Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (32 page)

“Please,” a woman cried out.

Schwartzman froze, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Pushed the cabinet door closed. The hinges shrieked. Schwartzman jumped, held her breath, listening.

“Please!” The voice carried through the hall. The terror resonated like shock waves through Schwartzman’s body.

It could be a trap. But Spencer was gone. She’d seen him leave.

“Please don’t hurt me,” the voice cried out, followed by sobs.

The sobs might have come from her own chest. Schwartzman drew slow, even breaths to calm her racing heart. Fought off the urge to sprint through the house and out the door. She imagined Sarah Feld. Schwartzman wanted to call out to her, held her silence. She cracked the office door, stepped into the hallway. Listened through the thumping of her pulse. Moved cautiously. She kept her back to the wall, listened with every step. Crying.

It came from the bedroom. Someone was here. She palmed the phone in her pocket and drew it out as she stepped into the hallway. She called 9-1-1. The screen didn’t respond to her gloved finger. She yanked the glove off her right hand, shoved it into her jacket pocket.

The woman cried out again.

She could see into the bedroom at the end of the hall. The two doors along the hall were open—the first was the bathroom, the second the master closet. Both rooms were dark. Even without light, she could see the pillows on the made-up bed, the matching lamps on the bedside tables, a small stack of books on Spencer’s side closest to the door.

Her back pressed to the hallway wall, she dialed 9-1-1 again. Nothing happened. A green circle appeared on the screen.
Call failed.

“Help me,” the voice cried out. The terror in the plea pulled Schwartzman forward.

Back against the wall, she crept down the hallway. Her breath felt shallow and painful in her lungs. The wall texture scratched her elbow through the thin jacket as she dug her toes into the carpet to propel herself forward.

“Please,” the voice whispered again.

Schwartzman peered into the dark master closet but saw no one.

The voice was close. It had to be coming from the closet. Schwartzman dialed the emergency number again, gripped the phone, and watched the screen.

Again the call failed.

She froze just feet from the entrance to the closet.
Be smart.
Spencer kept a phone on his bedside table. She passed into the bedroom in the dark, moving heel to toe. Alert, upright, ready.

Still no sign of Spencer.

She put her cell phone in her pocket, lifted the house phone from its cradle. Held her breath as pushed the “Talk” button. Exhaled at the hum of the dial tone. She dialed 9-1-1. Put it to her ear. The phone went dead.

Fear gripped her neck and shoulders with cold, crushing fingers.

“Help me,” the voice said.

She took two steps forward. Standing outside the closet, she reached in with her left hand, palmed the wall for the light switch, and flipped it on. The room was bathed in bright light. She blinked at the yellow spots in her vision, fought to banish them. Dark clothes lined two sides of the closet. On the third wall, she saw her own clothes. Bright yellows and soft pastels, still hanging where she had left them.

At the back of the closet was a new opening leading into another room. It hadn’t been here before. A clean doorjamb, a sliding pocket door into the wall. The door height shorter than a normal door. Maybe five feet high.

She couldn’t see into the darkened room. “Who’s there?”

The crying started again.

“Who is in there?” she repeated, louder.

No answer.

She was cold to her bones.
Get out.
She turned to leave. A light cut through the darkness. A lone spotlight shone from high on the opposite wall. Below the spotlight on the blank wall, Schwartzman saw her. A woman was huddled on a dark floor. Dark, wavy hair hung to her shoulders. The narrow hips and back reminded Schwartzman of Sarah Feld.
Oh, God.
She was right. Another one.

“Let me help you,” Schwartzman whispered, moving toward her.

“No,” the woman cried, sobbing.

“Come on,” Schwartzman said as she reached the opening.

The woman’s head dropped down. She wore the cheetah hoodie. The one Schwartzman had bought in San Francisco, the one she’d been wearing in the garage.

He’d taken it—what—to put on his next victim? No. The hoodie had been taken into evidence along with her other clothes. How did Spencer get it?

She blinked into the darkened room. The floor was covered in a dark tile, the walls almost black, and something about the lighting made the woman appear partially obscured, as if she were separated from Schwartzman by a cloud.

A mechanical hissing filled the room. Schwartzman reeled backward, the phone trembling in her grip. The room was booby-trapped. The woman turned toward her. Even with her hair obscuring her face, Schwartzman knew her. She let out a cry. Her knees buckled.

The woman was her.

43

Greenville, South Carolina

It was a projection.

Images of her lying on the floor of Ava’s garage. Behind her head, she could see the splintered pieces of the porcelain lamp. The video overlaid with her voice.

He had filmed her in Ava’s garage.

“Please,” her own voice cried out, the sound echoing in the small room.

The fear choked her. Unable to breathe, she pedaled away. Her head struck a shelf, and she cried out as she dropped to her knees. She dropped the phone to cup the throbbing in the back of her head.
Get up. Get away.
The picture changed. A video of their wedding day appeared. Her mother walking her down the aisle. Her mother’s proud smile, her own more tentative, excited and nervous. So naive, so young. So close she could reach out and touch herself.

She grabbed the phone off the carpet. The image switched to her unborn baby. The ultrasound image of the head and rounded spine, the little fists tight balls. Ready to fight but too young. The sound of the tiny heartbeat thundered against the walls. Schwartzman pressed her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes against the sound, then opened them again, unable to look away from the tiny fluttery heart. Her baby. Her daughter. She reached out to touch the image. It vanished in her hand.

Just then the dark room lit up. The large wall became a thousand tiny rectangular screens, each the size of a subway tile. Solid light. Blinding. Lines raced across the screens. A series of flashes followed, and the wall became Spencer’s face.

She gasped. His head was immense. Twenty times its normal size. More. She could see the small mole on his left cheek, the tiny scar above his right eye where he fell off his bike as a child.

“So lovely to see you, Bella,” Spencer thundered.

Below him the film of her unborn child played on.

She spun away. Sprinted for the dark hallway, tripped, and caught herself. Her pulse bored through her eardrums. Blinded by the bright images, she palmed the wall, found the edge of the door. Her vision was filled with Spencer’s giant face. The room went dark, the screen black again. She tore out of the closet and into the hall, slamming into Spencer, who stood like a concrete wall. He didn’t even flinch.

She cried out.

His expression split into a grimace as he laughed.

She slammed backward, striking the wall. A picture dropped to the floor. Glass shattered. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand and felt the wetness of her tears. Why hadn’t she kept Ava’s gun? She would pull the trigger. She would.

“You like my new project?” he said, closing the bedroom door behind him. He crept toward her until his features were visible in the dim light. His eyes were darker and wider than she remembered. Empty and flat. How had she ever imaged they were warm?

“Stay away from me,” she warned, her hands up as though she could fight him.

“But surely you’ll tell me what you think? I spent months on that room.”

Oh, God.
He’d planned this for months. The murders, to bring her to this. What was this?

His teeth flashed in his mouth as he clenched his jaw. “You don’t remember.”

She froze, said nothing.

“You have no idea why I made this room,” he said, the words little bullets firing from his lips.

She sucked in a breath. Was this where it ended? Had she been naive to think he wanted her alive?

“It’s the old pantry and half bath,” he said, his voice calm again, deliberate though she could tell he was fighting anger.

She scanned the closet for something she could use as a weapon.

“Do you remember?” he pressed.

Shoes, hangers, clothes. His wallet on the bureau. Nothing.

Spencer’s lips split into a wide, ugly sneer. “Well, you’ll know soon enough. Now that you’re home again, Bella.” He lifted his hand. She saw something small and black. A gun.

She raised her hands to cover her face, stepped backward as Spencer pointed it to the closet. The room was bathed in light.

Her heart raced. Hot nausea rose between her lungs, welled in her throat.

He held a remote control. “Come see.” He moved past her.

As soon as he was past, she ran. Down the short hallway. Grabbed hold of the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. She shook it. Pounded on the door. She was trapped.

“Come now, Bella.” His voice directly behind her.

She spun around, pressed herself into the corner between the wall and the door. “Let me out of here.”

“But you haven’t had the tour,” he said.

“Stay away from me.”

He grabbed hold of her arm, spun her to face him. “Do. Not,” he spat, raising his palm to strike her. “Ever. Tell me,” he continued, drawing out each word. “To stay away from
my
wife.” His palm slowly morphed into a fist as he lowered it again. “You are my wife, Bella,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I made you an anniversary present. Our twelfth anniversary . . . you do remember the importance of our twelfth year, don’t you?”

Pressed to the door, she couldn’t think what he was talking about. She had to get out. Stole a glance over his shoulder. He jabbed his hand out. Like he was thrusting a knife. A rapid clicking sound and the angry buzzing of electricity. Searing heat punctured her middle. She cried out. Fire spread across her limbs. Every muscle contracted. Then it ended, and her legs collapsed. She dropped to the ground. She pushed herself off the floor, arms shaking.

Spencer stood above her, the stun gun aimed at her. “It does hurt, doesn’t it? I rather like it,” he said. “This, the cell phone jammer, I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?” Grinning, he pressed the button again. She started at the buzzing sound of the weapon. “You’re full of surprises, too, Bella.” He shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Not good ones, though. You’ve forgotten quite a lot in your time away.”

There had to be another way out. The sliding glass door in the bedroom. A window.

“Now, come see the room I made for you,” Spencer said firmly. His jaw tightened, and she saw the shift of the stun gun.

Get up. Do what he says. Stall.
She eased herself onto her knees, tears in her eyes.

He reached a hand out, but she stood on her own. Took a step. He shoved her hard. She saw the sliding door on the far side of the bedroom. It would take too long to open.

He pressed her into the closet. The room beyond it was tiny. Painted dark gray. A twin bed along one wall. Small bookcase, black. Gray rug. No color at all.

“You look so surprised.” His lips curled into a smile. “I wanted you to feel at home. I know you’re not a fan of color anymore, Bella.”

She hesitated, bending her knees to run.

Spencer grabbed her by the arm, threw her toward the space.

She caught herself, ducked under his arm. He was faster. Shoved her into the wall and slapped her hard across the face. She dropped to her knees. Gasped. Tasted blood in her mouth. An angry pulsing in her lip.

“I warned you, Bella. I’ve had enough.”

She remained on the floor. “What do you want?” she screamed at him.

He cocked his head sideways, his eyes narrowed. Insane. “What every good husband wants . . . to make my wife happy.”

“You killed Ava to make me happy?” she spat at him.

“You made—” He caught himself and closed his mouth, shook his head.

He did it. Of course he did it. She wanted to hear it. “Say it, Spencer. Say you killed her.”

Spencer held the stun gun high in his right hand. Moved toward her.

She scrambled backward, but he caught her leg, held her. His grip too tight. The stun gun. He clamped a knee on either side of her waist until she was forced onto her back.

Pulse throbbing in her neck. Every cell screaming no. She tried to twist free.

He pinned her hips, leaned down across her.

She shoved his chest. “Get off me!”

The stun gun touching her cheek, she froze. Waited for the clicking sound that didn’t come.

He patted down her jacket. Removed her cell phone from her pocket.

“Let me guess. One zero two zero.” He typed in her passcode, grinning.

He knew her passcode. Ava’s birthday. Of course he did.

He held the “Power” button, shut the phone down. “No recording in here, darling.” He tossed the phone over his shoulder. It bounced across the closet carpeting. She lost sight of it.

“Now, let’s take your jacket off,” he said, pushing the jacket down off her shoulder.

Panic lodged in her chest, her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

The stun gun made a buzzing sound. She flinched.

“Hush,” he responded. Calm. The stun gun so close to her face.

He grabbed hold of the jacket’s sleeve, yanked it down off her hand. Shoved her to one side, pinning her hips, and jerked the other sleeve free. Patted the jacket until he was satisfied it held no wire. Tossed it, too. She gasped at the feeling of his hand on her shoulder. Clenched every muscle against his touch. His palm moved down her arms. Across her legs and hips, up to her crotch; he let his hand rest there.

“I don’t feel a wire,” he said. “That’s good.”

She squeezed her eyes closed. He palmed her breasts, cupped them and squeezed hard. She gritted her teeth against the pain. He could not hold her. They would find her. Harper or Hal. Someone would come here. Wouldn’t they? She would die first. He could not keep her alive here.

He rolled her over, clutched her backside. His weight lifted, and she drove onto her hands and knees, scrambled away from him.

“You’re clean. I’m so relieved,” he said with an exaggerated exhalation. “I want to trust you, Bella. We have to have trust in our marriage.”

“You want trust? Then, tell me,” she said, her breath heavy with fear. “Tell me you killed Frances Pinckney. That you killed—” Her voice broke.

She couldn’t say Ava’s name.

Then he was on top of her, his hot mouth at her ear. “Yes, Bella. I killed her. Because of you, Bella,” he whispered. “Because you wouldn’t come home to me. But I knew how to get you here, didn’t I?” And then he shifted away, his voice returned to normal volume. “Come see your anniversary present, Bella. This is the year we make our son. Just like my parents did. A beautiful, healthy boy.”

How could he say those words, not twenty feet from where he’d killed her baby girl?

The hideous smile grew until it consumed his face.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t you want to experience it fully?”

When she hesitated, he reached down and grabbed her arm. Yanked her upright.

She twisted her hand from his grip. “I’ll never have your baby,” she seethed. “We will never be together.”

He laughed. “I like this new you, Bella. This strength suits you.” He moved forward again, the stun gun coming toward her.

She stumbled back, struck the bureau. Reached to catch herself. Her fingers brushed something hard, metal. She eased her hand toward it, felt the thin metal. One of Spencer’s pens. She wrapped her fingers around it, pulling it into her fist. The pen hidden at her side, she shifted away from the bureau as he closed in again. She took another step backward, desperate to be angry and not afraid. To feel fury. It had been there.

“Your father would be proud.”

The words were as sharp as a scalpel. She moved away, stumbling.

Suddenly she was in the tiny room. Her prison. Darkness surrounding her, the baby’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Spencer blocked the doorway, huge and too close.

The baby’s ultrasound filled the screen again.
Thu-thump, thu-thump . . .

As she fought to look away, Spencer’s face filled the screen. Her baby’s heartbeat echoing off the walls.

Images flashed around her.

The wedding, herself huddled on the ground in Ava’s garage, her baby . . .

And then Spencer was beside her. Gucci cologne filled her nose. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her scent as if she was prey. His tongue on her cheek, his mouth on hers.

The walls closed in. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers tightened on the pen.

He lifted the stun gun to her cheek. “I won’t let you leave again, Bella,” he said through gritted teeth.

She raised her left arm against the stun gun and swung her right, using all her power to drive the point of the pen into his arm. Spencer cried out, dropped to his knees. The stun gun slipped from his hand as he reached for the pen that stuck straight out from his shoulder. He jerked it free.

“You bitch!” He launched toward her, his eyes bright as a caged lion’s.

She stumbled toward the hallway. He yanked her down.

“You fucking bitch,” he shouted. His hand clawed at her arm, his fingers tightening on her neck. “You’re not going anywhere, Bella.” He bashed her against the wall. She struck her temple, saw black.

She screamed and kicked. Swung her elbow at his head, missed. Felt his grip loosen. She stretched her fingers toward the stun gun.

His fist struck down on her back, and she collapsed into the ground. The carpet stung her face as she gasped for breath. Rage built inside her, and she rose, swinging her fist backward. She connected with his groin. He doubled over, and she launched her foot into his chin. Kicked her other foot into his chest.

He groaned.

She bucked herself across the carpet until her fingers gripped the stun gun. Rolled onto her back and moved away. He was huddled, cupping his bleeding arm. Blood pooled beneath him. His eyes were hooded, narrow. His teeth bared like an animal’s.

She stood, aimed the stun gun. Lunged at him and pressed the button. Electricity crackled. Spencer didn’t react.

She’d missed.

He rose slowly, pushing his back up the wall. His face shone with perspiration. A line of spittle marked his chin. He stepped forward. Closer. The stench of his sweat in her nose.

She buzzed the stun gun again.

He took another step. He was only a couple of feet away. She willed him to stop.

He smiled. And kept on coming. He wouldn’t give up.

She launched herself at him and connected the stun gun to the wound on his shoulder. Pressed the trigger and held it.

Spencer let out a piercing scream and collapsed.

Schwartzman sprinted through the bedroom to the sliding glass door. Unlocked it and yanked on the door. It didn’t open.