Part 29 (1/2)

She hadn't answered his question, so he went on. ”It was simple, really. A couple of drinks and they come willingly. You women are all the same.”

”You mean a couple of Roofies, and they come,” she said.

He squinted at her.

It was easy to get Rohypnol. She'd seen the reports splashed across the news, linked to a.s.saults on campus where women would wake up in strange locations, unable to recall how they got there. It was too easy-slipped into a drink, Rohypnol is odourless, colourless and tasteless. It could take effect in minutes and often the victim suffered amnesia afterwards.

”Rohypnol is not much of a challenge,” Makedde spat at him. ”It would be a bit like shooting bunnies in a barrel, wouldn't it?”

”You've got a mouth on you, girl.”

”I'm sure you're sportsmanlike,” Yeah, like Robert Hansen was sportsmanlike. ”So surely you wouldn't just shoot a drugged-up lady in the back, would you?”

His eyes narrowed. ”You're right. That would be most unsportsmanlike. No, I like to even up the game. I like a challenge. I'm fair. You'll see.”

What does that mean?

”How many women did you bring here?” she asked.

”Enough to know you're nothing special. Sit tight now,” he said with mock politeness. ”Don't go anywhere.”

CHAPTER 53.

Connor Morgan parked in the driveway beside his mother's midnight-blue BMW and slammed the door. Her car was a bit conservative and hardly the latest model, but it beat the h.e.l.l out of his old junker, that was for sure. His Corolla was loud, ugly and puke-orange-not quite the canary-yellow Alfa Romeo Spider in the poster on the back of his attic door.

Connor was determined to get his beloved Spider once Dirty Pistol went platinum with their first alb.u.m. His dad had laughed when he told him that. He'd said he could buy him the latest BMW while he was at it. Connor thought he probably wanted that car just to show up Mom.

No sign of any flash new vehicles so far, though. His insurance cost more than his orange Corolla. He felt sure he would tell this story when he was a megastar and people would laugh. Dirty Pistol had the potential to be big. He believed that. He just had to convince Jake to stop writing the lyrics. His best friend was a good singer, but his writing was s.h.i.+t.

Connor hopped up the front steps two by two and opened the door, thinking only of his hunger and that yellow Alfa Romeo Spider. The door was often unlocked, and this time was no exception.

”Mom...I'm-” he began as he stepped inside. ”Mom? Oh my G.o.d, Mom!”

His mother was lying in a viscid mess of blood and shattered gla.s.s on the floor in the living room, the telephone receiver in her right hand, the cord wrapped around her forearm. For a moment he thought she had fallen off a chair and hit her head, and a painting had somehow fallen, the gla.s.s shattering around her. But that didn't make any sense. Panicked, he looked around the room. The place was completely trashed. He noticed that the chair he thought she may have fallen off was actually tied to her back. What the h.e.l.l? He saw drag marks along the floor. Someone had come in and ransacked the place! Someone had tied up his mother! Was she dead? Had someone murdered his mom?

”Mom! Oh my G.o.d, Mom, are you okay?” he cried. Connor's voice was high-pitched and shaky. He checked for breathing and then wasn't sure if he was detecting any. His hands were trembling too hard to check her pulse properly. He didn't know what he should do. The technique for mouth-to-mouth, the Heimlich manoeuvre and what to do in case of an earthquake all flashed across his thoughts, all useless. Then he thought of 911. In times like this you were supposed to dial 911.

”Mom,” he said again. ”Mom, can you hear me? What happened?”

Then he could hear a faint woman's voice. But it was not his mother responding.

The voice was coming from the telephone.

Connor pulled the phone out of his mother's b.l.o.o.d.y hand. When he tried to lift it, the cord was caught around her arm and she s.h.i.+fted weakly on the floor.

She is alive...Thank G.o.d...

Connor knew he might start hyperventilating if he wasn't careful. He needed to remain calm. He lay on his side next to his mother on the floor, holding her hand in one of his, the other hand bringing the receiver to his ear. His mother's hand was cool as he held it.

”h.e.l.lo?” he said into the mouthpiece.

”This is 911 Emergency. Who am I speaking to?”

”Connor Morgan. My name is Connor Morgan and my mother is dying beside me.” He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what else to do, and then it came to him. ”My mother is bleeding to death,” he said, looking at the blood on his hands. ”I think she has been stabbed or shot or something. We need an ambulance right away!” He gave the address to the Emergency operator and she a.s.sured him that an ambulance had been despatched a few minutes earlier, and would already be on its way.

The front door was wide open, and Connor turned to see the Emergency paramedics rush in. He had only ever seen such a thing on television. He sat up with his mouth wide open as they attended to his mother.

”We have a pulse! We have a pulse!” one of them said.

It was the best thing Connor Morgan had ever heard.

CHAPTER 54.

Makedde Vanderwall closed her eyes tight and imagined the freedom of running around Elk Lake near her father's home, just as she had done not so many nights previously. She could feel the wind in her hair, see the dark woods and the s.h.i.+mmering reflection of the lake at night, smell the moss and the trees, feel the rush of adrenalin through her body. Freedom.

When she opened her eyes again she was still imprisoned in the trophy room.

He has me trapped like one of these pitiful animals.

She tried to remain calm, tried to convince herself that she would survive. There was a way out. There had to be a way out. All she had to do was to figure out how.

He said he was not expecting this...he had not been expecting to see her at Ann's house. So perhaps he didn't want to do this to her? Perhaps he was only after Ann? Perhaps she could talk him out of it?

d.a.m.n. Why did I have to go out with him? Why did I have to reject him like that, and create this hatred?

It was easier to think rationally when he was not in the room, but she had to try and remain calm when he returned. She had to. What little control she had at this point was in her own mind and her words, and she had to use those tools if she hoped to escape.

Physically she was doing alright. The cut above her eyebrow had stopped bleeding. The right side of her face was throbbing from being hit during the battle back at Ann's house, but Mak didn't think it was that serious. She could still run, she could still punch, she could still kick. And she planned to.

But even if I can escape this chair, where do I go? How do I protect myself?