When Death Draws Near (24 page)

I DUCKED MY HEAD AS WE APPROACHED THE
raucous crowd, risking quick glances to see if anyone recognized me. I gathered a few curious looks, but most were making the most of the free booze. Still no Aynslee.

The cowboy let go of my arm long enough to grab up a drink on a nearby table. I used the moment to slide through the crowd to the door and into the house.

The living room had directional lighting behind spiky artificial plants, casting eerie, stippled light. I remained motionless, staring at each costumed body, searching for Aynslee's tiny frame. She wasn't here.

Pressing against the wall in the shadows, I sidled toward the hall, my leg muscles tightening, ready to bolt should anyone look my way.

Fake spiderwebs draped the plants and waved with the movement of air and people, and fat plastic spiders clung to a few of the larger webs.

A decayed ghoul with glowing eyes spewed fog from its
open mouth. Guests appeared to glide on legless bodies as they floated through the low-lying fog swirling around the floor. Boisterous conversations rose over the blaring sound system as the theme from
Ghost Busters
ended to be replaced by Michael Jackson's “Thriller.”

Blanche drifted out of the side of the room, moving in my direction.

Shrinking farther into the shadows, I glanced from side to side, searching for a better hiding place. She was coming directly toward me but was looking over her shoulder. All she had to do was turn her head and she'd see me.

A heavyset man dressed in a Greek toga passed by, aiming toward the hall. Darting from my hiding spot, I stuck my arm into his and gave a quick squeeze.

He jerked his head and looked at me, then leered. “Why not? The bedrooms are this way.”

Smiling back through gritted teeth, I used his body to shield me from the rest of the room. My skin crawled at the coarse, matted hair on his sweaty arm. I peeked around him, checking one last time for Aynslee.

A jolt raced through me.

Clay, dressed as Sherlock Holmes with a deerstalker hat and pipe, was talking with a lady dressed as Wonder Woman. Standing nearby in a semicircle were Wellington and Arless. The men leaned forward in intense conversation. Occasionally one of them would glance around.

Devin was free.

Where's Aynslee?

When we reached the hall, I raced away before Toga man had a chance to react.

“Oh, so that's how it's to be,” he said. “Ready or not, here I come.” He lumbered after me.

I limped as fast as I could to the short hallway leading to the stairs going down. I hadn't been to the lower floor and prayed that I wouldn't get lost.

The stairs emptied into a game room with foosball and pool tables. Which way? I needed help. A phone. Hallways led in both directions. I dashed left, dodged into the first room I came to, and locked the door. The lights were off. Leaning against the door, I waited until my eyes adjusted to the inky blackness. The light fragrance of vanilla perfumed the air.

Nothing changed. The room remained totally dark.

The doorknob rattled behind me. “Found ya! Okay, open up and see what I have for you.”

Slinking about in the dark was ridiculous. He already knew where I was. I flipped on the light.

A bathroom. No windows, but a door on the left.

I hobbled over, glancing in the mirror as I passed.

A character from
Night of the Living Dead
stared back.

I started to scream but slapped my hand over my mouth to hold it in. Dirt coated my skin, broken only by tear streaks. The clothing was equally filthy. My short blonde hair stood out in brown, spiky disarray, and the red-and-black mask over my eyes added a garish, almost demonic look. My shattered hand was a purple, swollen claw, and the nails of my other hand ended in shredded, bloody tips.

Toga man had really bad taste in women.

Cautiously opening the door on the left, I peeked in. Arless's office. There had to be a phone in here. One call for help and I could leave by the patio doors. Aynslee could be on the other side
of the house. The partner desk had a framed photo of Arless, Blanche, and a prominent political figure as well as a few files under a map of Kentucky. I stared at the small array.
Of course!
How stupid I was to have missed it!

Clay's office was a cheap imitation of Arless's setup.

Opening the top drawer, I found a tray holding neatly separated office items: paper clips, pencils, and rubber bands. More elusive memories floated to the surface.

I turned to the bookshelves but stopped short and stared at the wall. Professionally framed photographs covered almost every inch, many of them signed. Most were of Blanche, or Arless and Blanche, with A-list actors, politicians, even a former president. Some were formally posed, but many of them were casual: on what must be Arless's sailboat, skiing, in front of a private jet. A potpourri of the rich, powerful, and famous.

This was Devin's world.

When they find him, do you really think anyone is going to take the word of a broke forensic artist from Montana over the word of these people?

They might, if all the evidence isn't destroyed.

I tried to shrug off the weight that settled on my shoulders. I would never win a head-on confrontation. I could only slow him down. For now.

The bookshelves opened, revealing not a secret room as I'd believed, but the work area of the office: phone, fax machine, oversize copier, file cabinets, shipping supplies, and a worktable. Phone.

Walking forward, I snatched it up and turned.

Toga man blocked the exit.

“WELL, WELL, WELL.” HE SWAYED IN THE OPENING,
reeking of alcohol and failed deodorant.

“You know I was just kidding.” I licked my dry lips. “My . . . my husband's upstairs. I need to get back to him or he'll get nervous. He is very jealous and has a terrible temper.”

“You're a tease. And you know what happens to a tease.” He smirked.

I prepared to slam my foot into his crotch.

He moved faster than I believed possible for a man so big and drunk, wrapping his arms around me in a foul, sweaty embrace. My broken hand was caught between us and crushed against his chest.

The agony shot through me. I couldn't breathe. My vision narrowed as blackness rolled into my brain. My legs buckled.

He pinched my jaw and tilted it upward, licking his wet, rubbery lips.

I clenched my teeth.
My first kiss since my divorce is not going to be by a man in a dress.

I slammed my knee up between his legs.

He let go with an
oof
and bent forward.

Bringing the palm of my hand upward, I smashed it under his chin. Blood appeared on his lips as he bit his tongue. He dropped to the floor and writhed.

I picked up the phone. I needed help, and it couldn't come from law enforcement. I only knew one phone number here. I dialed. A recording of Lindsay's voice, the Californian woman I'd met at the revival, came on.

“What are you doing?” Professor Wellington stood at the opening, looking between Toga man and me. He'd pulled on a
Phantom of the Opera
mask but otherwise was in street clothes.

Toga man groaned and cradled his injured parts as he continued to thrash on the floor.

A man in a doctor's coat and a woman in a mime outfit pushed in behind him. “Is this where all the action is?” the woman slurred.

Wellington glared at the drunk couple.

One chance. My daughter's life was at stake. I smiled at all of them, my jaw clenched. “Just let me finish this phone call. Yes, hi, Lindsay, this is Gwen. I just wanted you to buzz Blake for me. Tell him thanks for the comment on Aynslee's Scripture. No. No.” The phone continued to record. “Just say I'm not very protected here.” I hung up.

Wellington smiled without showing his teeth. “You must be here for your daughter. Let me take you to her.”

The two partygoers staggered away.

I assessed the situation. Wellington was out of kicking distance and blocked the only exit from the room. Backing up, I collided with the printer. I risked taking my eyes off the man to search for a weapon. Nothing was nearby but a ream of paper.
When I looked back at Wellington, he had a smirk on his face. His gaze started at my spiky hair, then moved past my broken hand to the long skirt. He cautiously approached.

Keeping the table between us, I matched him step for step.

He dodged left.

I dashed for the door. My sprained ankle slowed me too much.

Wellington grabbed my broken hand.

Liquid fire ran up my arm. I tried to scream. He yanked me close and whispered in my ear, “One sound out of you and your daughter's dead. Do you understand?”

Clamping down a scream from the pain, I nodded. Tears burned my cheeks.

Shifting his grip to my wrist, he grasped the waistband of my skirt with his other hand and propelled me forward. “Come with me.”

My feet barely touched the ground as we headed to the patio doors. Letting go of my skirt, he reached out and turned the knob. Locked. He rattled it for a moment, then cursed.

Grabbing my clothing again, he turned and headed into the hall.
If he takes me upstairs, I can break free
.
Even if they're drunk, someone would help. Aynslee must be nearby.

He hauled me up the stairs, yanking when I stumbled. Not stopping when we reached the living room, he plowed through the partygoers. Voices were louder, laughter more frantic, and “Highway to Hell” pounded from the sound system.

I sucked in a deep breath to scream.

He jerked me close and whispered, “If you yell or say one word, you'll never see your daughter again.”

My body was freezing. The room swirled around me.

“How did you get out of the basement snake room, Devin?” I asked the professor.

He waved in Junior's direction. “A most accommodating deputy was performing his door-to-door search when he found me. He was shocked that you'd attacked me. And ruined my car. I said you might have gone nuts and would show up here. They're going to arrest you.”

“I'll tell them the truth, Devin.”

“Why are you calling me that name? Just another reason to think you're crazy.”

We'd almost reached the patio when the music abruptly ceased and the lights came up. The guests on the patio headed inside in a steady stream of costumed bodies, forcing us backward into the room.

Arless, looking like Errol Flynn in a dashing Robin Hood outfit, called out, “It's midnight. Everyone, remove your masks!” The partygoers slowly took off their masks as Arless grinned, showing his perfect teeth. “Now I have an announcement.” He put his arm out to Blanche, who'd glided up next to him. “I'll be stepping down from the state senate, and stepping up to the race for the White House.” The revelers applauded wildly. He gazed around the room and waved. He spotted me. His eyes widened, mouth dropped, and face grew pale.

Blanche clapped while smiling at the room. She looked over at Arless and paused, then followed his stare. Her hand flew to her chest and her expression dropped. After a moment, she approached. “Oh, my dear, oh my,” she whispered. “What happened to you? Wellington, take her to my car in the garage. She needs a hospital. Don't make a fuss. We don't want others to get upset and leave.”

Wellington slid his arm around my waist and moved through the guests, who were now loading up on another round of drinks. None of them turned around as we passed. Whiffs of expensive perfume fought against late-night body odor and spilled drinks.

Someone, please notice me. Call the police. Help
.

I spotted Junior by the window. I stared hard at him, willing him to look my way. He started to turn just as we reached the kitchen.

The catering staff was busily scrubbing down the already-immaculate surfaces. Disinfectant cleaner replaced the smell of fried food and spices. None looked up, even when Wellington
dropped his Phantom mask on the counter. He forced me through to the garage beyond. The three parked cars blazed with showroom polish. Brassy fluorescent lights bounced off the stark white walls and illuminated every corner. I could easily see the entire room from the raised concrete platform. “Where's my daughter?”

“Ah, Aynslee's had quite the party. She enjoyed several Long Island iced teas. I told her they were a special, nonalcoholic recipe. The last one had a special addition to it. My own special blend of GHB.”

“What! The date-rape drug?”

“Yes, and so tricky, especially mixed with alcohol. She's passed out in one of the bedrooms. Or by now, she could be—”

Wrenching free, I dashed down the three steps to the spotless garage floor and raced toward the door on the far side.

“Stop!”

Risking a glance over my shoulder, I froze.

Wellington had a pistol pointed at my head.

THOUGH MY HEART POUNDED LIKE A DRUM, I
turned to face him.

The kitchen door opened and Blanche and Arless poured onto the raised concrete area, looking like actors entering a stage, complete with costumes. Wellington slipped the pistol into his pocket.

I spun and raced for the garage door. Before I could reach it, Clay and Junior stepped in.

Backing away, I studied the assembled group. Blanche looked surprised; Arless, stunned; Clay, dazed; and Junior, confused.

I stared at each of their faces. The truth stared back at me. I'd been wrong.

My mind whirled, putting the new information together. It fit. It all fit. I turned to Junior. “Junior, arrest Professor Wellington as the Hillbilly Rapist and for the murders of Ina Jo Cummings, Trish Garlock, and Elijah and Ruby Adkins. He may be responsible for other murders as well.”

Junior's head jerked back and eyes opened wide. He reached for his sidearm.

“That's ridiculous,” Blanche said. “Dr. Wellington's a highly respected, tenured professor at the university. From the look of your injuries, you've probably hurt your head. You don't even make sense.”

My face grew warm. “My head's fine. I suspect you'll find a lot of similar cases of rape and torture at or around that very university. Using date-rape drugs.” I took a step toward Junior and Clay. I had to get Aynslee to a hospital.

“You're right, Blanche,” Sheriff Reed said. “She does need to get help.” He looked at me and said in a condescending tone, “Jason Morrow's dead, shot while trying to escape being arrested for the rapes and murder, and Trish was an accident. She fell. You were there. You found her body.”

I shook my head violently. “No! Trish was murdered. She didn't have an accident on the way to the cabin. She arrived there just fine. Then Wellington killed her.”

“Really, Gwen,” Arless said. “Blanche is right. You must have a head injury. Why would you say something like that?”

“Wellington got careless.” I slid my foot back another step. “Everyone headed to the cabin was given a map for how to get there. But on the first morning here, Trish told me Wellington grew up in Pikeville. He's also been driving around the countryside to do his research. He wouldn't have needed a map to get to the cabin, yet there was a map on the table—”

Wellington actually laughed. “That's it? Pretty thin evidence—”

I worked some spit into my mouth. “That's just the start. There's tons of evidence. Trish was going to give me a magazine
article about the serpent handlers. You were out of the room, Wellington, when she said that. If Trish were killed before she arrived at the cabin, why was her article in the cabin
, under
the map Blanche gave her?” I looked at Junior.

Wellington leaped forward, flying over the three steps, and grabbed my arm before I could run. “I think you need to . . .” His gaze darted to the people on the platform, then to Clay and Junior. “Um, get to that doctor as soon as possible. Get in the car. I'll drive you.”

I can't get in that car. I'll disappear and Aynslee will die.
I ignored Wellington and continued to press Junior. “Arless suggested I stay at the cabin with my daughter, a place that Wellington had been using for his perverted attacks. Big oops. He'd just kidnapped his next victim, Ina Jo Cummings. He didn't have time to complete his ritual—”

Wellington grabbed my injured arm and pinched hard.

Pain shot up my arm. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I continued. “With us arriving, Wellington needed to get rid of her and hide the evidence of his work. So he killed her and threw her in the river. He returned to the cabin to clean up, but Trish appeared and caught him at it. He murdered Trish and made it look like an accident.”

Wellington shifted his grip closer to my broken hand and squeezed again. “You're raving. You need medical attention.”

The pain was so intense I could barely draw a breath. “Junior. It's up to you. Have your crime-scene technicians go over the Campbell cabin, especially the stain on the underside of the mattress,” I gasped out. “Remember Locard's exchange principle. The transference of evidence occurs—”

I ran out of air.

“No one's buying this, Gwen,” Wellington whispered in my ear. “Junior is incapable of doing anything useful. But you know what I'm capable of. And I have your daughter. Just wait—”

Adrenaline surged through my veins. “You'll also find,” I continued in a louder voice, “a camera that has been hidden in the smoke alarm. I bet, with a subpoena, you'd find a collection of very interesting tapes in Wellington's possession.”

Wellington squeezed harder.

The sheriff's gaze moved from me to Wellington. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.

The pistol quivered in Junior's hand. He looked at Clay. “Dad?”

I spoke even faster to Junior. “Your dad loves you, but he was afraid
you
were the rapist. He has a DNA report under the tray in his desk. He's had the evidence of who gave twelve-year-old Mary Adkins poison since April, but he's been terrified of comparing your DNA because it would confirm who the killer was. So he did nothing. And more people died.” I looked at Clay. “But that DNA won't match Junior.”

Clay swiped at the sweat on his face and held out his hand toward Wellington. “Son, I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of Gwen and let me take her to the hospital.”

“No.” Wellington pulled the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the sheriff. “First of all, I'm not your son. But speaking of sons, let me remind you you're in this mess up to your neck. You have political ambitions, which would be dashed by having a rapist son. He's a mental midget—”

“He's not.” I had to keep the sheriff on my side, even though he'd made some foolish mistakes. “Junior has Asperger's syndrome. High-functioning autism. I finally recognized the—”

Wellington squeezed harder.

“You might want to shut up about my boy,” Clay said. “Before I—”

“Before you what?” Wellington swung his pistol, now aiming it at Junior. “Both of you, move to the platform and drop your weapons.”

Both men remained motionless.

“Or shall we talk about”—Wellington wiggled the gun—“how a backwoods, small-town sheriff can afford a Rolex Daytona watch, worth, what is it? Ten, fifteen thousand? And there's that gold cigarette lighter. You've been well paid to look the other way.”

Clay stared at him. “They were gifts. I was going to be Arless's campaign manager.”

“Really?” Wellington said. “Did Arless tell you that? Or were you led to believe that lie? Think about it. You failed at your own attempts at getting elected for anything but sheriff. Why would Arless hire you when, with his money, he could have anyone?”

“Clay, please, do the right thing.” I reached out my good hand toward him. “Too many people are dead. Too much pain and suffering. It has to end.”

“And end it will,” Wellington whispered in my ear.

Clay, with Junior trailing, moved to the platform. Reluctantly, he pulled a snub-nosed .38 from his back holster and placed it on the concrete floor of the garage. He turned to Junior. “Put your gun down, son.”

Junior's hands fluttered for a moment, then he unbuckled his service belt and set it on the platform next to his father's weapon.

“See?” Wellington whispered.

“What is going on here?” Arless asked.

“Blanche,” Wellington said. “Pick up the guns.”

Blanche scooped them up. The modern weapons looked incongruous with her Renaissance dress. “Now what are you going to do?” she asked Wellington.

“Take her someplace where she can get the help she needs.”

“Good,” Blanche said. “I have no idea what's going on, but we can sort this out in the morning. Darling”—she touched her husband's cheek—“please go back to our guests.”

Arless shook his head.

Wellington dragged me toward the car and said under his breath, “I'm going to get rid of you. And your daughter.”

My blood ran cold. Wellington once again gripped my arm. “Move.”

I squeezed my eyes shut in pain. Once in that car, I would be dead. And Devin would win.

I jerked my arm as hard as I could, breaking free of the professor's grasp. The pain made me stagger for a moment. Sucking in air that smelled of gasoline, tires, and wax, I leaned against the car, then turned toward Arless. “You said it was time for the masks to come off. I agree. I think it's high time for Devin Maynard to unmask.”

All the expressions around me looked confused. All but two.

“I know the truth, Devin.” I looked straight at the killer.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Arless said. “Oh, wait. Are you referring to the name in that old Bible?”

“I'm talking about your wife, Arless. Blanche Campbell, or should I say, Devin Maynard Campbell. The daughter of Grady Maynard. And a cold-blooded killer.”