“I’m at King’s and I’m not going anywhere. I’m safer here surrounded by people.”
“Swear you won’t leave King’s.” His concern leaked into the statement.
“Promise.”
With her safe, he could think. “I’ll call you soon. Be careful. ”
“I will.”
He hung up and called dispatch. He ordered a patrol car to park in front of King’s. When he hung up, he found Malcolm in his office. “Where’s that sketch artist?”
“Around. Why?”
“I want her to redraw the picture but without the beard. And give the person long hair like a woman.”
“Will do.”
His phone rang and he snatched it up. His irritation shone through when he said, “Garrison. ”
“Madge Olsen. Social Services. You called about one of my kids?”
“Right.” He’d called yesterday to talk about Bobby’s case because Eva had been worried. “Bobby Torres. Foster son of Toby King.”
“Right. His full name is Robert Martinez Torres.”
“Did you say Martinez?” He dug through his files searching for Eliza Martinez’s file.
“That’s right. Middle name was his mother’s maiden name. Bobby’s mother died of cancer last year and he went to live with his grandmother for a while. She couldn’t handle the day-to-day responsibility of a child so she allowed him to go into foster care.”
“His grandmother, Eliza Martinez, was murdered three months ago.” She’d been stabbed multiple times just like Lisa, Sara and Danvers.
“Yes. I know. And often it’s hard to place a ten-year-old boy who’s endured a trauma. But not this time.”
“Explain.”
“Toby King approached us just a day after the kid’s grandmother died. He has friends in Social Services and pushed through his paperwork. His background check cleared so we awarded him custody fairly quickly. ”
And now King housed Eva and Bobby, both of whom had a connection to the Cross family. Garrison’s gut tightened. “Thanks, Madge.”
He picked up the phone and called King’s. The line was busy.
After that homicidal creep had killed Kristen he’d untied her body and carried her away, leaving Donovan alone to watch the hearth’s flames dance and dwindle.
Panic had brewed inside his gut, and several times he screamed. But when no one came and no one heard him cry out, he’d known getting out of here alive rested on his shoulders.
This guy has got to have some sort of weakness, Donovan thought as he tried to shove the fear away. Everybody has a weakness.
For him it was bourbon and too many women. Both vices had gotten him more than his share of trouble and both had nearly cost him his job. The trick now was to figure out his captor’s weakness.
Atonement was his thing. And if Donovan could just figure out what had driven this guy to the brink, then maybe he could find the chink in his armor.
Think, Donovan. You’re good at this. You’re good at getting people to open up. He pictured Angie. She’d been a hard case, but he’d found just the right buttons to push and she’d opened up to him like a flower hungry for sunshine.
Just study the guy. You’ll see the weakness.
The top door leading down to the basement opened. The killer flipped on the lights and moved down the stairs, slowly, deliberately.
Donovan stiffened. Shit. What the hell had this creepy bastard planned for him?
With a great effort, he chased the fear from his voice. “So I’m here to atone?”
The hooded figure nodded. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Donovan.”
Donovan sat straight up in his chair, tracking every footstep toward the fireplace. “I’ve been trying to think what I did that ticked you off. All I can come up with is the article on Eva Rayburn. ”
Just the sound of the woman’s name brought tension to the cloaked frame.
“I got to say,” Donovan pressed. “She’s one hard case. A lot like her sister, Angie. I’ve been trying to figure out how you could know Eva? She’s only been back in town six months.”
Crumpled pieces of newspaper fit nicely between dried twigs and branches. And a flick of the light soon had it crackling.
“You must hate her. ”
“I don’t hate the sinner but the sin.”
“What could she have done to you? How did she hurt you? ”
“You’re clever, Mr. Donovan, but if you believe getting me to talk is going to change things, then you are wrong.”
Donovan leaned forward. He had the story of a lifetime but he needed to live to tell it. “What did Eva do to you? Did she do something to you?”
“She stole the most important thing in the world from me!”
Donovan sensed a door had been cracked open to his kidnapper’s soul. “What did she steal?”
Silence followed and then soft laughter. “You’re so clever. Why don’t you figure it out?”
“She was sent away a decade ago. It happened a long time ago.”
“Some wounds can never be forgotten.”
He moistened his lips, tried a half smile that, given a different set of circumstances, could have hidden his desperation better. “Wounds you speak about… She didn’t take a thing from you, but a person?”
Tension rippled and suddenly his captor stoked the flames with angry thrusts.
“Who did she steal from you?”
“It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.”
“Tell me.” His words sounded like a gentle whisper of a lover.
“You are very clever. Is that how you got Angie Carlson into your bed? Did you whisper to her like that?”
“I needed to find Eva. Angie was my only link.”
“And so you used her. “ The tip of the branding iron started to glow red. Steam rose from the metal tip. Soon it would be ready. “Did she cry when she realized she’d been used?”
Donovan stared at the branding iron. Showing fear and begging wasn’t going to save him now. “I’m sure she did. She liked me. Liked me a lot.”
“You broke her heart? ”
“Sure.” He’d say whatever this guy wanted him to say to get out of here.
“You’re not a very nice man, Mr. Donovan.”
“People get hurt. It happens. But I don’t deserve to die. In fact, let me live and I will work to turn the public against Eva Rayburn. ”
“Your last article caused her pain.”
“Then let me write more.” He watched the hooded figure heft the branding iro
n in small, gloved hands. The iron appeared to feel heavy. The tip glowed red now and was ready.
“That’s not necessary. I can handle things from here.”
“Look,” Donovan said quickly, “at least let me see your face. I should at least know who is doing this to me.”
“Sure, why not?” He removed the hood and glasses. Slowly, he peeled off the beard.
His jailer wasn’t a man but a woman! Donovan searched the woman’s face for any signs of recognition. “Do I know you?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Donovan’s next comment was silenced by the jab of the branding iron into his belly. He screamed so loud, the sound seemed to bounce off the walls forever.
He slumped forward in a sweaty, exhausted heap. “You don’t have to do this. I can help you.”
“Always the talker.”
The iron still glowed hot, enough to burn his skin a second time.
Donovan had never known such agony. His body vibrated with pain each time the branding iron touched his flesh. His nostrils were filled with the scent of his own burning skin. As his captor jabbed the branding iron back into the flames, he knew he’d endure more pain. Only one brand on his belly meant three to come.
“Let me help you.” His voice sounded so hoarse.
“Thanks, but I’ve got this under control.”
“Let me go and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll write whatever you want.”
“I bet you would write anything at this moment. But your meager attempt at atonement has little meaning now. You’d do anything now to stop the pain.”
“I would.”
She pressed the hot iron into his belly.
Donovan howled, arching his back and straining against his bindings. “Stop! P-P-P-Please.”
“Okay, I’ll stop the pain.”
Donovan forced his eyes open. He knew pathetic hope glistened in his eyes as he searched for a sign of mercy.
Mercy came in the shape of a sharp blade that glinted and caught the light from the fire. And before he could speak, the tip of the blade pierced his chest, sliced through flesh and grazed bone.
His body froze. And for one, two, three beats of his heart he believed life melted from his body.