Once Taken (15 page)

Then she heard April’s sobbing voice.

“Oh, please, please!”

“Too late, smartass,” snapped a familiar male voice. “Stop your whining!”

“April!” Riley shouted.

The name was out before she could think. It was a mistake. She had just announced to Peterson that she had arrived. She’d lost the element of surprise.

Riley stepped forward and almost tumbled down a sharp slope that dropped away just beyond the tree. She caught herself and saw Peterson clearly in the light from the car. He was standing ankle-deep in the river. Just a few feet from him, April was half submerged in the water, bound by her hands and feet.

Riley realized that Peterson could see her too. Carrying the shotgun, she made her way cautiously down the slope toward him. He raised a pistol and pointed it at April.

She stood there, just feet away from the man who had haunted her dreams, and her heart slammed.

“Don’t even think about it,” Peterson called. “One move and it’s over.”

Riley’s heart sank. If she so much as raised her shotgun, Peterson would kill April before she could fire.

“Put the gun down,” he ordered.

Riley gulped hard. She didn’t have any other course of action. April’s life was at stake.

She stooped and put the shotgun on the ground at the edge of the water.

Then Peterson immediately swung his pistol toward her and pulled the trigger.

Riley braced for the impact.

Nothing happened. Peterson’s gun was either jammed or empty.

Riley knew she had a fraction of a second to take action.

She reached into her pocket for the knife she’d taken from the street kid. She snapped it open and lunged, splashing through the shallow water toward him.

She aimed for his solar plexus—that soft spot where stabbing would be easiest. But she slipped in the muddy river, and the blade entered high between two ribs. It stuck there.

Peterson roared with pain and backed away. The knife stayed in his chest, slipping from Riley’s hands.

He suddenly hurled himself forward again, before she could regain her balance, and she slipped on the mud. She found herself falling backwards, onto her back, into the shallow water, shocked by how freezing it was.

And then a moment later, before she could reach up to stop him, she saw his big meaty hands wrapping around her throat—and felt her head being shoved underwater.

Riley felt her world go numb. No longer able to breathe, she writhed and kicked, feeling the life leaving her. How awful, she thought, to die here, in this shallow water, being strangled to death just a few feet from her daughter.

It was the thought of her daughter that brought her back. April. Riley couldn’t allow herself to be killed here. Because her death would mean April’s death.

Riley redoubled her efforts, thrashing like a wild fish, until finally she managed to raise one knee between his legs. It was a powerful enough blow to take out any other man.

But Peterson, to her surprise, did not budge. He loosened his grip for a moment as he bucked. But then he tightened again, squeezing twice as hard.

Riley knew then that she would die here. That was the best she’d had—and it wasn’t enough to take out this monster.

Suddenly, Riley saw an image moving fast, high above; her vision was obscured from beneath the shallow, running water, and at first she wondered if it were an angel, coming to take her away.

But then she realized: it was April. She had found Riley’s shotgun, and was holding it awkwardly between her bound wrists. Given her wrist-ties, all she could grab hold of was the barrel itself. Riley watched in amazement as April, feet bound, unable to walk, inched her way closer behind Peterson, her knees scraping stone. When she got close enough, she raised it high and swung it down.

There came a loud crack, audible even beneath the running water, as the stock of the shotgun smashed into Peterson’s temple with a force that surprised even Riley.

And for the first time, Peterson loosened his demonic grip on her throat, stumbling backwards.

Riley immediately sat up, gasping for air in huge breaths. She wiped water from her eyes to see Peterson staggering back, clutching the side of his head, his expression one of mixed pain and fury as he dropped to one knee. April stood there, looking stunned at what she had done, and looking, in panic, at the shotgun on the riverbed. It must have slipped from her hands. And Riley watched in horror as the current caught it and it floated away.

Peterson let out the roar of a wounded animal as he charged April. He tackled her to the ground, spun her around, and grabbed the back of her hair. With both hands he shoved her down, face-first, underwater. She was unable to raise her head, and within moments, Riley knew, her daughter would be dead.

Overcoming her shock, Riley leapt to her feet, scanning the riverbed and grabbing a sharp rock as she did. She let out a primal roar herself as she lunged on top of Peterson, swinging the rock with all she had, with a mother’s fury.

Riley felt the rock make a satisfying contact with his head. It hit hard enough to knock him off of April. Riley yanked her back, and April rolled over, gasping for air. She was, Riley was relieved to see, still alive.

Riley jumped into action; she could not give Peterson a chance to recover. She jumped on top of him before he could get up.

He spun over, with a fraction of the strength he had but moments ago, weak, eyes glazed, and looked up at her vacantly as she lay on top of him. She raised the rock high overhead with both hands and held it there, arms shaking. There he was, in the flesh, the demon who had plagued her all these nights.

He grinned back at her, a demonic grin.

“You won’t do it,” he said, blood trickling from his mouth. “If you do, we’ll be bound forever.”

Riley took a deep breath, and she remembered all the ways he had tortured her, had tortured all those other women, had tortured her daughter—and then she let it out and brought the stone down with everything she had. The sharpened point entering the center of his forehead, and she let it go. It was like letting go of her own personal demons, like letting go of the boulder on her back.

The river darkened with blood, and within moments Peterson lay there, eyes opened, lifeless, the only sound that of the trickling water over his face. This time, he was truly dead.

“Mom,” came the voice.

Riley knelt there, atop Peterson, and she did not know how much time had passed. She turned and looked over to see April beside her. She was crying, holding out a shaking hand for her.

“Mom,” she said. “He’s dead.”

Riley looked back down at Peterson, and could hardly believe it.

He’s dead.

A moment later there came splashing in the river, and she looked up to see Bill. He slowed as he approached, slowly lowering his gun, staring down at the scene in disbelief and horror, clearly too stunned to speak.

Behind him, Riley saw the traces of orange in the sky. It was almost sunrise. It did not seem possible that the sun could rise again on this world.

And yet rise, it did.

The funeral crowd was dispersing when Lucy spotted a short, slim young man who seemed markedly suspicious. He had just turned away from the gravesite and the expression on his face was not one of mourning. Head down, hands in his pockets, he seemed to actually be smiling.

That’s him,
Lucy thought, her nerve ends tingling.
That’s got to be him.

She stood still and watched him as he walked by her just a few feet away. That was definitely a grin on his face. This man was gloating, not grieving, Lucy was sure of it. She turned and started to follow him.

From behind, she could see his shoulders shaking a little—from laughter, not sobbing, there could be no doubt. She took longer strides to catch up with him, thinking carefully how to confront him. She thought it best to be straightforward—to identify herself as an FBI agent and demand to ask some questions. If he tried to run, he wouldn’t get very far—not with the local police right here and on keen alert. She pulled out her badge and broke into a trot.

At that very moment, a middle-aged couple stepped toward the man.

“Hugh!” the older man said.

“How are you holding up?” the woman asked.

The younger man turned toward the couple, still smiling.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I know it’s odd, but I just keep thinking about how funny Aunt Rosemary could be. Do you remember how she used to …”

His voice trailed off as he and the couple huddled closer together and began to move away from Lucy. Then Lucy could see hear all three of them chuckling sadly at whatever story he had told.

She put her badge away. It was a false alarm. The young man had been grinning over the kind of happy memory people often shared at funerals. She was grateful that she hadn’t caused a scene and embarrassed herself.

“Go to the funeral,”
Riley had told her.
“This one might be the type who feels remorse. He might be there.”
But if the murderer had been here, she hadn’t discovered him. She turned slowly in a circle, surveying the whole scene.

It was a pleasant, sunny morning. Rosemary Pickens’s closest relatives were still clustered under the blue canvas tent by the graveside, accepting condolences from dozens of caring friends and relatives. Other people were wandering away in groups.

Lucy realized that she’d made a miscalculation. In such a small town, she’d expected a small, intimate funeral—and consequently, an easy time spotting someone who seemed odd and out of place. She’d been wrong. She hadn’t realized how much of the population would come out for this. Reedsport was not only a place where everybody knew everybody else, but where everybody seemed to
care
about everybody else.

She walked back toward the tent, looking over the masses of flowers that covered and surrounded the coffin. Every single plant or bouquet would need to be accounted for in hopes of turning up the name of a stranger who might have murdered the woman.

Fortunately the local police would gather data on orders that were sent through the large commercial outfits. Lucy wanted to go to the local florists in person and ask about their deliveries. She was about to leave the gravesite when her attention was drawn to a young man who was standing beside the coffin—another short, slight man who appeared to be here alone. He was rather homely-looking, with a large nose and a rather heavy brow.

Could this be him?
Lucy wondered. She edged toward him.

But when she got near enough, she saw that tears were streaming down the man’s cheeks, and his face was knotted up in genuine grief. As he turned away from the coffin, he took a tissue out of his pocket, blew his nose, and wiped away some tears. When he looked up and saw Lucy, he managed to smile sympathetically. He waved to her weakly, then walked away. Lucy was sure that this couldn’t be the one she was looking for. His grief was too unfeigned, too heartfelt.

She felt a surge of discouragement. She hadn’t made any real progress since Riley left. The local townspeople had been eager to help, but none had given her any useful information. She’d followed up on details that people thought might be important—strangers in town, unknown vehicles, and the like—but they had all led nowhere.

She was sure Riley would say that eliminating suspects and possibilities was an important part of their work.

It just doesn’t seem very exciting,
Lucy thought.

*

Later in the morning, Lucy reached the last of town’s three florist shops. At the first two, she had asked about any strangers buying flowers for the funeral, but she’d turned up no leads. The florists had known all of their customers.

When she went inside, this store looked very much like others she had visited—fairly gutted of blossoms and a little disorderly after such intense business. But in the previous places, Lucy had detected no satisfaction at the rush of sales. Those florists had known Rosemary Pickens and were grief-stricken about her loss.

An elderly woman was cleaning a now-empty refrigerated display case.

“Are you the store owner?” Lucy asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied in a tired voice.

Lucy took out her badge.

“I’m Special Agent Lucy Vargas,” she said. “I’m investigating Rosemary Pickens’s murder. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “How can I help?”

“We’re just trying to cover every possibility,” Lucy said. “Do you remember anything odd about anybody who bought funeral flowers here? Anyone unfamiliar, for example.”

The woman looked thoughtful. 

“There was a young man I didn’t recognize,” she said. “And there was something odd. Let me think for a moment.”

She rubbed her forehead with her hand.

“Such a sad day,” she said. “It was so crowded this morning, and I was running out of everything. I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all, but he stood out because … yes, I remember. He had a terrible stutter. He could barely speak at all.”

The woman led Lucy over to the front counter.

“By the time he got here, there was hardly anything left in the store,” she said. “He found it so hard to talk, he wrote something down. Here, I’ll show you.”

The woman handed Lucy one of the shop’s business cards. On the back was written in neat, careful handwriting …

“Please give me just a few daisies.”

The woman said, “Luckily I had some daisies left. So I sold them to him.”

Lucy got out her note pad to jot down information.

“Could you describe him for me?” she asked.

The woman knotted her brow again, thinking hard.

“Oh, no, not really,” she said. “All I remember is that he was young and not very tall. And of course the stutter.”

“Please try,” Lucy said.

The woman thought some more.

“I’m sorry, but there was
such
a crush of customers today, and I just didn’t pay much attention to him. And I’m no good with faces anyway. All I remember was that he simply couldn’t say what he wanted to say, so I gave him a card and a pen to write with.”