You Can’t Stop Me (21 page)

Carmen was back on the couch again, but as day shifted to night, she felt more frightened than before. Late in the afternoon, when she’d finally managed to overcome her fear enough to sleep for a few minutes, he had roused her, and slit the tape that bound her hands behind her.

“Take off the shirt,” he said, voice as calm as if asking the time.

She fluttered her hands at her sides, trying to get some feeling back.

“No,” she said from behind the tape, and shook her head, seizing the courage to stand up to him.

Then the two prongs of the Taser touched her spine through the fabric of the T-shirt, and she felt her resolve melt.

“You
know
what this is,” he said, the prongs against her. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

He stayed behind her as she lifted the shirt over her head. He might be watching her back, but she moved carefully to make sure that was all he saw.

She’d wondered if it would come to this—to rape. She had played it out in her mind, and even wondered if it might be to her advantage if he tried that, because he might untie her, and hadn’t he just freed her hands?

Somewhere in her mind, her own voice laughed a shrill hysterical laugh.
To her
advantage
if he tried to rape her? That was a good one….

When she had the shirt off, he said, “Drop it.”

She dropped the garment.

Careful not to step around her, he handed her a blue sweatshirt.

“Put this on.”

As she stood there bare-breasted, holding the sweatshirt before her, she realized it was the Kansas University one he’d been wearing when he abducted her. She held it at arm’s length, disgusted by the thought. It didn’t smell rank, but it did smell like
him
…and the thought of having that aroma so close to her flesh repulsed her.

The prongs of the Taser touched her bare back. They were cold and hard and amped her fear up another notch.

“Put it on,” he said.

His voice quavered!
Was he frightened? Aroused?

Finally, fear overcame revulsion, and she slipped on the sweatshirt, which was hot and scratchy against her skin. And, as she’d thought, his scent on it turned her stomach.

That was when he’d re-taped her hands, behind her again, and put her back onto the sofa. She saw him pick up her T-shirt, then he disappeared from view. No sound of the lounger reclining, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sitting in it, just out of view.

Now, with dark of night settling over the room, she couldn’t tell whether he was in there with her or not. Her mouth was still taped shut, and she lay helplessly, eyes on shadows crawling across the ceiling.

When she heard a noise beyond the walls of the house, she froze. She tried not to breathe, afraid her breathing or the pounding of her heart would drown out the sound, should it occur again.

She struggled to identify what she’d heard.

Was it a footfall on a wooden step out front? The wind? Her imagination?

She strained to hear, every fiber of her being focused on listening, her only concession a fast prayer for the sound to repeat.

Then it did.

This time she was sure she’d heard something, and it did sound like feet on a wooden step outside. Then more footsteps, and she realized at least two people were out there.

Someone coming to rescue her?

Caution be damned, she rolled over, onto the floor, and her eyes sought her kidnapper in his chair.

The old lounger sat empty.

Outside, the sounds grew slightly louder. Were those muffled voices?

Through the tape, she yelled, “Help!”

The tape ate up the sound, but if Harrow or the cops or
anybody
was out there on that porch, she needed to try to let them know she was in here…alive!

Crawling on her knees, hands bound behind her, she used all her energy and will power to get closer to the door, as she continued to scream into the tape.

The going was slow, and the screaming seemed to eat up all the oxygen. Her breathing became labored as she crept ever so slowly toward the door….

Voices on the porch
.

And even in the darkness, she could see the knob turn a little.

Then Carmen heard a distinct voice, outside.

“Hey, you kids! Get the hell away from there!”

She could hear the footsteps pound down the stairs…

…and slowly disappear.

The sounds were gone by the time the front door swung open and her abductor came in, wearing a white button-down shirt and nice black slacks.

Gazing down at her, shaking his head in disappointment, he said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Though she’d vowed not to cry in front of this monster, and had been successful until now, Carmen could feel the tears welling.

“Kids,” he said, with a shrug and a glance toward the door. “What are you gonna do?”

I’m going to die in this room
, Carmen thought, on the floor, helpless.
I’m going to die right here….

Gibbons raised a foot to kick open the door, but Harrow held up a hand.

He had an idea.

As Gibbons lowered his leg, Harrow reached out and carefully tried the knob. It turned easily, not locked.

Slowly, he swung the door all the way open. The room was pitch black and seemed to be empty.

“Flash,” Harrow said.

Gibbons produced a mini MagLite and stepped into the room, shining the light around, Harrow on his heels.

Other than furniture, the living room was empty. They moved to their left, Harrow pointing his pistol down a hallway to the right while Gibbons and his flashlight checked out the tiny kitchen.

“Clear,” Gibbons said.

Leading the way down the hallway, Harrow slipped into a minuscule bathroom on the right, the shower curtain drawn. Behind him, Gibbons sent the flashlight into the room even as he remained in the hall, pistol pointed toward the two rooms still ahead.

As his fingers touched the edge of the shower curtain, Harrow couldn’t help but picture the image of a dead, blood-spattered Carmen sprawled there.

He let out a breath, whipped back the curtain, and peered into an empty tub.

After a relieved sigh, he said, “Clear.”

Two rooms—presumably bedrooms—were opposite each other at the hall’s end. Gibbons and his flash led the way, then went left and Harrow right, finding himself in a master bedroom that he could make out fairly well, thanks to night vision and moonlight seeping through windows.

The queen-size bed came out from the right wall, a tall armoire immediately to Harrow’s left, a small closet beyond that. The wall to his left was bare except for a longer, low dresser with an attached mirror. Harrow tried to see the other side of the bed in the mirror, but it was all shadows. The opposite wall, painfully close to the bed, had two curtained windows with precious little moonlight filtering through.

Edging to his left, Harrow looked on the far side of the armoire—nothing. His back to the dresser and mirror, Harrow edged around, keeping track of the closet door.

No one on the far side of the bed, either.

His heart beat faster now, his breathing raspy as he squatted down, still trying to watch the closet as he peeled back the bottom of the spread and peeked under.

Nothing except for a couple pairs of shoes and slippers.

From the other room, Gibbons said, “Clear,” the sound of the sheriff’s voice giving Harrow a start.

It had been a while since he’d entered a house with no idea what lay inside, and he had to admit he was a little anxious—maybe more than a little, if his hammering heart was any indicator.

He rose and took two quick steps to the closet, and jerked open the door. Some clothes hung, but nothing else presented itself.

“Clear,” Harrow said.

He went to the doorway where Gibbons waited.

“Gone,” the sheriff said, flipping the switch for the bedroom light.

Harrow glanced at the sheriff, who was looking at something on the bed. Turning, following the sheriff’s gaze, Harrow saw it too.

It had been there the whole time, but Harrow had been so intent on clearing the dark room, he’d not noticed it—folded to display two round holes from the Taser down below the logo: the T-shirt Carmen had frequently worn back when she was a P.A.—the black shirt with the white circle enclosing the letters
OZO
.

Gibbons asked, “That belong to your teammate?”

“It does.”

“So she was here?”

Harrow looked around. “
Somebody’s
been here.”

He clicked the nine millimeter’s safety on and tucked it back in his waistband.

Gibbons radioed, “Clear,” to his deputies.

“Sheriff,” Harrow said, “you have any problem with my people processing this crime scene?”

“None at all.”

Using the walkie-talkie feature on his cell phone, Harrow passed along the message to Chase and Choi.

“Laurene, is the rest of the team here yet?”

“Yeah,” she said. “They rolled up a couple of minutes ago.”

“Good. You and Billy get your crime scene kits and work this scene. Start Billy in the kitchen—you take the master bedroom.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Her T-shirt’s here.”

“Her T-shirt?”

“Yeah.”

A pause, then Laurene asked, “Any of her other clothing?”

“Not that we’ve found. The shirt’s a message, I think. Get in here.”

Laurene gave him a ten-four.

He noticed Gibbons looked as rattled as Harrow felt. “First time into an unknown house in a while, Herm?”

Gibbons nodded. “How long for you?”

“Ten or twelve years,” Harrow said.

“Always a kick, huh?”

With a grim smile, Harrow said, “Safer than working traffic.”

The pair went outside and let the two crime scene analysts in to do their work. Standing in the yard with Gibbons, the two deputies, and the rest of the
Killer TV
team, Harrow had the empty feeling they were too late.

Though they hadn’t rolled into town with the whole damn circus, their presence had still somehow been known by the bastard.

Across the yard, Deputy Wilson and the other deputy from the office were smoking and chatting. Joining them, Harrow bummed a cigarette. The smoke felt warm and calming in his chest.

The cops in the yard, the dark house, even bumming a smoke, it all reminded him too much of when Ellen and David had been taken from him. Emotions he didn’t want to deal with right now were stirring within him.

His cell rang. “Harrow.”

“Where are you?”

The voice, a familiar one, was a surprise—it belonged to
Crime Seen!
reporter Carlos Moreno. “J.C., where are you?”

“Lebanon, Kansas. Where are you?”

“Same place,” Moreno said. “Downtown with a camera crew from the Topeka affiliate.”

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago on a story.”

“I was till Byrnes called. He put me on the Cessna and had a camera crew meet me in Wichita. With Carmen kidnapped, he wants another reporter here.”

Harrow shook his head—he should have known the network president would pull something like this. If Carmen turned up dead, the coverage would be massive in all media, and Byrnes couldn’t allow UBC to shortchange itself on its own story. Harrow felt like Byrnes was writing Carmen off.

“Beautiful human being,” Harrow said, “our Dennis.”

“Yeah, but he signs the checks, J.C. What’s going on?”

“Just get out here, and I’ll fill you in.”

Harrow gave Moreno directions to the Shelton house.

In less than ten minutes, Moreno and his camera crew pulled up in a van marked with the call letters and channel number of UBC’s Wichita affiliate.

Moreno got out, came over, and the two shook hands.

“Sorry about this, man,” the affable reporter said.

“Not your fault.”

Harrow had just finished introducing Moreno to the locals when Laurene and Choi came out.

Choi trotted up and said, “Boss—there was a jewelry box under the T-shirt. I left it for the feds, but…I sneaked a peek. It’s full of wedding rings. Fifteen or twenty of ’em.”

One of them Ellen’s,
Harrow thought, filled with excitement and dread.

“No fingers, though,” Choi added.

In her latex-gloved right hand, Laurene bore an envelope. She ignored the sheriff and handed it to Harrow.

Harrow asked, “You’re not worried about prints?”

She shook her head. “They’re frickin’ everywhere. He’s not hiding.”

Harrow accepted the envelope. In big block letters,
HARROW
was printed across the front. He opened the envelope and fished out a piece of paper.

Gibbons came up to him. “J.C., that’s
evidence
….”

With just a sideways glance, Harrow communicated with Hathaway, and the camera’s eye switched from Laurene and Harrow to the sheriff.

“It’s addressed to me,” Harrow said.

Gibbons, realizing he was on camera and that the whole nation would be siding with Harrow and not him, wisely backed off.

The letter was printed in neat block letters not unlike the envelope. Harrow read:

Below was an address.

Working to keep his emotions in check, Harrow handed the letter to Gibbons, who read it quickly.

“My God,” Gibbons said.

Harrow asked, “Recognize the address?”

The sheriff nodded numbly. Jerking a thumb toward the crackerbox behind him, Gibbons said, “Shelton bought this house after his family died.
This
address?” He held up the letter. “That’s the house he lived in when his family was murdered.”

My God indeed, Harrow thought.

“Ten years of this man’s life,” Harrow said, “have been building to this moment.”

Gibbons and the rest, including the camera, just stared at him.

“Let’s not disappoint him,” Harrow said.