“Which adds to the argument that the killer might have been Jim Vargas.”

“McLean delivered the DNA samples, and testing has begun. I’ll test them all, but Jim Vargas is still topping my suspect list.”

Rita Gallagher’s arrest file hit Novak’s desk that afternoon. He opened the yellowed file, and immediately his gaze dropped to the mug shot of the young woman who stared wide-eyed at the camera. Her head was slightly tilted and holding the placard with her arrest date and booking number. Red hair was teased high, and her tube top barely covered her ample breasts. The gold heart necklace that had been found with her hung innocently around her neck.

According to one interview, Rita had moved to Richmond when she was seventeen and gone to work on the streets for a pimp. Rita had bounced around the city for a couple of years, managing to get noticed and sometimes arrested by just about every cop in the district. Her last job before landing at Billy’s had been at a Northside bar called Ollie’s. The bar had been a known hangout for the newly arriving Russian immigrants. She’d been a cocktail waitress. After one of her arrests, the officer had taken her to the emergency room because she’d been beaten pretty badly. One of her injuries included a broken thumb.

Rita’s last arrest had been for cocaine possession. She’d been holding enough to be charged with intent to distribute, but the commonwealth attorney had dropped the charge. The attorney who’d been representing her had been Jack Holcombe.

“Jack,” Novak said to himself. “You the boyfriend?”

He turned to his computer and did a quick Internet search. Jack Holcombe had practiced law in Richmond for a firm called Ricker, Davis & Michaels between 1980 and 1996. He’d died at the age of forty-five of a drug overdose. “Another dead end.”

CHAPTER TEN

Tuesday, October 31, 11:00 p.m.

Halloween night, and the streets and bars of Shockoe Bottom were packed with partygoers dressed in every kind of costume imaginable. He appreciated each reveler’s ability to slip on a creative mask and become someone else.

However, several blocks south, where it was quiet and dark, he was doing his own form of creation.

He wasn’t fond of the name the press had given his alter ego. The Hangman. Not inspiring or original. The name implied a lack of finesse and beauty. He wasn’t sure who in the media had come up with it, but it sucked. Still, it was easy for the common folk to recall, and he did want to be remembered. Over the years, he’d thought twice about reviving the Hangman persona but knew he had to wait for the right time. Timing was everything.

He hefted the blonde’s unconscious body out of the back of the van and, bracing booted feet, hoisted the limp weight onto his shoulder.

Lana was small, likely not more than 120 pounds, but he struggled to steady their combined weight. This was a young man’s sport. Through the ink black of the moonless night he negotiated the uneven pavement that he’d walked a thousand times before. He knew every rut, every crack, and basically every inch of this area.

He pushed open the back entrance of the warehouse, knowing he’d unlocked it hours ago in preparation for this moment. He was meticulous and always prepared. Call it paranoia, but he never killed unless he had calculated all the possible ways a gig could go sideways.

He obsessed over all the details, including the cops’ schedules, security cameras, the precise location of where death would occur, area traffic patterns, electrical hookups, and which homeless individuals frequented the area. He did not want his work discovered unfinished. His subjects deserved the very best from him.

Soon he’d post keywords on social media to bring his fans to his gallery, but for now he needed silence and time to create.

He stepped inside the warehouse, noting the dank, dusty air and maybe hints of tobacco that had once filled this riverfront location. All the old places along the river in the district had been reclaimed to create apartments, restaurants, and trendy shops. He supposed it was good for the city, but it left him feeling a bit like a lion losing his hunting ground.

The woman slung over his shoulder moaned. The rope of her bound hands moved against his back as she began to waken. Good. He liked it when they were awake. He liked it when they watched as he killed them, inch by inch, with his rope. He wanted them to know that their life was slowly being squeezed out of them and that there was absolutely nothing that they could do to prevent his art from freeing their souls.

He laid Lana on a tarp. Her wrists and ankles were bound with rope so she couldn’t run. Soon he’d unwind the crude knots he’d tied to subdue her and would bind her in the creative web of knots that had been the hallmark of the Hangman.

He’d killed for many reasons: passion, pleasure, and money. But regardless of the motive, no one who had seen his work was ever quick to forget.

Clicking on a small light, he moved to a large duffel bag he’d left here earlier. It was filled with rope, enough to suspend her from the hooks he’d secured to the beams over two weeks ago. He pointed his light up toward the heavy oak beam and caught the glint of the metal hooks dangling like drops of silver.

The woman moaned through her gag and rolled on her back. She blinked, her gaze reflecting panic as she searched the dim light for context.

He shone his light onto her face. “Trying to figure out what’s going on, Lana?”

She whimpered and tugged hard at the ropes binding her hands. She struggled, and when she couldn’t break free, her fear fueled rage. This one had a temper. She was a fighter.

He’d watched the way she’d gone toe-to-toe with Julia at the courthouse yesterday. There was a lot of the street in this one. So full of righteous anger when she stood in defense of her thug boyfriend who, if given the chance, would gladly be beating her within days of his release from jail.

“You can struggle all you want, but I’ve been practicing my knots for years, and they’re good. They may not look like much at first, but I can promise you that you’ll be impressed once you give them a chance. The city will never forget Lana Ortega, and you have me to thank for that,” he said softly.

Lana drew back as if she’d been struck. Her history suggested she came from a world of anger and raw violence, but not gentleness.

Women like this one were so accustomed to brutality that the tiniest bit of kindness overwhelmed and scared them. Kindness offered a false hope that was worse than the beatings.

If he had the time or the inclination, he could teach her how to crave compassion like a drug. Soon she’d do whatever he asked just to see the approval shine in his eyes.

But he didn’t have the time or the inclination. He had a job to do.

He squatted beside Lana and rubbed his gloved hand over her blond hair. She was a beauty, and though she was only twenty-one, he could already see that by thirty-five she would be a distant memory to Benny.

“In the big picture, I’m doing you a favor. The next decade is going to be cruel. And when the world has stolen all it can from you, you’ll die alone. Now at least you have your beauty, and you have me. I’ll remain with you to the end.”

She shook her head and began to pull hard at the bindings at her wrists.

He caressed her gently along her thigh, then turned to his duffel. He unzipped it and removed a coil of rope and slowly began to unwind it. She continued to struggle. That was expected, of course. They always struggled in the beginning. But as the ropes grew tighter, they calmed as the inevitable overtook them.

He stared at the taut line of her legs outlined by the black leggings. He always started with the legs. Thinking ahead, he knew if the legs were bound, no matter what happened, escape would be difficult if not impossible.

He grabbed the bindings around her ankles and wrists, carried her to the center of the room, and set her down under the harness dangling above. “I’ve put extra thought into your exhibit. I was a little worried I wouldn’t get it right, but then I watched my videos from the first three scenes. I also read the notes the cops made, and I have to ha

nd it to Jim Vargas. He preserved every detail he could on these cases. In fact, you might be the Hangman’s best creation yet.”

Screams caught deep in her throat as she flailed her head from side to side. Soon, Lana’s struggle would succumb to acceptance.

He slowly ran a hand up her leg and over her flat belly. He squeezed her breast. She tried to scream louder. He pinched her nipple. She tried to raise her legs to kick, but he pressed a knee to her thighs, trapping her.

“A little pain never hurt anyone,” he said as he twisted harder. “It’s actually liberating.”

Clear, bright, angry eyes stared up at him as she shook her head. No tears for this one. Good. He’d never been a fan of the tears.

“I bet you like pain. It’s an old friend, isn’t it?” he asked.

She watched.

“You must like pain or you wouldn’t have stayed with Benny or defended him so passionately at the courthouse.” He smiled. “Maybe all that anger at the courthouse didn’t have to do with defending Benny, but hurting Julia. She tried to save you, but you turned on her. Did she get under your skin? Did she make you hope? Her betrayal must have stung terribly.”

He smiled. Another pinch and twist. “I know all about Benny.”

She shook her head.

“No need to be in denial. There’re many who like pain and degradation as much as tenderness and love.”

A scream, muffled by the gag, reverberated from her chest. He took no notice of it.

“Lucky for you, I’m now here to fill your need for abuse and attention. When you’re dead, I’m going to create such a spectacle with your body that the cops, and especially Julia Vargas, will not forget you for a long time.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“If you think Julia’s going to rescue you this time, you’re wrong. She won’t. Before this is all over, she won’t even be able to save herself.”

He drew back and unfurled his rope. Grabbing two sections, he pulled hard and savored the snap of the taut line. Gently he dragged the rope over her face and belly.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. With the press of a button, a shiny, sharp blade flicked into place.

Lana stared at him as he took the tip and ran it down her leg. This time she didn’t flinch. She braced. “So I’m right. The pain doesn’t scare you, but tenderness does. Interesting.”

He slid the tip of the knife under the rope between her ankles and began to slowly saw the nylon. “You do understand that if you fight me, I’ll catch you and I’ll cut you. Not enough to kill, but enough. The slash of a tendon in your leg would work.”

Tears filled her eyes, and several slipped down the side of her face.

He cut the remainder of the rope around her ankles, and immediately she began to kick as he suspected she would. She was a spitfire, this one.

He watched as she rolled on her belly and tried to scramble to her feet. Defeat was always more bitter after the taste of freedom. He knew in these seconds as Lana looked toward the door that she thought she could escape.

He let her clamber to her feet, but when she took her first full step, he lunged forward and shoved her hard. She fell, and the ground leveled a hard blow.

Tags: Mary Burton The Forgotten Files Thriller
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