Chapter Twelve

 

Steve’s phone signaled an incoming call. He reached for it, hoping to hear Sam’s voice but getting Church’s instead.

“Heads-up, Smoke. The police chief is headed your way and he doesn’t look happy. Take the back way. We’ll meet up on the north side of the park in five. Cage called. You’re going to want to hear what he has to say.”

Less than five minutes later, Steve and Doc jogged silently up to the waiting SUV. They climbed in and took off.

Church drove them out to the resort where they gathered in Church’s trailer. Cage and Mad Dog were already there, their expressions serious. The small place looked even smaller with the six of them filling the small space.

Steve sucked down the suffocating sense of panic that tried to take hold, focusing on Sam to keep the worst of it at bay.

“Tell him,” Church said the moment they walked in.

Cage’s face was grim. “A couple months after his release from the psychiatric facility, Cavatelli popped up in Brenner’s Gap, a town about twenty miles from here. He got a job in some small-time community theater. The place closed up shortly afterward.”

“Let me guess,” Steve said. “A fire?”

“Ding, ding, ding! Give the man a cookie. The theater went up in flames after a performance. Luckily, no one was around.”

“So, what happened to Cavatelli?”

“No one knows. He just vanished.” Cage shrugged. “I have to call in to Tex about pulling his juvie records. Maybe he’ll be able to find something I missed.”

“Shit. Don’t you have any good news?”

“Well, I did manage to get a hit on that partial plate, but I’m not sure if you’ll consider it good news or not. The only vehicle with those numbers matching the make and model you saw is registered to an eighty-two-year-old woman named Constance Himmelwright, who just happens to live on the same floor as you and Sam.”

Steve scowled. He knew Mrs. Himmelwright. She scowled at him every time he saw her in the hallway. “That definitely wasn’t an eighty-two-year-old woman I saw pointing a cell phone my way.”

“You’re right about that,” Cage agreed, tapping a few buttons on his laptop. “And the security camera covering that section of the lot agrees with you.” He turned the laptop so the screen was facing them. “Male, Caucasian, looks about the right age to be our guy. The image isn’t crystal clear, but it should be enough to feed into a good facial recognition program and compare it with any photos Tex can dig up.”

“Will that work?”

“People age, but their bone structure doesn’t change. I mentioned the security cam footage to Tex, and he said he knows a guy with some kick-ass facial recognition software. Says if we can dig up a photo of Cavatelli, even an old one, they’ll be able to tell if it’s him.”

“But what’s the connection, if any, between Cavatelli and the old lady?”

“I don’t know, but maybe she does.”

“Smoke, it’s after midnight.”

Late or not, Steve wasn’t going to waste time waiting when every minute might count. Sam was missing, and there was no longer a question in his mind that Cavatelli had something to do with that.

“Midnight, seven p.m.—probably the same to her. She’s eighty-two.” In fact, Steve didn’t recall seeing her outside the apartment building with everyone else. It was entirely possible that she had slept right through all the excitement.

Things were quiet when they made it back to the apartment building. The fire and police vehicles were gone, and the residents were safely back inside.

Steve’s repeated knocks on Mrs. Himmelwright’s door went unanswered.

“Hey, bud, do you know what time it is?” The lady from down the hall stuck her head out of her door.

“Sorry, ma’am. Just checking on Mrs. Himmelwright. Have you seen her since the fire, by any chance?”

The woman looked at Steve, Doc, and Church. “You live in 7C,” she said, her eyes landing once again on Steve.

“Yes, ma’am. And I’m concerned because I didn’t see Mrs. Himmelwright outside with everyone else. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

“Now that you mention it, neither did I. Hang on; let me call the building manager. He can bring up a key.”

Steve wasn’t happy about having to wait. He would have preferred to put his lock-picking skills to use once again and be done with it. But a warning look and nod from Church had him saying, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the grumbling building manager stepped off the elevator. His knocks, too, went unanswered. When he suggested calling the police before barging in, Steve took the keys from him and opened the door himself.

And suddenly, he knew what the connection was.

* * *

Sam came to with a pounding headache. She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea made her close her eyes until the feeling calmed enough that hurling was not a foregone conclusion.

Breathe in slowly. Breathe out slowly. Listen.

The cotton in her mouth seemed to be filling her ears as well, a slight buzzing hum that slowly faded to crackles and pops. Opening her eyes, her vision slowly cleared until she was able to take in her surroundings. It looked like someone’s living room, but an unfamiliar one. The only light came from the fireplace, bathing the space in a warm, flickering glow. It was enough to see the bouquets of wildflowers scattered around the room.

Where the hell was she?

“Here, take these. They’ll help.”

Sam started at the dark figure who suddenly appeared in the doorway, holding out a glass of water in one hand and a couple of pills in the other.

As he closed the distance between them, the evening’s events came back to her in a rush.

“Where’s Mrs. Himmelwright? What did you do to her?”

The corners of his lips quirked. “Go on; it’s okay. Just water and ibuprofen.” What was her elderly neighbor’s voice doing coming out of his mouth?

The last moments in her apartment flashed back to her. Mrs. Himmelwright asking her to call the building manager, then strong arms grabbing her and shoving something over her mouth and nose. Arms that were far too strong to belong to an old woman.

Her head throbbed as she tried to connect the dots. Mrs. Himmelwright wasn’t actually an old woman, but a young man with glittering dark eyes? Could that be right?

“Who are you? What happened? Where are we?”

The man sighed, putting the water and pills down on the side table. “Don’t you remember me, Samantha?”

She blinked. The guy knew her name? And he looked hurt that she didn’t know his.

Her eyes scanned the room again, looking for something that might lend a clue, but she came up empty. This time, her awakening brain noted the boarded-up windows and old, outdated furnishings. Piles of dirt and debris hastily swept toward the corners. Graffiti, some legible, some not, spray painted on walls where framed paintings still hung.

A living room, yes, but one that hadn’t known human occupants for a decade or more.

She looked back at the man before her, knowing with sudden clarity that she was face-to-face with her stalker. A stalker who had quite convincingly pretended to be her elderly neighbor. Had he assumed other personas, as well? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but her brain overrode the words before she could say them.

Don’t antagonize him. Remain calm. Gather information.

“I’m sorry. My head’s a little fuzzy right now. Can you give me a hint?”

He seemed to relax a little and offered an indulgent smile. “Like a game! Of course. It has been a while, and I suppose I’ve changed a lot, as have you. I’m no longer that skinny, awkward boy who used to help you unload your grandparents’ bakery truck when you came to the resort, and you’ve grown even more beautiful.”

Her mind worked frantically against the lingering fog. The resort he mentioned … He could only be talking about Matt’s place. That was the only resort for miles that her grandparents had dealt with. Vague images of a young boy came to mind. Younger than her, he used to run out to meet them at the back entrance. He would stick to her like glue until it was time to leave. What the hell was his name?

“Anthony?”

His smile was brilliant. “You do remember!”

“Of course I do,” she said, managing a weak smile, even as her heart pounded and more memories rose to the surface.

Her grandparents hadn’t liked him, not at all. In a rare moment of concern, her grandfather had told her that the boy had “the crazy in his eyes,” and that she was not to go anywhere with him. At the time, she had thought her grandparents were just doing their usual best to squelch anything even remotely fun. Sure, there was something different about Anthony, but he had always been nice to her. Then, when she had seen how the staff and guests went out of their way to avoid him, she hadn’t had the heart to do the same. Now it seemed her subtle childhood rebellion and soft heart had come back to bite her in the backside.

Well, there was nothing she could do about that now. Clearly, he was delusional, but she had no idea how far gone he was or what he had in mind. The best thing she could do was learn as much as she could, including where they were, and stay alive until an opportunity presented itself or someone found them.

Steve! Steve had been on his way to see her when Mrs. Himmelwright—no, Anthony—had shown up. How much time had passed since then? Did Steve know she was missing, or did he think she had simply changed her mind?

No, Steve wouldn’t think that. He had said he wanted to talk, and she had told him she was making muffins.

The muffins! Had Anthony thought to turn off the oven, or had he left them baking? Had she unintentionally done exactly what the fire chief suspected her of doing and caused a fire that might have hurt people? Hurt Steve?

Sam reined in her panic. Steve was smart. Steve was strong. Steve believed in her. He would know something happened, that she wouldn’t just blow him off. If she couldn’t find a way out of this herself, he was her Plan B.

Now, though, it was time to put Plan A into action—make nice with the crazy guy and appeal to his sense of reason.

“It has been a long time. How have you been, Anthony?”

His expression darkened before clearing again. He shrugged. “None of that matters. Now that you and I are together again, things will be better. Do you like the flowers?”

“Yes, the flowers are lovely, thank you.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, his dark eyes glistening in the firelight. “You didn’t seem to appreciate the others I sent you.”

“I didn’t know they were from you. You never signed your name.”

His lips pursed together, and then he nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Anthony, I’d love to catch up with you, but could we do this another time? I don’t feel so good. I’d like to go home.” Sam didn’t think simply asking nicely would work, but it was worth a shot.

“You already are,” he said with another grin. “Welcome to your new home, Samantha.”