Twisted (36 page)

“Jonah?”

“God
damn
it!”

“What is it?”

“Call just came in. We got another victim in Stony Creek Park.”

A quarter-mile ahead, the van pulled off onto a gravel driveway. Allison passed the turn without slowing, but darted a glimpse to the side and saw the van rolling up to a ramshackle house. After the next clump of trees, she pulled over onto the shoulder.

She was now convinced this was no coincidence. The van, the jewelry, the location—it was too much to chalk up to chance. Allison needed to call Jonah, but she wanted that tag number first. It would tell her who owned the vehicle—including any criminal history or warrants—which would help the task force put together a game plan.

Allison eased the pickup into a clump of scrub brush, where it would be less conspicuous. She got out and unlocked the toolbox to retrieve the binoculars her grandfather had used for hunting. While she had the lid open, she also grabbed a baseball cap to keep her head warm and to conceal her face, in case someone should see her tromping around out here. She was pretty sure she could get a view of the plate from the edge of the property, but it paid to be cautious. She ducked under a barbed-wire fence—which meant she was officially trespassing—and kept her body low as she crept through the trees and crouched behind a juniper bush.

She lifted the binoculars. Clear view of the van. She called dispatch on her phone, while using her other hand to adjust the lenses.

“Hey, I need you to run a plate for me.” The dispatcher would know who she was from caller ID. “It’s a white Dodge van, probably mid-nineties. The tag is X-M-R . . . Six . . .” Allison adjusted the focus. “Hmm, just a sec.” She heard the keyboard clacking in an office two counties away.

“Last digits?” The voice was terse.

Allison adjusted the lenses again. “Can’t tell. There’s mud on the plate. Can you hang on?”

“It’s crazy here. I’ve got about six calls waiting.”

“I’ll call you back.” Allison clicked off, not wanting to tie up the line when they were busy. She lowered the binoculars and surveyed the scene from a distance. One-story house. Chipping white paint, sagging front porch. Wind chimes in a rainbow of colors hung from the roof, and their jingle drifted over on the breeze. To the right of the house was a weathered wooden shed that leaned so severely, it looked as though it might blow over in the next storm. Allison saw only one vehicle on site—the van with the muddy plate. No movement in the yard. No yapping dogs.

She eyed the line of mesquite bushes stretching between her and the house. The brush had thinned out with the cold snap, but there was still enough cover to keep her out of view, provided she was careful. She switched her phone to vibrate and slipped it in the pocket of her jacket. She stayed low and walked closer to the house. She didn’t have to actually approach the van—if she skirted around to the north, she’d be able to maintain her distance while getting a view of the front license plate. She stayed close to the trees, which got thicker as she neared the shed. She spotted another evergreen with
enough bulk to give her cover and darted behind it. She lifted the binoculars.

This plate was clean. She called the dispatcher back and recited the digits.

Allison glanced around as she waited. The wind kicked up, and the chimes clinked louder, reminding her of a jack-in-the-box she’d had as a child.

She lowered the binoculars and eased her Glock from its holster. She wasn’t sure why—just because.

“Ninety-two Dodge Caravan, white,” the dispatcher said. “Registered to an Erika Phelps, eight-two-six Mulberry Court, Dallas, Texas.”

“Wants and warrants?”

“Negative. Registration’s expired, though.”

Allison chewed her lip. She’d been hoping for an outstanding warrant that would give the task force a reason to raid the house.

“D.O.B.?” she asked.

“That’s 12-14-85.”

“There a caution code on her?”

“Negative.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She clicked off and slipped the phone into her pocket. Erika Phelps. Her age seemed to fit the driver, so Allison was going to assume the woman was Erika. She didn’t have a criminal record—not in Texas, anyway.

But still, something was off. The pendant, the van, the expired tags. She stared at the wind chimes and wondered if they were homemade as she recalled what Roland had said about the trace evidence.
Not house paint. Not unless he’s painting Walt Disney’s house. This is a rainbow of colors.

Allison felt a gut-deep certainty that Damien Moss was connected to this place and that she’d be back here within twenty-four hours with a search warrant and an army of investigators.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Allison whirled around, gun raised.

No one. Just grass and scrub brush. She turned and studied the house again. No movement. But her pulse was racing.

You know when you’re in the presence of danger.

Allison eased out of her position and moved low and silently back toward her truck. She kept her senses alert, her grip tight around her Glock. She skirted some trees and spotted the back of her pickup jutting out from the mesquite bushes where she’d parked it. She ducked back under the barbed wire and reached for the door handle, and something hard jabbed the back of her neck.

“Drop the gun.”

She registered a thousand details at once—the low, male voice, the cool muzzle pressed against her skin, the blurry reflection in the driver’s-side window.

Don’t give it up.
If she surrendered her weapon, she was as good as dead—somehow she knew it.

“Now.”

Allison’s throat went dry. She tightened her grip on her gun. In the window she saw the other arm arch up.

A bright burst of pain and then the world went black.

Mark maneuvered through the tangle of emergency vehicles and parked beside a ditch. A yellow ambulance pulled onto the road and he watched it speed away, hoping the ear-piercing siren meant there was still a
chance. He strode up to the huddle of cops in the parking lot. Jonah’s face was grave.

“She’s alive?”

“Barely.” The detective looked past Mark into the street, probably worried about reporters. The media hadn’t made the scene yet, but it was only a matter of minutes.

Mark scanned the gravel lot. He saw half a dozen uniforms, several task force members, and a handful of crime-scene techs, but no Allison. His gaze landed on a yellow Labrador sitting beside a police unit. A female CSI in coveralls was crouched beside the dog, trying to poke a cotton swab into its mouth.

Mark looked at Jonah. “Lauren Reichs?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Allison here yet?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

“Yo, hotshot.” Sean Byrne stepped in front of him, eyes blazing. The detective was a head shorter than Mark, but he looked ready to throttle him. “I thought we had our man, huh?” He shoved Mark in the chest. “You arrogant prick. Isn’t that what you said? Said we had our guy?”

Mark glared down at him, and it took all his effort not to sock him in the jaw.

Ric clamped a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Hey, cool it.”

“Fuck no, I won’t cool it!” Sean shook off Ric’s hand. “I shoulda been here. But I wasn’t, was I, because fucking fed here said we had our collar!”

Mark looked at the other cops watching him. He looked at Sean. The detective was angry, but he had tears in his eyes. Mark knew the feeling.

“I was wrong,” Mark said, and the words tasted bitter.

Everyone watched silently but without making eye contact. He could feel their resentment.

“Man, come on.” Ric pulled Sean to the other side of the parking lot, and everyone resumed their work. Resentment or not, they still had jobs to do.

Mark looked at Jonah. “Tell me what we’ve got.”

“Lauren Michelle Reichs, twenty-one, college student.” He checked his notebook. “She showed up here about eleven this morning to go for a run with her dog.”

“She gave a statement?”

“No. Witness saw her Honda Civic pull in. Forty-five minutes later, we got a 911 call from another jogger. Honda’s driver’s-side door was open, so looks like she was dragged away from her car and attacked in the woods. Apparently, her dog was going nuts. People heard the barking a mile away.”

Mark looked at Sadie, whose coat was matted with blood. Even from where he stood, he could see her paws shaking. A uniform held her by the collar as she resisted the CSI’s efforts to get the swab in her mouth.

“Perp Maced the dog, but it came at him anyway, by the looks of it. Probably the reason the vic’s alive right now, although I hear she’s slashed up pretty good.”

Mark gritted his teeth and looked around again. “Okay, where’s Allison? We need her in on this.”

“She was up at Jordan’s earlier.” Jonah looked at his watch and frowned. “She should have been back by now, though.”

Mark pulled out his phone and checked for messages. Nothing new. He dialed her number with a growing sense of unease. It wasn’t like her to duck his calls. Even
if she was upset with him for personal reasons, she’d still pick up. The investigation came first.

The call went to voice mail. “Call me, ASAP.” Mark hung up and looked at Jonah. “When was the last time you heard from her?”

“About two hours ago. She was on her way in.”

“Two
hours
?”

Jonah turned around. “Hey, Vince, you seen Allison anywhere?”

“Nope.”

Mark turned to Ric. “Have you seen her?”

“Not today.” Ric rejoined their huddle. “This is a fucking mess we got on our hands. Mia just called me. Damien Moss’s DNA swab doesn’t match what we got from the rape kit. Moss’s lawyer’s in front of the D.A. right now, trying to get his client released.”

“We need to talk to him first,” Jonah said. “He probably knows where his brother is. I’ll head up there right now.”

“I’ll go, too,” Vince chimed in.

“I’ll finish up here,” Ric said. “Give you guys a call with an update.”

“Good plan,” Jonah said. “I’ll tell the lieutenant—”

“Wait. Just . . .
stop.
” Mark held up his hand to cut him off. All three detectives looked at him impatiently.

“Where the fuck is Allison?”

Allison opened her eyes, but everything stayed dark. Pain crashed through her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the throbbing wouldn’t go away.

Above her, voices. Not just voices—arguing. She struggled to focus on the sounds, on anything that would
take her mind off the relentless pounding in her head. She reached for the back of her head, but her hand wouldn’t move. A metallic
clink
echoed around her.

Handcuffs. The word permeated the haze, and adrenaline overrode the pain. She touched her right wrist and confirmed that it was shackled to something.

She reached for her holster. Gone. She did a self pat-down and discovered she had no gun, no phone, no jacket. Even her belt was missing. Swallowing down panic, she groped around and tried to get her bearings. She was on a cool concrete floor. Her right hand was elevated above her head and cuffed to something hard and curved. It felt like pipe. The bracelet scraped against it, and fear shot through her.

The air smelled of chemicals—maybe paint—along with a foul odor she recognized as human waste. Her stomach churned and she wanted to retch, but instead she slumped back against the wall and forced herself to breathe. In and out. She couldn’t panic. She couldn’t lose it. She had to
think.

Memories swam through her mind—crouching beside a tree, phoning in a tag number, returning to her truck. He’d come at her from behind and demanded that she drop her weapon. She hadn’t cooperated, but instead of shooting her, he’d knocked her out and brought her here—which had to mean he wanted her alive, at least for now. It was the faintest glimmer of hope, but she forced herself to focus on it.

Damien Moss. He should have been in jail. Allison closed her eyes and visualized the man reflected in the truck window. Not Damien. She’d seen Damien, pursued him on foot, even cuffed and arrested him. The
man reflected in that windowpane had been bigger and bulkier.

Something crashed overhead. Allison looked up. Noises above, a heavy thud as something hit the floor. A body?

“You stupid bitch! How could you lead a cop here?”

Glass breaking. A yelp. The sound was like a wounded animal, but Allison knew it was the woman—Erika. If that was even her name.

The male voice was talking again, lower now. Allison couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was threatening, almost like a growl. Another thud. Another yelp. Allison blocked out the sounds, focused instead on the handcuffs. She had to break free. She ran her hands over the metal and was disappointed to discover that they weren’t
her
cuffs. No, these were his. That knowledge, combined with the rank odors, told her she wasn’t the first person to be locked up here. Maybe he kept Erika down here, too. Or other people, before he tortured them. They could have screamed out for help, but no one was around to hear.

Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek.

The words came back to her, chilling her to the bone. She commanded herself not to think about it. She needed a plan.

She ran her left hand over the pipe and found the joint where it curved and turned into the wall. Was it possible to unscrew it? The metal felt thick and textured, probably from rust. She pulled on the pipe, but it didn’t budge. She felt the joint, tried to make it move, but it held firm.

Allison glanced up at the ceiling. A chill swept through her. No more noises—just an eerie silence.

“Faster,” Mark said as Jonah raced down the highway toward Waynesboro.

“You know, the lawyer’s probably got him kicked loose by now.” The detective glanced at the speedometer. They were doing eighty but he increased the speed. “We need a backup plan.”

“I’m working on it,” Mark said, pressing his phone to his ear. Ben Lawson answered on the first ring.