Face Off (11 page)

“No!” Amy spoke aloud in a ragged whisper. “No. The man didn't come back like he said he was going to do. Maybe he was captured. Maybe the police will start checking on all of his properties and find me. Or maybe he will tell them where I am.

“Yes! That's it! They are probably searching for me now.” She crawled over under the pipe. “Help! Help! I'm down here!” But the sound coming from her throat was only a hoarse whisper.

Her energy spent, Amy fell back to the floor. Oh, God, why had she ever talked with him that day? Her father had warned her about that very thing.
You know, Amy, people are different in a large city. You've led a pretty protected life. Don't go trusting everyone you meet in Kansas City, like you do here.
Why hadn't she listened to him?

He had sat down next to her at the lunch counter, then commented on the ivory cross she always wore around her neck. At the time she hadn't thought it odd that he had asked what church she went to, and had somehow elicited the fact that she attended services on Wednesday night. He just seemed like a nice man. She hadn't even questioned it when he asked if that was the Methodist church on Central.
Why had she been so stupid?
And why had she given him her first name when he left? He had stood and extended his hand, saying, “I'm Clarence. It has been nice talking to you…” He had left the sentence hanging, looking at her with raised eyebrows, and without a second thought she had answered, “Amy.”

Amy felt her throat tighten as she remembered leaving the church that Wednesday evening. God, she had made it so easy for him! She had slipped out early, before the closing song, because Terry, a young man who worked in her department, had said he would call and she hadn't wanted to miss him. When the man called out her name, she assumed it was someone she knew, perhaps even Terry. She had walked over to the van without a care. Then, so quickly she hadn't had time to react, the side door had slid open and she was yanked inside, a foul smelling rag forced over her face, then oblivion.

She had come to in this death trap, with the man standing over her. There was tape covering her mouth, but her hands and feet were free. She had reached up to remove the tape, but he had stopped her. “No. You will leave the tape on until I go.” He had leaned down, brushing her hair from her face. “And when I return, you and I are going to have a little fun.” He had laughed, grabbing his crotch. “At least
I
will have fun!” He had then used the long knife he was carrying, running it down her arm, drawing blood. “And then, Amy, sweet Amy, I'm going to cut you into a thousand little pieces! Maybe you will die with the twentieth cut, or the fiftieth. But I can promise you this. You won't die with the first. You will be screaming in pain before I let you die, my
sweet
Amy.” This time when he said the word
sweet,
it was dripping with venom.

He had then leaned down and pulled the tape from her mouth. Surprisingly, it hadn't hurt. “I covered the tape with Vaseline,” he explained. “I want you picture perfect when I return!”

He had then reached up, grabbed the sides of the cement box, and hoisted himself out. She had sprung to her feet, but he had ordered her to lie back down.
Or I will do you now, sweet Amy!
She had obeyed and watched in horror as a wooden lid was placed over the opening. When she heard shovelfuls of dirt being scooped on top, she screamed in terror. Then his voice seemed to boom at her, and she noticed the small, round pipe which was inserted in the lid. “It will do you no good to scream, Amy. We are miles and miles from civilization.” He had laughed again, a deep, chilling laugh, and Amy had held her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming again. “I'll be back in a day or so, Amy. Sweet Amy!”

It had seemed to Amy that she could hear the thuds of the dirt hitting the lid for a long, long time. Yet when she became aware that the noise had stopped, she was still too terrified to move.

Finally, Amy felt confident that he had left and she began moving around her prison. When she stood, her head just missed hitting the lid the man had put in place. At least that was one thing, she could walk about without hunching over. The room itself was about the size of a small walk-in closet, about four feet wide, and six feet long. It was made of cement, everything but the lid. For the first several days, she had pushed against the ceiling, trying to loosen it, to no avail. Then, as hunger and thirst caught up with her, she had stopped trying. She knew it was hopeless, anyway.

Her one source of comfort was the light. For some reason, the man had installed a small, dime-store lamp for her to see by. Amy often stared at the naked bulb for hours on end, willing it not to burn out. It was the only thing between her and insanity. The cord leading from the light disappeared into the cement wall, just inches below the top. She knew this meant there was a source for the electricity nearby. A farmhouse perhaps? The man had gone to a lot of trouble to provide her with electricity.

He had also “papered” her prison with posters. They were bolted into the walls, acting as a sponge to catch any moisture which might seep through the walls. They were stained and faded, suggesting they had been in place for some time. Amy had no idea what the original purpose of her prison had been.

The one thing she did know was that the man who left her here was the Kansas City Butcher. That much she had figured out. How many other young girls had been forced to await their destiny in this dungeon?

When things got really bad, as they were now, she almost wished he would return. At least then she would have a fighting chance. As soon as that thought would cross her mind, she would remember the knife trailing down her arm, breaking the skin, and his promise that her death would be painful. And how could she fight him if he did return? She was so weak by now, that she could no longer even stand for more than a few seconds. She had to have water, and soon.

“Oh, God,” Amy whispered hoarsely, as she lay beneath the pipe. “Please, God. Let it rain. I'm so thirsty. So very, very thirsty.”

*   *   *

The knock on her door startled Suzanne. She exchanged a questioning glance with Jessie, shrugging her shoulders. “Who is it?” she called through the door.

“Detective McDermott,” Harry answered. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Suzanne put her eye to the peep hole on the door. “Oh, no!” she whispered to Jessie. “It's that officer from the police station. What are we going to do?”

“How did he find us?”

“I don't know. No one followed us. I'm sure of it. And anyway, he would have been here long before now if that's the case.”

There was another knock on the door. “Miss Richards, please. All I want to do is talk to you. That's all. Won't you open the door?”

“I think we should let him in,” Jessie whispered. “Maybe he can tell us some more about Clark.”

“Yeah, or maybe he'll haul me right off to jail!” Suzanne whispered back.

“If that's what he came for, it won't stop him just because you won't answer the door, will it?”

Suzanne's shoulders slumped as she recognized the wisdom of Jessie's remark. “You're right, of course. Just remember, that whole nun bit was
your
idea. Be sure to visit me in jail. Okay?”

She opened the door, trying to put an annoyed look on her face. “Yes? What is it?”

“Miss Richards? Suzanne Richards?”

“Yes. How can I help you, officer?”

Harry couldn't help the grin which spread across his face. “Well, for openers, you can tell me what you were doing at the police station this morning posing as a nun.”

Suzanne tried to brazen it out. Her large brown eyes snapped as she lied. “I don't have any idea what you are talking about. Jessie and I have been right here all day.” She turned to the girl. “Haven't we, Jessie?”

Jessie nodded her head up and down, vigorously. “Yes. All day!”

Harry looked at the younger girl. A sister, maybe, or a neighbor. He didn't think she could be Suzanne's daughter. “And who are you, young lady?”

“My name's Jessie Matthews. What's yours?”

“I'm Detective McDermott, Jessie.” He held out his hand. “I'm happy to meet you.”

“Officer, you've obviously made a mistake,” Suzanne said. “And I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Harry stepped into the apartment. “And I'm going to have to ask you what your connection is to Randal Clark. And please don't insult me by saying you don't know who he is. I ran a trace on your phone call to the station inquiring about his whereabouts. I also have a tape of your voice asking Clark the whereabouts of Amy Matthews.”

Harry suddenly stopped talking and looked over at Jessie. “What did you say your last name was?”

Jessie's face reddened until it visibly matched her hair. “I … uh … Matthews, sir. I'm Amy's sister, and I'm here to find her. We didn't do anything wrong, honest we didn't.”

Suzanne's frustration suddenly boiled over. “
How could you let Clark go?
That's what I can't understand. After what he did to those poor girls, how could you do that?”

“Wait a minute here,” Harry interrupted. “Just what is your connection to Clark? And why did he react like he did? We couldn't quite make out everything you said, but whatever it was, it certainly set him off.”

Before she could answer, Harry unhooked the two-way radio from his belt. “Jim, come on around. They aren't going anywhere.”

Suzanne studied the tall, handsome detective as he spoke. She knew there was no use lying to him. He would know who she was as soon as he ran a background on her. She might just as well deal with it now, and get it over.

“Detective, do you remember the Baxter Underwood case in Omaha?”

Harry nodded, puzzled. “You mean that serial killer who got off because of some psychic, and then promptly killed two more little girls?”

Suzanne felt the old familiar knot in her stomach at his words. Would it ever leave?

“I'm the psychic who was involved.”

“Oh, Christ!” Harry exploded. “Why, after all that happened in Omaha, would you see Clark? Didn't it occur to you that he might use the same defense as Underwood? That all of our hard work might go down the drain and he would be back on the streets?”

“He's back on the streets, anyway!” Suzanne snapped. “And we have reason to believe Amy Matthews is still alive, but we don't know where to begin looking.”

Harry looked at the tall, attractive brunette with disdain. “Now let me guess. You looked into your little crystal ball and saw Amy Matthews, so you contacted her parents and offered your services. How much is it going to cost them?” He turned to Jessie. “Will your father still have a dairy farm when this fortune-teller gets done with him?”

Suzanne's face flushed with anger. She reached over, placing her hand on the detective's arm. She would show this jerk a thing or two!

Harry looked down. “What are you doing? Trying to impress me with your wonderful power? Please! Spare me!”

Suzanne dropped her hand. She had felt absolutely nothing. No images had flashed into her mind.

“Shake his hand, Suzanne,” Jessie said, understanding what was transpiring. “He'll have to believe you then.”

Harry snorted but extended his hand. Suzanne clenched it in her own. Again nothing happened. Sometimes, for reasons Suzanne had never determined, the bond just wasn't there, and she could not get a reading. It just happened. Infrequently, but it happened. It had been that way with her father, although Suzanne always figured the element working there was fear. Her own. At least the bond had nothing to do with how receptive the other party was to her abilities. She cursed her misfortune. For some reason, she wanted to prove her worth to the cocky detective.

There was a light rap at the door. Harry dropped Suzanne's hand and moved to open it. He introduced Suzanne and Jessie to his partner.

“There's nothing here, Jim. Miss Richards is a psychic of some sort, hired by the Matthews family to find their daughter, Amy.”

“I was not
hired
by anyone, Detective McDermott,” Suzanne responded angrily.

“It was me!” Jessie interrupted. “I came on the bus from Pueblo last night to find Suz—Miss Richards. My parents didn't know anything about it until we called them. And no one is paying Suzanne
anything!
And why haven't you found my sister?” Jessie's face contorted as she tried to fight back a torrent of tears. “She's been gone for almost two weeks! Why haven't you been able to find where Clark is keeping her? And why, oh
why,
did you let him go?” Jessie dissolved into tears.

“Whoa, there, little darlin'.” Jim walked over and hugged the girl to him. “We're doing everything we possibly can to find your sister.”

Suzanne moved to the other side of Jessie, embracing her, also. “I'm certain these detectives are doing everything they can. We'll find her, sweetie.”

“And we have a tail on Clark,” Harry added. “He can't go anywhere without our men knowing about it. If your sister is alive…” his voice trailed off. “I mean—”

“I
know
what you meant!” Jessie said. “But there isn't any
if
about it. I know Amy is still alive. She's somewhere where there are monkeys with umbrellas. And don't you dare tell me I'm crazy! I know it! I saw it!”

The look on Harry's face changed from concern to interest. “What did you say? About the monkeys?”

Suzanne noticed the sudden change and glanced at the detective. She had expected derisiveness, not interest.

Jim's arm was still around Jessie's shoulders, and he turned her to face him. “What about the monkeys, darlin'? Where did you see your sister with the monkeys?”