Carved in Darkness (2 page)

Please … please let me die this time. Let me go. Please—

His hand fell on her head, gripped her hair and flung her to the floor. He crouched beside her, his warm breath excited and hurried against her face and neck. Grabbing her arms, he looped his belt around her wrists, yanked them above her head. Bent them back until they felt like they’d snap in two. Her eyes rolled in her sockets. The red burn of light behind her lids went black.

Hands fell on her thighs and yanked them wide. A fierce burn, accompanied by the horrible pressure of him inside her as he rammed his hips against her—faster and faster—his grunts and moans a dull roar inside her head.

“Mine. Mine. Mine ...” He muttered it over and over, each thrust accompanied by the only word she’d ever heard him say. She knew him, but every time she tried to focus on the voice behind the guttural tone, she got lost. Let herself drift away from what was happening to her until the pain and horror faded away into nothing more than shadow.

The tip of his knife sank in, dragged along her breast, skirted around the rapid, uneven rhythm of her heart, but she hardly felt it. His tongue came next, flat and wet against her breast, lapping at the blood his knife had drawn. The feel of it turned her stomach—she was almost glad when he pushed the blade in farther, and she prayed this time he’d force it deep enough to kill her. It bumped along her rib cage, its journey made jagged and broken by each brutal thrust of his hips. The blade skated along her belly. His muttering became frenzied, almost enraged. The pounding between her thighs came even faster, even more violent.

Over. It was almost over—

The blade at her belly sank in deep, a vertical breach that stole her breath and answered her prayers.

The lift and drag of the knife being yanked from her torso set her on fire, followed by another thrust of both hips and knife. “
Mine
.” This time he sank the blade in at a diagonal angle.

Lift. Drag. Thrust. “
Mine.”
Diagonal.

Lift. Drag. Thrust.
“Mine.”
Vertical.

It was the letter M.

Something inside her broke free and floated away. The legs she’d tried so desperately to close, even with him between them, went lax. A sudden warmth stole over her, and she smiled.

She was dying. She was finally free.

He felt for a pulse. Nothing.

He watched her gore-splattered chest for the rise and fall of breathing. It was still.

He bathed her and put her in the trunk before driving toward the place he’d picked out a few weeks before. It was far from where he’d kept her, even farther from where he’d taken her. A small building appeared to the left of the road, and he turned. It was a Catholic church, Saint Rose of Lima. The structure was squat and brown, hunkered in the dirt it sat in, as if afraid of the wide night sky and endless desert that surrounded it.

Saint Rose served a transient congregation. Mostly migrant workers who labored in the cotton and melon fields that dotted the landscape. He drove around the back of the structure and killed the engine. He watched the building for a few minutes to ensure it was empty.

The first time he’d ever seen her was in a church—one much different from Saint Rose. It’d been a Baptist church. Tall and proud, surrounded by trees. He’d seen her sitting in the front pew with her grandmother—her stunning face so serious, her Sunday dress clean but faded and nearly too small for her growing frame—and knew she was meant to be his. She belonged to him. Looking at her, one word pounded through his brain, over and over:

Mine.

She’d been young, too young to be alarmed when she caught him staring at her. She’d looked at him from across the aisle with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—and smiled. Just remembering it took his breath away.

He popped the trunk and got out of the car. This time he cradled her in his arms like he was crossing the threshold with his bride. Hunkered down, he freed one of his gloved hands from his bundle and unlatched the gate to step into the tiny prayer garden behind the church.

It was nothing more than a few trees and some rosebushes planted next to a marble bench, but he imagined it was paradise as he stretched his Melissa out over the bench. Kneeling beside her, he pulled a pair of cuticle scissors from his front pocket and used them to snip the sutures from her lids. As careful as he was, each pass of the scissors tore the delicate flesh. Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes and he swept it away, smearing it across her temple with his gloved thumb. After the stitches were removed, he peeled her lids open, eager to see her beautiful blue eyes. Anticipation soured in his belly as soon as his eyes locked onto hers.

They were empty.

The blanket fell open, gave him a glimpse of naked flesh. Distracted, he moved it aside completely to give himself some more. He cupped her breast, still warm from the blanket, and fondled it—felt himself go hard at the sight and feel of her. His eyes travel downward until they found her stomach and the collection of stab wounds he’d left there. His groin began to throb and his free hand fell to it, began to stroke it through the rough fabric of his jeans.

He considered having sex with her one last time, but the thought was fleeting, chased away by a flutter—weak and sporadic—beneath his hand. The hand on his crotch went still and he flattened the other against her chest and pressed down. Searching for the heartbeat he was sure he’d just felt, but there was nothing there. A minute passed, then two. He dropped his hand. She was gone.

He was unsure of how much time had passed, but when the lone howl of a coyote cut across the desert, he took it as a warning.

It was time to leave.

TWO

San Francisco,California
October 1, 2013

I
T WAS
O
CTOBER FIRST.

Sabrina rolled over and stared at the wall. She knew the date. Not because she’d checked her calendar or because the leaves on the trees outside her bedroom window were turning from green to gold.

No. It was because she hadn’t been able to take a deep breath for weeks now. The feeling that someone was watching her. The long hours stretched between the setting and the rising of the sun spent wandering her silent house, kept awake by the certainty that if she closed her eyes, she’d never be able to open them again. That was what told her what day it was.

Fifteen years ago, today, she’d been kidnapped. Held for eighty-three days. Raped. Tortured. Left for dead in a churchyard.

It was October first.

She looked at her alarm clock. It was five a.m. Rolling out of bed, she made her way to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face in a vain attempt to wash away another sleepless night. Afterward, she pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a plain black T-shirt over a tank of the same color. Socks and her trusty running shoes came next. They fit her like a second skin from the countless miles they’d pounded out together. Under her bed was a shoe box. In it was her Ruger LCP .380. She strapped it to her ankle and stood, the full leg of her pants concealing it perfectly.

Jogging down the set of exterior stairs from the attic’s third-floor landing, Sabrina took the cobblestone path she laid herself around the side of the house. The rambling Victorian, situated on an oversized lot, was a complete nightmare, defensively speaking. Too many trees and bushes offered an obstructed view from the street. Too many exterior doors and windows presented multiple points of entry. Its saving grace—the only reason she’d agreed to buy the place, was that it had a finished attic, set apart from the rest of the house, with its own entrance. As much as she loved her family, she needed her own space.

Her running partner waited on the sidewalk for her, as he did most mornings. He whined with excitement just beyond the pretty picket fence bordering her front yard. Seeing him, she pulled up short with a shake of her head.

“We can’t keep meeting like this, Noodlehead. One of these days we’re gonna get caught.” Opening the gate, she stepped onto the sidewalk. Noodles, the neighbor’s chocolate Lab, whined in response. He danced around in a tight circle at her feet before planting his rump on the cold concrete. He lifted a paw and cocked his head, tail going a mile a minute.

“Fine, you can come, but if we get caught, I’m blaming it all on you.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh and grabbed his paw. He pulled his paw from her grasp and shot down the sidewalk toward the park at the end of the street.

Sabrina’s feet absorbed the shift from hard pavement to soft earth as they hit the trail winding through the woods surrounding the park. Once swallowed by the trees, Noodles ran off into the brush, his occasional happy bark sounding back to her.

She opened herself up. Let her legs set a brutal pace, eating the trail with hungry strides. Forced her mind to pull free of the nightmares of just a few hours before. Her legs burned, but she didn’t slow. Instead, she used the pain to sandblast the dregs of last night from her thoughts.

Footsteps pounded behind her, the sound of them almost perfectly matched to her own. It made her uneasy, and she pushed herself harder. Ran a bit faster. The footsteps behind her faded for a moment then doubled, catching up with her. No more than fifteen feet now. Shifting across the trail, she hugged the tree line to give the person behind her room to pass. They didn’t pass but seemed intent on closing the gap between them.

Forcing out another burst of speed, she widened the gap momentarily, but the advantage was short-lived. The man, judging from the heavy sound of his footfalls, closed the space between them again.

Shooting through a gap in the trees, Sabrina ran for the open area of the park. Faking a cramp, she gripped her side before stumbling to a stop. Bent forward, her elbows braced on her knees, she took deep breaths. Her arms dangled loosely, waiting for the man behind her to make an appearance. He burst through the trees and continued on the trail without even a glance in her direction.

He ran past, not more than twenty feet away from her. Eyeing him, she took in his black track pants and white muscle shirt. Extensive ink decorated his shoulder and upper arm. The Celtic design was distinctive.

His hair was dark, cut shorter than she remembered, and his face was leaner, harder than it had been the last time she’d seen him. His name was Michael. They’d grown up in the same small Texas town, gone to school together, attended the same church. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and her palms were suddenly slick with sweat.

They’d never known each other well, but he’d often stared at her a little too long, gotten a little too quiet when she was around. He’d always made her uncomfortable; seeing him now scared the shit out of her.

Every instinct Sabrina had was screaming, telling her she was in danger, urging her to run. He didn’t appear by accident. This wasn’t a coincidence.

Michael knew exactly who she was, and he’d come here for her.

THREE

T
WO PEOPLE.
O
NLY TWO
people knew who she really was—that she survived those eighty-three days of rape and torture. Valerie, her roommate, never knew Michael. If Val had run into someone claiming to be from her past, she’d sure as hell say so.

That left her Grandma Lucy.

Factoring in the time difference, she hesitated, but Lucy had always been an early riser. Walking home from the park, Noodles ambling along beside her, Sabrina unclipped her cell and dialed.

“Hello?” Lucy sounded like she’d been up for hours.

“You want to explain to me why Michael O’Shea nearly ran me down while I was out for my morning run?” Her question was met with silence. “Lucy, what did you do?”

“Would it kill you to call me Grandma?” Lucy said in her usual no-nonsense way.

Yes.

“Please … please explain to me why you told Michael O’Shea where I am—
who
I am. Of all people, why him?”

“He was headed your way, and I asked him to look in on y’all,” Lucy said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” Lucy sighed. “But I’m your grandmother, no matter what you call me. I’m allowed to worry about you.”

“Call him. Tell him to leave. Tell him I don’t want him here.” Her demands were met with silence. “Lucy—”

“He’s only there for a few days, and then he’ll be gone. He just wants to help,” Lucy said.

“Why would he want to help you?”

“He’s my friend.”

“Your friend? Michael O’Shea doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s manipulative and self-serving—he uses people. If he’s claiming to be your friend, it’s because he wants something from you, Lucy. Don’t be stupid.”

Lucy was quiet for a few seconds. “You never did give him a chance,” she finally said, sounding wounded. Sabrina instantly felt horrible for speaking so harshly, but she continued on, intent on making Lucy understand that trusting Michael O’Shea with anything was a horrible mistake.

“He didn’t deserve one. After how he treated his parents, the hell he put them through … he spit in their faces every chance he got. Sophia and Sean adopted him when no one else wanted him, loved him in spite of all the pain he caused them, and he didn’t even have the decency to stick around after they died. He just dumped his sister off on the first relative he could find and took off,” she said. It was something she’d never been able to understand—the way he’d turned his back on his sister without a backward glance. It was that, more than anything, that told her what kind of person he really was.