Slaves to Evil - 11 Read online

  He tucked the picture in his shirt and put the rest back into the envelope. He taped it back in place. Then he replaced each of the file folders. He’d been careful to keep them in order. He slid the bottom of the drawer back into place and put the bent little nails in his pocket to throw out elsewhere. He was fairly confident that Lennox wouldn’t feel the need to inspect the undersides of his desk drawers anytime soon. Matt snuck back through the house and out the side door, locking it again before he left.

  As the sky lightened to gray, he thought about those pictures. It didn’t escape him that he was holding a young woman captive himself. He certainly wasn’t hitting her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. Could Elena be as terrified as those women seemed to be? Maybe she just hid it better. He needed to know what the pictures, and that price, really meant. And he’d be glad for some help.

  Matt lurked outside the Sheridan residence as the sun got higher in the sky. Finally he heard stirring inside. He knocked at the front door. Again Haley answered. And again she wasn’t too pleased.

  “The friend,” she said.

  He offered her a smile. “Good morning. I need to speak to Alan. It’s important.”

  Haley looked up at him, unmoved. “He’s still asleep. Try him at work later.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this, but could you wake him for me? It’s really…”

  “Important, yeah.” She considered it. Matt was gearing up for a charm offensive when she said, “Hold on,” and disappeared into the house.

  He stood on the porch in front of the open door for a few minutes. Inside, a five-year-old girl poked her head out from the kitchen to peer at him. When he smiled at her, she retreated. Then Sheridan came out, closing the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” He squinted in the sunlight.

  “I found out a few things about your fellow cops. Woronicz and O’Neill are dealing drugs. And using them.” Sheridan didn’t seem surprised. Matt went on. “I think they’re also involved in prostitution. Maybe even slavery…”

  “Stop,” said the sergeant. He looked pained.

  “You already know,” concluded Matt.

  “No,” Sheridan protested. “Nothing specific. I don’t ask.”

  “You don’t ask,” Matt repeated, with growing anger.

  The other man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t know how it is. Anyone who crosses Lennox…”

  “Gets dead.” Like the decapitated drug dealer.

  Matt pulled out the picture he’d taken from Lennox’s house and held it in Sheridan’s face. “So you keep quiet. You stay safe while this is going on.”

  The cop wouldn’t look at the picture, so Matt brought it closer. “How can you live with that? You have daughters of your own.”

  “Who do you think I’m protecting?” snapped Sheridan. He glanced back at the house, then grabbed Matt’s arm and moved him out into the driveway, near the pristine Mustang. “What’s all this to you anyway? Who are you?”

  “What answer would make you help me?” asked Matt. Silence.

  Sheridan paced a few steps back and forth. “Shit,” he growled. “Shit!”

  “Alan… ,” Matt ventured, but the other man cut him off.

  “I can’t,” said Sheridan. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  So that was it. The cop wasn’t evil or violent, but he was compromised all the same. Matt put the picture away. “OK,” he said. “Then at least help me find them. You said the others go someplace to party.”

  Sheridan nodded, not meeting his eye. “A house. Up by Grand Lake.”

  “Address?”

  “I don’t know. But there aren’t many places up there. It’s all vacation rentals. Most of them are empty this time of year,” he told Matt.

  An isolated house, the perfect place to keep captives, as Matt knew too well. He faced Sheridan, frustrated. He was on his own against the forces of evil. As usual.

  “One more thing,” said Matt. “I’m borrowing the Mustang.”

  Maple Grove, North Carolina

  Brady came around the side of the car, but Matt was already moving, keeping the Volkswagen between them. Owen closed in from the other side, cutting off Matt’s escape. He lunged forward with a six-inch switchblade. Matt ducked the knife and aimed a kick at Owen’s right knee. The joint popped as it overextended backward. Owen yelled and staggered back.

  Matt slipped past him as Brady fired again. The bullet went wide, hitting another car and setting off its alarm. The throbbing blare of the siren echoed in the closed space.

  Everett pulled a tire iron from the back of the SUV. He swung it at Matt, catching him just above his left elbow. It hurt, but the blow wasn’t strong enough to break bone. Matt grabbed Everett’s arm and twisted it, trying to wrench the iron loose. The big guy was surprisingly strong.

  Peter approached and slugged Matt in the jaw. Matt clung to Everett, still wrestling for the weapon. Peter hit him again. He would gladly have kept going if Brady hadn’t shouted, “Hold him.”

  The boy grabbed Matt’s arm, pulling him back so Brady could get a clear shot. Matt suddenly released Everett, let his legs go limp, and dropped to the ground. The other men weren’t expecting this. Peter’s grip on his arm faltered just enough for Matt to pull free.

  Brady’s next bullet caught Matt in the side of the neck. His hand went automatically to the wound, and he felt his own blood spurting out. If his carotid artery was severed, he knew it was all over. But since he didn’t have time for a clinical diagnosis, he rolled toward Brady, knocking the man off balance. He grabbed for the gun.

  Matt’s hand closed over Brady’s. Everett charged in, swinging the tire iron toward Matt’s head. Matt swung the gun toward him and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet hit him high in the gut. Everett fell back, the iron clanking onto the concrete.

  Matt had counted six shots. The gun was now empty. Peter’s tattooed arm closed around his throat. The boy had him in a headlock. Matt let go of the gun and clawed at Peter in a futile effort to loosen his grip. Panic flared as he struggled for breath. The wail of that goddamn car alarm filled his head.

  He remembered the keys in his pocket. He dug them out and made a fist with a single key poking out between his fingers. Matt swung his fist back toward Peter’s face, feeling the key make contact. Peter cried out but kept his hold. Matt struck again, then again, causing minor damage as he felt his consciousness fading. His next strike saved his life. The two-inch key plunged into Peter’s eye.

  The boy released Matt with a shriek of pain. He yanked out the key, and a freshet of blood poured over his face. A significant pool was also spreading beneath Everett, who lay dying a few feet away. Matt dove for the weapon the man had dropped: the tire iron. He grabbed it just in time to swing it around at Peter, who came at him again. The metal connected solidly with Peter’s skull, caving in the bone. He collapsed.

  Then Owen was there, limping, brandishing his switchblade. Matt swung the tire iron back and forth to keep him at bay. He felt light-headed and wondered if that was due to the near strangulation or loss of blood from his neck wound.

  Brady picked up the gun. He flipped open the empty cylinder and pulled a handful of new bullets from his pocket. Matt couldn’t let him reload. He ran past Owen, striking a glancing blow with the tire iron, and tackled Brady. Bullets scattered on the ground, rolling in every direction. Matt grabbed the gun and sent it skittering away across the concrete. It came to rest under a car.

  Brady punched Matt in the kidney, a quick, brutal jab that set off an explosion of pain. Matt half-curled into a fetal position but was able to get his arm up to block another incoming blow. Brady tried to hit him again, but Owen got in his way with a clumsy stab at Matt. In that confused moment, Matt gripped the tire iron, which he’d miraculously held on to, and smashed it into Owen’s good knee.

  The man went down. Matt quickly followed up with a blow to the head, and another. Owen’s skull cracked open. Gelatinous brain matter dribbled
out. Brady seized the bloody tire iron and tried to wrench it away. With his free hand, Matt snatched Owen’s switchblade. He yanked on the iron, pulling Brady closer, and slit the Patriot’s throat.

  Something sharp dug into Matt’s back, slicing between two ribs. He whirled around to see Peter, wielding a broken bottle, staring at Brady in anguish as the man fell. One of Peter’s eyes was gored and a chunk of his skull was shattered, but he kept coming. He ran at Matt again, aiming for his face this time. Matt swung the tire iron, hitting Peter’s head. The boy staggered back and went down to one knee, the left side of his skull a complete ruin. Then he forced himself to stand and attack his enemy again.

  Matt still held the tire iron, but hitting the kid’s head wasn’t working too well. He raised the weapon as Peter approached and brought the sharp end down hard. It pierced Peter’s chest with a sickening, wet crack. The boy looked down at the iron protruding from his body with genuine surprise. He looked back up at Matt, then abruptly collapsed. It was over.

  Pools of blood surrounded the four men, running together into a larger slick. He never got used to the sheer volume of blood a single body could spill. He spotted the car keys on the ground where Peter had dropped them after pulling one from his own eye. Matt picked up the key ring and took it with him as he headed for the exit, the car alarm still blaring in his ears.

  He felt the wound in his neck. Blood was now oozing rather than spurting. Still, he should probably give himself a few stitches. There might be a bathroom he could use in this garage, but what he needed most right now was distance from the latest battle in a seemingly endless war.

  Thinking back, Matt realized that he hadn’t checked Peter to confirm that the rot on his skin had vanished, as it always did after death. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see what the teenager he’d killed really looked like. But now it was even worse to imagine the kid lingering near death for however long it took the paramedics to arrive and get his statement about who was responsible. Which had sent Elena on her mission.

  He should check on her again before heading up to Grand Lake. If there really were captive women and evil cops to deal with, he could be gone for a while. Then another new worry occurred to him. What if he didn’t make it back at all? What would happen to Elena? Someone would find her eventually, wouldn’t they? He decided to write a letter to Sheridan, telling him about Elena. When he received it, Matt would be long gone. One way or another.

  But when Matt returned to the building, he discovered that this particular dilemma had already been solved. Elena was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Matt was horrified to find the frayed piece of rope hanging from the doorknob. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but that didn’t matter now. He ran out of the building and scanned the street. Maybe she hadn’t gotten too far. Had he passed her on the road from the downtown area? He didn’t remember seeing her, but he hadn’t been looking. He’d been zipping along in the Mustang, happy to have upgraded from the bicycle. For all he knew, he’d driven right by her. As a matter of fact, he had. Elena hadn’t noticed Matt either, behind the wheel of Sheridan’s car.

  Now he hurried back toward town on foot, knowing it was probably useless to look for her. Elena would have reached help by now. The Breckenridge PD could already be on their way to arrest him. Or maybe she’d gotten hold of another gun somehow, still intent on her revenge. But he kept looking around each building and parked car he passed. He had to find her.

  Few businesses had opened yet when Elena reached downtown Breckenridge. By sheer luck, she saw a policewoman coming out of a coffee shop with a frothy, steaming drink. Elena approached her. “Excuse me, Officer?”

  “Yes?” Ross replied.

  “I was kidnapped three days ago and held captive. I escaped and I need your help.”

  The cop looked at her, evaluating whether the girl seemed crazy or high. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Elena assured her. “The man who took me is Matt Cahill. He also murdered my brother two months ago.”

  “OK,” said Ross. “I’ll take you to the station and you can make a complaint.”

  “Thank you.” Elena smiled, overwhelmed by relief. She’d escaped.

  Matt searched for two hours in the Mustang and couldn’t find her. She was gone. He had to accept the fact and move on.

  But first he needed to check out the house at Grand Lake. There might be nothing up there, he knew, but he just couldn’t ignore the images of those women.

  He had to be sure.

  Then he’d get the hell out of Breckenridge.

  Matt got a local map out of the glove box and looked at the area around the lake. There seemed to be only a few residential streets. He drove the ten miles or so to the small, peaceful lake. Sheridan had been right about most of the homes being empty in November. They were far enough apart that, even in the height of summer, you wouldn’t have to worry about the prying eyes of your neighbors.

  Matt went to each house, whether it looked occupied or not, and carefully peered in the windows. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for but hoped he’d recognize a clue if he stumbled on it. He skipped one house when a fiftyish woman came out to get the mail and gave him a friendly wave. He’d come back to that one if necessary.

  Then he got to a large, gray, Cape Cod-style home with one unusual feature. There were security bars over the second-story windows. Matt supposed the homeowner could be especially security conscious—except there were no bars on the first floor. He saw two cars parked in the driveway but no other signs of life. The house was quiet. Every window was blocked by shutters or drapes. Matt approached, using the square-cut hedges as cover. He didn’t want some housewife to see him creeping through her yard and call the cops.

  He got to the front door. There were several small ceramic pots on the wide front step, containing what smelled like herbs. He picked up a few of them and took cover behind the hedge. Matt threw one of the pots onto the front walk. It landed with a sharp crack, breaking into pieces. He waited. No response. He tossed a second pot onto the flagstone. Crack.

  This time the front door opened and a woman peered out. It was Ross. She looked out, saw nothing amiss, and started to close the door when Matt threw a little pot onto the grass. It made a muffled thump. That was enough to bring the policewoman out to investigate. She ventured a few steps down the walk, her mummified flesh rustling like dry leaves against her clothes. She scanned the yard. Matt had a clear shot but didn’t want to announce his presence with gunfire. He raised the ax over his shoulder like a batter waiting for a pitch.

  When Ross got close enough, he swung. The blunt end of the axe hit the back of the woman’s head and she fell forward onto the flagstone. Matt was on her in a second, pulling the gun from the holster at her hip.

  But Ross hadn’t been knocked out or apparently even stunned. She rolled into Matt, pushing him off balance. He staggered back a few steps, dropping the gun but staying on his feet. As she reached for the weapon, Matt brought down the ax. The blade went through her forearm, and it snapped like a dry twig. Her hand landed softly on the grass.

  They both stared at it for a horrified moment. Then Ross swept her leg across both of his, and now he did fall, landing on his wounded shoulder. The bolt of pain drove the breath right out of him. Matt saw the cop getting to her feet, heading toward the house, and he forced himself to move. He lunged forward, grabbing her ankle with his good hand. She stumbled. Matt half-tackled her, forcing her the rest of the way down. Holding the ax handle with both hands, he pressed it against her neck.

  Ross thrashed. Matt straddled her body, pushing down on the handle with as much force as his shoulder could bear. She reached up with her remaining hand and scratched him with her clawlike fingers. She went for his eyes and almost got to the left one, digging furrows in Matt’s cheek. He kept pressing down, feeling her trachea start to collapse under his weight. She managed a choking gasp, then one more, and was still. Matt kept the pressure on he
r neck until he saw Ross’ mummified flesh bloom back into apparent health. Blood now leaked from her severed arm. He relaxed his grip. He suspected he’d be seeing that dead, dry hand in his dreams tonight.

  He climbed off the body and looked up at the house. Had anyone heard them? A quiet minute passed and no one came out. He sat on the lawn for a moment, his shoulder throbbing. At least, thought Matt, he knew he had the right place.

  He picked up Ross’s gun and approached the front door. He pushed it open and stepped into the combination living/dining room, which took up most of the main floor. There was a stairway up to the second floor and another set of stairs going down.

  He crept up the stairs, waiting for the telltale creak that would give him away. It didn’t come. The upstairs hallway led to four doors, all closed. He went to the first door and pressed his ear against it. Nothing. Maybe no one was in there. Or maybe one of the police officers was waiting silently on the other side of the door.

  Matt opened the door quickly, gun ready. No ambush by cop. He was in a little boy’s bedroom, with a prominent football theme. On the child-sized bed was a pale, dark-haired woman with one hand cuffed to the headboard. Her face was swollen and bruised. Her chest was covered in cigarette burns. She wore a thin negligee. And the big leather dog collar.

  She shrank back as he approached. Matt couldn’t blame her. He was a kidnapper himself, after all. He put the revolver in his pocket and held up empty hands. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “I’m going to help you.”

  She didn’t answer, still wary. He slowly came closer and examined the handcuffs. No T-shirt rope here. He should have searched Ross for a handcuff key. Now he’d have to get one from the other cops.

  All he could do at the moment was take off that collar. He tossed it aside with disgust. “I’ll come back for you,” he told her.

  Matt ventured back into the hallway. He went to the next door and listened. More silence. He charged in dramatically, only to be startled by the reflection of himself, his face streaked with blood from the scratches under his eye. It was a bathroom, as spotlessly clean as a catalog photo, thankfully unoccupied. A second door led to the next room. As he leaned in to listen again, Matt felt his heart pounding. Each door was a new unknown. What would be waiting for him—the lady or the tiger?