Mommy, May I? (29 page)

Helena glanced at Patrick, who nodded.

Claire took her coffee mug and left the room following Tyler. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not what you think, I swear. It’s not about the story. After talking about these people with you, I feel terribly guilty for the things that I’ve written about them over the years. You made me see how decent they are, and how wrong and judgmental I’ve been.”

“Really? Well, you might be able to convince a distraught mother who’s so exhausted and obviously out of her mind she can’t think straight, but you haven’t fooled me. I know reporters really well, and I think your reporter’s nose smells something juicy and worth some dollars. By the way, how
did
you finagle your way through the front door?”

“I used your name, showed them your card, cell number, and pager.”

“Jesus Christ, Claire! You’re using me, too? Did you really quit
The Scene
, or was that just a con job to get inside to wreck these peoples’ lives some more? I believed you wanted to do something worthwhile.”

“I do,” she said, hands on hips. “Whether you believe me or not.”

“I’ll let you stay, but only at Helena’s behest. If they want you out, you’re out!”

“Fine.”

The ringing of the phone stopped them both. Tyler charged out of the kitchen and into the family room where the wiretap was set up.

“This might be our man,” Tyler shouted. “Helena, come around here and get this phone. Now wait until I give you the signal to pick up.” He looked around at all the monitors and men giving him the thumbs up. He nodded, and Helena picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

Tyler could tell immediately that the person on the other end had said something upsetting to Helena when her face turned pale as a newly laundered sheet.

****

Helena had followed Tyler’s instructions to pick up the phone on the fourth ring. Her palms were clammy, and her stomach sank when she heard that same weird male voice on the other end.

“Ms. Shea? This is you, isn’t it?”

“Who is this?” Patrick’s hand rested on her shoulder, as if willing strength into her.

“Who is this? Who is this? No quicker than our last conversation, but what can I expect from a former model? Not too bright, are you?”

“Please tell me where my daughter is. Please, I’ll do anything. Pay anything, whatever you want,” Helena cried out hoping this madman would release Frankie.

“I’ll pay anything,” he whined, mocking her.

Helena held the receiver tighter. This wasn’t a prank. This was the maniac who’d stolen their child.

“I don’t want your fucking money. I have what I want and it’s beautiful, she’s beautiful, and the things I’m going to do to her will be beautiful too. You will never see your child alive again. Do you hear me, you fucking whore? Never! I’ve taken away everything from you now, haven’t I? How does it feel? But you did this to me! I could’ve been good and whole, but you made me evil again! Now you’ll pay with everything you thought you possessed—freedom, friends, and family.”

“Oh, God,” cried Helena. “Where is she? Don’t hurt my daughter, please! I’m sorry for the things you say I did to you. Please don’t hurt my baby. I’ll do anything, please.”

“Good,” he laughed. “You’re right where I want you, in your own hell, where you’ll have plenty of time to think about what you’ve done.”

As the line went dead, Helena fell back into Patrick’s arms. It had been
him
. Her fear and hatred grew along with the pain in her chest, as if someone was slowly, relentlessly squeezing the life out of her.

She searched Tyler’s face, but did not see what she hoped. He, too, looked desperate for answers. What could she have done to make someone commit such a vicious act against Frankie? But it wasn’t about Frankie—he was challenging her to come find her daughter. She could hear it in his voice. That was exactly what he wanted.

Richard sat watching Francesca sleep. He felt bad for how he’d treated her earlier, but she really needed to obey him. Once he woke her, she would receive her next lesson. He believed that she had “appreciation” down. Her next lesson would be about bravery. Richard’s goal was to create the perfect companion. These lessons would benefit them both. If Francesca became what he wanted her to be, well, the possibilities were endless.

He had returned to the cabin shortly after phoning Helena. He wondered how she was doing. Certainly his call would’ve sent any parent into a cardiac arrest. Good. The thought of her suffering was delightful. Suffer, suffer, suffer. He had suffered for many years at the hands of others.

His cabin out in the backwoods had been made into a magician’s dream world by the use of electronics and hydraulics. Richard had installed walls in his victim’s room on levelers. Thus, he could turn twenty feet into ten or two. It was a great head game to play with the women he brought there. He had yet to play this game with Francesca. He looked forward to her reaction to small spaces. Would she react the way he had every time that hypocritical bitch he’d had to call
aunt
would throw him into the basement for hours at a time? Richard remembered the humiliation of urinating all over himself, terrified of the shadows on the walls which looked like monsters coming to get him. Would Francesca feel panicky, not being able to move? He’d soon find out.

“Francesca?” He shook her lightly. The analgesics he’d been dicing up in her food obviously worked, because she slept most of the time—exactly as he’d expected. There was no room for error in his plan, and leaving her with any energy could be dangerous. She began to move, and he repeated her name. Her eyes fluttered, as if trying to focus. “Hello, sleepy girl.” She didn’t reply. “I’ve planned a great day for us. First we’re going to try a little experiment. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No.”

“Good, then all you have to do is stay right here.” He patted her leg. “Sure you don’t have to go to the bathroom?”

“Do you want me to?”

After the previous night, the girl’s fight had seemingly died. “Not unless you need to.”

“I don’t.”

“Then let the games begin.” He left her room, since he’d already rearranged everything while she was sleeping. He typed in the codes on his computer that would make the walls do as he commanded. It took only minutes before he heard the levelers shifting.

“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Please stop!”

He enjoyed hearing her scream louder and louder as the walls closed in on her. It took him back to when he’d screamed for his aunt to let him out.

Richard stopped the walls when they were exactly where he wanted them. Francesca now only had space for her bed. Ah, wonderful! Nothing could make a person nuttier faster than taking away their space.

“Please don’t do this,” she cried.

“Quit your sniveling.” He looked up at the television monitor to see her huddled up, shackled, handcuffed, and scared to death. He took a still photo of the image to send to Helena. He planned to send Helena an entire album of Francesca’s “last days.”

He could hear the girl sobbing and remembered another girl he’d made cry like this—his beautiful Brianne.

As he listened to Francesca, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. She had to stop that racket she was making. It was time to teach her a lesson. Once he did that, she would never complain again.

Frankie’s tears dried on her cheeks, and she stopped trembling, her will to live fading. What was the psycho doing now? With the walls closed in on her, she now knew what it was to be in a straight jacket with nowhere to go and forced to listen to the ravings of a lunatic. In her private prison, he would read to her. If she heard anything more about ghouls or death, she would make him pay attention to her wails, or at least drown out his horrid voice.

Why didn’t he just kill her? This must be part of his sadistic fun—drive her batty and
then
take her life. At least if she were driven mad, maybe death would go unnoticed. But she doubted that. She stared at the walls he’d closed in on her, wondering when all this would end—because she already knew how it would. This fucking Poe dude would never let her out of his insane hell.

A thought scarier than death confronted her, and she shivered from the fear of it. What if killing her wasn’t his goal at all? What if she really were an experiment for him, like some bizarre Nazi science project? She’d read about the Holocaust and knew something about what Dr. Mengele had done to the Jews. Frankie couldn’t get a read on this psycho, but he was as sadistic as any crazy Nazi.

For now, Frankie felt numb, as though she were dulled somehow, which of course, she was. If she had a razor right now, she could slit her wrists without too much trouble—except that Frankie wanted to live. She’d been through hell, much more than most teenagers. So far she’d soaked up all the crap, knowing that it had to get better. Her dad had taught her that. But fretting over this psycho’s plans drained her of any hope of a real life again.

The walls began moving once more.
Here we go, maybe this time he’ll just finish this game.
But if Frankie had learned anything from this creep, it was that he never did what she expected, like when he’d shoved her into the toilet. She’d figured he’d drown her then. It was apparent, torture was his thing. He wanted to torment her, make her keep guessing at when and how she would die.

Instead of closing the walls in on her completely, he opened them all the way out, opening up the room again. Moments later, the lock turned and he came in.

“Was that fun, Francesca? Interesting, huh?”

“A blast.”

“Do I detect sarcasm?” He stood at the end of her cot, hands on hips, waiting for an answer.

“Of course not.” She was tired of fearing him, tired of it all, and yes, she’d decided to be a smart ass. Maybe he’d get mad enough at her to finally put her out of her misery.

“I’ve got to say that I wasn’t thrilled by your weakness. But seeing who your mother is, I should expect that. Anyway, I’ve prepared another section to this particular lesson, only this time I get to have all the fun, and it’s to teach you how to be courageous, because you need it.”

“Oh, goody fucking gumdrops. Do I get a purple heart when you’re finished?”

He took a step back, glaring at her. But she didn’t care if she’d pissed him off. She was going down with a fight, even if it was only through a verbal assault.

“I see you’re a comic. I’m impressed. But I don’t care too much for comedy. I like horror much better.”

“No joke. You’re a real Stephen King, aren’t you? Well, get used to it cause I’m freaking Jennifer Aniston, only you aren’t my friend.”

“Okay, Francesca,” his face turned a raging purple color. “Time for your lesson. You’re boring me with your dribble.” He pulled out a large plastic bag and threw her flat onto the bed. Everything happened so fast. He covered her face with the plastic bag over her head and held it tightly around her neck.

She panicked, growing dizzy. She started to fade and knew this was finally the way she was to die—thankfully, because she couldn’t go on this way. As the darkness overtook her and she relaxed, allowing a warm, peaceful wave to pass through her, the bag was removed. She gasped for air, coughing violently, tears rolling down her face.

He stood. “Now, I think you learned something here. Why don’t you think about it, while I go shopping? And you’re wrong about us not being friends. We’re best friends. In fact, I’m your only friend.”

He locked the door behind him, while Frankie begged God to either save her or take her life.

Tyler watched Patrick pace the floor. Everyone was frustrated as they had failed to trace the call from Frankie’s kidnapper. Helena and Claire had gone outside for some air to brainstorm about who might want to get even with her. Perhaps not surprisingly, Claire was turning out to be an asset. He knew that as a reporter she would know the right questions to ask Helena about her past, maybe even get better results than the police; and because she could empathize as a woman, she might have the right touch to help jostle Helena’s memory.

This case still had Tyler baffled. This perp sounded absolutely
possessed
, and Tyler was convinced that this case was linked to Leeza’s murder and the fire at Shea House. After the phone call, Tyler had been forced to correct his initial assumptions that the MO was about money as well as revenge. It still was clearly about revenge, but the kidnapper didn’t want or
need
money. And that scared Tyler.

Helena furnished the FBI team with the names of people she thought might have a serious beef with her. Agents were busy checking out a handful of possibilities. So far, nothing had come of it.

When the phone rang again, Patrick raced for it. An agent held up his hand. “Hang on a sec, Mr. Kiley. We’ve got to get the trace going.” Patrick held off until given the signal to answer. After saying hello, he handed the phone off to Tyler.

“Savoy here.”