Rage Factor (41 page)

Brenda was strong.

The death of Gary Ingles had been an omen. God had
reached out and touched Ingles’ heart, stopping it. A sign that He was with them.

Man’s law, mankind’s
justice?
A joke! Strength was in the people, rising up together to demand their own justice.

Sissy coughed. Pain knifed her ribs.

Where was she?

She lifted her bound hands to explore the darkness.

Plastic.

Dear Lord, this could not be happening.

Oh, dear God. Plastic! Her stomach knotted in dry heaves.

A whimper escaped her lips. Her mind raced … and words spilled in a hoarse whisper—

The Lord is my shepherd
… I
shall not want….

A thudding blow halted her prayer.

Sarina worked her arms behind her back, trying to loosen the tape that bound them together. She’d been sitting here in the dark forever. The silence was crazy-making. What was he waiting for?

He stood near the door, in the shadows. Just standing there! Not moving, not talking.

“Shhh!” he’d said when Sarina tried to tell him, grunting behind the tape, that her nose was running and she couldn’t breathe. He’d noticed, and jerked her head back, wiped her nose ungently with his handkerchief. Then he told her in a low, hard voice to keep quiet.

The noises started again behind the sofa. He’d kicked something, and the noises stopped.

After that, Sarina kept absolutely still, trying hard not to provoke him. But her nose continued running, and she couldn’t stop sniffling.

The doorknob turned.

Sarina froze. Had he seen the knob turn?

She wanted to scream a warning, out with me tape, and her nose clogged, she could only make this small, sick little squeal. She scuffled her feet on the floor, bumping, bumping, banging as hard as she could.

“Shhhhh!”

The door swung open.

Seeing Dixie in the doorway Sarina squealed and scuffled louder than ever. Dixie wouldn’t see him standing beside the door, wouldn’t be able to see anything but his stupid stage.

Dixie raised her hand and felt along the wall beside the door, probably for a light switch.

“Sarina?”

A hand clamped over Dixie’s wrist and jerked her into the room.

“Seems like we’ve had this dance before, pretty lady. Now it’s my turn to lead.”

She choked down on the cane and swung the brass knob at Coombs’ ribs.

He dodged.

She kicked her heavy cast at his shin, connecting, but not hard enough. His broad palm slammed the side of her head, sending a volley of pain through her jaw and cheekbone. Before she could recover, he grabbed her arms, yanked them behind her. She heard the rip of tape coming off a roll.

Move! While he’s busy with the tape
—

Gulping a breath to clear her head, she wrenched sideways, stomped with the cast where she hoped his foot would be—

But he was too quick. He whipped the tape around her
wrists, thrust a hand in her hair, and jerked her head up, forcing her to look at him.

His minted breath caressed her cheek.

“I
do
like the way you fight, darlin’.” He tossed her cane in a dark comer. “But here we are in this fine theater, and this is my show. You’re only a player.”

Probing her pockets, he found the Kubaton, then ripped the cell phone off her belt and tossed them both. His hands cupped her breasts. Giving one cruel squeeze, he shoved her against the wall.

Hands bound, the cast throwing her off balance, Dixie slumped to the floor in a heap. Her good leg twisted painfully beneath her. Trying to right herself, she heard a choking whimper—

And with sparkling clarity Dixie realized how fast her mildly annoying morning had turned to stone disaster.
Sarina!

Squirming around, she spotted the girl, mouth taped, eyes wide, legs thrust out straight and duct-taped together at the ankles. A bruise stained her temple. Otherwise she appeared to be okay, just scared.

Just
scared? She was a kid, she was terrified.

Along with the fear in Sarina’s eyes, Dixie recognized something that turned her heart to jelly … hope and
expectation.
She expected Dixie to make the horror go away.

Of course she did.

Dixie’s body felt rigid—with contrition and her own measure of fear. Her one purpose had been to keep this child safe. Yet, Sarina was in severe danger because Dixie attracted a monster into their wake.

Wriggling upright, she scooted toward the girl, willing her face to butch up. Show some resolve.

“It’s okay, kid,” she lied.

Coombs jerked Dixie’s feet out straight, thumping her against the wall. A jolt ricocheted down her spine.

“Relax, pretty lady. You talk when I say to talk.” He taped her cast, binding it to her other ankle. “We have hours to play, and no one to bother us. I’ve already tested the sound.”
He crossed to the door and twisted the lock. “You can scream until your lungs burst.”

Dixie scanned the room desperately, cataloging details, searching for opportunities. Four plain white walls. Concrete floor. Boxes. Sofa. Two chairs. And a carefully assembled scene in one lighted comer.

When she glanced back, Coombs was watching her.

“Nice, yes? Remind you of anything?” He tenderly repositioned a silk ficus nearer the lamp. “It’s not a real park bench, but close enough.”

Dixie’s heart drummed into double time.
Regan Salles—beaten, raped, and found tied to a park bench. And then Coombs. Beaten, sodomized. Tied to a bench.

She strained her wrists to loosen the bonds. Scrubbed the tape on her cast against the floor. Ignored Coombs’ confident chuckle.

A sound came from behind the sofa. Coombs’ head snapped toward it. He smiled.

“Ahhh.” He reached behind to drag out a bulging leaf bag.

Something inside the bag moved. Something alive.

Dixie recalled the open box of green plastic garden bags strewn across Brenda’s kitchen. Someone had kicked Brenda’s back door open. Someone strong.

But Brenda was
killed
in the
garage
, in the front seat of her Miata.

And her sister Gail was still missing. On a handshaking tour, she’d said.

A moan came from the bag as Coombs muscled it upright against the wall.

Had he killed Brenda? Or had he merely been there when she was murdered? Watching. Plotting his revenge—
the foreplays over, darlin
—when the killer left the garage, Brenda already dead, and entered the house, using Brenda’s keys.

A woman’s habit, to lock a door behind her, any door. A cautious woman in a dangerous city always locked doors.
One of the Angels?

Coombs, following the killer, kicks in the locked door. Catches the killer searching Brenda’s bedroom.

It’s the two of them who scatter the wig, the clothes, the mask—break the bottle of Shalimar.

Once Brenda’s killer is knocked out, convenient to use a leaf bag for camouflage. Carry it through the trees to his car. Toss it in the trunk—
the noise outside Brenda’s house….

On the bathroom floor, beside the black wig, Dixie could see Brenda’s key chain—dropped there by the killer….

Gail wouldn’t need Brenda’s keys to enter her own house.

And Dixie remembered now why the green and red scarf around Brenda’s neck had looked familiar. She’d seen it first outside the courthouse.

Coombs tossed away the plastic tie securing the leaf bag, and skinned the plastic down over a semiconscious body. Hair snarled, mouth taped. Face and arms bruised. Eyes dazed, unfocused.

Brenda’s killer.

“Pretty maids all in a row,” Coombs drawled.

Rashley could stop looking for Julie Colby.
Had she been in that damn bag all night?

Dropping to one knee, Coombs tore the tape from Julie’s mouth. When she cried out, he stroked her tangled hair, almost lovingly, then pulled her roughly forward and pressed his mouth to hers. She tried to twist away, but he gripped her chin, fingers digging into her bruised cheek. She whimpered.

“Heard your mother died this morning, Coombs. Guess she never realized what a monster she raised.”

Coombs lifted his face from Julie’s.

“You, darlin’, don’t know
shit”
His fist shot out, busting Dixie across the mouth.

Behind her, Dixie heard Sarina gasp.

Quiet, kid. Don’t draw his attention.

He wiped a fingertip across Dixie’s lip. The finger came away smeared with blood.

“Blood kin, now, aren’t we, darlin?” His eyes held a malicious
glow as he touched the ruddy scar on his mouth. “You taste mine, I taste yours …? And this lady—” His tone went hard, his words aimed like darts at Julie’s face as he separated a strand of her hair. “Did you think I’d
ever
forget your voice—cunt?”

He twirled the hair around his finger.

“Remember what I told you that night in the park?” Slowly, he wound the strand tighter.

Julie’s mouth opened as if to protest, but only a gasp escaped. When Coombs yanked the strand of hair, Julie’s neck arched.

“Noooooooooo—”

“No, what?”

But she pressed her lips together and glared at him.

“Give it up, Coombs.” Dixie tasted blood from her split lip. “You won’t beat the court this time. This time there are three of us.”

His contented eyes rested on hers. “And how many do you think will be talking when I leave here?”

Dixie flashed on Rashly’s account of another rape victim.
This time he used a knife. Went all the way.

Julie screamed. Coombs spread the ripped-out hair on the floor.

“One.” Smiling, he reached for another strand.

Steeling herself to Julie’s screams and Sarina’s soft sobs, Dixie worked her wrists to loosen the tape.
Tryouts at four o’clock.
Hours away. But Alroy Duncan had seen Coombs with Sarina.

Why would anyone ask?
With the stalker no longer a threat, no one would be worried about them until they didn’t return from the festival.

Five clumps of hair lay on the floor, arrayed in a tidy line, before Coombs seemed to grow bored with Julie’s pain. Her screams had quieted to heart-wrenching whimpers. Whatever horror the woman had endured before he brought her here must have blunted the pain and focused her rage. Her furious gaze stayed riveted on Coombs. She seemed
unaware of Dixie or Sarina. And if what Coombs wanted was to frighten his other two captives, Julie Colby had served his purpose. When his gaze flicked to Sarina, Dixie’s scalp crawled with sweat.

Sarina’s face turned bone white.

Do something!

“Coom—, um, Lawrence …” Dixie drawled. She licked her dry lips. “Why don’t we have a go at it? You and me. Finish what you started back at the Parrot Lounge.”

He smiled. “If I recall rightly, pretty lady, you didn’t want it back then.”

“We didn’t know each other then. It’s different—”

“Turn it off, darlin’. Why should I settle for used goods when I have sweet Sarina?”

Snick!

Dixie flinched toward the sound. A box cutter lay in Coombs’ palm, thin, flat, not much bigger than a pack of chewing gum. Buck apiece in any hardware stole. Single-edged razor, ready in a flash.

With one swipe, he sliced the tape binding Sarina’s ankles. He hauled the slender girl to her feet, startled and terrified, like a field rabbit Dixie had frightened once when she turned on her porch light.

“There’s a lot to be said for experience,” Dixie persisted, working her wrists ruthlessly against the chafing duct tape.

Sarina keened softly as Coombs dragged her toward the bench. Her bewildered gaze swung toward Dixie, pleading.

“Lawrence!” Dixie foraged her memory. What did she know about him? What triggered him? Turned him on? Off? What would make him abandon the girl to deal with either of the two older women in the room? She regarded Julie, bleeding, bruised, limp as a rag doll. Do
something.
“Is that really your style, Lawrence? Go for the weak ones? Too young and scared to fight back?”

“You’ll get your turn, darlin’.” He snapped the tape from Sarina’s mouth. “You can scream now, pretty lady.”

No! Dixie shook her head at Sarina. She remembered
now—what Coombs enjoyed most was a woman’s terror. He fed on it.

Sarina tightened her lips, but her eyes widened with fright.

Coombs yanked the girl’s shirt open. Buttons popped to the floor.

Sarina opened her mouth as if to scream. Then she darted a terrified glance at Dixie, and clamped her lips together again, sobbing without sound.

Hooking a finger behind her bra, he sliced the fabric, releasing her small breasts.

“Sweet. Not much in size, but real.” Coombs stroked one breast with the knife blade. Sarina shrank away from it. “Make a nice trophy, pretty lady.”

Her face turned waxen. A nervous cry escaped her tightly closed mouth. She tried to back away, but stumbled into the bench.

“Scared of the knife, darlin?” Coombs circled Sarina’s nipple with the blade. The razor left a thin pink trail.

Frantically, Dixie cast about for a weapon.
Anything!
Sarina’s poncho and tote lay in a heap. With a swift glance at Coombs, she inched sideways until her fingers locked on the tote’s strap. She eased it behind her.

Panic palsied her fingers as they searched the bag. She dropped it, had to grab it up again and start over. Sweat slid down her neck—

Calm down.
She’d be useless if she let herself get psyched. Pushing the panic deep, where it couldn’t get at her, she worked her fingers through the bag’s contents—

There! How had she missed it? The damn thing was huge, too huge to pull out past the other crap in there. Dixie swallowed, willed her trembling fingers to slow down, and counted, one … two … carefully extracting the rod puppet from the folds and papers and gizmos, she turned the mass of points and edges to find the sharpest—the puppet’s bayonet blade. She rubbed it against the tape binding her wrists. Not as sharp as she’d hoped.

Her fingers cramped.

Biting down on the pain, she kept rubbing. And kept working her cast against the floor.