Disturbance Page 18

  For a brief moment I lay paralyzed, too frightened even to draw breath for a scream. Then he smiled at me. I scrambled out of the bed in horror, coming quickly to my feet, and was hit with a wave of dizziness and nausea. I saw an open door and stumbled through it, slamming it behind me and fumbling the lock until it clicked into place.

  By the light of the night-light, I found a wall switch and flipped it up.

  And jumped as I saw someone next to me—my own life-sized reflection.

  I was in a bathroom.

  I held my weight against the door, frantically looking for something to set against it to create more of a barrier than the flimsy lock. Unless I got the time and tools together to disassemble the toilet or the sink, there was nothing in the bathroom with enough weight to make even a slight difference.

  There was another door, on the opposite side of the room, and I thought of trying to escape through it. But I hesitated, not knowing if it really would be an escape. Who or what might be on the other side? I carefully checked that the other door was locked and hurried back to lean against the one between me and Parrish.

  I heard him moving around the room. I tried to stop panicking, which was nearly impossible. It’s all well and good to tell yourself that freaking out won’t help, but I was discovering that when you wake up in a strange place with a serial killer lying next to you, it takes a while to get a grip.

  Eventually I was able to think about defending myself, beyond leaning against a door. I was still feeling confused about where I was and how I got there, but given my immediate danger, I set that aside and surveyed the room for possible makeshift weapons.

  There were some toiletries on the vanity counter that looked as if they had been taken from a hotel. The thought of sharpening the end of the toothbrush into a weapon occurred to me. Alas, the toothbrush looked too flimsy to withstand whittling. But I’d see what I could do with it.

  A quick look in the cabinet under the sink didn’t reveal any cleaning supplies, which dashed my hope of throwing a chemical into Parrish’s face before running past him.

  As I was considering breaking the vanity into pieces to be used as a barricade between the toilet and the door, he knocked, startling me.

  “I’m going to leave you for a while, Irene.” He laughed. “But don’t worry, I’ll continue where we left off.”

  I heard him move toward the bedroom door, heard it open and close, heard the sound of a dead-bolt lock clicking into place.

  And didn’t trust that he had left the room.

  I sat down on the toilet and tried to gather my wits. That was difficult, because the last thing I clearly remembered was listening to Donovan tell me about his missing daughter. To go from that to waking up in bed with Parrish … I shuddered.

  What had happened to me?

  What had been done to me?

  I didn’t feel any pain or discomfort other than a bad headache and mild queasiness—but that was far from enough to reassure me. I had a vague recollection of being told to take a shower …

  Obviously, I had been drugged. But after that?

  It wasn’t hard to figure out that the person who had drugged me was Donovan, and that he had given me a roofie or something else that had wiped out my memories of most of what had happened to me in the time since. How much time? I had no way of knowing. I could have spent hours under the control of Nick Parrish.

  A combination of fear and revulsion made my stomach clench.

  I told myself to calm down, that I didn’t have enough facts to know what had happened to me, and no matter what had happened, there was nothing I could do about it now. I was alive. I wasn’t tied up. I wasn’t, for that matter, nude. The sweater and sweatpants were a little big on me, and not mine, but I was clothed.

  That brought on a vague recollection of Donovan telling me something about a parka. But I wasn’t even sure that had really happened.

  I waited until I had had enough of sitting in the bathroom and decided to risk going back into the bedroom. Hand shaking, I unlocked the door and opened it the barest crack.

  The room seemed to be empty. Parrish had left a light on. Without leaving the bathroom doorway, I bent to look under the bed—no Parrish. I left the bathroom door open and crept into the room.

  The dead bolt on the bedroom door was a double-key type—there was no key in the lock on my side. That didn’t mean Parrish wasn’t still in the room—he could have locked it from this side and kept the key with him. There was a large wardrobe at one end of the room, and I made myself open its doors.

  Parrish did not jump out at me. There was no one hiding in the wardrobe. I exhaled in relief.

  Clothing hung from hangers—two additional sets of clothing, essentially copies of what I had on. But no parka—though if I’d only imagined Donovan mentioning the word to me, it was an odd thing to have dreamed up on my own. No, I believed in that memory. He’d said something about a parka, and said it several times. Unfortunately, when I tried to put that particular puzzle together, there were way too many missing pieces.

  A duffel bag sat next to my shoes on the bottom shelf. They looked as if they had been cleaned, which struck me as odd. At least they were my own shoes. They had laces. I wondered if the laces were strong enough to allow me to hang myself if things got really bad.

  I hated the thought as soon as it occurred to me, but what came to mind next were horrific images I had seen not many years before—photographs Parrish had taken of one of his tortured victims. Perhaps now was the time to deny Parrish what must seem to him like a long-promised treat. Do it now, while I had the strength and freedom of movement to carry it out.

  I shook myself, like a dog throwing off water. Fear was one thing, despair another.

  I opened the duffel bag and saw some socks and underwear inside, including a set of long underwear. I was momentarily creeped out by the idea of wearing underwear someone else had picked out for me, then decided that, on the long list of things I should be getting upset about, that one didn’t rank very high. A pair of winter gloves were at the bottom of the bag. So given that and the possibility of the parka, there were obviously plans that I would be taken outside at some point, and not as a corpse. At least, not to begin with.

  As I thought again about the parka, a memory came to me, of Donovan saying not to let “them” take the parka from me.

  Them.

  More than one.

  Of course. I knew Parrish had had help with his prison escape. Was Kai Loudon here? Had Donovan been the ambulance driver?

  But the word “them” suggested an otherness. Was Donovan saying he was not part of what was going on here? What was going on here?

  Thinking of Donovan only made me feel more confused. I felt furious with him for tricking me, drugging me, bringing me here, and … participating in whatever might have happened after that. But somehow, perhaps with the help of the drug, he had managed to plant the suggestion that he was not allied with Parrish.

  How could that be true? He damned well was a part of it.

  I rubbed my aching head and went back to work on my search.

  The room was windowless, something that would have made my claustrophobia raise my level of anxiety if it could have gone any higher.

  I told myself that the last time someone had kept me captive in a small room, I had been in far worse shape and wasn’t given the dignity of access to an actual bathroom.

  Even with that stretch for optimism, I couldn’t reach it, and for a few moments I struggled not to get flat-out hysterical.

  You can fall apart later.

  The only way I could keep that promise to myself was to live. So I went back into the bathroom, washed my face, took a few deep, slow breaths, and decided to get on with exploring my little prison.

  The door to the bathroom also had a double lock. That meant that I could be locked out of the bathroom but also that I could prevent entry into the bedroom from the bathroom—at least as long as the door held.

  I moved tow
ard the door at the far side of the bathroom and turned the lock tab on the knob. That didn’t mean I could open it, if it was designed like the lock on the other bathroom door. I took a deep breath and tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Unlocked. I carefully released it without opening the door.

  If Nick Parrish was on the other side, I sure as hell didn’t want to open it. And he would never be so careless as to leave me in an unlocked room. My next thought was that anyone could make a mistake, so maybe this was my chance to get the hell away.

  I shut off the lights in my room and the bathroom, except for the night-light, let my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness again, then placed myself in a position that would allow me to slam the door shut again if need be. I cautiously opened it a few inches.

  Except for a soft glow coming from the dimmed display of a clock radio, the room was dark. I waited, listened, then turned the bathroom light on again.

  Although it was slightly larger than my room, this one was also windowless. Some part of my mind noted a comfortable looking chair, a dresser, a throw rug—even that the clock radio said it was 4:11 A.M. But most of my attention was drawn across the room, to a frail woman who lay on a hospital bed. Her hair was dark and straight, and I thought she might be in her mid-forties, or maybe a little younger.

  Her blue eyes were open, staring upward.

  I moved to the side of the bed, until she could see me clearly.

  “Violet Loudon?” I whispered.

  She blinked, several times. She paused, and blinked again.

  During the second round, I finally realized what I was seeing: Morse code.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, still keeping my voice to a whisper. “Would you repeat that?”

  This time, the answer was clear:

  -.—. … —..— .. .- —

  Yes, I am.

  “I’m Irene,” I said.

  Yes, I know.

  There was a pause, then she spoke again to me, clearly and silently:

  Please kill me.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Although I had contemplated something similar for myself only a few minutes earlier, I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ll try to get us out of here.”

  She blinked again. You are a fool.

  Well, nice to meet you, too, I thought but kept it to myself. Still, even that momentary flash of anger felt better than the pure panic I had been experiencing until then.

  I tapped into my anger toward Parrish, but I didn’t stay angry at Violet. She had spent several years almost completely paralyzed and utterly subject to the tender mercies of Kai Loudon, so I figured I could cut her some slack. I began to wonder, when her neighbors had said she had been mean to her son, what exactly that meant.

  Do not tell them.

  She couldn’t have known I was thinking about her neighbors, so I said, “Them? Parrish and your son?”

  Yes.

  “Don’t tell them you want to die?” I asked, still whispering.

  They know that. Not about Morse. Secret.

  “You’ve spent years like this and haven’t let anyone know that you can communicate?”

  Her mouth formed a lopsided smile, briefly. Anyone? Who did I see? Only women about to die.

  “He brought them into your room?”

  Bound. Gagged. Doomed.

  I straightened and tried to take that in. After a moment, I said, “I can understand keeping secrets from Kai. But why not let the doctors or nurses know?”

  Kai always there. Afraid of him. She paused, then added, They believe he is a saint.

  “Probably not now that your backyard has been dug up.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then signaled, He is a monster.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how many horrors you’ve experienced, being at his mercy since you were injured.”

  He did it.

  “He injured you?”

  Yes.

  “But I thought—oh. Before he left for school that day—”

  We fought. He pushed me.

  “And left you to lie there?”

  He hoped I would die. Later, he forced me to live.

  She closed her eyes, and I thought I might have worn her out, or further depressed her by talking.

  But she seemed just to have wanted a rest, for she opened her eyes and said, Good to talk. Glad you know code.

  “Me, too.”

  Should have tried with doctors. But afraid Kai is a liar. Told neighbors stories. Like his dad.

  “Who is his dad?”

  Parrish.

  That rocked me back on my heels.

  Did not know?

  “No. No. I’m sorry. How … I mean …”

  Was I raped?

  I wasn’t sure that would have been my question, but I nodded.

  No. See?

  “See? See what?”

  I am a bigger fool than you.

  I was silent, waiting to see if she would say more, when the door to her room suddenly opened. Nick Parrish stood in the doorway, holding a gun.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who’s been exploring.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Quinn looked up at the tall man standing at the end of his hospital bed and tried to discern which held stronger sway over Frank Harriman, worry or anger. He wondered if most people would have detected either emotion and doubted it. He was fairly sure they would have seen the detective as a calm, self-possessed individual.

  But Quinn thought there was much more going on beneath that serene surface than met the eye. The ability to perceive the emotions of others—especially the emotions they tried to hide, the ones lurking beneath bravado—had been essential to Quinn’s survival from the time he was a child. Later, that same ability had been a key element in his business success—and in his pursuit of pleasure. There were few people he couldn’t read. Donovan was one of them, which made his older brother all the more intriguing.

  He could see that Harriman was tired and doubted the man had slept much since the previous night, when he would have discovered his wife was missing. Quinn decided that, for just this moment, Harriman’s worry was ascendant.

  “I certainly want to be of help if I can,” he said accordingly.

  “I appreciate that.” Harriman glanced around. “I’m glad you were able to get a private room.”

  “Me, too—although I hope not to make use of it much longer.”

  “I know you’re probably tired of talking about it, but would you mind telling me what happened to you?”

  Quinn and Donovan had come up with and rehearsed a story during the drive back to Las Piernas, and Donovan had set up at least some matching evidence for that story.

  “It began when I was checking on some of my properties last night. Not that late in the evening, about eight-thirty or so, but it was dark,” he told Harriman now.

  He went on with a story that he had told so many times now, he could tell it with real conviction. He had driven to the warehouse and former cannery where the bodies had been found last summer—checking to see if the security measures he had ordered were still in place. Discovered an entry with a broken lock. Was just reaching for his cell phone to complain to his security workers when he saw the beam of a flashlight, and heard footsteps behind him. At first he thought it was one of the security guards. He turned. Was shot twice, although he was sure other bullets were fired and missed. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the hospital.

  “I’m afraid he blinded me with the light. I never got a good look at him.”

  “No recollection of being treated by someone with—let’s say, advanced first aid supplies?”

  “No. I can’t figure that part out at all.” He touched the bandages on his head and winced. “I’m told this head injury may be affecting my memory.”

  “Two head injuries. They must be quite painful.”

  “Two?”

  “No recollection of being punched in the face?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean,” he said
, reaching up to carefully touch his jaw, swollen from his father’s fist. “No, I don’t remember anything at all about that. I suppose that’s lucky, but why would anyone hit me after shooting me?”

  Harriman shrugged, then said, “You said you were reaching for your cell phone when the intruder blinded you with the flashlight beam?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to the phone?”

  “I have no idea. As I said, I don’t remember anything after the gunfire. Sorry. Did you ask the hospital if it was among my things?”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Damn. That was an expensive phone. All my contacts in it … I have that backed up, of course, but what a pain—”

  Harriman interrupted. “Which car were you driving?”

  “Which car?” Quinn asked, stalling. No one else had asked this question.

  “You own several vehicles, right?”

  “Yes, I do, but—last night I was driving my Lexus. Isn’t it there? The bastard stole my Lexus?”

  “Seems so. Maybe that’s why you were attacked. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said, fearing a trap. He held a hand to his head, considered pleading dizziness. But one look at Harriman’s face told him that this would be a mistake. Well, he’d put the ball in the other court then.

  “Have the police found any evidence?”

  “You know it doesn’t work the way it does on television, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  Quinn could swear he saw a grim amusement flash in Harriman’s eyes before he answered. “Some shell casings that matched the caliber of the slug recovered from your leg were found on a sidewalk near the warehouse, but then we found casings of other calibers, too. You’re probably aware that gunfire isn’t exactly rare in that area.”

  “I want to change that, you know,” Quinn said, happy to slip into the role of civic reformer. “It’s going to take time, but we have plans to revitalize that block. Artists’ lofts, galleries, restaurants, shopping … perhaps even a theater.”

  “While I can only hope you succeed, maybe there’s someone else out there who isn’t too happy about your plans.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened? One of the gangs…?”