Dangerous to Touch (18 page)

“Not that I could tell. The vet thought she might be epileptic, or even diabetic, of all things. He said if it happened again, he would try medication.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No.”

“And how did you get Greta to the vet? She must weigh as much as you do.”

“A man came by and offered to help.”

Marc’s attention was piqued. “Go on,” he said.

“He wanted to drive us there. Since I was so close to home, I just ran down the block to get my own car. He helped me lift her into the backseat.” She blinked her guileless blue eyes a few times, looking back and forth between them. Then her pretty face went white. “Oh my God,” she said, raising a hand to her trembling mouth. “Do you think that was
him?
”

“What did he look like?” Lacy asked.

She worried her lower lip. “Young. Dark-haired. Average-size, I guess.”

“How young? Like Lieutenant Cruz?”

Annemarie studied him. “Yes. Or younger.”

“Dark like him, too? His size?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Not quite as big. Darker hair. And his skin was more…pale.”

“He was white?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else you can remember about him? Anything unusual in his appearance?”

“No. He looked like a regular guy, I guess.”

“What was he driving?”

She scrunched up her face. “Oh, I don’t know. I was so worried about Greta, I’m surprised I can remember the man.”

“A car or truck?” Lacy pressed her for details.

“Not a truck,” she decided. “Just a basic car, I think, nothing flashy.”

“Would you mind going to the station to work with our computer artist? You’d be amazed at what you can remember about a person’s features with a little help.”

“Of course,” she said, patting Greta again with absent affection.

Marc wondered what Annemarie Wilsey had in common with the other victims besides the fact that she was small and blond and pretty. “Where did you get Greta?” he asked, shifting his attention to the dog at her side.

“At the pound. She’s been a treasure.”

Greta looked friendly, but Marc wasn’t about to risk his hand by reaching out to pet her. Unlike a typical Rottweiler, she was pure black, with no tan markings. Her large head, stocky body, and cropped tail gave away her breed.

“Were you looking for a watchdog?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “My garage was broken into last year. There wasn’t much to steal, but it kind of scared me. A few days later, I got a phone call from a volunteer with the ASPCA. Greta needed a home. It seemed like a perfect fit.”

Maybe too perfect, he thought. “Is she trained?”

“Not really. I think she’s just naturally obedient.”

On a hunch, he ordered the dog to lie down in German. Greta complied instantly, stretching out on her barreled chest. He told her to roll over, and she did that, too.

Annemarie Wilsey was astounded. “How did you get her to do that?”

“It’s a gift,” he lied, standing to leave. “If you can go down to the station right away,” he began, and Greta stopped being obedient. She also stopped being friendly. Hackles raised in warning, she issued a low rumble from the back of her throat.

Marc froze.

“Greta!” Annemarie scolded, grabbing onto her nylon collar. “I’m sorry. She’s never acted this way before.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lacy said, putting her body between the dog and Marc, saving him. “Lieutenant Cruz always has this effect on females.”

In his car, Marc turned on the air conditioning full blast and rested his forehead against the steering wheel, trying to pull himself together. He could still hear growling, followed by the sickening crunch of Houdini’s neck bones in his hands.

“You are such a head case, Marcos,” Lacy complained affectionately. “Where’d you learn German?”

“I did a month there after Saudi.”

“You picked up ‘lay down’ and ‘roll over’ in a month?”

He smiled weakly. “Oh, yes. They were essential phrases.”

Instead of admonishing him, she regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “What were the women like?”

“They were…nice,” he said after some hesitation, and they both laughed at his understatement. At nineteen, he hadn’t been able to erase the disturbing images of war by scoring with sexy foreign girls, but he’d given the endeavor his absolute best.

Of course, all of them put together, and everyone since, couldn’t compare to Sidney.

S
idney spent a miserable day torn between worrying about Samantha and worrying about Marc. He called two minutes before closing time to tell her he’d be working late.

“Is there somewhere you can go tonight?” he asked. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I guess I can stay with my parents.”

“Then drive straight there, and don’t stop. The patrol car can’t follow you.”

“Whatever,” she muttered.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes,” she said in an exasperated voice. This time, it was she who hung up without saying goodbye.

Trudging outside, she took Blue out of his kennel to let him roam around while she performed the closing tasks. She was just about to leave when the phone rang again.

“Siddie?”

“Samantha,” she gasped, both relieved and anxious, for her sister sounded scared. “Where are you?”

“At the Downs. Can you come get me? I’ve been thinking…” As she trailed off, Sidney could hear the clink of glass bottles and a bark of male laughter in the background.

“I’ll be right there,” she promised.

The San Luis Rey Downs Country Club was one of Samantha’s old haunts. It was in Bonsall, close to the home where they grew up. On her way out the door, she considered calling Marc, but she was afraid he’d tell her not to go, and Samantha needed her.

Sidney didn’t even pause to put Blue away, she just whistled for him to hop in the bed of the pickup and stepped on the gas. She was parked outside the bar next to Samantha’s SUV a short time later.

At early evening, the place wasn’t exactly hopping, but it was full of regulars, mostly good old boys from the golf course.

She didn’t see Samantha.

Sidney checked the rest room, which was empty, before approaching the bartender. “Was there a woman here a few minutes ago? A pretty blonde?”

He steadied a tray of drinks on his shoulder, glancing at an unoccupied bar stool. “Yeah. She was right there.”

“Did she leave with someone?”

He looked around the bar, perhaps wondering who was missing.

“I didn’t really notice,” he admitted. When a man on the other side of the room let out a short whistle, indicating he was impatient for his drink, Sidney waved the bartender away.

Taking matters into her own hands, she ran her fingertips along the bar stool Samantha had been sitting on. The impression she got was vague and blurry, a wavering image of a dark-haired man. Frowning, because his face looked familiar, she moved on to the next chair. Touching it was like sticking her hand into decomposing flesh, and something clicked inside her head, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

The man who’d been sitting next to Samantha was none other than her childhood nemesis, schoolyard bully Kurtis Stalb.

At the public rest room near Guajome Lake, she’d been reminded of Kurtis, but because Sidney hadn’t seen him in so long, she hadn’t recognized his adult persona. The man in the mirror wasn’t
like
Kurtis Stalb. He
was
Kurtis Stalb.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t figured it out until now.

As an adolescent, Kurtis had lowered Lisa Pettigrew into an abandoned well and left her there for dead. He was the vandal who had eviscerated a helpless cat on top of Sidney’s bed. He was responsible for the rape, torture and murder of Anika Groene and Candace Hegel.

And now, he would do to her sister what he’d done to the others.

Marc dropped off Lacy at the station and drove on in tense silence, cataloging details in his mind, searching for a break.

He thought about dogs. Greta was a German breed of questionable heritage, a watchdog Annemarie had picked up at the pound. Candace Hegel had adopted Blue, a similar mongrel, and Anika Groene’s weird-looking mutt had also been a guest of the county at some point.

Could the killer have a connection to the dogs, if not the women?

A man who was familiar with the animals would have found them easier to handle. Easier to drug. Easier to manipulate.

Marc ventured a guess that all three dogs had been instructed to obey orders in German. Perhaps they’d all been to the same trainer, at some point, or even raised by the same breeder. Annemarie had said her garage had been broken into, an ordinary occurrence. He didn’t know if the other victims had been burglarized, but if they had…

How difficult would it be for the killer to stage a break-in then turn one of his ugly hounds into the pound? Had he called Annemarie Wilsey, and all of the others, posing as an employee of the humane society?

As nefarious plans went, this one had a low probability for success, and it was premeditated to the extreme. Contrary to popular belief, most serial killers weren’t masterminds. They attacked on impulse when an opportunity presented itself. Even so, Marc’s heart was pumping double-time, telling him he was on the right track.

He called Lacy. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for the composite sketch artist to come in.”

“Can you run a search on dog trainers?”

“Been there, done that.”

“What have you got?”

“Too many names to mention. I called Bill Vincent to see if he knew any of them.”

“And what did the good doctor say?”

“He mentioned a breeder in Bonsall who does Schutzhund training. Some guy named Kurtis Stalb. He supposedly turns out mixed-pedigree watchdogs of ‘dubitable nature.’ And get this-he lives less than a mile from Derek DeWinter.”

A chill raced down his spine. “What’s the address?”

“It’s 1431 Lilac. Do you want me to meet you there?”

“Yes,” he said, and the instant he ended the call, his cell phone rang again.

It was Sidney.

“The killer,” she said in a rush, “it’s Kurtis Stalb.”

All of his senses went on red alert. “Where is he?”

“With Samantha,” she panted. “She just called me from the bar at San Luis Rey Downs. I think she left with him. No, I know she did. I know she did!”

He accepted her words without question. “Where did he take her?”

“I don’t know. His house, maybe. He lives by Derek.”

The anxiety that had been riding him all day skyrocketed. “Don’t go there,” he warned. When she didn’t answer, he felt his blood pressure go through the roof. Stepping on the gas, he calculated the number of minutes it would take him to get to Bonsall. “Sidney, you will
not
go there,” he stressed, tightening his fingers around the cell phone.

The only sound was static as the call was dropped.

Sidney didn’t listen to Marc.

Just minutes after his voice cut out, she was standing at the edge of Kurtis’s property, pepper spray in hand, looking down into the shadowed valley below. She’d never been there before, but she knew it was the right place.

So did Blue.

Recognizing the scent, he lifted his head and let out a tortured howl.

The house was set away from the road, down an endless gravel driveway that wound along the banks of a tributary of the San Luis Rey River. Behind the house, a large concrete enclosure was visible in the deepening gloom. A kennel, with at least twenty dog runs.

No wonder Blue had been pacing outside her fence line when she first saw him. He was looking for Candace, and after being drugged, escaping from Kurtis’s property and traveling more than ten miles, he was understandably confused.

Sidney knew she should wait for Marc, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t have a moment to lose. Samantha’s life depended on her immediate arrival. An unbearable sense of urgency propelled her forward.

“You want to get him, boy?” she asked in a low voice, meeting the dog’s fierce gray eyes.

Blue looked ready to rip out throats.

Sidney figured it was as good a plan as any. She’d go down there, surprise Kurtis during whatever torture he was inflicting upon Samantha and sic Blue on him. Then she’d pepper spray his sorry ass, for good measure. Picturing the scene, she felt a strange, cold sense of calm, almost as if she could bare her own teeth and sink them into the killer’s flesh.

“By whatever means necessary,” she whispered, heading down the dark hillside.

She couldn’t sneak up behind the house, not with a dozen or more dogs who would surely alert him to her presence, so she made her way along the side, moving quick and staying low until she came to an open garage.

Inside, there was a small black truck, its cooling system still ticking. Next to the truck sat a beige Ford Taurus with a gaping hole where the passenger window should have been. Sidney could see that the vinyl interior was chewed and torn.

Blue had really done a number on it.

Pulse pounding with adrenaline, she studied the door leading from the garage to the interior of the house. Reaching down, she unclipped Blue’s leash, needing one free hand to turn the knob, the other to spray with.

Sidney didn’t allow herself time to hesitate, or to speculate on Samantha’s condition. Her sister was still alive. She had to be alive. He liked them scared, and alive.

Motioning for Blue to follow, she crept around the vehicles, stepping forward cautiously. When she reached out to test the doorknob, it turned easily, and just like that, she was crossing the threshold from the garage into the house.

A dark blur was her only warning before a blunt, heavy object smashed into the left side of her head.

The next thing Sidney knew, she was on her hands and knees, gasping for air, black spots obscuring her vision. The pepper spray stick was no longer clenched in her fist. Somewhere in the background, Blue’s ferocious growling was cut off with a yelp, then nothing.

Warm wetness flowed into her ear and coursed down her neck. Fat red drops splashed onto the floor between her braced hands. The pain was so immense she couldn’t believe she was alive, let alone conscious. Struggling to stay that way, she swallowed her fear, fighting against an almost overwhelming urge to lie down on the floor and die.

“Didn’t see that coming, did you, psychic bitch?”

“The police will be here any minute,” she said between gasping breaths.

“I guess I better hurry then.” Grabbing her by the arms, he dragged her across the linoleum. Not only was she helpless to stop him, but she couldn’t summon the energy to kick her legs or fight in any way.

On the other side of the door, Blue’s prone body lay in a crumpled heap.

Sidney moaned weakly.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he grunted, stretching her out on the floor next to Samantha. Her sister was alive, bound and gagged, her blue eyes glassy with panic.

Kurtis stood over Sidney, legs splayed wide apart, arms crossed over his chest. He was much the same as she remembered him: tall and wiry, no better than average-looking, his coarse black hair falling over his forehead into dark, soulless eyes.

A malicious smile spread across his pale face. “Now this is a dream come true. The Morrow sisters at my disposal. A slutty little blonde and a dark-haired tomboy. I don’t know who I want to do first.”

Beside her, Samantha whimpered.

Kurtis raised his dark brows. “You volunteering, Miz Parker?”

Black flashes danced behind Sidney’s eyes, beckoning her to oblivion. “You don’t have time,” she promised hoarsely, her head spinning.

He must have believed her, because he left them lying there alone for a moment. When he returned, he brought the tarp.

Marc arrived at Kurtis Stalb’s house less than twenty minutes after ending the phone call with Sidney. He was lucky the country roads were deserted, because his driving gave the term “reckless endangerment” new meaning.

When he saw Sidney’s truck parked by the side of the road, he slammed his open palm against the steering wheel, furious with her for putting her life in danger.

He turned into the driveway, cut the engine a few hundred feet from the house and was out running, Glock in hand, before his car came to a complete stop. The only vehicle in the garage was an older model black Ford Ranger. Between it and the door leading from the garage into the house, there was a small yellow object, hauntingly familiar. Sidney’s pepper spray. It didn’t appear to have been used.

Fear gripped him, squeezing his heart with a sweaty fist.

Abandoning stealth in the interest of saving time, he kicked in the door, holding his Glock out in front of him with both hands. A hundred pounds of fur and muscle sailed through the air, right at his chest. As he fell back against the wall, he discharged a bullet into the ceiling. Plaster rained down on his head.

The first time he’d fired his weapon in the line of duty, and it was an accident.

Growling and whining, Blue sank his teeth into the front of his T-shirt and pulled, ripping cotton away from flesh. Face-to-face with the deranged mongrel, staring into his silver-gray eyes, Marc came to the understanding that the dog wasn’t trying to kill him.

“Easy, Blue,” he said, surveying his surroundings.

Underneath him, a slick trail of blood ran from the door to the kitchen, where a small pool had collected on the middle of the linoleum floor. At the sight of it, a black rage fell over him, darkening the edges of his vision. When Marc found Kurtis Stalb, he was going to tear him apart with his bare hands.

Drag marks and smeared footprints traversed the length of the hallway, as if Stalb had pulled something along behind him. A tarp-wrapped body, for instance.

With a mouthful of his T-shirt clamped between his impressive jaws, Blue continued to jerk him backward, toward the garage, his claws seeking purchase on the slippery linoleum.

“Halt!” he ordered in German, hoping Blue wouldn’t take offense to the language, as Greta had. Not only was the dog ruining his crime scene, Marc needed to check the other rooms.

Making a pitiful sound, Blue sank to the floor, panting, more worn-out than he should have been after the brief tussle. Marc noted the blood on his muzzle and wondered if the dog had already gone a round with Stalb, and lost.

The rest of the house was empty. In the back, behind the only other locked door he encountered, there was a small, dark room. Digitally printed photos were spread out over a bare mattress. Annemarie Wilsey. Anika Groene. Candace Hegel.