The Blackest Crimson. Debra WebbЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Two

      Saturday, December 25

      Pain.

      Bobbie’s eyelids tried to flutter open, but she couldn’t bear the pain of opening her eyes.

      Where was she?

      Think! It was snowing. Her lips tried to smile. A hot sting tore at her mouth. Her tongue darted out. Busted lip.

      What was wrong with her?

      Was it Christmas yet?

      Jamie.

      A frown furrowed her brow, making her head throb and sparking little pinpoints of light behind her lids. What was wrong with her head?

      Had James put out the presents from Santa yet?

      Jagged images of white tile and black, flowing crimson flashed in her head. Unblinking gray eyes staring at her.

      Desolate screams echoed in her ears, burned her throat.

      Bobbie snapped her eyes open and listened. She was the one screaming.

      James was dead.

      Sobs thickened in her throat. Her husband was dead. The bastard had killed him. She tried to move. Couldn’t. Where the hell was she?

      The memory of her body sliding on the cold tile floor, her head hanging like the last pearl on a broken strand, and her arm feeling as if it was being pulled from its socket bobbed to the surface of her confusion.

      The Storyteller.

      Bobbie yanked at her restraints. More of those screams that welled up from deep, deep inside her reverberated in the air. This couldn’t be happening. Nooooo! Agonizing sobs shuddered through her for long minutes. When she could cry no more, she struggled to pull herself together.

      Think! She licked her dry and damaged lips.

      What about her baby? A wail rose up from the farthest recesses of her heart. Was her baby okay? Hot tears slid down her face. She had sent him to the neighbor’s house for help. That kid of yours has probably alerted the neighbors, who will no doubt call the police.

      Focus, Bobbie. She had to get out of here. Her baby needed her.

      Carefully, she moved each limb, tugging and pulling in all directions. She was tied to a flat surface that was not completely rigid. She rocked her body as best she could. The squeak of metal against metal accompanied her movements and the cold, crisscross pattern of it dug into her skin. A minute was required for her sluggish brain to analyze and determine that her restraints confined her to a narrow, probably portable bed, like a cot.

      Look around the room and get your bearings. Dim lights. Wait. No. There was no light fixture on the ceiling. There was no ceiling, really, just wood beams and boards. Log walls, too. Rustic. Cobwebs hung here and there as if no one had lived here for a very long time. There was one window. Small. Feeble light filtered through the grimy panes. A hunting cabin, she decided. Deep in the woods probably. Met the criteria of the Storyteller’s MO. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of all the briefings she had attended, all the crime scene reports, the medical examiner files.

      Not one of the Storyteller’s fourteen known victims had survived.

      She was going to die.

      Her body started to shake. Who would take care of her baby? James was dead. Another sob quaked through her trembling body. Her parents were gone. She had no siblings. James was an only child as well. He’d been adopted at five by an older couple who were retired and spent the better part of the year in a senior community in Arizona.

      Jamie needed her. There was no one else.

      She could not die.

      Renewed determination expanded inside her. She knew this bastard’s MO frontward and backward. He would spend the next three to four weeks torturing her. Images of the other women—battered, raped and mutilated—flashed before her eyes. She squeezed them shut. No looking back. Near the end of his ritual, he would begin what he referred to as his victim’s story. He tattooed their responses to his torture and their pleas for mercy on their backs before strangling them to death.

      The nylon rope around her neck abruptly filtered into Bobbie’s consciousness. Like the others, she would wear it like a too-tight, braided necklace until he was ready to finish her off. And then, in order to preserve his prized masterpiece for all to see, he would dump her body in a public place where she would be found quickly.

      Except Bobbie wasn’t going to die. She would not allow him to win. Fury simmered low in her belly. She closed her eyes and shut out all stimuli. Ignore the pain and the fear, Bobbie. Just listen.

      Something—a branch, maybe—rubbed at the cabin. Definitely in the woods, she decided. The wind whistled softly, building to a weak howl now and again. The cabin wasn’t insulated, allowing the wind to whip through any cracks. Quiet splats told her snow was still falling. The meteorologist had warned they might get several inches. James had mentioned they were on the edge of the storm. If what she heard was snow falling, that could mean she was not far from home.

      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