FATAL FORTY-EIGHT: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mysteries Book 7) (28 page)

Judith nodded. “That’s my take on it. And once he had Tolliver in his car or truck, he could have driven him a good distance, but–”

Rose Hernandez waved her hand to get Judith’s attention.

“Yes?”

“He’s got a busy game plan…” Hernandez trailed off.

Judith gave her a confused look.

“Uh, I mean, I think he’d want to spend as much time as possible with the victim at this point, um, enjoying the process. Tolliver was an unexpected development.”

Judith narrowed her eyes at the woman. She didn’t know her well but the hesitation seemed out of character.

With a mental shrug, Judith turned to the others. “So we’re going to start looking at the recently-purchased houses near here and work our way outward. And there may not be time to wait for backup once we find something, so we’re going to work in teams of four.” She pointed to two of her detectives. “Grab a couple uniforms to follow you in a cruiser.” She tilted her head toward another plainclothes cop. “Hank, you’re with me.”

She waved in the direction of the FBI agents and civilians. “You all pair up. I’ll assign uniforms to go with you.” She glanced at the man-sized watch on her wrist. “Let’s move it. We’re running out of time.”

~~~~~~~~

5:30 p.m. Sunday

Sally glanced at the ticking clock. Six-thirty. She tried not to panic. Last time she had come so close.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and reviewed what had been helpful so far. Push her left hand up toward her shoulder to give her more slack, then lift her right arm up over her head.

She’d gotten within inches of success last time. The body of the straightjacket was now loose enough that it was no longer catching on her ribs as she raised her arm.

She took several deep breaths to oxygenate her muscles, then blew all the air out of her lungs and sucked in her stomach. Left hand up toward the opposite shoulder and lift the right arm up, up. It popped over her head.

Her shoulders screamed in pain as she struggled to get her arms twisted around and down to her sides. The strapped-together sleeves now dangled in front of her. She lifted them up to catch the strap in her teeth. It took several tries but she finally managed to get the buckle undone.

Shoving the overly-long sleeves up to free her hands, she reached back over her head to grasp for the buckles holding the jacket together down her back. She didn’t need to be out of the thing completely but she’d be able to maneuver better without it.

She struggled with the strap of the first buckle. Her fingers slipped. She paused, breathed, then tried again.

Finally with two buckles undone, she was able to twist the jacket around her waist and get to the rest of them more readily. The canvas dropped to the floor and she stepped out of its circle.

She looked at the clock. Twenty of seven. She was almost out of time.

Now that her hands were free, they were itching to throw the damn clock against a wall. But she needed it. Carefully, she picked it up and turned to take it into the bathroom with her.

When he came back, he would assume she was using the bathroom. As he entered the small room, she’d try to knock him out. With what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d just bang the door into his head.

Wait! He can’t see the straightjacket.

She turned back to snatch the clump of canvas up off the floor and something caught her eye, something white hanging on the wall that she hadn’t noticed before.

When the hell did he put that there?

She walked over and tilted her head at it in confusion. It was a large white sheet of cloth with random angular cuts in it, and some round holes slightly larger than the size of a pencil eraser. She squinted and leaned closer, then sucked in her breath.

The cuts were stained around the edges with rusty red marks, and the edges of the holes were burned.

The blood drained out of her face. She almost dropped the clock.

~~~~~~~~

6:00 p.m. Sunday

The last of the light was fading from the sky. All this would become that much more dangerous once it was full dark.

Each team had been assigned five of the houses that were the most promising, and three more that were less so, only because their listings did not indicate an attached garage. So far, Kate and Tim had eliminated two from their most-promising list.

There was no time left for subtle observation. They quickly surrounded each house, the uniforms covering the back and Tim at the front door, his weapon drawn and hidden behind his leg. Kate stayed by the car, her cell phone in hand, ready to call for additional help.

At the first house, a young girl, ten or eleven, had answered the door. A short, portly man had quickly appeared behind her. He looked to be in his late forties, with a full-face salt and pepper beard. His T-shirt was stretched taut over his belly.

Kate had walked to the door while Tim was questioning the man. Without preamble, she reached out and yanked on his beard. His immediate and spontaneous “Ouch!” confirmed that he wasn’t Delaney. The man Charles had seen dining solo in that restaurant a couple weeks ago had been slender and clean-shaven. Unless this guy knew how to gain weight and grow facial hair at a miraculous rate, he was not their man.

There had been no answer at the second house. The front door had a window in it. Kate jumped when Tim banged his pistol’s against it, breaking the glass. That had to be against the rules.

An alarm sounded but no one came running. Holding her hands over her ears against the blasting sound, Kate helped search the house.

A few moments of scary confusion ensued when two more uniforms appeared in response to the alarm. After they’d accepted Tim’s FBI credentials as authentic and returned their guns to their holsters, he recruited them to help in the search. They found no signs of hidden rooms.

Tim scribbled a note and left it on the coffee table in the living room.

On the way to the next house, Kate silently speculated about the contents of that note. “So sorry, Mr. Homeowner. We thought you might be a psychopath holding a kidnapped woman. Please bill the FBI for your broken window.”

She snorted softly and shook her head as they pulled up in front of the next house on their list.

“Arriving on left at 8358 Quaker Bend Circle,” her GPS informed them in its pleasant baritone voice.

Tim flipped his finger across the screen of his tablet. “This sold for only $50,000. Sounds like a real fixer-upper.”

Even in the fading light, Kate could tell that the yellow paint on the siding was faded. Patches of chalky white showed through. “Pre-aluminum siding.”

He glanced down at his tablet again. “Yeah. Asbestos shingles.”

“Seriously? I thought they were illegal.”

“For new construction, but this place was built in 1954.”

They got out and cautiously approached the front porch. Peeling dingy white paint here. The steps creaked as Tim ascended, his hand on his holstered gun.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw one of the uniforms darting past her to cover the back right corner of the house.

Tim knocked on the front door.

Half hidden behind a bush beside the walkway, Kate examined the house in the gathering dusk. No lights coming from any of the windows on the front. She squinted. Were those bars on the windows? She couldn’t tell. Maybe those dark lines were blinds or curtains.

One of the uniforms stuck his head around the corner. “No lights in the back, sir,” he said to Tim in a low voice.

The FBI agent knocked again. Several moments of silence.

He gestured to the uniform. Also keeping his voice low, he said, “Knock on the back door, but be careful. This place is…” He trailed off.

The uniform nodded, then race-walked along the side of the house to join his partner in the back.

They heard the faint sound of pounding on the back door. “Open up. Police.”

Tim winced.

Several more minutes of silence. The house had an empty feel to it.

Tim backed down the porch steps, his hand still on his gun butt. He reached Kate’s side, on the walkway. “Let’s move on.”

She shook her head slightly. This place was giving her the creeps.

“We’ll leave a uniform here,” Tim said, “in case someone comes home.”

~~~~~~~~

Sally glanced nervously at the clock perched on the far corner of the bathtub. The straightjacket was bundled up in a ball at that end of the tub. She’d positioned the shower curtain so her captor couldn’t see either from the doorway. All she could do was pray that he wouldn’t notice the clock was missing from the bedroom.

Seven-ten. Where is he?

The alarm had gone off at seven. She had fumbled with the buttons on the back until she found the off switch.

Now she was standing on the edge of the bathtub, behind the open bathroom door. She hoped he would assume she was in the bathroom when he found the outer room empty. Her plan was to slam the door into his head as he stepped into the bathroom doorway.

All she had to do was stun him enough to get that damned gun away from him. Then…

Wait! He’d expect to hear the clock alarm going off when he came in. He would definitely look around for the clock if it wasn’t.

She glanced at its face again. Eleven after. She shook her head. Better to risk that he’d get suspicious than to have him find her helpless in the bedroom. She needed the door. It was her only weapon. At least until she could get her hands on his gun.

She reminded herself again that she couldn’t afford to shoot him outright. She needed his palm print to get her out of the hidden room. Should she aim for his shoulder? It was unlikely she’d have much time to aim at all. And if she didn’t shoot quickly, he might get the gun away from her again.

Could she hold his inert body up high enough to trigger the mechanism in the wall? She wasn’t sure that she could. A hint of hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. How ironic if she shot the bastard, and then died of starvation because she couldn’t get out of the room?

Her brain searched her memory of the bedroom for something that could help her prop a dead body up far enough to use his palm to trigger the hidden mechanism. Maybe if she shoved the bed over to the wall. Or could she use something to chop his arm off?

Again her brain mentally scanned the outer room for a weapon. The lamp on the bedside table?

It wouldn’t cut his arm off, but maybe it would be a good backup weapon if the door failed to knock him out.

But it would be yet another item missing from the room. Would he notice?

Maybe, maybe not. And even if he did, there was a good chance he would underestimate her. He wouldn’t expect the vehement attack that she had planned for him.

She decided to risk it, and she’d put the clock back out there. She jumped down from her perch, grabbed the clock and rushed into the bedroom. Putting the clock on the table, she wrapped a hand around the lamp and started to turn toward the bathroom. She was jerked back to the bedside table.

Whir, click.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

6:15 p.m., Sunday evening

He’s here!

Heart pounding, Sally raced toward the bathroom and her only weapon–the door.

It’s too late! He’s seen me.

She whirled around, afraid he would shoot her in the back.

She stared at the opening in the wall. The room behind it was dark. And no one was standing in the opening.

Her brain had stalled in emotional confusion. What did this mean?

It’s another one of his games.

Her head turned of its own volition back to the bedside table. The lamp was sitting where it had always been, upright and serene, despite her manhandling of it.

She ran across the room, stopped, stared at the lamp, then tentatively nudged it. It leaned over.

Whir, click. The opening in the wall started to close.

“No!” she yelled. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears.

It’s okay
, a saner part of her brain reassured.
You know how to open it.

She pushed on the lamp again.

Whir, click. The wall swung open again.

Of course. It was his backup mechanism, in case the more complicated palm reader failed. No way did he want to end up trapped in his own prison. And he’d counted on the straightjacket to keep her from even discovering its existence.

She bolted through the opening. Her shin slammed into a low table. She yelped and stopped moving.

Giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness–the light coming from the hidden room was the only illumination–she looked around. She was in another bedroom, made narrow by the space carved from it for the hidden room. She raced over to the window.

Her hands were reaching out to open it before she realized there was a metal grill over it. She tried to get her fingers through the narrow spaces between the bars. The window lock was a tantalizing quarter inch from her fingertips.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light. She saw the vague outline of living room furniture through a doorway. She darted into that room. It too had a window, also covered with a grill.

Some light from the outside filtered through its curtains. She saw the white rectangle of the front door.

Hope surged. She laughed out loud as she raced for it. She fumbled with the lock, started to turn the knob.

Wait! What if he’s right outside, about to come in?

She’d risk it. She wanted out of here! She turned the knob and yanked. Nothing happened.

She yanked again. The door didn’t budge. She felt around along its edge for a slide bolt or night chain. And found a circle of metal with a keyhole in the middle.

A deadbolt. The kind that requires a key on both sides.

No!

She leaned her forehead against the door and groaned. Her eyes stung.

Charles!

She knew in that moment that she’d been lying to herself. Charles was dead. As surely as she was trapped in this apartment, he was dead.

Her muscles felt like lead. She wanted to sink to the floor. Joe had won. She might as well let him kill her.