“If you were so worried, why’d you go through with it at all”
“Some things you just don’t pass up.”
Although she couldn’t see him, she knew a cruel and hungry leer had spread across his face.
“Your little friend was so cute, so cuddly.” He made a lip-smacking sound that sickened her. “I like ‘em young, you know. The younger, the better. Marta was real good, Trish. A man would pay serious money for a taste of what she had.”
The ache in her leg was worse, but it couldn’t compete with the sudden furious throbbing of her skull.
She saw it again: Marta in the weeds, a roach crawling on her unblinking eye. Heard her own voice keening: I told you. Marta, I told you …
“You didn’t just want her,” she whispered. “You needed her. You had to have her.”
“Just like I gotta have you, blue eyes.”
“It’s a compulsion with you-killing young girls.”
“Sort of a bad habit I’ve never been able to shake.”
“How many have there been”
“Believe it or not, I’ve lost count. Maybe … couple dozen.”
Couple dozen. She shut her eyes.
It was only a number, but behind it lay suffering impossible to calculate. The agony of victims, the grief of parents, the hurt of friends.
And all because of this one man, roaming the back roads, passing uninvited from town to town, stringing his daisy chain of corpses through a line of weedy fields.
“Did one of them give you that scar” she hissed, hoping the answer was yes.
“My little beauty mark No, that’s a souvenir from prison.”
“At least you can’t pick up schoolgirls anymore.” Anger made her harsh. “Not with that face.”
He merely laughed. “There are other girls. Runaways. Underage hookers. They’re not too particular about their escorts.”
“So you still do it”
“Every now and then. Got this trailer, real isolated, soundproofed.” Chuckle. “You’ll be seeing it soon.”
I’ll bet, she thought, acid trickling in her belly.
“There was one girl,” he went on, “cadging quarters at an interstate rest stop. All of thirteen years old. I took her back to my place for the usual treatment. But this girl, well, she liked pain. She got off on it. So I let her live.”
“Lilith,” Trish breathed.
“You catch on quick. Officer. Maybe you’ll make detective someday.”
The path grew steeper. Her wounded leg wobbled. She knew what would happen if she fell. Cain would sling her over his shoulder like a sack of garbage … but first he would blow out both her knees with Black Talon rounds.
Or maybe he would decide carrying her wasn’t worth the trouble, and simply end her life with a bullet to the brain.
That way would be better-quicker-than what she had in store at that trailer of his.
No medals for quitters. She kept going.
“You know, it’s funny.” Cain’s words, low and thoughtful. “Back then you tried to talk Marta out of going with me. Tonight you nearly shot down this whole operation. Every time we get together, you mess with my plans. You’re like a bad penny, Robinson. You just keep turning up.”
“You’re the bad penny,” she whispered, jaws clenched.
“Maybe so.” A pleasant laugh. “But you’re the one who’s being taken out of circulation.”
She crested the rise and found herself at a parking lot, empty save for a dark van and the Porsche she’d seen in the Kents’ driveway earlier.
Lilith stood near the Porsche. For a frightened moment Trish didn’t see Ally.
Was she dead
Then her wavering gaze fastened on a white dress, a pale face-Ally, alive, seated on the passenger side of the Porsche.
“Go.” Cain gave her a shove, and she stumbled forward.
Lilith, fists on hips, drilled a cold stare into Cain. “Why didn’t you ice her”
“Turns out she’s an old friend.” Cain’s voice was merry. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Trish hobbled alongside the Porsche. Through the open window Ally gazed up at her. She was buckled into her seat, hands bound with what looked like a cut-off segment of the shoulder harness. Despair shadowed her face.
Meeting her eyes, Trish mouthed three words: There’s always hope.
The same words she’d said in the cellar. She wondered if Ally would remember.
She did. A faint smile flickered on the girl’s lips.
Then the car was behind her, Cain steering her to the van. Automatically she tried to identify the make and model. Either a Chevy Astro or a GMC Safari. Three or four years old. Black or dark green. California tags.
Couldn’t read the plate, but she supposed it didn’t matter.
Cain slid open the door panel on the passenger side. A dome light winked on, illuminating a cloth-upholstered bench seat.
“In,” he ordered.
She paused, unsure she could manage the upward step into the rear compartment, and unwilling to leave the open air, the smell of woods, the lake breeze, all the things she might never know again.
“Do it, Trish,” Cain said softly. “This is one ride you’re not turning down.”
72
With a groan of protest, the four-by-eight panel finally came free, opening an exit in the closet wall.
“Did it,” Philip gasped, blinking perspiration away.
Only the drywall remained, the last barrier. Barbara, guiding the work by flashlight, pulled off her left pump and handed it to Philip. “Use this.”
The two-inch heel made a serviceable tool. Crouching low, Philip attacked the bottom portion of the drywall.
Each tap was loud. Charles might have been right, Barbara reflected nervously. The noise could draw the killers.
It took Philip less than a minute to break open an irregular hole two feet wide, bracketed by wooden studs.
“Okay,” he said without bravado, “I’m going through.”
Charles stood up. “Just you Alone”
There was something odd about the way he said it, as if he felt threatened by the prospect.
Philip shook his head. “We’ve got to stick together.”
“Right.” Charles nodded, manic intensity gleaming in his eyes. “We stick together. Nobody goes anywhere alone.”
Barbara wondered if her husband was having a breakdown.
Philip crawled into the linen closet, then pushed on the door. It groaned-the explosion must have warped the frame-but yielded to his pressure.
When it was fully open he scrambled out. A whisper: “Coast is clear.”
Barbara looked at Judy, who took the flash and waved her on. “You next.”
On hands and knees Barbara squeezed through the hole, splinters and bent screws clutching at her dress and hair. Her head bumped against the linen closet’s bottom shelf. Philip helped her to her feet, then knelt to assist his wife.
Blinking, Barbara looked around at the master bath. The medicine cabinets, unlatched, had spilled their contents on the marble countertop and in the porcelain basin and across the tile floor. Above the sink, twin sconces still glowed, the bulbs unbroken, but the mirror had shattered, as had the skylight over the Roman tub.
Her mind barely registered the damage. The important thing was that the killers had not come. And in the darkened bedroom just beyond the doorway, there ought to be a telephone.
Stick together, Philip had said. But Judy was taking forever to struggle through the gap. Charles would follow. Philip was preoccupied with helping. Another minute would pass before all four of them were out.
She couldn’t wait that long.
Kicking off her other pump, she moved to the doorway and cast a sidelong glance down the hall.
Dark. Silent. She didn’t think anyone was there.
A breath of courage, and she left the bathroom. Barefoot, she crossed the suite, staying close to the spill of light from the bathroom, avoiding broken glass and fallen plaster.