Bleeders Page 30

He leaned over the bed to inspect her work. “Make a triple knot.”

  She did what he said, tying it off one more time.

  “Okay, now the other one.”

  “You son of a bitch!” her father cursed, thrashing his head and straining to get loose. “Let her go! Do you hear me? Let her go!”

  But Lassiter ignored him. He was so fixated on Trisha he seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was in the room. She took that as a good sign. If he wasn’t thinking about Cindy and her father, he might not hurt them.

  She reached for the crimson scarf, but when she extended her left leg, she felt vulnerable with her legs apart. She scooted forward and bent her knees as best she could, but it wasn’t an improvement.

  She tied the knot, doing it tight just the way he wanted.

  The crooked grin returned.

  “The ax,” she said. “You promised you’d put it down.”

  “And if nothing else, I am a man of my word.” He held it in one hand, poised to throw it aside.

  “No!” She threw up her hands. “Don’t throw it. It might make a spark!” She couldn’t smell gas anymore, but she assumed her nose had gotten used to it. There was probably enough in this room to set off an explosion that would trigger a mega explosion in the next room.

  He looked down at the ax head, then looked at the duct-taped door and nodded as if he were just coming to understand the precariousness of the situation. His brow furrowed, but then he spotted something on the floor, and his face relaxed.

  “Here we go,” he said, lowering the ax head onto her slacks. He dropped the handle and caught it with his foot, setting it down easy.

  She stared at it, praying that the heavy ax head wasn’t on top of the transmitter.

  He went to the bed and loomed over her. “Now lie back. Hands over your head.”

  “Trisha, what the hell’s going on?” her father shouted. “Trisha!”

  “Trisha?” Cindy called out through her tears. “Trisha?”

  “It’s okay,” she said to them. “It’s okay. I’m here.” She wished they would be quiet so Lassiter could stay focused on her.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to them. His eyes bored into Trisha’s. “Lie back,” he said.

  Her instincts told her to stay the way she was, sitting up with her knees to her chest, but she had to keep him distracted. He was away from Cindy and her father but not far enough away from the ax. He could easily take a step back and snatch it up.

  “Come on. Arms up,” he said. He tossed the nightgown onto the floor. “We don’t need this.”

  Reluctantly she raised her arms. He brought his knee to the mattress, and she could feel it sink with his weight as he grabbed her closest wrist. His hand felt hot and clammy on her skin. His touch made her nauseous, but she didn’t dare do anything to rile him. This was a hand that had killed five women—that she knew of—including her mother. She assumed there were others.

  “Was she your first?” Trisha asked, her voice quavering.

  “Who?” He wrapped the yellow scarf around her wrist.

  “My mother.” Her heart slammed. It was time. “Natalie.”

  He continued to tie her wrist, ignoring the question.

  She braced herself for the crash through the windows.

  He tied a triple knot and yanked it tight.

  All she could hear was her own pulse. Where the hell were they?

  “Natalie,” she said, raising her voice. “Was she your first?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He reached for her other wrist, his chest shadowing her face.

  She desperately wanted to hear the crash and the yelling and the cursing, but there was nothing. Where the hell were they?

  She pulled her hand away and slipped it behind her back.

  “Come on, Nat—I mean, Trisha. We’ve come this far.” He reached under her to retrieve her hand.

  “Natalie,” she said louder, curling her wrist to evade his grasp. “Am I Natalie to you?”

  He gritted his teeth as he struggled to snatch her wrist.

  She glanced up at the windows. All she saw was fading sunlight and the portrait of herself looking back at her with her mother’s eyes. Terror shot through her like a million volts of electricity.

  Where the hell were they?

  Chapter 25

  Trisha grunted with exertion as she struggled to keep her hand away from Lassiter.

  “Give it to me,” he said. “Natalie wasn’t like this.”

  Cindy screamed. “Trisha! Trisha! What are you doing to her? Stop!”

  Michael strained at the duct tape, jumping up and down and making his chair move in a valiant but hopeless attempt to save his daughter. He chugged sideways, not realizing that he was moving away from the bed. One of the legs of his chair got caught in her slacks and moved the ax head.

  “Give me your hand, dammit!”

  “I’m not Natalie,” Trisha shouted as she fought him off. “I’m not Natalie!”

  He trapped her wrist and wrenched it out from behind her back.

  Where the hell were the SWAT guys? she thought. Why couldn’t they hear her? Had the transmitter malfunctioned? Was the ax head covering it?

  “Be still,” Lassiter said through gritted teeth, holding her wrist in both hands and pinning it to the mattress.

  “I’m not Natalie!” she shouted.

  He reached for the pink scarf.

  Help wasn’t coming. If he tied her down all the way, that would be the end of her. He’d get his wish.

  He looped the scarf around her wrist.

  “I’m not Natalie!” she shouted. And then she began to sing. “When the pain that you feel rolls like a wheel…”

  He stared at her, brows furrowed, confused.

  “…When the nights are long and deep, and your thoughts won’t let you sleep…”

  “Stop that,” he barked.

  She kept singing. “…When you think no one cares, that colts don’t need mares, keep this voice in your heart. I need you. I need you. I need you.”

  Her singing voice sounded strange to her. It had been so long since she had sung with a full voice. The line about colts and mares brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back, not wanting him to see her private feelings for her mother.

  “I am not Natalie!” she said, looking him in the eye. “You want me to be, but I’m not. I’m the kid on that stage in the backyard, singing this song. I’m Trisha. I’m not Natalie!”

  She knew she was playing with fire, that she might trigger a rampage that would cost them all their lives, but she was out of options. She couldn’t let him sink into his fantasy. She had to invade it, trample it, poison it with reality.

  “I was the teenager with the guitar on stage. I’m not my mother.”

  His expression melted into anguish.

  “Dad,” she called out. “Sing with me.”

  “What?” He turned his head left and right to locate her. “Why?”

  “Just do it. Trust me.” She started the same verse again. “When the pain that you feel—Dad! Sing!”

  “…Rolls like a wheel.” Her father joined in, hesitant at first. “…When the nights are long and deep, and your thoughts won’t let you sleep…” His voice grew stronger, not his trademark mellow baritone but bold and incensed.

  Father and daughter sang together at the tops of their voices. “…When you think no one cares, that colts don’t need mares, keep this voice in your heart, I need you… I need you…. I need you.”

  “Shut up!” Lassiter’s chest heaved. Sweat coursed down his face. “Shut up!” He lunged at her, getting his hands around her throat.

  His face loomed over hers. She felt his hot breath and his thumbs crushing her windpipe. But her one hand was sti
ll free, and instinctively she reached up and did the same thing she’d done to Colleen Franco in the van, pinching the pressure points under his lower lip.

  “Arrgh!” He winced, the initial shock loosening his grip.

  She doubled the pressure and shoved him with everything she had.

  He reared back to escape the pain and fell off the bed, tumbling into her father’s chair, then spilling onto the floor. Michael yelled, disoriented because Lassiter’s fall had turned his chair in different direction.

  Lassiter picked himself up, shoving Michael out of his way, the chair sliding sideways. He kicked Trisha’s slacks, separating them from the ax, lumbering toward her, like an infuriated grizzly on its hind feet.

  Trisha grabbed the only thing within reach on the night table, a length of plastic tube with a spinal needle attached.

  “Natalie…” he mumbled, then dove at her, his feet leaving the ground.

  “I’M NOT NATALIE!” she yelled, holding the needle steady between her thumb and forefinger. As he came crashing down, his momentum forced the needle into his throat, sinking in all the way to her knuckles. He sprung off the bed and stumbled backward, clutching his neck. He yanked out the needle and groaned, clamping his hand over the wound, blood dribbling through his fingers. His face was pure hatred. He dug into his pants pocket. She knew what he was going for.

  “No!” She reached out to stop him but couldn’t get off the bed. “No!”

  She saw a flash of neon green in his hand. The cigarette lighter. He scowled at her as he lurched toward the duct-taped door.

  “No! Don’t!”

  Cindy cried hysterically.

  Michael shouted, “Trisha! Trisha! What’s going on? What can I do?”

  Lassiter’s hand was on the doorknob, poised to yank it open.

  “Stop!” Trisha yelled. “Take me! That’s what you want. I’m your Natalie. I’m the one you want. I’m—”

  A deafening crash blew through the room like a hurricane. She thought it was exploding gas until she felt broken glass pelting her body and the weight of heavy footsteps on the mattress. Three SWAT officers in dark blue jump suits had crashed through the bay windows, their faces obscured by face-shield helmets.

  “Freeze!” one yelled.

  “Move away from the door!” another shouted.

  The third officer shined a high-power flashlight in Lassiter’s eyes, making him squint and highlighting the blood oozing from his neck.

  “He’s got a cigarette lighter,” Trisha shouted.

  As soon as she got the words out, Lassiter’s body jolted and twitched as if he’d been shot, but there was no gunfire. He let go of the knob and collapsed to his knees. That’s when she saw the white arrows sticking out of his shoulder and thigh. The officers were armed with small crossbows. The arrows were made out of plastic, tips and all. Trisha had read about SWAT teams using these. Silent and no sparks.

  The officers rushed Lassiter and forced him down on his belly. One sat on his back, wrenched the lighter out of his hand, and pinned his arms. Another one handcuffed him and shackled his ankles with plastic-strip cuffs, working as fast as a rodeo rider roping a calf. They frisked him and pulled another lighter out of his pocket.

  The third officer stood over him, crossbow at the ready as he spoke into the police radio clipped to his shoulder. “Suspect secured. Repeat. Suspect secured in rear basement. Three hostages alive, also in rear basement. The smell of gas is present.”

  He turned to Trisha and drew a black plastic knife from his utility belt. “Agent McCleery,” he said, acknowledging her as he cut the scarves.

  “What the hell took you so long?” she said.

  “We came as soon as we heard the word. But why was it so quiet in here?”

  The ax on top of the transmitter, she thought. It must have smothered the microphone until Lassiter kicked her pants.

  “Long story,” she said. “I’ll give you the details when we’re out of here.”

  She leaped off the bed and ran to her father. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s all over.” She peeled the tape off his eyes.

  He fought to keep them open, adjusting to the light. “Trisha, are you all right? What did he do to you? Tell me.” His anguished expression broke her heart.

  “I’m okay, Dad. He tried to hurt me, but they got here in time.”

  “Go take care of your sister.”

  Peeling the tape from Cindy’s eyes was a little easier because of her tears. She squinted and blinked. “Trisha,” she said, looking down at her. “Where are your pants? Did he—?”

  Trisha hugged her close. “No, no, he didn’t do anything to me. I did it to him. My pants are right over there.”

  “Well, go put them on.” Cindy was disoriented, probably in shock.

  “No time for chit-chat, ladies,” the SWAT officer who had cut Trisha loose said. “We have to evacuate the building. Now.” He slit the tape on Cindy’s arms and legs, then moved on to Michael.

  “We’re bringing the suspect out,” one of the other officers said into his radio. “He’s gonna need EMTs.”

  The two officers hauled Lassiter up by his arms. One of them slapped a discarded piece of duct tape over his throat to staunch the bleeding. Lassiter stared at Trisha, his face wet with tears. He was balling like a child.

  “Okay, let’s go,” the officer said, and he and his partner tipped Lassiter back and carried him by his ankles and shoulders toward the staircase. Lassiter contorted his head to keep looking at Trisha. “Natalie…” he said, his voice a wet croak. But then he disappeared around the corner as the officers carried him up the steps.

  “Can everybody walk on their own?” the remaining officer asked.

  The three McCleerys indicated that they were okay and could walk. Trisha picked up her slacks and quickly pulled them on.

  “Okay, everybody listen up,” the officer said. “We’re going up the staircase and out the front door. Don’t touch banisters, walls, doors, anything. No sparks please.” He pointed to Cindy. “Ma’am, you go up first. Walk normal. Don’t run. But don’t take your time.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Cindy said.

  He pointed to Michael. “Sir, you go next.”

  “No, I want my daughters to go before me.”

  Trisha was about to object when the officer beat her to the punch. “Sir, Agent McCleery is a trained federal officer. She can take care of herself and all of us, too.” He turned to Trisha. “Agent McCleery, you go up after your father. I’ll bring up the rear. Okay, let’s get going. The smell of gas is more powerful in here than any of you realize.”

  Trisha guessed that adrenaline had kept them from passing out from the fumes.

  Cindy charged ahead but then looked back before she mounted the steps to make sure her father was okay.

  “I’m right behind you,” he said.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” the officer urged. His radio crackled with activity, but the words were hard to decipher.

  Trisha peered up the staircase. It seemed narrower than before. She squeezed her eyes shut and swore she wasn’t going to give in to her claustrophobia. She opened her eyes and shouted, “Hurry up, Cindy! Go!” She wanted to get through that narrow passage as fast as possible.

  Cindy started up the stairs, followed by her father, Trisha, and the SWAT officer. They moved in close formation, like mountain climbers in a blinding snowstorm. Trisha put her hand on her father’s back. She started to feel panicky, but as long as her feet kept moving, she was all right.

  Don’t stop, she thought. Don’t stop. Just keep going. If they stopped, jammed in like this, she knew she would have a full-blown panic attack. She closed her eyes and prayed for a cool, clean breath of air. Don’t stop, don’t stop, she kept saying in her head. Don’t stop.

 
But they weren’t moving fast enough. She felt trapped. She wanted to squeeze past her father and sister. She was small enough that she might be able to do it. She was about to try when she heard the officer’s voice behind her.

  “How we doing, Agent McCleery?”

  Hearing him address her as “agent” reminded her that she wasn’t a victim here. She was law enforcement, and that steadied her.

  “I’m good,” she said. “Doing fine.”

  Trisha gripped the tail of her father’s jacket and followed him to the top of the stairs. Other SWAT officers met them in the foyer and hustled them out the door into fresh air and daylight. The officer who had brought up the rear stayed with her, holding her arm. She sucked in air, greedy for oxygen, then started coughing, her lungs expelling gas in spasms.

  The area in front of Lassiter’s townhouse was clear for 100 feet. No cars, no people.

  “Run,” the officer said. “Come on. Run with me.” And together they ran, him pulling her along.

  The scene passed by in a merry-go-round blur. Her head ached, and her temples throbbed. Her legs were rubber. She just wanted to sit down and rest, but the officer kept her moving.

  “A little bit more,” he urged. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

  She closed her eyes and kept moving, letting him guide her. He led her to an ambulance where she plopped down on the tailgate. A young woman with short shiny black hair in a light-blue EMS shirt put an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Through the blur, Trisha could see the woman cradling a small oxygen tank like a baby.

  “Just breathe, honey,” the woman said. “Slow deep breaths. You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe.”

  Another EMS worker, a young man, checked her heartbeat with a stethoscope and felt the pulse in her neck. He raised her eyelids and checked her pupils with a small flashlight. She was too exhausted to resist.

  Gradually her headache diminished, and though she felt fuzzy-headed, she could see beyond the two people working on her. She looked down at her feet and realized she wasn’t wearing shoes. She’d left them behind.

  She could see the front of Lassiter’s townhouse from where she sat. A Con Ed panel truck was parked out front, and two men in yellow HAZMAT suits with air tanks on their backs stood by the open rear, collecting tools and preparing to go in. The gas, she thought, slowing putting it all together. They were going to do something about the gas.