Vicious (19 page)

He opened the back door and then gently set her down.

“I can ride up front with you,” Moira said.

“With that bum ankle, you’re better off stretching out in the back here,” he advised. He took the rope from her and tossed it on the floor of the backseat. Then he put his arm around her.

Moira leaned on him as she hobbled the few steps to the backseat. It smelled like stale McDonald’s French fries in his car.

“Let’s take a look at that ankle,” he said, crouching down beside her. He untied her tennis shoe and then carefully pulled it off. He rolled down her sock. “Does this hurt?” he asked.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Sorry.” He pulled off her sock and then handed it to her—along with the shoe.

Moira was more concerned—and embarrassed—about her foot odor. This guy really was getting her at her worst.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you wiggle your foot a little?”

She tried, but it hurt. “Ouch,” she said, forcing a laugh.

He rubbed her shoulder. “Feels like you’re wearing a bra. Are you wearing a bra?”

Baffled, Moira gazed at him. “What?”

He glanced down at her foot again. “God, that looks really horrible….”

Moira wondered what the hell her bra had to do with anything. Was he planning to make some kind of sling device for her leg or something? She let out a puzzled laugh.

He straightened up and pointed to her foot. “Take a look at it,” he sighed. “That ankle is bad news.”

Leaning forward, she gazed down at her ankle. It appeared slightly swollen, but not nearly as awful as he’d made out.

“I can’t believe it,” she heard him say. “You smashed up my motion detector, you bitch.”

Moira looked up in time to see him raising a blackjack in the air.

“Wait!” she screamed.

He slammed it down on her skull.

Moira flopped across the backseat, unconscious.

On the floor in front of her was the rope he’d used to save her. He would use it again to tie her up.

But first, he pulled up the bottom of her T-shirt until it was bunched up over her breasts. He stared at her bra. It was pink.

“Pretty,” he murmured.

He didn’t want to leave Jordan alone with Allen Meeker, not even for a few minutes. So Leo made a pact with his friend while they were in the kitchen. He would go upstairs, pack Moira’s bag, and take it out to the car if—and only if—Jordan removed the gag from Allen’s mouth.

“You don’t trust me?” Jordan argued, frowning.

Leo slowly shook his head. “Not around him.”

“Fair enough,” Jordan muttered, patting him on the shoulder. Then they headed down the basement stairs.

Leo hated every minute of this. For the first time in their friendship, they both had good reasons not to trust one another. He just couldn’t understand why Jordan wouldn’t go to the state police with this. The only thing Leo could think of to do was keep this man alive while he tried to talk some sense into Jordan.

He stopped at the bottom of the cellar steps while Jordan went over to Meeker—just where he’d left him, strapped across the worktable with his arms stretched out in front of him. Their captive kept looking past Jordan—at him. Leo could see it in his eyes; the guy was counting on him for his survival.

Jordan pried the wet handkerchief out of his mouth. Meeker started coughing. “I—I heard Susan’s voice,” he said, once he caught his breath. “Is she okay?”

“As long as you’re tied up here, I think she’ll be okay,” Jordan answered coolly.

“But don’t you see now? I wasn’t lying.” Meeker glanced at Leo and then at Jordan. “I can’t believe this. She was here, looking for me. Isn’t that proof enough I’m on the level?”

“No.” Jordan folded his arms. “Your fiancée said you’ve never been carjacked.”

“It happened six years ago, before I even met her,” Allen said. “I didn’t see any reason to tell her about it. Y’know, she’ll be calling the police soon.”

“Six years ago?” Jordan repeated. “That’s when you were living in the Washington, D.C., area wasn’t it?”

Meeker frowned at him, then tried to tug at the rope around his bound wrists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled. “I’ve never lived in D.C.”

“After the Seattle murders, Mama’s Boy moved his business to the Beltway in 2003,” Jordan said. “You abducted Natalie Boyer-Stiles one night in April while she and her little boy were walking to her car in the parking lot of Tysons Corner in Fairfax, Virginia. Her corpse was found in a ditch off Highway 236 in Annandale. You left an old toy fire engine in her shopping bag. And in June, you broke into the apartment of a single mother named Samantha Gilbert in Alexandria—”

“Not me,” Meeker said, shaking his head. “I haven’t been to D.C. since I was in college twenty years ago.”

“A lot of people thought those two murders along the Beltway were the work of a copycat, but I always figured different. In a weird way, it made sense that you’d moved on to the
other
Washington.” Jordan turned and gazed at Leo. “Don’t you have some packing to do?”

Sighing, Leo gave him a guarded look and then retreated up the cellar stairs. In the kitchen, he could still hear their muted conversation. It was creepy the way Jordan talked to the guy—in a steady kind of monotone, until he got angry. Then he’d start screaming like a crazy man. Jordan didn’t even sound like himself.

Leo stopped and glanced out the window in the kitchen door. No sign of Moira yet. He made sure the door was locked. Jordan didn’t want her coming inside the house at all.

As Leo headed up to the second floor, the murmuring in the basement became more distant. He checked his wristwatch: 3:25. He’d left Moira in the woods over two hours ago. He knew she was ticked off at him. Still, she should have been back by now.

In Moira’s bedroom, he peered out the picture window. He didn’t see anyone out there. He stared down at Jordan’s car. He could just barely make out the gift-wrapped package and bakery box in the backseat. He felt this horrible pang in his gut, a mixture of sadness and dread.

If only there were a working phone around here, he’d call the state police right now. He’d gladly endure Jordan’s wrath in exchange for nipping this thing in the bud. His friend would thank him for it—maybe not for a while, but eventually.

It was only ten minutes by car to that store with the pay phone. But Leo hated the idea of leaving Jordan totally alone with that man even for a few minutes. His friend had a gun with him—and he was like a loose cannon right now. He could so easily go nuts and shoot the guy—and then maybe himself.

One thing at a time
, Leo thought. He’d get Moira’s stuff packed and bring her bag out to the car. Moira couldn’t get involved in this mess. She had to be kept away—and in the dark. It was one of the few things Jordan had insisted upon that made sense.

Leo set her overnight bag on the bed, then tossed in her robe and slippers. He found a fancy black dress under plastic on a laundry hanger in the closet. She’d planned to wear the dress to the restaurant tonight for his birthday dinner. He threw the clothes on her bed. Then he hurried down the hall to the bathroom. He stopped for a moment to listen to the murmuring in the basement. Jordan was doing most of the talking. The words were indistinguishable, but Leo recognized the weird monotone his friend had taken on with the man.

In the bathroom, he found Moira’s paisley cosmetic bag on the shelf and snatched it up. Back in the bedroom, he tossed the paisley clutch in her overnight bag. Then he checked the top drawer of the dresser. The prescription bottle full of pills rattled as he tugged the drawer open farther.

Leo picked up the bottle and glanced at the label:
MOIRA DANCEY
—
TAKE
1
CAPSULE BY MOUTH
30
MINUTES BEFORE BEDTIME AS NEEDED FOR SLEEP
.
DO NOT EXCEED DOSAGE
.

Moira had told him a while back that she was taking something for insomnia. She was worried about getting too dependent on the pills.

Leo was still looking at the prescription label when he heard a scream from down in the basement. He threw the bottle back in the drawer and shut it. Then he raced downstairs. He could hear the yelling much more clearly now. It was Meeker—in an angry tirade: “Goddamn you! Are you crazy? HELP! JESUS, HELP ME!”

Leo ran through the kitchen and hurried down the wooden steps to the cellar. He balked when he saw Jordan hovering over his prisoner. Meeker was shirtless. He squirmed and shook against the worktable. It made a scraping sound against the cement floor. He cursed angrily while Jordan used garden shears to cut off his pants—in sections.

“Shut up and keep still!” Jordan growled. “Want me to cut you? I’m working on your inseam next….” He maneuvered the shears up the side of Meeker’s leg, toward the waist.

“My God, Jordan, what are you doing?” Leo shouted over the two of them.

Jordan tugged at the cut he’d made, completely tearing the trouser leg to one side—exposing Meeker’s white briefs and his pale, hairy leg. “There wasn’t a label along the back waistband,” he said, eying something inside the pants lining on the back pocket. “Huh,
Polo, Ralph Lauren.
He could have gotten these khakis at any department store….”

Leo still didn’t understand what his friend was doing. “Jordan—”

“He’s crazy, goddamn it!” Allen Meeker bellowed, writhing on the table and tugging at the rope around his taped-up wrists.

“Jordan, what the hell are you doing?”

Jordan grabbed Meeker’s shirt from one side of the worktable and tossed it at him. “Take a look at that.”

The pale blue oxford shirt hit Leo in the face before he had a chance to catch it. The shirt was soaked with perspiration and smelled of B.O. and Obsession cologne. Obviously, Jordan had cut it off Meeker’s body. There were so many incisions it hardly looked like a shirt anymore.

“Check the label,” Jordan said.

It took Leo a moment to find where the collar was. But then he saw the label:
Britches of Georgetown.

“That was a chain of stores in the D.C. area,” Jordan said. He set the garden shears down on top of the dryer. “I remember, because my stepmother took me shopping there during a trip to D.C. about seven years ago. I think it’s closed now. Check out the material—and the buttons. Does that shirt look like it’s twenty years old? More like five or six years old, wouldn’t you say?”

Leo studied the shirt—or at least what was left of it. Jordan was right. It didn’t look all that old.

“So—he hasn’t been to the Beltway area in twenty years, huh?” Jordan said. “He’s lying again. He bought that shirt in Washington, D.C., six or seven years ago, around the time he strangled those two women.”

“For God’s sake,” Meeker moaned. “I got the shirt last year at a consignment shop in Seattle!”

Jordan let out a skeptical laugh and half smiled at Leo. “Does he look like the kind of guy who shops around secondhand stores? You think it’s just another coincidence he’s wearing a shirt from a store in the Washington, D.C., area—where they had two Mama’s Boy–type killings six years ago?”

“Jesus Christ,” Meeker grumbled, shaking his head. “I was going to take the high road and give you guys a break, not press charges. But I’ve had it! I’ll see they throw the book at both of you!” His face was turning crimson. He glared over his shoulder at Jordan. “They ought to lock you up. You’re a fucking lunatic. You belong in an institution. If you think for one minute there’s any chance—”

Jordan didn’t let him finish. He swiveled around and punched him in the kidney. Meeker let out an anguished cry. He might have crumpled to the floor if he hadn’t been strapped to the worktable. “Screw you!” Jordan yelled, hitting him again—in the face this time.

“That’s enough!” Leo shouted, grabbing Jordan and wrestling him away from the defenseless man.

His head drooped against the table, Meeker coughed and grimaced. His teeth were covered with blood.

Leo had to hold Jordan back to keep him from lunging at Meeker again. Jordan was shaking with rage. “You need to calm down,” Leo whispered. “Just—just step back for a few minutes. Go upstairs and cool off, Jordan. Get a glass of water or something….”

Rubbing his knuckles, Jordan nodded. “Watch him,” he grunted, and then he lumbered up the stairs.

Leo still had the tattered shirt in his hand. He looked at Allen Meeker, slumped over the table, crying. Leo hurried over to the laundry sink and ran a section of the shirt under cold water. Then he went to the man and gently dabbed at the blood around his mouth.

“Could I have another glass of water, please?” Meeker asked in a quiet, shaky voice.

Leo quickly filled the measuring cup with cold water and brought it to him. Meeker drank from it and sighed. “You—you seem like a nice guy,” he whispered. “What’s your name?”

“Leo,” he said—a bit reluctantly. As much as he doubted Jordan’s judgment right now, he didn’t trust this guy either.

“Leo, can’t you do anything to stop this?” he said under his breath. “All I’m asking is that you call the police. You know that’s the best thing for you—and even for your friend. He—he’s crazy. I’m not a murderer. If I was really this mass murderer, why would I be begging you to call the cops? Hell, I’ve never even been arrested. I sell hospital equipment, for Christ’s sake. You met my fiancée. Does she look like someone who would hook up with a mass murderer?”

All Leo could do was shrug.

“She’s worried. She’ll probably call the police—if she hasn’t already. And they’ll come checking here. They’ll think you were in on this whole thing.” Meeker frowned at him. “Hell, Leo, for all I know, maybe this is some ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine you two dreamed up.”

“It isn’t like that at all,” Leo sighed.

“Is his mother really dead? Was she really one of those Mama’s Boy victims—or is this some kind of weird game you guys are playing with me?”

“Of course his mother’s dead,” Leo said. “And we’re not playing any kind of game.” He couldn’t really answer the other part of the question for certain. It was all still too new to him. Until today, he’d never even heard Jordan mention Mama’s Boy.

“Listen, I have reason to believe someone has been stalking my fiancée,” Meeker said. “Ever since she and her son drove up here yesterday, someone’s been following her and watching the house. I have a feeling it’s your friend.”

Leo shook his head. “That’s impossible. I was with Jordan practically the whole day yesterday. He isn’t stalking anybody.”

“Well, someone’s been following Susan around, and if it’s not your friend, then the guy’s still out there—and she’s all alone, with her little boy.” He tugged at the ropes. “Shit! God, I—I should be with her right now, watching out for her. Y’know, if something happens to Susan or her son while I’m stuck in this lousy stinking basement, it’ll be your goddamn fault, Leo. I’m going to blame you.”

Leo wondered if he was telling the truth about this stalker. He’d been on the level earlier when he’d said the woman was his fiancée. And while Jordan had claimed to have caught him in a lie twice, both times Meeker had a fairly rational explanation. Leo couldn’t help putting himself in this guy’s situation right now—if he was indeed innocent. What a nightmare this had to be for him.

Meeker lowered his forehead on the worktable and quietly cried. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Here I’m trying to get you to help me. I’m hoping you’ll look into your heart and do the right thing, and how am I handling it? I’m threatening you. I’m sorry, Leo. I’m just scared—and yeah, angry, too. Plus every part of me aches. My hands have fallen asleep. I can’t feel them anymore.” Tears in his eyes, Meeker gazed at him. He looked so pathetic and defeated. “Could you—could you help me blow my nose?”

Leo hesitated and then grabbed the cut-up shirt. “Is this okay?”

Meeker nodded.

Leo held the material up to Meeker’s face, and the man blew his nose in it. There was a string of snot and blood attached to the makeshift hanky when Leo pulled it away. “Sorry,” Meeker muttered. “Let me do it again.” He blew his nose once more, and Leo was careful to wipe above his lip before he pulled the cloth away. “Thank you,” Meeker whispered. “Leo, could you just loosen the rope a little? Please? He has it pulled so tight, it feels like I’m on a rack or something.”

Leo stepped back from him. He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”