Body Count (27 page)

 

I wake up with a start, disorientated. Then I realize where I am. I've got no idea how much time has passed. An hour? A day? The door creaks open.

“Oh, thank God.” I lift my head up. “You found me.”

I knew the Bureau would be on to this guy and find
me. It was just a matter of how long it would take them. Thank God they found me in time.

Marty reaches over me, going for my arm ropes. But his reach falls short and his hand rests on my face.

“I never lost you.”

It can't be.

“No. No,” I say. Not Marty. I close my eyes, not wanting to look at his face. I'm still in the killer's hands.

But it all makes sense. The perfect crime scenes, the knowledge of the cases. His relationship with Josh. And if he ever left DNA or other trace evidence at a crime scene, he'd be able to get rid of it after the fact, during the investigation. I think about Sam's profile. The age and race are right, the occupation, marital status, his current living situation, education level…I mentally cross the items off, one by one.

“You're surprised.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” I hide my anger, only letting him see my shock.

“Surprised at how clever I am.”

“No. I always knew you were clever.” I play to his ego.

He smiles. “I sent them all off in the wrong direction.”

“But you're not left-handed,” I say, still trying to put the pieces together.

“No.” He grins. “I'm ambidextrous. The original report said that the killer was probably ambidextrous. But I made a few amendments when I collated the information. The evidence had to point to Josh.”

I think back to the report Marty left in my tray. At the time I thought how kind it was of him to collate the reports and hand them directly to me.

And his handwriting was on the Post-it note. I didn't even think to look at that. To really look at it. If I had, perhaps I would have noticed that the handwriting was similar to the note left for Sam.

He strokes my hair, tender. “Enough. We could admire my handiwork for hours. But I want to know how your day was.”

He must be joking. But I play along. My options are limited.

“I missed you.” I try to sound sincere. I hide the hate.

I hope these are the words he wants to hear. Is he aware that I'm going along with his role-play, or does he actually think this is a normal relationship?

He comes toward me and kisses me passionately. I respond, trying not to show my revulsion. He rests his right hand on my breast.

“None of that. Later,” I say, like I'd sometimes say to Matt when he was in the mood and I wasn't.

“Why?”

“Because I want our first time to be special, Marty.”

He nods. “I've loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

But of course it's not true. He “loves” me because I'm something of Josh's that he can possess.

“The other women meant nothing to me. Nothing to Josh either.” He strokes my hair.

I hide a wince, thinking of Sam and the others. Nothing. They died for nothing? “Josh knew them all?” I ask.

“Not all. But they were all his type. Our type. Apart from Sam, he only knew Sally-Anne.”

I can't hide my surprise. Josh was actually seeing Sally
Anne? Romantically? If he was involved with an underage girl his father definitely would have wanted to keep that quiet.

“Ah…no. Of course, he didn't tell you, did he?”

“No.”

“I was hoping Josh would incriminate himself by keeping quiet. So egotistical that he didn't think anyone could possibly believe he was the killer. His DNA will seal the deal.”

I ignore him. I've still got questions. “So how did you lure Sally-Anne?”

He breathes deeply, excited. “I phoned her and pretended to be Josh. I organized a little meeting. But she wanted Josh, not me.”

“So you punished her?”

“I had to. The little slut was giving it out to everyone else, why not me? I was certainly more worthy than Josh.”

“So you knew Josh?”

“Yes. But that was when I was Matthew Lande. Josh thought I was nothing. A nobody. Josh was just like my brothers.”

“Older?”

He smiles. “Yes. Sam's profile was right. That's what you want to know, isn't it? That's why you're asking all the questions.”

I don't respond.

“Josh.” He spits the name, then chuckles. “He didn't even recognize me in Michigan. And not even when we worked together in D.C. See how stupid he is?”

I have to play along. “Yes. I'm glad I'm with you and not Josh.” I'm not sure if the lie is convincing.

He rests his head on my breast and I move my chin down in an intimate gesture. I move my right hand.

He jerks his head up. “What are you doing?”

“I only wanted to touch you.”

He looks at me suspiciously then gently undoes my right hand. My heart beats faster and I hope he can't hear it. I think about escape, but I can't do anything. Not with only one arm free. No, this is a trust game and, like it or not, I'm in for the long haul. I run my hand along his arm and gently pull him back down to my chest. I play with his hair and caress his neck as though he really is my lover.

But soon my touches excite him sexually.

“Don't spoil it,” I say.

He moves away. “You're right. We've waited this long, we should wait until we know each other better.”

“Yes, let's make it special.” I hold his hand.

“I'll make us some dinner.” He disappears out the door.

My hand's free. My hand's free!

But the door opens again and he ties my hand back up. I don't show my disappointment. If I can get that hand free again, I should be able to undo my ropes. I wonder if any of the other girls managed to get their hand untied. Maybe they did but still couldn't get out, or maybe he'll never untie me again. I push these thoughts away; I must try to stay positive.

My leg still throbs, but I can feel the tightness of a scab. The wound is healing. I lift my head up and stare at the door. I imagine myself walking out.

He returns later. I don't know how much later, because all sense of time seems to be gone. He carries two bowls
of pasta and two candles. He lights the candles and puts them both on the instrument tray next to my head. I pretend not to notice the ghastly assortment of knives. He undoes my hand again and pulls it up to his face. He uses my hand to caress his face.

I smile. “How about some wine?”

“Of course. Wine.” He leaves the room. Can I be this lucky? I look at the instruments. They're lined up precisely and I stare at one of the sharp implements, trying to decide whether to grab it or not. He'll notice if one is missing. I hear footsteps outside the door and lie back down quickly.

The door opens. “I got us a Merlot,” he says.

The glasses clink together as he puts them down. He opens the wine and the liquid gurgles into the glass. I reach my hand out to take the glass.

“No,” he says. “I'm going to feed you.”

I lay my hand by my side and open my mouth.

“That's a girl,” he says and a spoonful of pasta slides into my mouth. I chew.

“Good?” he asks.

I finish my mouthful. “Delicious.”

“Better than Josh's beef bourguignon?”

“Definitely.” But it's a lie.

“I knew you'd love me more than Josh. I just knew it.”

I don't respond. I chew the next mouthful. His hand slides under my hair and he raises my head enough for me to take a sip of wine. The cool glass touches my lips and I gulp greedily, wanting alcohol to numb myself.

“Take it easy,” he says.

“It's a beautiful wine.”

He lowers my head back to the table and sips some wine. He takes several mouthfuls of food himself.

“Open wide,” he says. The fork is on my lips. I open my mouth and eat. But I don't want any more. I feel sick. Sick to my stomach that he is feeding me. That I'm going along with it. I start my internal dialogue: It's all right. You're doing the right thing. This will get you out. Somehow.

“It's very filling,” I say.

“You need the nourishment.”

What for? To lie here and be raped? I push the tears away.

He presses the fork on my closed lips. I take another mouthful. “Thank you,” I force myself to say.

He feeds himself.

“Can I have some more wine?” I ask. Again, when the glass touches my lips I take several large gulps. “Beautiful.” I take another few mouthfuls of food, until I've had as much as I physically can. “I'm full.”

“But you've only eaten half of it.”

“You know me and my appetite.” I hope the familiarity will stop him from pushing the matter.

“Yes. Yes, you eat like a little sparrow.”

I watch as he finishes his meal and his glass of wine. What will he do to me when he finishes?

He takes my hand and ties it up again. I get ready to go somewhere else mentally. To be someone else. It's the only way I'll be able to cope. But instead of climbing on top of me, he leaves.

I did it. I stopped him from raping me. For now.

O
nce more I awaken to the door opening. Marty's in a hurry…that means he's going to work, so it must be morning. Something's in his hand, but I can't see what. I hear a clatter of metal and see what he's got. I feel the coldness of the bedpan against my hip. It disgusts me, but I lift my hips off the metal gurney. He slides the bedpan in underneath me.

I empty my bladder slowly so it dribbles into the bedpan. “I'm finished.”

He dabs me with toilet paper and pulls the bedpan from underneath. He leaves the room but is back within a few seconds. He pulls my head up.

“Orange juice,” he says.

I take a few gulps but it goes down the wrong way and I cough.

“What's wrong?”

“It just went down the wrong way,” I say between splutters.

He feeds me toast with jam, but I've barely finished each mouthful before he's cramming the piece of toast into my mouth again.

“Too fast,” I say.

“I'm late. They're waiting on a fingerprint analysis of your apartment.” He smirks.

God, they all still think he's one of the good guys.

“Josh is particularly anxious for those results. I'm his one and only link to the Bureau now. Poor thing.”

“How is he?” I try not to show how much I care about Josh—that could set Marty off.

“He's pathetic. He's nothing without the FBI trimmings. A powerless, weak man. He sits in the living room with photos from the cases spread out around him. Somehow he managed to keep the files. He begs me to help him, to help clear his name.” He laughs. “But like I said, the best is yet to come.”

I turn my head away from the food. “I've had enough.”

He pushes the toast against my lips. “One more,” he says, as though I'm a child.

I take another bite.

He leaves the room and I heave a sigh of relief. He's gone.

But he returns.

He touches my stomach lightly. I stiffen.

His hand lazily runs across my body. There's no hint that he's in a hurry now. He runs his fingers over the bandaged cut. It still throbs. He moves to my groin and twirls my pubic hair. I don't make a sound.

He brings his face up to mine. I look into his eyes and
hide my revulsion. His breath is on my face and he kisses me. I don't fight, but I don't respond fully either. I don't know how to play it. Can I stop him again from raping me? Maybe it's better to get it over with.

He pulls his lips and hand away.

“Shit, I'm late.” And then he's gone.

I wait five minutes and then let myself cry. I cry and scream, even though I know no one can hear me. God knows what he's done with Montana and Sargent.

I've got to get out of here. If I can just get off this gurney.

Okay. Think, Sophie. Think. I shiver with the cold. The room is cold and the metal gurney feels like ice against my back. I wiggle my toes and hands. I need my strength and I don't want my foot or leg to go to sleep.

I think about what I know about him. What I can use. I form a list in my head.

He's meticulous, a health and neat freak.

He's smart.

He's been jealous of Josh for years and feels he's in competition with him.

He thinks he's in love with me.

He thinks I can love him.

He wants to make it special with me.

He's clearly delusional.

He's strong.

I lie on the table and go through these points in my head over and over. I need to push his buttons and escape. What if I went to the toilet, right on the gurney? That would be too messy for him. Surely he'd have to move me. But that could make him angry too. It might make him hurt me or tie my ropes tighter. Or it might
mean I never get my arm free again. No, there's another way, and I have to figure it out by tonight.

I know his routine. He'll make us dinner again and untie my arm. How can I get him to untie both my arms? I need them both, and preferably a leg too. My legs are stronger than my arms. I wonder if I'm going to have to let him rape me to get my leg free. Could I cope with rape if I knew it might save my life?

 

I'm not sure how much time has passed when the door opens. I give both my hands and feet another wiggle to make sure they're not asleep. My heart beats faster. It's time.

Marty runs his hands along the soles of my feet and up my legs as he walks toward my head. He checks my ropes carefully.

“How was your day?” I ask, hoping to distract him from my bindings.

“Busy. Very busy.” He runs his hand around my breast.

I've got nowhere to go. I can't even shrink any farther into the gurney.

“How is the task force taking my disappearance?”

He smiles. “Rivers is pissed. Josh is the prime suspect. Everything's pretty much perfect.” He runs his hand through my hair. “I can't wait to see Josh's face when he's accused of murder. Of killing so many women.” He pauses. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” My voice is soft. I just want him to stop touching me.

He leaves the room.

I pull on the ropes—maybe they loosened a little when he was checking them. No, they're still tight. I
wiggle my fingers, toes and move my arms and legs as much as I can. I have to be ready. The pit of my stomach feels strange—the adrenaline is kicking in and I'm thankful for the extra energy. I go through my plan, making sure I've thought of everything.

He comes back and I can smell the food. The smell both sickens me and hungers me.

“Tonight's the night,” he says.

I pause. It better go my way, not his. “Yes, it is.”

He unties one of my arms and I reach up toward his face and run my hand along his jaw. He kisses my hand. Then he moves back to the bench and starts dishing out dinner.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Prawn in black-bean sauce, darling.” He comes back with a bowl and fork. “Open up.”

I open my lips and take a mouthful.

“I forgot the wine,” he says. He opens a bottle and pours two glasses. He lifts my head and I prop myself up with my free arm. I take a tiny sip.

“It's good. Have you tried it?” I want him to drink as much as possible. If I can get him a little bit tipsy, his reflexes down, it may just push the scales in my favor. I think about Susan Young. Her toxicology came back with 0.01 blood alcohol—he shared wine with her too. I shudder.

I take another mouthful of prawn and force it down. Under normal circumstances I would say it was great Chinese food. But not now.

He gives me more wine. I take the tiniest sip possible. “Have some yourself too,” I say.

He gulps the wine.

Soon. It will be time soon.

The fork moves toward me and I open up.

“Mmm,” I say, but I fight the urge to be sick.

“It's perfect, isn't it,” he says.

He feeds himself.

The next mouthful. This is it. I close my eyes.

The fork pushes on my lips. I take the prawn and chew. Then I swallow. I cough, one short, silenced cough. Then I pant, as though no air can get to my lungs. I thrash about a bit and bring my free hand up to my throat.

“Sophie!” He hits my diaphragm hard. “Sophie!”

The punch winds me slightly but I pretend I still can't breathe. He comes behind me and tries the Heimlich maneuver. But he doesn't have the angle with me lying down.

“Shit!” he screams.

He unties my other arm and sits me forward on the table. Again, he tries the maneuver and this time my bottom left rib cracks. The sound resonates throughout my body. I cry out in pain, but silence it quickly. I wouldn't be able to make that sound if I were really choking. I pull on his arms, like a desperate plea, then collapse back onto the gurney. I hear him move around to the foot of the trolley.

Yes, yes, please. If he doesn't untie my legs I'll try to overcome him, but I don't like my chances. He unties one leg, then the next, and then he gathers me up in a bear hug from behind and tries the maneuver again, this time tipping me off the gurney and into a vertical position first. The pain on my rib is excruciating and I can't stop myself from crying out this time. I spit a piece of food
that I'd kept under my tongue across the room and I hear him breathe a sigh of relief. Bastard. He's planning to kill me yet he's desperate to keep me alive. He wants control of the situation. Control over my death.

This is my chance. I grab the bottle of wine just as he grabs my hair. I turn against his pull, even though it feels as though I'm being scalped alive, and bring the bottle down hard over his head. Red wine runs down his face and into his eyes. He's stunned but not unconscious. He loosens his grip on my hair.

Now I have to get away.

Before he can get his bearings back, I kick him in the groin, hard. He doubles over in pain and releases my hair fully. Then I run. Out the door, to the right and down the corridor. With each step glass cuts into my feet, but I keep running, barely able to feel the pain. Once I'm a few steps away, it's pitch-black. I keep running.

I have no idea where in the hospital I am. The corridors and doors seem to go on forever and I run blindly, turning at each junction, always hoping I'm not running into a dead end. My legs are weak and uncoordinated. I'll never be able to outrun him. But I have to try.

I come to a corner window and glance down. It looks like I'm on the third floor. I consider leaping out the window, but there's no one around and I'd be badly injured in the fall. Too injured to escape by myself. I keep running.

There are footsteps behind me and I scream. I have to get away. If Marty catches me now he'll kill me for sure. I'm no longer his placid girlfriend, the object of Josh's desire.

I see stairs and hurtle my naked body up them. My eyes have adjusted somewhat and I can make out vague shapes.

Run, run, you've got to run. I come to a door and open it. I'm up a level. I launch myself out the door. The footsteps are close behind me. Which way?

I move to the left and stumble over something metal and hard. I'm sprawled over the floor and I look back—it was a fire extinguisher.

The handle moves on the door to the stairwell. I scramble along the floor, crawling first and then breaking into an upright run. I need to get around the corner so he doesn't know which way I've gone.

But it's too late, I can hear footsteps behind me again. I take a few steps forward then double back, walking on tiptoe into the nearest room. My feet are bleeding and I don't want an obvious trail.

The room looks like an old ward. A dilapidated wardrobe stands in one corner, one door fallen off. I stagger toward it and climb in. This could be dangerous. If he comes in I'm trapped, but at the moment he's on my tail and I need to get him off it. It's a gamble I have to take.

Underneath the ward door I see light. Marty must have a flashlight. Another advantage he has over me. I didn't cover my bloody trail very well. I didn't know he had a light. My heart beats faster. I think of all the photos of the victims. I bite my lip. I don't want to end up like them. The light passes. He's not coming in. I wait a couple minutes, but I don't want to wait too long, because no doubt he'll double back and check the blood trail. I slip out the side of the wardrobe and creep toward the ward door. I open the door. It creaks ever so slightly and I hope he hasn't heard it. No light. Good.

I run quietly back toward the staircase, careful not to
trip over the fire extinguisher this time. I travel quickly down the stairs—I need to get out of the building. I run down another level. Am I at the ground yet?

I come down the last flight of stairs and hurtle my way out of the stairway. I'm nearly out. But instead of a free path, I slam into somebody. I start crying. How could he have gotten down here? I turn to run in the other direction, but he grabs me from behind with his hand over my mouth. I try to break free.

“Sophie, it's me. You're safe,” a voice says.

I can hardly focus through the tears in my eyes.

“Josh?” I say. “Josh,” I say again as my eyes focus on him. I hug him desperately. “It's Marty, Josh. It's Marty.” My voice is quite loud.

“Shh. I know.” Josh takes off the parka he is wearing and puts it over my shoulders. That's right, I'm naked. I slip my arms into the sleeves and do up the zipper.

“Carter figured it out.”

“Darren?” I follow Josh's lead and whisper.

“He's here too. Looking for you.”

Last time I saw Darren and Josh together, they weren't exactly cooperating. “Darren realized the killer wasn't you?”

“Not exactly. He saw the map was missing from your place, so he knew the map held the key. But he still thought I was guilty. He came over to confront me and picked up a map of D.C. on the way. I insisted we work on the map together. Eventually we saw the head positioning. We were on our way over here when Carter recognized Marty in the photos in the living room. But Carter knows him as Matthew Lande.”

“Marty's real name,” I say.

“Yes. I went to school with him, but I don't even remember the guy.”

“Well, he remembers you. He's obsessed with you.”

“Fuck. I still can't believe all this was him.”

“I know. It's been you for years. He's been setting you up.”

Josh shakes his head. “He did a good job.”

I gulp. I'd believed it. I change the topic. “Montana and Sargent. I don't know where they are…if they're okay.”

“We'll worry about that later.”

“Are any of the others here?”

“Not yet. It's just me and Carter. But we've called it in. Backup's on its way.”

Our conversation is silenced by the sound of a shot.

We both look at each other. Shit. Who's been shot— Marty or Darren?

“I need a gun,” I say.

Josh reaches into his ankle holster and gives me a small, nonregulation thirty-eight.