Kill Her Again (A Thriller) Read online

  Still nothing.

  Anna inched closer, about to chalk all of this up to her overworked imagination, when she spotted something in the dirt just three yards away. A small object, made of plastic.

  Checking the carousel shadows for movement again—and seeing nothing—she holstered her Glock and stepped over to the object, crouching down to take it in her hands.

  A pink My Little Pony.

  Just like the ones on Kimberly’s bedspread.

  Anna knew it could have been dropped by almost anyone over the last several days, but she didn’t think so—and a renewed sense of dread washed through her as she thought about the significance of the toy.

  Had it been placed here for her to discover?

  Was the man in the red baseball cap telling her that he had—

  “Chavi?”

  The voice rose from the shadows behind her.

  Startled, Anna jumped to her feet and spun, ripping her Glock from its holster again, pointing it toward a patch of darkness near one of the food booths.

  Was he in there?

  “FBI,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Come out. Slowly. Hands raised.”

  “Is it you, Chavi?”

  The voice had a vaguely European lilt. English was not his first language.

  “I’m not gonna ask again,” Anna told him. “You’re interfering with a federal investigation. Show yourself.”

  No response. Not even a hint of movement.

  Then, from off to her right: “I’ve made mistakes, Chavi. Many mistakes. More than I can count.”

  Anna jerked toward sound of the voice, pointing her weapon at the Tilt-A-Whirl. It seemed to be coming from one of the cars now.

  “But in the end, I always find you. I always will.”

  Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, she stepped backwards, retreating into the shadows near the carousel.

  “Who are you?”

  “You don’t know me? You don’t remember?”

  “Cut the bullshit. Where’s Kimmie? What did you do with her?”

  “Ahhh,” the voice said. “She was another mistake. And after all the trouble I went through to find her. All the blood I shed. That poor mother fought quite hard to protect her child.”

  Anna stepped forward again, straining to see him, her finger brushing the trigger.

  “But not to worry. Each mistake I make brings me closer to the one I seek.” A pause. “Am I closer now?”

  “Just tell me what you did with Kimmie, you freak. Where is she?”

  “Where they all are, of course. With the angels.”

  The voice came from the left this time, near the Ferris wheel. Disoriented, Anna turned again, trying to pin him down. “What are you telling me? You killed her, too?”

  “Freed her,” he said. “I freed them all.” Another pause. “But what about you, Chavi? Are you a mistake?”

  “Why do you keep calling me that? Who’s Chavi?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then:

  “The girl who stole my soul.”

  The voice was directly behind her now. Something touched the left side of Anna’s rib cage and a jolt of pain ripped through her. Losing her grip on the Glock, she fell to the ground, her body spasming violently.

  Stun gun. She’d been hit by a stun gun.

  The man in the red baseball cap stepped out of the shadows and stood over her, his face obscured by the bill of the cap.

  Crouching beside her, he reached out and touched her head. Smoothed her hair.

  His breath stank of cigarettes.

  “Is it really you, Chavi? Have I found you again?”

  And all Anna could see was his crooked yellow smile.

  17

  THEY WERE NEARING the Ludlow off-ramp when Evan had another seizure.

  Except for the occasional murmur about red hats, he’d slept quietly for most of the ride. Pope had spent their short time on the road wondering if the boy’s mutterings had come from something more than a simple nightmare.

  But what else could it possibly be?

  In the end, it didn’t really matter. Pope had more pressing things to think about.

  Like staying alive.

  He checked his rearview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few minutes. He half-expected to see Arturo and crew blasting toward him on the highway, but the road looked empty. No sign of headlights except for the big rig and the motor home he’d passed a few moments ago.

  Pope figured his best bet was to get Evan back to Jake, who could make sure that he was properly taken care of. Hanging out with a fugitive from the fuckup factory was probably not the best place for a kid to be. Pope still wasn’t quite sure why he had agreed to watch him in the first place.

  Or was he?

  No matter how much he tried to deny it, there was something about Evan that brought out Pope’s paternal instincts. Instincts he thought had died along with Ben.

  They were about a mile out of Ludlow when Evan twisted in his seat and started murmuring again.

  “. . . Chavi . . . ,” he said.

  Pope glanced at him, saw that he was still asleep, his brow furrowed as if he were concentrating heavily.

  “. . . Is it you, Chavi?”

  Pope frowned. What the hell was going on in this kid’s head?

  Evan was quiet for another long moment. Spotting the Ludlow off-ramp ahead, Pope pointed the nose of the Tercel toward it and accelerated, wondering what his next step would be.

  Should he ignore Sharkey’s request and tell Jake what had happened? Or was it possible that Jake already knew about Troy and Sharkey?

  No, if Sharkey was involved in a long-term undercover operation, Pope doubted some dirt-water sheriff’s deputy would be in the loop. And maybe it was best to leave it that way. Whatever Sharkey was up to, it wouldn’t be good for Troy—and that was just fine with Pope. Multimillionaire or not, the guy was almost certainly a psychopath, and Pope didn’t relish being on his hit list.

  They were nearing the off-ramp when Evan let out a small cry of pain. Pope spun his head toward him, and saw his body stiffen, and knew immediately what was coming next.

  Then Evan started convulsing, his eyes flying open, rolling back in his head until only the whites were visible.

  Holy shit.

  Pope jerked the wheel and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt in the gravel beside the road. Reaching over, he quickly unfastened Evan’s seat belt as the boy bucked and kicked, his head rolling from side to side.

  “Easy,” Pope told him, trying to calm himself as much as Evan, knowing he was probably speaking to deaf ears. “You’ll be fine, son. You’ll be fine in just a minute.”

  Pope was reminded of the first time he’d witnessed an epileptic fit. His grandpa Joe—a Vegas real estate broker—convulsing by the pool on a hot Sunday afternoon as Grandma M. stood over him, a glass of iced tea in hand, telling everyone with a tight, embarrassed smile, “Not to worry. He’ll be just fine.”

  But Pope was worried now. There was something different about Evan’s seizure this time. It was more than your typical grand mal. He was sure of it. The convulsions seemed twice as violent as before, and Evan continued to cry out in pain, hands clutching his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

  A hospital. Pope had to get him to a hospital.

  Putting the Toyota in gear, he was about to dig out when, all at once, Evan was still, the attack over. Done.

  Gripping the wheel as he tried to calm himself, Pope stared at the boy, saw that his eyes were closed, sweat beading on his brow. His breathing was uneven, but was gradually getting steadier.

  Heaving a shaky sigh of relief, Pope shoved the gearshift back into park and just sat there a moment, memories of Ben once again forcing their way out of the lockbox he tried so hard to keep them in. But this time he let them come, let the sadness envelop him.

  And before he knew it, tears flooded his eyes.

  What had he been doing to himself these last two y
ears? Why had he allowed his grief to control him? Allowed himself to fall prey to the cards, the pot, the women—when all he had to do was cry? To release the pain. The toxins. Purge them from his soul.

  What he had become did not honor the memory of his son. If Ben could see him now, he’d be ashamed. Mortified, in fact.

  Pope blinked away his tears and looked at Evan again. He was about to reach over to wipe the sweat from the boy’s forehead when Evan suddenly bolted upright, showing only the whites of his eyes.

  “He’s hurting her. You have to stop him. He’s hurting her!” Pope just stared at him. “What?”

  “The man in the red hat. He’s hurting her. He’s hurting my Anna.”

  A chill ran through Pope. One so strong that his teeth nearly chattered. Despite his admitted indifference to the idea of unexplained phenomena like ghosts and UFOs and psychic healers and, yes, past lives—looking at Evan, he knew one thing for certain:

  This was no fucking nightmare.

  “Help her!” Evan cried. “Don’t let him take her away.”

  Pope grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where, Evan? Where is he taking her?”

  “The house of mirrors. Dr. Demon’s House of Mirrors. Do something. Now.”

  Pope didn’t need much more of a kick in the ass than that. Quickly pulling Evan’s seat upright, he strapped Evan in again, jammed the Tercel into drive, and hit the accelerator, shooting back onto the off-ramp.

  He wasn’t sure what Evan was babbling about, but the bit about the house of mirrors had triggered something in his mind:

  The carnival.

  The carnival was in town.

  Pope had spent part of every summer of his childhood haunting the grounds of Ludlow High, flirting with girls, riding rides, and navigating the maze inside Dr. Demon’s House of a Thousand Mirrors.

  Middle of July meant carnival season, and whatever was going on down there did not bode well for Special Agent Anna McBride.

  Pointing the Tercel in the direction of the school, he fumbled for his cell phone and hit speed-dial.

  Two rings later, Jake was on the line.

  18

  HE HAD HER by the collar and was dragging her through the carnival grounds as if she were nothing more than a sack full of old bones.

  Every time Anna tried to resist, he hit her with the stun gun again, sending a spark of electricity straight into her central nervous system, dazing her, her heart pounding uncontrollably. Every shock seemed to drive her deeper into her own mind. She felt as if she were floating in and out of darkness, only half-conscious of the world around her.

  Then, as she came into the light again, she tried to twist away, grabbing at his hand, feeling the coarse flesh and the hardened bones beneath it—the hand of a working man, a farmer, a peasant—

  —a carny?

  He was dragging her toward the dark doorway of one of the carnival sideshows—the one from the photograph in Evan and Kimberly’s room—

  —Dr. Demon’s House of a Thousand Mirrors.

  And as she tried to pry his fingers loose, he brought the stun gun down again, jabbing its probes against her neck for what must have been the fourth or fifth time, sending another jolt through her.

  This one drove her so deep into the darkness that she felt as if she were tumbling through a long black tunnel, only to emerge to light on the other side, shadows flickering in it, moving across a surface of some kind.

  But what was it?

  As her eyes cleared, Anna realized that she was now staring up at the tattered ceiling of a moving car, tree shadows flitting across it as its old engine rumbled and the road bumped beneath her.

  But how had she gotten here? Had she lost consciousness long enough for him to hoist her into a car and drive away?

  No, something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Anna remembered those shadows. Remembered them from one of her visions of the little girl. Had the trauma of what was happening to her brought on another episode?

  If so, the experience was no longer the detached, observational view she was accustomed to. No glimpses of mayhem and carnage that faded from the mind almost as quickly as they came.

  This time it was happening to her.

  She was the little girl.

  Anna had somehow inhabited the girl’s mind and body, experiencing every pain, every thought, every fear as if it were her own.

  The pungent smell of cigarette smoke filled her nostrils. Something constricted her mouth and she realized it was taped shut. Glancing down, she found that her wrists and ankles were bound—the wrists and ankles of a ten-year-old—duct tape wrapped around them, making it nearly impossible to move.

  She was lying on the backseat of the car, and for some reason she kept thinking about someone named Stinky.

  Mr. Stinky, to be more precise, who had been hit by a bus.

  Confusion crowded Anna’s brain. Her thoughts seemed to be intermingled with those of her host and she had trouble discerning whose thoughts were whose.

  Looking out her window through the little girl’s eyes, she saw that they were driving through a dark forest, thick green trees growing black in the waning twilight.

  Turning slightly, she strained to see the car’s driver, but all she saw was the red baseball cap sitting atop a closely cropped head of dark hair. Just above his collar line was a tattoo—another goddamned neck tattoo—but instead of a dragon, this one looked like a wheel, a wagon wheel, with at least a dozen spokes, a couple of them missing:

  It was a symbol of some kind, but of what?

  Shifting her gaze, Anna caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in his rearview mirror: a single dark, brooding eye, obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  An ornate locket dangled from a chain on the rearview mirror, clacking against the windshield as they bumped along.

  And all at once, Anna knew she was about to die.

  Brakes squeaked as the car came to a sudden halt. The driver pushed his door open and got out, moving stiffly, as if some sort of physical handicap was slowing him down. A moment later, the trunk was unlatched, the car bouncing slightly as the man pulled something out of it.

  Then Anna’s own door flew open, and for the first time she got a full view of his face.

  The sight made her shudder.

  It was a study in God’s plan gone wrong. The entire left side looked as if it had been squeezed by forceps at the moment of birth—a misshapen, lopsided mess.

  Anna flinched, the little girl in her instinctively squeezing her eyes shut as revulsion welled up. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

  Then hands grabbed her, those same coarse working man’s hands, pulling her out of the backseat, dropping her roughly to the ground. She let out a yelp of pain, her breath hot against the tape, as the man took her by the collar and dragged her through fallen leaves, her bound wrists and ankles making it impossible for her to resist.

  He dragged her into the middle of a forest clearing, struggling to carry a small, battered suitcase in his free hand. Dumping her to one side, he crouched down, laid the suitcase on the ground, and opened it, taking a moment to make his choice. Then he brought out a narrow-bladed knife. Suitable for boning.

  It was covered with dried blood.

  The wind was high, bending the trees above them, leaves swirling around Anna as she began to cry uncontrollably, desperately wriggling her wrists, trying to loosen the tape. But it was no use. She wouldn’t be going anywhere until the man in the red baseball cap sent her there.

  Grabbing her left hand, he closed it into a fist, then pried the index finger loose and extended it, staring down at her out of his one good eye, a crooked yellow smile forming on that hideous face.

  “I’ve come for what is mine, Chavi. I’ve come to make it right.”

  Chavi. The same name he’d called her back on the carnival grounds. Back in the real world.

  The girl who stole my soul.

  Is that what he was here for now?

  Was he the Devil incarnate
? Some kind of demon who cuts the life force out of his victims only to leave them to wither away and die?

  “Don’t cry, my darling. The pain you feel will be mine for eternity.”

  Then, wiping the blade on his sweater—a ratty blue pullover—he brought the knife down to her finger and—

  —a voice shouted out from the distance—

  “Hold it! Stop right there!”

  Suddenly, the wind and leaves and the bending trees disappeared and Anna opened her eyes to discover that she was back on the carnival grounds, only feet from the entrance to the house of mirrors, the man in the baseball cap still clutching her collar as—

  —Deputies Worthington and Chavez ran the length of the football field toward them, moving past the carousel, Worthington bringing his weapon up to fire—

  “Stop! Let her go!”

  —and Anna grabbed hold of his arm, twisting away from him, anticipating another shock—

  —but he didn’t resist this time, didn’t bring the stunner down, because his attention was on the deputies. Instead, he turned, diving sideways toward the black doorway of the house of mirrors as—

  —Anna grabbed for his ankle, managing only to get hold of his shoe. It came off in her hands as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Tossing it aside, she scrambled to her feet, but the repeated shocks to her system had rendered her too weak to stand and her body betrayed her, legs buckling. She went down hard on her knees, pain shooting through them—

  —but before she hit the ground, Worthington and Chavez were there, grabbing her, carefully sitting her down.

  “Are you okay?” Worthington asked.

  Anna pointed toward the black doorway. “In there. He’s in there.”

  “I know, I saw him.”

  “There must be a back way out.”

  Worthington rose and turned to Chavez. “You cover the front.”

  But Chavez wasn’t listening to him, his attention now drawn to something off to the side of the house of mirrors:

  A small, lifeless form in the dirt.

  It looked to Anna like an oversized rag doll.

  A bloody rag doll.

  Chavez quickly stepped over to it, his face churning in anguish as he approached.