Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

He walked out of the elevator, but instead of kneeling by the woman on the floor, he stepped over her and moved toward Claire.

“What are you doing? You have to help her!”

“I have to help you first.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” She saw then that he had a syringe in his right hand, and fear flushed through her system. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay. It won’t hurt.”

He smiled again, and with the slowness of a nightmare, Claire registered the color of his eyes. They were like turquoise, the same color as the doll’s eyes. The same color as Ruby’s eyes.

Dear God, it’s him.

It was Ruby’s kidnapper. The person who had made the doll in the likeness of her daughter.

Claire tried to stay calm, but her heartbeat drummed in her ears and her breath quickened. She took another step away from him, felt the railing behind her back and realized there was nowhere to go but down.

Her cell phone was still in her hand, and she tried to press the buttons. If she could speed-dial Charlotte or 911—

“Please don’t make me hurt you.” There was a strange pleading note in his voice, an almost childlike quality to the way he stared at her.

“I won’t,” she said. “Just put the needle down.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can,” Claire said. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

She lunged for the stairs then, but he tackled her from behind and they both went crashing to the floor. The phone flew out of her hand as she hit the hard surface. Blood exploded in her mouth as she bit down on her tongue. He plunged the needle into her neck, the sharp prick like the sting of an angry hornet.

Claire’s muscles jerked uncontrollably, and then she went almost completely still. Her vision blurred and she thought for a moment she would pass out. Then everything came back into sharp focus as he rolled her onto her back.

Her mouth sagged open, but the scream died in her throat. Panic dropped like a cold, black wave.

Get up! Get up and run!

She tried to muster her strength to crawl to the top of the stairs, but she couldn’t even lift her hand.

His eyes seemed to dance with madness as he knelt beside her and stroked his palm down her cheek. “See there?” he said gently. “It doesn’t hurt, does it? The worst is already over.”

He bent and grasped her feet, turning her so that he could pull her across the floor to the elevator. He dragged her inside, closed the gate, and a second later, Claire could tell they were descending. She could hear the clang of the cage and the rattle of the cable, but she couldn’t feel the floor beneath her back. She couldn’t feel his hands on her, either, but she knew they were there because she could see his fingers coiled around her ankles.

The elevator jolted to a stop and he pushed open the gate. He pulled her off the car and then was towing her again, this time down a long dim corridor. Claire had no idea where he was taking her. He released her once to open another door, and then they were on the move again.

Once inside the room, he placed her feet gently on the floor and stood looking down at her for the longest time. Then he turned, disappeared from her line of sight, and a moment later, Claire heard the door close and the lock click.

And she was all alone in her prison.

Charlotte’s skirt caught on a metal spike as she scrambled over the fence, and she heard the fabric rip as she jerked it free. “Damn it!”

The suit had cost nearly a month’s salary, way more than she could afford, and she swore again as she tossed her high heels to the ground and then jumped. Maybe she should have just waited in her car and laid down on the horn until someone opened the gate to let her in. She’d honked a couple of times, had even tried to find a way to open the gate herself. Finally, she’d given up, taken off her shoes, hiked up her skirt and climbed the fence. She was lucky it wasn’t electric, she silently grumbled, grabbing one of the metal rods to brace herself while she put her shoes back on.

Her heels sank in the soft earth as she plodded across the yard to the driveway. The light was fading, and in another hour, twilight would fall. Charlotte tried to fight the urgency that had been clawing at her gut ever since Dave’s phone call, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

She’d hoped to catch up to Claire before she got here, but Charlotte had overshot the turnoff at Tiber and lost at least another ten minutes backtracking, which meant that her sister had probably been here for nearly half an hour.

You’re just being paranoid, Charlotte scolded herself as she started up the driveway. Claire was fine. Savannah Sweete was a doll maker, for goodness sake, and Charlotte had met enough of those characters through her mother to know the type. There was no reason to worry.

When she saw Claire’s car parked beneath an oak tree, she sighed in relief. See? Nothing was wrong. Dave had just been overcautious and caused her to panic a little.

Still, as Charlotte climbed the porch steps, an odd shiver raced up her backbone and she quickly glanced around, feeling as if someone might have come up behind her. But no one was there, and she again let out a breath.

She turned back to the door and rapped several times with the knocker. When no one answered, she knocked again, and this time she heard a loud click as the door popped open about an inch.

“Hello?”

Charlotte waited, thinking that someone would open the door and invite her in, but nothing happened. She reached out and gave the door a nudge. It swung open and she called out again. “Hello? Is anyone here? Claire?” She stepped inside. “It’s Charlotte.”

She closed the door and took a few steps across the foyer. “Where is everybody?”

“In here, dear.”

Charlotte jumped at the unexpected voice, then followed it into a large parlor. A woman in a wheelchair sat in front of the windows, backlit by the fading rays of the sunset. She had short gray hair and thin shoulders, and she sat with a shawl draped over her legs. Charlotte’s initial impression of the woman was fleeting, because the moment she walked into the parlor, her attention was caught by all the dolls.

She turned, glanced around. They were everywhere.

“They are a bit much, aren’t they?” the woman said with a soft laugh. “I can’t bear to part with them, though. They’ve become a part of my family.”

“I can see why. They’re very lifelike.” Eerily so. Charlotte gave the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for Claire Doucett. She’s my sister.”

“Oh, yes. My name is Savannah Sweete.”

“You’re the doll maker.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

Claire hadn’t mentioned that the woman was in a wheelchair. Not that it mattered, of course, but Charlotte was caught a little off guard. “Is Claire still here? I saw her car in the driveway.”

“She went upstairs to bring down some files. Won’t you sit down while you wait for her?”

“Maybe I should just run up and let her know I’m here.” Charlotte was already half turned toward the doorway. She heard the wheelchair squeak, and when she swung back around, she saw the shawl fall from Savannah Sweete’s lap as the woman stood. Then she lifted her hand and slowly removed the wig from her head.

It took only an instant for Charlotte to process the strange tableau, and then cold fear shot through her bloodstream.

“Who are you?”

He smiled. “I’m the Dollmaker.”

Everything hit Charlotte at once, in a sudden flash of comprehension. The Dollmaker…the one who had created a doll that looked like Ruby. Charlotte didn’t know how she could be so certain, but she knew without a doubt that she was staring into the eyes of Ruby’s kidnapper. Her killer.