The Blackest Crimson Read online

  Was the rope binding her wrists and ankles the same as the yellow nylon currently fitted around her neck—the same rope he’d used on the other victims? According to the ME reports the abrasion patterns were similar. All she had to do was get one hand loose and she could free herself. While she worked at the ropes, she concentrated on the scents around her. The place smelled old and a little like piss. A deserted property helped give the psychopath the privacy he needed.

  I’ve never had a detective before.

  “Biggest mistake of your life, you piece of shit.” She would make him pay for what he had done.

  All she had to do was get these damned ropes loose. Her head throbbed. It felt swollen, as if it was filled with cotton balls. She probably had a concussion from when he’d banged her head against the counter. The pain seemed to radiate from the right side of her skull. Her arm ached. The memory of the slice of the knife blade through her flesh made her flinch. A piece of cloth was tied tight around her forearm in a makeshift bandage. She couldn’t tell if he’d stitched the wound as he usually did those of his victims. The dark curl of fear began again deep in her chest.

  You will not be like the others, Bobbie.

  Focus on the details. How long had she been here? If it was still snowing, it couldn’t be more than a few hours to a day. Was it Christmas? Light filtered past the grimy window. Had to be mid-morning or later. How had she slept so many hours?

  Drugs. The Storyteller drugged his victims, presumably to control them when he was away. It was doubtful he would do so when he was with the victim. He wouldn’t want to numb her to his torture.

  Victim. She was the victim now. No way to deny that cold hard fact. Agony welled inside her. She did not want to die. Her baby needed her.

  Stay in control, Bobbie. Think like a cop, not like a victim.

  She inhaled deeply. No scent of a fire, not even the ashes of an extinguished one. Judging by how cold it was, she doubted he’d built a fire. He wouldn’t want to draw attention with the smoke. She shivered as if her body had only just recognized the lack of heat in the primitive shelter.

  There was no way to gauge how long he would be gone. Ignoring the pain, she worked her hands harder, straining against the nylon in hopes of stretching it. She listened intently for any new sound. The gentle rustle of the tree limbs, the whisper of the wind and the occasional soft slaps of snow were the only sounds. The gentle pats of snow were fewer and farther between now. Maybe the snow had stopped and the noise was nothing more than the accumulated drifts falling from the tree limbs when the wind blew.

  If she was in the woods, was there a road? Had to be. The snow would have covered his tracks even if the search for her had expanded far enough. Pinpointing her location would be difficult. No wonder he hadn’t been caught.

  The Storyteller was an unknown subject, or unsub—at least that was what the FBI called him. They had no name or physical description. The profile they had built based on his victimology suggested he was mid to late thirties, white, ritualistic and a true psychopath. He’d likely been abused by a family member as a child. He was methodical and meticulous in his work. The profile concluded that he held a quiet, unassuming job that drew little or no attention to him. He had friends, but kept his social life low-key. One theory was that he stalked his victims via the internet or other media. All his victims had public Facebook pages except her. Wait, there was the department’s page. She and her partner had been spotlighted on the Montgomery PD page a few times.

  Newt would be looking for her. Her heart swelled into her throat. Howard Newton had been her partner since she made detective. He and her uncle Teddy, the chief of police, would be doing everything possible to find her.

  “You gotta help them out, Bobbie.” She jerked at the ropes restraining her hands. Her right abruptly pulled free. Her heart thundered into a faster rhythm. She reached across her torso and worked on the left. Her fingers fumbled. They were stiff and numb from the cold. She gritted her teeth and forced her fingers to cooperate.

  At last her left hand slid free. Bobbie sat up. The room spun. “Shit.” She closed her eyes until the spinning stopped.

  When she’d regained her equilibrium, she slowly bent forward and worked to free her ankles. There was a chair and a table in the center of the room, along with what looked like a kerosene lamp. She spotted a kerosene heater as well. So that was how he kept himself warm when he was here. Kerosene heaters didn’t smoke so there were no worries about drawing attention. Kerosene could be bought at most gas stations, allowing for untraceable purchases.

  The ropes fell away from her ankles. Her hands and feet were a little swollen. Didn’t matter. She had to get out of here. She swung her bare feet onto the cold wood floor. There were cracks between the floorboards. Icy air floated up around her legs. Had she been wearing shoes? No. She hadn’t. Damn it.

  Taking it slow, she stood. A little spinning accompanied the move, but she rode it out. It wasn’t until she got up that she realized her lounge pants were damp where she had relieved herself. The cold, wet fabric made her shiver. When she could move without falling, she staggered to the window. Beyond the dirty panes of glass a blanket of white covered the earth. Bare trees sprouted up from that vast winter wonderland, making it impossible to see anything beyond the small clearing around the cabin. Definitely deep in the woods. No sign of tracks or a vehicle.

  Okay. She needed a coat and shoes...and a weapon.

  She surveyed the one-room cabin again. Where she stood was the cot and its bare rusty springs. Next to the rustic table and chair in the middle of the room was the portable kerosene heater. To her left and in the far corner was the only door. The single window was straight across the small space on the opposite wall. Against the rear wall of the cabin, opposite the door, stood a primitive cabinet. The cabinet looked really old, like something found in an antiques shop except it was covered with dust and cobwebs.

  She padded over to the cabinet and reached for a wooden knob. The purr of an engine hauled her attention to the window. She rushed across the room, stumbling in her haste. Peering through the soiled glass, she watched an old, black SUV roll into the clearing. All she could see was one side of the front end with its dented fender and the driver’s door. She stood to the side of the window so whoever was behind the wheel wouldn’t see her.

  The driver’s door opened and a black boot planted in the snow. A man wearing a dark coat and skullcap emerged. He turned his face toward the cabin.

  Bobbie drew back.

  It was him.

  Chapter Three

  Bobbie turned all the way around, frantically scanning the room. She needed a weapon. Anything. She grabbed the kerosene lantern and moved to the door. The lantern wasn’t much of a weapon, but she had the element of surprise on her side. He expected her to be tied to the bed. She had a shot here. Disorient him and get out the door. Run like hell.

  She tried to slow her heart, tried to quiet the blood roaring through her veins. Stay steady. Be strong. This might be her only chance to make a run for it.

  He will kill me and I cannot die. Jamie needs me!

  She tightened her grip on the lantern’s handle and prepared to swing it. Come on, you bastard!

  Chains rattled. The door opened with a slow groan, creating a barrier between them.

  Wait...wait...wait. Let him get all the way inside. Then strike!

  Without moving past the open door he stamped his boots on the floor, and then he scrubbed them back and forth to clear away the packed snow.

  The door blocking his view of her and the empty cot, she braced to swing.

  He stilled.

  Fear exploded in her chest, rushed icy cold through her muscles.

  He knows!

  He shoved the door into her. She stumbled back and he rushed her. She swung the lantern at him. Glass crashed. The d
istinct odor of kerosene filled the air.

  He jammed his elbow into her chest, knocking her off balance before throwing his body on top of hers. She kicked, scratched, latched onto his ear with her teeth and pulled for all she was worth.

  He howled and punched her over and over in the stomach. She released his ear, gasping for breath. He wrapped his fingers around her throat and squeezed until her vision faded.

  When she came to herself again, pain exploding in her head, he was dragging her by the hair toward the cot. The rough-hewn wood floor ripped at her skin anywhere it was bare. She clutched his leg and yanked with all her might. He fell forward. His fingers tugged free of her hair, tearing a handful of strands from her scalp.

  She scrambled away from him and rushed toward the door on all fours. He grabbed her by the ankles and jerked her back.

  He was suddenly on his feet. She tried to move away, but he was too quick. He kicked her hard in the side.

  She curled into a ball.

  “Did you think it would be that easy?” He kicked her again.

  She grunted, the air discharging from her lungs.

  “Now you get to find out what happens when you make me angry.”

  He raised his booted foot. She twisted, tried to roll away...too late. He slammed his heel down on her right leg. She felt the bone snap. More screams burst from her aching throat. Her body shuddered and bile, hot and bitter, surged into her mouth.

  His fingers were in her hair again, dragging her. She clawed desperately at his leg. The new sources of pain stole her breath, but she couldn’t give up. He flung her aching body onto the cot.

  “I thought I’d wait until tomorrow. Until I was better prepared.” He clutched her throat again, holding her against the rusty metal springs. “But I guess we’ll begin now. It appears you can’t wait.”

  Her vision faded from the lack of oxygen. She needed air. He kept the pressure on until she blacked out.

  Minutes later—she didn’t know how many—she regained consciousness once more. Her hands were tied so tightly to the cot they had gone numb. She couldn’t feel her feet either. Her side hurt badly. Maybe a cracked rib or two. But it was her leg that throbbed so hard she could scarcely breathe.

  The door slammed. She twisted her head in an effort to see what he was doing now. He’d been outside. Bastard. She wanted to poke his eyes out and twist his balls off his body. She wanted to watch him bleed nearly to death, and then, in those final moments, she wanted to put a bullet between his eyes. In her mind, she saw herself doing those things. For James...and for Jamie.

  He dropped a bag, something like a canvas tote, and took off his coat, tossed it aside. He picked up the bag and stalked toward her. The scrape of wood against wood echoed as he dragged the table closer. When the table was positioned just so, he deposited the bag there.

  Images of the Storyteller’s victims, accompanied by the horrific details of each report she had read, sifted through her mind. The bag would hold his tools. Knives, scissors, needles and thread—all the instruments he would need to inflict days and weeks of torture. The reports concluded that he often stitched up the larger wounds to ensure no unnecessary complications cropped up before he was finished. Pain and suffering, as well as death, would come to the victim at his discretion.

  He pulled the chair closer to the cot and sat down before settling his dispassionate gaze on her. “We’ll see how your story goes, Detective. As I told you, you’re my first member of law enforcement. I’m quite excited.”

  He picked up the scissors and grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt. She shuddered.

  “You’ve already given me more trouble than the others.” He paused in his work and smiled at her. “It’ll be quite exhilarating to have a true challenge for a change. The same old same old at times grows boring.” He made a face. “‘Don’t hurt me,’” he mocked. “‘Please. I’ll do anything!’”

  He laughed, the sound grotesque. “No matter how dumb or smart or rich or poor, they all cried and begged the same way in the end. Is that what you’re going to do, Detective Gentry?”

  More ways to kill him rolled through her mind. She could stab him with those scissors. The knives he had in that bag would make perfect tools for whittling away at his body while he writhed and screamed. Then she would gut him like a deer being prepped for processing. She would do it slowly, making sure he felt every moment of fierce pain before she allowed him to escape into death. For James. The memory of her husband’s motionless body burned through her.

  Don’t look back. Focus, Bobbie. She wasn’t going to survive this monster unless she stayed smart and focused. Turn the tables on him.

  “You killed fourteen women,” she accused, her voice trembling with a new sense of rage. “And...my husband. You won’t get away with it forever. You’ll get caught eventually.”

  He smiled. It turned her stomach. “The brilliant FBI is way behind, Detective. They have no idea all the stories I’ve told. They only know the ones I’ve wanted to share.”

  Her stomach roiled with the meaning of his words. “How many?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question, Detective? I would hate for you to be more scared than you already are.”

  “I’m not scared.” Bobbie banished the voice whispering liar, liar in her head.

  A sadistic grin split his face. “Maybe you aren’t, but you will be. I’m going to make you wish you were dead so many times that before I’m done you’ll beg me to kill you.”

  “What if I kill you first?” She tried to swallow, wished her throat wasn’t so dry.

  He removed a knife from his tool bag. “We both know that isn’t going to happen.”

  He pushed away the unattached sides of the sweatshirt and revealed her naked breasts. The first prick of the knife made her breath catch.

  The tip of the blade trailed downward between her breasts. “So far, twenty-one.”

  She stared at him, willing him to look at her. “You’ve killed twenty-one women?”

  Another of those sick grins twisted his lips. “Only eighteen. The others were male, including your pansy-ass husband. I certainly didn’t choose him. He was simply in the way of getting to you.”

  She tugged at her restraints. She wanted to tear him apart. “He had a name. James. James Gentry.” Use the hurt and anger to your advantage! “You have a name—what is it? If we’re going to spend so much time together, you can at least tell me that.”

  “I walked in the back door of your lovely home like I owned the place,” he said, ignoring her demands. “I’d been there many times fantasizing about you.”

  Fury burst inside her. She jerked at her restraints. “I’ve fantasized about you, too,” she snarled. “I swear to God I’m going to watch you die.”

  “He was just putting the cookies in the oven,” he continued as if she’d said nothing. The bastard made an annoying tsk-tsk sound. “Too bad he dropped the pan alerting you to my presence.”

  She closed her eyes against his words. Don’t look. Still those final images of James lying on the floor, blood spreading across the white tile in a river of crimson, overwhelmed her. This is what he wants, Bobbie. To keep you off balance.

  “He looked so surprised. He didn’t even have time to blink. I slammed him over the head with my tire iron. I hit him so hard it made my arm hurt. To tell the truth I think he was dead before I gutted him. Can’t be sure if his heart was pumping out all that blood or if it was just gravity.”

  “Why?” The voice, though hers, wasn’t even familiar. She sounded like a wounded animal, lost and alone and hopeless.

  “You know how I love long, brown hair, but it was your eyes that did me in. You have the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I had to have you.”

  Rage roared anew inside her. “I am going to kill you,” s
he promised.

  He chuckled as if he knew something she didn’t. “You’ll dream of killing me many times before I’m finished, I promise.”

  The knife pierced her skin near one nipple, slid beneath the surface as if he planned to lift the skin right off her breast. Bobbie gritted her teeth. She refused to scream for him.

  “My name is Gaylon Perry, but you can call me Perry. I want to hear you cry out my name when I’m rutting into you, over and over.” He leaned close. She recoiled. “I’m going to hurt you in every imaginable way until the moment you draw your last, weary breath.”

  Bobbie focused on her son’s face. No matter what this monster does, I’m coming back to you, Jamie. I promise.

  Chapter Four

  January 15

  A drop of water plopped on her left cheek. Bobbie’s eye twitched. She should open her eyes. Don’t want to.

  It was quiet. He was gone. She should try to escape. Hopeless.

  Another splat of water. The roof of this godforsaken place leaked. Must be raining.

  She didn’t care.

  She was dying. She hoped she was dying.

  She wanted to die.

  Her head didn’t hurt anymore, but the rest of her body ached and burned as if gasoline had been poured down her throat followed by a lit match. He had broken her leg. She supposed it had started to heal, but she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own. He dragged her off the cot twice a day to use the bucket in the corner. If she allowed her body to relieve itself in between, he made her lick it up.

  Why didn’t she die?

  She told her heart to stop beating. She even held her breath in hopes of dying. As soon as she lost consciousness her lungs would draw in the stale, nasty air, forcing her to live a little longer. Her insides hurt. Cracked ribs, among other injuries. She had been raped so many times and ways, she felt hollow inside. At some point she had stopped caring what happened next. She simply lay there like an empty carcass while he banged into her over and over and over.