Winter's Web

by Mary Stone

  Of course he had to accompany her to the exit. This house was a fortress.

  With as much of a smile as she could manage, Peyton turned to the hall. She slipped on the flats that she’d discarded in the mudroom, unlocked the deadbolt, and stepped into the shadowy garage.

  As soon as she set foot on the concrete floor, she caught the flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t be sure what it was, but the paranoia that had weighed down her mind since she arrived insisted that she should duck away from the shadow.

  But whatever it was, it moved too fast for her to avoid.

  Rather than strike her square on the temple, the heavy blow landed closer to the top of her head. A series of starbursts exploded in her left eye, and white-hot pain lanced through her brain. The blow was so disorienting that she hardly heard the sickening, dry crack as the unknown object met her skull.

  As she careened to the floor, she didn’t have to ask herself what had just happened, or who was responsible for what had just happened.

  She already knew the answer. Cameron Arkwell was a psychopath.

  The world moved in slow motion as she continued her descent, and at the last possible instant, she tucked her hands beneath her face to brace against the force of the fall. Rather than faceplant into the concrete, her nose smashed into the back of one hand.

  All at once, the pace of her reality sped back up to normal.

  Though she couldn’t be sure in the darkness, she felt the warm trickle of blood against the back of her hand as the fading bursts of light danced along her vision. The world around her spun, and she had to gasp for a much-needed breath of air.

  Darkness threatened to engulf her limited vision, but she squeezed her eyes closed and clenched one hand into a fist. She’d been punched before, but she’d never experienced a blow like this, never been struck so hard that the force threatened her consciousness.

  Swallowing down the threat of nausea, she gritted her teeth together.

  Not like this, she told herself.

  She wouldn’t let herself lapse into unconsciousness and leave her body to the mercy of a lunatic like Cameron Arkwell.

  His grip iron, Cameron clamped a hand around each of her ankles. The fabric of her t-shirt rode up as he dragged her along the floor, but the cool touch of the polished concrete against her stomach was shocking enough to snap her back from the edge of unconsciousness.

  She needed to fight. She needed to do something.

  As she forced open her eyes to take stock of the situation, Cameron muttered a string of curses.

  Whatever he’d used to hit her, he had intended for the strike to knock her out.

  With one arm, she pushed herself the rest of the way to her back. Cameron’s six-foot, well-toned form was silhouetted against the doorway by the warm light from the distant kitchen. Had he held a butcher knife, the scene would have been a picture-perfect poster for a horror film.

  Before she could consider the strategic pitfalls of where she lay half in and half out of the doorway to the garage, she snapped up one leg to ram her shin into Cameron’s balls.

  She felt a grim sense of satisfaction when his eyes widened, and he took in a sharp breath. Hunching over, he let out a grunt of pain.

  Peyton didn’t pause to bask in the glory of her successful hit. Yet another wave of adrenaline surged through her as she pushed herself to stand on legs that felt as structurally sound as gelatin. A wave of dizziness rushed up to greet her, but within two rapid beats of her heart, the adrenaline stilled her vision.

  Cameron stood in the center of the doorway, and she knew her window of opportunity to make it past him was about to slam shut. She knew better than to think she could coax him to cough up the code for the garage door. She knew better than to think she could get out of this house alive if she didn’t make her move right then.

  With as much strength as she could muster, she shoved him back into the mudroom to make room to slip past. She caught a glimpse of the pale shade of his eyes as she rushed into the hallway.

  When she reached for her handbag to retrieve the pepper spray she always carried, a leaden weight dropped in her stomach.

  The purse had slipped off her shoulder when she’d fallen to the floor in the garage.

  The purse, her pepper spray, her car keys, her phone.

  She cast a panicked glance around the kitchen, and that’s when she spotted the knives. Only the adrenaline with which she’d been overcome kept her from vomiting all over the ceramic tile.

  Peyton Hoesch wasn’t a killer. She was a sociology student at Virginia Commonwealth University because she wanted to obtain a Master’s in Social Work. She was active in a handful of student organizations that reached out to the vulnerable members of the VCU student body to offer them aid when the pressure of the world seemed too much to bear.

  Though the moment of contemplation felt like an eternity, only a split-second had elapsed. She didn’t have to kill anyone, but she had to defend herself.

  Her footsteps were quiet as she hurried over to the wooden knife block, and she could hear little over the rapid cadence of her heartbeat. With one trembling hand, she took hold of the butcher knife and pulled the blade free.

  At the same time the overhead light glinted off the metal, a hand clamped down on her ponytail. The sting of the strands ripping free of her scalp accompanied the rough motion as Cameron pulled her back to him.

  Tightening her grasp on the knife, she barely managed to turn to face him and stop her body’s momentum before she crashed into him.

  As his eyes met hers, his iron grip clamped down around her wrist. Though she resisted, the fact remained that Peyton was a five-foot-two, one-hundred-pound woman who avoided the gym like the plague, and Cameron Arkwell had the muscular build of a professional athlete.

  He forced her arm out wide, but she didn’t let her grip on the knife falter. With the other hand, he grabbed her by the throat.

  The cry for help that she tried to make was crushed into little more than a squeak as he tightened his grasp. A dull pop sounded out, followed by a sharp pain that lanced all the way to her collar bone.

  Not like this.

  She wouldn’t die as she stared into the eyes of a man whose countenance was overcome with a morbid sense of satisfaction, whose eyes were alight with a predatory glint she’d never before seen any human being wear. She wouldn’t let this prick win. Not when she still had one free hand.

  Digging her nails into his wrist, she started to lean forward. The less distance between them, the less leverage he could utilize to strangle her. Though the pain in her throat was almost unbearable, she forced the sensation to the back of her mind.

  Beneath her nails, she felt the first warm trickle of blood. Rather than try to best his strength by shoving his arm away, she tightened her grip and twisted his wrist.

  As soon as the hold loosened, she rammed a knee into his gut and jerked her other arm out of his grasp.

  Right then, she could end the entire ordeal.

  If she drove the finely made kitchen knife through his eye, through his heart, even through his throat, she would be free.

  But then what? Then his father would rush downstairs to find his son dead, Peyton with blood covering her hands and clothes, and…what?

  With a swift step backwards, she held out the knife. “Don’t move, Cameron.” She wanted the command to be a shout, but due to the damage to her esophagus, she was lucky he heard her at all.

  His eyes flicked up to meet hers as he clutched his damaged wrist. There was unabashed venom in his expression, a sentiment she could only classify as one step short of a murderous rage.

  “I’m leaving.” The words were closer to a normal speaking volume, but far from the imposing tone she wanted. “You stay right there, or I swear to god, I’ll stab you in the heart.”

  Though his eyes followed each and every movement as she stepped backward, he didn’t respond.

  The house was a maze to her—she’d never lived
anywhere with more than two-thousand square feet of space. Compared to what she was used to, Cameron Arkwell’s palatial residence might as well have been a labyrinth.

  She would have to turn around if she wanted any chance to figure out where she was going, but she couldn’t let him out of her sight.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she angled her body to the side, but kept the knife trained in Cameron’s direction. For what felt like an eternity, she sidestepped across the expansive kitchen to the arched doorway. The dining room was beside the kitchen, and then after that, the hallway to the foyer. At least, that’s what she remembered.

  Once she was beneath the arch, she dared another glance to the shadowy hall. She barely had a chance to glimpse the distant foyer before she snapped her attention to the flicker of movement in her periphery.

  In a blur of motion, Cameron was gone.

  The short hall at the other end of the kitchen led to a great room, and she could only assume the route was an alternate method for him to close the distance between them. Rather than pause to scope out his location, she turned and sprinted through the dining room and into the foyer.

  With every step, she half-expected a landmine to detonate beneath her feet, or a masked man to emerge from the darkness to tackle her to the floor. She thought to shout for help, but she doubted the strangled vocalization would be heard in the next room, much less the next floor.

  She was, very clearly, on her own.

  Even with the evil lurking so close, she’d never felt so alone.

  The moment the front door was in sight, she forced herself to look over her shoulder.

  Nothing stirred. She still had time. Hope seeped into her heart as she reached for the deadbolt with one shaking hand.

  Clutching the knife with fingers that felt numb, she nearly cried in relief as the lock disengaged with a metallic click. One more. She moved to undo the lock on the door handle, praying this one turned just as easily.

  The hair on her arms raised as the tiniest sound she’d ever heard penetrated the heavy sound of her breathing. A small squeak of rubber on floor, and she knew he was behind her.

  She felt him like a rogue wave coming from nowhere.

  Fumbling with the lock, she refused to look back, afraid she’d freeze in horror if she did. Afraid Cameron Arkwell would have transformed into a monster with drool dripping from pointed teeth, sharp claws reaching out to scrape down her back.

  At the same time she turned the little lever to the left, another noise, this time an explosion of sound, shattered the eerie spell of quiet that had fallen over the house. White-hot pain ripped through her back, and she thought for a second that she’d been set ablaze.

  Even as she watched crimson droplets spatter against the dark wood of the door, the series of events hadn’t entirely registered in Peyton’s head.

  Her arms were cold, and even though she couldn’t recall loosening her grasp, the butcher knife slipped out of her fingers to clatter to the floor. Her vision swam as she sank to her knees.

  With all the energy left in her body, she looked down at her shirt. In the center of the black fabric, a splotch of darker darkness spread. As she tried to take in a breath, her lungs seemed to fold in on themselves with a wet sucking sensation. Warmth spread along the back of her throat, followed by the taste of metal.

  She was cold. Not just her arms, but her entire body had gone cold.

  As she completed her final slump to the floor, her cheek met the smooth tile. By then, she couldn’t feel much of anything.

  “Mom!”

  As she did when she was a child, she called out for her mother, though the sound got lost in a gurgle of blood.

  Peyton knew she was supposed to fight, but she no longer had the energy. All she wanted to do now was sleep. When she woke, everything would be better, she knew.

  Yes, better.

  When sneakered feet entered her field of vision, Peyton closed her eyes.

  She just wanted to sleep.

  23

  As the plastic wrapper in Winter’s hand crinkled, Bobby Weyrick’s eyes snapped over to the quiet disturbance. Pausing midway through opening the fun-sized candy, she slowly lifted her shoulders.

  With a light chuckle, Bobby returned his attention to the laptop he’d claimed in their makeshift workspace.

  “Whose idea was it to put a bowl of Halloween candy in the FBI surveillance van?” Even as she posed the question, Winter popped the chocolate and caramel candy into her mouth.

  Bobby flashed her a grin. “Someone who knows we like to snack when we’re bored, I bet.”

  Leaning back in her seat, Winter reached for another candy. “Well, so far, the great mystery of who gave us this Halloween candy is probably the most interesting part of this entire night.” For emphasis, she unwrapped a Twix.

  Stretching his arms above his head, Bobby nodded. “You’re not kidding. There’s only so much tennis talk I can handle, and I’m getting close to my breaking point.”

  Winter grunted out her agreement and took a bite of the delicious treat. So far, Ryan O’Connelly’s undercover venture to collect information about their mysterious internet stalker turned murderer had been a big fat bust.

  “I bet it was Vasquez.”

  When Winter returned her attention to Bobby, his eyes were fixed on the orange bowl of candy. “Vasquez? What makes you think that?”

  As he glanced back to the laptop—the device that had recorded more than an hour of inane conversations so far—he shrugged. “That dude’s got a sweet tooth. He used to work the night shift, and every year, like clockwork, he’d go out to the store on the day after Halloween, or Easter, or Christmas, any one of those candy holidays and buy shitloads of the stuff. So, if you think this is a lot right now, just wait until November first.”

  Winter licked her fingers. “My friend does that, but with food she cooks. She’ll practically beg us to come over and eat the leftovers so they won’t go bad.”

  He reached for a candy bar too. “Sounds like a good friend.”

  In the quiet that followed, Bobby’s attention shifted back to the laptop. Ryan had just greeted a man named Oliver Jacobs, and the two were discussing the attendees of the dinner party that evening.

  Straightening in her seat, Winter wiggled the mouse of her own laptop to bring the screen to life. As soon as she opened a blank notepad file, her fingers flew along the keyboard to type out the names mentioned by the two men. Though the names were being recorded, she decided to turn her and Bobby’s boredom into a bit of productivity.

  Jacobs’s voice came through the speakers fainter than Ryan’s, but his words were still clear. “Mario Reyes and his wife are here tonight. Have you seen them yet, Tom?”

  The alias Ryan used for his dealings with the secretive group was Tom Wells. According to Ryan, the name was conceived in homage to Tom Petty and Orson Wells. The combination was bizarre, but Ryan had admitted to taking on so many fake names that he needed a method to keep them straight in his head.

  After she copied Mario Reyes’s name, Winter minimized her notepad and pulled up one of the FBI’s databases for personal records.

  “What’ve you got?”

  Winter kept her focus on the screen as the results populated. “Mario Reyes, sixty-four, lived in Richmond for the last twenty years, according to public records. He’s a fairly successful venture capitalist, married to his high school sweetheart, three kids, all of whom are grown.”

  Bobby’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Venture capitalist? Like Shark Tank?”

  Though she didn’t break her focus, she nodded. “Yeah, exactly like that. There’s nothing unusual in his record, but…” Out of curiosity, she opened the link to his oldest son’s records. As she scanned the page, she took in a breath.

  Without speaking, Bobby rose from his chair to stand behind her. “Wow. Arrested twice for cooking meth? How is he not in prison?”

  Clicking her tongue, Winter switched back to Mario Reyes’s page. “Probabl
y because his dad is a billionaire.”

  Bobby whistled through his teeth. “Meth is some nasty stuff, no doubt there, but people high on meth tend to be erratic. The guy we’re looking for is calculated. There’s no way the man in the videos we’ve seen was high when he recorded those. Not high on meth, at least.”

  Winter had to agree.

  As Ryan and Oliver Jacobs’s discussion shifted to horse racing, Bobby returned to his seat. “You know, I get that O’Connelly’s a thief, but compared to the guys and gals we’ve looked up so far tonight, he’s practically a saint.”

  After storing the results from Mario’s search in a folder designated specifically for her research into the group, she glanced to Bobby. “No, he’s really not a bad guy.”

  Bobby’s smile turned wistful. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s a bad guy, either. I think he was dealt a pretty bad hand, and he bluffed his way through it. You remember that spunky old woman from Heidi Presley’s hotel heist? Charlotte, right?””

  “Right.” Winter smiled as she thought of the woman. “Heidi wanted Ryan to kill her, but he didn’t.”

  “He risked his life for Miss Charlotte, and he risked his freedom to come help us find this guy who’s been kidnapping and murdering girls here in Richmond. Even if he’s a thief, I don’t really see how someone like that can be a genuinely bad apple.”

  She rested her back against the chair, lifting the hair off the nape of her neck. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I never got the impression that he was a malicious criminal.”

  He gestured to the laptop. “I just hope that this is enough to get the US Attorney to see that too.”

  As the space lapsed into silence, Ryan and Oliver Jacobs’s conversation finally moved away from horse racing.