Allison Brennan - Killing Fear

“Medina Security. Leave your name and phone number.” Beep.

An edge of panic crept into her voice. “My name is Robin McKenna. Hank Solano gave me this number and said to talk to Mario. I need security. As soon as possible.” She left her number and hung up.

Robin slept uneasily, lights on, gun at her side.

A body fell on top of her, a hand over her mouth. Trinity Lange struggled to pull herself from deep sleep, flailing about.

“Don’t move or I’ll slice your throat.”

Grogginess disappeared as Trinity recognized that voice.

“Good girl. Nice place you have here. I checked out your neighbors next door. They’re on vacation, and since you back up to the golf course and there’s no one on the other side of you, I don’t think your screams will be heard. What do you think?” Theodore Glenn’s low voice was gleeful.

Through the fear, she processed his words. He would kill her. Rape her and kill her. No, he hadn’t raped the other victims. He’d tortured them, cut them repeatedly with an X-ACTO knife. Their faces. Their bodies. When he tired of the game, he had slit their throats. As described by the shrink who had testified for the prosecution, it was a game .

She tried to shake her head for no reason except maybe to wake herself from this nightmare, but his grip on her was firm. Theodore Glenn was over six feet of solid muscle, and prison had made him harder and stronger. She’d researched his background extensively during the trial. He’d been into extreme sports, like bungee jumping and skydiving and white-water river rafting. He was handsome and smart and rich, and had many girlfriends, some of whom had testified that he was the most considerate boyfriend they’d ever had. Others had testified that he was cruel and played mind games with them. Even one of the former strippers from RJ’s had testified on his behalf.

“I’m not going to kill you, Trinity. Relax.”

Right. Relax.

“I need your help,” he said.

Did he actually think she would help him escape? But right now she would do or say anything to live one more day.

“You covered my trial. You sat in that courtroom every day. You heard the testimony. You talked to the cops. You were fair and you asked good questions.”

Did he want her thanks?

“I didn’t kill Anna Clark.”

“Hmm!” she mumbled against his hand.

“I think you know, in the back of your mind, that there was something wrong with the trial. And you’re going to find out exactly what it was. I want to know who framed me. I think I know, but I want proof.”

She squirmed.

“I will let you go so you can ask me questions. We’re a team, Trinity. Partners. Help me, and I will let you live. I think that’s fair.”

Pinning her body with his, he reached down and grabbed her right wrist and, with duct tape, taped her to the bedpost. Then he eased off her, pulling the blankets off her body.

Oh God, he’s going to rape me.

As if reading her thoughts or body language, he chuckled. “Women give themselves to me voluntarily. Happily. If I wanted to force a woman, it wouldn’t be you. I need to make sure you don’t do something stupid. You’re the only one who can help me, and I don’t want to have to kill you. That would make me unhappy.”

He crossed her ankles and wound the duct tape around them several times. She wore a long T-shirt. He pulled it down past her panties.

It was dark and she could only make out his shape, not his exact features. His hair looked dark, but was that because he dyed it or a trick of the light?

He handed her the notepad from her briefcase and a pen. He knew she was left-handed. He’d been watching her. Or had he remembered after all these years?

The only light came through the blinds. Her night vision was strong, but she could barely make out the paper which seemed almost blue in the odd, filtered light. Glenn sat in the corner, in the shadows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

A crime reporter’s wet dream. A killer willing to talk. To say anything. Though she knew she had a rare opportunity, not knowing what Glenn would do to her terrified her. How could she trust a convicted murderer? How could she trust a man who tortured his victims, then poured bleach into their open wounds?

“Trinity, I’m talking to you. I know you want to ask me questions. You’re going to die if you don’t.”

She swallowed, sputtered. “I–I-”

“Calm down, Trinity.” He paused. “What an odd name. What were your parents thinking?”

She didn’t know if he wanted her to answer, but she did automatically, since she’d been asked that question so many times in her life. “I was supposed to be triplets, but my two sisters died in the womb. They thought the name was a way of paying homage to the two who didn’t make it.”

Why had she said that to this man? Because it was comfortable. Almost normal. To answer a common question with her pat answer.

“Now your turn, Trinity. Ask.” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Ask me a fucking question!”

She nodded, cleared her throat. “F-for the record, you said you didn’t kill Anna Clark?”

“Correct. I did not kill Anna Clark.”

To buy time she wrote down his exact quote. I did not kill Anna Clark.

“Did you kill Bethany Coleman?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Brandi Bell?”

“Yes.”

“Jessica Suarez?”

“Yes.”

He shuffled, and Trinity flinched. He laughed. “I have a present for you. Something that should look good on the evening news, in the newspapers, and it will definitely get you some attention.” He put an envelope on her bed, just out of her reach.

She stared at it, thinking, and asked, “But you didn’t kill Anna.”

“I’m not going to answer the same question twice.”

She took a deep breath. He didn’t seem as dangerous now. Maybe he was telling her the truth, that he wasn’t going to kill her. “You think someone framed you for Anna’s murder?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

He laughed without humor. A chill settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Because the cops fucked up.”

“You must know that virtually every convicted murderer says that they were framed. Why should I-why should the public-believe that you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I don’t like being made a fool of. Someone is playing with me, and I don’t like it. I didn’t kill Anna, and I damn well want to know who did and who planted evidence against me.”

“I don’t know why you think I can help with this-”

“Because you’re an investigative journalist!” he exclaimed, and Trinity jumped. She saw then and there what this killer was capable of. “Wouldn’t you like to know what cop framed me? Wouldn’t you like a nice juicy story to propel you into the journalistic stratosphere? Don’t think that I haven’t followed your career while in prison. You’re on the cusp, and you like to get in people’s faces. Do it now. Do it for me.”

“H-how?”

“That’s what you need to figure out.”

Trinity changed tactics. “But does it really matter?” In asking the question, she realized it sounded stupid. “I mean, you still would have been convicted of murder. You killed the other three women. You still would have gotten the death penalty.”

In the darkness, Glenn remained silent. Trinity shifted uncomfortably on the bed, swallowed, her left hand shaking so hard she almost dropped the pen.

“Yes,” he finally said, as if he had only just thought about it. “It matters. You think that we’re all that different? Do you think that under the right conditions, you would not kill?”