Never Let Go, page 9
"Help me!" she screamed.
May rushed out, her heart accelerating, to grab the young woman who was gasping for breath and trembling all over. What was happening? Was this killer chasing her?
"Help! Please! Don’t let him take me again." Her voice was hoarse and broken.
With a fearful glance behind her, she fell to her knees in May's grasp. And then, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she sprawled to the ground, unconscious.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Quick! Get help!" May yelled, feeling her blood pressure spike.
"I'm on it," the officer in the lobby replied calmly, already dialing the ambulance as May tried to maneuver Chloe into the recovery position.
She stared into the darkness, feeling deeply disturbed because she had no idea how close this chase had been.
Had the killer pursued her right up to the police department and then dropped back?
Or had Chloe managed to get away before he'd known where she was headed?
Chloe was here. She was safe—for now. But there were so many unanswered questions.
Owen came rushing up the stairs from the holding cells. Seeing May outside with the collapsed woman, he stopped, looking aghast, then hurried over.
"It's her! May, she's here? Where did she come from?"
May shook her head. "She ran from the left-hand side. So, it would have been from the edge of town. She must have gotten away in the woods somewhere."
She’d still been alive. What did that mean?
"I'll bring a blanket," Owen said, hurrying inside.
May checked Chloe's pulse again. It was rapid but strong. She still felt filled with utter shock.
This woman had gotten away from a clearly terrifying situation. How far—how long had she run for? Where had she been kept?
And were Giselle, and possibly others, alive? What did Chloe’s escape mean for them, and did it mean they were now in worse danger?
The final question in May’s mind was this: Was 'he' Maurice? Or someone else?
Quickly, she helped Owen spread the blanket over the unconscious woman, praying that she would soon regain consciousness, because the information she had might be vital.
"I don't know if she could have been all the way out there in the RV community," May said thoughtfully.
"Why?" Owen challenged her.
"It's a very long way. What, ten miles or more? For Chloe to have run that entire distance barefoot would have taken ages."
"But look how torn up her feet are," Owen argued. "It's obvious that she did run for ages. And if Maurice was still on his way there, to wherever they were hidden, he might not have known she'd escaped."
"I think she might have been kept somewhere closer," May said.
"I don't want to rule out Maurice. He knows more than he's telling, I'm sure of it," Owen insisted.
May shrugged. She didn't see any point in arguing this further. One of them would end up being right, and one would end up being wrong. But for now, without Chloe being able to tell them who her captor was, they were stuck in a frustrating limbo.
Already she could hear the blare of the approaching ambulance as it peeled off the main road and headed down to the police department. A moment later, the lights came into sight.
"I'll let Sheriff Jack know," Owen said, picking up his phone as May hurried to the road to meet the ambulance. The paramedics got out and, stretcher clattering, rushed up.
May followed, feeling taut with anxiety.
"Let's have a look," the tall paramedic leading the way said, bending over Chloe, reaching for his bag to take out the equipment he needed. His face was concerned and caring. May stepped back to give him some room to work, and as she did, she cast an anxious eye around the area. She couldn't see anyone waiting or watching. But there might be someone there. The killer might be looking for an opportunity to silence his victim once and for all.
"She's going to be vulnerable in hospital," she whispered to Owen as soon as he'd cut the call. "We need to get her a police guard."
"Yes, that's exactly what Jack said," Owen agreed. "He said we must ask one of the officers on night duty to go to the hospital and station himself outside her ward. There must be someone there at all times, and the hospital must tighten up on their security and take every precaution."
May turned to the paramedic. She didn't want to seem impatient, but she felt desperate to know if Chloe was going to be okay, and also, how long she'd take before she woke up.
In a case where every moment now counted, they needed their questions answered—and soon.
"She's very dehydrated. And those wounds on her feet are deep," the paramedic said. "She may have a couple of broken bones there. There's some swelling, for sure."
"What's the time frame?" May asked.
"We're going to take her straight in, and I think she'll need to get those wounds treated immediately. Infection is already setting in and with feet, you can't mess around. That'll need to be done under sedation, for sure, if she's healthy enough for it as yet."
"Thanks," May said. "We're sending an officer along to stand guard, to make sure whoever took her doesn't come back and try to grab her."
"Good idea. I hope we can keep her safe," the paramedic said, his face grim. "But for now, all I can say is questioning her is not likely to happen tonight, and maybe not even tomorrow. Her recovery and her own health have to come first."
"Absolutely," May agreed.
His analysis was disappointing, but at least she now knew that Chloe's condition was not critical. At some stage, she would be recovered enough to speak to them. But it meant that for tonight, they were on their own.
They wheeled Chloe to the ambulance and loaded her in. May watched as one of the officers from Fairshore rushed to his car and set off, following the ambulance.
"This is not an ideal situation," she said to Owen. "We've got one suspect who can't talk because he's still out of his mind on whatever he's been taking. And we've got one witness who can't talk because treating her injuries and keeping her alive has to come first."
"We could see if we can trace back where she ran from?" Owen asked. "Do you think we'd get any signs now?"
May wrinkled her nose dubiously. She wasn't sure that was going to be possible in the dark. Chloe's feet had been damaged and lacerated, but she didn't think that those cuts would leave a visible blood trail across blacktop, forest floor, grass, and who knew what else.
"A tracker dog could trace it, for sure," she said. Perhaps that was their best answer—if a dog was available now. Sadly, May knew, that in their outlying areas, it often took days to book a dog. But who knew, perhaps they would get lucky this time. Surely, they needed a lucky break?
"I'll make a call and see if we can get one tomorrow," she said, heading back into the warmth of the police department, glad to be out of the cool, tugging breeze that was intensifying.
But as she stepped inside, she saw that the officer at the desk was on the phone. Immediately, May's instincts prickled, as the female officer's tense stance told her clearly that this was an emergency call.
A moment later, the officer glanced at her, and May saw the same urgency reflected in her hazel brown eyes. Without a doubt, something had happened, and May stepped forward, ready to hear what it was, preparing herself for whatever this next disaster might be.
She cut the call and took a deep breath, her expression serious as she looked from May to Owen and back again.
"You need to get to Chestnut Hill, immediately," she said. "There's been a murder there. The family have just called it in from their homestead. They had a break-in on a cottage on their property, probably a couple of hours ago. And a young woman, their twenty-year-old daughter, has been killed."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
May gasped a horrified breath as she took in this latest bombshell. Another woman was a victim—and this time, she was killed?
She and Owen rushed for the car while the officer in the lobby was busy summoning reinforcements. In a short time, May knew, forensics, the coroner, and additional police would be rushing to the farmhouse. But for now, she and Owen were leading the charge.
They jumped into May's car and sped to the scene, which was to the west of Chestnut Hill.
May was feeling sick inside.
"Do you think this is related to these other murders?" she asked Owen.
"It must be. Surely?" he said. "On a homestead too—that's the same as what's been happening with the others."
"But what I don't understand is why this woman was killed," May said. "Killed! We are fairly sure the others were abducted. What happened? Did something go wrong?"
"We need to find out. Their name is Haven. That's their family name. Haven's Homesteading is their business," Owen said, reading the additional information that had been sent through on his phone.
As May veered onto the main road, gripping the wheel and accelerating as fast as she dared, she hoped she would get answers, soon. At least the roads were quiet this late at night, and with her lights flashing, she made good headway and was speeding up to the homestead's main gate in what felt like just a few minutes.
Lights were on, and May could see people standing outside the homestead. There were a few other cars parked there. What had happened, she wondered. How had this tragedy played out?
May jumped out of the car. She was quivering with tension. Taking a deep breath and trying to keep a calm, professional demeanor, she rushed over to the knot of people who were standing outside the farmhouse door.
"Deputy May Moore, and Owen Lovell," she said, introducing the two of them quietly. "I'm so sorry about what's happened. Please can you take us to the scene."
The people moved aside, and May saw at the center of the group, was a tall woman with thick, brown hair graying at the temples, and a man with a shaven head, wearing a black scarf and woolen jacket. Her immediate impression was that they both looked like farming types. And she was sure they were the parents. They confirmed this a moment later. The man spoke, his voice shaking.
"I'm Ron Haven. I'm Melissa's dad. This is my wife. We . . . we can take you to the scene. Melissa lives in a cottage on our property on the other side of our barn. We can show you what we found there."
Wondering what was happening, May walked with them.
"We were having a family dinner in the house," Ron explained, his voice hoarse and breathless as he walked. "Melissa was supposed to join us, but she was getting back late, she was with a client."
"With a client?" May asked as they walked across the paved courtyard and headed down a path toward a cottage that looked to be an annex to a large barn.
"She helps in the family business. Haven's Homesteading. We . . . we help farmers who experience challenging growing conditions. Poor soil, erosion, and the like." Ron sounded as if he was finding it difficult to gather his thoughts. He gripped his wife's hand tightly.
"She was supposed to come through to the main house for dinner," Mrs. Haven said. "But when we were ready to eat and she hadn't yet arrived, we went to the cottage to call her. And we found . . . we found her car outside, but her door had been forced." She let out a sobbing gasp.
Ahead, May could see a new silver pickup parked under a wooden carport, next to a cottage with a front door that had most definitely been forced. The wood was splintered, and the door was hanging off its hinges.
Feeling a sense of dread, she stopped at the door and peered into the small cottage. She didn't want to contaminate this scene. Any trace evidence that could be picked up might be important.
But she saw no signs of a body. The hallway ahead seemed to divide into two rooms. To the right was an open door leading into a small lounge with a white sofa and two comfortable chairs as well as a desk and workstation. May noted that the laptop was still in place, closed on the workstation.
And ahead, was a bedroom, and here there were signs of a struggle. The chair was knocked over, and May saw splashes of blood on the bed and on the beige rug. Without a doubt, a violent confrontation had played out here. But murder?
"Where is her body?" May said.
"I . . . I don't know! She's been taken! I can't find her anywhere, and we have looked. We've been looking ever since we called you! We have shouted and called her name. We tried to call her phone, but it's in the bedroom." Turning to her husband, Mrs. Haven dissolved into fresh tears.
May turned to Owen, seeing the same expression of shock in his eyes. This was a related case, without a doubt. But it wasn't a murder—not yet anyway. There must have been confusion, and May guessed that in the circumstances, either the person calling it in had misunderstood or else the person taking the call had.
Owen walked aside and May heard him on the phone, updating the police department and telling them that the coroner could stand down for now, but that forensics must still come to the scene.
"Do you know what time she would have arrived home?"
Ron Haven shook his head. "I don't know. Probably around seven, seven-thirty."
"Any problems in her life, any trouble, any fights? Boyfriend issues?" May asked. There was always the chance that even though this looked like a related crime, it was a personal one.
"No. She didn't have a boyfriend at this time, and there was nothing going on in her personal life that could have caused this," Mrs. Haven insisted.
"There have been no problems anywhere nearby," Ron agreed. "No crime incidents in the area, no break-ins or robberies. It has been very quiet."
That pointed the finger firmly in the direction of this being a related crime.
"Did you hear anything earlier?"
"Nothing. We had the music on inside. We didn't hear or see a thing."
May was wondering if someone had been waiting for Melissa, or whether they had known she was coming in late and had followed her, waited for her to go into the cottage and then sneaked up, forced the door, and grabbed her.
The paving would not pick up any tire imprints, so the likelihood of getting a tire impression was small—if the killer had in fact driven up here at all. He could have parked further away and carried her. Already, they knew he was strong.
What about footprints?
She looked down at the cottage floor, seeing that there were some muddy footprints visible at the entrance, but they were not clear and looked to be smudges and smears. Additionally, May reminded herself, the family and friends had all trooped inside and out already, searching for Melissa. So, the scene was not pristine, and she was unsure what success forensics would have.
"We have police on the way," she said gently. "We'll pick up as much evidence as we can. We'll circulate her description. There have been other related crimes in the area."
"Yes, I heard about Giselle!" Mrs. Haven looked shocked. "They thought she'd been killed but yes, I can see it would have been similar to this. What's happening?" Wringing her hands, she turned to May with an expression of desperate appeal on her face. "Why are these women being taken?"
"We're looking for answers. We hope we'll have more as soon as we can," May said, wishing that there was more she could do to console this woman. She felt so ineffectual against a killer who was a good few steps ahead of them and still faceless.
Pacing away a few steps, she spoke to Owen in a quiet voice.
"This is a disaster, but the only thing it does tell us is that Maurice Fardy was definitely not the man committing these crimes."
"Yes, in terms of timing, he couldn't have done it," Owen agreed. "We were already chasing him down and taking him into custody when this happened."
"We can hold him for other crimes. But he's not our suspect." May sighed. "I don't know what more we can do tonight. I’ll call Jack and update him. And then, I'm going to go back to the police department to review the evidence, see if there's something I've missed."
"I'll work with you," Owen said.
There must be a link, May decided as she said goodbye to the family and headed over to brief the forensics officers. There must be a reason why these women had been targeted.
The homesteads were not that close to each other.
Why them? What was she missing?
If she could work out the connection between them, she hoped that she would be closer to finding the women themselves.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As the doomsday survivalist sped away from the homestead, veering almost immediately off the main road to take a complex route of forest tracks, he felt a warm flare of satisfaction fill him. His work was going so well!
"You're the one I need," he told the new asset, glancing at the back of his pickup. Trussed and probably still knocked out, she couldn't hear him, of course. But he knew. He knew what a valuable asset she would be.
He checked behind him a few times along the way but saw nobody following him. It was second nature to him to check and double check. Paranoia was a useful tool, especially with the apocalypse approaching soon.
"We're going to escape. We're going to get away."
He laughed to himself, knowing what 'away' meant. Sealed in a place that nobody would be able to find, which was perfectly disguised.
And this was it. He'd reached the point now where he was ready to seal up his unit. They were going to become a tight knit community. He had everything he needed for survival, and he laughed again as he realized how clever he'd been. Truly, there was no detail he'd overlooked. Even fresh water had been piped in, secretly siphoned from a nearby stream that he knew was perennial. It would be uncomfortable in that constricted space, but he was ready to wait it out for as long as needed.
By the time they saw the light of day again, he knew that the apocalypse would be over and done, the world would be his, and the power would be in his hands.
"I hope you're comfortable there, sweetheart," he yelled, feeling the strange, red violence surge in his mind again.
The survivalist had been having weird dreams. Dreams in which, instead of keeping all his captives alive, he killed them one by one inside his bunker. It was astonishing how detailed, how real those dreams seemed. Of course, he wouldn't do such a thing. Not when the survival of the species depended on him keeping them alive.
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