Based on a store of terrible knowledge, Carey projected what would happen to her if she couldn’t escape. Karl would play out his little fantasy of loving and caring for her, but he would tire of it or feel the need to move on. Or she would do something to anger him, and that anger would be a trigger to his rage, and in his rage he would kill her.
“Can’t stay in one place too long.”
“Why is that?”
His face darkened as he looked down at the knife he’d used to cut the sausage…
“It’s just best to move on.”
He couldn’t take her with him. She would slow him down and draw people’s attention to him. He would see only one practical and expedient solution to the situation.
Carey opened her eyes a crack. She could see the knife he had stolen from her home, lying on the makeshift table maybe six feet away.
She could feel the shape of her cell phone in her pants pocket.
Karl moved away from her, easing her head down on one of the pillows. He spoke to her in the softest of whispers, as if he believed her subconscious could hear him.
“Now, I have to step outside to relieve myself, angel. I’m sorry, but I’m having to make sure you don’t try to leave me.”
Carey lay very still as he moved to her feet. He slipped a plastic cable tie around one ankle and then the other, looping the second through the first, hobbling her. Then used more cable ties to attach the hobble to a concrete block. She probably wouldn’t be able to stand up, let alone run.
She listened to him move around the little room; then she couldn’t hear him anymore. She counted to twenty, afraid if she opened her eyes sooner he would be standing in the doorway, watching her; but he was gone.
Shaking like a palsy victim, Carey sat up, fished the phone out of her pocket, and pressed the button to turn it on. She held it against her breast to muffle the little tune it played as it came to life, and she watched the screen anxiously as it told her it was searching for a signal.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. She was shaking so badly, she was afraid she would drop the thing.
One bar lit up on the signal indicator, then two. The battery icon in the lower right-hand corner showed only a sliver of power left.
“Come on, come on…”
A third signal bar lit, and the brand name of the phone service appeared across the top of the screen. She had a connection.
Carey punched Kovac’s number, listened to his phone ring on the end of the call.
“Come on, Sam…”
58
“THERE’S A CABIN on one of the small lakes off Minnetonka,” Elwood said. “It’s owned by a Walter Dempsey. I found a reference to a Walter Dempsey in Stan’s personnel file from a few years back.”
“Did you call the local cops?” Kovac asked.
“They’re sending three units to lock the place down, and take Dempsey into custody if he’s there.”
“You and Tinks go out there. See what’s what. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he went back there for a breather after he finished his craft project on Kenny Scott.”
“If he’s not there, we pull back,” Elwood said, “keep the local coppers on surveillance. They can move in and grab him when he shows.”
“He’s probably got an arsenal in the cabin,” Kovac said.
“I already warned them.” Elwood nodded toward the door to the interview room. “How’s that going?”
Kovac scowled. “These people make me want to go take a hot shower. Bunch of fucking pervs.”
“Literally,” Elwood said.
“And Tippen recognized this asshole?”
“Makes you wonder.”
“I don’t want to wonder,” Kovac said with disgust. “Jesus Christ. Remind me never to sit in a chair after he gets up from it.”
“He’s a student of the cinema,” Elwood said seriously. “X-rated films are, like it or not, a subgenre, and protected by the First Amendment rights to freedom of expression.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the founding fathers were thinking ofDebbie Does Dallas when they wrote that,” Kovac said dryly. “Tell him he’ll go blind watching that shit.”
The cell phone clipped to his belt rang. He snapped the holder free and looked at the screen.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed as his heart began to pound.
Carey.
59
“COME ON, SAM…Come on, Sam…” she breathed against the body of the phone, her eyes riveted to the opening that had once been a doorway into the room.
“Carey? Jesus God, are you all right?”
“No,” she murmured, terrified to raise her voice.
“Carey, can you speak up? I can barely hear you.”
“No. I can’t. He’s going to come back soon.”
“Who? Who took you?”
“Karl Dahl.”
There was an uncharacteristic beat of silence before he asked, “Where are you?”
“In an old munitions building. It’s a ruin. It’s burned. And I can smell a refinery of some kind. I can’t see it, but I can smell it. Hurry, Sam, please.”
“I’ll be there ASAP. You hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Something made a sound in another part of the building.
Carey turned the phone off, dropped it, snatched it up, fumbled with it, stuck it back into her pocket.
She glanced again at the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife.
Unable to get up because of the ligatures, she maneuvered onto her knees and scooted closer to the box/table.
Arm outstretched, leaning, even her fingers trying to elongate themselves, and still she couldn’t quite reach it.
She tried a second time, leaning even further.
An inch short, maybe two.
She tried to move the concrete block but couldn’t. Another sound of movement or scuffle came. Carey couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The place was probably teeming with rats and mice, and who knew what else. Karl had already been gone longer than she had expected.
One last time she focused on the knife, leaned forward, stretched, stretched until her hand was trembling. She glanced again toward the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife!
It was still just beyond her reach.
She pulled back six inches, regaining her balance, took a deep breath, and lunged.
She hit the end of her tether at the same time the heel of her hand hit the box.
The box scooted away.
Her fingertips caught the handle of the knife, scratched it toward her. It fell from the box.
She snatched at it again.
Scraped it toward her.
Grabbed the handle of the knife.
Carey lay there for a handful of seconds, breathing hard, then pushed herself backward and struggled to get back onto her knees. She had the knife.
Her black shirt was brown with dirt. Her face was probably no better. She did her best to brush herself off, then took the throw that had covered her and wiped her face.
A sound like metal hitting metal startled her. Had it come from inside? Outside?
Either way, she was already on borrowed time.
Pulling the throw up around herself, she lay back down on her side, hiding the knife beneath her leg.
Another sound. A crunch. Another, another. Footsteps. Karl.
Come on, Sam…
Carey closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t come to wake her, hoping that he hadn’t decided it was time to make love to his angel.
She didn’t want to pull the knife. There was a much greater chance that he would get the knife away from her and kill her with it than there was of her killing him. And she would have to kill him-not wound him-if she was to have any hope of getting away.
The footsteps drew closer.
Come on, Sam… Come on, Sam…
60
KOVAC RAN DOWN the hall to the war room, catching hold of the door frame to stop himself. Everyone in the room turned toward him, their expressions going sober at the sight of him.