Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rick and Neil rolled up to the property that held two living spaces divided by a chain-link fence. The front house had lights blazing and evidence of children’s toys scattered in the yard. The back house, the one they focused on, appeared empty. Seconds after they skidded to a halt, Raskin and Perozo moved in behind them.
The detectives left their blue lights flashing on the car while Rick ran toward the back of the house. The place was dark, no car in the drive. Holding his weapon in front of him, Rick nodded toward the back of the structure.
Neil moved around the house.
“Back off,” Raskin told Rick, his own weapon pointed toward the ground.
In his ear, Neil said, “It’s dark back here. Don’t think he’s home.”
“Roger.” Rick ignored the detective and rapped his finger on the door. “Hey, Mitch?” Rick yelled at the closed door.
There wasn’t a response.
“Still nothing,” Neil reported. “What are the chances he booby-trapped this place?”
“What are the chances Judy’s inside?” Rick asked.
Raskin heard Rick’s question, motioned toward the front house, where a woman and a child peered through the kitchen window. “I need to get them out of there.”
Rick nodded. “Go.”
Less than a minute later, the family from the front house were shuffled away. Perozo huddled next to the neighbor’s car. “They haven’t seen him since this morning.”
She’s not here.
“Back up,” he told Neil in his mic. “Just in case.”
“We need a search warrant,” Raskin managed from the side of the front house.
Every minute Judy was missing was one too long.
“You need a search warrant.” He wiggled the handle, just in case it wasn’t locked. It was. “I don’t.” Rick lifted his foot to the door, busted through the lock. The door crashed against the frame.
When no explosion ruined what was already the worst day of his life, Rick led with his gun aimed into the room. He flipped a light switch on the wall and stopped cold.
Judy was everywhere.
Images tacked, stapled . . . strung around the room.
“Holy hell,” he heard Raskin say behind him.
Mitch Larson had only lived in the converted garage for a few months . . . that was according to the tenants of the front house. He didn’t have parties, came at strange times but never seemed to have anyone around so the people in the front house didn’t pay him much attention.
Seeing Judy on every wall, every surface, told Rick how sick the man who had her was. It also gave him hope she was still alive. Because as much as he was beating down any possible emotion that resembled grief, it lingered above his head like a cloud. Statistically, Judy was already dead.
When his mind went there, he pushed it away.
Hold on, baby. I’m coming.
They were closer. Though she wasn’t sitting in Larson’s rented space, they were closer to knowing the man who had her.
Police filled the space, lights flashed outside the residence like white noise from rain.
Several images kept playing in his head, pictures of Judy with the word General written over them in a juvenile hand, images of her home . . . the office building where she worked. There were even a few shots of her outside of Zach and Karen’s house taken the night of the fundraiser. Pictures taken by a private camera and not something printed in the local paper or gossip magazine. So Mitch had been watching her since then.
The images of her prior to coming to California were taken off the Internet, mainly with Michael in the shot and generated by the media.
The office building shots caught his attention. They didn’t hold images of Judy, just the building. The bastard had even taken pictures of the place he attacked her the first time. Question was, did he take the shots before or after he’d attacked her?
Outside Mitch’s place, Dennis and Russell were inside the van with Neil . . . all working hard to find out any information they could about Mitch Larson.
Rick’s gaze met that of a picture taken of Judy and Mike outside the café close to her office. She wasn’t wearing what she’d left the house in today, so the picture had to have been taken long before. In his ear, he heard Neil’s voice.
“He’s wannabe military.”
The information didn’t come as a surprise. “How wannabe?” he said into the mic, ignoring the detectives around him who were swiping for prints and photographing the scene.
“Enlisted only to feel the sting of rejection six months in. Army. Had a psychotic break while on a training mission.” Neil delivered the facts without emotion.
Rick diverted his attention away from the photographs. “What kind of break?”
“Challenged a superior officer. Female. Went through a series of tests and was discharged.”
“Dishonorable.”
“Is there another way six months in without an injury?”
“What else do we know?” Rick turned back to the images, knew something was there . . . he just needed to find it. Only the pictures were floor to ceiling and many were carved into while others had dried blood smeared all over them.
“He’s crazy, not stupid. Excelled in intelligence and details. First clue he wasn’t balanced was his desire to get close to his enemy. Guns aren’t his thing.”
Rick thought of the scars on Judy’s arm. “He likes knives.”
Neil paused. “Yeah.”
Rick knew a trip to the dentist was inevitable with how much he was grinding his back teeth. “Get close to your enemy. Feel their pain, their fear.”
Neil waited a second . . . maybe it was two. “We’re going to find her, Smiley.”
More images of the office building filled the wall of Larson’s bedroom.
The sick f*ck slept in here . . . imagined whatever it was he was doing to Judy right now.
He had no intention of bringing her back here.
The room was littered with Judy’s image. Some were taken at the Beverly Hills home where even now her brothers and friends waited for any word on her well-being.
It was well past three in the morning, so no one was at the office except the lingering fire department and police that would guard the place until first light. Until arson could poke around with fresh eyes and a new outlook. None of them were actually looking for a missing wife.
Only Rick. He was looking for his wife.
The woman he married and swore to protect.
The thought of telling her father he didn’t find her in time ate at him. The thought of her lying lifeless . . . finding her dead and abused.
Rick closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath.
No.
He opened his eyes again, tuned out the noise around him, and focused. The wall in Larson’s bedroom showed images of Judy everywhere. Rick looked beyond the woman he loved . . . looked at the world surrounding her.
The office building loomed in many images.
The parking garage. Empty. Dirty.
The office.
Empty halls of concrete and grime. Every tenth image was of an abandoned space. In many were pictures of Judy cut out and standing, sitting in the space.
Cut up.
Bloody.
Rick touched the device in his ear. “Is there a basement in the building Judy works in?”
Neil said one word. “Checking.”
A few second later he heard him reply. “New building. No basement.”
Raskin tapped Rick’s shoulder. He jumped.
“I owe you an apology.”
Rick glared at the man. “You owe me more than that.”
Raskin offered a nod, turned back to the images in the room. Both of them worked to find her. Rick felt that now.
Dean stood in the corner of the room, fatigue sat behind his eyes like a drug.
None of them did anything other than drink bad coffee and keep looking for something . . . anything.
“Rick?”
Neil’s voice sounded hopeful.
“What?” Those around him, including Raskin, turned to look at him.
Rick held his ear, making it clear he was talking into a mic. “What?” he asked in a calmer voice.
“The building adjacent has a basement. Two floors under the main structure.”
Rick waited for the boom.
“Abandoned . . . secluded . . . easily reached by way of the garage.”
The hope in Rick’s chest expanded. He looked around the room again, couldn’t help the half smile on his face.
Rick turned from the room, made it a few feet before Raskin stopped him. The man leveled his eyes to his. “You know something.”
The smile on Rick’s lips dropped. “And you owe me.”
The tension in the detective’s jaw was palpable.
“Damn it.”
For a minute, Rick didn’t think the man was going to let him go without an argument. “Look around. The answer is here.”
“Tell me,” Raskin demanded.
“I need fifteen minutes.”
Raskin glared.
“You married?” Rick asked.
Raskin let him go, nodded toward the door. “Get out of here, Evans. We’ll call you when we have something new.”
The short nod Rick offered would have to be enough. He lowered his head and walked out the door. Once clear, he jogged to the van that was idling and waiting.
Neil handed Rick a tactical weapon when he closed the door to the van. “They never left the building . . . not really.”
The ten-mile high-speed drive back to Westwood was the longest in Rick’s life.
“I need to pee.” The physical need outweighed the need for silence. The rats had lost interest after the flash of the camera scared them away.
It appeared she woke Mitch with her words. “Think prisoners of war tell their captors of their bodily functions?”
Judy did her best to keep a straight face. “There isn’t a war, Mitch. This is your idea of a good time. And I need to pee. Good news for you, a lack of food and water means I won’t have to again for a while.”
Mitch grinned, lifted a bottle of water to his lips.
Judy had long since lost the ability to salivate. Between the smoke from the building and the drugs still swimming in her system, she was as dry as they came.
It didn’t seem like her words were doing anything for him. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the need.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She kept her eyes closed. “Trying to go with an audience. Haven’t done that since I was three.”
He pushed against the wall, made his way to her side.
She refused to look at him when he reached for her left hand, undid the knot tying her down.
Biting her bottom lip, she refused to respond.
First order of business, get out of the ropes, second was to go. She couldn’t remember ever having the need quite as keen, but it was there now.
Mitch gripped her wrist before removing the rope on her right arm. Circulation made her arms tingle as he lowered them to her sides.
“Fight me,” he said, “and I’ll cut you.”
She felt a blade at her throat. He was going to cut her anyway . . . eventually.
“I just need to go to the bathroom, Mitch.”
Pulling both her arms, he shoved her to her feet, where she stumbled into him, felt his knife jab into her arm. The bite of the blade made her cry out and back away.
Mitch wrapped one of her hands to a bare pipe several feet away from where she’d been for the past several hours.
He took a step back, but never stopped watching her.
“Go.”
The need was so great, but his eyes never left her.
“You’re watching.”
He glared. “Get used to it. Mine is the last face you’ll see.”
She understood that . . . if he had his way.
Judy moved around the rusted old boiler and knelt in the corner. She thought of the trips up to the cabin . . . how camping and peeing in the forest were just a part of the experience.
She missed the cabin . . . her family. Rick would love it up there . . . in the mountains above her childhood home.
He was looking for her now. Probably beside himself trying to find her.
Her family was worried, fearful they’d failed her in some way.
She managed to empty her bladder and sat huddled in the corner long after she needed to.
If she was ever going to see Rick . . . her family . . . again, she needed to be smarter than her captor.
Mitch had a knife.
“Knives are easier to outrun than a bullet.” Rick’s words swam in her head.
Mitch was also crazy. Reasoning with crazy wouldn’t work. Observing the crazy’s actions, motivations, and intentions . . . that she could do.
“You’re done,” he said while he took the few steps toward her that separated them.
If she was going to act, do anything to save herself, it would have to be when her arms weren’t tied up. It would have to be when she wasn’t drugged . . . have to be before she was too weak to do anything.
It was going to have to be now.
She did her best to act resolved to him removing the tie on her arm and walking back to where she’d sat for the last twelve hours.
Just when she thought there might be an out, Mitch surprised her. “Grab that bar,” he demanded.
The bar he pointed to was above her head . . . nearly out of reach.
“Why?”
Mitch lost any patience he might have had. “Do it!” His voice boomed and echoed.
She jumped, not sure if she should comply or fight.
He moved closer and Judy grabbed for her tied-up hand. She had her cold fingers inside the rope but didn’t manage to do anything but scrape her fingers before Mitch was on her. Her kicks fell on air or his thick boots, which didn’t slow him down.
She stopped when his knife scraped a line up her neck. Every sucked-in breath met the blade.
“Grab the f*cking bar, General.”
The desire to fold in and protect her body made it nearly impossible to comply.
He tilted the knife so only the tip sat at her neck. He pushed it in like a needle. His body pushed hers against the boiler, a valve shoved into her side.
“You’re testing me.” He moved the blade, cut deeper.
Judy closed her eyes and lifted her hand, gripping the bar.
He secured the rope dangling from her wrist, tied her to the bar above her head. The blood that had managed to make its way to her fingertips fled. He moved her other hand next to the first. She was nearly on her tiptoes, dangling. She wasn’t sure what was going to give first, her wrists or her shoulders.
Nothing Rick had taught her about protecting herself was going to work like this.
“Now isn’t that better?” Mitch’s voice upped an octave. She realized then that he used the higher voice when he was delivering packages. His assertive voice was so much harsher. Still, she’d curse herself for the rest of her short life for not recognizing it. For not knowing he was the man who attacked her in the garage.
Judy looked at her hands holding on to the bar. One slipped and she felt her muscles strain.
“You don’t like it.” Mitch cocked his head to the side. “And here I thought you wouldn’t mind standing for a while. That floor is cold.”
She was trying not to show her fear but knew she failed.
He stood back and looked at her like she was a painting on a wall. From his pocket, he removed his phone and focused it on her. “How about a smile.”
“F*ck you.”
He winked. “Not yet . . . but soon.”
She cringed.
“Now smile.”
She lost her grip on the bar and tried to catch hold again. Her toes pushed off the floor and she managed to grab the bar again.
Mitch moved closer. “Let me see if I can convince you to smile.”
She focused on his knife as he moved it under her shirt and started to cut away at the buttons holding it together.
She whimpered and he kept popping buttons until her torso was exposed to his eyes, his blade.
“You ready to smile, General?”
He stood back, lifted the phone again.
Tears ran down her cheeks while she forced a smile.
Light blinded her.
He stood back and looked at the picture. “Now isn’t that better?” He twisted the phone for her to see it. The image didn’t even look like her anymore. Smudges of mascara streaked her cheeks, while the swelling and bruising of her jaw accompanied the drops of blood on her neck. Her hair was matted, her skin was pale, and she looked like a dangling carcass with a caricature smile.
Mitch sat back, looking at pictures on his phone, then he stared at her, lost in his own thoughts.
Every second felt like hours.
She bent one knee, trying to find something behind her she could wedge against to relieve some of the pressure on her arms.
The bar above her creaked and snapped Mitch out of his self-induced trance. “You can’t get away,” he told her.
“I can’t feel my arms.”
He puffed out his bottom lip like a two-year-old. “Well, we can’t have that.”
The knife slid up her sleeve, exposing her arms. He looked at his earlier handiwork and traced the edges of her scar with his knife. She tried to pull away as he made sure she felt her arms.
He laughed, and she screamed with every cut.
Taken by Tuesday
Catherine Bybee's books
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- The House of the Stone
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