Lucien woke up groggy. His head ached worse than he’d ever felt it ache before. For a few seconds, disorientation reined. Why did he feel like he’d been chewed up and spit back out again? He moved to lift a hand to his throbbing skull. Except his arm wouldn’t budge. And that’s when it all came rushing back. The climb into the house. The family tree. The fake scream and the realization that Hanes had outsmarted them. Then the abrupt blackness. But one thought rose above all.
Raven.
He resisted an urge to futilely holler her name. Where was she now? He hoped to God she was okay. In fact, he wouldn’t even entertain the idea that she might not be. Backup had to have arrived at Sally Rickson’s house by now. There wouldn’t have been enough time for Hanes to grab Raven, too. Not while also securing and transporting Lucien himself.
Speaking of time and transportation...
How long had he been out, and where the hell was he? If he wanted to get back to Raven—which he did, more than anything—he needed to figure out where Hanes had brought him.
Fighting the fogginess of his mind, he took a slow, deliberate inventory of both himself and his surroundings. Aside from the thick ache in his head, the rest of his body appeared relatively unharmed. His shoulders hurt a bit, which he suspected was owing to the way his arms had been drawn back and secured behind him.
No. Not just behind you, he corrected silently. Behind you and around something.
He flexed his fingers a little, trying to get a feel for it. The object in question was cold and metal and a couple of feet wide. He gave it another poke and decided that he was about 90 percent sure that it was some kind of pipe. Not residential, though. Its breadth was too great for that. Commercial, maybe? Or industrial? Wherever he was, it wasn’t in the basement of someone’s home. Though that being decided...he did think he might be at least partially underground. There was almost no light, and the air had a certain smell. Earthy. Dank. On top of that, his clothes—particularly the underside of his pants—felt damp. Soaked through, almost.
Soaked through.
Lucien blinked as he realized his pants didn’t just feel wet. They were wet. Very wet.
He cast a glance down and spied the reason. Even in the dark, he could see the shimmer of water, catching what little light there was and reflecting it back to him. He was sitting in a puddle, maybe an inch deep.
He lifted his eyes and took a wider look around. Walls surrounded him. Or at least they did on the three sides he could see, and he thought it was a safe assumption that a fourth stood behind him. But there was something off about them. They appeared to be painted, but they didn’t look like finished drywall at all. He could swear they almost seemed to be made of a concrete. As he tipped his attention up even farther, he saw that the oddity didn’t end with the walls. Or at least not with what they were made of. There was also the fact that they led to blank space. No ceiling.
Lucien craned his neck. Way above was a roof of some kind, but he couldn’t quite make out what it looked like. He dragged his gaze over the walls again, this time downward. When his eyes hit the floor, his puzzlement doubled. It appeared to have a steep slope, and he was mostly definitely at the bottom.
A room inside a room?
The suggestion didn’t quite fit, but he really felt like he ought to have a clue as to what his whereabouts meant. Yet the answer remained just out of reach. The pain in his head was trying to expand, too, and that was bogging him down even more. Trying to fight the fog, he closed his eyes for a second. Slowly and silently, he started to count down from thirty. He only got as far as twenty-one before a new awareness crept in. The darkness held a sound. A trickle. So steady that it actually bordered on a stream. It was deeply disconcerting, and Lucien didn’t know how he hadn’t noted it first. Maybe because he’d dismissed it as wind, or maybe because the thump of his headache had blocked it out completely. Now, though, it seemed all-important.
He opened his eyes and searched for its source. His efforts drew a blank. Shifting a little in place, he tried to get a better view. Instead of spying anything more, he just sloshed in the puddle beneath him. He adjusted again and realized something. It didn’t matter so much where the dripping was coming from. What really mattered was that it was coming in at all. More significant than that was the fact that it was staying. The puddle was growing. The inch-deep water already felt more like two—though maybe his mind was exaggerating it, at least a little—and getting free abruptly superseded the need to understand his surroundings.
Lucien closed his eyes again, this time to search out a solution. A twist of his wrists told him his bonds were of the zip-tie variety, and also that Hanes had used more than one. Not ideal, but slightly less secure than a set of cuffs. He filed away the detail and moved on to the next. His arms were able to move up and down the pipe a little, and that gave him some time-buying hope. If the water rose too high, he could probably force his way into a standing position. At the thought, a vision of himself, standing helplessly in chin-high water filled his mind.
Not going to let it get that far, he growled silently.
He rand his thumbs over the pipe, seeking a physical weakness. The metal didn’t appear to be soft or flimsy in any way, and it was hard not to let disappointment flood in. There had to be a way out. Hanes was crafty and meticulous, but he was also human, and humans made errors. They got overconfident. Let things slide or forgot small details. Especially people like Hanes, who thought they existed outside the law and who believed they were above all others. As if to bring the idea from metaphor to reality, a scrape overhead announced that Lucien was no longer alone.
He angled his face up and called out softly, “Hello, Georges.”
“Lucien. Nice to see you again.”
“Interesting statement, considering that I can’t see you at all.”
A moment passed, then there was a shuffle, and a pale, white face appeared in the open space at the top of the strange walls. Lucien’s teeth clamped together as loathing filled him. It was the first time he’d seen Hanes since the end of the trial, and he was once again reminded how much he despised the man. With his plain features and unassuming stance, there was nothing about the Kitsilano Killer than screamed evil. He was the mild-mannered bag boy at the local grocery store. The guy who handed back your change at the pet-food supply place, or the one who smiled at the gas station and asked if you needed a fill. Yet under that was the soullessness of a cold-blooded murderer. Lucien hated the contradiction, even though he’d been around similar ones enough times to be familiar with it. Books and cover. Looks and deceptions.
“Nothing to say to me, Detective?” Hanes called down.
Lucien unlocked his jaw and forced an even tone. “Nothing nice to say, Georges. How about we leave it at that?”
“So, then... I take it you haven’t figured it out, yet.”
“You know I’m not interested in your games.”
“This one should interest you, though.”
“I’m afraid not.”
There was a pause. “So it’s your girlfriend who did all the clever legwork.”
Lucien’s teeth fought to gnash together again. “Leave her out of this.”
“Oh, I am,” the other man reassured him. “Raven Elliot is quite irrelevant at this stage.”
A stab of straight-up fear hit Lucien’s gut. “What the hell does that mean?”
Hanes chuckled. “Not that, Detective. She’s alive, and as far as I know, physically sound. Though she’s probably worried about you. I meant what I said quite literally. She’s irrelevant. She has no bearing on the ‘game,’ as you called it. In fact, she was a previous winner, and I have no intention of overturning that.”
Even though he knew full well that the man couldn’t be trusted, Lucien couldn’t quite stop a breath of relief from escaping his lungs. After all, Hanes had no reason to placate him.
“So what is it you want, then, Georges?” he called up.
“I think I’ll wait just a little while longer, and hope that you figure it out on your own. I’ll give you some more time alone, Detective.”
As soon as he’d said it, the tap of feet on the ground echoed through the strange space. Then the air went silent, except for the sound of the trickling water and Lucien’s own noisy thoughts.
Time was being wasted, and Raven was being left out. Or at least that was how it felt to her. The police had taken her statement. They’d been attentive to her physical well-being. And then they’d proceeded to speak in hushed tones while they followed up on the leads that she had given them. Even Sergeant Gray—who she was sure knew just how much leeway Lucien had given her during the investigation—wasn’t providing her with any useful details. The scenario was disheartening and frustrating, and she’d finally asked for a few minutes alone.
The sergeant had complied. In fact, he’d very nicely—almost enthusiastically—suggested that she take a breather in Sally Rickson’s bedroom. The room was away from the noise on the first floor, which was currently being used as a base for the search for Lucien.
“Conveniently far away from the action, too,” Raven muttered as she sank down on the edge of Sally’s bed and eyed the door, which was closed but undoubtedly guarded on the other side.
She sighed. She knew it wasn’t fair to be angry with the task force, which was being made to go on yet another tangent because of Lucien’s missing status. Every person in the living room below was invested in finding him, just as they were hard at work trying to decipher the meaning of the ash from Hanes’s third clue. And they’d been effective and efficient with some things so far. Raven had to admit that. They’d figured out that Hanes had cloned Lucien’s phone to cancel the call for backup. They’d tracked down the real Henry Gallant, and found out that he did live in Toronto, that he had been on a few dates with Sally and also that he was completely clueless as to what was going on. They hadn’t yet figured out if Hanes himself had made the calls or if he’d hired someone to do it, but she was sure they would soon. It was all progress. They had the best intentions and the best resources. Not mention that it was literally their job.
Except none of them has been in Sally’s shoes, Raven thought. None of them is in love with Lucien. And none of them is sure their heart will be ripped out if they don’t beat Hanes at his game.
Her throat constricted. She was half-certain her heart was already on its way to being ripped out.
Burdened by the need to be moving, she stood up and paced the room. Her eyes roved over the space in search of some clue that the officers might’ve missed. They’d gone through it in the same way they’d explored the rest of the house. Quickly. Thoroughly. And fruitlessly.
But there had to be something, didn’t there? Hanes liked his clues to be challenging, but there was always a solution. The trick was figuring it out before it was too late.
She slowed both her steps and her gaze. At a carefully measured pace, she scanned the room again.
There was the desk under the window, which was more-or-less empty even before the VPD team got to it. Only a dog-eared address book and a container of pens—knocked over, then picked up again—sat on top. Neither thing screamed of being a clue.
Raven’s attention swung from the desk to the small bookshelf. It was tidily arranged. Alphabetized by author name. It was all fiction, and no titles about fire or ash to speak of.
She spun toward the closet, which hung open, evidence of the search on display. Open shoeboxes. A dress, knocked to the floor. Hangers askew. Nothing that stood out any more than the rest.
Raven moved on. The dresser was much the same as the rest. It’d been opened. Rifled through with as much delicacy as anything could be rifled through. A pair of flannel pajama bottoms hung out of the bottom drawer, where extra care hadn’t been taken in closing it.
Absently, Raven stepped toward the pj’s, preparing to tuck them back in. But as she bent down, something under the bed caught her eye. Her heart did a hopeful leap in her chest. She abandoned the flannel before even touching it, moved across the room and dropped to her stomach. The space under the bed was very narrow, the frame only a couple of inches from the floor. And the object that had somehow drawn her attention was quite small, very close in color to the carpet. It was obviously hidden deliberately. She could see how it could’ve been overlooked. In fact, the only reason she’d seen it was sheer luck.
Or maybe fate, she conceded silently as she slid a hand under the bed, reached for the item and realized what it was—a nearly flat, three-inch-by-three-inch box. The perfect place to stow a secret.
Knowing she should probably be calling out to the officer on the other side of the bedroom door, Raven cast a single, guilty look in that direction, then opened the box anyway. She almost laughed at what she found inside. Ticket stubs for a few circuses. A matchbook with a fiery logo on the front. And a flyer for a class on throwing flame sticks.
“Astound your friends,” it read. “Delight and enchant with Magic Fire!”
If Raven hadn’t known Hanes enough to know better...she probably would’ve assumed it was a setup. But she was sure he wouldn’t have manipulated his own bread crumbs in that way. And even if she hadn’t been quite certain if it just based on Hanes’s history, there was just something about the placement of the box and its harmless items that made it easy to picture Sally stowing them. The woman was, by her parents’ accounts, driven and scientific. Circuses and fire sticks were way outside that. A little kid’s dream. Embarrassing as an adult, but no less real.
Raven stole another look at the closed door.
“Just one more thing,” she murmured. “Then I’ll share it, I promise.”
She pulled Lucien’s phone from her pocket—glad she’d snagged it back from the pile of evidence-related things downstairs—and opened up the search engine. Quickly, she typed in the words Magic Fire. She was immediately rewarded with a going-out-of-business announcement, which she clicked. Four months earlier, Magic Fire had gone into foreclosure and shut its doors for good. But just six weeks ago, some of the leftover supplies had lit up and destroyed the place. All that was left was a concrete shell. Perfect for Hanes’s macabre hobby. Sally was there. No doubt about it.
Raven squeezed the items in her hand for a second. Part of her wanted to tuck them back into the box, stuff the whole thing into her bra, then go back out the way she’d come in—through the window. But she knew she had to give it to Sergeant Gray and his men. Even if she wanted to run straight to the burnt warehouse on her own, Sally deserved the benefit of having the police come for her. And if Lucien was going to be on the other end of the next clue, then he also deserved to have the experts on his trail.
But is he going to be there? she wondered.
It would mean a serious break in Hanes’s pattern. The pattern Lucien himself swore wouldn’t change.
Raven’s heart fluttered with worry. If Hanes had deviated in this, he might deviate in other things. And unpredictability was a bad thing, where serial killers were concerned. But the alternative was worse. Because no shift in the usual would mean Lucien could be very hard to find.
Refusing to accept the possibility, she shoved the matches, advertisement and ticket stubs back into their box, then stood up and made her way to the door. As she’d suspected, there was a fresh-faced, uniformed officer standing just outside.
He acknowledged her with a nod. “Everything okay, Ms. Elliot?”
She bit back an urge to remind him that nothing was okay, and instead said, “Yes. But I think I found something. I’d like to give it to Sergeant Gray.”
“I can do that for you,” offered the young cop.
Raven stared at him, seeing the way things would go. She’d hand him the box. In turn, he’d hand it over. The task forced would do just as she had done and hit up the internet for answers. They’d assemble a team. Retrieve Sally. Which would be a good thing. But after that, they’d move on, and Raven would most definitely not be a part of the equation. She’d be lucky if they even shared the next clue with her. And could she really blame them? She wasn’t a member of the VPD. She was just a former victim, turned current pain in the butt.
“Ms. Elliot?” the officer prodded gently, his hand out and his eyes on the little box.
She stopped just shy of yanking the box away and clutching it to her chest. “I’d like to give it to him myself.”
“Ms. Elliot, you really don’t need to—”
“Please.”
He sighed, then shrugged. “Sure. Follow me.”
And she did. She put her eyes square between his shoulders. She matched his pace up the hall, then again down the stairs. She stood to his side and let him apologize to Sergeant Gray for the “minor interruption.” She even pretended not to notice when he waited a couple of feet away for her to say her piece to the boss. But as soon as she was done handing over the information and the box of evidence that proved her theory, she was also done with being under the young cop’s scrutiny. And thankfully, her revelation brought a flurry of activity that made it easy to do what she’d decided to do.
She knew her plan was reckless. Possibly crazy. But she needed to do it anyway. So she slipped out of the living room and into the kitchen. There, she grabbed Lucien’s keys from the counter. She’d set them in the ceramic bowl herself, so finding them wasn’t an issue. And her actions didn’t even earn her a second glance.
Harmless civilian, she thought as she offered a smile to one of the detectives.
He gave her a wave.
And less than a minute later, she was in the SUV, armed with only the bear spray, the address and the surety that she was doing the right thing to get Lucien back.