Don't Cry. Beverly Barton

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      When Tam gave her partner a you’re-a-chauvinist-pig glare before walking away, J.D. fell into step beside her.

      “Do you do that a lot?” J.D asked.

      Without slowing her pace, Tam said, “Do what?”

      “Handle the unpleasant tasks for your partner?”

      “Sergeant Hudson and I have been partnered for less than a month. I’m the new investigator on the homicide squad. But before then, yeah, I usually handled anything my partner thought was woman’s work. Other women. Kids. Anything that had to do with emotional issues.”

      “And you don’t mind?”

      “I don’t mind. I don’t have anything to prove. I know I’m a very good police officer and I’ll be a very good detective. And I don’t think of it as a negative thing that I’m capable of handling some of the most difficult aspects of being a police officer.”

      “And one of those difficult aspects is dealing with the victim’s family.”

      “Can you think of anything more difficult than telling a mother that her child is dead?”

      Debra Gregory tugged on the ropes that bound her red, chafed wrists to the arms of the rocking chair. Her seemingly useless struggles to free herself had eaten away skin, leaving her wrists and ankles bruised and bloody. He had secured her feet together and tied her wrists before he had left her. She had screamed for help until she was hoarse, but had soon realized no one could hear her and that’s why he hadn’t gagged her. Wherever he was holding her captive was so isolated that there was no danger of anyone hearing her screams.

      Dark and damp. And as silent as a grave.

      Terror had given way to frustration, and frustration to anger.

      She had lost count of how many hours she’d been in this horrible, obsidian hell. He had left her alone for what seemed like days, alone in the pitch-black darkness. She didn’t think she’d been here days. Not yet. Only a few hours. Maybe a little longer. God help her, she wasn’t sure.

      The last thing she remembered before waking up here was coming out of the gym late Tuesday night. Days ago? Hours ago? She’d been one of the last to leave shortly before closing at eleven and noticed that only two other cars remained in the parking lot. She had hit the Unlock button on her keypad before reaching her Lexus, and just as she’d opened the door, someone had grabbed her from behind. It had happened so quickly. A strangely sweet odor coming from the cloth he cupped over her nose and mouth. Her senses dulling as the anesthetic took effect. The weightless feeling as he lifted her off her feet. And then unconsciousness.

      The police are looking for me. My family is doing everything possible to find me. I’ll be rescued soon. I can’t give up hope. I have to stay alive, no matter what.

      When would he come back?

      She was alone in the darkness, strapped to a chair, unable to escape, going slowly out of her mind. Suddenly a dim light instantly obliterated the darkness.

      She turned her head sideways, but couldn’t see the source of the light. It came from somewhere across the room. A candle? A lantern? Maybe a night-light?

      Light had to mean that he had returned. Not enough light to see anything clearly, just enough to make out shapes and shadows.

      Debra’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her fear escalated quickly as she sensed him moving toward her. Closer and closer.

      “Did you have a nice rest while I was gone?” he asked from where he stood behind her.

      “Please…please let me go.” Her voice quavered. “I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are. I can’t identify you.” She was bargaining for her life, pleading with this unknown, unseen devil.

      He stroked her hair, his touch terrifyingly tender. “You’re talking nonsense. Of course you know who I am.” He untied her left hand and rubbed her chafed, bloody wrist before pulling her arm inward toward her waist.

      “I don’t…” She drew in a sharp breath when he reached over her head and around her shoulder and placed something in the curve of her arm. She looked down at the bundle lying in her lap and was able to make out the form of what she thought might be a baby wrapped securely in a blanket.

      No, no, it couldn’t be a baby. It wasn’t moving, wasn’t crying. It wasn’t warm and alive.

      “He needs you,” the man told her. “He won’t rest unless you sing to him.”

      She swallowed the fear lodged in her throat. Was she holding a doll, a very large baby doll? As her vision adjusted to the semidarkness, she looked right and left, then upward, trying to catch a glimpse of her jailor. All she saw were his legs clad in jeans and the sleeves of his dark jacket.

      “Sing to him. You know the song he likes,” he told her, his voice soft yet stern. “Rock him to sleep the way you do every night.”

      “I—I don’t remember the song.”

      “Of course you do. Now sing to him.”

      She forced out the words of the most familiar lullaby she knew. “Rock-a-bye baby—”

      “That’s not the right song!” he shouted. “Sing the right song. He wants you to sing the song you always sing. You know the words!” And then he sang the first verse. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”

      On the verge of screaming hysterically, Debra somehow managed to sing as she held the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. She vaguely remembered the tune, but not the lyrics. Sing, damn it. Make up the words. Improvise! Your life could depend on it.

      “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s going to buy you a golden ring.” Her voice quivered. “If that golden ring don’t shine, Mama’s going to sing, sing, sing.”

      “You’re mixing up the words.” Leaning over her, watching her, his breath warm against her neck, he whispered, “But he loves the sound of your voice. We both do. Keep singing.”

      Debra forced the words, making them up as she went along, trying her best to fit them to the tune she barely remembered. She tried not to cry, not to panic, not to say or do something that would upset her captor. He held her life in his hands. As long as she cooperated and played his little game, she had a chance of staying alive.

      Why she chose that moment—midsong and midthought of doing whatever was necessary to stay alive—to glance down at the doll, she would never know. With her eyes fully adjusted to the dim, distant light, she was able to see the object in her arms. Not a doll at all.

      The song died on her lips, and the scream vibrating in her throat remained trapped there by sheer paralyzing horror.

      Chapter 2

      Charlie Scott kept his arm clutched tightly around his wife’s shoulders, the strength of his hold the only thing stopping her from breaking through the yellow barricade tape that separated the onlookers from the crime scene. While Mary Nell pleaded with her husband to release her, Audrey held eighteen-year-old Mindy’s damp, shaky hand as she tried to talk to Mary Nell. But Mary СКАЧАТЬ