The Lonely Mile(60)
Hearing what the future held was terrifying, but even more so was the dispassionate way the man outlined it. Carli had learned about sociopathic behavior in a school psychology course last semester, and this man exhibited the classic signs. A subject that had seemed theoretical and remote in a textbook, nothing more than words on a page and questions on a test, had become terrifyingly real.
In one way, though, oddly, she felt comforted by his words. If this crazy man was allowed to hold her here for a week, that meant she had nearly six days left before he carted her off to who-knew-where to face that unthinkable fate. One thing Carli Ferguson knew—one thing of which she was one hundred percent certain—was that her dad would come and save her within a week. He would never rest until he got her back. She didn’t think it, she knew it.
The idea of being sold into slavery was as terrifying as it was hard to imagine, especially if it meant Carli would spend the rest of her life as the property of some Arab sheik in a dusty desert, halfway around the world, but she refused to dwell on the consequences of being taken outside of the United States by some slavery ring. If that happened, she knew she would disappear forever. But it wouldn’t come to that. She refused to believe otherwise.
“You know,” the man said thoughtfully, “I was planning on bringing you upstairs for a shower and some clean clothes before we consummate our special relationship, but I don’t think I can wait that long, despite the fact that you’ve peed your pants, you messy girl. You can clean up after we finish.”
Another blast of thunder shook the house, and the accompanying lightning flash illuminated the I-90 Killer as he strode forward, hands fumbling with his belt buckle. Carli shrank back against the bed’s headboard, acutely aware of the headboard pressing into her back like the bars of a prison cell.
Rain pelted the casement window set high up in the foundation wall, and she could hear the wind whistling and moaning, whipping around and through the shoddy construction of the house. With eyes wide and afraid, she watched him approach. She was breathing heavily, almost panting, her terror now complete and overwhelming.
She listened to the wind roar—it sounded like the approach of a freight train—and wished she was out there in the storm. Or anywhere else.
CHAPTER 53
May 28, 4:12 p.m.
BILL THANKED GOD OR karma, or maybe just plain old luck—it was about time he got some—for the noise of the storm. Between the crashing of the thunder, the keening of the wind whipping through the trees and around the house, and the splattering of the windswept rain against the windows, the racket was practically deafening. It prevented him from hearing anything on the other side of the door that connected the garage to the house as he pressed his ear against it, but he figured the opposite would also be true—the constant noise would mask the sound of his approach as he made his way through the house.
He was sure Martin Krall was home, since there was a car parked in front of the garage. Maybe he was right on the other side of the door, six feet away, gloating about his successful kidnapping of Carli Ferguson and how he put one over on, not just the FBI and the New York and Massachusetts State Police, but on Bill Ferguson himself.
Bill flicked the safety off the Browning and grasped the tarnished brass doorknob with his right hand. He was sweating like he had just done fifty pushups. Another crash of thunder sounded outside, and the resulting flash of brilliant lightning illuminated the garage like Fenway Park during a night game. He turned the knob, opened the door, and cautiously peered inside, then walked through the door into an empty kitchen.
Dirty dishes littered a single-basin sink as well as the kitchen table, which was located next to the garage entrance. The dingy green and white tiles of the linoleum floor were way overdue for a good mopping. But the thing that drew Bill Ferguson’s attention immediately upon entering the kitchen, as soon as he had determined no one was present and about to shoot him, was the terrifyingly large bloodstain splattered all over the floor and halfway up the wall of a hallway running adjacent to the kitchen. It looked as though someone had died a violent death here. Recently.
A surge of fear and anguish coursed through his body. A mental picture of Carli lying on the floor mortally wounded, leaking blood from a serious wound while the I-90 Killer watched in amusement, sprang unbidden into Bill’s mind. He set out to check out the rest of the house, hurrying, moving as fast as he could without alerting Krall to his presence.
The remainder of the home’s first floor was just as deserted as the kitchen, although signs of habitation were everywhere. A dirty pair of white gym socks had been tossed haphazardly onto the living room floor next to a sagging green couch in front of the television. An opened newspaper covered the messy coffee table. Dirty drinking glasses were scattered around the room, some still half-filled with liquid.
But there were no people, injured or otherwise.
Bill bolted up the stairs and quickly searched the second floor, once again finding plenty of evidence that Krall lived here, but nothing whatsoever to indicate the presence of Carli or any other kidnap victims.
Bill realized that, if she was here at all, Carli must be in the basement. He hoped the I-90 Killer hadn’t created his own private little dungeon there, like the portable one in the back of his truck, or worse. Bill raced down the carpeted stairway to the first floor and into the kitchen.
Adjacent to the entryway was a wooden door, identical to the one from the garage, located to its right as he faced it. This had to be the doorway that would lead to the basement and, hopefully, to Carli.