Sheila wondered if she should ask him about Abby. It had been clear to her that Abby and the CO had been close, but before she could think of how to phrase the question, Marianne was back.
“Okay, let’s boot,” her friend said, breathless. “Have I mentioned that I am so unbelievably late?”
“I’m parked over there,” Cavanaugh said, pointing.
The two of them followed the younger man toward the back corner of the parking lot, where it seemed much darker since the floodlight on this side was out. Again, Sheila felt a tingle, but again, she was probably just being neurotic.
She noticed that Cavanaugh was dressed in civilian clothes, and the outline of his firm, perfect ass was evident beneath the soft material of his gray slacks. As they walked behind him, Marianne nudged and pointed. Sheila bit back a smile. It was, indeed, a great ass.
“Just give me a moment to move some papers out of the front seat,” Cavanaugh said as they neared his shiny black SUV. It was a beast of a vehicle, a black Dodge Durango, with heavily tinted windows and shiny chrome rims. Flashy, but it suited him.
“No worries,” Marianne said. “You’re doing us a huge favor. I’ll hop in the back.”
Cavanaugh unlocked the doors. After shuffling a few things around, they all climbed in, Sheila in the passenger seat and Marianne behind her. The doors locked automatically when Cavanaugh started the engine.
Then an arm shot out from her left and Sheila felt a prick on her neck. It was the last thing she remembered.
chapter 34
SHEILA AWOKE, HER head pounding and fuzzy, her stomach churning, her throat dry.
Her first thought was as clear as it could have been under the circumstances: I’ve been here before.
Opening her eyes, she tried to look around, but her face was flattened against the cold concrete floor and her head wouldn’t cooperate when she tried to lift it. Her arms were tied behind her back and she was lying awkwardly on her side in a fetal position. The only light in the room was coming from a bare bulb hanging from a wire above her head, and it was swinging, casting strange, moving shadows on the unfamiliar shapes around her. Trying not to panic, she took a deep breath, and the smell of must and mothballs filled her nostrils.
Her second thought was just as clear as her first: Abby Maddox did this. Sheila didn’t know how, exactly, this was possible, but every instinct told her that Abby Maddox had brought her here. Where here was, Sheila didn’t know, but it was the only explanation. Mark Cavanaugh would have no reason to do this unless someone had asked him to.
It was last year all over again.
You’ve got to be kidding. Seriously? You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
A low moan came from somewhere nearby. Alarmed, Sheila had enough of a surge of adrenaline to sit upright against the wall, but not without effort. Between her pounding head and her bound arms, it was a struggle to turn toward the source of the sound.
Eight feet away, she saw that Marianne was propped up against the wall as well, her head bleeding from one temple and her hair hanging in her face. Her arms were also fastened behind her, and she looked like a discarded doll with her yoga-pant-clad legs stretched out in front of her, askew.
“Marianne.” Sheila meant to speak in a whisper, but her voice was louder than she intended. “Marianne, wake up.”
Marianne blinked and focused her gaze on Sheila, her eyes clearing a bit in relief at the sight of Sheila’s face. “Oh, thank God you’re up. I was scared you had a head injury. You didn’t respond when I said your name a few minutes ago.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So are you.” Marianne grimaced. “I hit my head against the wall when he threw me down. It’s throbbing like a sonofabitch.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?” Sheila said, fearing her friend had a concussion.
“No, just a bad headache. But my ankles are sprained. Both of them. And I’m . . . I think I’m having chest pains.”
“Oh God.” Sheila sat up straighter, trying to focus. “You think you’re having a heart attack?”
“No, no, it’s a panic attack.” Marianne took several deep breaths, but her calm voice wasn’t fooling Sheila. “I’ve had them before. I just need to breathe and try and get my bearings.”
Relieved, Sheila leaned her head against the cold concrete wall behind her and tried to get her own bearings. “Any idea how long we’ve been here?”
“No idea. My watch is gone.”
“And Mark?”
“I woke up as he was leaving. I tried calling out to him, but he said he’d be back and left. I think we’re in his cold cellar.” Marianne pulled her legs closer to her body. She was shivering. “What the hell is going on? What does he want with us?”
“When I was at the prison, I got the impression he and Abby were close.” Sheila shut her eyes, her head spinning. “I can only think that he’s done this for her.”
“But why? I thought you and Abby had come to some sort of understanding. That this was all over between the two of you.”
“So did I. I thought after that TV interview, we were finally . . . even.” The thought seemed ridiculous and naïve now.
“So what is this, some kind of twisted revenge plan?” Marianne’s voice was bordering on hysteria, and that was not good.
“I don’t know.” Sheila was making every effort to stay calm. “I know as much as you do.”
“This is not okay, Sheila!” Marianne said, her voice close to shriek level. “This is not—”
“Shhh, Marianne,” Sheila whispered. “Please, try and stay focused. We don’t know where Mark is. We have to keep our heads together if we’re going to get out of this.”
A whimper. Marianne was crying.
Sheila looked around again, noting there were no windows. But there was an old wooden staircase on the other side of the cellar. “Hey, can you try and stand? I see stairs by the far wall. We need to get out of here before he comes back.”
“I heard him lock the door,” Marianne said, and her voice cracked. “And no, I can’t put weight on my feet. I tried already. It hurts too much.”
Sheila struggled to stand up, but she had no strength, and her bound arms were useless in helping her get traction. Anchoring her feet beneath her, she pushed her back against the wall, managing to raise herself up about a foot. Her quadriceps trembled with the effort. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to try and stand up, see if I can get up those stairs. This is an old cellar. Maybe the door’s not that solid.”
“You really think this is about Abby?”
“It’s got to be Abby. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Grunting with exertion, Sheila tried to straighten her legs, but just like that, her knees gave out. Her ass hit the floor painfully and she swore. A large wolf spider hovered nearby, and she flinched, hoping it wouldn’t come any closer.
“But you said you no longer believed she was the true mastermind behind all those killings.” Marianne sounded frustrated and confused. “You said Ethan was probably lying about that.”
“I did believe it, and then I didn’t, and now I don’t know what the hell to think.” Sheila started to shiver. Her adrenaline had worn off and the cold was beginning to seep through her thin yoga clothes. “Listen, I’m going to inch my way closer to you. I’m freezing and you must be, too. Sitting against the wall is only making it worse.”
Sheila wiggled across the concrete basement floor, groaning with the effort. It took a couple of minutes before they were finally touching. They pushed themselves against each other, and within a few seconds, Sheila already felt a few degrees warmer.
“My wrists are killing me,” Marianne said with a groan. “What did he bind us with, zip ties?”
A wave of nausea went through Sheila as she realized that Marianne was right. Zip ties. Jack the Zipper. Jeremiah Blake—who was now in jail for five counts of murder, including the murder of his father—was the killer who had carved Abby’s name on his victims.
After he’d strangled
them with zip ties.
Oh God. Oh no.
Sheila could feel hysteria rising in her gut, and she did the only thing she could think of to stem it. She turned her head to the side, and vomited.
When her retching finally subsided, Marianne said drily, “I know you couldn’t help that, sweetie, but the smell really doesn’t help things.”
Sheila managed a laugh at Marianne’s attempt at humor. Her head felt a little bit clearer. She wouldn’t tell Marianne about the significance of the zip ties, because her friend didn’t need to know. Marianne was finally sounding calm and in control, and Sheila was determined to keep it that way.
“Are they going to kill us?” Her friend’s voice was small.
Sheila was grateful the cellar was dim, because she didn’t know if she could lie to Marianne’s face. The answer was obvious to her. Yes, she was certain that Abby’s intention was to see both of them dead. But she couldn’t risk Marianne having another panic attack. She needed her friend alert and ready for whatever was going to happen next.
“I don’t think so,” Sheila finally said, hoping she sounded confident. “Abby’s in prison, remember? She personally can’t do us any harm from inside, and she’s the one we’d really have to worry about. Cavanaugh’s obviously been manipulated, and when he’s back, we’ll just have to work on making him see that he’s throwing his whole life away by helping her.”
“You think she’s engineering all this from prison?”
“She’s certainly capable of it. I’m starting to realize now that she’s capable of anything. First Ethan, now her prison guard . . .”
“She sure knows how to pick ’em,” Marianne said with a sigh. “I only met the guy for two minutes and I was already wondering if he was married or single.”
“Okay, I’m going to try standing up again,” Sheila said. “I need to get up those stairs.”
She leaned against Marianne and tried to maneuver her body into a standing position. Her legs were frustratingly uncooperative, quivering like Jell-O. A few sweaty, grunting moments later, she was slumped next to her friend once again. “Shit! Why is this go goddamned hard?”
“Relax for a minute.” Marianne’s voice was soothing, and Sheila was grateful for it. “Rest and try again in a bit. It’s that crap he injected us with. It makes you weak.”
They sat in silence.
“So what’s the plan once we get out?” Marianne said a moment later. “Please tell me you have one.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.” Her friend’s voice was edgy.
The two of them continued to sit, not talking. Sheila’s mind ran through the possibilities.
What kind of contact had Cavanaugh and Abby had? They had spent time together at Rosedale, that much was clear. Sheila didn’t know much about prisons, but certainly as a CO he’d have been able to orchestrate ways to be alone with her. Abby had been at Rosedale for a little over a year. Plenty of time for her to work her magic on him.
But now Abby was no longer at Rosedale. She’d been transferred to a minimum security facility Sheila couldn’t remember the name of now. Was Cavanaugh visiting Abby at her new prison? Visits were monitored. It would have been too risky for them to plan this in a room staffed with guards. So how were they communicating?
And what motivation would Mark Cavanaugh have to help Abby? For him to commit kidnapping, assault, and eventual double murder? You would think as a corrections officer he would never want to be the one behind bars. Why risk it? What was in it for him? What had Abby promised him? She wasn’t wealthy. The only thing she had to offer was herself, and while that was certainly enough, she had another eight years in prison, unless she somehow got out early for good behavior. Would Cavanaugh actually be willing to wait for her?
Unless . . .
No, she couldn’t have.
“So?” Marianne’s sharp voice cut through Sheila’s thoughts. “Any ideas?”
Sheila closed her eyes, steeling herself for what she was about to say. “I have a feeling Abby’s gotten out somehow. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Marianne’s whole body stiffened. “Excuse me? Abby Maddox escaping from prison is logical? How the hell do you figure that?”
“I think Mark is in love with her. And would do anything for her. She handpicked him because he was a corrections officer—who better than a prison guard to help her bust out? What’s the first thing she’d want more than anything in the world?”
“Her freedom,” Marianne answered promptly, then sighed. “Shit.”
“Exactly. And what’s the second thing she’d want?”
Marianne paused. “To get away?” Her voice was uncertain.
“Well, yes, but she’d want to tie up loose ends first.” Sheila wriggled closer, the zip ties cutting into her wrists. “And who’s the one person she seems to hate most right now?”
“That’s easy. You.”
“Right. See, I’m the reason she’s in jail. Ethan and I had an affair. I’m the reason he’s dead. In her twisted mind, that makes me responsible for everything that’s happened to her.” Not that Sheila entirely disagreed. She really didn’t. She just didn’t feel she deserved to die because of it.
“And I get to come along for the ride.” The bitterness in Marianne’s voice was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry, Marianne.” The apology was lame and Sheila knew it. “You so don’t deserve this.”
This time her friend said nothing.
A squeak caused them both to freeze. From the other side of the basement, they could hear a door opening. Footsteps tread carefully down the creaky stairs. Mark Cavanaugh had returned. Against her on the hard concrete floor, Sheila could feel Marianne’s body stiffening again. Her friend felt like a statue. Even Sheila was having a hard time breathing properly.
But the key to surviving this whole thing, she knew from experience, was to find out what Mark Cavanaugh wanted. That was pivotal. Digging into Ethan’s true desires had kept Sheila alive long enough for Morris and Jerry to track her down. It might keep her and Marianne alive long enough for them to do it a second time.
A figure approached. Under the dull light of the bare basement bulb, it was hard to see a face. Tall. Had to be Mark Cavanaugh.
Only it wasn’t.
Dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a fitted leather jacket, Abby Maddox looked nothing like an inmate. Her hair had been cut short and bleached platinum blonde. She strode toward them and stopped a few inches away from their legs, looking down, seeming to relish the sight of the two women tied up and helpless. Her smile soon turned to disgust.
“Now that smells horrible,” she said to Sheila, her gaze roaming over the pile of vomit to Sheila’s right. “Not that I’m surprised. Ethan told me you had a weak stomach.”
Sheila opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“What do you think, girls?” Abby said, tilting her head. She flicked the ends of her blond strands languidly. “About the hair. It’s a wig. I didn’t have time for a professional bleach job. But I like it. I think I can pull off being blond, don’t you agree? They do say blondes have more fun.”
Again, Sheila opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find the words. She was too taken aback. Strategizing in her head was one thing—this had seemed like a totally solvable problem in theory. But now, face-to-face with Abby Maddox herself, in a damp cellar with her arms tied behind her back, it was a whole different playing field.
Abby seemed completely amused by Sheila’s inability to speak. “Cat got your tongue, Sheila?”
“How’d you get out?” Sheila finally managed to say.
“Planning and patience. And a little help from my friends.” Abby fixed her gaze on Marianne. “Well, hello, Annie,” she said, and Sheila felt her friend jolt at the use of her nickname, something only Jerry called her. “I’m rather happy you’re here, though I’m sure it sucks for you. But it’s fitting, considering your husband is also someone on my shit l
ist.”
Marianne whimpered.
Abby’s smile broadened. She moved closer and knelt down, her face less than a foot away from Marianne’s. “It’s a nice feeling that I can do away with everyone who’s fucked me over all at once. Not that you and I are really enemies, Annie, but since Jerry’s not here, you’ll do just fine. This would hurt him way more, anyway. And won’t that be nice? How . . . serendipitous.”
Abby Maddox stood up, brushing the cement dust off her jeans. She seemed impossibly tall, and impossibly dangerous. Her voice purred like a tiger’s. “All right, girls. Ready to get started? This is going to be so much fun.”
chapter 35
AS HE AND Mike made their way out to the tiny town of Concrete, Jerry wasn’t completely surprised to see Morris’s number on his phone. Because he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Sheila himself, either, and it was now after 8 p.m. Wherever Sheila was, she should have responded by now.
Jerry prepared himself for another verbal ass-kicking. “Hey, man.”
“She’s not picking up her phone, Jerry,” Morris said in his ear, his deep voice tight and controlled. “It’s going straight to voice mail, amigo.”
“We’ll find her. We have an APB out on her and—”
“Fuck your APB!” his friend yelled. Jerry winced and moved the phone away from his ear. Torrance looked over, eyebrow raised. “My fiancée is missing, you blowhard. And I blame you!”
“I know you do.” For once, Jerry was grateful for the rasp in his voice. It kept him from yelling back, which he really wanted to do, because Morris was right, it was his fault and he did blame himself. “And I promise you—I promise you—we will find her.”
“Where are you right now?”
Torrance looked over again and shook his head. Jerry nodded. “We’re heading for where we think she might be,” he said.
“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Morris snapped, as Jerry knew he would. “Where are you, goddammit?”
“We’re heading north. We have a lead on—” Torrance’s elbow drove into Jerry’s ribs. The detective didn’t want Morris knowing the details. “It’s north. We’ll be there shortly. We’ll find her.”