She drank more water, greedily gulping it down, then made her slow and wobbly way to the door. "Please," she said weakly. "Help me back to bed."
Densmore rushed to her side. "Lean on me," he said tenderly. "Poor dear." He supported her on the trek back to the bed and helped her lie down again. She was trembling, and it wasn't a pretense; her legs felt as if they wouldn't have supported her another minute. He caressed her cheek, smoothed her hair back from her face, then began fastening the restraints around her arms and ankles. She had to bite her lip when he touched her, but she didn't protest, just lay limply, her eyes closed. Cahill did that sometimes, pushing back her hair and stroking her cheek, and she hated that Densmore had so closely mirrored the action. "I'll be right back with some food," he murmured, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
There was nothing she could do, trussed as she was, so she didn't even tug against the nylon restraints. She wouldn't put it past the bastard to have this place wired for both video and audio, and if he was watching her on camera, she didn't intend to do anything that would put him on alert.
That brief excursion had exhausted her small store of strength. She took a deep breath and let herself sink into the waiting darkness. She would use the darkness this time, to get stronger.
"Sarah?"
The voice seemed to come from far away, but she was instantly alert, instantly aware. She lay still, letting herself appear to awake gradually.
"Sarah, wake up. I have soup."
She shifted restlessly and rolled her head to the side. "Wha-?"
"You need to eat. Wake, up, dear."
She opened her eyes as he set a tray on the bedside table. "Good, good," he said, smiling at her. "Let's see, what would be the best way to do this? I think I should feed you, don't you? I'11 put another pillow behind you to raise your head more, and here's a towel to catch any spills."
He suited actions to words, lifting her head and stuffing an extra pillow behind her head and shoulders, raising her to a more reclining position, then draping a towel over her chest and tucking it under her chin.
"This is a nice chicken soup," he said, and chuckled to himself. "Could I have made a more cliched choice? But it is very good, and hearty. You don't need red meat for a hearty soup or stew, though a lot of people seem to think so. I don't eat red meat, just chicken, turkey, and fish."
In that case, considering how he'd turned out, he should beat a path to Milo's and hope he could be saved, she thought sarcastically as he brought the spoon to her lips and she obediently opened them, like a child. Sarcasm felt good; outwardly she had to be meek, but inside she was still fierce, still herself.
The soup was good, though, and she forced herself to eat every bite. She had to concentrate on recovering as fast as possible; she would need her strength.
After she had finished the soup, she blinked drowsily at him. "Thank you," she murmured. "That was good." She yawned. "Excuse me. I'm still so sleepy."
"Of course." He patted her lips with a napkin and removed the towel from under her chin. "I'll leave you alone and let you rest, but I'll check back occasionally to see if you need anything. I have a surprise for you," he said slyly.
"A surprise?"
"It'll be waiting for you when you wake up."
That assurance wasn't conducive to sleep, and after he left, she carefully examined the ceiling and walls, looking for anything that could possibly be a camera. Without looking closer it was impossible to tell, so she had to go on the assumption that she was being watched. She didn't overtly tug on her restraints, but she began tensing and releasing her muscles, starting in her legs and working up. She had to fight off the lingering effects of whatever drug he'd given her, and keep her circulation going and her muscles limber. If an opportunity for escape presented itself, she had to be ready to take it.
Why in hell wasn't Sarah answering her cell phone? Cahill had called her repeatedly, unwilling to stay out of touch for very long with matters so tenuous between them. Yes, they'd made love and she'd agreed to give him some time, a chance to see if they could work things out, but the temporary nature of the agreement nagged at him. He didn't want temporary; he wanted permanent.
She had gone to Densmore's house late yesterday afternoon. Okay, he could understand her not answering her cell phone while she was getting settled in, but the phone had been on and when she checked it, she would see that she'd had some calls. She should have called him back by now. Today, the phone hadn't been on; he'd been getting the "customer not in service" message.
Densmore's phone number was unlisted, but if you had the right software and search engine, that didn't matter. Cahill pulled up the information and called the estate, only to get an answering machine that answered in a computerized voice. He left a simple message: Call Detective Cahill at the Mountain Brook Police Department. It wasn't personal, and it was the type of message that people tended to deliver immediately. Still she hadn't called.
A frightened public was calling in tips and leads that led nowhere, but every one of them had to be checked out, and he literally didn't have time to eat. He was frustrated enough in his efforts to contact Sarah, though, that he made time to actually drive by the estate like a lovesick teenager, to see if he could spot her SW parked there. The wrought-iron gates were securely shut, and he couldn't see any type of vehicle.
The damn place looked like a fortress, anyway, with that high stone wall surrounding it. The wall by itself had to have cost a fortune, and from what he could see, it was wired like Fort Knox. Mr. Densmore evidently valued his privacy.
He called the estate number and left another message, this time letting his impatience show, and leaving the impression that Miss Stevens should get in touch with the department, for her own good. That should get some response, if anyone at all was inside the house.
His phone rang a short time later and he snatched it up. "Cahill."
"Detective Cahill." It was a man's voice, kind of soft, like you'd expect a priest's to be, but full of authority, too. "This is Trevor Densmore. You've left two messages for Miss Stevens and it sounded imperative that she contact you. I'm sorry, but Miss Stevens is ill, and is unable to talk."
"Ill?" Cahill asked sharply, alarm prickling his spine. "In what way?"
"Laryngitis." Densmore chuckled. "I meant it literally that she's unable to talk. Perhaps in a few days she'll be able to call."
The son of a bitch disconnected before Cahill could say anything else. Damn it! He wanted to see her, but the estate was walled and gated; he couldn't enter without either an invitation or a search warrant, neither of which was likely to be forthcoming.
Sarah was sick? She'd told him that she almost never even caught a cold, so for her to suddenly catch some bug seemed ironic. She'd been under a lot of stress, and that played hell with the immune system, but . . . that fast? Literally the next day? Bullshit. She might be avoiding him, though.
No, that wasn't Sarah, either. Sarah didn't avoid; she faced things head-on. Even if she did have laryngitis, she'd have gotten on the phone and croaked a reply to him.
He had the feeling that guy Densmore was lying. He didn't know the man and Sarah seemed to like him, or at least appreciate his offer, but Cahill's gut said something was wrong. Why would Densmore lie? There was no reason to, which made Cahill feel even more uneasy. But it wasn't that there was no reason for lying; it was just that Cahill didn't know the reason.
Well, one way or another, if Sarah didn't get in touch with him soon, he was going to see her if he had to climb over the damn wall. He'd probably get arrested for trespassing, but at least he'd know whether or not she was okay.
When Sarah woke again, her head was still pounding, worse than it had been when she went to sleep. That awful foggy feeling was back, but this time she didn't have to wonder what was wrong. She knew; Densmore had drugged her again. Whatever it was had to have been in the soup.
But why drug her again? He had her tied, and helpless.
She lay very still, fighting the grogginess, willing herself to throw off the effects of the drug. She mustn't let this happen again.
She couldn't afford to lose any more strength by refusing to eat or drink, but she couldn't escape if she was unconscious all the time, either.
She was too cool, and she shifted uncomfortably but, with her hands tied, was unable to pull the covers up around her shoulders. She could feel air moving on her bare skin- Her mind seized, paralyzed by the awful realization. Densmore had removed her clothes. She was naked.
Chapter 30.
"SURPRISE!" HIS VOICE WAS GAY, PRACTICALLY BUBBLING with good humor. "I know you're awake, I didn't give you nearly as much this time. Stop playing possum and open those pretty eyes. "
Filled with a horror she could barely even begin to comprehend, Sarah opened her eyes and stared at him. Night pressed against the windows, telling her hours had passed, hours in which she'd been unconscious and totally at his mercy. All thoughts of placating him, of pretending to go along with him, had utterly vanished. "What have you done to me'" she asked hoarsely.
He was sitting beside her on the bed, fully clothed. He blinked at her. "Done? Why, nothing. Why do you ask?"
"My clothes-"
"Oh, that. They were dirty. My goodness, this was the second day you'd worn them, plus you slept in them. Pulling them off . . . let's just say the logistics were complicated, so I cut them off. They were ruined, anyway."
She held her horror, her gut-wrenching fear, at bay and stared down the length of her naked body. The covers were all thrown back, exposing her. But her legs were still together, still tied so she couldn't move them. She hadn't thought she would ever be grateful she was restrained in such a manner, but in this case . . .
She took several heaving breaths, fighting free of the nightmare that had begun sucking her down. "Ruined?" she managed to gasp.
He made a face, and gestured toward her groin. "You know. You really should have told me you were in the flowers. I wouldn't have allowed myself to become so excited. It was a disappointment to have to wait, but I made do."
In the flowers . . . ? He must mean because she was menstruating. If that had put him off, she had never before been so grateful for her cycle. But that also meant he had looked at her, and she wanted to weep with humiliation. She didn't, she fought off the urge, fiercely reclaiming her control. Then she looked down at herself again; she saw the wet, sticky drops on her stomach, splashed across her thighs, and she almost vomited.
She forgot about control, her mind going blank and her body arching, madly fighting the restraints in her need to get his unspeakable filth off her body. "Get it off!" she shrieked. "How dare you! How dare you!"
He actually looked bewildered. 'What's wrong? What is it?"
"You jerked off on me, you miserable bastard!" She began to sob, futilely straining to break the nylon cords. "Wash . . . it . . .off!" She screamed the last word at him.
"Don't take that tone with me, young lady," he said sharply.
"You touched me!" She was roaring in her fury, her utter outrage. "You looked at me! You had no right!"
"Stop that. Stop it right now. I understand your modesty, but surely you realize your current state has only delayed the natural progression of our relationship. I knew the moment I saw you that you were meant for me. You belong here, with me. We'll be so happy, my dear. You'll see. I'll give you anything you want; I'll treat you like a queen. Look, I've already given you this ring. The stone needs to be reset, but the color and shape are perfect for you. I knew as soon as I saw it that this stone was too good for that tacky woman. I'll take it off in just a minute because I know you're allergic to jewelry, but I wanted you to see it first. When I have it reset, I'll have the band lined with something that's hypoallergenic, so you can wear it. " He lifted her left hand as far from the mattress as he could, given the bonds around her wrists. "See. Isn't it gorgeous?"
She stared at the ring he'd slipped on her finger, at the huge yellow diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds. She knew that ring. She had marveled at the size of the center stone every time she had seen it, on Merilyn Lankford's finger.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach in a sickening rush, as she looked into the smiling face of a killer.
Cahill checked his watch, scowling. It was getting late, almost time for the mall to close, and he was damn tired of showing these photographs to tired shoppers and shop employees. Something was nagging at him, something he couldn't quite place. He'd been without sleep more hours than he cared to count, reminding him of certain missions he'd been on in the Army, and all he wanted was a chance to sit down somewhere quiet and think. There was something Densmore had said that bothered him, but he'd gone over the conversation again and again in his mind, and nothing had clicked. Still, it was there. He knew it-whatever "it" was.
Thursday was ticking to a close. Sarah had been at the Densmore estate only a little more than twenty-four hours-okay, closer to thirty hours, not that he was counting-but it felt as if days had passed since he'd talked to her, and the lack of contact was gnawing at him. Maybe that, rather than anything Densmore had actually said, was what bothered him. He was worried about her, he knew she was there, so he naturally associated his uneasiness with Densmore. Yeah, yeah, he knew the psychology. Too bad he didn't believe it.
He stopped a well-preserved woman, probably in her sixties, with that put-together look that shouted "money."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but we're trying to locate this man. Do you recognize him?"
He'd try calling Sarah one more time, he thought. If he didn't get to talk to her, he would present himself at the gate and demand to be let in. He could say he had a warrant for her arrest. Something.
The woman took the photograph and briefly studied it, then handed it back to Cahill. 'Why, yes, I do," she said coolly. "I believe it's my banker."
"Thank you," Cahill said automatically, biting back what he really wanted to say. Another William Teller fan. Ha-ha. He was too tired for this shit-'Wait a minute. What did you say?"
Her eyebrows slightly lifted to suggest she was less than impressed with his attitude in particular and himself in general; she repeated, "I believe that's my banker. He has a certain distinction, a way of carrying himself. And of course there's the hair."
Cahill wasn't tired anymore. Adrenaline was surging through his system. 'What's his name?"
"Trevor Densmore. He owns-"
Cahill didn't wait to hear what Trevor Densmore owned. He was running for the exit, his heart pounding in sheer terror as he dialed Wester. He burst into the night air and sprinted across the parking lot to the city Impala he was driving.
"I've got an ID," he barked into the phone when Wester answered. "Trevor Densmore. He's a banker. He has Sarah, God damn it. He has Sarah." He unlocked the car and got in, starting the motor and putting the transmission in drive before he had the door closed. The tires squealed on the asphalt as the car rocketed across the lot toward the exit.
'What do you mean, 'he has Sarah'?" Wester snapped.
"He hired her. She went to the estate yesterday afternoon, and I haven't been able to get in touch with her since. I'm on my way over there now."
"Doc, don't you go off half-cocked, God damn it! We have to do this right. I'll get a search warrant-"
"I talked to him on the phone this afternoon," Cahill snarled. "It's the same voice that's on the Lankford tape. I knew something was wrong, something bothered me about him, but I didn't fucking put it together." When he reached Highway 31, the light was red. He turned on his lights and bulled through the intersection, turning left toward I-459. He hit the on-ramp topping sixty miles an hour.
Wester was still talking when Cahill tossed the phone aside. If he got busted, he got busted. Nothing and no one was keeping him on the outside of that gray wall.
It all made sense now, the why that had eluded them and kept all the pieces from falling into place. The killings hadn't been about business, or revenge, or money. They had been about Sarah. He remembered her calling him weeks ago, before the first killing, telling him she'd received an anonymous gift in the mail. That was the bastard's first contact, the first sign of his obsession. Cahill hadn't given it much thought since then because that had been the only contact; there hadn't been any letters or phone calls that would normally signal a stalker's escalating obsession.
But Sarah had known, had sensed something was seriously wrong. She'd been trying to lure her unknown admirer into the open. When Judge Roberts was killed, her first thought was that her so-called stalker had done it.
And she'd been right.
First he'd tried to hire her away from the Judge. When that didn't work, he eliminated the obstacle and once more offered her a job. When she went to work for the Lankfords, he moved swiftly and took them out of the picture, making her once more available. This time there wouldn't be a small rush of job offers, the way there had been before; after all, who wanted to hire someone who appeared to be the kiss of death and was under suspicion herself for the murders? Trevor Densmore did, that's who. He wasn't worried about the murders. He had no reason to be.
All he wanted was Sarah. When the media was running wild after the Lankfords had been killed, saying Sarah had been ar- rested, Densmore had solved that little problem by immediately going out and killing someone else to prove she couldn't possibly be the killer. As soon as she was released, he made his move, and this time it had worked.
He had Sarah. Son of a bitch, he had Sarah.
There was an expression on his face, in his eyes, that made her shudder. He looked at her naked body and reached out, his hand sliding over her breast. Sarah said jerkily, "I can't wear the ring. Please take it off. It's already itching."
He stopped, lifting his hand as he blinked at her. "Of course! I'm so sorry; I merely wanted you to see it. I should have realized how sensitive your skin is." He slipped the ring off her finger and put it in his pocket. His eyes went dreamy again. "You're so perfect," he crooned, reaching out to touch her breast again, and Sarah cringed.
She had to stop him. She couldn't bear it if he kept touching her. She would rather he killed her than touch her.
Stalkers did that, when the object of their obsession didn't measure up to the fantasy they had built up in their minds. The obsession turned to rage and they struck out, destroying the person who had so painfully failed them by not adhering to the fiction.
She would drive him to that rage before she'd let him rape her. 13ut he wasn't at that stage yet; because of her menses, she had a little time. She had no idea how long she could hold him off, but she would do it as long as possible. She knew Cahill; he would be knocking on the gate before long. It might be tomorrow morning, it might be tomorrow night, but he would be there. If she couldn't escape, then all she had to do was hold out, and keep Densmore at bay.
"I don't like to be touched," she said, shrinking away from his fingers as they tweaked her nipple. She made her voice innocent and distressed, the way he seemed to like.
He did that blinking thing again, really fast several times in a row, as if he were connecting with reality. He looked confused. "But . . . it's all right when I touch you. We're supposed to be together."
"I don't like being touched," she repeated. "It hurts. It hurts my skin."
He drew back, staring at her in consternation. "Oh, dear. I hadn't realized your skin is so sensitive. That's a problem I hadn't considered. But you aren't allergic to being touched; it's more of an acute sensitivity to being touched. Am I right? I'll be very gentle, my dear, and you'll gradually become accustomed to-"
Oh, God. She clenched her teeth. "No," she said, keeping her voice soft. "I'm sorry. It's a medical condition; it won't go away."
"A medical condition?" He had been reaching out to her again, but he paused, the dreaminess in his eyes morphing into something hard and ugly. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"You're right, it's an acute sensitivity. My nerve endings are permanently inflamed. I can tolerate clothing, if it's made from certain material, but I have to take pain medication even for that-" She was babbling and she didn't care if it made sense or not, so long as he believed it enough not to touch her again. "-and anti-inflammatories. I'm out of my anti-inflammatory medication. With everything that happened I was so upset I forgot to get my prescription refilled. Every time you touch me it feels as if you're burning me with a hot iron."
"Well, my word." That seemed to have stymied him. If he'd had a firmer grip on reality, it would never have worked, but he was so caught up in his fantasy world that he couldn't concentrate on anything else. "I certainly don't want to do anything that causes you pain." He smiled at her. "Unless you need to be punished, of course. But you'll never do anything to make me angry, will you? You'll iron my newspaper and prepare my breakfast for me, just the way you did for that old goat, Lowell Roberts."
"If you like," she managed, hurting inside at the thought of the poor Judge, of the Lankfords, and that other man this lunatic had killed.
"You'll take care of me," he crooned. "And I'll take care of you." He leaned down and pressed his mouth to her forehead.
Sarah gagged, and her control broke. "Don't touch me!" she screamed.
Like lightning his hand was on her throat, pressing hard, and he bent over so his face was close to hers. He was livid with rage. "Do not ever speak to me that way again," he ground out.