Lucky Thirteen (6 page)

Eye twitching, Brad answered,
“I haven’t seen her since I took her home. We had an argument. She’s miss goody-two-shoes. We don’t click. I broke up with her.”

“How did she react to that?”
Chris asked.

A cocky shrug preceded,
“I haven’t heard from her.”

“Excuse me?” said Chris
. “You broke up with her and she didn’t react?”

Brad shifted from foot to foot
. “I left her a voicemail. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have company. If you have any more questions, I’ll come see you with a lawyer.” He stepped inside and closed the door on the law enforcement.

“What a prick!”
Chris exclaimed.

“Yeah,”
Ray agreed, “but he doesn’t know a thing. And his eyes aren’t blue. Let’s call it a night.” As they walked back to the car, Ray dialed Dr. Fairchild’s number and told her they would be at the school the next day.

♣♣♣

Interviewing thirty-five teachers
and staff at St. Ignatius proved frustrating. Ray had secretly hoped one of them would resemble him. None did.

Mr. Manning was the last intervi
ew of the day. The man with blond hair and hazel eyes looked worn out. It appeared the assistant principal was feeling guilty for having left Larkin Sloan to take a taxi.

Ray sighed and
began, “Mr. Manning, you didn’t do anything wrong, so relax. There was no way you could’ve anticipated Miss Sloan’s abduction. However, did you see a cab and driver at the ER?”

“A taxi pulled in shortly after us
. Why?” Manning asked.

“Did you get a look at the driver?”
Ray asked for clarification.

The assistant principal nodded.
“Old guy.”

“How about the passenger?” Chris interrupted.

“No. I was focusing on getting Miss Sloan inside.” Manning twisted his hands together.

Chris asked again, “Was the cab still there when you left?”

“Um”—Manning squinted his eyes as he thought—“I don’t recall seeing it.”

Ray rubbed his head
. He could feel another migraine, or it might be the same one that had never completely stopped. He puffed out his cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Manning. I think that’s all for now.”

Mr. Manning nodded sadly
. “Let me know if I can do anything to help. If I had just stayed with her…”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Chris
with a compassionate pat to the man’s shoulder. The assistant principal left the authorities to move to the next phase of their investigation.

♣♣♣

Ray’s
irritation escalated as reporters bombarded him with questions at the station the next morning. “I hate these assholes,” he muttered to no one. When one of them clutched his arm to get his attention, he snapped, “I will make a statement in half an hour on the front steps. Until then, I have nothing to say.” He glared at the young man. “Let go of me.” The reporter lifted both hands as the cop’s tone and bright blue eyes burned into him.

Half an hour later, Police Chief Gerard, Agent Milovich, and Detective Reynolds appeared as a united front on the front steps of the police station
. Since Ray had promised to make a statement, he took the microphone.

“As you are aware by now, day before yesterday, a thirteenth woman was reported missing
. Miss Larkin Sloan, a teacher at St. Ignatius, remains unaccounted for, her whereabouts unknown.” Ray displayed a photograph enlargement of Larkin.

“We are questioning a number of individuals regarding Miss Sloan’s disappearance
. Any information the public can provide would be greatly appreciated.” He provided an anonymous tips phone number.

A reporter shouted, “Detective Reynolds, do you have a suspect?”

“Not at this moment. Any information that can be made available to the public will be made available. I have nothing else at this time.”

Ray left the podium
.

The reporter shouted, “Is this a serial killer?”

Ray stopped. Chris touched his shoulder. The chief discreetly nodded. Ray could feel his persistent migraine, and he knew the people of Eau Bouease had a distressing sentiment of senselessness. The detective returned to the microphone. “I think it’s safe to assume we’re looking at one killer, but that’s all I can give you.”

I’m looking like the prime suspect
did not leave his mouth. However disconcerted he felt about the fact that the one lead they had pointed to him, he knew they were on to something. His mood of ineffectiveness ebbed.

5

Alone in the Dark

“W
ait
!
Don’t leave.” Larkin Sloan’s voice rang into the gloominess.

“I’ll be back
. I have to take care of you for a while. There’s a sandwich, an apple, and a soda on the table beside the bed. There’s also a bottle of Advil if your head hurts. The chain attached to your wrist is long enough to reach the toilet directly to your left, but not this door. Please, don’t do anything to hurt yourself. I have to let Latrice know you’re all right.”

“Please
.” Her plea fell on deaf ears as she heard the door close. She knew she was alone.

Her heart prayed,
God, what do I do? What does this man want
?

After sitting qui
etly for some time, her answer came.
Play along. Don’t upset him. Talk to him. He’s reasonable, and he’s not acting of his own accord. Someone is controlling him
.

Larkin’s eyes adjusted somewhat to the gloom
. There was a small horizontal sliver of a window high in the wall, just enough that she could see it was almost dark outside.
Dr. Fairchild will notice I’m missing. She won’t take that lightly. She’ll find me. Dr. Bixby saw me leave in the cab. Maybe he saw the driver. Cyclops! Oh, please, God, let someone take care of Cyclops
.

The captive
looked around in the gathering shadows. She could make out the plate and soft drink can on the table just as the man had said. She could see the outline of a doorway.
That must be the bathroom.
She stood carefully and felt woozy.
Of course, I was hit in the head with a book and apparently drugged somehow.
She made it to the little cubicle, which contained a commode and a lavatory. After she relieved herself, she splashed water on her face.

Back at the bed, Larkin became aware of the gnawing in her stomach
. She had not eaten since six that morning, and only a Pop Tart at that.
I was rather preoccupied at lunch time.
Pressing a hand to her stomach, she eyed the meal prepared for her and wondered if it was safe to eat.
Somehow, I think it is
. A voice wafted on the air repeating a line from the movie,
The Last of the Mohicans,
“Whatever occurs, stay alive. I
will
find you.” She looked around to see who was speaking, but she was alone.

Determined to survive,
Larkin took a bite of the sandwich. It was tuna made with dill pickles, onion, and mustard, on whole wheat, the way she liked it. The apple was a tart Granny Smith, her favorite. She picked up the soda can.
If this is Dr. Pepper, my captor knows me very well
. It was.

As she finished her meal, such as it was, she heard a scratching sound
. She pulled the pillow on the bed in front of her and cringed, envisioning massive rats scurrying across the room. She was not the squeamish type, and she did not fear the creatures. Still, her skin crawled as she thought about one scampering over her in her sleep.
I wish Cyclops was here to eat the varmint.

Larkin
found herself taking shallow breaths hoping to stop offending her nostrils. The place smelled of mold, mildew, and decay. She absentmindedly scratched, wondering if the mattress might have bedbugs.

The room began to rattle
. Larkin clutched the edges of the bed. The room shook so hard she feared she would be tossed to the floor. Several minutes of violent vibrating told her she was near the railroad tracks. Feeling the wall indicated this was not a warehouse and she was underground. She could feel the dampness, and the grittiness left on her fingers had to be nitrate residue.
This place is a basement.
Where am I? What kinds of places have basements when they’re already below sea level—if I’m still in the same parish, and I think I am?
She racked her brain.
I should be preparing my lesson and PowerPoint of Edgar Allan Poe, not trying to figure out a way to escape some lunatic.
Poe—
the thought hit
—“The Cask of Amontillado!” Of course! This could be a place that would have had a wine cellar.
Larkin thought and thought—
a place with a wine cellar near the railroad tracks. When I get out, I have to know where to go, and I will get out!

She was no stranger to events in the news
. The smell of decay, possibly blood, made her wonder if this soft spoken, almost apologetic, man who had brought her here was behind the disappearances and deaths of twelve women.
With his mannerisms, it just doesn’t add up. Then again, Ted Bundy was a charmer.
Nonetheless, I don’t think the man will harm me, but I’m sure I’m still in danger—just not from the man who seems nice; but, perhaps, from whomever this Latrice person is. It’s someone who knows me, or has at least gone to the trouble to spy on me to be able to know things about me such as the foods I like.

With darkness upon her,
Larkin had nothing to do but think. The atmosphere felt oppressive. She could almost feel drops of condensation in the humid, stagnant air. She let her mind drift. She wondered if the police had figured out the link she had noticed in the murders the past year.
Do they realize all the women have been killed on some form of holiday, whether Christian, pagan, or national? Probably not because nobody thinks about days like Ground Hog Day, the equinoxes, or the solstices being special holidays unless they’re familiar with Celtic beliefs.

She felt compelled to share her theory with that detective from the news
. She never really watched the news, but halfway listened as she graded papers or wrote. If something interesting caught her attention, she listened more closely
. What is that detective’s name? He usually holds the press conferences. He has a pleasant voice.

She shivered
.
My captor has a pleasant voice.

Reynolds
. Yes, that’s it. The newscaster said it this morning on the radio. I’ll call him when I get out. The worst he can do is laugh at me. And if I’m right, I have a whole month to get through to the voice at the door. Nobody else will die until Halloween.

Maybe I’m a witch and can work some magic on this guy.
She laughed.
I do have a black cat.

Larkin’s thoughts turned to her students
.
What will become of them? Why was Dupree so belligerent? Is he truly a lost cause? Does he have something to do with my being here?

Lightning flashed in the small window, and in its wake, she saw the silhouette of a cross
.
Yes! I know where I am. This is the old abandoned monastery. It’s in the worst possible part of town, and nobody will care if they see someone going in and out. Homeless people often sleep in the courtyard and portico. It’s as historical as my house. It once had a wine cellar before the Civil War. The monks imported and sold the finest wine. The train track was laid in the 1870s and runs right behind it. About a year ago, the “For Sale” sign disappeared. I had hoped a religious group had purchased it and planned to restore it and use it to minister to the community.
“Oh, my God!” she said out loud. “What if some strange whacked-out satanic group bought the place?” She paused as if expecting the rats to reply. “What if all these killings have some crazy religious motive behind them?”

Larkin rubbed her eyes and tried to shake the cobwebs from her brain
. Fatigue weighed on her. She became conscious that her right eye was no longer numb and was beginning to throb. Realizing there was nothing she could do alone in the dark to free herself, she took two of the Advil and rested on the pillow. She tried to pray, but her thoughts flew in a hundred directions. She felt a connection to her best pal, Cyclops, and instructed him to send her some help.
Silly thought I know, but any haven in a storm
. As she drifted into a fitful slumber, she dreamed of blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. The eyes seemed to be in pain and darted to and fro as if frantically searching for something. An irritated, frustrated voice, the voice she had heard earlier in the evening, a familiar voice, accompanied the eyes. “I have to find Larkin. I won’t let her die.” The eyes seemed to stare directly at her, and she could not break their gaze; neither did she want to. She found solace in those eyes.