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.
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