Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (29 page)

Her chin jerked up as shafts of pain pierced her head. She staggered. Lost her balance. Felt herself falling backward. Heard a crack.

Then the world went dark.

As Laura crumpled in a heap on the stoop, Mark spat out a curse.

Everything had gone so well until now.

But he wasn’t surprised she’d tried a stunt like that. Darcy had too, and they were related. Similar traits often ran in families. He’d seen it in siblings at daycare. Thank goodness he’d been on alert.

Behind him, he heard Darcy scrambling to her feet. Or trying to. He turned. She still wasn’t steady, and she wouldn’t get far even if she did manage to stand without falling again. But she had a strong pair of lungs—and as her bound hands rose toward the gag, he shot toward her. A scream would carry in the silent night air, and there were lights on in the house they’d passed on the other side of the alley.

He grabbed for her hands, hauled her to her feet, and dragged her toward the back door. Once on the stoop, he got in her face and put the point of the knife an inch from her eyes.

“I told your sister I’d kill you if she didn’t do what I said.” He spoke through clenched teeth, keeping his voice low and menacing. “I’m telling you the same thing. You make one sound when we get inside, your sister dies. Got it?”

A tear spilled down her cheek, but she nodded.

He wasn’t certain she’d comply, but he couldn’t delay entry. Laura had knocked her head hard on the porch railing as she’d fallen, but unless she was seriously injured, she wouldn’t stay out long. He needed to dispose of Darcy and get back here fast.

Sliding the knife into the case he’d shoved inside his boot at Laura’s house, he once more hefted Darcy onto his shoulder.

She whimpered.

“Shut up.”

When she quieted, he twisted the knob on the back door and eased through. The lack of lights in the house was a positive sign. Faith must still be sleeping it off.

A quick look into the living room confirmed that conclusion. She was right where he’d left her, curled on the couch under the afghan.

That part of his plan had worked flawlessly, anyway.

He opened the basement door and started down the stairs. He could feel Darcy shaking, but she wasn’t making a sound. And going down was much easier than going up.

Once he reached her room, he dumped her on the bed and exited without looking back, locking the door behind him.

One down, one to go.

At the top of the stairs, he again checked on Faith.

No change.

Continuing to the back door, he pulled the knife out again—just in case. But when he emerged, Laura was slumped where he’d left her.

Was it possible the knock on the head had killed her, saving him the trouble?

But there’d be time to find out once he had her stowed in the basement, away from prying eyes.

He put the knife back in its case and knelt on one knee. It took some maneuvering, but he finally managed to hoist her over his shoulder. She groaned and stirred as he stood, and his lips flattened.

So much for his hope she might already be dead.

With one final scan to confirm no one was about, he moved to the door and slipped inside. The house remained dark. Faith was still out cold. And in sixty seconds, his two biggest problems would be locked away tight until he was ready to deal with them.

Once and for all.

As he started toward the basement stairs, Laura gave another muffled groan and began to writhe on his shoulder.

He picked up his pace.

Two steps down, something snagged, bringing him up short. He looked over his shoulder.

Laura had grabbed the door frame with one hand.

Taking a firm grip on the railing, he jerked her forward. Her hand pulled away with minimal resistance.

The fist in her face and the blow to the head had clearly weakened her, but she could work the gag loose if she tried—and that would be a disaster. The last thing he needed was for Faith to get wind of the drama playing out one floor below.

Descending the remaining stairs as fast as he dared, he pulled the key out of his pocket and half jogged toward Darcy’s room, Laura bouncing on his shoulder. A fast peek through the peephole confirmed the teen had remained where he’d dropped her on the bed.

The lock clicked and he pulled the door open. Three steps into the room, he dumped Laura onto the floor. Darcy gasped as her sister fell, but Laura lay unmoving except for the blood oozing out of her nose now that the neck warmer had slipped down.

With one last glance at the duo, he backed toward the door, the knot of tension in his stomach beginning to uncoil.

He’d pulled it off.

The hardest part was over.

As for the two women in his basement, he could take care of their final disposal at his leisure. Maybe he’d leave them down here for a few days without food. They’d be easier to manage then. Weaker. Less likely to struggle when he pressed the pillow to their—

All at once, Darcy’s sister came to life. She rolled toward him, grabbed his leg, and tugged.

Thrown off balance, he fell backward, surprise giving way to anger even before he slammed onto the floor.

How could he have let himself be fooled a second time? Was he stupid after all, just like his mother used to say when drugs or
alcohol stirred up the venom inside her and she spewed out hateful things?

No!

He had a college degree and a responsible, important job. People respected him. He was smart. Smart enough to fix this problem.

Besides, he had the advantage.

As his body absorbed the impact, he reached for the knife in his boot.

Coming slowly awake, Faith rubbed her eyes and stared into the darkness.

Where was she?

And what was that odd muffled, scuffling noise?

She forced herself upright, fighting back a wave of dizziness and an odd lethargy in her limbs.

Man. You’d think she’d downed half a bottle of wine instead of a mug of hot chocolate. She must have been a lot more tired than she’d thought to fall into such a deep sleep.

Closing her eyes, she gripped the edge of the couch until her head stopped swimming, then focused on getting the lay of the land.

She was still on the couch at Mark’s house. They’d been watching that old movie, the one with the chick from
The Wizard of Oz
, and she’d gotten sleepy. The last thing she remembered before drifting off was Mark draping an afghan over her.

Rotating her wrist toward the blank, illuminated screen, she peered at her watch. Was it really ten-forty? She’d been asleep for two hours?!

Warmth rose on her cheeks and she closed her eyes again. Talk about embarrassing. Falling asleep on a first date was the kiss of death. Mark would never ask her out again. Why, oh why, had she stayed up last night watching MTV?

The muted noise intruded on her thoughts again, and she looked toward the back of the house. It seemed to be coming from the basement—but what was it?

She rose, and the floor tilted.

Whoa!

She groped for the arm of the couch and held on tight until the room settled down. What in the world was going on?

Once she felt steady enough to walk, she carefully worked her way down the length of the couch in the dark. Had Mark gone to bed rather than disturb her? That would be like him. Everyone at work was impressed with his kindness and caring toward the children. Knowing him, he’d left a note by her purse telling her to wake him when she was ready to leave and he’d walk her back to her car.

Not a chance. After falling asleep on him, she’d rather slink out and hope he didn’t hold it against her tomorrow. Could she spin her faux pas in some positive way? Tell him she’d drifted off because she felt so relaxed and at home here, and that it was actually a compliment?

Lame . . . but it would have to do unless she came up with a better excuse.

Pausing at the dining table, she frowned and surveyed the empty top. She’d left her purse here, hadn’t she? Maybe Mark had moved it. If so, where had he put it?

She needed light.

Retracing her steps to the living room, she felt around the base of the lamp that had been on earlier, searching for the switch. Too bad her keys were inside her purse. Otherwise, she could leave it and let Mark bring it with him to work tomorrow.

Her fingers closed over the switch and she flipped it on. Soft light flooded the room—but her purse was nowhere to be seen.

Had he taken it to the kitchen, perhaps?

Still plagued with a weird unsteadiness, she concentrated on walking a straight line to the back of the house.

It wasn’t easy.

On the threshold of the kitchen, she stopped and gripped the door frame, searching the wall for a light switch. There. Over by the back door. Near where she’d left her boots when they arrived.

Stifling a yawn, she padded across the light-colored wood floor in her socks, groped for the switch, and flipped it on. Success. Her purse was front and center, smack in the middle of the bare counter.

She started toward it . . . then froze midstride.

What were those red splotches on the otherwise spotless floor? The ones that began halfway across the room and led to the open basement door? They hadn’t been there earlier.

She moved close to the first one and bent down.

Was that . . . blood?

More muffled noises came from the basement—and one of them sounded like a moan. Followed by a grunt.

She straightened up and backed off a step, visually following the trail of spots that ended at the basement door.

She lifted her gaze.

Stopped breathing.

Were those bloody fingerprints on the white door frame?

A thump sounded below her and she jumped.

The vibes in the house were suddenly getting bad.

Very bad.

“No!” The faint, muted cry from below was female.

A door slammed.

She jumped, gripping her hands in front of her as she strained to listen for more sounds.

All was quiet for half a minute—until one of the stairs creaked.

Someone was coming up!

Mark?

An intruder?

An ax murderer?

Pulse surging, she dashed toward the back door. Maybe there was a simple explanation for what she’d seen and heard. The red stuff might be paint. The voice might not have been a voice at all, but a cat or a CD or . . . something. Mark might have a workshop in the basement, and maybe he’d been watching a spooky DVD while he waited for her to wake up.

But she wasn’t waiting around to find out.

Tomorrow, she’d make her apologies and listen to explanations.

Tonight, she was out of here.

Swinging around, she grabbed her boots, reached for the door handle, and prepared to bolt.

M
ark stopped two steps up on the basement stairs and double-checked his hands in the light spilling down through the door to the kitchen.

No blood.

Good.

But there was plenty of it in the room. It would take him weeks to clean and restore the space for the next girl.

Not that he’d had any choice, once the floorboard squeaked overhead. Knocking Darcy’s sister around, like Lil used to do to him when he got out of line, would have taken too long with Faith wandering around. He couldn’t risk having his “date” hear noises, get curious, and come downstairs to investigate.

Funny thing, though. While he’d never been the violent sort, driving the blade into flesh had been much easier than he’d expected. Satisfying too. With every thrust, his anger had dissipated and he’d felt more energized and powerful.

Maybe he’d rethink his plans for finishing the two of them off. Forget about the pillow method. Shake things up a little—if he could stand the mess. And that was a big if. Blood was a bear to clean up.

But he could make that decision later. First, he needed to get rid of Faith.

Scratching the back of his hand, he continued up the steps.

Three seconds later, as his eyes came level with the floor, red
spots appeared in his field of vision, neon-like against the pristine polished oak.

He froze.

Laura’s nose must have dripped on the floor.

Had Faith seen it?

He took the last steps two at a time, arriving at the top just as his date for the night disappeared out the back door.

A roar filled his head, rising to a crescendo.

She’d seen the blood. There was a trail of spots halfway across the floor. No wonder she’d freaked.

But he could explain it. There were lots of reasons for red splotches on a floor. He could say he cut his finger on a knife in the kitchen. Or had suffered a nosebleed himself. Or that he’d spilled some tomato soup while fixing himself a snack.

Those were all logical explanations. Any of them could be true. Plus, she liked him. Trusted him. Once he caught up with her, it would be an easy sell. And it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere until he spoke with her. He had her keys. The ones he’d wrestled from Laura after she’d tried to jab one of them into his eye.

He crossed the kitchen in several long strides, pulled the door open, and exited onto the stoop.

Voices next door caught his attention, and he paused in the shadows. One of the frat boys was in the alley, by the dumpster. Probably getting rid of another trash bag full of beer cans. His lips curled in disgust. No wonder they were in a drunken stupor every weekend.

The kid was listening to Faith, though, as she gestured behind her, toward his house. He couldn’t make out her words, but the hysterical pitch of her voice carried in the quiet air.

He needed to stop this before it went any further.

Rubbing his palms down his slacks, he stepped off the stoop and started toward them. Too bad he’d ditched his jacket, hat, and gloves on the basement floor before coming upstairs. It was freezing out here.

The kid looked his way as he approached, and Faith spun toward him. Her eyes widened, and she edged behind the guy, swaying slightly as she grabbed his arm.

“Faith . . . what’s wrong?” He tried for a solicitous tone. “Are you feeling okay?”

She just stared at him.

“She said there was blood in your house.” The muscular kid with the build of a quarterback hefted a bulging plastic bag into the dumpster and faced him.

“Yeah.” He managed a rueful laugh and went for the nosebleed explanation as he addressed Faith. “After you conked out on me, I went downstairs to fiddle around with the hot water heater. It’s been acting up the past few days. Sometimes if I bend over for too long, I get nosebleeds. It happens now and then. I’m sorry you got scared.”

Faith edged out a fraction from behind the guy, her expression shifting from fear to uncertainty.

She was buying his explanation.

“Why don’t you come back to the house and we’ll gather up your things? Then I’ll walk you to your car.”

Super Jock looked at her and decided to play Galahad. “I can walk you to your car if you’d rather.”

Faith bit her lip, tucked her hair behind her ear, and studied him across the frozen expanse. When she dropped her gaze and angled toward his neighbor, Mark knew she’d decided to accept the guy’s offer.

“Thank you. I’d appreciate the escort. But I need my stuff from the house. My keys are in my purse.”

They both looked his way.

He was stuck. Refusing to hand over her things would only add to their suspicions. He’d have to smooth things out with Faith tomorrow at work. Convince her it really had been a nosebleed. In the daylight, back in familiar surroundings, she’d accept that explanation. Right now she was drugged, cold, and standing in
a strange, dark alley. Her imagination would be playing tricks on her—or so he’d tell her tomorrow.

Unfortunately, he’d also have to play out this romance thing a little longer, until tonight was forgotten. An unappealing prospect, but necessary.

“Fine. I’ll get your things.”

He turned away, but when she gasped he swung back. “What’s wrong?”

The guy spoke. “There’s blood on the back of your shirt.”

He smothered a curse.

He’d been wearing his jacket when he’d grappled with Laura in the basement room. Some of the blood must have gotten on it, then rubbed off on the back of his shirt as he’d shed his outerwear.

And a bloody nose wouldn’t explain stains on the back of his shirt.

But how much could there be? A few streaks? And in the dark, they wouldn’t be able to tell for sure if it was blood.

Staring the two of them down, he lifted his chin. “I don’t like your insinuations. Faith, I’ll put your things on the back porch, since you prefer the company of your new friend.” He shot the guy a quick, scornful look, then refocused on her. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

With that, he walked back to his house, pushed through the door, and closed it behind him.

Only then did he allow his shoulders to sag.

He was going to have to do some serious damage control at work tomorrow.

Closer to home, he’d also have to undermine Faith’s credibility. That should be easier. He’d watch for Super Jock, then happen to run into him in the alley. The guy would surely notice Faith’s unsteadiness if he walked her to her car tonight, and a couple of remarks about drinking should punch a lot of holes in her story. The crew next door had firsthand knowledge about the mind-muddling effects of alcohol.

For now, though, he’d gather up her stuff, hand it over, and scrub
the kitchen until there wasn’t a speck of blood left, even if it kept him up past midnight. The basement room would require a much bigger effort, but since he never allowed anyone downstairs, it could wait.

Mark pushed off from the door and went in search of Faith’s coat and purse, scrutinizing her keys for any sign of blood before he dropped them in one of the side compartments on her bag.

She and the college guy were still standing in the distance when he set her things at the edge of the stoop—and neither approached until he retreated inside.

He watched from a slit in the blinds as her protector retrieved the items, then rejoined her.

But instead of heading down the walkway between the buildings on the other side of the alley, they disappeared in the direction of the house next door.

Had he offered her a drink? Was he trying to pick her up? Did he intend to take advantage of her tipsy, vulnerable state?

Who cared? She was old enough to fend for herself.

And he had other, more important things to worry about.

“Lie still, sweetie. You’re going to be fine.” Laura tried for an encouraging tone, hoping the assurance was true. But she didn’t like the location of Darcy’s abdominal wound, even if it wasn’t bleeding nearly as much as the puncture on her own leg.

Lord, please don’t let one of her vital organs be damaged!

Tears trickled out of the corners of her sister’s eyes. “I’m s-so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You saved my life. If you hadn’t lunged for him when he raised the knife over me, I’d be dead. Instead, you got the brunt of it.”

“We wouldn’t b-be in this mess if it w-wasn’t for me.”

As Laura fought back another wave of mind-numbing dizziness, she tried to think of a way to refute that. Failed. Darcy was right.

Except
mess
was far too mild a word.

Tightening the makeshift bandage on her leg, fighting the near-debilitating weakness in her limbs, she glanced around the room from her kneeling position on the floor beside her sister.

Pure carnage.

There were streaks and splotches of blood everywhere—and more was being added by the minute. In addition to the ever-widening circumference on the towel she’d secured to her leg by knotting the sleeves of one of the blouses in the closet around it, she could also feel warmth trickling down her shoulder from the wound at the top of her left arm that she hadn’t been able to bandage. On the plus side, the blood from the stabs on her arms was no longer seeping through the washcloths she’d tied around them. Her nose had also stopped bleeding.

“Laura?”

At Darcy’s soft summons, she refocused on her sister. Her head was throbbing, and her vision was going in and out of focus, but she could see clearly enough to discern that her sister had been through hell over the past ten days. Her face was one giant bruise, her blonde hair had been hacked off and dyed, and she’d lost a significant amount of weight. Now she’d sustained a possible life-threatening wound that needed professional medical attention.

The specter of death was an almost palpable presence.

Her throat constricted, and she tried to swallow past her panic. She couldn’t lose Darcy now.
Please, God, no! Not after all we’ve both been through!

“What is it, sweetie?” Despite her best efforts to sound calm and in control, a tremor ran through her words.

“I w-want you to know I appreciate all you d-did for me.”

“You can thank me later, after this is over.”

“He’s going to k-kill us.” Darcy’s voice was dull now—and resigned. “Just like the o-others.”

A cold chill settled in the pit of Laura’s stomach. “What others?”

Darcy drew a shuddering breath. “Star and Angela and Denise. Maybe Lil too.”

Hamilton had killed four women already?

The pounding in her head intensified.

If they were dealing with a serial killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again—and he’d had a lot of practice.

Her estimate of their odds of survival plummeted.

But she wasn’t going to give up yet. Hamilton might be smart and physically strong, but no one was unbeatable. She’d cling to that thought and focus every ounce of her diminished brainpower on coming up with a plan to outwit him.

“That doesn’t mean we have to be his next victims.” The words came out sounding much more confident than she felt.

“There’s no way out of this room. And he’s not going to let us jump him again.”

That was true—but they weren’t in any condition to attempt a repeat performance of that in any case.

“Then we’ll think of something else.” Laura scooted up and set to work on the rope binding Darcy’s wrists.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it—but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask for some help. Will you pray with me once I get your hands free?”

Her sister gave a soft sigh. “I guess. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I’ve been down here, but I didn’t talk to God much before this and you always had to drag me to services, so I don’t know if he’s been listening. Still, where two or three are gathered and all that.”

Apparently a few things from the sermons her sister had claimed were lame and boring had stuck.

“He always listens to us, no matter how long it’s been since we last spoke with him. It’s just that we don’t always get the answer we want.” Giving Darcy’s hand a squeeze, Laura closed her eyes. “Lord, we need your strength and your wisdom and your fortitude. Please inspire our thinking and help us find a way out of this situation. Give us courage and fill our minds with the serenity that comes from knowing no matter what happens, you are with
us always. But if it’s your will, please save us from this danger so we can have many years together to discover all the blessings of sisterhood. Amen.”

As Darcy’s hushed amen echoed hers in the silent room, Laura squeezed her fingers again and added one more silent plea for help.

Because despite the brave face she was trying to maintain for her sister’s sake, in her heart she knew it would take a miracle for them to escape whatever fate Hamilton had planned for them.