The Deepest Cut (44 page)

She unsteadily climbed to her feet. She tried not to stagger and cursed herself for having to take a single sideways step to keep her balance.

He grabbed the second Taser dart from her back and gathered up the cartridge he’d ejected. He shoved her toward the log cabin’s main room.

She walked until he ordered her to stop. She still didn’t see any sign of Betsy Gilroy

He took a wooden chair from behind the bar where the museum docents rang up sales of souvenirs on the old cash register. On top of the bar was a black nylon duffel bag like the ones PPD officers used to carry their gear.

He set the chair in the middle of the floor. “Sit there. Wait.” He snatched her badge off her belt. He looked at it with satisfaction, tossing it in his hand, feeling the weight.

She wasn’t completely surprised when he returned it to the same spot on her belt. He could have taken her badge at the El Alisal house and hadn’t. She guessed that it gave him a charge to see her wearing it. She had so many questions, but she didn’t want to tip her hand. She didn’t want him to know how much she’d found out, how much she cared, how obsessed she was. Information was power and her power was in short supply right now.

“Now sit.”

Her legs were shaky, but she was careful to lower herself onto the seat without plopping down. She was committed not to show weakness or fear. She refused to give him that satisfaction. She refused to feed that wolf.

He had a satisfied smile on his stupid bland face. She thought about how much she’d like to wipe off that smile. No.
Tear
it off.

His translucent blue eyes glittered. “You … You’re really something, you know that?”

He extended his fingers toward her and gently pulled her hair away from the left side of her neck, smoothing it over her shoulder. She maintained her sangfroid, coolly keeping her eyes on his face, as he drew his index finger down the entire length of her scar, starting from behind her ear and disappearing beneath her shirt collar. His finger felt moist and clammy. She did not recoil. She didn’t move a muscle, even when a sadistic grin toyed with the corners of his lips.

Having his fill, he pulled his hand away from her skin and moved it to her hair, drawing it between his fingers from the roots to the tips. A single strand came free. Caught on his hand, the hair reflected the light as he waved it in the beam from the overhead lamp. He playfully tossed the strand toward her. It landed on her slacks.

He told her, “You weren’t supposed to live, you know. You messed things up for me.”

She remained motionless.

“What’s it like, a pretty woman like you going through life with a big scar on your neck?”

“What’s it like for you, a young guy who can only get off when he’s killing policewomen? Get many dates?”

He punched her in the jaw with his fist, pitching her sideways. The chair tipped and almost fell. Stars burst before her eyes.

He smiled fully for the first time that night, revealing small, even teeth and low gums, like a rodent’s.

In spite of herself, she inhaled a shuddering breath. She worked her jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken.

He went to the duffel bag. From inside, he took out a blue-and-white printed kerchief. He tied it around her eyes.

“Stay there,” he told her.

Not being able to see scared her more than anything else he’d done to her that night. She closed her eyes, finding that being blindfolded wasn’t as terrifying that way and focused on staying calm. It was the hardest work she’d ever done.

She heard him moving about the cabin. She dared to open her eyes and realized that she could see a little beneath the bottom of the kerchief. He was turning off lights. She heard him securing the back door. There was the rip of Velcro and the sound of something mechanical clicking into place. He’d replaced the cartridge in the Taser.

“Where’s Chief Gilroy?” she asked.

“Chief Gilroy” he repeated, slathering the name with as much honey as when he said “Officer Vining.” He sighed. “Yes … Good Chief Gilroy.”

“What did you do to her?”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, suggesting a sad situation that couldn’t be helped. “Nothing that she hasn’t earned.”

FORTY-SEVEN

V
INING FELT A PAIN IN THE PIT OF HER STOMACH. “WHAT DOES
that mean?”

“Don’t ask so many questions. Especially when you might not want to know the answers.”

Behind her closed eyes, she envisioned his face. Not the face she recalled from 835 El Alisal Road with the dark wig and brown contact lenses, but
this
face, the chubby version with the shaved head, double chin, and plump cheeks. She’d seen this face before, and recently.

She thought she heard him rummaging inside the duffel bag. “I have a question I would like the answer to. What’s your name?”

“My name … You don’t even know my name and here I know so much about you. You don’t know where I live or what I do or even something as simple as my name.”

The pride in his voice sickened her.

“You must have called me something, all this time. You cops love to give guys like me nicknames. Do you have a nickname for me?”

Now he sounded hopeful, in a pathetic way, like the wallflower waiting to be asked to dance.

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked, refusing to give him the pleasure of knowing what a large role he’d played in her life. How she and Emily had given him a powerful, awe-inspiring name: The Bad
Man. Thinking of him now, she thought,
What a dweeb. He doesn’t deserve the name T. B. Mann.
She wasn’t about to elevate him by revealing it.

“Don’t you and your colleagues have a name for me around the police station? You have to refer to me somehow, right? You know, like guys like the Night Stalker and the Hillside Strangler.”

She didn’t respond.

She felt him move beside her. His hand brushed the hair over her ear.

A chill went down her spine.

“You don’t think I’m in the big league, like those other guys.”

He continued stroking her hair in a wispy, tentative way that tingled and annoyed her, yet sent icy shivers through her body.

“Officer Vining, I think you know that I’m better than those guys. What sort of planning did they do? Throw a half-assed murder kit into the trunk of the car? Drive around looking for some girl to lure with a fake badge or for an open bedroom window? For that, they get nicknames and everyone in the city is afraid of them?”

He continued stroking her hair.

She focused on shutting herself off from his touch, on withdrawing and separating from her skin. It was working. She could almost not feel him, but it had the effect of making his voice more resonant, as if it was the only sound in a sealed room, vibrating through her ears and tickling the gray matter of her brain.

“You know I’m better than those guys, Officer Vining.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, Officer Vining. I have it on good authority that you are very familiar with the caliber of my work.”

How could he know that? She thought of Betsy Gilroy Had he tortured her? Forced her to tell him what she knew about Nitro’s drawings, the necklaces, and the other victims?

She heard a metallic “snick” noise. She thought it sounded like a retractable knife blade being ejected. She was right. He pressed the tip against her neck, against the scar that told the story of how he’d stabbed her.

“Your resistance makes me think that you do have a nickname for me. I want to know what it is.”

She gritted her teeth, waiting for him to cut her. She felt hot tears in the corners of her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Officer Vining? Cat got your tongue?”

Seconds passed like hours. She again tried to remove herself from her body, but the sharp pain against that most vulnerable part of her kept drawing her back inside her skin. It stung brutally. Had he cut her? He must have broken the skin. She grappled for control over her emotions. She could not give in to him or she’d be lost for sure.

There was a second part to his show. Whatever he had planned, it wasn’t going to happen here. He had been closing up, preparing to move out. Opportunities to get away would present themselves. Just hold on. Hold on …

Her cell phone rang.

She heard him close the knife, pressing the blade back until it locked.

He grabbed the phone from her belt. “Kissick is calling. He must be wondering where you are. He must be so worried about you.” He added with a sneer, “Isn’t that special?” After another two rings, it stopped. He did not return the phone to her belt.

She heard him walk a few steps and then heard a rip, like tape being yanked from a roll. He returned to her and she felt him press a wide piece of tape across her mouth. He walked away.

She was glad it was just a piece of what felt like duct tape. He hadn’t stuffed something inside her mouth or wrapped the tape around her head.

She heard another ripping noise. The zipper on the duffel bag? She thought she heard him slide the heavy bag off the bar. He was again beside her, grabbing her by the arm. “Get up.”

They were entering the second phase of his plan. She recalled personal safety talks she’d given to women’s groups. Her own words came back to her. If you’re abducted, the harm won’t occur at the site of the abduction, but at the place the bad guy will take you to— the remote country road, the cheap motel room. Do not go to the second place. Do whatever you can to avoid being taken to the second place.

When she didn’t budge, he moved in front of her and tried to raise her with his hands beneath her armpits. She drove her head into his
belly. He was already unbalanced by the weight of the duffel bag and she knocked him off his feet. Tilting her head back to see beneath the kerchief, she saw him on his back. She kicked his head, stunning him. She was about to stomp on it when, through animal instinct, he grabbed her raised foot and rolled, pulling her standing leg out from under her. She landed on top of him, partially knocking off the blindfold. Her hands handcuffed behind her, she spread her legs, pinning him.

He reached for her hair, but she was still able to rear her head back and deliver a resounding head butt.

It stunned her, but stunned him more. He lay back, blinking.

Getting to her knees, she again reared back her head, intending to cram his nose into his skull. When she heard the snick of the switchblade and felt the tip of the knife pierce her neck in the same spot he’d cut before, she froze.

“That’s a good girl.”

He pushed himself up from the floor, still holding the knife against its mark. On his knees, he crept close to her. She felt his hot breath on her face. It was mint-scented, just like before.

Her breaths through her nose grew short. She felt that familiar combination of being ice cold yet sweating. Her head began to fill with metal shavings that scraped and rattled. The last thing she needed was to have a panic attack.

As he kneeled beside her, the knife still against her skin, his lips brushed her cheek. She felt the heat rise from him. She knew he smelled her fear. This is what did it for him. Her terror. She heard his breathing quicken. He was becoming sexually aroused.

There was nowhere to flee. Nowhere to go. She was terrified to move, lest he stab her. She was trapped. She began seizing air. Her nostrils burned. She tried to force the hobgoblin back into its box, focusing on mentally reciting the phonetic alphabet.

Adam, Boy, Charles, David, Edward …

The kerchief had partially come off in the struggle. Through her slit eyes, past the spots that clouded them, she glimpsed him watching her.

Breathing through his open mouth, he took the knife away from her neck and pushed the blade back inside the hilt.

Her breath slowly returned, although she still felt ice cold and her thoughts ricocheted around her brain.

He got to his feet and helped her to hers.

She felt that he would kill her there if he had to, if she gave him no other alternative. She had little choice but to go to the dreaded second place. She was too beaten down to muster a defiant gaze. He had won this battle.

Somewhere, maybe from inside the duffel bag, she heard her cell phone emit the tone that indicated she’d received a voice mail message. Kissick had stolen a few minutes to call and leave a message. Maybe he’d been worried when she hadn’t answered and would drive up here. Certainly, he’d at least call again. He was the only one who knew where she’d gone. Emily was at her dad’s house. Vining wasn’t expected at the station. How much time would pass before anyone realized she was missing?

He again tied the kerchief over her eyes. Pulling her by the arm, she heard him open the cabin’s front door. He led her outside. She could see a sliver of the porch light beneath the edge of the blindfold. The light went off and she heard him close the front door.

He guided her a few feet and began tying her handcuffed hands to something. She felt the broad porch railing with her fingers.

“Where are your car keys?” he asked as he peeled the duct tape away so that she could speak.

“In the ignition.”

“Be right back,” he said, again pressing the tape against her mouth.

She heard his footsteps go down the steps and fade as he walked across the gravel. She leaned back her head to look beneath the edge of the kerchief. The light of the full moon helped. A short time later, she heard a car engine and caught sight of the Crown Vic approaching. She heard him unlocking the trunk. He returned and untied her from the railing. He guided her down the steps and to the car.

Chief Gilroy had wanted her to drive the Crown Vic. Now she knew that he had ordered Gilroy to tell her that.

“Step up,” he commanded.

She rammed her legs against the car’s rear bumper before she was able to climb inside the trunk and lay down. She was relieved when she
didn’t feel anyone else in the trunk. She was hoping he wouldn’t tie her legs, but he did better than that. He hog-tied her, binding her ankles together then tying them to her wrists behind her. He was no amateur. He slammed down the trunk lid.