“Trixie! Move!”
Trixie skittered clumsily back the way she had come and jumped onto the hood of one of the parked cars. The van whizzed by, scraping the parked car as it passed. There was an electric, burning sound; sparks flew between the cars. The parked car shuddered. Trixie rolled with it and landed on the sidewalk.
“Trixie, wait! I’m coming!”
Trixie did not wait. She fled back inside the building.” A few moments later, Tomlinson saw all the lights shut off.
Tomlinson ran across the street. There was no point in trying to follow the van; it could be halfway to Joplin by now. He entered the tall, narrow building Trixie and her buddies called home.
The entire house was dark. Faint traces of moonlight filtered through a few high windows, but provided precious little illumination. He couldn’t see a foot before him.
“Trixie! It’s Officer Tomlinson!”
There was no response. Of course not. She didn’t know who was prowling around down there. She hadn’t known him long enough to recognize his voice. For all she knew he was the maniac driving the van. Maybe she thought he had arranged this meeting so he could kill her. No, she wasn’t going to come out for anyone.
“Is anybody else in here?” If so, they weren’t answering. Probably there was no one—the other girls would be working, and their pimp lived across the street. In all likelihood, it was just him and Trixie.
Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could see the dim outline of a staircase leading upstairs. Through the foyer, he saw a parlor—nothing elegant, just a television and a ratty old sofa. He passed through the parlor, then through the kitchen, then back into the foyer, without finding anyone.
He mounted the staircase. The steps creaked beneath his feet. In the blackness, the effect was eerie. He watched his feet, trying to make sure he didn’t slip through a crack or fall off the edge. Even in the dark, he could tell this house was a rathole. Unclean, unfit, poorly ventilated—and Trixie’s boss probably charged her more for it than Tomlinson paid on his mortgage. Another piece of the boss man’s percentage.
He reached the top of the stairs. He spotted a light switch and flipped it; nothing happened. Trixie must’ve cut the breakers. She was taking no chances on being caught.
The top of the stairs unfolded upon a long hallway that stretched in two directions. Tomlinson saw several doors on both sides; the rooms must be the size of closets. Enough room for a cot and a change box—that was all that was required.
He opened the door to the first room on the left. “Trixie? Trixie, I promise I’m not—”
There was a sudden shrieking, and something hit him in the face. He staggered back, disoriented, panicked. Whatever it was, it was still there, clinging to him. Something cut him; he could feel blood trickling out. He flailed desperately, trying to break free, trying to see, reaching up for—
It was a cat. He grabbed the furry beast and tossed it across the room. He had to laugh, despite the fact that he was dripping with sweat and trembling from head to toe. It was just a damn cat, for Pete’s sake. A cat had jumped up and scratched him. And he’d practically had a cardiac arrest.
The darkness was definitely getting to him. He was breathing in short raspy breaths, and his shirt was clinging to his skin. If he could just find some candles, or a flashlight. Maybe he should go back to his car—
But if he did that, Trixie would leave, and he might never find her again. He had to track her down now, while there was still some hope of regaining her trust.
He heard a noise downstairs. He couldn’t quite identify it—probably the cat racing outside, trying to escape the tall, dark monster it had encountered in the dark. It couldn’t be Trixie. He would’ve heard her going down those creaky stairs.
“Trixie! Please come out. Turn the power back on so we can—”
And that’s when it occurred to him. Maybe that hadn’t been the cat he heard downstairs. Maybe—
He froze. His chest heaved, but other than that, he couldn’t move. Maybe the noise hadn’t been the cat slipping out, he thought. Maybe it had been someone else slipping in.
Tensing all his muscles, he forced himself into action. He ran to a window overlooking the front door. Sure enough, a black van with smoked glass windows was parked not twenty feet down the street. He couldn’t read the license plate.
He cursed himself bitterly. The driver hadn’t sped off. The driver was right here with him. In the dark.
As quietly as possible, Tomlinson sidestepped back into the hallway. It was so quiet—was there something outside, some noise, some hint, some echo? Something soft and regular? Footsteps? Breathing? Or just his imagination?
“Trixie?” he whispered. “Is that you? If it is, please come here. We’re safer together. I can protect you.”
Abruptly, the soft sound stopped. It was the absence that proved its existence; Tomlinson was only certain he had heard a noise when it ended.
“Trixie?” he repeated.
If it was her, she wasn’t coming any closer. Could it be—the other? He was sure the driver of the van couldn’t be upstairs yet. Those stairs creaked so badly; he couldn’t possibly have come upstairs without being heard.
Tomlinson placed one hand on the handle of his revolver. He pressed himself flat against the wall. He scanned the hallway as well as possible in this killing obscurity.
There was nothing there. Nothing, nobody. He released his breath in an outpouring of relief. How long had he been holding his breath? He walked to the head of the stairs. That would be the safest, smartest place. The driver couldn’t get upstairs without being heard, and Trixie couldn’t leave without going through him. “His confidence began to return. This was a workable plan. Foolproof, really. He was embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner. He’d been letting the dark get to him, letting it affect his performance as a police officer.
There was nothing here to worry about. Nothing that could hurt him—
The hands wrapped around his neck in a tight choke hold, cutting off his breath. Something hit him hard in the stomach. Tomlinson grabbed his gun, but one of the hands applied crippling force to his palm. He heard his fingers snap; his gun fell to the floor. The pain was unbearable. He felt dizzy and sick.
Suddenly, it was even blacker than before. Something had been pulled over his head, something cold and thin. It crinkled like plastic. He tried to catch his breath, which made the plastic cling to his mouth and choke him all the worse. He tried to struggle, to move, to get away, but his assailant held him tight. Whoever it was must be incredibly strong; Tomlinson couldn’t move at all.
He lost his footing and stumbled off the top stair. It didn’t matter. The strong hands held him upright.
He felt something tighten around his throat. He knew he was fading. He tried to kick, but his feet only touched empty air. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t make a sound. He was absolutely helpless.
Trixie! he wanted to cry out, but the words would not come. He could barely think, his chest throbbed so. He felt his consciousness escaping as the world swirled around him. Bright white lights flashed before his eyes. What would happen to Karen, and Kathleen? He fell to his knees, wanting to cry, wanting to beg for mercy, but helpless to do anything at all.
And then everything turned to black.
PART THREE
Toward Chaos
33
THE DRIVER OF THE VAN exited on the Eleventh Street side of the corner. His black boots tapped along the pavement, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The wind tousled his meticulously styled hair. Annoyed, he pushed the errant strands back into place.