Page 61 of The Survivor
“And the lack of instinct!” he continued, eyeing her with wonderment. “Someone calls you up, gives you a fancy detective title, and you say, ‘Yes, sir, I’m on my way.’ You tell them to roll around in the snow and squeal like a pig, and they’ll do it. No questions.”
Yes, sir, I’m on my way.Those had been Perkins’s words. He’d said them on the phone when the senior detective had called…fancy detective title…Oh, God.
“Ah, so I knew I didn’t marry an idiot,” Benson said. He chuckled loudly. “Finally put it together, did you, Annie?”
I didn’tmarry…?Annie? Who was Annie? And why was he looking at her as if—
He chuckled again and every ghastly puzzle piece snapped into place.
Sheknewthat chuckle.
She’d heard it before. Six months ago. In her bedroom. When a man had tied her to her own bed and carved into her skin and sliced her wrists with a knife so sharp she could still feel its blade and—
“Don’t look at me like that,” Benson chided. “You brought this on yourself, sweetheart.”
Terror, thick and hot and raw, pummeled into her like merciless fists. With a strangled gasp, she fumbled with her seat belt, desperately trying to unbuckle it. She managed to snap itoff just as a hand sliced through the air and connected with her cheek.
Pain stung at her skin. “Don’t touch me!” She wanted to scream but the words came out in a squeak. She could barely breathe, couldn’t think, but she forced herself to move. Her hand clawed at the door handle while the monster sitting beside her simply laughed again. They were speeding along the interstate but she didn’t care. She would jump out and risk getting hit by another car—if it meant escaping this maniac.
She gripped the handle. Tugged. The door didn’t open. Oh, God. Locked. It was locked.
Her fingers had just found the unlock button when she saw a flash of black steel in the corner of her eye. The butt of Benson’s gun slammed into the side of her head.
White-hot pain sizzled her nerve endings. Her skull throbbed. Her vision became hazy and her pulse roared in her ears like the engine of a plane during takeoff. She fought the fog in her head, the blackness threatening to crash over her. No. No, no, no! She couldn’t lose consciousness. Couldn’t make herself vulnerable—
Another blow.
Harder this time.
God, it hurt. She blinked, forced her eyes to stay open but the damn things wouldn’t comply. The strange, distant buzzing in her brain lulled her eyelids closed and she was floating away on a black cloud…sinking down…into nothingness.
Darkness.
Hell.
That was the last thought that found its way to the surface.
She was in hell.
And then everything faded away.
* * *
Blake was on his way home when his cell phone rang. He saw Rick’s number and quickly flipped the phone open. “What’s up?”
“We might have a motive.”
Excitement rose inside him. “I’m listening.”
“Hodges was right. Grant’s wife committed suicide. And, we tracked down her sister, who very candidly told us that Anne had been cheating on Francis Grant before she died. She apparently decided to end her life after her lover ran out on her.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure Grant didn’t do her in?” Blake asked warily.
“It’s unlikely. He was out of town when she died, and according to the sister, Anne left a very long note addressed not to her husband but to her lover.”
“Ouch.”
“Hodges got access to Anne’s medical records, and he also spoke with the family doctor.” Rick paused, probably more for effect, Blake suspected. “The doc says Francis Grant has been on and off antidepressants for years now. Apparently he came home from Iraq suffering from depression and rage. Tried enrolling in the Chicago Police Academy but didn’t pass the psychological exam. In fact, after Anne’s death the doctor wrote Grant a prescription for more antidepressants. According to the pharmacy, it wasn’t filled.”
