She Can Run (37 page)

Ah. Fuck it.

James crawled across the carpet on his hands and knees. He grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and turned it on. Sitting on the rug with his back pressed against the bed, he flipped through the pages of his worn address book to the letter O. His finger found Danny O’Malley’s number, labeled only as DO.

It took several tries to dial as his vision kept splitting into double images, and for the first time in forty years, his hands were shaking. But at last the line was ringing.

“O’Malley residence.”

Beth opened her eyes and blinked hard. Her vision blurred for a few seconds and then cleared. Her hand tried to move toward her head but was restrained by something. She tested all four limbs. Pain sliced through her arms as the straps around her wrists bit into the stitches.

Panic crawled through her insides. She was tied spread-eagle on a stainless-steel table. She tried to bend her right arm, but there was no give in the thick leather straps. The rest of the bindings were just as strong.

Sweat broke out under the heavy shirt. Her heartbeat began to pound in her ears. The throbbing in her head echoed the beat.

She raised her head. Her prison was a dusty and damp basement. A bare bulb with a string switch was the only source of light. The small, high windows had been covered to block the light and, she supposed, prying eyes. On her right was a wooden staircase. To her left, on a workbench against the wall, light reflected off the shiny blade of a knife. On the other side of the room, another short flight of steps led to bulkhead doors. Her gaze fell to the concrete floor. Large, rusty, red splotches decorated the cement in a camouflage pattern.

Her breath locked in her chest as the truth hit her. She’d been with Jeff Stevens at the barn.

The Riverside Killer had been living right next door.

Footsteps sounded from the room above her. The old floors creaked and groaned. The hinges squeaked and the door opened. A thin strip of light fell in a slanted yellow rectangle on the staircase as a menacing figure loomed in the doorway, silhouetted by the brightness behind him. He watched her without moving for a long moment before starting down the stairs. His footsteps paused ominously on each individual tread.

Her breathing accelerated as he came closer. The scent of fear rose from her skin, a distinct pungent mix of sweat and hormones. Because of the light behind him, she still couldn’t see his face, but it didn’t matter. She knew who he was.

He stepped off the last tread and onto the concrete, taking his time to cross the floor.

“My lovely Beth.” His fingers trailed along her cheek. She arched her back and pulled as far away as she could as he reached down to touch her again. Movement intensified the pain. Fire streaked across her arms as she pulled against the straps. “I’d tell you it’s useless to fight, but it would be so disappointing if you just lay there.”

Beth went still. Her breaths came faster. She was light-headed; her heart hammered in her chest; blood rushed in her ears.

Jeff’s eyes, cold, black, and lifeless, bored into hers. “And there’d be no point in keeping you alive.” He hummed under his breath as he moved to the workbench and picked up the knife, pausing to switch on an iPod player. Light glinted off the blade. “I made a special playlist for you.”

Willie Nelson began to croon “Always on My Mind.”

He kept his gaze leveled on her eyes as he moved back to the side of the table. “Now, let’s get you out of those awful clothes.”

He lifted the sweatshirt with one hand and, with the knife in the other, sliced through it in one cut. Despite her efforts to remain silent, to deny him the thrill of hearing her cry out, a whimper escaped her lips as the sharp tip nicked the skin of her breast.

Jack parked in the garage and stepped out of the truck. A night at Quinn’s kid-filled house would be therapeutic for Ben and Katie and would keep them away from the press tomorrow. He wasn’t looking forward to the media shit storm that would surely follow Beth’s statement. The kids might have to stay at Quinn’s for a couple of days.

His phone rang as he climbed the hill to the house. Henry raced ahead of him, wagging his tail at the door. The patio was empty. Beth must have gone inside.

“What’s up, Mike?” Jack let the dog inside and then sat in her vacated chair.

“Got a bit of news for you. The liquid in Baker’s syringe was acepromazine.”

“Isn’t that the same drug the Riverside Killer uses?”

Mike’s exasperated sigh was audible across the line. “Yeah.”

Jack scratched his head. “So now what?”

“I’ve no fucking idea. But he had a knife and the same tranq used by the killer. I can tell you this much. We’ll be going through Baker’s house with a fine-tooth comb as soon as the warrant comes through.”

“I guess the possibility that Martin was just mimicking the killer to get Mary Ann looks even more likely,” Jack said.

“That’s the current theory. Talk to you when I have more.” Mike disconnected.

With Mike’s news rummaging around in his head, Jack let himself into the kitchen. Empty.

“Beth?” Silence greeted him. No Beth. He started down the hall. The house phone rang, and Jack heard Mrs. Harris answer it in the living room.

“No. I’m sorry. Danny died two months ago.”

Jack stepped into the room and waited for her to finish the call.

She held up one finger. “You’re looking for Beth?”

Startled, Jack motioned for her to give him the phone. “Who is this?”

“This is her Uncle James.” The voice on the other end was male—and weak. “I need to speak with Beth immediately.”

Jack covered the receiver with his palm and mouthed to Mrs. Harris, “Where’s Beth?”

The housekeeper’s brows knitted. “I saw her walking toward the barn with Jeff about a half hour ago. Isn’t she back?” Mrs. Harris spun and hurried out of the room, calling for Beth as she hurried up the hall.

Fear snaked up Jack’s spine. He uncovered the phone. “Why do you need to speak with her?”

The man on the other end was out of breath. “Who is this?”

“I’m Danny’s nephew, Jack.”

The line went quiet for a few seconds as Beth’s uncle mulled something over.

“Beth’s in terrible danger. Right now. I can’t explain.” Uncle James coughed. “I’m in Philadelphia. I can be there in ninety minutes, but that may be too late.”

“How do you know she’s in danger?”

James paused. “I just do.”

OK
.

“I’ll find her.” Jack tossed the cordless phone on the couch and tried to keep calm. Beth was fine. She’d just gone for a walk down to the barn to check on the horses. Hadn’t she said she missed them this morning? And how could her uncle in Philadelphia possibly know she was in danger?

Mrs. Harris stuck her head in the doorway. “She’s not in the house.”

“I’m going down to the barn.” Panic surged in Jack’s belly as he grabbed his cane and tore out of the house. Henry raced behind the golf cart as Jack floored it on the path through the copse.

The stable was empty. Jack’s gut tightened as he stood behind the barn looking out over the meadow. Jeff’s farm was just over the hill, closer as the crow flies than by the road. Tire tracks showed the route from the spot where his neighbor usually parked his old jeep when he came over to feed the horses.

The realization struck Jack in one blow. It’d been Jeff all along. He’d set Will up. Jeff had killed Mary Ann and all those other women.

Jack jumped into his cart. Henry leaped up beside him. Driving with one hand, he punched Mike’s number into his cell with his thumb. When the chief answered, he relayed the situation.

Jack parked the cart behind a small clump of trees and slid out of the seat. Henry jumped down and looked at Jack expectantly. With a hand signal, he motioned for the dog to follow him. Henry fell in silently at Jack’s heels. The hackles on the dog’s back were raised, but he remained miraculously quiet.

Jeff’s jeep was parked in front of the front steps. Jack had driven by Jeff’s place before, but he’d never visited. Missing the gun he no longer habitually carried, Jack circled the house. It looked like a normal farmhouse, nothing fancy, but clean and well maintained. The cellar windows were boarded up. Not a good sign. Jack peered in the ground floor windows. No Jeff. No Beth. Music played softly, muffled by the glass.

He tried the front door. Locked. Jack picked up a rock and punched it through the sidelight, hoping the music would muffle the sound. Reaching in, he turned the lock.

Henry skulked soundlessly beside him as they moved through the rooms, more slowly than Jack would have liked. But walking quietly with a cane was no easy feat, and Jack didn’t want to tip Jeff off to his presence.

They circled the ground floor and stepped into the kitchen. Two closed doors. Jack froze and listened. The music came from the door to his left. Jack signaled Henry to sit. The dog obeyed. Ears forward, he waited for Jack’s next command. Jack turned the knob slowly and opened the door an inch to reveal a wooden staircase. The music’s volume increased. Jack stooped for a better view.

Jeff’s back was turned to him, partially blocking his view of Beth. Holy Christ. She was tied to a steel table. Jack’s stomach flipped as he watched Jeff slip a knife through the fabric of her sweatshirt, exposing her naked breasts.

Stevens was going to die today.

Jack paused in the doorway, torn. Mike wasn’t here yet, but there was no way he was waiting another ten minutes for the police. By the time he hobbled down there, however, Jeff could easily kill Beth. Even now, the blade hovered just inches above her skin as Jeff leaned closer to her and whispered something.

Henry nudged his leg. Jack glanced at the dog, still sitting beside him. Henry’s eyes were fixed on Jack’s face, waiting.

He pulled the door open and motioned the dog through.

Henry tore down the steps. Jeff turned, surprise barely registering on his face before the dog latched onto the hand with the knife, exactly the way he’d been trained. The weapon clattered to the floor. Screams echoed through the air as Jeff tried to shake Henry free. The dog hung on, his body swinging from Jeff’s waving arm. Flesh tore under Henry’s powerful jaws. Blood splattered on the cement as Jack hurried down the steps.

Jeff squatted and reached for the knife with his left hand, trying to drag the canine with him.

Jack brought his cane back in a two-handed grip and swung it like a baseball bat. He held nothing back, connecting solidly with Jeff’s head. Something cracked. He hoped it was Jeff’s skull.

The killer went limp on the floor, the dog still attached to his arm.

“Release.”

Henry disengaged and sat, his gaze fixed on Jeff’s prostrate form. Jack threw the “on guard” command over his shoulder as he turned to Beth. Fury surged in his chest as he took in the cut on her breast and the blood seeping through the arms of the sweatshirt where the leather straps had torn her stitches.

He should have let Henry tear off an arm.

He released her and gathered her in his arms. He wrapped the torn shirt around her torso and let her sob on his chest, trusting Henry to watch Jeff until the police arrived.

Not that it mattered. Jack was pretty sure the Riverside Killer wasn’t breathing.

Sirens approached. Henry didn’t move.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Beth reclined on the couch. Her hand drifted down to settle on Henry’s ruff. His tail thumped on the carpet. The dog had refused to leave her side, blatantly ignoring Jack’s command to do so. Quinn had made a house call to repair Beth’s stitches, saving her the trauma of a trip to the emergency room. Henry had watched every move the doctor made, and Beth suppressed any urge to wince in case the dog misunderstood and thought Quinn was hurting her. Upset with her refusal, again, to go in for a CAT scan, Jack’s cousin had taken up residence in a guest room for the night to keep an eye on her. The press had already swamped the small community hospital, and Beth didn’t want her picture on the evening news just yet.

Her arms ached despite the local anesthetic the doctor had administered. After everyone left, she’d probably break down and take a pain pill. Then maybe sleep for a week. She’d never been so tired in her life.