Incarnate Page 28

  “What about Detective Trainor?” Scarlett asked. “Maybe he could get the chief to change his mind.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. Kim dialed Zack’s cell phone but only reached his voice mail.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she said. “Uh, Kim. Kim Patterson. Zack, I really need to talk to you as soon as possible about the Wilcox case. This might be a bad idea, but we’re going to find Chief Plunkett . . . maybe at his house . . . try to convince him to keep the case open. I don’t think Albert Sullivan killed Izzi. I know that sounds crazy, but I just want to be sure we aren’t making a mistake. Especially now that he’s dead. Anyway. We don’t have much time. Zack, if you could just talk to him. . . . Call me?”

  The chief’s SUV was turning out of the parking lot. Kim started her car and followed. He kept up an even speed through town—there was light traffic this time of day—then continued along the coast road that rose above the water, edged by the jagged bluffs. They were a couple of miles out of town when the chief turned onto a private road marked only by a leaning mailbox.

  Kim took the turn, taking it slow as her old car bumped and jounced over the rutted dirt road. If the chief noticed her car behind his, he didn’t slow for her to catch up, and soon he’d disappeared into the trees. A few moments later, Kim came around a sloping bend to find Holt’s SUV parked in front of a lovely cabin anchored with tubs of flowers and an enormous stone chimney. A cat snoozed on a porch swing, barely blinking when they pulled up and parked next to the SUV. Scarlett got out of the car, but Kim stayed put while she dug for her phone. She tried Zack once more, but again, only got voice mail.

  As she hung up and got out of the car, Kim saw that Scarlett was standing a few feet from the porch steps, looking up at the cabin’s upstairs windows. Her face bore a strange expression—her features were twisted in fear, but her eyes were hollow and empty.

  “Scarlett?” Kim asked gently, approaching slowly and touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “H-h—” Scarlett began to tremble violently as she stammered. “He brought me here.”

  “He—who? Who brought you here?”

  But try as she might to get Scarlett to look at her, the girl’s gaze remained unfocused, tilting up at the house. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, perspiration shining along her brow. “Help me,” she whispered.

  In a voice that was not Scarlett’s.

  “Isabel?” Kim asked, fear snaking into her heart. She took Scarlett’s hand and squeezed it, trying to force the girl to turn and look her way. She peered up into the windows, trying to see if there was an intruder or something else frightening inside, or if she was caught in the grip of memories. “Is that you?”

  “He chased me,” Scarlett gasped, trying to back away, stumbling on the smooth stones lining the walkway. “I fell. I got caught in the trap. My leg. It snapped on my leg. There was a man—a man tried to help me.”

  Kim held her arm so she wouldn’t fall. They were several yards from the car, close enough to bolt if the threat was real—as long as she could keep Scarlett focused. “Who tried to help you? What man?” Kim asked.

  “He took us both. He pushed me onto—onto—oh God,” Scarlett sobbed. “I fell. So much blood.”

  Scarlett reached up and grabbed her head, half expecting not to find it there. Her fingers scrambled along her neck, as if trying to protect it.

  “Calm down, it’s okay now. Who? Who pushed you, Isabel? Who hurt you?” Scarlett was quickly falling apart. She gripped Kim’s arm tightly, her whole body beginning to tremble.

  “He’s supposed to help people. But he didn’t.” Scarlett’s entire body shook. “He’s the one who took me. He locked me in the basement. But I escaped. I ran. Through the woods. And then . . .” She suddenly gasped and seized her leg, as if she were experiencing the pain of the bear trap once again. Scarlett was in the midst of a full-blown hyperventilating fit now. “The man, the hunter, he tried to help me. But then . . . he pushed me forward, my head in the trap . . . and . . .”

  Suddenly, Scarlett’s head twisted in an unnatural way, again, as if reliving the horrific event. Kim cradled Scarlett in her arms, supporting the weight of her head as Scarlett choked out a few more words. “He . . . killed . . . me . . . he . . . did . . .” Her eyes were bulging, looking up at Holt’s house.

  “Wait a minute—are you saying the chief brought you here?” Kim must have misunderstood, or perhaps the Izzi alter was confused, making a mistake. “Isabel, please, it’s important.”

  Scarlett’s mouth moved as though she were trying to form words, but all that came out now was a breathless wail.

  “Well, look at that,” came a hard, bemused voice above them. Kim looked up to see Chief Plunkett leaning over the porch rail, a can of root beer in his hand. “Seems I’ve got visitors.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Chief,” Kim said shakily.

  “Is there something I can do for you girls?” he said lazily, as if he didn’t notice that Scarlett was melting down.

  “It was you in the woods,” Scarlett cried. “You chased me. You pushed me down. You—”

  “Well now, Scarlett, I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about,” Holt said, taking a pull of his root beer and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Look, I know you’ve got a few bats in the belfry, but it seems like you’re confused about who Isabel Wilcox really was. Let me tell you, that young lady was no Girl Scout. Town might even be better off now that she’s gone—you ever think about that?”

  “What are you trying to say?” Kim demanded, her blood running cold. His eyes were cruel, his laugh bitter. This was not the affable, genial chief of police she’d talked to in the past.

  “What? You think Isabel was some kinda honor roll student? You think she and Brad Chaplin would go out for milk shakes and volunteer down at the food bank?” He shook his head. “The two of them spread their drug filth all over town. Can’t begin to guess how many lives they ruined, how many families they tore apart. And don’t even get me started about that little porn ring they set up. If you had seen what I saw on some of those tapes . . .”

  Kim shook her head. “I still wouldn’t have killed her. She didn’t deserve to die, not like that.”

  Holt took several steps down the stairs, a smile washing over his face. “Wait. Did I say I killed her? I don’t think I said anything about killing her. You know, one of the first things you learn in the academy is not to jump to conclusions.”

  Kim thought about running, but Scarlett was still in her arms, paralyzed with fear.

  “Personally, I’m happy that Little Miss Troublemaker is dead, but I know your kind. Oh, hell, I knew you were a bleeding heart do-gooder the moment I met you,” Holt sneered. “It’s folks like you who let evil take hold. And fester. And then guys like me have to do the dirty work, trying to keep the rest of you safe. You’re like sheep, you can’t see the true threat even when it’s staring you dead in the face. Tell me this: Did you know that Isabel Wilcox got all chummy with perfectly respectable girls over at the community college . . . just so she could get them hooked on the drugs that Brad supplied her with?”

  As Holt advanced another step down the stairs, Scarlett grew more agitated, pulling at Kim’s arm and whimpering.

  “Just a little free taste, to get them nice and mellow before she started telling them how pretty they were, how they could make a lot of money if they’d pose for just a few tasteful pictures. Next thing they knew, those girls were strung out in a basement shooting filthy movies.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Scarlett protested, her voice chattering miserably. “It wasn’t ever supposed to go that far. It was supposed to be just the pictures and a chat room, and then it turned into streaming online . . . it just got out of hand.”

  “Try telling that to those girls’ parents,” Holt thundered, crushing the empty soda can in his fist as though it were as fragile as an eggshell. Any pretense of jocularity was gone as he continued down the porch steps, his footfa
lls heavy on the wooden planks. “Try telling that to the girls I put on buses headed for home, so far gone they can’t sit up straight, begging me for a hit.”

  “I wanted to stop,” Scarlett pleaded, starting to cry. “I wanted to shut it down, but Brad said—”

  Holt bellowed out a laugh. “Brad, huh? You want me to believe it was all his fault? Doesn’t work that way. I know trash when I see it. Isabel Wilcox was exactly the kind of trash I’ve worked so hard to clean up in this town. But don’t you worry, girls. Brad’s time is going to come soon. He’s on my to-do list.”

  “You did kill her,” Kim said, frozen in shock and horror.

  Holt’s demeanor shifted again, standing in mock defense. “Again, did I say I killed her?”

  Holt offered up a paternal smile. “Hey, you know what? I’d like you to meet someone.” He walked down the rest of the steps. Scarlett recoiled as he approached, but Holt turned and passed them by, moving toward the side of the house. After removing a padlock, he opened a heavy basement door and motioned for Kim and Scarlett to follow. “Come on, I think you’re both going to get a kick out of this.”

  Kim nodded and stood, but handed her keys to Scarlett. “Wait for me in the car.”

  Holt chuckled. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. I’m going to need you two to stay together.” He motioned again to the basement stairs. “Don’t make me beg now.”

  Kim helped Scarlett stand. They walked slowly toward the basement door, and as they reached the thick concrete walls that led to the storm cellar, they heard a low, barely perceptible howl—if the sound was human, it certainly didn’t sound like it. As they drew closer, the sound of wailing grew louder. Holt made sure to confiscate Kim’s car keys from Scarlett as she stepped into the basement. As they descended the stairs into the dark underbelly of the cabin, Kim surreptitiously reached for her phone in her bag, fumbling with the device and sliding it into her pocket.

  When they reached the floor of the dank room, Holt turned on a light, revealing the source of the muffled cries. Kim and Scarlett both gasped involuntarily.

  Naked, spread-eagle on a bed of concrete blocks, lay a bloody and beaten man, his arms and legs stretched tightly over the cement bed.

  “George DeWitt. You may have seen his missing-person poster hanging up in the station. You’ll have to trust me that it’s him. I know it’s hard to tell, but believe me when I say that that really is old George.”

  Scarlett was shaking, her voice high and fearful. “He was there. He helped me.”

  “And he’s going to help me, too.” Holt walked toward George, who continued to produce a sickening, low wail through the blood-soaked gag meant to keep him quiet.

  Kim put her hand into her pocket, cautiously gripping her phone. Fumbling to turn it on with the touch ID.

  “You know why I’ve kept old Georgie alive for this long?” The chief waited for Kim or Scarlett to respond, but neither bit. “Insurance.”

  Kim hoped that the phone was now on—she nimbly moved her finger toward the bottom of the screen, hoping it found the familiar phone app, and then pressed so hard she worried the phone’s screen might crack. She was calling Zack, but she kept her eyes locked on Holt . . . if she could keep him talking, it might keep him from killing. “Insurance? Insurance for what?”

  Holt shrugged. “Insurance in case this happened. In case someone decided to point the finger at me. When you’re in my line of work, it’s important to take out an insurance policy for . . . unforeseen emergencies. And you and your patient here . . . who woulda seen this coming, huh?”

  Slowly, Holt pulled one of the large cinder blocks out from George’s makeshift bed. With the support gone under the hunter’s head, it lowered back gently into a hole. He was too exhausted to raise it back up.

  Kim’s stomach sank, realizing what Holt was planning. She tried to stall. She tried to give him a reason not to follow through. She also knew that, by now, the phone in her pocket had either been answered by Zack, or it was recording on his voice mail. “So this man killed Isabel Wilcox. We’ll turn him in. He’ll be punished.”

  “Let’s stop playing games, Dr. Patterson. You know, and I know—even Sibyl here knows—that George DeWitt didn’t kill Isabel Wilcox.”

  Scarlett nodded furiously. “You did.”

  “I did. You’re damn right, I fucking did. I did this town a favor,” Holt said, lifting the concrete block off the floor. “I made sure she’d never hurt anyone again.” He then hoisted the concrete block onto his shoulder. “This one here, he made the mistake of hunting on my land. And poking his nose in where it shouldn’t have been.”

  All the pieces fell into place in Kim’s mind. Holt was behind everything. She guessed that he had faked the DNA results connecting Scarlett to Isabel’s phone. Hell, he probably processed the evidence himself. More “insurance” for him. If Kim hadn’t pushed for further inquiry, he might have just left it at that. But when Albert’s arrest gave him an even more convenient suspect, he’d been only too happy to shift the blame.

  And with Albert Sullivan dead—

  “You killed Sullivan,” she said, the truth dawning on her. “He didn’t hang himself, did he?”

  “Now, that man was the worst kind of scum,” Holt spat. “Pedophile, remorseless murderer. He didn’t deserve to live. I guess I should thank you for that,” he said to Scarlett, who was cowering by Kim’s feet. “But you ought to be thanking me for getting rid of him. This town is safer without him in it.”

  Kim wondered, if Holt was willing to take justice into his own hands by killing those he saw as a scourge, how far would he go to keep his secret safe? That question was answered almost immediately as Holt Plunkett raised the cinder block over his head and slammed it down on the face of George DeWitt. The block hardly slowed as it severed the hunter’s neck before splattering the contents of his skull onto the floor. His skull shattered, gray matter and pieces of flesh shot out as the concrete block dug into the floor.

  Scarlett screamed as Kim pulled out her phone, seeing that she had indeed successfully dialed Zack. Whether Zack was on the line right now, or if her call had gone to voice mail again, it didn’t matter . . . as she pulled Scarlett away, she yelled into the phone. “It was Holt, he killed—”

  But before she could finish, the chief bounded toward her and grabbed the phone from her hand. He threw it hard against the wall, and Kim helplessly watched as it exploded into as many shards as George DeWitt’s skull.

  Holt maneuvered himself between Kim and the stairwell leading to freedom. He folded his arms over his chest and smirked at Kim, as if daring her to try to get past him. He outweighed her by at least eighty pounds and had already proven how fast and strong he was—going through him wasn’t an option.

  “Now, I don’t expect any thanks. But I can’t very well let you go around telling people, now can I? If I’m not here, who’s going to watch out for the good people of Jarvis?”

  Kim backed away slowly. Holt stalked after her, offering Scarlett a clear path to the steps leading outside. She pleaded, “Chief Plunkett, you don’t have to do this.”

  “You know, that’s what they all say. When they realize that it’s over.”

  “Holt, please . . .”

  “That’s better. Establish a rapport with your abductor. That way he’ll be more reluctant to harm you.”

  She continued to back away, but slipped on the floor, falling in a puddle. She didn’t look down; she knew what the slippery liquid was. Instead, she remained focused on Holt. “I know, Holt, I know what happened to your wife. I read about it in your file.”

  “Nice. Appeal to your captor’s emotions. If you allow them to put themselves in your shoes, you stand a better chance of escape.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” Kim backed farther away as Holt continued to move toward her.

  Holt smiled, curious. “No? What do you think you’re doing then?”

  Kim smiled back. “Giving Scarlett a head start.” Holt cocked his head
as Kim screamed, “Run!” Hearing the violent command, Scarlett stood and scrambled up the stairs.

  Kim urged her on. Holt reached for his gun, but realized that he was no longer wearing it, having been in the middle of changing his clothes in preparation for the press conference. But the moment of hesitation allowed Kim to sprint past him, and she followed the girl up the stairs. Kim knew there were plenty of weapons in the house, probably some right there in the basement. There wasn’t much time; she needed to get Scarlett deep into the woods, where they had a chance of hiding from him.

  Kim pushed Scarlett up the final step, forcing her out into the yard. She nearly yanked Scarlett’s arm out of the socket as she pulled the girl, who seemed to be in a daze, toward the trees. “Isabel,” she cried desperately. “Please. Run!”

  Kim dragged Scarlett through Holt’s yard toward the dense evergreen forest, past neat flower beds and hydrangea hedges, an old barrel spilling over with ivy. The home was so inviting, so lovingly tended; such a stark contrast to the disturbed, violent man who lived there.

  As Kim hurried Scarlett along, she looked back toward the house: Holt had just reemerged from his basement, and sure enough, he was carrying what looked like a hunting rifle in addition to a police-issued handgun, which he stuffed into his front waistband. He called toward the girls while loading his rifle, “Where do you think you two are going? I got your keys. And I need you here. How else am I going to blame Scarlett for killing old Georgie boy?” Holt pushed the bolt handle forward to lock it down, raised the gun, and aimed.

  As Kim and Scarlett reached the tree line and leaped into the woods, the shot rang through the air.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The sound of the bullet was a loud, angry crack as it passed by Kim’s head. If she had jumped a fraction of an inch to the left, she’d have never heard it coming.

  They ran hard, branches snapping against their arms and faces, their feet breaking through an underlay of fallen leaves and twigs. Within moments, Kim was out of breath, but she pushed herself harder, keeping up with Scarlett. A branch scraped her face and she tasted blood; her ankle twisted painfully on an exposed root.