“Rachel didn’t tell you about all the closed-circuit TV monitors here?” she asked.
“It’s news to me . . .”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s Hannah’s bedroom on the TV monitor,” Ellie said. “You’re there by the bungalow, aren’t you?” She waited for him to lie.
He hesitated. “Yeah . . .”
“Well, could you go to that window in back and check for me? You know, behind the house, where we were? I didn’t get a good look at the bedroom earlier tonight. But I think it’s Hannah’s. On the monitor here, there’s a ballet poster on the wall . . .”
There was no response.
“Perry?”
Ellie heard a beep on the line. The 911 operator was trying to get back to her. Ellie hoped the police were on their way. But it would still be at least five more minutes—maybe ten—before they arrived.
“Perry, are you still there?”
Ellie could hear the echo of her own voice—murmuring over his phone. It came from downstairs.
She heard his footsteps directly below. She swiveled toward the bedroom door as a light went on somewhere downstairs, most likely the front hallway.
Ellie quickly pressed the phone screen for the other call. “He’s in the house!” she said under her breath.
“Ellie, can you find a place to hide?” the 911 operator asked. “The police are on their way . . .”
She looked across the room at the closet. She tiptoed toward it, but the floorboards creaked.
All at once, a loud shot rang out and a bullet pierced the wood floor—just inches in front of her feet.
Ellie froze. Another shot followed, and she recoiled. She saw faint beams of light and dust pour through both holes in the floor. She raced back into the hallway. She could hear him running, too. She saw his shadow below, looming larger as he approached the stairs.
Terrified, she ducked into another dark, empty bedroom—across the hall.
With her back to the wall by the bedroom door, she winced at the sound of him charging up the stairs. The footsteps got louder and louder, then—nothing, just him breathing heavily. It sounded like he was just outside the bedroom.
Ellie hung up the phone and carefully tucked it in the pocket of her sweater. She prayed the 911 operator didn’t call back and give her away. She tried not to make a sound. She held the crowbar with both hands, but couldn’t stop shaking.
“I guess, by now, you’ve figured I’m not at the bungalow, Ellie,” he called out with a chuckle. “The truth is you’re going to get me out of some trouble. Tonight of all nights, I can’t believe I let that little bitch, Rachel, give me the slip. I know she’ll be okay, wherever the hell she is. She always comes out on top, that girl. I’ll be doing nicely, too, thanks to you . . .” His voice kept fading in and out as he moved from room to room while he talked. “All will be forgiven, because I got you. See, they’re looking for you, Ellie. Didn’t you know it can be very unhealthy to associate with guys who are supposed to be dead? Didn’t you know that, bitch?” His voice got louder. And the room became darker as he stepped into the doorway and blocked out the light. “Was Nate Bergquist going to be the subject of your next big news story? I don’t think so. They’ll be printing your obituary first. Where the fuck are you?”
A floorboard nearby squeaked.
Ellie waited until he came through the doorway. Then she swung the crowbar.
There was a loud crack as she hit him in the face.
The gun went off and flew out of his hand.
Howling in pain, Perry dropped to his knees in front of her. A red line across his forehead began seeping blood. As he leaned over, it dripped onto the dusty wood floor.
Raising the crowbar again, Ellie struck him on the back of the head.
He let out a feeble groan and finally collapsed with a thud.
Suddenly, the house was so quiet again.
But then Ellie heard a muffled sound from outside.
It was someone crying for help.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Friday, 8:19 P.M.
The basement bedroom smelled of chrysanthemums and sweat.
Paralyzed with fear, Hannah remained on her knees. She kept her arms crossed in front of her. She couldn’t believe this was happening. But it was no joke. Rachel wasn’t laughing anymore. She looked petrified. Maddie couldn’t stop crying.
When she’d read online about the Immaculate Conception murders, Hannah had seen the police composite sketch of “the suspect.” The fake shaggy hair, mustache, and glasses the man in Rachel’s basement wore had been copied from the disguise Lyle Duncan Wheeler had used when preying on his victims. The man now holding them at gunpoint also wore some kind of makeup that made his face look brown.
In a raspy voice, he instructed Rachel to tie up Maddie and her—just as Wheeler had made the three girls tie each other up that night fifty years ago.
On one of the beds, he’d set out measured and cut sections of rope. They were neatly arranged in three separate piles. He nodded at Maddie. “You—Hello Kitty—lay down on your stomach—with your hands behind you.”
“Please, don’t hurt me,” Maddie sobbed. Strands of her red hair stuck to the tears on her cheeks. Her whole body shook as she lay down on the floor.
“You there, girlie, get started,” he said—with a nod at Rachel. “First, tie her wrists together—then her feet at the ankles. Those knots need to be tight, because I’m testing them.”
Rachel reached for the ropes. “Listen, I can show you where my mother keeps her jewelry. I know where all the valuables are in the house—”
“No one’s going to get hurt,” he said. “I just need some money for a trip to Alaska.”
Hannah remembered that, according to the girl who survived that night fifty years ago, Wheeler had told the girls he needed money for a trip to Mexico. Of course, it had been a lie. He hadn’t stolen anything from the bungalow—except for the lives of two innocent young women.
Hannah prayed Alden and his friends would show up soon. She figured Rachel was trying to buy them some time.
“The silverware and the silver service in the dining room are worth thousands,” she said in a shaky voice. “You—you can go around the world with the money from that. And it’s yours for the taking . . .” She kept talking to the man, trying to bargain with him—and all the while, she hovered over Maddie, binding her wrists and ankles.
Maddie squirmed and cried out as Rachel tightened the knots.
“Your turn, sweetie,” the man said, staring at Hannah. “Facedown on the floor, hands behind you . . .”
Gazing at the gun in his hand, Hannah obeyed. At some point, he’d have to put down the gun; maybe then she could do something. Even if she was tied up, she might be able to trip him up or escape. She couldn’t help thinking about the girl who had survived the original murders.
She felt Rachel crouched over her, tying her wrists and ankles. The man had said he would test the knots. But did Rachel really have to tie the ropes so tight? It didn’t seem necessary. Hannah was losing the circulation in her hands and feet.
“The alarm system here is very sophisticated,” Rachel was saying. “I don’t know how or when you got in, but anything can trigger it. It’s a silent alarm. The police are automatically notified. And there are security cameras everywhere—”
“Now, it’s your turn,” the man interrupted. “Sit down with your legs out in front of you, and tie your ankles together. And remember, I’m watching you . . .”
“Please, no, I—I don’t want to be tied up—”
“Shut your hole and do it,” he growled.
Rachel fell silent.
Hannah turned her head and watched Rachel tie her ankles together. Rachel started crying as she double-tied the knot.
“That’s right. Good girl,” the man whispered. “Now, roll over on your stomach and put your hands behind you . . .”
He tucked the gun in the waistband of his outdated bell-bottom corduroys. Then he grabb
ed the last section of rope and bent over Rachel, now facedown on the floor.
Hannah thought she heard a noise upstairs. It could have been someone trying to get in the front door—or it could have just been the house settling. She wasn’t sure. But neither the man nor Rachel seemed to notice.
Rachel let out a sharp cry as he tightened the knot around her wrists. “Ouch, God, not so tight, you stupid shit!”
The man straightened up and backed away a step, leaving her squirming on the floor.
Hannah wondered how Rachel had the guts to talk to him like that.
He stood over Rachel and pulled a serrated-edge hunting knife out of a sheath attached to the back of his belt.
Hannah looked at his eyes. Past those fake glasses and the rest of the masquerade, she saw the pain there. It was the same humiliated expression she’d seen on his face earlier today, when Rachel had told him to shut up.
“Alden?” she whispered.
She remembered what Rachel had said about him having a key to the house and knowing all the codes. He’d lived in the servants’ quarters his entire life. He was part of the staff. So of course Rachel could talk to him like that.
He put the knife back in its sheath and stepped over to Hannah.
She recoiled and started to roll away as he hovered over her. Then his arms went around her waist and he pulled her up onto her feet. Dragging her over to the bed, he sat her down.
“What are you doing?” Rachel cried. “You’ll ruin everything. That’s not how it’s supposed to be . . .”
He turned away from Hannah. Reaching for the knife again, he approached Maddie, who gazed up at him in terror. “No, no, please . . .” she whimpered.
“Alden, you can’t,” Hannah pleaded. “This isn’t you . . .”
He hesitated.
Glaring at him, Rachel squirmed on the floor. “Do it, Sonny . . . stab the holy slut. Do it, do what Mama says . . .”
With the knife in his hand, he just stared at her.
“Okay, fine, Sonny,” Rachel grumbled, struggling to turn over on her side. “If you can’t do it, I will—like I had to finish off that teacher the other night. What’s gotten into you lately anyway? Tell you what, screw it. I’ll handle everything. Just untie me. You’ve made the goddamn knot too tight. How am I supposed to escape when the knot’s so tight? Mama’s really disappointed in you, Sonny Boy.”
“You’re not my mother.” Alden yanked off the cheap wig and glasses and let them drop to the floor. Then he peeled off the thick mustache. His brown hair was matted down, and sweat dripped into the greasy brown makeup that made him look older. “When no one else is around, I sometimes call you Mama and you call me Sonny. But it never was. I had a mother, and she was sweet to me, but she died. I was never your son, and I was never your brother either.” He started sobbing. “I was just a servant girl’s kid—there for your amusement, running your errands and spying on people for you. Look at what you’ve made me do. I didn’t even know those other two girls. They never did anything to me. Neither did that Riley guy. Why did all those people have to die? So you could get a thrill? So you could be on TV as the sole survivor of a serial killing spree? Yeah, maybe, but mostly so you could stick it to the school you hate and the parents you hate—”
“Untie me, goddamn it!” Rachel hissed. Now lying on her side, hands tied behind her, she kicked her feet to loosen the rope around her ankles.
He turned toward Hannah. “She hates everyone because her real parents never wanted her. Remember, she told you that she found out about your aunt and your father sometime within the last year? Well, she lied. She’s known since she was sixteen. Her dad told her while they were in Europe together. She sent texts to your brother about your aunt two years ago. She even went to Seattle and dropped off an old stuffed monkey for your father while he was in the hospital. She was going to see him and tell him who she was, but lost her nerve . . .”
“Go ahead and tell her,” Rachel barked. “I don’t give a shit. She’s not leaving this room alive.”
Alden’s face was smeared with makeup and tears. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I could’ve told you how those test results would come out.” He spoke to Rachel again. “You thought your parents didn’t want you, but, Rachel, your dad never stopped wanting you. You’re Daddy’s little girl. It’s amazing how much you learn when you’re just a servant’s kid and nobody pays attention to you. I heard everything in that house, the gossip between the other servants, the arguments between your parents, the dirty deals your father made with his security people. Your father, Richard Bonner, is your real dad, Rachel—”
“That’s a fucking lie!” she screamed, writhing on the floor.
“He was traveling back and forth to Eugene, banging a college student named Molly. When he knocked her up, he insisted she keep the baby—so he could adopt the little darling. Only he made her lie on the birth certificate about who the father was. So she pretended Dylan O’Rourke was the father, because she’d been screwing him, too.”
Stunned, Hannah stopped struggling with the ropes that pinched at her wrists. The DNA tests results suddenly made sense to her.
“Molly was paid off well. She gave the Bonners their precious baby girl—along with an old stuffed monkey that used to be hers. But Molly got greedy. She demanded more money. So Candace and her assistant flew to Portland . . .” He let out a cynical laugh. “It depends on who you talked to among the household staff. Half of them thought Candace knew you were Richard’s. And the other half believed the whole birth-certificate lie or thought Candace believed it . . .”
He twisted around to look at Hannah again. “Mrs. Bonner tracked down your aunt Molly at your grandmother’s apartment building and confronted her up on the roof. She’d brought someone else along—a henchman for this malignant fuck who handles security for Rachel’s father, a slime-ball named Sloane. Rachel’s driver, Perry, works for Sloane, too. I guess the rooftop conversation between Candace and Molly didn’t go on for very long. From what I overheard at the mansion, apparently Molly threatened to go public about who the real father was. They argued, and Molly lost. She landed on the pavement seventeen stories below . . .”
Hannah shook her head in wonder. She’d thought her aunt had committed suicide or accidentally fell.
“Candace’s personal assistant, Marcia, knew all about it,” Alden went on. “But she kept her mouth shut. She was loyal to the family—and sweet to me. But Candace ended up firing her much later. And then, a while after that, Marcia made the mistake of talking too much to some private dick. So Sloane had her killed. Then he killed the private eye and his family . . .”
He turned to Rachel again. While he was distracted, Hannah furtively resumed tugging at the rope around her wrists. She pulled and twisted at it until her skin was raw. Rachel had made the knot too tight.
“You know what’s funny?” Alden said, staring down at Rachel.
“I don’t care! Untie me!”
“What’s funny is that you’ve always been so scared of becoming just like Candace. And you’re exactly like her, Rachel. You’re selfish and hateful. You’re both murderers—or you’ve had people murder for you. Oh, and another thing, you both fucked the same guy—your father.”
“Shut up!” she screamed, finally kicking the ropes loose from her ankles.
He glanced back at Hannah, and she immediately stopped squirming. “Remember the other day, you asked about a married man Rachel might have been involved with? It was her father. How’s that for sickening? It started during their trip to Europe when Rachel was sixteen. That’s when he showed her the birth certificate and lied to her about Dylan O’Rourke being her real father. He must have figured that would make the whole setup a little less unsavory.” He swiveled around toward Rachel again. “That night you got drunk and told me about you and your father, it turned my stomach. You kept saying, ‘But he’s not my real father,’ like that made it okay? What the hell is wrong with you? But I knew the truth the whole time—
”
“You’re lying!” Rachel screeched, struggling to get to her feet. “You’re just a pathetic nobody, an ignorant servant girl’s bastard. If it weren’t for me and my family, you’d have ended up on the streets—”
“And I was grateful!” he yelled, saliva spraying from his mouth. “I was so grateful and scared and under your thumb, I even killed for you! Do you know how I managed to work up my enthusiasm to kill those girls? I imagined they were you, Rachel, that’s how.” He shook his head. “Jesus, the things you made me do, you bitch. Well, I can’t do this anymore . . .”
“All right, fine,” Rachel hissed. She stood in front of him. “Just untie me. I’ll take care of this myself. I’ll handle everything here. We’ll talk about this later, Sonny . . .”
“I’m not your son,” he whispered, reaching for his revolver. He pointed it at her.
Wide-eyed, Rachel stepped back. “You wouldn’t fucking dare—”
He fired.
Horrified, Hannah recoiled at the ear-splitting bang. She watched the bullet rip through the front of Rachel’s lacy nightgown.
Her mouth open, Rachel stood there in shock as a crimson stain bloomed over the satin material covering her stomach. In awe, she gazed down at it and started shaking. She remained on her feet for another few moments.
No one said anything. The only sound was Maddie’s faint whimpering.
Rachel’s legs finally gave out, and she crumpled to the floor.
His head down, Alden shoved the gun back into the waistband of his corduroys. Starting toward Hannah, he took out the knife.
Panic-stricken, she shrank back. She tried to resist, but he gently pushed her down on the bed, facedown. “Alden, please, no,” she whispered.
She felt him tug at her wrists as he began cutting the rope. “There’s an old farmhouse on Bingham Road outside Waukegan,” he said. “Eden’s in a tool shed in the backyard. She’s alive. Rachel wanted me to torture her, rape her—like Lyle Wheeler tortured and raped the first girl. But I couldn’t. I didn’t hurt her—at least, not much. Tell Eden I’m sorry . . .”
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