The Fourth Victim (12 page)

Veering off the path toward the woods, he started to go in search of it again, and then stopped. Each time he'd gotten close, the sound had stopped. Whatever little critter was out there didn't want him disturbing it. But regardless, it wasn't leaving whatever job it was doing.

So he continued on. He found his tree. He made his bed, such as it was, and sat down on the blanket. Wrapping the edges over his lap, he laid his head against the tree and closed his eyes.

And saw again the pretty face smiling up at him from the dash of his car. Saw those eyes. The trust. The faith.

The…naiveté? No. If anything, Kelly Chapman saw too much. Knew too much.

But she obviously believed, anyway. In some kind of innate goodness.

Maybe that was what called out to him. The hope that there really was some good left in the world.

Finding Kelly alive—

His eyes flew open.

The sound. The rhythmic swishing sound floating out into the night. Why would an animal return to a place where it had been spooked? Unless it was feasting on prey?

A dead body?

He was nuts. Clay acknowledged that as he stood, flung his blanket around his neck and headed back to where he'd veered off the path.

And this time he didn't stop.

Whether the sound stopped or not, he was going to find out what was making that noise.

No one would know he'd lost his mind. This was between him and the night.

And when he'd exhausted every avenue—then he could allow himself to rest.

Night

S
till. Or again.

Need to breathe. Open mouth.

Spit…

Blood…

Wet…

Wet was good.

Please. More sleep.

 

Stepping carefully so that he didn't crack any twigs beneath his black leather shoes, alerting his nocturnal companion to his advance, Clay drew closer to the sound, preparing himself for the worst.

It wasn't as if a dead body unhinged him. He'd seen far too many of them.

But this one was different.

This woman…

The sound stopped again. He kept walking in the direction from which it came. And was surprised as hell when the swishing noise started up again. As though his presence hadn't been the cause of its silence at all.

Interesting.

And…there was more than one of them. There were at least two. One the swishing he'd heard before, the other a faint keening sound.

He'd seen a deer dead beside the road a couple of weeks before. There'd been a buzzard with its beak inside the animal's stomach and another gnawing on the flesh of the doe's hip.

He was probably trailing a dead dear.

Clay pressed on. He had to know.

It was his father in him, pushing him. Clay recognized the process.
Go, Clay. Find out. Know. Experience. Live.

And come home to tell me all about it.

He could hear the words forming in his head already. “I was in the dark all alone, Dad, prepared to spend the night sitting up against a tree. It was pitch-black and I was the only human being around for at least half a mile. Just me and barren cornfields on one side and woods on the other. And wildlife. It was cold and getting colder. I was drifting off to sleep, thinking of you and Mom, and I heard this sound….”

The noise was faint, but Clay could swear he was
standing
on it—that it was coming from the ground beneath his feet.

Was it caused by the wind blowing something against a tree?

There was no wind. He scanned the leafless branches on dead-looking trees and the dips and valleys in the woods. He could see no movement at all.

Ssshhh. Ssshhh.

What the hell was it? Finding the source of that noise was a matter of pride now. Of determination. His father had taught him that the worst thing you could do in life was give up.

Giving up meant not living.

Which was why one of the most painful parts of Clay's job was being forced to stop a search without a find.

He perused the ground, searching for parts of a carcass.

Another few yards and he paused again. Listened. Turned. The noise was behind him now. Which made no sense. He would've had to step on it to get from where he'd been to where he was.

Looking down again, Clay studied the ground. Solid. Covered in masses of dead leaves that looked like they hadn't been touched since they'd fallen two months ago.

But the
ssshhhing
called him so he moved forward. One foot at a time. Foot forward. Stop. Listen. Foot forward. Stop. Listen.

And then he heard something else. A whimper.

And he froze. Waiting for the cry to come again.

He wasn't imagining things. He couldn't be.

Intent, Clay waited. He knew what he'd heard.

A few minutes later, the sound came again. A faint whimper. Not a cry for help, but more like the kind of sound someone made while asleep. Having a nightmare.

And it seemed to be coming from under his feet.

He was straddling the twigs of a large fallen log, a dead branch like hundreds of others in the wooded areas of southwestern Ohio—effects from Hurricane Ike, which had torn through the state two years before.

It was perched against some other trees, one of which was leaning toward it. If he moved that one, the other would fall.

The sound came again, and with every instinct tuned to top pitch, Clay bent down. Had Kelly ventured into the woods for some reason? Maybe to relieve herself? And a tree had fallen on her?

No, the sound was farther away than that.

His thoughts raced.

Peering beneath the tree, he heard it again. Louder.

Clay pointed his flashlight beneath the log and his heart started to pound. The leaves covering the ground under the fallen log, stretching toward the trunk of another tree, had been disturbed. Recently.

He had to move the fallen log. Looping his belt around the dead tree that held the log in place, Clay brought it down first, swinging it around to brace against a second tree. And then with very little effort, he was able to swing the rotting log over and away from the disturbed leaves.

Not sure what he was going to find, and not wanting to disturb evidence any more than necessary in case this was a crime scene, Clay brushed aside the leaves around the trunk of the tree. And hit metal.

There was no whimpering now. Just
ssshhh. Ssshhh.
A steady rhythm that pushed at his back.
Ssshhh. Ssshhh.

Pulling off his gloves, Clay scraped against the metal, clearing away more leaves, listening for the whimper, for any sign of human life, as he tried to figure out what he had.

Less than half a minute passed before he'd uncovered a grate, similar to one that would be found over a cold-air return in any of the thousands of old homes in the area. The grates were a dime a dozen at flea markets, as well.

But although the grate was old, it hadn't been there long. From the sheen as he held the flashlight over it, he could see that the square of metal holding the grate in place was brand-new. As was the opening beneath the grate—roughly a four-by-four-foot patch of new earth.

“Hello?” Clay called urgently, silently praying for an answer as he pried at the grate.

It came away easily. Tossing it to the side, Clay lowered himself onto his belly, the flashlight in one hand as he peered down into the hole.

And suddenly his heart was pounding even harder and
he felt the familiar rush, the drive of a man about to accomplish something. Something big.

This wasn't a hole. Just beneath the newly dug earth was a room. A cavelike structure. He knew what he'd stumbled upon. Because he'd seen one before, not far from there. Back in the days of the Civil War and the Underground Railroad, some local farmers had dug similar structures to house the slaves they were bringing to freedom. From what Clay understood, they'd never been needed and had long ago been closed up.

Apparently someone had reopened one. Someone who knew where it was. Someone who'd done local research?

He had to find out who owned the land he was trespassing on, but first he had to get into that room.

Ssshhh. Ssshhh
was calling out to him.

Still on his stomach Clay pushed his way inside the opening toward the noise that hadn't let him sleep. He had no preconceived thoughts now. No plans. No hopes. He just had to go.

And six feet inside the opening, he knew why.

There, lying in a heap, unconscious on the rock floor was the body of the woman he'd spent two days seeking.

And the sound? Her skates, of all things, rubbing against each other, not in any natural human movement, but as a reflex, over and over, like miniseizures as the woman slowly died.

 

She wasn't dead yet. And Clay wasn't going to let her die.

Moving with a precision born of need, he maneuvered himself close enough to Kelly Chapman to feel for a pulse at her neck. Her arms were out of reach, stretched behind her in a painful-looking contortion.

Her skin was cold. And clammy. But Clay was certain
he felt a faint pulse. He repositioned his fingers. Applied a bit more pressure. And found a more promising pulse.

Not only was she alive, her heart rate was steady and strong.

Okay. Victim found. Alive.

He touched her face gently to wake her. She moaned, but resisted his attempt.

“Kelly?” Clay spoke softly. He didn't want to alarm her. And he had to know if she was asleep or unconscious. If she was drugged.

He could see the swelling above and around her right temple. And, at a quick glance, what seemed to be other scrapes and bruises, as well. Her left cheek was scraped. And when he shone his light around, he noticed blood on the wall behind her.

A lot of it. Smeared on the wall.

“Kelly?” If he could get her to wake up, chances were she'd be okay.

“Mmmm?” The moan was familiar. And gave him hope.

“You need to wake up now.” He was firm out of necessity.
Wake up, dammit!
“Mmm-hmm.”

“Dr. Chapman.” Clay raised his voice authoritatively. Kelly Chapman's eyelids flew open. And the look of sheer terror behind them took the words from his throat.

“It's okay,” he finally croaked. And then, more quietly, “I'm with the FBI. You're safe now.”

She didn't believe him. Eyes desperate, she looked to either side. He pretty much filled up the space between her and the opening of the small cave.

“I'm going to get my badge,” he told her before reaching behind him for the wallet in his back pocket. Pulling it out, he flipped it open to hold in front of her.

She studied his ID. And then him. She didn't say anything. Just nodded. Stared at him.

And didn't cry a single tear.

Clay had never been more moved in his life. Not ever.

Night

The man moved closer. Coming around to my other side, his back to the far end of my enclosure. He was huge.

“This is going to hurt,” he said as he reached for my shoulders, jiggling my arms. I wanted to tell him they were numb, but the words were too much effort.

He put his hand in a pocket. Took out a knife. And the tension pulling at my shoulders was gone. My arms fell forward.

“Uhhh…” I couldn't help the moan. Numbness hurt. Stung. My eyes needed tears. There were none.

I couldn't move my hands. Or my arms. Didn't really want to. They hurt so badly.

He took one arm and then the other, feeling its entire length first, and then massaging it. Seconds later he laid my hands in my lap.

And I remembered that I'd wet myself. My pants were dry, or at least I thought they were. But I reeked. I knew I did.

There were no tears.

A blanket settled around me.

“Thirsty.” I expected to speak. No sound. “Of course.”

I heard the lid turn on a bottle and almost threw up. And then the plastic was at my lips, hurting them, and I sucked voraciously. I got one drop of water. It stung my lips.

“Slowly now,” the voice said. “One sip at a time.”

I wanted to argue. Couldn't. He held the bottle to my
lips. I sucked at the first surge of liquid. Swallowed. And immediately sucked for more.

Suck. Swallow. Repeat.

Suck. Swallow. Repeat.

I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.

“That's enough for now. Give it time to settle or you'll get sick.”

He was right.

Already I felt different. Not coherent. But alive.

“Where?”

“We're a hundred yards off the bike path. About a quarter mile from where you parked your car. In a little cave that's probably been here for almost a hundred and fifty years.”

I lay there and breathed, aware that he was touching me, carefully, gingerly, his fingers moving all over my body.

And then he started to talk.

“Does this hurt?” He was holding my calf, touching my shin.

I tried to shake my head. And saw stars.

Cutting the tie around my ankles, he put one skate on his thighs and unbuckled it. Slowly he lifted the skate, easing my foot out of it.

I cried out. I didn't mean to. I held his gaze, though, as he studied my face and lowered my foot to the stone floor. Then he started in on my other foot. I watched as he examined my legs.

And looked away when he passed my groin area. He pressed gently on my lower belly.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

“No.” I'd learned my lesson. It hurt less to talk than to shake my head.

“What about here?” He slid his hands up to my ribs, beneath my arms.

“Sore,” I said.

My arms were sore, too, now that feeling was coming back to them. Sore and tingling like hell—little needle-points from my fingers all the way up to my collarbone.

Bracing one hand behind my shoulder, he applied pressure with the other. And repeated the motion on my other side. “Nothing feels like it's out of place,” he said.

Everything about me felt out of place. I wanted to argue with him again. But I was too glad to have him there. I stared at him instead. As long as I could keep my eyes on his face, I was okay.

“Ready for another drink?”

“Yes.”

He let me have more water this time. I drank until he made me stop. And then I lay back, leaning my head against the wall. They'd done something to my head. Hurt it somehow.

The pounding had become a permanent part of me. One I'd learn to live with. Soon.

There was no rush now. No need to move. To hurt more. Not yet. They'd found me.
He'd
found me.

“Who?”

He glanced at me with one eyebrow raised. “Who am I, you mean? My name's Clay Thatcher. I'm an agent with the FBI Missing Persons Unit.”

“Know that.” My throat was starting to move again. I didn't feel so much as if I was going to choke every time I tried to talk.

I still didn't even attempt to move my arms.

“Who did…this?”

“I was hoping you were going to tell me.”

“Don't know.” Sharp pangs shot through my midsection and up into my chest. “You…don't know?” I asked, afraid all over again.

“Calm down.” The man took my hand, holding my gaze again.

Calm down? I was lying there completely limp. In body and mind. But I was scared to death.

“Right now we need to concentrate on getting some nourishment into you. After I help you out of here, we've got a distance to go in the dark to get to my car.”