riley asked.

  “Well, he died—I’m pretty sure it was 1989. Yes, it was the year the Berlin Wall fell, and the Cold War was over. But folks say that he never changed his tune even on his deathbed. They say his very last words were, ‘Are you ready? Are you ready?’ A very strange fellow.”

  Riley’s heart was beating faster. She felt sure that she was about to get the break she needed.

  “Ms. Gorski, did Tyrone Phipps have any children?” she asked.

  The woman sighed.

  “Yes, and that’s a sad story, I’m afraid. He and his wife, Megan, had one daughter, Anita. His wife died in a car wreck when little Anita was barely a year old. Anita grew up to be a sad, messed-up girl, got mixed up with the counterculture. You know, hippies, the whole ‘sex, drugs, and rock and roll’ scene. When she was just eighteen, she had a baby boy, Casey. Nobody ever knew who the father was. She pretty much abandoned Casey to her father’s care. She died of a drug overdose a few years later.”

  Riley could barely contain her excitement now.

  “Whatever happened to Casey?” she asked.

  “Why, he still lives here—in his grandfather’s old house, where the clock shop used to be. The address is One-Twenty Lynn Street. An odd boy—although he’s actually grown up now. He seems to live off his grandfather’s inheritance, doesn’t work for a living. He never really bothers anybody, just keeps to himself.”

  Then a worried look crossed the woman’s face.

  “But—oh, dear. Do you think maybe Casey … I mean, the murders—”

  “What do you think, Mrs. Gorski?”

  The woman thought for a moment.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s such a strange fellow. I just don’t know.”

  Riley got up from her chair.

  “Ms. Gorski, thank you so much. You’ve helped me more than I can say.”

  Irina Gorski looked at Riley with concern.

  “I’m glad,” she said. “But you be careful, dear.”

  “I will.”

  When Riley got back in her car, the first thing she did was call Bill on her cell phone. Bill answered sharply.

  “Riley, where the hell are you? Please tell me you’re back in Virginia.”

  Riley suppressed a chuckle.

  “You know me better than that, Bill. I’m right here in Ohlman. And I’ve found him. I’ve found our killer.”

  Riley heard Bill groan.

  “Riley, I’m not listening to this. You’ve gone off the rails. Go home. You’ll get into even more trouble.”

  Riley’s tone grew more insistent.

  “Bill, listen. I’m serious. I know what I’m talking about. His name is Casey Phipps. His grandfather was a clockmaker. Time is a family obsession.”

  Bill was silent for a moment. Riley felt sure that she had piqued his interest.

  “He lives at One-Twenty Lynn Street,” she said. “All we’ve got to do is go pick him up. Can you meet me there?”

  There was another pause.

  “If Walder finds out about this, he’ll have a fit. I’ve got to stay here at the station so he doesn’t catch on. But I can send Lucy.”

  “You do that,” Riley said. “I’ll meet her there.”

  Riley drove straight to One-Twenty Lynn Street and parked nearby. It was a fair-sized wood frame house with a swing on the front porch. As she parked, she saw two boys in the street throwing a baseball back and forth. They were both about nine or ten years old. A little girl, about seven, stood on the sidewalk watching them.

  Again, Riley felt jarred by the sight of such innocent playfulness in such close proximity to terrible evil.

  Almost immediately, she saw Lucy approaching in her car. Lucy parked and trotted over to Riley’s car and got in the passenger’s side.

  She pointed to the house.

  “Is that the house you’re talking about?”

  Riley nodded.

  “Oh, Riley, I hate to say this, but this is a mistake. We canvassed thi
s whole neighborhood. I checked this house myself. The guy who lives here’s a little odd, but I’m sure he’s not our guy.”

  “Did he let you look in the basement?” Riley asked.

  “Yeah, and he was nice about it, too.”

  Riley struggled with a moment of self-doubt. But no, Irina Gorski’s story still had her completely convinced. The man who lived here, Casey Phipps, was their killer. And as far as the basement was concerned …

  Well, Lucy must have missed something, Riley decided.

  Perhaps she’d overlooked a door leading into another room. Riley just had to take a look there herself.

  “Let’s go,” she told Lucy.

  They got out of the car and walked toward the house. The little girl trotted up to them.

  “Don’t go there,” she said, pointing to the house.

  “Why not?” Riley asked.

  One of the boys throwing the ball called out.

  “The guy there’s weird,” he said. “We stay away from him.”

  The other boy said, “Except on Halloween when he gives away candy.”

  “How do you mean, weird?” Riley asked the boys.

  “He talks to himself,” the first boy said.

  The little girl stomped her foot.

  “He does not talk to himself! He talks to the ghosts!”

  The first boy yelled, “Shut up, Libby. People will think you’re crazy.”

  The girl named Libby spoke to Lucy and Riley in a hushed, urgent tone.

  “My brother says there’s no such thing as ghosts. But he’s wrong. I’ve heard them. And the man who lives here talks to them.”

  The little girl’s words added to Riley’s sense of certainty. Casey Phipps sounded like exactly the man they were looking for—a man who talked to ghosts. Riley thanked the girl, and she and Lucy walked up the sidewalk toward the house.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  “It’s her again!” Scratch whispered to Grandpa as he peeked from behind the window blind. “That FBI woman! And she’s brought someone with her.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “What should I do?” Scratch said.

  “What do you think?” Grandpa snapped. “Let them in, for Christ sake.”

  Scratch opened the door, hoping he didn’t look as terrified as he felt.

  The woman who had been there before—the one with the dark complexion—held out her badge. She spoke in a very polite voice.

  “Sir, you probably remember me,” she said. “Agent Lucy Vargas.”

  Scratch’s mouth had gone dry, and his reply sounded a little hoarse.

  “Sure, I remember,” he said.

  “This is my colleague, Agent Riley Paige.”

  Scratch looked the other woman over. She was the older of the two, with dashes of gray in her dark hair. Oddly, unlike the younger woman, this woman didn’t seem to have a gun.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked the women.

  “Well, we’ve just got a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” the younger woman said, smiling. “Could we come in?”

  “Sure,” Scratch said.

  The two women came inside. The older one looked all around the living room with keen interest.

  “I hear that this place used to be a place of business,” she said. “Wasn’t your grandfather a clockmaker?”

  Grandpa’s voice sounded indignant.

  “Not a clockmaker, damn it. A horologist.”

  Scratch forced himself to smile.

  “Actually, Grandpa liked to call himself a horologist. Why do you ask?”

  The older woman didn’t reply. Her gaze made him most uncomfortable, as if she could see right through him.

  “I wonder if I could look in your basement,” she said.

  “Why?” Scratch asked. “Your, uh, colleague went down there last time.”

  “I’d just like to have another look,” she said with an unsettling smile.

  Scratch stood there dumbly.

  “Let her go!” Grandpa whispered. “We’ve got nothing to hide. Not here.”

  Scratch was liking this less and less by the second.

  “Go ahead, be my guest,” he said. “It’s right back there through the kitchen.”

  The woman disappeared into the kitchen. Scratch could hear the basement door open, followed by her footsteps going down the stairs.

  Now the younger woman was poking around, peeking into his bedroom and his kitchen. While she was turned away from him, he reached down to pick up the whip, which was lying beside an upholstered chair. He’d been using it on himself a lot lately. He thrust it out of sight behind his back just as the woman came back into the living room.

  “So this was really a clock shop?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Scratch said.

  “So where are all the clocks now?”

  Scratch almost said that they’d all been taken out to the shelter. But Grandpa stopped him.

  “Lie, you idiot!”

  Sweat was breaking out on Scratch’s forehead. The woman was asking too many questions. And he couldn’t think of a single lie to tell.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Scratch said aloud.

  “Idiot!” Grandpa said.

  “I’m sorry,” Scratch said. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  The woman stepped toward him, looking at him strangely.

  “Are you talking to me?” she asked.

  It was too much for Scratch to handle. The woman was only a few steps away. He swung the whip out and struck her in the face with it. She let out a gasp of pain and bent over, fingering her face. Scratch slammed the butt of the whip against the back of her head. She crumpled to the floor and didn’t move.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Grandpa snarled. “They’ll come looking for her.”

  “I’m sorry!” Scratch said.

  His mind went into overload, filled up with images of how the room used to look when he was a child—full of clocks ticking everywhere, all over the walls. They began to chime and ring the hour.

  He slashed the whip across his own back, hoping to make the madness stop.

  “There’s no time for that,” Grandpa said. “We’ve got to take care of the other one. You know what to do.”

  The phantom sounds and images faded away. Yes, Scratch knew exactly what to do. When he was little, Grandpa used to punish him by locking him up in the basement. The windows were boarded over, so when the lights were out, it was pitch black down there.

  He walked back to the basement door, switched off the light, and shut the door behind him. In the darkness, he heard a surprised outcry from the woman.

  Suddenly, the whole situation made sense to him. Grandpa had been very wise to lock him up like that. Scratch knew every nook and cranny of the basement, light or no light. He had his whip, and the woman was unarmed.

  She’d never get out of the basement alive.

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  Riley was fingering a paneled section of basement wall, trying to detect if there might be a hidden space behind it. But the wall seemed solid.

  She also noticed something vaguely unsettling. It took a moment for her to put her finger on it. Then she realized—it was a complete absence of natural light. There was only a single light bulb lighting the whole basement. Why wasn’t there at least a little light spilling in from upper windows? But now she saw that those windows were all painted over, and had been for a long time.

  A realization was dawning on her. She couldn’t quite get hold of it. Somebody had been held here. Somebody had suffered here.

  Suddenly, she herself was plunged into total darkness.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  There was no reply, but she could hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

  It was him, she realized. He had been tormented here, and he had tormented the women in some similar place. And there was still more to the suffering …

  An uncanny, icy horror overcame her—a terrible sense of déjà vu.
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  I’ve been here before, she thought with a shudder.

  But when? And where?

  She felt her body sag against the wall. Memories that Riley thought she’d shaken off came flooding back.

  She was trapped in complete darkness in a little makeshift cage. She crouched in the crawlspace, awaiting the return of the monster with the propane torch. She couldn’t see her captor but she could hear him breathing. She knew that soon the light of a flame would break through the darkness …

  Riley tried to snap herself out of the memory into the desperate present. She had suffered PTSD attacks after being held by the killer named Peterson, but they had let up in recent months.

  Get a hold of yourself, she thought.

  But she was paralyzed with irrational fear, crouched in a damp corner. She didn’t hear the footsteps anymore. The man had reached the bottom of the stairs and his feet just made faint shuffling sounds on the concrete floor. Someone was there in the dark with her. She was sure that he could hear her gasping breath.

  She knew that she had to pull herself to her feet, get out of this corner. But she simply couldn’t move.

  Then came a whistling in the air. She had no idea what it was until she felt a swift, searing pain across her face. She remembered the scars all over the dead women’s bodies, their faces as well as their backs. Meara, too, had been marked by the blows of this multi-stranded whip.

  Riley’s terror abruptly morphed into fury. She wasn’t going to let those victims’ pain go unpunished.

  As the whip whistled down toward her for a second blow, she reached out and grabbed hold of it in the darkness. She yanked her attacker forward, heard his body slam into the wall beside her. Then the whip fell limp in her hand.

  She scrambled out of the corner, realizing that she and her attacker had just switched places. He now had his back to the wall and she had his whip in her hand. She didn’t stop to think about what to do next. She lashed out with the whip, not knowing where it might make contact.

  She heard a wild scream of pain. It felt good—dangerously good—to be inflicting the same pain on him that he he’d inflicted on his victims. She lashed again, and again, and again, until the screaming faded to a desperate whimper. Then she stopped. Surely, she thought, she had beaten him into cowering submission.