Once Taken (22 page)

Struggling against the straitjacket, she managed to sit up. For a moment she was seized by dizziness and she nearly fainted. But she recovered and shook and wiggled her legs until the chains slipped down to her ankles. She tucked up her knees and pulled her feet free.

She was sitting on the edge of the cot, still bound by the straitjacket. Now it was time to deal with that problem. She’d been thinking about how to get out of it for as long as she’d been down here. She’d been unconscious when he’d put it on her, but he must to have done it in a hurry because he hadn’t pulled it very tight.

She remembered seeing an escape artist on television demonstrating how to get out of a straitjacket. In her mind, she carefully went over the steps he’d used.

I can do that,
she thought.
I will do it.

First she relaxed and exhaled, making her body as small as possible. The straitjacket felt looser. Then she swung her outer arm toward the opposite shoulder. From that position, it wasn’t hard to lift the arm up and pull the restraining strap over her head and to the front of her body. She raised the buckle on her sleeve to her face, then opened it with her teeth. Then she did the same with the other arm.

Now her hands were completely free. It was easy to unfasten the remaining buckles, stand up, and slip out of the straitjacket altogether.

But free as she was, the pain was greater than ever, and she dropped back down onto the cot. Muscles that hadn’t been used in days were now in agony, and parts of her body were numb from the lack of blood flow.

She shook herself all over, then mustered up all her willpower and forced herself to stand again. She knew that there was a basement door that led outside. There was also a stairway up into the house. The man who held her had come in and out both ways.

Groping with feet and hands, she found her way to the back door. She fumbled around until she found the doorknob. She turned the lock on the doorknob and twisted it. The door didn’t come open. She felt around above the doorknob and realized that she couldn’t open it without a key.

For a few long moments, Carla felt like giving up. To get out of the basement, she would have to go up through the house. She finally mustered up her courage to do that. She really had no other option.

Dark as the basement was, she had a fair idea of how to get to the stairs. She staggered around until she found the banister and the bottom step. Step by step, she moved upward as silently as she could. When she reached the door at the top, it wasn’t locked.

Carla pushed the door open and stepped out into the killer’s house. The cramped and dingy living area was silent. The killer must not be there.

Carla’s weakness almost caught up with her then. She hadn’t eaten for days and dizziness nearly overcame her. But she gathered her resolve and moved across the little living room to the front door.

When she opened the door, she looked outside into the dim light of day. She couldn’t tell whether it was early morning or evening. A white van was in the driveway—the same van the man had used to capture her. Beyond that, she saw another house just a short way down the road that ran by the house.

That’s where I have to go,
she told herself.

But just as she moved in that direction, the nightmarish little man appeared from the other side of the van. He must have been puttering around back there, and now he stepped out just in time to see her. He was holding a bundle of heavy chains in one hand when their eyes met. She opened her mouth and tried to scream, but nothing came out.

She turned back into the house and tried to slam the door to shut the man out, but he was too fast. He pushed his way inside.

Carla called on all her resources now. Despite her pain or dizziness, she seized on whatever she could find to throw at him. She overturned a small table in his path. He dodged the table and came relentlessly toward her.

She backed into the tiny kitchen and snatched up a heavy pan from a countertop. She swung it hard into the side of his head, and he dropped to his knees.

She looked at him and sized him up, and she realized with a shock that she was more stout than he was. He was practically puny.

Carla had never hurt anyone in her life, but now a primal instinct kicked in. She found her body flooded with rage, and she leapt atop her would-be killer. She tackled him to the ground, and was amazed to find herself stronger than he was. She landed on top of him and raised her fists and punched him in the face, again and again.

The killer tried to fight back, but he couldn’t overpower her. Instead, he whimpered like a little boy.

Finally, his face a bloody mess, he stopped moving.

Carla looked down, stunned. She also felt the room spin, and as she reeled herself, she realized how weak and dizzy she was.

She jumped off him, not wanting to touch him or be anywhere near him. She spit down on his face, stepped over him, and walked for the open door with a rush of relief.

Suddenly, Carla couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t understand what was happening, until she heard him behind her and she reached up and felt a length of chain wrapped around her throat. She struggled and kicked, but this time, he was too strong.

And in another few seconds, the world went completely dark.

*

Eugene dragged the woman by the neck back to the basement door. She was unconscious and heavy, and she fell down the steps. When he followed her down and looked closely, he realized that she was dead. He had broken her neck by dragging her that way.

“Oh, no,” he gasped.

Tears of grief and panic sprung to his eyes. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He’d expected to keep her alive another week at least.

He opened the back door, switched on the basement light, and pushed the body down the stairs. He saw where the chains that had bound the woman lay all around the cot. They were angry with him. He knew it. He had let them down.

He thought maybe he could mollify them with a familiar gesture—by doing what he’d done to kill the other women. So he picked up his straight-edged razor and slit her lifeless throat. But it was no good. He couldn’t pretend that he’d done what the chains demanded.

Now he would have to take her back to where he’d captured her, displaying her for the world to see. After that he needed to find a new victim, and quickly. The chains would make his life hell until he did.

Checking into the motel had been rather tense.

“Do you want separate rooms?”
the woman at the desk had asked.

Bill had actually turned to Riley, as if waiting for her response. She hadn’t reacted at all, so he’d told the woman,
“Yes.”

It was morning now, and they were on the road. Riley was wondering what would have happened if she’d nodded her approval at that critical moment. What might last night have been like?

This morning they weren’t discussing that question or much of anything else. They’d barely even said a word to each other over breakfast back at the motel. They’d scarcely talked at all on the drive to the Hoxeyville Psychiatric Center where Eugene Fisk had spent a large part of his life.

Riley had called the hospital earlier this morning. She’d been surprised that Eugene’s supervising physician seemed perfectly happy to meet with them. Physicians normally balked at this kind of interview because of physician-patient privilege. For some reason, Dr. Joseph Lombard didn’t seem concerned about that, and she was eager to find out why.

Steady,
she thought as the hospital building came into view.
This is no time to think about last night.

After all, Bill was desperately trying to patch things up with Maggie, and Riley had a swarm of personal issues to deal with. They also had work to do, and their formerly solid rapport was shaky already.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering about that drunken suggestion she’d made to Bill over the phone, the one that had all but ruined their friendship. Had he really been offended by it, or had he been scared instead? Scared that something was almost sure to happen between them sooner or later? Was the possibility still in the air?

She glanced sideways at Bill. He looked every bit the well-disciplined FBI agent that he was, with his dark hair carefully combed. In fact, he’d made a greater effort than usual to look professional. He didn’t always wear a suit and a tie. At the moment, he seemed to be completely focused on his driving, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he was asking himself questions similar to hers. His strong face gave her no clue.

Riley put all such thoughts aside as Bill parked in the visitors’ lot. They walked into the hospital, checked in, and were escorted directly to Dr. Lombard’s office.

The doctor, a tall man of about sixty, rose from his desk to meet them.

“Agents Paige and Jeffreys, I presume,” he said. “Please sit down.”

Bill and Riley sat down in the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk. For a moment the doctor stood looking at them with an anxious expression.

“You said that you want to talk to me about Eugene Fisk,” he said. “He was in our care about ten years back.”

The doctor sat down and continued. “When you called you mentioned that you were in Pennsylvania searching for information about a murderer over in New York. You mentioned chains, straitjackets, slit throats. And you said that there’s another captive? Horrible.”

He paused for a moment.

“Am I correct in understanding that Mr. Fisk is a suspect?” he asked.

“He’s our only suspect,” Bill said.

Dr. Lombard didn’t reply, but his expression was one of deep concern.

Riley said, “Dr. Lombard, as I stressed to you, information is urgent. We appreciate your willingness to talk to us about Mr. Fisk without a warrant.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s unusual,” Lombard replied. “But Pennsylvania law is quite specific about the matter. I’m only forbidden to exchange medical information that ‘blackens’ my patient’s character.”

Dr. Lombard gazed significantly at Riley, then at Bill.

“I’ll make sure not to cross that line,” he said.

Riley understood. The doctor was eager to cooperate. But this was not going to be a typical interview. What went unsaid was likely to be as important as what was said. Riley knew that she had to be alert to unspoken clues.

The doctor opened a file.

“I’ve got his records right here,” he said, glancing over its contents. “He was admitted here sixteen years ago. He was eleven years old. He was an orphan, and he’d been living in a group foster home that had just burned down. He was … deeply traumatized afterwards.”

The doctor stopped. Riley detected that he was leaving a great deal unsaid.

She said, “We understand that he stayed under your care until he was eighteen.”

“That’s right,” Lombard said. “When he first came here, he was barely communicative at all. He stayed huddled up and ignored anyone who tried to talk to him. But little by little, he improved. He came out of his shell.”

The doctor knitted his brow, remembering.

“He had a terrible speech problem,” he said. “Never got rid of it, even after he started getting better. I’m sure that he’d had it from early childhood. He could talk to
me
just a little. But often he’d write down what he wanted to say instead of trying to speak.”

Lombard leaned back in his chair.

“He made slow but excellent progress,” he said. “Or so I’d thought. He learned a lot while he was here. He learned to garden, how to use a computer, took some classes. He was extremely good-natured, generous, kind. He was never the least bit aggressive. Everybody liked him—other patients, the personnel. I liked him.”

He pulled a photograph from the file and passed it over to them. The teenager had a warm smile, but Riley thought his eyes looked rather blank.

The doctor continued, but a tone of regret was starting to creep into his voice.

 “He seemed more than ready to go out into the world. We released him. We tried to keep track of his whereabouts and activities. But soon he disappeared completely. I worried about that. It was nine years ago.”

The doctor’s voice trailed off. Riley knew that she was going to have to coax more information out of him.

She said, “Dr. Lombard, we’re going to ask you a few questions. If you can legally answer them, please do so. If you can’t, you don’t have to say anything. Does that sound okay with you?”

“That sounds fine,” the doctor said.

Riley glanced at Bill. He nodded. Riley could see that he understood this tactic and was ready to join in.

“Dr. Lombard,” Riley said, “when Eugene’s foster home burned down, was arson ever suspected?”

The doctor stared ahead fixedly and said nothing.

Bill put in, “Did anybody die in the incident?”

Again, the doctor said nothing.

Riley asked, “Was somebody murdered?”

The doctor looked at her without saying a word.

Finally he said, “I think that’s all I can tell you.”

Bill said, “Maybe you could help with one more thing. Has the foster home been rebuilt? Is it operating now?”

“It is,” Lombard said. “I’ll give you the address.”

Lombard wrote down the address and handed it to Bill.

Riley looked again at the photograph of Eugene Fisk. “Could you give us a copy of this?” she asked.

“You can keep that one. I’ll print another for the file.”

Bill and Riley both thanked him for his help and left his office.

“That was informative,” Bill said as they headed for the car. “Let’s head right over to that foster home.”

Riley said, “While you drive, I’ll call Sam Flores back in Quantico. I’ll get him to look for news stories about what happened at the orphanage.”

*

The St. Genesius Children’s Home was located in Bowerbank, Pennsylvania, about a half hour from Hoxeyville. While Bill was driving, Riley received a newspaper article from Sam Flores. What she read chilled her to the bone.

Sixteen years ago, the group foster home was burned to the ground. Arson was suspected. The body of a twelve-year-old boy, Ethan Holbrook, had been found in the ruins. The article didn’t specify the cause of death.