Snake Skin (16 page)

"WDDE, Channel 2," he supplied.

"Track them down and act real formal. Tell
them you have a situation. That I was witness to a public," more
than two people being public, "and on the record conversation where
one of their reporters Cindy Ames committed libel—"

"You mean slander," Taylor said. "Libel's in
writing."

"What are you, a lawyer?" She asked, then
remembered he was. Had his JD although he'd never practiced law or
taken the bar exam. And his PhD and a MBA. Damn whiz kid.

"So I'm like going undercover?" he
bubbled.

A thirty-four year old whiz kid-puppy.

"No," she said in a tone that usually made
Megan jump. "You are
not
going undercover. You
are
representing the Bureau in an extremely delicate situation. Tell
the manager that while I would prefer not to testify, unless he
removes this particular reporter from the story, I may be forced to
go public. Make sure he knows we have Ashley's safety foremost in
mind and appreciate his cooperation, all that jazz."

"Oh, cool. A con job. Should I say I'm the
SAC? No, no, Assistant Special Agent in Charge would be more
believable, wouldn't it? Or I could—"

"Taylor." He kept rambling. "Taylor."

"Yeah?"

"Burroughs and I are headed over to
Fegley's. I want you to take however much caffeine you drink and
cut it in half, all right?"

"Yeah, sure, but—"

"But what?" She started the Subaru and waved
Burroughs into the lead.

"I don't drink caffeine, LT. It's bad for—"
She hung up and followed Burroughs.

What would Vixen do?
became Ashley's
new mantra as she tried to gain control of the situation. Vixen
would never surrender, for starts. Okay, then neither would she.
After all, she
was
Vixen.

That was just a game, playing
, a
contrarian voice echoed through her mind. Ashley shook it off. Her
fingers curled with the desire to cut, slice—just once, please—but
she denied herself the pleasure. Vixen didn't cut—she killed.

First, know your enemy. Call him Mr.
Skankypants. He'd thought this out, prepared, planned ahead. But
what about Bobby? Had Mr. Skankypants prepared for Bobby?

Bobby's either dead or out there thinking
you stood him up. Either way, forget about him, he's no good to
you.
The voice was Vixen's, all calm, cool, collected. The
killing machine skulking in the shadows, hunting.

But Ashley couldn't let go of Bobby's face,
pulled it up in her mind. He wouldn't give up, that just wasn't in
him.

So then he's dead. Just like those girls
who came before you,
Vixen continued in her merciless drone.
What else did you think that stench was? Skankypants has killed
before, he's planning to kill you next unless you move your ass and
find a way out of here.

Ashley had blocked out the odor that
engulfed the room, but suddenly it was back, smothering her, dirt
thrown on a grave.

A shallow grave
, Vixen taunted.

Ashley rocked back and forth, gnawing on her
fingernails. Not the thumb, the sharp one, that one she saved. But
the others were fair game, all bitten down to the quick, ragged and
torn. It wasn't as good as cutting.

She pulled her fingers from her mouth.
Wolves and coyotes gnawed their legs off when caught in a trap, so
did foxes...

A focused calm seized her. She stroked the
inside of her left wrist, feathering old scars and the fresh welt
that still ached with satisfying memory.

Bending her leg, she inched her sock off,
tugging against the tight restraint that held it in place. The wire
cable sat right above the bones jutting out from either side of her
ankle, resting against her bare flesh. She couldn't get a regular
finger between it and her skin, but her pinky finger she could jam
in. Not much room, but she would make it work.

Poking, prodding, taking mental
measurements, she decided it wouldn't be necessary to cut off the
entire foot. First, she'd try lubrication, see if she could move
the cable below the ankle joint. Then she might need to trim a
little of the padding around her heel, that was all.

The picture in her mind didn't scare her or
gross her out, instead it intrigued her. No way she could do all
that with one fingernail. How long would it take to chew it
off?

Could a person even do that?

Last resort, she promised herself. First the
simple things. She slashed her nail along the skin above the cable,
the searing pain a release, bringing her body and mind together in
a sharply focused instant.

She was alive, she was in control, and she
was going to stay that way. No matter what it took.

Chapter 14

Saturday, 5:52 pm

Seventeen-year-old guy with a
fourteen-year-old girl. Creepy, but not an uncommon situation. Lucy
sighed, remembering her first serious boyfriend—seventeen to her
fifteen.

Here in Pennsylvania, it could still
technically be rape since there was more than two years difference
in age. As long as Ashley wasn't coerced. Then it was definitely
rape.

If any sexual activity occurred. If Ashley
was with Fegley. If she was alive.

Still, it was the best lead they had. Even
if it did mean Burroughs was right and she'd been wrong about
Ashley. Better wrong than to have a dead kid on her hands.

But how did Ashley's watch end up with
Darlene's corpse? Could she and Fegley have killed together?
Thrill-seeking, loving the planning, the anticipation, never seeing
Darlene as real, as a person, just an object to satisfy their
needs.

Lucy scissored her jaw, breaking the
tension, popping the ligaments until they crackled. Had she built
up such a fantasy about Ashley being the pitiful, unloved teen that
she'd blinded herself to the facts?

If so, maybe she should listen to her boss
and stick to her office and desk, get off the streets.

She took advantage of the privacy to call
home. Megan and Nick were watching football, assuring her that
other than Pitt being down by twelve, everything was fine. She
wanted to ask Nick for advice but didn't have the heart to
interrupt their daughter-father bonding. Although she felt a little
jealous that he was the one doing the bonding instead of her. Okay,
maybe more than a little jealous.

Mostly she wanted her little girl back. The
perfume of No More Tears. The singing together in the car, heads
rocking, palms drumming. The pride that filled Megan's eyes every
time she introduced her mother, the FBI agent.

Those times were long gone, maybe
forever.

Next, she dialed her mom. She used the
speakerphone, hating the hands free ear thingy that looked like
something out of Star Trek.

"Lucy, I thought you were working. Did you
find that little girl?" Coletta Guardino answered.

"Not yet, but I've got a lead. Nick said you
were going out tonight?" Silence. Lucy squirmed, adjusted her rear
view mirror. More silence. "Mom, I'm not prying."

"Your father has been gone for twenty-five
years. Don't I have the right to make friends? Find some
happiness?"

Guilt settled down on Lucy's shoulders like
a worn out shawl. Make that a hand-crocheted, labor of love,
fingers bleeding from being pricked and worked to the bone, worn
out shawl.

"Mom, you are the happiest person I know.
You're so happy you wear people out. Between bridge and bingo and
St. Vincent's and helping at the shelter and the library and your
book club..."

"I know, I know." An exasperated sigh
vibrated through the cell phone. "But this is different. This is
someone who's interested in me. Just me. As a person."

"Tell me about him. What's he do? How'd you
meet?" Lucy tried to keep her tone casual. Was her mother really
dumb enough to meet a guy on the internet? Knowing what Lucy did
for a living, the kind of predators she hunted?

"He's the sweetest man. Charlie, that's his
name. He's sixty-one and he lost his wife to cancer three years
ago."

"Go on. Charlie, does he have a last
name?"

"He does."

"Mom." Lucy drew the syllable out, very
aware she sounded just like Megan, but not caring.

"Once I told Charlie what you do for a
living, he said you'd want to run a background check or something.
He even gave me all the information you'd need to do it. Said
people these days couldn't be too careful."

"Great. Give me the info and I'll take care
of everything for you."

"No. I trust him. That's good enough for
me."

"Not for me. Come on, Mom. You're smarter
than this."

"I didn't need any background check on your
father when I met him. I used my own good judgment, followed my
heart."

"This," she almost said "creep" but hastily
bit the word back, "man isn't Dad. And times have changed. A woman
in your position can't risk—"

"A woman in my position can't risk wasting
any time. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."

The dial tone echoed through the car. Lucy
stabbed the End button and cranked up the radio. Metallica,
King Nothing
. Perfect.

She drummed her wedding band against the
steering wheel, wishing she could bang her head instead and
wondering how many sixty-one-year-old white males, first name
Charles, lived in southwestern PA, and what the odds were that she
could track down the right one before tonight.

Jimmy's heart staggered as he watched Ashley
slice into her own flesh. He jumped up, toppling his chair, ready
to run to her, save her.

No. Follow the plan. She has to see that
she's powerless, she must surrender.

He righted the chair, sat back in front of
the computer, hypnotized. Ashley was mixing her blood with water,
smearing it below the leash. He heard her grunts of frustration as
she tugged and yanked on the metal cable, trying to force it over
her ankle joint.

After a good half hour, she finally
collapsed, hugging the support beam as if it were a lost lover.

She didn't cry like she had earlier. Instead
she was talking to an unseen presence in the darkness. "Please.
Please, help me."

She was calling to him. For him. Jimmy
stroked his fingers across the image of her face as she
pleaded.

"Yes, Ashley. I'll save you."

Step three, almost complete. Next came step
four: offer a new reality.

Chapter 15

Saturday, 6:03 pm

Burroughs led Lucy to an address off Fifth
Avenue in Point Breeze. The Pittsburgh Center for the Arts was
situated on a lush spread of grass a block away, adding a touch of
class to the blue-collar neighborhood. She pulled up behind the
detective's Impala and waited for him on the sidewalk. Her little
blue Subaru looked distinctly unimpressive parked beside the
oh-so-obvious unmarked cop car.

"Willie Stargell lived here." Burroughs
swept a hand at the brick ranch house before them. They started up
the drive. There was a long porch with a handicapped ramp.

"In this house?" she asked, noting the
curled shingles on the roof and the stained, sagging gutters.

"Well, no. I don't think. This block—or
maybe the next one over."

So much for Burroughs' treasure trove of
baseball trivia. Lucy pushed the doorbell. The front door was open,
only a screen door laced in white wrought iron curls barred their
entry. She looked inside. A long, narrow hallway with oak hard wood
floors led into a darkened space in the rear of the house.

A man appeared, flipping on a light switch,
and she saw that the space was the kitchen. He stomped down the
hallway as if he were climbing steps, his beer belly sloshing to
and fro beneath his Steelers T-shirt. He wore Bermuda shorts—the
kind that men of a certain age and physique really, really
shouldn't ever wear—and had white socks on with dirty
flip-flops.

"Yeah?" he asked by way of greeting.

"Detective Burroughs," Burroughs flipped his
shield. "Is Robert Fegley here?"

"Where else would he be? What'cha want with
Bobby?"

"We need to speak with him." Burroughs
opened the screen door, not waiting for an invite. The man, who
appeared in his mid-forties, twisted his mouth as if he'd swallowed
some stale beer and stayed where he was, blocking their way. "And
you are?"

"His father. William Fegley. He ain't done
nothing."

Lucy ignored the two men, more interested in
the shadows playing against the wall of the kitchen beyond them. A
motor whirred. The shadow of a man's head and torso, grotesquely
deformed by the angle of the light became visible. It appeared much
too low on the wall, slowly inching up as it grew larger, reminding
her of the monster the boy and girl in Ashley's drawing fought. A
bizarre half-man, half-machine demon.

The whirring stopped. A man's voice called
from beyond the kitchen. "Who is it, Pops?"

"The cops. They want—"

"Have you found Ashley?" The unseen voice
broke with excitement, now sounding boyish. The whirring resumed,
higher pitched as if a motor were being pushed to burn out. Lucy
edged past Fegley in time to see the shadow collapse.

A motorized wheelchair spun around the
corner, filling the narrow corridor. "Where's Ashley? Is she
okay?"

The boy-man in the wheelchair was tall but
rail-thin. Spindly legs velcroed into white plastic splints stuck
out from a pair of gym shorts. His arms were equally wasted, one
hand fastened to the wheel chair controls by another swath of
velcro. His face was the only thing animated, alive—the rest of his
body was rigid, supported by belts and buckles, but his face...His
face was the face of an angel.

Ashley's angel. From her artwork. Blonde
hair, wavy, past his collarbones, skin unmarred by either the
shadow of a beard or too much sun, crystalline blue eyes that
tugged at Lucy as if she alone held the answers he needed.