Chapter 12

Laurel Lohman threw back her head and let out a scream. Sweat streamed down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Her entire body was drenched in it. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in shallow gasps.

She lifted her head and looked out over the sea of faces. Two-thirds of them wore various forms of clown paint, clown hair, clown noses. Some of them even wore clown costumes, complete with big shoes. And it was all for her. Well, her and her band, Raging Clowns. They had quite a following for a local grunge band.

She gave the audience her signature inverted peace sign and put the mic against her lips. In her throaty, breathless, voice, she said, “Good night, Kansas City. We love you.”

Deafening applause followed as she left the stage.

She heaved a sigh once she was backstage and the exhaustion settled in.

“Let me walk you to your car,” her drummer, Nate, offered.

“No thanks.” She waved a hand behind her and headed to the exit. “I’m in the garage. It’s safe.” Nate always took forever to change clothes and gather his things. As tired as she was, she didn’t want to wait. “See you tomorrow.”

No one was around in the parking garage, which wasn’t surprising. It was nearly one-thirty in the morning. Only half the spaces were filled, so she easily spotted her red Mustang. Her heels on the pavement sounded overly loud in the eerie stillness. She almost wished she’d taken Nate up on his offer.

When she reached the car, she heard a noise behind her. Turning, she saw a man standing several feet away. One of their fans. He wore an orange wig and a red clown nose, white make-up, and a baggy, brightly striped clown costume. Her heart stuttered and a little shiver of fear ran through her.

Stop, she told herself. Nothing to be afraid of. It wasn’t the first time a fan had approached her.

“Hello,” she called out, forcing friendliness when all she wanted to do was climb in her car and go home. But, where would they be without their fans?

In response, he honked one of those little clown horns. Puh-lease. She inwardly rolled her eyes. Some of them got way carried away. For the first time, she noticed he held a notepad in the hand that wasn’t holding the horn.

“You want an autograph?” she asked.

His own mouth smiled inside the painted red clown mouth. He came toward her, extending the notepad.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked as she took the paper.

His answer was to tap the top sheet of the open notepad. She looked down to see there was already something written on the page. It read, we’re getting in your car. No funny business… no pun intended. I have a gun.

She frowned in confusion and looked up at him, half smiling, half afraid. “I don’t understand. Is this some kind of…?”

One hand went inside his pocket. He gestured downward with the other, showing her something hard and cylindrical protruding from the billows of his costume. It wasn’t a boner.

Her bewilderment turned to full-blown terror. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Looking around, she saw a couple coming out of the elevator. If she cried out, he’d shoot her.

Her legs trembled with a terror like she’d never known. Through the curtain of moisture filling her eyes, the brightly colored stripes on his costume seemed to come alive, glowing, wavering, sliding into one another. Her breathing quickened, became a pant.

He jerked his head toward her car, the ludicrous bright orange hair swaying with the gesture. She climbed inside, terror keeping her mute… hoping with all her might that he only wanted to rape her.

****

Josie slept through the night on Thursday and all day Friday. I checked on her frequently, occasionally forcing chicken broth and Gatorade down her throat. Other than while I was at work on Friday, I was in her room every few hours. She barely stirred. Her breathing was regular, however, and I tried not to worry.

It was nearly ten on Friday night when she woke. I was in my room, preparing for bed when she came in. Her face was the color of bone, except for the dark, half-moon shadows beneath her eyes. She reached a trembling hand up to swipe a handful of limp hair off her brow.

“What day is it?” she asked, frowning and looking around the room like she’d never been there before.

“Friday.”

She nodded as if confirming something she already knew. “I got here last night, right? Or was it the night before?”

“Last night. Lane brought you.”

A small smile appeared briefly and she nodded again. “He’s a nice guy.”

“How are you? I bet you’re starving.”

“I am, but I feel a little queasy. Not sure if I can eat.”

“I’ll fix you something. You need to try.”

“Okay. In a minute. First…” Her voice cracked. She sucked in a breath and tried again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I replied. “Sorry that you can’t seem to kick the drugs. Sorry that every time you leave, I’m afraid the next time I see you, you’ll be dead. Sorry I can’t fix you.”

She moved quickly across the room and went into my arms. I hugged her tightly as she cried, her tears soaking the shoulder of my pajama shirt.

“I gotta get help,” she said when she released me. “I can’t keep living like this.”

“You need rehab. It’s the only way to get the drugs out of your system.”

She nodded and wiped tears. Her gaze went to my jaw where the bruise had now turned an ugly yellowish-purple.

“What happened?”

I hesitated, then told her the truth.

“Oh, my God.” She sank to my bed, holding a hand to her mouth and shaking her head. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. That piece of shit motherfucker.”

“It’s okay.”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I told him.”

“Told him what?”

She turned tormented eyes to me. “I told him the cops were looking for him. That they were asking you questions. I didn’t think…” Her shoulders shook with sobs. “It’s my fault he hurt you.”

Although surprised to learn that she had, after all, told him, I didn’t blame her for what happened. “No, it’s not,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “You couldn’t know what he’d do.”

She rose and began pacing in agitated strides. “That motherfucker. I’ll kill him. I swear to God.”

“Josie.” I stood and took hold of her arm, halting her furious movement. “It’s okay. The police are looking for him. Just do what you can to get straight. And, if you can, help the cops find him.”

She nodded. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “I will. Of course, I will. I don’t know where he is exactly, but I know some places they can look. I’ll talk to Detective Brody.”

“Great. That’s great, Josie.” I felt better about her than I had in a while. I’d never heard her say she even thought she had a problem. Never heard her sounding contrite. Funny how Matt could beat the shit out of her for years, and it didn’t seem to faze her. Yet, he hurt me once, and she was ready to nail his balls to the wall.

“He’s something else,” she said softly.

“Who? Matt? You’re telling me.”

“No. Detective Brody. I know I was out of it, but I realize what he did in bringing me here. He could have taken me to jail.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, trying to keep my tone impassive. “It was nice of him to bring you here.”

She smiled a knowing smile. “He didn’t do it for me.”

“Whatever,” I said, crossing my arms, shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah. Right.” Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Whatever.”

****

Lane grabbed his jacket and headed to the door. It had been a long, frustratingly fruitless day, and he was ready to go home. He wasn’t even going to stop by the hospital as he usually did on Fridays. Didn’t want to deal with Catherine… not tonight.

His cell rang as he reached the elevators.

“There’s something I need to show you,” Lucinda said when he answered. Her voice was low, urgent.

“Okay. What is it?”

“I’ll just have to show you. It’s about the case. Meet me behind Ziggy’s.”

Before he could respond, she’d hung up. What the hell? Was there something at the scene they’d overlooked? He hoped it was something good. They needed a break in the case, and they needed it fast.

At Ziggy’s, Lane parked next to Lucinda’s Toyota and made his way toward the alley.

No sign of Lucinda, but she could still be here, hidden in the darkness.

“Lucinda?” Narrowing his eyes, he moved further into the alley. The faint glow from the street lights cast misleading shadows, and he only found Lucinda because she moved toward him, into the small halo of light.

“Hi,” she whispered. Her voice was seductively beckoning; he could hear the innuendo, even with that one small word. She wore a sheer, rose-colored blouse with the buttons undone. Beneath was a black, lacy camisole. Her nipples peeked out through holes in the lace, and Lane caught his breath.

He knew he’d been had, but he said, “You find something we overlooked?”

A smile curved her lips. “Something you’ve overlooked for a very long time.”

Ah, hell. “This isn’t about Ramirez, is it?”

She shook her head and came closer. Her scent washed over him, something strong and musky, like forbidden sex.

God or a surgeon had been very kind to Lucinda’s chest. The meager light illuminated her full, firm breasts, as if it knew where Lane’s attention was drawn.

Reaching up a hand, she trailed her fingers slowly over her breasts, halting at the nipples.

“What are you doing?” Lane asked, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

She stepped even closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. He felt a hand on his crotch, but even before she cupped him, he was hard. A burning heat engulfed him, along with a wave of guilt.

“I can take care of you,” she said, still in a whisper, her lips brushing his earlobe. Heat from her breath wafted over his neck. “I want nothing back. Only to please you. Right here. Right now.”

Somehow, she maneuvered their bodies to where he was leaning against the back wall of Ziggy’s. She leaned forward and pressed her breasts against him while her fingers worked on his erection.

Lane swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. When she unfastened his pants, he didn’t stop her.

“Why?” he managed to choke out.

“Because you need me. I want to give you what you need.”

He closed his eyes and gripped her shoulders. “No. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” She took his hand from her shoulder and placed it on one breast. His fingers tingled at the contact with her erect nipple. “You can,” she repeated. “Just this once. Feel. Don’t think. Take what you need. Let me give you pleasure.”

Somehow, in the next moment, she was on her knees. Lane couldn’t breathe. His limbs felt weak and he was overcome by desire. He didn’t have the strength to stop her, but knew he had to. Her lips rubbed across his groin on the outside of his clothing, and he sucked in a breath.

“I can’t,” he said again, his protest weak at best. “Oh, God,” he moaned when her lips pressed more firmly against him.

He closed his eyes. The face that surfaced in his mind wasn’t his wife’s, but Monroe’s. Not because of guilt, but because he wondered what it would be like to have her hands, her lips, on him. Would he still be able to say no? Even the feeble resistance he was putting up now? Or, would he take her by the arms, pull her up, and crush her body to his? Bury himself deep inside her, get lost in her sweetness, her softness, shut out the rest of the world.

In spite of himself, he let out a groan, wanting release, knowing he couldn’t have it. Not like this.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Lucinda murmured and slid his zipper down.

He took a deep breath, trying to summon the willpower to end this. It was now or never. If she got her hands directly on him… got her mouth directly on him, he wouldn’t have the strength to stop her. Wouldn’t want to stop her. Hell, he didn’t want to stop her now.

He heard something then, something other than her moans and the sounds of clothes rustling as she worked on getting both of them naked.

Someone was at the back door of the bar, would walk out at any moment…

“Stop,” he whispered.

She ignored him.

“Stop,” he said, more loudly, so loudly he was afraid whoever was at the door might hear. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. “Someone’s coming,” he said, his voice taut with tension.

Her gaze narrowed. “Could have been you,” she bit out.

They stared at one another, both breathing hard. He shook his head, releasing her shoulders.

“Fine,” she said, tears of humiliation swimming in her eyes. “Fine,” she said again, this time in a hiss. She buttoned her blouse, giving him a hard look as she did so.

She whirled and stalked away, rounding the corner of the alley just as Ziggy’s back door flung open. Two men stumbled out, bringing the sound of loud music and mingled voices with them for a brief time before the door swung closed once more.

Lane quickly re-fastened his clothing, but one of the men, a short Asian noticed him and smiled. “Hey, sugar. Wanna party?”

Lane thought about flashing his badge, simply because he was pissed and humiliated, and frustratingly unsatisfied. But they weren’t doing anything illegal. Not yet. And he wasn’t waiting around to find out.

He slid inside his car, his mind replaying what had happened with Lucinda. He’d like to think he’d have stopped her, even if they hadn’t been interrupted, but he couldn’t be sure. The ache was still with him. Strong and taunting. Unfulfilled.

****

Laurel didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been here. The clown maniac had injected her with something that made her fade in and out of consciousness. She knew they were in a basement. There was a window high on the cement wall, but it was painted black, so she didn’t know if it was day or night.

She was tied to a chair, her wrists chafing from the rope. There were times he left the room, and during those absences, she worked on the ropes binding her. They didn’t budge. All she accomplished was to cut into the tender flesh at her wrists. She could feel the sting and the blood that had now dried on her skin.

He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t raped her or even made her take off her clothes. What the fuck did he want?

The door at the top of the stairs opened and she sucked in a breath. Each time he entered, she would think, this is it. He’ll kill me now. Or rape me. Or something… but what? It was almost to the point now where she’d welcome it. At least she wouldn’t have to wonder. The old cliché was true. Waiting was the hardest part.

She saw his big clown feet coming down the wooden stairs. He still wore the goddamned ridiculous clown costume. Motherfucker. This time, he carried a portable CD player.

He didn’t even look at her. He plugged the CD player into a socket and set it on the floor.

“Why are you doing this? What do you want?” she asked again, futilely. Her voice was barely audible. Her throat was raw and tender, painful, as if she’d swallowed broken glass. It was from the hours of screaming, crying, begging, and asking that same, unanswered question. Why? Why? Why?

No louder than she could speak, he probably hadn’t heard her, wouldn’t have answered if he had.

She thought of her boyfriend. What must he be thinking by now? Greg was probably worried sick. He was supposed to come by her apartment after the set. She was to call him. This asshole had taken her before she’d had the chance. Greg was bound to know something was wrong. He’d realize something had happened and save her, wouldn’t he?

No. He wouldn’t. Even if he knew something was wrong, he’d have no idea where to find her. Unless…

Like she had a dozen times since he’d brought her here, she looked over to where her purse lay a few feet away. In it was her cell phone, tantalizingly close. But she couldn’t reach it. And, even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to tell Greg where she was. She had no fucking idea.

Just when she thought she had none left, another volley of tears poured from her eyes. She was going to die. She tried to comfort herself with thoughts of what would happen if Greg did find her. He was huge. He’d make mincemeat out of this motherfucker.

Clown-bastard punched a button on the CD player and that song about Pina Colada’s started. He walked slowly toward her.

“Why?” she asked, choking out the word.

He spoke for the first time. “You know why.”

“No. I don’t. I swear. Please tell me.”

He sighed as if disappointed. “Laurel, Laurel, Laurel. Would knowing why make what’s about to happen any easier?”

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, dropping her chin to her chest as her entire body shook with terror.

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

She lifted her head and stared up into his face. “I’ll do anything you want. Please don’t hurt me. Pleeeaasse…”

His red lips curled into a smile. “You always were easy.”

She frowned. “Do I know you—” The words were cut off abruptly when her eyes dropped to his right hand and, for the first time, she saw the knife. Panic gripped her, moving from her heart into her throat.

He gave a soft laugh and reached his free hand up to the orange hair. Slowly, he removed the wig. Her attention was riveted to his actions, the knife momentarily forgotten as she watched in curiosity.

Next, came the nose. Then, he took the collar of his costume and started wiping at the makeup.

As his features were slowly revealed, recognition dawned and she gasped in shock, but no words would come. A small glimmer of hope surfaced. She did know him. And he wouldn’t hurt her.

She smiled, found her voice, and made a sound, something close to a nervous laugh. “What the hell? You really had me scared. Is this some kind of joke?”

He didn’t answer. She looked into his eyes and felt the smile slip from her face.

Her remaining hope vanquished when the knife plunged toward her breasts. The first cut made her scream.

It was a long while before she stopped.

****

The Blitz was a sports bar owned by Darion Martin, a former Packers wide receiver whose career had ended after an injury. During the fall and winter, one entire wall of the bar was painted like a football field. In the spring and summer, the panels were flipped so that the scene was a baseball diamond.

Lane took a stool at the bar and Darion automatically opened a bottle of Heineken and slid it in front of him.

“How’s it going, bro?” Darion wore a Packers sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, his chest and shoulders testing the durability of the seams. He wasn’t overly tall, but still had his playing physique, and was roughly the size of a small automobile. A gold earring glinted in his left ear. On his forearm was a heart tattoo with ‘Asia’ scrawled in the center. If anyone thought he was a wuss because of it, Lane was pretty sure they kept it to themselves.

“Not too bad, you?”

“Can’t complain,” his deep voice rumbled. “You look a little tense. Big case?”

Lane took a swig of the beer, shrugging. “Always a big case, my man.”

He didn’t tell him that, tonight, his mind wasn’t on his cases as much as it was his libido. Although Lane had been in a hurry to get home just a few hours ago, now he dreaded the thought. Didn’t want to face the emptiness with this urge gnawing at his insides. He was afraid he’d call Lucinda and tell her he’d changed his mind. Or, even worse—yet so much better—that he’d call Monroe.

“Asia tells me you and Monroe are starting to get chummy.” Darion wiped down a glass with a bar towel, making the muscles in his forearms jump.

“Not chummy. I’ve talked to her a couple of times. About a case.”

“You could do worse, you know. Monroe’s a good person.” Darion’s broad face broke out in a grin. “Not bad lookin’ either.”

Lane scowled up at him. “You trying to hook us up? You remember I’m married?”

He breathed out a sound of derision. “That’s what you call it, huh?”

“Look, tonight’s not the night to give me grief about my marriage or anything else, okay?”

“Sorry, man.” Darion shrugged. “Just think you should actually live your life instead of just going through the motions.”

“Aren’t bartenders only supposed to give advice when customers ask for it?”

“Maybe. But friends try to help out when they see a need.”

Lane stood and tossed a five on the bar. “How about if I let you know when there’s a need.”

“You leaving, man? Don’t be pissed. Just trying to help out. Have another on me.”

Lane sighed and shook his head. “I’m not pissed. It’s been a crazy couple of days. I don’t need to add drinking to everything else that’s going on.”

“Okay. Take it easy, then. No hard feelings, right?”

Hard feelings. Lane thought of what Lucinda had done to him in the alley and almost laughed at the choice of words. “Yeah, no hard feelings.”

When Lane got home, he took a warm shower, pulled on boxer briefs and climbed into bed. He tried to fall asleep, but the unrelenting heat in his groin made it impossible. It was a tingling, persistent ache that wouldn’t subside. He tried to think of his cases… brutalized corpses and the dregs of society he dealt with every day. Even tried to conjure an image of the ball-busting Lieutenant Michelle Karakas. But it was no use. One image continued to push back the others.

He knew how to attain temporary relief.

Reaching a hand beneath the sheets, he let himself think of Monroe… let himself picture her… conjure her scent… the curve of her cheek… her full lips, smiling… the light dancing in her ebony eyes… her warmth… her softness… her breasts pressing into his chest…

He groaned deep in his throat and shouted her name as he came.