The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [110]
Going to the closet, I opened the door. Sampson sat on a chair inside the closet, his arms and legs tied down with twine. A piece of duct tape covered his mouth. I had seen people die this way, and I choked back the rage building inside me.
“Hi, Sampson. My name is Jack,” I said.
Sampson looked at me, blinking tears. I put away my gun so as not to scare him any further, and gently pulled away the duct tape. Buster appeared by my side.
“This is my dog. His name is Buster. Do you like dogs?”
Sampson nodded. Buster entered the closet, and licked Sampson’s face.
“Where’s my mommy?” he asked.
“She’s right here. I’m going to take you to her.”
“Mommy!”
“I’m here, honey,” Heather called back. “Everything’s okay.”
I undid the twine while looking into his perfect little face. Every stupid thing I’d said and done in the last several days now seemed worthwhile. Sampson crawled into my arms, and I carried him across the garage to his mother. It was a perfect ending, until I heard Vorbe scream from the other side of the house.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Please don’t leave us, Mr. Carpenter,” Heather begged me.
I heard a second scream, louder, more intense. I had to find out what he was doing. I snapped my fingers, and Buster lay dutifully on the floor.
“My dog will protect you and your son,” I said.
I ran back into the house. Passing through the living room, I saw dots of blood on the tiled floor that hadn’t been there before. The shotgun was missing from the couch, as was the box of bullets.
My eyes followed the bloody trail. It went through the living room to the broken slider, and out to the backyard. I nearly let out a yell. I’d handcuffed Vorbe to the refrigerator, something I’d done with countless suspects. He couldn’t have freed himself.
I entered the kitchen clutching my Colt with both hands. The handcuffs were still attached to the handle on the refrigerator door. Lying on the floor beneath them was Vorbe’s blood-soaked hand, along with the butcher knife he’d used to cut it off.
I made it into the living room before I threw up. Through the broken slider I could hear the shrill cry of police sirens carrying through the warm night air. They were too far away to bring me any comfort.
I took several deep breaths, and tried to get my strength back. My eyes fell upon a photo album lying on the coffee table. There had been no examples of Vorbe’s work hanging in the studio, and I flipped the album open to the first page. A young woman stared back at me. Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth wide open. She was dead.
I riffled through the album. It was filled with head shots of other dead women, their poses identical to the woman on the first page. There appeared to be two dozen photos in all, although there could have been more.
I went outside, and tried to determine where Vorbe had gone. I didn’t think he’d gone back to the supermarket, and I went around the side of the house to the front yard.
Standing on the curb, I gazed up and down the street. It was lit up by streetlights, and I saw a gang of long-haired kids trying to break their necks on skateboards and a few older couples walking dogs. Then it hit me what Vorbe was going to do.
He was going to steal a car.
With a car, he could hit the highways and disappear in rush-hour traffic. Florida had thousands of miles of back roads, and most criminals knew how to navigate them. I was going to lose him if I didn’t act fast.
I looked in the street for blood. I found a few drops and followed them to an intersection at the block’s end, where I saw a mob of men in shorts and T-shirts standing in a driveway, beating the daylights out of someone. As I ran toward them, my cell phone rang. It was Burrell.
“I got your message. What’s going on?” she asked.
“I found our killer. It’s the grocery store manager.”
“Where are you?”
I looked over my shoulder, and read the names off the signs on the corner.
“I’ll be right there,” Burrell said.
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