The Last Victim (2 page)

The door to the rec room was open, she could see that much. There was no sign of the man, no sound from him. In her gut Charlie felt he was gone.

Standing up, Charlie took a deep breath. Then slowly, carefully, she eased open the door.

Just a crack. Just enough to see.

As she had thought, Holly lay on the floor, on her side. Her taut, tanned, cheerleader-worthy midriff was visible from the top of her hip bones to halfway up her rib cage because her hot pink tee was pulled way up. It was pulled way up because her arms were raised above her head in the most awkward-looking position ever. Charlie’s heart stuttered as she took in the silver bracelets circling Holly’s wrists, recognized them as handcuffs, and registered that Holly was handcuffed to the black plumbing pipe that rose along the room’s concrete block outer wall.

Oh, my God
.

Holly’s dad hadn’t done
that
.

A swift glance around assured Charlie there was no one else in the room. So nervous she almost vibrated with it, Charlie hesitated. But what else could she do? Pulse racing, she flew to her friend’s side, nudging the coffee table out of the way, careful not to make a sound. Holly’s eyes were closed, she saw as she crouched beside her. Blood trickled from a cut just above her temple. The thread of bright scarlet sliding along Holly’s cheekbone horrified Charlie almost as much as the two strips of gray duct tape plastered over her friend’s mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, no. What do I do?

Panic tightened her throat, but she did her best to force it back. Cold sweat prickled to life around her hairline, beaded her upper lip.

“Holly.”
Charlie’s whisper was urgent. She grabbed Holly’s arm, shook her. Whatever had happened, this was something way outside her experience. Way outside her ability to deal with. Casting terrified glances over her shoulder, she frantically felt the smooth metal handcuffs, felt the cool strength of the chain linking them, felt the solidity of the iron pipe they were wrapped around. No way were they coming off without the key. Her friend’s hands felt warm, but they were limp and almost colorless except for the pink of her nail polish.
“Holly, wake up.”

Holly’s eyes opened. The pupils were enormously dilated, making her blue eyes look almost black. For a moment she blinked, unfocused. Then she saw Charlie and seemed to regain awareness.

“Mmm.” Holly moved in agitation. She turned her head, twisting, struggling to get free. The handcuffs clanked against the pipe. She kicked the coffee table, the sound of her feet hitting the wood loud as a clap to Charlie’s suddenly hypersensitive ears. Charlie’s heart leaped. She cast another of those terrified glances at the door.

If the man should come back …

Fear twisted inside her like a knife.

Grabbing Holly’s arm again, Charlie shook her head in an emphatic
no
.

“Shh,” she warned. Holly’s eyes met hers and clung, begging her. Fingers trembling, Charlie reached for the edge of the duct tape. Scrabbling at the edges, she managed to pull it off. The sticky side clung to her fingers. She had to pull the doubled strips off with her other hand, then stuck the tape on the wall.

“Do something. Get me out of here. He just walked in. He hit me.” The words spilled so fast out of Holly’s mouth they tumbled over one another. Her face was shiny with sweat. Her eyes were huge and glassy, her mouth blurry and smashed-looking from the tape.

“Who?” Grabbing one of the metal rings with both hands, Charlie tried yanking the cuff open.

“I don’t know. A stranger.
Hurry
.”

The cuff didn’t give by so much as a millimeter. Neither did the other. Upstairs, another scream split the night. This one was loud,
guttural, animal-like. Charlie’s hands dropped away from the chain she was attempting to separate from the metal bracelets as a chill raced down her spine. Holly went completely still.

“Mom,” Holly whimpered. Her eyes darted around the room. “Oh, God, what’s happening? Help me.”

“
Shh
. I’m trying.” Desperately Charlie yanked at the pipe. Solidly set into the wall, it didn’t budge. Rolling onto her knees, Holly started yanking at the pipe, too.
Clank
,
clank
,
clank
, went the handcuffs.

“You have to be quiet.” Charlie’s voice was low but sharp. “If he hears you …”

“He’s got my mother. Oh, my God, what if he comes back to the basement?” Frantic, panting, Holly grabbed the pipe and tried to break it free of the wall.
Thud, thud. Clank, clank. “You have to help me get out of here.”

Terror sent goose bumps racing over Charlie’s skin. She shot another frightened look at the door.

“Holly. Stop it. Be quiet.”

“You have to help me.”

“Shut up.”

Charlie’s palms were damp with sweat. She let go of the pipe. Holly wasn’t the only one at risk here. If the man came back, if he caught her, if he found out she was here, whatever this terrible thing was could happen to her, too. The knowledge dried Charlie’s mouth, sent her pulse into overdrive.

She stood up abruptly. “I can’t get you loose. I have to go for help.”

“Don’t leave me.” Holly’s eyes blazed with fear. Strands of her long blond hair hit Charlie’s face as Holly whipped her head around so that she was facing the wall. Scrambling into a crouch, Holly yanked desperately at the pipe, trying to free her trapped hands. Even as she was backing away, Charlie smelled the citrus-y scent of her friend’s perfume. Holly was sweating bullets, Charlie realized. Just like she was herself.

“I have to. I have to go.” Anguish made Charlie’s voice break as she continued to back away.

“You can’t.” The handcuffs clanked as Holly kept trying to free
herself. Her head turned to track Charlie’s progress. Her eyes clung desperately to Charlie’s. “You can’t just leave me.”

“Be quiet, he’ll hear you. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Please. Please.” Holly started to sob as Charlie, able to take no more, turned her back on her and ran from the room. Charlie’s throat went tight. Her heart hung heavy as a bowling ball in her chest. Leaving her friend behind was one of the hardest things Charlie had ever had to do in her life. But getting help was the only smart thing to do, she told herself. She could use the phone, or run to a neighbor. What she couldn’t do was free Holly herself. And if the man caught her …

She couldn’t finish the thought. Fear washed over her in a cold wave.

The stairs were in the unfinished part of the basement, the part that held the washer and dryer and furnace and water heater. Out the rec room door, turn left, and there they were.

Charlie hesitated at the foot, looking up. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. The door at the top of the stairs was closed. It opened, she knew, into the kitchen. Concentrating hard as she crept up the stairs, hanging on to the handrail, moving as quietly as it was possible to move, Charlie tried to picture the Palmers’ kitchen. Big and modern, it had an island in the center where she and Holly and the other girls had chowed down on pizza earlier. And yes, in the far corner, beside the refrigerator, was the back door. All she had to do was make it to that door, then race across the backyard to the next house just yards away. Forget trying to call for help: she was better off getting out of the house and running to the next-door neighbor as fast as she could go.

I can’t let him catch me
. Even forming the words in her mind made shivers race over her skin.

Pausing on the top step, listening intently at the closed door, she heard nothing beyond the normal sounds of the house. But she knew people were up there, in the main part of the house: for one thing, Holly’s family had to be there. And the man—where was he?
Who
was he?

Oh, God, if he decides to come into the basement now …

The thought was so horrifying Charlie felt faint.

Holding her breath, she turned the knob with infinite care, then pushed the door open the merest sliver.

And found herself meeting Holly’s mom’s eyes as the man cut her throat. The silver blade of the black-handled butcher knife gleamed in the warm light of the kitchen’s recessed lighting as it sliced through the tender flesh. Diane Palmer’s hands were behind her back, presumably bound. Like Holly’s, Diane’s mouth was sealed with duct tape. Her hair was blond like Holly’s. The man’s fist was wrapped in the short strands, holding her head back so that her throat was exposed. Her eyes were blue like Holly’s. As they locked with Charlie’s, they radiated the ultimate in terror. But it was too late, it was done, there was nothing anyone, not Charlie, not anyone, could do. The knife left the flesh with a
whoosh
, flinging blood in its wake. Blood poured like a red Niagara from the gaping wound in Diane’s tanned throat. Her apple green nightgown was instantly swallowed up by the flood of red. Her arms, her legs, the kitchen floor—everything was splattered with blood, puddled with blood, smeared with blood.

Every tiny hair on Charlie’s body shot to instant attention. A scream tore out of her lungs, but she managed to swallow it just in time. Her heart jackhammered. Her breathing stopped.

The man’s thin lips slowly curved into a spine-chilling smile. Rooted to the spot with horror, Charlie watched as Diane blinked once, twice, before her legs folded beneath her and she sagged toward the floor. For a moment her killer held her up by his fist in her hair. In that split second, Charlie looked at him: military-cut dark brown hair; a ruddy-complexioned face with a meaty nose and full cheeks; over six feet tall, with a thick-chested, stocky build. He wore a forest green button-up shirt and dark jeans.

Then he let go of Diane’s hair, watching as she collapsed like a rag doll. The thud as she hit the floor galvanized Charlie.

The killer had no idea she was there. He hadn’t seen her. He couldn’t be allowed to see her.

Or she would die.

Heart in throat, Charlie turned and fled back down into the basement.

CHAPTER TWO

Fifteen years later, Dr. Charlotte “Charlie” Stone sat across the table from a devilishly handsome man with prison-cropped dirty blond hair, taking notes as he studied the cardboard rectangle she had just placed in front of him.
Devilishly
was the appropriate adjective, too: from all accounts, this guy was as evil as he was hot, and he used his outrageous good looks as bait to lure his unsuspecting victims to him.

“A magician holding up two knives. That’s this here figure in the middle.” Michael Allen Garland tapped a blunt forefinger on the hourglass-shaped image that was a central component of the first card in the Rorschach inkblot test. The chain shackling his wrists clinked as he moved. His ankles were also shackled, and a chain around his waist was secured to a sturdy metal ring set into the wall. His short-sleeved orange prison jumpsuit was the only spot of color amidst the unrelenting gray of the walls and the poured concrete furniture, which consisted of the table and the stools on which they both sat. “These two things on the sides are closer looks at his fists clutching the knives. Right there is blood dripping off his hands.”

“Um-hmm.” Charlie’s murmur was designed to be both noncommittal and validating, a reward to Garland for participating in the evaluation without signifying any type of judgment of his description
on her part. Historically some ninety-five percent of test subjects identified inkblot Number One as a bat, a butterfly, or a moth. Garland’s atypical response was not unexpected, however. In the way her life tended to work, the best-looking guy she’d come into contact with in a long time was a convicted serial killer, and serial killers almost universally saw the world in terms of violence and aggression.

“This here magician done killed somebody,” Garland concluded, looking up as he said it, his southern drawl pronounced, his sky blue eyes slyly gauging her reaction to his words. With his square jaw, broad cheekbones and forehead, straight nose and well cut mouth, the muscular, six-foot-three-inch, thirty-six-year-old Garland would have had no trouble picking up women in any bar in the country. Which he had done, at least seven times that the Commonwealth of Virginia knew of. He had slashed each of those women to death before being caught four years previously. Having been sentenced to death, he was now in the process of winding his way through the legal system. For the foreseeable future, however, he was an inmate at Wallens Ridge State Prison, the federal maximum security facility in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, with a Special Housing Unit (SHU) dedicated to some of the country’s most notorious criminals, of which he was one. A psychiatrist who was rapidly gaining national renown for her work studying serial killers, Charlie was conducting a forensic assessment of him and seven other serial killers housed in the facility. At the moment she was closeted with Garland in one of the cheerless cinderblock rooms in which such inmates typically met with their lawyers. Equipped with a panic button built into her side of the table as well as a security camera that was continually monitored set high up in a corner, the room was freezing cold even on this sultry August day and small enough to awaken her tendency toward claustrophobia. On a positive note, her office, grudgingly granted to her by the warden at the behest of the Department of Justice, which was funding her research, was right next door.

“What about this one?” Keeping her face carefully expressionless, Charlie replaced card Number One with card Number Two. It was just after four p.m., and she would leave the prison at five-thirty. Dealing with Garland in particular always left her drained, and today was no exception. She was really, really looking forward to the run
along the wooded mountain trail that led up to the top of the Ridge and back with which she typically unwound. After that, she would go home, make dinner, do a little yard work, a little housework, maybe watch some TV. After the grim surroundings in which she spent her workday, her house in Big Stone Gap was a cozy refuge.

“Hell, it’s a heart,” Garland said after a cursory glance down. “A bloody one. Fresh harvested. Plucked right out of somebody’s chest. Probably still beating.”