Waking Nightmare (6 page)
“He probably stashed a vehicle nearby.” There would have been a bag or case of some sort to carry the paraphernalia necessary to carry out his ritual. Using Billings’s car to transport her wouldn’t have given him much maneuvering room, and why risk leaving trace evidence in a car that could be easily identified as missing?
“I’ve got some uniforms out canvassing the neighbors.” Someone called his name and he looked away, nodded, before glancing back at her. “We’ve got it pretty well covered in here. Why don’t you go out and give them a hand so we can wrap things up this evening?”
It was a blatant dismissal. He couldn’t have said more plainly that he neither needed nor wanted her help. And if she objected, she’d cement his opinion of her as a trouble-maker on the task force, one who rejected his role as leader. If she agreed, however, she risked looking like a doormat.
She considered her options for a couple seconds before reaching a decision. “Sure.” The insincerity in her smile matched his. “You might want to remind your techs to process the garage as carefully as they did the bedroom. Although it’s possible he used the victim’s car, most likely he parked his own vehicle right next to hers prior to transporting her. And tell them to take a sample from the crushed rock around the bushes by the porch.”
Her pointing out the obvious was enough to wipe that smile off his face, so Abbie strolled away, temper simmering. She had enough experience to know the battle had merely been delayed. Robel was stuck with her, but he wasn’t about to welcome her into the inner circle of his task force.
Which meant she’d earn his respect the old-fashioned way. By contributing something no one else could.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Abbie was still wired as she unlocked the door of her temporary home. The familiar rush of adrenaline hadn’t yet dissipated. After being dismissed from the scene by Robel, she’d talked to an elderly woman two blocks south of the crime scene. Even after learning a serious crime had been committed in her neighborhood, the woman’s outrage had been reserved for the small black SUV that had been parked in front of her house most of the day. Some of the women in her weekly bridge group had had to park down the block as a result.
In her indignation, the woman had jotted down the license number.
After catching a ride back to headquarters, a trace had shown the plates as stolen. And it had been satisfying to already have a DMV list of older-model SUVs fitting the color, make, and model of the woman’s description ready for Robel when he’d returned. Almost as satisfying as the flicker of surprise in his eyes when she’d handed it to him.
She walked through the kitchen to the small living room, and set the accordion file she still carried on top of the desk tucked into the corner. It was unusual for the agency to arrange lodging in a house, rather than a motel. But Dixon had demanded immediate assistance, and apparently there was a sellout concert in town, making motel rooms scarce. It didn’t surprise her that in twenty-four hours a furnished rental property had been subleased, while she’d flown to Savannah. Where Adam Raiker was involved, achieving the impossible was a daily expectation.
She ought to eat. Although she hadn’t done any shopping yet, she could have something delivered. If she got immersed in the details of the case, hours would pass before she thought of anything else again.
But the halfhearted intention wasn’t strong enough to keep her from emptying the file on the desk. As she’d noticed earlier, Robel had the contents organized chronologically. She pulled out the chair and sank into it, switching on the lamp. There was a lot of catching up to do. From what Commander Dixon had said, the task force had been formed five weeks ago, shortly after the second rape.
Abbie studied the pictures first. Bundy had favored pretty dark-haired co-eds, but the women in the photos spread before her shared no such physical similarity. All were attractive, and their ages ranged from nineteen to thirty-eight.
It wasn’t unusual for some sexual predators to strike indiscriminately, like a kid in a candy store grabbing whatever he could get his hands on. But this guy was patient. A
planner
. He chose his victims carefully and it was evident he spent a great deal of time learning their routines.
planner
. He chose his victims carefully and it was evident he spent a great deal of time learning their routines.
So, why these women? Abbie dug through the piles until she found copies of reports detailing the task force’s workup until that point. Scanning it rapidly, she found the information she was seeking and slowed to read more carefully.
No solid link had been established between the first three victims. There were no commonalities in their jobs, neighborhoods, or churches. They even shopped at different grocery stores. Two, counting Barbara Billings, were divorced. One had been single, not yet out of her teens, and one a housewife, assaulted in her home when her husband had been out of town on business.
It looked like this angle had been exhaustively investigated, but she was still anxious to see if she could connect Barbara to any of the other victims. These hadn’t been random attacks. Either they’d come into contact with the rapist at some point, or he’d selected them because they somehow fit his own bizarre ritual. And if she could figure out why he chose them, they’d be a long way toward establishing his motivation, and one step closer to nailing him.
Something had been nagging at her since she and Robel had talked about the victims earlier, and she dug through the pile of papers documenting the second assault. Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, hadn’t been assaulted by a man hiding in her home. For her, the rapist had used a blitz-style attack, grabbing her one evening as she crossed the college campus from her job as cashier in the student union. But she’d been transported to the mayor’s beach home for the attack, and Abbie thought there was something critical about that.
Attacks them in familiar surroundings
, she wrote. After jotting down a few more notes, she laid her pencil down and picked up the first pile, the one concerning the rape and torture of Ashley Hornby. Adjusting the lamp for better lighting, she began to read.
, she wrote. After jotting down a few more notes, she laid her pencil down and picked up the first pile, the one concerning the rape and torture of Ashley Hornby. Adjusting the lamp for better lighting, she began to read.
It was well after midnight before she sat back, rubbing her eyes. A glance at the clock on the wall had her groaning. She usually got up at six to work out before getting ready for work. But she knew herself well enough to know she’d be hitting the snooze button several times before being able to rouse herself out of bed the next day. To say she wasn’t a morning person was putting it charitably.
She took the time to replace the contents of the file so she could return it the next day. Then she readied for bed, mind still preoccupied with the case. She’d want her own copies of the file contents; she’d talk to Robel about it tomorrow. It would be several more nights like this one before she felt like she had a solid handle on the background. But she was itching to get started on a victim grid, a process she always used for establishing intersections in the victimology. Switching on the lamp on the bedside table, she padded back to turn off the overhead light before getting into bed.
She’d long ago learned the trick of emptying her mind, inviting sleep, and tonight exhaustion hastened the process. In only minutes she’d drifted into a deep dreamless slumber.
It was the darkness that wakened her. Complete. Suffocating. Abbie opened her eyes, disoriented. Then she bolted upright in bed, fumbling for the lamp on the table. Two quick clicks confirmed what her sleep-fogged mind should have already figured. It wasn’t working. The bulb was probably burned out.
Lungs strangled, she took a deep breath, beating back the old ghosts that threatened to pounce.
Are you alone in the dark, little girl?
The insidious whisper snaked across her mind, leaving a trail of ice. Stumbling from bed, she lurched across the room toward the light switch.
In her haste, her knee banged against the dresser, and she nearly fell. The shadows in the room seemed to rush in, grow more oppressive.
You don’t have to be alone. Open the door and let me in.
Her breath sawed in and out. Her pulse pounded like a locomotive. She could feel herself moving, but the distance didn’t seem to lessen. She stretched out her hand. Her fingers felt the switch plate, slipped off. Swearing, she lunged to the wall, her palm slapping blindly for the switch. An instant later her fingers found it, and she snapped it on, flooding the room with light.
Her knees went to water then, and she sank in a graceless heap to the floor. She swiped at the chilly sweat on her face with the tail of her nightshirt and waited for her pulse to quiet.
Are you alone in the dark, little girl?
With the strength of long practice, she beat back the echoes of that voice, and the sinister memories it summoned. She wasn’t a girl anymore. She wasn’t helpless.
And for more years than she could count, she’d made very certain that she’d never be alone in the dark again.
Chapter 4
The woman on the computer screen struggled feebly, her eyes rounded with terror. Blood oozed from the slashes across her breasts and over her stomach. A click of a button had her screams sounding, muted but shrill enough to summon a rush of arousal. An echo of that initial blast of power.
Barbara Billings had been a well-executed catch. With one minor exception, every instant had gone as planned. She may have been the most satisfying yet.
But not the last. The pictures mounted on the bulletin board above the computer displayed a number of equally deserving women. The selection couldn’t be rushed. Part of the thrill was the anticipation. The familiar need was—not sated—never that—but only simmering now, not rising and clawing for release. There was plenty of time to consider the next victim.
Even if a tiny slip had been made this time, the police still had shit to go on. Which was probably why they were controlling what was released to the press. If the public knew how little progress had been made in this case, they’d be screaming bloody murder.
Bloody
. A quiet laugh escaped at the irony.
No pun intended
,
Barbara
.
. A quiet laugh escaped at the irony.
No pun intended
,
Barbara
.
But it was never too soon to prepare. The cell phone lay next to the computer. After a familiar number was dialed and an interminable wait, a sleepy voice finally answered.
“Hey, I was going to call you tomorrow. Where are you?”
“I need more supplies. How soon can you send them?”
“You’re really enjoying my little discovery, aren’t you?”
Excitement flared hotly as the woman on the computer screen began writhing in agony. Oh, she hadn’t liked that speculum shoved up her ass. Not at all. “Very much. But I’ll need twice what you gave me last time.”
“Hell, you can have three times as much.” The pause that followed hummed with expectation. “But you have to do something for me first.”
Irritation surged, was ruthlessly tamped down. “Already?”
“She didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. I’ll be more careful with the next one. Promise.”
Fingers drummed the desktop indecisively. It would mean catching a quick flight and back, but it was doable. “All right. Male or female this time?”
“Hmm, how about you surprise me.”
Someday, despite their long relationship, a real and very final surprise would await the man. He was getting a bit too demanding. But for now he was needed. “Expect your gift within the week.”
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