by Chris Taylor
She smiled into the phone. “Don’t worry, so am I.”
“Really?” His voice held a touch of concern. “You should have been there ages ago.”
“Well, that was the plan, but I got a flat tire. It’s pelting down out here and the tow-truck’s at least an hour away.” She glanced at the driver who was pretending not to listen. “But it’s all right. I caught a cab a few minutes ago. I’ll probably arrive about the same time you do.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you soon.”
“Looking forward to it.” She ended the call and kept hold of the phone. She couldn’t be bothered hunting around in the dimness of the car for her bag. With a sigh of anticipation, she settled back against the seat.
* * *
Lex Wilson couldn’t believe it. The girl from the newspaper clipping was in his cab. She looked a little older and her hair was shorter, but he was sure it was her.
Excitement curled in his gut. She looked more like Snow White than Rapunzel, but if he took her, he could finish his creation tonight. He could barely sit still at the thought. It was perfect. She was perfect.
She’d even been okay to sit in the front seat. He wasn’t a religious man, but even he could tell it was a sign. This was meant to be.
Too bad she was a police officer. He’d known that, of course. The newspapers had been full of it. The irony of the policewoman attending the scene of the accident, only to discover her son was the victim. The pleasure of it had been excruciating. Almost as excruciating as watching the horror on his mother’s face when he’d switched on her hairdryer and had tossed it into the bath with her. She’d died with her face frozen in terror. He chuckled at the memory.
But something told him to proceed with caution. Killing police officers was not something he’d do lightly. He’d never once even considered tracking her down to add to his collection. But she’d found him. It was karma. It was fate. It was meant to be.
His wife, Michelle, knew about his mother, of course. It was the reason he’d ended up in the orphanage. He’d never known his father and after his mother’s untimely accident, the poor little boy who’d discovered her dead in the bath, had been placed in temporary foster care.
His mother’s family, the few who had turned up for the funeral, had patted his head and expressed their sympathy, but that was where their charity had ended. There were numerous excuses as to why none of them could possibly take the young boy in. Two weeks after he’d buried his mother, he’d arrived at the Wallsend Home for Orphans.
If he’d thought his life would improve with the death of his mother, he’d thought wrong. He was bullied and teased by the staff and other children, alike. Nothing he did earned praise. He was continuously punished for the slightest indiscretions. To his horror and shame, a few weeks after his arrival at the orphanage, he started wetting the bed again.
Life descended into hell. For six long years, he suffered in silence, vowing one day to get even. The only bright spot in the entire sorry saga was his wife, Michelle.
Right from the start, she’d been his champion. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her support, but not a night went by that he wasn’t grateful for it. If it hadn’t been for Michelle, he was certain he would have died, along with the nameless others that were buried in the back garden of the orphanage.
As soon as they were able, they left the place behind them and struck out on their own. At sixteen, life on the streets was hard, but they had each other, and that’s all that mattered.
It was his idea to return and end the life of Richard Weston. The dorm master had made it his mission to single Lex out for punishment as often as he could get away with it. The memory of scrubbing filthy urinals with his toothbrush whilst Weston pissed on his head would stay with him forever.
The man deserved to die and Lex had vowed he’d make it happen.
In the end, Weston had died with hardly a whimper. Procuring a handgun from a friend off the street, Lex and Michelle had snuck into the dorm master’s suite in the dead of night. Weston had woken with the pistol jammed against his temple. Within seconds, it was done. They’d left as quickly and as silently as they’d come and had never returned.
They’d never spoken of it again, but Lex had never forgotten the indescribable euphoria the moment Weston’s heart stopped beating. It had reminded him of his mother’s death. It reminded him how much he hated people in authority and how he would never be under the control of anyone again.
As soon as he was able, he changed his name. He wanted to distance himself as far as possible from the nightmare of his childhood. A few months later, he and Michelle were married. It was the happiest day of his life.
In time, their daughters, Anissa and Amy, arrived and his life was complete. He went to work, raised a family and learned to be happy with his new life. But then there had been the accident. And it had been an accident. He’d been trying to change the channel on his radio. He’d looked away from the road for just an instant and it had happened. He’d hit the woman and the baby on the pedestrian crossing. He hadn’t even had time to brake.
The shock of it had momentarily stunned him and then reaction had set in. He’d pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator and had gotten the hell away from there.
It was only later, when he’d watched it on the news, that he’d discovered the baby had belonged to a police officer. It was then that the pleasure had started. He’d thought of all the times he’d pleaded with the police for help and how every time they’d looked the other way. Every single time.
The joy of inflicting pain on a member of their close-knit fraternity had seeped into his veins, had reinvigorated him as he’d relived the sounds and the sensations of the accident.
He’d shared the moment with Michelle, who had cautioned against taking it any further. But, the feelings persisted.
He tried to control them, ignore them, but they wouldn’t be denied. He’d started cautiously, discreetly. A girl here, a girl there. Street girls—nothing girls, with no fixed abode and no family. His hits were sporadic, with no fixed methodology. Each time, he refined his technique. Sometimes he’d go months between killings. No one suspected a thing. No one even noticed. The tiniest of entries in the middle of the newspaper—and sometimes, not even that.
But slowly, inexorably, the beast inside him demanded more. His conquests increased and the interval between them fell away. He was out of control. It was like his mother and the dorm master and the baby all over again. He’d never been happier.
Now, the sweetest prize of all had fallen into his lap. The most glorious head sat about a foot away from him, totally under his control. He tingled at the thought of handling it.
Well, perhaps not totally. Not yet.
His gaze swept over her as the cab passed a street light. Police officers were always armed. He hadn’t seen any evidence of a gun, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one tucked away inside the waistband of her skirt.
What to do? He was in a quandary. If he acted on his initial impulse, he could finish his creation tonight. But what if it was a mistake? She certainly looked fitter than the others and being a police officer, she’d probably fight back. Then there was the phone call she’d just made. Somebody knew she was with him.
The only advantage he had was surprise. And the Taser gun he’d ordered off the Internet that lay concealed down the side of his seat. Already, it had been put to good use.
Her head moved and she gazed across the dashboard of the car. In the dimness, her eyes widened and her body stilled.
Lex tensed. Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but she had straightened in her seat, her body now alert as she inched toward the passenger door.
Adrenaline surged through his veins. If he was going to go ahead with it, he had to act fast. It was now or never.
* * *
Ellie’s heart pounded and the blood rushed to her ears, almost drowning out the noise of the rain and the passing traffic.
Lex Wilson.
His name was right there on the envelope sitting on the dashboard. A pile of mail. Innocent, innocuous. Addressed to a psychopath.
Shit. She was in his cab. The man Clayton thought responsible for multiple murders. Gruesome murders. Murders she could barely think about now that she sat less than a foot away from him.
Her gaze slid to the mandatory security camera that should have been anchored on the dashboard. It was nowhere to be seen.
She looked at his hands, sure and confident on the wheel. There were stains on his fingers.
A sliver of fear moved within her belly. Her heart did a somersault. It was him. She was sure of it. She inched her breath out between tight lips, frantically trying to come up with a plan while she strove to act normal.
“So, what do you do when you’re not driving taxis?”
His teeth glowed whitely in the dull light. “I’m a doll maker.”
Her pulse ratcheted up another notch. “Really? Dolls? That sounds interesting.”
She plastered a smile on her face while her mind continued to work with furious speed. She had to get out of there.
“It is,” he replied easily, his voice betraying his pleasure. “It’s my other passion. My wife’s always complaining about how much time I spend in the shed with my girls.”
The breath caught in her throat. Surreptitiously, she texted Clayton, praying silently that he’d understand.
In taxi. Wilson.000
She glanced down and found the send button. Pressing it, she prayed Wilson hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
He looked at her curiously and she searched her memory with frantic haste to pick up the thread of their conversation.
The dolls. His wife. The girls.
She cleared her throat. “You must enjoy it, then. Making the dolls.”
He turned to her, his eyes glittering in the light from the streets. “You wouldn’t believe.”
Oh, God, she was going to be sick. Wrenching her gaze away from his, she turned to stare out the window. They had to be almost at the station. If she was quick, she could bolt out of the car the next time he stopped for traffic lights.
Traffic lights. It suddenly dawned on her she hadn’t noticed any for a while. Another glance out the window and she realized they were back in the suburbs. Leafy trees on the nature strip shrouded the soft, yellow glow that came from the windows of distant houses. He must have turned off the highway and she hadn’t noticed. She’d been too busy trying to get her head around the fact she was in his car.
Fear tasted sharp and acrid in her mouth. She had to think. And fast. While she still could.
She cursed the fact she was unarmed. And in high heels. Of all the days to let vanity overrule practicality, it had to be today. She’d woken that morning with Clayton in her bed and had wanted to look sexy and feminine and desirable. All the things he’d made her feel while they’d explored each other’s bodies in the hours before.
She’d never dreamed when she’d slipped on her three-inch heels that she’d be riding in a taxi with a demented killer.
The traffic had thinned. She cast a furtive glance at him and saw that he was grinning. Fear tightened in her belly.
Slowly, carefully, she undid the clasp of her seatbelt and held it by her side. At the same time, she used her toes to slip off her sandals, preparing herself for flight.
He turned into a driveway. She looked up and saw the white van. Terror constricted her breathing. Screaming, she made a dive for the door.
“Oh no, you don’t.”
A dark fist flew toward her and connected with the side of her head. She gasped and cried out, her ears ringing from the impact. Her eyes blurred with tears. Frantically trying to work the door open, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.
He held a Taser gun inches from her face. Her scream of horror was cut short when pain exploded in her chest.
He’d hit her.
Within seconds, she was immobilized.
* * *
Clayton checked the clock on the squad room wall and frowned. Ellie should have been there by now. She’d said she was only fifteen minutes away. They should have arrived together and yet he’d managed to bring Ben up to date and get the ball rolling on the Tactical Response Group who would make the arrest—and still, she hadn’t appeared.
The beep of a new text message sounded on his phone. He tugged it out of his pocket and opened the message.
Then he froze.
Fear, hot and choking, clogged his throat. “Luke, Cheryl, Bill, Jacko. Whoever else is around,” he rasped.
Heads looked up from desks and peered around partitions at the urgency in his voice.
Luke strode over. “What is it, Clayton? What’s wrong?”
Clayton swallowed against the lump of terror in his throat. “It’s Ellie. He’s got her. The bastard’s got her.”
Luke blanched. “Jesus Christ, are you sure?”
The question set Clayton’s feet in motion. He crossed the length of the squad room with frantic strides, searching for a Kevlar vest and a weapon. Coming up empty, he rounded on Luke.
“Yes, I’m, fucking sure. She just sent me a text. Read it and see for yourself.” He shoved the phone into Luke’s hand and continued his futile search.
The panic in his voice finally seemed to register. People swarmed around him. He could barely hear over the questions that were hurled from all directions.
“Where the fuck do you keep the gear around here?” he shouted. “I need a vest and a piece. And I need them now.”
Luke looked up, his face ashen. “In the cupboard down the back. The boss has the key.” He pointed to a steel, two-door upright cabinet. Clayton strode toward it.
“Ben! I need to get into this cupboard.” He banged on it with his fist. Dread continued to course through him. “And where the fuck is that suspect list? I need the address of Lex Wilson.”
Ben appeared in the doorway of his office, his face lined with age and fatigue. “What are you going on about, Clayton? What’s happened?”
Clayton rounded on him. “It’s Ellie. She’s in the fucking cab with him.”
Ben raised his arms. “Whoa, slow down. What the hell are you talking about?”
Luke handed Ben the phone. “She needs help, boss,” he said quietly.
Ben looked at the text and his face turned grim. “Oh, Christ.”
Clayton snatched the phone out of his hand and shoved it into his pocket.
“I need a vest, Ben, and I need a gun. Now open the fucking door before I break it down.” He glared at his old friend. Panic and fear surged through him. Ben held his stare, his features implacable.
“I’m not sure you should go with—”
“The hell I’m not.” Clayton spat the words at him and pushed his way into the office. “Now, where the fuck are the keys?”
Ben grimly followed him and pulled out a set of keys from the top drawer of his desk. Shooting Clayton another look of concern, he hurried to the cabinet and unlocked it.
Clayton was beside him in an instant. Reaching in, Clayton removed a bulletproof vest and holster and strapped them on.
In silence, Ben took a gun and magazine out of another locked steel box and handed it to him.
Their eyes met.
Clayton nodded his thanks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ellie frantically sucked in what air she could around the tight gag jammed inside her mouth. In desperation, she tried to keep the fear at bay. Her nostrils quivered with the effort. The shock at being tasered gradually subsided and she cautiously turned her head to one side in an effort to orientate herself.
Spying a sink and a chest freezer, her gaze dropped to the floor. It widened as she recognized a pile of pale wood shavings. She was in Lex Wilson’s shed. She was sure of it. The smell of paint burned her nostrils.
She lay on the workbench in the middle of the room. Her hands were pinned to her sides and something heavy pressed across her chest, holding her captive. She lifted
her head as far as she could and saw that a thick rope had been tied around her middle, the pressure so immense, it felt like she was suffocating.
The tightness of the rope, combined with the impenetrable rag in her mouth nearly severed all contact with oxygen and her desperate lungs fought to breathe.
A shadow fell across her field of vision. Wilson appeared at her side. His eyes held a wild glint of anticipation and a fresh wave of terror washed over her.
“So, Detective Cooper. Welcome to my workshop. How are you feeling?”
How the hell did he know who she was? A shiver of terror arced through her. She twisted her head from side to side, groaning against the gag—her only weapon, the scorching heat of her gaze.
“Now, now, now. That’s not the way to greet me. I feel like I’ve known you for so long. I feel like we’ve been friends forever.”
She stared at him in confusion.
He leaned down close beside her head and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I was going to keep Angelina’s head, you know. All that honey-blond hair. I even sawed it off her in anticipation of adding it to my collection. But something held me back. There was something not quite right about it. I decided to wait for something special.” His fingers caressed her cheek again. “Something very special.”
Moaning in horror, she turned her face away.
And saw it.
The wall of newspaper clippings.
The picture of Angelina Caruso’s head.
The photo of her jewelry.
The story about Josie Ward, picturing her grieving parents.
Sally Batten’s mother, desolate in her huge armchair.
So many others Ellie didn’t recognize…
A close-up photo of Jamie’s mangled pram.
She gasped and blinked her eyes to clear them, certain she’d got it wrong, but the article was still there. The one that showed her being held back by a paramedic, her face bleak with agony and despair.
Oh, God, it was him. He was the one who’d killed Jamie.
Bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. She coughed and gasped and tried to dislodge the revulsion that blocked her airways. Her head spun and lights sparkled behind her closed eyelids. She was suffocating.