Chances Are(34)

“I’ve been better. I’m not really sure where I am. Can you have this call traced? The monster’s name is Derrick Delacourte.”

“Where’s Delacourte now?”

“He’s unconscious and chained to a radiator in the basement. Where are you?”

He looked up at an ivy-covered brick mansion. “Right outside his house.” Before the vehicle came to a stop, Jake was out of the car and running.



Jake was here? Outside the house? It took every ounce of self-control for Angela not to try to make it to the door. Since she would have had to crawl, she decided against it. Besides, her energy reserves were depleted. While she was making the call to Jake, Clarissa had found a raincoat hanging from the peg. And in the coat was the man’s wallet, identifying him as Derrick Delacourte.

And now she was completely spent. Just the simple acts of making the phone call and putting the raincoat on had exhausted her. Both she and Clarissa sat at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

They heard the door burst open and then Angela heard the most beautiful sound imaginable. “Angela! Where are you?”

“Down here,” she shouted.

Running footsteps headed toward her and then, larger than life, Jake was there. Myriad emotions crossed his face as he reached for her. Unable to stop herself, she tried to stand, lost her balance and fell into his arms. In Jake’s strong embrace, hearing his whispered words of thanksgiving, Angela finally gave herself permission to let go. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and allowed darkness to swallow her one last time.





Chapter Nineteen

Guilt clawed his insides like a rabid wolf in a feeding frenzy. God in heaven, she had been tortured.

Jake leaned against the wall outside Angela’s room. A doctor was with her. He had no real clue of her condition. Within a couple of minutes of finding her, an ambulance had arrived and whisked her away. She had still been unconscious but he had seen enough of her injuries to know that she had been through hell.

Clarissa Eaton appeared to be in much better shape, at least physically. Her only visible injuries were ligature bruises on her wrists and ankles plus severe dehydration. Mentally and emotionally she might never recover. She had gone into hysterics when Angela lost consciousness, shrieking and crying as if she were still in danger. McCall had managed to calm her down but she’d become hysterical again the instant the EMTs had placed her on a gurney.

The bastard was in the hospital too, under armed guard. He had briefly regained consciousness and claimed to know nothing about how the women had gotten into his home or what had happened to them.

Delacourte would be put away for life. That should be good enough, but it wasn’t. Jake wanted him to suffer as much as those women had suffered. And he wanted to beat the ever-living shit out of the monster for what he had done to Angela.

The door opened beside him and two women walked out. One of the women, distinguished looking with gray hair and a slight limp, had the nametag with Dr. Lucia Bittner pinned to her white coat. The nurse standing beside her was middle-aged, stocky and reminded Jake a little of his grandmother. Both women wore the same dismal expressions on their faces.

“How is she?”

In lightly accented English, Dr. Bittner said, “Considering what she’s been through, better than one would think. She has a concussion and multiple bruises all over her body. She also has some minor knife cuts to her torso that required a few stitches. Scarring should be minimal. Her feet are probably her most painful injuries. They have first-and second-degree burns, along with some shallow cuts. She won’t be able to walk for several weeks.”

Hell, the freak had only had her for two days but had apparently spent hours torturing her. Jake closed his eyes and swallowed back bile.

Dr. Bittner continued, “The tattoo can be removed but I would suggest she wait until her other injuries are healed.”

“Tattoo?”

“Yes.

Confused, Jake shook his head. That was something Delacourte had never done before. “What kind of tattoo?”

“A rose. Unfortunately he wasn’t a talented artist. It’s quite crude.”

“Where is it?”

“On the back of her neck.”

He took in a shaky breath. Tattoos could be removed, burns would heal, scars would fade. But what about the inside where no one could see? What kind of psychological damage had the monster inflicted?

“Can I see her?”

“In a minute. A nurse is getting her more comfortable.”

Jake nodded and thanked the doctor. Then slumping back against the wall, he covered his face with his hands and wept.



Angela opened her eyes, stretched gingerly and winced. She was still sore and despite the pain medication, her feet still hurt. But it was bearable. And, for the first time in days, her head was clear and her thoughts coherent. What a blessing.

A slight movement to her right brought her gaze to the man lying on the sofa against the wall. His six-foot-five frame was much too large for the short, uncomfortable looking piece of furniture. She had tried to get him to go back to his hotel room and he had refused. Other than when the doctors and nurses came in to perform their duties, Jake had been with her. She knew he had to be exhausted but he told her he wasn’t leaving until she left. The tenderness in his eyes shut down her protests. She was definitely not going to complain if he wanted to stay with her.

At the sudden knocking at the door, Jake sprang to his feet. On his way across the room, he shot Angela a concerned, protective look—the same expression he’d had on his face since she’d woken in the hospital days ago. She had a feeling it was going to be some time before he let her out of his sight again.

He opened the door to reveal Noah, who entered carrying a tray of coffees in one hand and a box of pastries in the other. “Feel up to company?”

“Absolutely. I’m feeling much better today.”

Noah passed her a coffee, then set the opened box of pasties on her tray table. After taking a long swallow of his coffee, he asked, “Samara get in touch with you?”

“Yes.” Angela laughed and added, “Though it was hard to talk to her since Micah kept insisting on talking, too.”

“He’s been very worried about his Aunt Angela.” His eyes went serious and sadder than she’d seen them in a long time. “We all have. Again, I’m sorry for what happened.”

She shook her head. “I’ve told you, Noah, it wasn’t your fault. Besides, it had a good ending.”

She followed his gaze to her bandaged feet. “Okay, so not a perfect ending but a good one all the same. I’ll heal. And we saved Clarissa and stopped Delacourte. That’s what’s most important.”

“You’re right, it is.” He shot a glance at Jake. “I’ve got more info.”

“What’d you find out?” Jake said.

“Delacourte was a working actor up until a few years ago when his one-man play folded. Before that, he had a small amount of success but mostly because of his wife, Rose. She was better known and apparently her husband rode his wife’s coattails to semi-stardom. She died in a boating accident. After that, he had trouble getting work. His last gig—the one-man play—told the tale of Jack the Ripper. Apparently Delacourte identified with him in some way.”

“With Rose being his wife’s name and an actor who once played Jack the Ripper, seems like two damn big red flags we should’ve been able to detect.”

Noah shrugged. “In hindsight, they are. I doubt anyone would have given them thought otherwise, even if they’d known. Until Angela told us, we had no idea he was using disguises. That information helped a heluva lot. Not too many people would’ve suspected a middle-aged has-been actor to be playing out his last role for real.”

“I’m assuming the reason he chose tall, dark-haired women was because that’s what Rose looked like?” Jake asked.

“You got it.”

“But why did he take Clarissa?” Angela said. “Has anyone asked him?”

“He’s still claiming to know nothing about any of the abductions or murders. The police faxed me a family portrait. Delacourte had an older sister who died when he was about fifteen. Looked a lot like Clarissa.”

The conversation she’d had with Clarissa after she had been taken came back to her. “That fits,” Angela said.

“What fits?” Jake said.

“Something Clarissa told me. I don’t remember a lot of what she said because of the drug he’d given me, but I remember she said that he kept telling her the reason he had taken her would soon be revealed to him. He must’ve felt some sort of connection with her but in his crazed mind, he couldn’t figure out why.”

“Maybe that’s why he never injured her,” Jake said. “But why kill the women who looked like his wife?”

It was beginning to make sense in a sick twisted way. “I think he was trying to replace her,” Angela answered. “That’s why he kept shoving those scripts in my face and telling me to read. And when the women didn’t live up to his expectations, he got rid of them and went on to another one.” Her brow furrowed. “But why put the tattoo on my neck? He had never done that with any of his other victims.”