Havoc-on-Hudson (11 page)

36

It was raining as I locked the office and strode to my car. The skies had darkened with heavier precipitation by the time I arrived at the site of the old building. I drove through the open iron gates, and my car lights illuminated the dark, winding driveway leading to the front door of the abandoned institution. Without its previous liveliness, the lovely old building appeared foreboding.

Dr. Bondi’s retirement signaled the end of an era for our village; a number of professionals of his generation would soon be missing from our everyday life. I would miss them. However, I reminded myself that I would shortly be having dinner and a nice glass of Gavi di Gavi with the man I love, and I’d be entering a whole new period in my own life.

Still, they just don’t make old-time doctors like Phillip Bondi anymore.

When I opened the front door, everything was dark—the windows had been boarded up to protect the unused facility from vandalism. Even though the dogs and cats were long gone, ghosts of their animal smells filled my nostrils. Groping the walls in the main entrance, I finally located a panel of switches and clicked them on. Unfortunately, only a couple of old-fashioned sconces lit up. Without the usual building maintenance, many of the ceiling hi-hats had burned out. Hopefully, the side rooms would have some individual lighting, so I’d be able to find my way and take care of the task at hand. Why had I left my industrial-strength flashlight in the car?

Damn! In the hallways there was no lighting at all! In the long, narrow corridor where the animal bathing room was located, I treaded carefully to avoid bumping into stacked cages and abandoned medical equipment. Then I recalled that my cell phone had a usable utility light sufficient for measuring the room. I switched it on, but when I reached the bathing room, I found the door firmly closed.

I turned the handle hard and pushed. The door didn’t seem to be locked, just sticking a bit on the top corner, probably from moisture. I slammed my shoulder against it a couple of times to loosen the jam. The door swung wide open, releasing a rolling gurney that hit me square in my gut. Uff!

My cellphone light swept across the gurney. A gutted, bloody, cat lay spread-eagled there, fresh blood still oozing!

Oh, my God!

Using both hands and all my strength, I shoved the gurney with its bloody mess into the hallway. It crashed loudly into something I couldn’t see, and a strange cry shrieked out into the darkness. Was that poor, mutilated cat still alive? Or, could it possibly be … was that sound human? Slipping inside the bathing room, I slammed the door shut and turned the lock. I had no intention of going back into that dark hallway to find out.

Was the ghost of the old vet still working on some of his patients?

Of course not! Dr. Bondi was still alive and kicking! I’d seen him hale and hearty at Starbucks the other day.

The heavy rain reverberated against the tin roof of the building, sounding like a multitude of approaching hordes. Should I stay here safe in the bathing room, or should I get out of this building as fast as I could.

Freeze? Or,
flee?

Then a door opened and closed somewhere along the corridor. Jesus!

I trained my cell-phone light across the room, looking for something … anything … I could use to protect myself. Nothing!

The light fell across my long, light-brown skirt. Blood from the savaged cat had splattered all over me!

Aa
rggh
!

“Is that you, Dr, Bondi?” I called out, my voice shaking.

No answer.

“Hello … it’s Maggie,” I said louder, knowing the good doctor was hard of hearing. “I’m in the bathing room!” I added, my voice echoing throughout the high, open-work ceilings.

All was eerily silent. Even the rain on the roof had momentarily abated.

I unlocked the door and shone the cell light quickly left and right along the corridor. Nothing was moving, not even the pink-eared field mice that occasionally roamed the building.

Was I letting my lively imagination get the best of me? Was I conjuring up a scenario right out of a Stephen King novel?

Be logical, I told myself. Be calm, Maggie!

I had to get out of this cavernous place as quickly as possible and into my safe car. Retrieving the measuring tape from my briefcase, I took the length and width of the room with shaking hands. Then I left.

I was at the end of the corridor, before I realized, with horror, that in my hurry to get out of there, I’d left my car keys and briefcase behind!

I needed the car keys, especially, because the building was remote, within walking distance of nothing. I had to have my car to get out of there. I had to have my keys to start my car! I turned back toward the bathing room.

However, when I got to the door, it was securely closed. What? I knew I’d left it ajar.

Without thinking of the implications, I shook the handle like a madwoman and threw my body against the door as forcefully as I could. It didn’t budge.

Someone had intentionally locked the door with my belongings inside.

“Oh dear God, what’s happening?” I cried out, and felt the terror coursing through my body.

Then, out of the darkness, a large, shadowy figure with a powerful arm, circled me, lifting me off the ground.

I tightened my fist around my cell phone, but he saw the gesture and tore the phone out of my hand, tossing it over his shoulder, while at the same time tightening his grip around me.

I went into survival mode … bit his arm, hard, tasted blood … kneed him in the groin. He groaned, and wrapped his other arm around my middle, squeezing viciously. I heard rib bones crack … then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a cold stone surface, moaning in pain, my arms and legs buckled to the sides of a table. A blinding light from above shone into my eyes. I was naked, beyond terror, tethered to Dr. Bondi’s operating table – at the mercy of a lunatic.

It must be Danny Joe.

37

Andrew kept looking at his watch. Maggie had told him she’d call to give him directions to Dr. Bondi’s old veterinarian hospital, but it was already seven-fifteen and he’d had no word from her. He’d left two messages on her cell phone, but no response. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. He knew how obsessive she was about responding to calls—and about being on time. They were already late for their dinner reservations.

At seven-thirty he dialed Claire’s number. “Sorry to call you at home, but I can’t reach Maggie. Have you heard from her since you left the office?”

“No—but I didn’t expect to. You knew she was stopping at Dr. Bondi’s, right?”

“Yes, but she was going to call and give me directions to the place. I haven’t heard from her. Tell me how to get there, and I’ll check on her.”

“Sure. I’ll email the directions to your cell. It’s a ways off, but fairly easy to find.”

“Thanks. I’ll go right now.”

“Let me know if everything is okay, right? You’ve got me worried.”

“Sure. Speak to you later.”

The rain was pounding down, but Andrew found his way to the property in about fifteen minutes and drove through the open gates. There were no lights on, either on the circular drive or in the building. No cars in the driveway. He pulled the BMW up as close as he could get to the door and tried once more to get her cell number. No answer. Then he tried her home phone. No luck there either. Had she been involved in a car accident? He dialed Chief Betsy’s cell and left her a message, just in case.

He sat a moment, his headlights glaring on the dark building, then decided to go back to Hudson Hills. Until he heard from Maggie, he’d hang out at her place and wait for her. She’d eventually end up at home. He started the car and drove the dark road to the property’s gates.

“Where the heck can she be?” he worried, waiting for the red light on the busy road in front of the property to change. But then some instinct told him to back the car up a few feet. The driveway had swung past the front of the building, and as he passed the entrance he’d noted something in his peripheral vision. It had taken a minute to register, but, even in the darkness, it was hard to miss Maggie’s large Burberry umbrella leaning against one of the double doors at the front entrance. It was her favorite; she would never have willingly left that behind.

Andrew allowed himself no time to panic. He parked his car, grabbed his flashlight, and opened the trunk, grabbing the tire iron from under the floor mat, just in case.
I’m overreacting
, he told himself.
I know I am
. Approaching the front door of the old hospital, he hoped that Maggie had already gone and had simply forgotten her umbrella.

38

When I came to, I was in agony, shivering, immobilized on the cold stone table. Lacking air, I took a gasp, and pain bolted through my ribs. A high wattage surgical lamp blinded me, shining directly down upon me, but all around was darkness.

“Who’s there?” I choked out. But I didn’t need to ask. I knew all too well. I could see nothing, but could feel his presence in the room.

Why couldn’t I move? I tried to lift my arms. My wrists were clamped to the table! I was tethered to this operating table, like one of Dr. Bondi’s animals being readied for surgery. But, oh, God! This was no kindly medical man. I was in the brutal hands of a homicidal maniac! Who knew what he would do to me? I was going to die in agony! Who knew how horrible my death would be?

The room felt airless. I moved my head as far as I could. In a glass-fronted cabinet, an array of shiny metal operating implements gleamed. I whimpered.
Uuhh
hhhh
.

Suddenly a bare arm flashed into sight above me—a bare arm covered with a thin pelt of dark, curly hair. A flash of light gleamed from a surgical scalpel! Oh, God!

“Danny Joe?” I croaked.

Suddenly he materialized. “So, you know who I am?” He wore surgical goggles and a green surgical mask. His long hair was tucked behind his ears. Holding the scalpel pointed at my heart, he scanned my naked body. “Good!”

“Don’t hurt me, Danny Joe. Don’t hurt me anymore.”

He sighed deeply. “But, Maggie, I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon. Just today, a little cat benefited from my skills.” He flashed a maniacal grin. “I left her for you. Did you see?”

I shuddered, gave a tug at the wrist clamps, hoping they would give. They held all too firmly.

His eyes narrowed above the surgical mask. “I wasn’t going to let you get away with trying to find me, you know. I have my ways. I’ve been watching you. Intercepting your calls, your emails.

“You thought you were so smart—but nobody’s smarter than Danny Joe Farrell!”

“Let me go, Danny,” I pleaded, desperately. “And I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

“Sure you will,” he sneered, “but I’ll be done with you soon enough, you know. First, though, let’s have a little fun.” And he set the scalpel on a paper mat atop the instrument cabinet, giving it a little pat as if promising to get back to it later.

And then he raped me. I experienced it through a haze of whatever drug he used to keep me still.

How long have I been
here?

What else has he done t
o me?

What else will he do t
o me?

Finally he stops. I black out from pain … my ribs … my torn genitals. I wake, only long enough to hear him talking gibberish. My mind is fuzzy. I am terrified and numb at the same time. Maybe I am dying.

Maybe I am already dead.

But I can’t be. I hurt. So badly. Everywhere.

An image jumps into my mind. Leah’s documents were still in my briefcase. I hadn’t taken them to the Chief as promised.

His mother’s letter was there. The letter to little Danny Joe.

Could I use it to keep me alive? To stop the torture? I’d left my briefcase in the bathing room. I’d tell him to get it.

When I try to speak, my mouth is dry. My lips stick together. But I am determined to tell him about the letter. I keep trying.
Mhhh.
Mhhh
.

I am finally able to get the words out. “I have a letter from your mother … in my briefcase. …”

“You crazy liar! You filthy whore! How dare you talk about my mother!”

“It’s in the bathing room.”

He slams his fist into the side of my face and I taste blood.

“Leah Goldman gave it to me,” I shriek at him.

But he is silent.

Roughly, Danny Joe Farrell shoves the anesthetic cloth over my face, and everything goes dark again.

39

The door to the building wasn’t locked. A chandelier bulb on an old-fashioned two-light sconce flickered on and off in the hallway. When Andrew quietly closed the door behind him, the light went out. The rest of the old hospital seemed to be in total darkness; his flashlight was a godsend. As he cautiously crossed the main entrance hall, all was quiet, and he called out to the vast emptiness.

“Maggie, are you here? Hello, anyone here? Maggie, Dr. Bondi?”

Piercing screams shattered the silence. Andrew stopped where he was, his heart pounding. Suddenly he was covered with sweat. “Maggie,” he cried out. “Maggie, It’s Andrew. I’m coming.”

The screams intensified, even more tortured and horrific. He couldn’t tell where they were coming from—they bounced off the walls and echoed in different directions. He started running, coming to a halt in a large room with an emergency exit to the driveway. He pivoted around and headed down another narrow corridor. In the pitch-black darkness, he pushed his way through a nightmare maze, medical equipment crashing on either side of him.

“Maggie, where are you? Maggie, answer me, please! I’ll find you! Please, Maggie, talk to me!”

Adrenaline pulsed through his body, fueled by a ferocious anger. Maggie! Oh, Maggie! She had found the murderer! Danny Joe Farrell was torturing Maggie somewhere in this damn, sprawling building. Andrew would find him and kill him with his own bare hands. He gave no thought to his own peril facing this madman. He had to get to Maggie before it was too late.

Field mice ran helter-skelter around his feet; he kicked at a huge rat as he ran, calling out Maggie’s name.

Then the screaming suddenly stopped and there was only silence. He didn’t know which way to turn in the cavernous space. Thwarted, he called again.

“Maggie, where are you? Speak to me!”

Then he thought he heard muffled sounds nearby. Was it only his imagination?

He turned a bend in the hallway and saw it: an interior light silhouetted a closed door.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Andrew increased his grip on the tire iron and slammed his body against the door, forcefully slamming it open.

A powerful light momentarily blinded him. The momentum carried him too far too fast; Andrew almost fell into the room. He steadied himself. His eyes adjusted. He froze in shock.

Maggie! Bloody, she lay shackled to a stone table—a surgical table! Naked. Spread-eagled. The pale body he loved, eerily lit by a high-intensity light.

Behind Maggie, at the far end of the table, loomed a man in surgical gear holding a scalpel. And he was bleeding. But could it be? His wounds looked self-inflicted. Throat and wrists slit?

His blood dripped on Maggie’s face.

Her beautiful blonde hair was matted with blood.

Was she breathing? Oh, please … was she breathing?

His arm raised, his tire iron clutched in his fist, Andrew focused on the madman. Daniel Farrell. The goddamn psychopath.

Andrew had begged Maggie, over and over again, to stay out of the murder investigation. But she wouldn’t listen to him.

And Andrew, who had never hurt a soul in his entire life, didn’t care that Farrell was already a bloody mess. He intended to finish the job. He was going to smash Farrell’s head in. He was going to destroy him, to avenge what that creep had done to his beloved Maggie.

I’ll kill the goddamn bas
tard!

Farrell, unsteady on his feet, held the scalpel, like a dagger, pointed threateningly at Andrew. Then the psychopath raised his other blood-soaked hand and began waving it crazily around, something limp flapping around in his hand, something blood-soaked and torn. A letter?

What the hell?” But it didn’t matter to Andrew what Farrell held. He intended to slam him with the tire iron, disarm him. Kill the bastard, if necessary.

As he inched his way around the table, Andrew kept his eye on the murderer. Farrell remained rooted in position but had stopped waving the letter. One arm dropped to his side. The scalpel hit the floor.

Slowly, almost rhythmically, he fell. His eyes closed. His body curled into a fetal position.

From some deep cellar of Danny Joe Farrell’s soul came childlike cries. “I want my mommy! Where did you go, Mommy? Why did you leave me? Who’s gonna take care of me now?”

“M-o-m-m-y!!!