Stay of Execution (22 page)

 

Chapter Sixty-­Seven

H
E INHALED SHARPLY
but didn't panic at the sight of the gun in her hands. Instead, he smiled. She was a smart little thing, a convincing actress, and the realization sent another surge of excitement through him. She was fucking good. He'd almost believed her. Her fight was different, but it was a fight just the same. Pleased, he stood up straight, tucked in his shirt, and straightened his belt. He wrapped the rope around his hand. Keeping his eyes on her face, ignoring the gun, he said, “The folks will be getting out of church soon and be wanting some breakfast.” He nodded at the griddle smoking on the stove. “Unfortunately, they will have to make it themselves. I can't leave you here now.”

Nikki stood in front of him, both hands gripping the gun. Eyes round in her pale, tear-­streaked face, she licked her lips. “I'm not going anywhere,” she said. Waving the gun toward the back door, she promised, “Go on. This is your chance to get out of here. If you go, I won't tell anyone. It will be between us. I promise.”

He raised his eyebrows. She stared back and ignored the smoke billowing up toward the ceiling. She tightened her grip on the gun and struggled to hold it steady. His eyes flickered to the weapon. She knew how to hold it, but it seemed heavy in her hands.

“I don't know if I can take that chance, Nikki.” His words were soft, tender. He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We're in this together now.”

She shook her head. “No. We're not together. Ever.” She breathed hard. Her arms had dropped an inch, the gun aimed now at his stomach. “You're going to leave, or I swear to God, I'll shoot you.”

Time was running short. The clock hanging on the wall told him the church ser­vice would be over in ten minutes. The congregation would slowly rise from their pews, gathering first in the lobby, then again on the steps and across the manicured lawn. They would shake the hands of Father Donahue and nod about the good sermon, and then their faces would take on somber expressions. “It's a terrible thing that's been going on.” “We're praying for the families of those girls.” And on and on it would go—­the good ­people of Little Springs wearing their piousness on their sleeves. But when church was over and Sunday had passed, he knew the truth. He'd seen the bruise marks on Mrs. Orion's arms. He'd seen countless men stumble home from bars. He knew about the wives who did not honor and obey their husbands. He'd witnessed the drug deals on the high school campus. They were fucking hypocrites—­all of them. He considered the girl standing in front of him. In spite of her fear, she remained relatively calm. She might actually shoot him. The girl had spunk.

He slowly unwound the rope from his hand, putting it back in his pocket. “I guess you win.” He raised his hands again, palms up.

A car horn sounded down the road, and the girl flinched. He lunged toward her, grabbing at the gun with one hand and reaching for her with the other. They fell together, bodies crashing to the floor, the gun between them. His elbow slammed into the hard tile floor, and he grunted, the gun slipping from his grip. The girl tried to point the gun at him but was no match for his strength. They rolled once on the floor until he pinned her, the gun wedged between them. She spit in his face, the saliva landing on his lower lip, dribbling down his chin.

“Bitch.” With one hand on the gun, he punched her with the other, his fist smashing into her face, the crack of her jaw breaking loud and sharp.

His admiration for her grew. Even after the crunch of bone in her jaw, she wouldn't let go of the gun. She tried to head-­butt him and wriggle out from under his weight. He hit her again, this time connecting with her right eye. He felt her weaken. Time was running short, and he knew he couldn't risk any more time with her. He twisted the pistol until the tip was pointed at her, the butt of the gun pressing into his abdomen. He looked into her wide eyes as he pressed the trigger, watching her accept the inevitable. The gun blast obliterated all other sounds. When its echo faded, the only noise left was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

 

Chapter Sixty-­Eight

H
ER RIPPED SKIN
bled where the rope cut into her wrists and ankles. Ignoring the pain, Julia struggled against the restraints. He'd tied her hands together, securing them to a wooden pole in the small cabin. He'd tied her at the ankles, as well. She rubbed the rope against the wooden pole, hoping to wear it down. She screamed in frustration, the sound dying in the empty cabin.

Her eyes welled, and she swallowed a sob. No one could possibly hear her. It was no wonder he hadn't bothered to cover her mouth.

“I'm sorry,” he'd said. “I don't want to do this, but there's something I have to take care of first. This is the only way.”

She'd tried to argue with him. “But I won't tell anyone where you are. I . . . I won't tell anyone anything. I promise. I'll be careful.”

She'd fought back tears when he shook his head. “There's no time.” He'd stared into her eyes, unblinking. “You know too much.”

He'd taken her keys and left. The tires of her rental car had rolled over the gravel and dirt road, the sound disappearing with the car. She'd been left lying on the floor, alone. She blinked, forcing herself to look around the cabin. She had to get it together and find a way out. She had to get out before he returned.

Tipping her head back, she looked up at her burning wrists. The rope was tight, probably even tighter as a result of her struggles. But maybe if she could twist her hands a little, she might get free. The minutes ticked by. Beads of sweat hung on her forehead, and blood dripped from her wrists. She twisted more. Finally, she touched the edges of the rope with her fingers.

It was no use. The tips of her fingers oozed blood, every fingernail ripped off, and still she was no closer to loosening the knots. Tears streamed down her face. Chin quivering, she gave in to the sobs that wracked her body. Fear and exhaustion took over; she hung her head.

I'm going to die here.
The thought pressed in, and she had trouble breathing. Would he come back, or would he leave her there? Spradlin had told her everything. He'd started at Cheryl Fornak and left nothing out. When he'd spoken about his hands around the girls' necks, she hadn't been able to look at him.

“Cheryl wasn't a bad person,” he'd said. “I didn't plan it. If you'd asked me that morning, or even earlier that night, if I was going to murder her, or anyone, I would have said no.”

It had been difficult to ask questions, but she'd fought her feelings of revulsion. “Then why? Why did you do it?”

“I had no choice. I couldn't let her talk about being raped. I don't think she expected me to hurt her.” He'd paused. “It was easier than I thought it would be, taking a life. It was that night when I knew something was wrong with me. Something was missing.”

Every nerve in her body had told her to run then, but she'd stayed in the wooden chair, listening as he talked about each girl, providing details that left no doubts in her mind.

“Death is only a state,” he'd told her at one point. ­“People are afraid of it, but I don't know why. There's no pain after you die.”

She hadn't wanted to listen anymore. She'd wanted it to stop, but he kept talking. When he was quiet, she'd asked the one question that scared her most of all. “Why'd you come back? Nobody would have ever known the truth.”

His hands had curled up into fists. “To finish what I started.” Her heart beat wildly with his words. Cancini had been right to warn her about Spradlin after all. Lying on the wooden floor, she had no more tears. He was gone now, but the words and thoughts of death hung in the air. It all made sense now, in a sick way.

Had he been gone an hour? More? She couldn't be sure. The only window was covered, and the light was dim. Her fear gave way to anger and eventually, frustration. There had to be something she could do. With nothing to lose, she started screaming. She screamed over and over again until her throat burned. She strained her ears but heard nothing, only the sound of her own breathing. Fresh tears pricked at her eyes. And then she heard it. Buzz. Buzz. She jolted. Buzz. Buzz. It was coming from her canvas bag. Her cell phone. Someone was trying to reach her. Ignoring her bleeding wrists, she felt fresh energy course through her aching body. There had to be a way.

 

Chapter Sixty-­Nine

“G
ODDAMMIT,” HE MUTTERED,
crossing the backyard and hurrying to the car he'd parked on the next block. It wasn't supposed to happen that way. She'd ruined everything. God, he'd wanted her so bad. The thought of having her thrilled him, but it wasn't to be. Shit. He'd had to fucking shoot her. It was her own damn fault.

The shock of the gun exploding between them had frozen them both for an instant. Had he missed? Blood spread across her white T-­shirt and spattered his own. Her fingers were still wrapped around the barrel of the gun, her mouth open. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. He hadn't missed. He grabbed a kitchen towel, loosened her fingers, and wiped down the gun. He replaced it in her hand. Grabbing another towel, he wiped down all the surfaces he'd touched. Stuffing the towels and her underwear into his pockets, he washed his hands and slipped out the door. Three minutes had passed since the shooting.

Back at his car, he pulled on a jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. He drove away, obeying the speed limit, keeping his ears open for sirens. After a few miles, he turned onto the highway, then turned again onto a narrow country road.

“Goddammit,” he said, smacking the steering wheel. Church ser­vices would be over by now, and she would be found any minute. The police would swarm the house. He'd done what he could to eliminate any trace that he'd been there. A grin spread across his face. Maybe this was a good thing. Another dead girl. She wasn't naked like the others, though, and had no marks around her neck. That could make things interesting. How would the FBI reconcile this new event? What would the great Cancini do?

He stopped the car and laughed, sure he couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried. The confusion would buy him time and, more importantly, the opportunity to clean up a few loose ends. Hell. He was looking forward to it.

 

Chapter Seventy

“H
ER NAME IS
Nikki Stephenson.” The Little Springs cop directed his report at Cancini, ignoring Talbot. “She's a student at the college, staying here with the Walshes because of the evacuation.” He nodded toward the ­couple and young woman huddled outside the kitchen. “That's them. Their daughter and this girl are classmates. They say her dad is Senator Stephenson, you know, from Alabama.”

Cancini and Talbot exchanged glances. Cancini had seen the man on TV a few times. He was a talker. “Why didn't she go home to her family?”

The cop stole a look at the Walshes. “They said she didn't get along with 'em—­especially not with the dad.”

“Have they been contacted?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Okay. What happened here this morning?”

The cop read from his notes. “The family went to church, left the house about eight forty-­five for a nine o'clock ser­vice. Solid alibi. The Walshes are a good churchgoing family.” He cleared his throat. “Ms. Stephenson stayed back saying she didn't want to go.” He gestured at the broken bowl and spilled batter on the floor. “Apparently, she promised to make pancakes while they were gone. Family returned a little after ten and found her. We had just gotten a call about a loud noise in the neighborhood and were sending a car, so it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before we got here.”

Talbot nodded once, then stepped out to speak to the family. Cancini stayed, assessing the crime scene. The house was probably thirty or forty years old by the look of it, but the kitchen appeared newer. It had shiny new appliances and granite countertops. The refrigerator was covered with family photos and mementos. Several cookbooks stood perched on a shelf near the stove.

A door at the back of the kitchen led to the side yard. The top half was glass, giving a clear view of the yard and the neighbor's house. No panes were broken.

“Did the neighbors see anything? Hear anything?”

The cop's eyes followed Cancini's. “No. Most were at church, too. We're still canvassing the rest of the street.”

Cancini checked the door again. “Any sign of a break-­in?”

“Nothing obvious. ­Couple of scratches on the lock. Coulda been picked, but might be nothing.”

“Okay.” An open backpack perched near the counter's edge. Closer to the stove, a bag of flour and a carton of eggs had been left out. He moved closer, pausing at the cooktop. His hand warmed over the griddle, the heat still coming off the pan.

“That was still on when we got here,” said the local cop. “It was pretty smoky for a while. It's better now.”

Cancini nodded. The burnt smell almost masked the metallic odor of the girl's blood. He crouched, resting his hands on his thighs. The floor was smeared red, and while the emergency unit had been careful, it was difficult to determine if any evidence had been disturbed.

“What else?”

“There was a gun in her hand. Mr. Walsh says it looks like the one he kept locked in a box in his study. His is missing.”

“I see.” No obvious break-­in. The only sign of a possible struggle was the broken bowl and batter on the floor. Did the girl know her attacker? How and when did she get the locked gun from the study?

Cancini stood up, his knees cracking. “Where's the gun?”

“Forensics has it.”

Walking to the kitchen window, Cancini saw a large yard that opened to the adjacent neighbor's back lawn. Only a handful of yards were fenced. It would be easy to skip across to another street and disappear.

“Were you here when the medics took the girl?”

“Yes, sir,” the young cop said.

“Any idea whether she'll make it?”

“I don't know, sir. It looked pretty bad.”

Cancini gripped the counter's edge. Was it the same guy? And if it was, why was he taking chances, entering a home?

Talbot came back into the kitchen. “I've got what I need for now. I think we should head over to the hospital. See if the girl can talk.”

“Right.” They walked to the front door and stepped outside.

Cancini spotted at least a dozen reporters hovering across the street. A handful of neighbors stood in their yards watching, a new fear on their faces. This was different. This wasn't a campus crime. This was their neighborhood. He got in the car, shutting the door. The cameras turned their focus from the front of the house to them, snapping pictures as they pulled away. The journalists shouted questions, but he heard nothing. Cancini searched the faces for Julia, his skin growing clammy and his mouth dry. Where was she?