Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 26

  I met Shell back at our table. Our drinks still hadn’t come. I spotted them, sitting lonely on the bar, our waitress nowhere to be seen. Shell bent close and said something, but I couldn’t hear anything because we were too close to the speakers. The drinks eventually came. The gravelly-voiced singer bemoaned his cheating woman, his lost job, his dead dog, and his worsening bursitis. I just closed my eyes and let the music take me where it wanted. The wine was cheap and bitter. After two sips, I didn’t want any more.

  Shell slammed his martini, smiled, and then pointed at my glass with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head. He raised his hand to signal our waitress, and I leaned over to stop him, to tell him I was tired and wanted to go.

  As I leaned forward, the whole bar seemed to rock, like we were on a boat during a storm. I felt as if I was falling. I reached out, trying to stop the world from moving, knocking over my wine glass. My head hit Shell’s shoulder, and he grinned at me, and as he grinned his face got darker and darker until all I saw was a rolling, swirling blackness that swallowed me up.

  Chapter 14

  I woke up groggy, disoriented, nauseous.

  I didn’t know where I was, didn’t remember how I got there. The floor beneath me was cold, concrete, suggesting a basement or garage. It was too dark to see anything. My hands fluttered around me, trying to judge the size of the area, and I realized with a start that I was completely naked.

  This was bad. Real bad.

  What the hell happened to me?

  I filled my lungs, ready to shout for help, and then stopped myself right before any sound came out.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let whoever had me know I was awake.

  Though I’d been in some hairy situations during my rookie years, I couldn’t say any of them was life and death. Once, my partner Harry and I had been shot at, but the perp had been so far away there had been no real danger. Another time, a suspect took a swing at me when I asked to see some ID. I’d slipped the blow, and what followed was the only time I’d ever used my police baton, hitting him in the knee hard enough to break it.

  But neither of those were as nerve-jangling as waking up naked in some unknown basement.

  I listened, hearing some machine hum in the background. Sniffing the air, I detected something foul. Beneath the mildew and dampness there was a cloying, rotten meat smell that reminded me of the morgue.

  Thinking of the morgue made me remember the last time I was there, with Harry and Herb and Shell.

  Shell.

  It came back in snatches, like short movie clips. Sitting in a theater, watching Jeroen sing along with the show. Driving in the limousine. Walking down the street and getting into Shell’s car. Listening to blues.

  Did I drink too much? Pass out?

  My head felt big, stuffy. Not a hangover feeling. More like when I was young and had a bad cold and Mom kept spooning cough medicine into me.

  Drugged. I’d been drugged.

  I got on all fours, began to crawl in the direction I was facing, moving slowly and reaching out ahead of me so I didn’t bump into anything. My arms and legs felt heavy, and they didn’t respond well to my mental commands. After traversing a few feet, I came to a wall. Concrete again, confirming my suspicion this was a basement.

  Bracing myself against the wall, I managed to get onto my feet. My head didn’t want to stay upright on my neck, and my eyes didn’t want to stay open. I forced myself to hyperventilate, thinking the influx of oxygen might help make the drug wear off faster. Once I was confident I wouldn’t topple over, I began to follow the wall to my right, toward the machine sound. I was cautious, afraid of hitting my head or tripping over something. My fears were unwarranted; the basement seemed to be completely empty.

  I reached a corner, getting my fingers snared in the world’s largest spider web, rubbing my palms together to get it off while trying not to imagine black widows jumping into my hair. Adjusting my direction, following the new wall, I closed in on the mechanical hum.

  The sound was familiar. I was pretty sure I knew what it was. A few steps later, I touched it. Big. Square. Vibrating slightly beneath my palms.

  A refrigerator.

  Actually, two refrigerators, side by side.

  This was good. Fridges had lights. If I opened the doors, I’d be able to see.

  I sought the handle of the closer one, stepped back, and pulled.

  No light came on. And the rancid meat smell got worse.

  Reaching a tentative hand inside, fearful I’d touch something awful, I began to explore the fridge.

  It was empty. Even the drawers and the racks were gone. I thought back to the morgue, to Phil Blasky and his assertion that the body had been kept in a refrigerator.

  Shivering, I reached for its companion.

  I really didn’t want to open it. But at the same time, I knew I had to.

  Filling my lungs, blowing out a deep breath, I stood in front of the second fridge.

  Just do it.

  I yanked the door open, staring inside.

  Ten sets of eyes stared back at me, belonging to the ten human heads stacked neatly on the refrigerator’s wire shelves.

  Chapter 15

  The severed heads were all female, lined up carefully on the refrigerator shelves so they all stared at me. Some were more decomposed than others, the bluing flesh decaying and clinging to the bone, making them appear mummified. Others were so fresh they almost looked ready to start speaking.

  Each of their faces was grotesquely slathered with makeup. Fire-engine red lipstick, thickly applied and wider than the actual mouth. Pink rouge bright on the pale cheeks. Their wide eyes—their most shocking feature—were missing eyelids, the sockets framed in dark eyeliner. Some of the eyes were milky white. Others had begun to shrivel, like raisins.

  The stench blasted over me, prompting a gag. I slammed the fridge closed and backed up, once again plunging the basement into darkness. Every square inch of my naked body had broken out in goosebumps. I stood there for a moment, my mind wrestling with the horror I’d just seen, the implications of it. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too tight. This was so far removed from anything I considered reality, I felt a mental break, a disconnect. Like I was watching someone else go through this, instead of experiencing it myself.

  I blew out a big breath, so hard my cheeks puffed out. Awful as it was, I knew what I needed to do.

  I had to escape, and get help.

  In order to do that, I needed light.

  Reaching out through the darkness, I groped for the refrigerator door handle. My fingers locked around it, and I questioned my will to actually open it again, to view the obscenity once more.

  I pulled.

  The heads stared back, their dead eyes boring into me.

  Leaving the door open, I turned around, taking in my surroundings, needing to concentrate. The overhead metal girders and steel support beams confirmed that I was in a basement. A small basement, with two windows sealed with glass blocks. There was a wooden staircase in the near corner, leading up to a closed door. A water heater and furnace stood against the far wall.

  I needed a weapon, but nothing jumped out at me. Wincing, I once again focused on the refrigerator. The freezer door was still closed. Much as I didn’t want to, perhaps there was something in there that could help me. I crept up to it, braced myself, and tugged the door open.

  Empty.

  Then, from upstairs, I head a soul-shattering, mind-blowing scream.

  Chapter 16

  The scream came from directly above me. A high-pitched shrill cry of pure agony. It went on for over a minute, pausing only long enough for quick gulps of breath.

  Then, abruptly, it stopped.

  My mind betrayed me, casting images of torture and pain so extreme I was paralyzed with inaction. I kept seeing that slideshow from the police academy, of the atrocities committed upon that woman at the hands of Mr. K.

  Could that be Mr. K above me? Plying his skills upon some poor victi
m?

  Maybe the only reason the screaming stopped was because his victim was now gagged.

  Or maybe the victim had died. Which meant he’d be coming for me next.

  I thought about Shell. Could he be a part of this somehow? He’d had the opportunity to drug my drink.

  I thought about Herb. Could he have known we’d gone to Buddy Guy’s? Was there a chance he was outside right now, about to come storming in?

  Or maybe Herb had already stormed in. That scream could have been male.

  Forcing myself to move, I went to the nearest window. The glass blocks were thick—no way I’d break them with anything less than a hammer. Creeping to the stairs, giving the refrigerator a wide berth, I knelt down and pried at the bottom wooden step, trying to lift it. No good; it was on too tight.

  Peering up at the door at the top of the flight, I wondered if there was any chance at all it might be open. Whatever drug I’d been given was strong. It knocked me out in just two sips. But perhaps my abductor was used to his victims being unconscious for longer than I was, and there was no need to lock them in the basement.

  Buoyed by the possibility, I slowly ascended the staircase. I felt each creak of the wood in my teeth. Every step was a battle between wanting to hurry, wanting to retreat, and forcing myself to go slow and steady to minimize the noise. By the time I reached the top of the flight, I was shivering, covered in cold sweat, my mouth so dry I couldn’t swallow.

  I put my ear to the door, listening.

  Silence.

  My shaking hand fit itself around the doorknob. Softly, carefully, I attempted to turn it—

  —and the sucker actually turned.

  It took the remaining bit of self-control I had left not to throw the door open and run like hell. I was naked, and had no idea where I was, or what time it was, or who had me. My best chance would be to find my gun, or a phone.

  Setting my jaw, I eased the door open, praying for oiled hinges. It moved with minimal whining, and I stuck my sweaty head through the doorway and squinted down a dimly lit hall. The house was quiet. No movement. No human sounds. I stepped onto the tile floor, passing a crucifix hanging on the wall, passing a framed Nagel poster, passing a light switch that I desperately wanted to flip on.

  The basement had been a hostile, foreign environment. But upstairs was an average, normal home. Horrible things shouldn’t happen in a house like this, which made it even more frightening. Anyone walking into this modest dwelling couldn’t possible guess that the basement had a refrigerator full of severed heads, or that the person who lived here liked to abduct and dismember women.

  The hallway opened up into another room. I paused again, forcing myself to go slow, gingerly peering around the corner and seeing a living room.

  There was a TV. A sofa. A floor lamp, the low-watt bulb under the shade glowing soft yellow. The window had curtains pulled shut, but I could see through the cracks it was night out. On a coffee table were several textbooks, including one that had Social Studies: Teacher’s Edition written on the cover.

  Then I heard something. A low, male voice, from someplace in the house. Too faint to make out any specific words.

  I decided to run for it. Moving quickly, I found an adjacent hallway, located the front door, and gripped the knob.

  It wouldn’t budge. The door was solid, heavy wood, and the deadbolt was key activated.

  Turning around, I went back into the living room, kneeling on the sofa, sweeping back the curtains.

  The windows had bars over them, chained shut. I stared outside and saw I could have been in any number of Chicago neighborhoods. There were cars parked along both sides of the street. A sidewalk. Trees. My abductor had a neatly trimmed front lawn and a small flower garden with violets.

  I got out of the living room, rounding another corner, stopping abruptly when I saw the phone hanging on the wall. I picked it up, and the male voice I heard grew in volume tenfold, a foreign accent coming out of the receiver.

  “—take care of her soon. In fact, I’ll do it right now. I just heard a click. I think she’s awake and listening to us.”

  I let the phone fall, then turned and ran, rushing down the hall, finding the kitchen, skidding to a stop and then slipping on a slick, plastic tarp that had been set on the floor, my feet losing their grip, my ass hitting the ground, sliding forward into Shell.

  He was lying on his back, clutching several coils of rope to his chest.

  I was thinking to myself that I had to get out of there, that I didn’t have time to untie him, and then I realized that it wasn’t rope at all, it was his intestines, and I tried to crab-walk backwards but Shell’s blood was all over me and I couldn’t get any kind of traction, couldn’t get away. His dead, open eyes were rolled back in his head, his mouth forever frozen with his final scream. Once he’d been a living, talking human being. I liked him. I’d kissed him. And now he was a cooling hunk of meat, profanely slaughtered, no trace left of the man I’d known.

  Then someone walked in, filling the doorway. He was naked, thick, his hairy chest matted with blood. Slavic features, a dark, five o’clock shadow on his chubby face, which regarded me with amusement.

  “My little cop girlfriend is awake,” he said, his English tinged with a slight Russian accent. “My name is Victor Brotsky. We will have some fun, you and I. Yes?”

  Then he raised up one of his meaty hands, and I noticed he was holding a butcher knife.

  Chapter 17

  I scrambled backward, away from Victor Brotsky, who loomed over me with a butcher knife. His naked body was blood-soaked, with bits of what must have been Shell sticking to his matted, curly hairs, covering him neck to toes.

  In my effort to get away, I got tangled up—in Shell. I pushed away warm innards, which looped around my wrists, scooting over his dead body, off the plastic tarp, and over to the back door. It was locked, with a key-entry deadbolt, the same kind as the front door.

  “Where you going to, little girl cop? There is no place to run from Victor Brotsky. My house is locked tight.”

  I reached for the cheap dinette set against the wall, picking up one of the kitchen chairs. It was rolled aluminum and flimsy pressboard, insubstantial, but I threw it with all that I had.

  Brotsky batted it harmlessly away, like he was swatting a bothersome mosquito. I followed up with the other, matching chair, and then upended the brown, Formica table, using it as a shield.

  “You are a fighter,” Brotsky said. He grinned, exposing a cavern of yellow, crooked teeth. “I like. This is a fun job for me. Kill whores. Get paid. Now I get to kill pretty girlie cop. They pay me extra for you.”

  While I’d never fought for my life before, I had been in plenty of fights. I was a black belt, tae kwon do, and had been practicing the martial art since I was a girl. Squaring off against someone wasn’t foreign to me—in fact, my forte was sparring. Even against a larger opponent, I was used to confrontation, and it didn’t paralyze me.

  Rather than try to control the fear, I used it, letting it fuel my muscles. When Brotsky stepped onto the tarp, I rushed him, leaping over Shell, lifting the table and ramming it into the knife. Brotsky hadn’t been ready for the attack, and he stumbled backward, falling onto his backside. I rode the table over him, like a surfboard, the slashing blade missing me as I landed on my knees in the kitchen doorway.

  I ran in a direction I hadn’t gone before, hoping to find a weapon or an exit. Hurrying over the carpeted floor, I passed a bathroom—glass blocks on the window—and found a bedroom. I slammed the door behind me, pressing the cheap push-button lock, jumping onto Brotsky’s unmade bed, and pulling back the drapes.

  Another barred window.

  Quickly looking around, I reached for the table lamp, which was made of brass and looked heavy. Next to the bed was one of those huge cellular radio phones, a Motorola DynaTAC. I reached for it, then, on the floor, I spotted something better.

  My purse, on top of a pile of my clothes.

  I reached
for it, hoping my gun was still inside, dumping the contents onto the bed, grabbing my Beretta and jacking a round into the chamber just as the door burst inward.

  I fired, missing as Brotsky threw himself at me. In a millisecond I adjusted my aim, squeezing the trigger a second time.

  Nothing happened. My semi-automatic had jammed.

  Then Brotsky was on top of me, swatting the gun away, his naked flesh pressing me down against the bed, his hands grabbing my wrist as his foul lips pressed hot against my ear.

  “Now, sooka,” he cooed, “we have some fun.”

  Chapter 18

  Brotsky on top of me, sweating, grunting, crushing me with his obscene weight, was the most disgusting, horrifying feeling I’d ever experienced. It was even worse than him chasing me with the knife.

  I felt his teeth on my neck, biting, harder than any lover would, his fat knees pushing against mine, forcing my legs apart.

  Every instinct, every nerve in my body, screamed FIGHT HIM!

  But I didn’t.

  Rapists liked the fighting back. Control and violence were part of the turn-on. Before joining Vice, I’d talked to a dozen streetwalkers in preparation for my undercover work. They had an almost universal response when johns got too violent.

  Get the control back.

  Obviously, I couldn’t get control by fighting someone bigger and stronger. So I did it by confusing him.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, fighting the urge to vomit, I made myself meet his clumsy kiss, pressing my lips to his. At the same time, I worked my free hand between our nude bodies, grasping him between the legs like I wanted him.

  Brotsky’s reaction was instantaneous, doing the same thing any man did when you grabbed his dumb-stick. He sighed, going lax. Then he kissed me back, his hand slipping around my waist, a guttural moan escaping his throat.