Chapter 11
Sylvie Pomerol stood stirring a pot of beef stew on the stove. Way back in college she'd been a vegetarian, but meeting her husband had changed that. If he didn't eat some sort of meat at a meal, he didn't think he'd been fed, and his cooking prowess was limited to the grill, so she was the main cook. He did other things to balance the scales of their lives together, but she had no desire to make two separate meals every day. Still, occasionally she'd make soups for lunch that were meat-free. Bart compensated by slathering the bread she made from scratch with slabs of butter.
She tensed as she heard a vehicle drive up, then relaxed when she saw Bart jump out of the blue 1970 Ford F-250 pickup that he'd restored from a rusting hulk of steel when he'd gotten out of the Marine Corps five years ago. Security lights flooded the yard. She bit her lip then walked over and unlocked the back door.
News of Julius Leech's escape had made her nervous, but the chances of him even remembering her name, let alone figuring out where she lived when he was on the run from every law-enforcement agency in the country was small.
Still. She'd kept the door locked all day and worked remotely.
She didn't underestimate people like Leech. He was cunning and deceitful. He was also enough of a narcissist to hold a grudge, even if, ultimately, it was his own fault he'd been arrested and convicted of murder.
Sociopaths rarely saw themselves as they truly were. It was always someone else's fault, someone else was to blame.
He hadn't liked her assessment of the crimes he'd committed, nor of the profile she'd created of him that had been uncannily accurate. The fact his childhood had messed him up was no excuse. Many people had sob stories even if his was particularly tragic. His father had smothered his mother with a pillow when she'd stabbed him. They'd both died, neither of them realizing their son was hiding in the closet, watching. He'd been six.
She tasted the stew and turned the heat down to a low simmer. Bart came in the back door in his socks as he'd left his boots in the mudroom.
"Hey, there." He walked over and kissed her. "Everything okay?"
She nodded.
He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "That smells amazing. I'm going to grab a quick shower."
He kissed her again and headed upstairs. She sighed with relief. Bart always made her feel safe.
A bang made her jolt. She walked over to check the window. The door to the mudroom hadn't latched properly, and the wind had blown it open. "Dammit." It happened all the time in winter when the ground shifted. She stepped outside, avoided the melting snow from Bart's boots, and grabbed the handle, pulling it closed and shutting out the bitter wind.
Her heart stopped when a hand gripped her mouth from behind and a handgun pressed tight against her temple.
"Hello, Dr. P."
Bile rose in her throat as she struggled, and the fingers clamped more firmly over her mouth and nose. She couldn't breathe, but she made as much noise as she could.
"No, you don't." Julius Leech cuffed her on the side of the head with the heavy metal of the pistol, making her stagger and her eyes roll as she fell to her knees.
He grabbed her hand and slipped a metal cuff tight around her wrist. Pulled her arm behind her back along with the other one as she fought not to pass out. If she passed out, she was dead. Bart was dead.
Bart…
She let out a cry, but Leech slammed her head with the butt of the pistol again, this time dropping her to the floor. Then he slapped a piece of duct tape over her mouth.
Terror ran through her veins.
Oh God.
He rolled her onto her back, her wrists straining painfully from the pressure of their combined weight. His groin pressed against hers. Revulsion filled her.
"Now you get to feel what it's like to be shackled like an animal." Leech looked thinner, features more defined. But something glittered in his pale blue eyes as he looked at her. Something more dangerous than she remembered.
Had Bart heard their struggle?
She thought of her cellphone, useless in a pocket she couldn't reach. The gun in the drawer, gathering dust.
She couldn't even use her training to distract him as he'd silenced her.
He dragged her roughly to her feet, and she stumbled as her head swam.
"I've got you, Dr. P. You didn't make it easy to find you, but I've been keeping tabs for a while now. Never expected I'd get the opportunity to call on you personally. I guess you never know what life's going to throw at you." He grabbed her arm with biting fingers and pushed her ahead of him, pistol in his other hand, pointed at her head.
She had to warn Bart. In the kitchen she shoved against the table as hard as she could. Dishes rattled as the heavy wood scraped the floor.
Leech jerked her head back by her hair, and her eyes watered at the pain.
His grip tightened, and he kept his voice to a malevolent whisper. "Tut tut. Let's not ruin the surprise for Bart. You know how we unfeeling sociopaths don't appreciate others upsetting our evil plans."
The living room was empty, and they could both hear movement on the floor above.
She stumbled on the stairs, but Leech jerked her hair so hard her scalp burned.
They reached the bedroom, but rather than Bart jumping out and tackling Leech like she'd prayed, she heard him singing Bohemian Rhapsody in the shower.
She made a muffled squeal and Leech shoved her face down on the bed and sat on her back, pressing her face into the duvet so she couldn't breathe…
Please, please, someone save us.
As she heard the shower turn off and the door open, followed by the blast of a gunshot, she knew it was too late.