Act V, page 22
Dorsey, where was Dorsey? Okay, slow down Glynn, back up to the café. He was in his car, passed out. That’s right. I bent down to wake him. He reached for me. Did Dorsey do this? Did he fake the drunk and attack me to bring me here? Glynn struggled against the scarves tied to her wrist, trying to slip through, but she exhausted herself quickly. Brice had suspected Dorsey all along. Could he have been the killer? No, not Dorsey. How could she have been this wrong about anybody? She’d been intimate with him, had planned to marry him. But by his own admission, he’d been fooling around on her even then. She’d thought he loved her, but he’d abandoned her when she needed his support the most. Yes, she could have been wrong about him.
Footsteps rang out from another room. Glynnis closed her eyes. She would pretend to be asleep. Maybe if he thought she wasn’t watching, he would do something or show her something that would give her an advantage over him.
She listened for clues not daring to open her eyes yet. His gait wasn’t distinctive in any way. He could have been Dorsey. He moved from the doorway into the room, turning on the overhead light and walked purposefully toward Glynnis. She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, as if sleeping. She felt a hand drift over her cheek in an almost gentle caress. It took all of her will power to avoid cringing or jerking away. He must have believed her to be asleep because he began to touch her softly, her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her legs. She fought to remain in her false sleep though she wanted to kick out and plaster the lunatic up against the wall. The only reason she didn’t was that it would have given her a temporary respite at best. She wouldn’t be able to get away, and then he would have been angry. She waited, breathing slowly, evenly; feigning sleep.
Satisfied that she was still under, her captor made his way quietly to the curtained windows. She could hear him shifting the curtains to look out so she dared a glance through lowered lids. It was hard to tell much from the view of his back. He had the same color hair as Dorsey, and was about the same height, but that was about all she could make out. He turned back around and she closed her eyes, hoping to keep her wakefulness a secret a little bit longer. Maybe a plan would come to her. She heard the rolling chair squeak. He was sitting now, no doubt watching her. Her skin prickled.
Finally he spoke in a soft, chilling voice, “Time to wake up Desdemona.”
*****
Brice and Addy pulled into the drive at Timmon’s home. Brice had been praying the entire time that it was as simple as Glynnis giving the man a ride. But there were no cars in the driveway or garage as far as he could see. “If he got her, I’ll kill him myself and save the state a trial,” Brice grunted.
Addy walked ahead of him. “Let me check it out first,” he told his partner. Brice didn’t like it but he knew Addy was right. He had more sense about him than Brice at the moment and would reason out his next move instead of jumping in blindly. Addison peered through the windows, and seeing nothing, went to the other side. Finally, he rang the bell. No answer. “Well, looks like we have two options, he told Brice. We can walk away and try to figure out where they went, or we can go in.”
Brice didn’t wait for further encouragement. He went to the first window. Finding it locked, he picked up a large rock and broke through, unlocking it from the outside. Once they were in, they canvassed the place but it was empty. There were no signs that either Dorsey or Glynnis had been there. Brice pounded his fist on the table. “Where has he taken her? If he hurts her…” His cell phone rang. He answered without even checking the caller ID. “Gearhart.”
“Brice,” Hawkins’ voice rang out. Brice felt his breath release and realized he’d been holding it hoping that it would be Glynnis on the other end. “Brice, my sources finally came through. I know who your collector is…and you aren’t going to believe it.”
*****
Was it Dorsey? Had her premonition of some horrible event associated with him been this? Was Dorsey the murderer? Dorsey, who was often foolish and selfish but had loved her once. Of that, she was certain. Her premonition had been vague and only showed her that Dorsey would be part of something seriously evil. Would he be the cause, the perpetrator, or perhaps the victim? She hated all the scenarios. She no longer loved Dorsey, not as she once had, but she didn’t hate him, didn’t want to see him hurt or to know that he was a killer. But if he was, indeed the Bard, then she would use every personal tie she had to influence him. Above all, she needed to live. If she had to use the relationship they’d once had to survive, whatever that entailed, then she would.
“Des de mon a…” His sing-song voice made her cringe. There would be no more waiting. The intensity of his tone made that clear.
Glynnis slowly opened her eyes. Her already aching head pounded in protest to the bright light in the room. He was standing with his back to her as he spoke, leaning on the back of the office chair and then turning to stand upright. “Did you know that women in Shakespeare’s day wore a chemise as underwear, and no underpants? They often added those lovely tie-up stays to help push everything into the right places and to make the waist tiny, but no underpants. Strange, isn’t it.” He was truly the same height and weight as Dorsey, and he had the same hair. But this wasn’t Dorsey. Dorsey had the self-confident stance of the ladies man he was. This man stood with stooped shoulders, the stance of someone who had been told for much of his life either overtly or covertly that he wasn’t quite good enough. He turned to face her. She had seen him before but couldn’t place him. His countenance was ruddy with freckles, but his hands were manicured and his auburn hair had been cut in an expensive salon. This was a wealthy man. “You would think that in a time and place as puritanical as Elizabethan England, they’d want as much protection as possible for a woman’s virginity.” He shrugged. “Maybe they were all lifting their skirts behind Liz’s back and she just thought they were being virginal. That would seem to be a more likely scenario, don’t you think?”
He looked to her as if expecting a real answer, so she nodded but couldn’t force any sound from between her lips because of the gag.
“I’ve been watching you for years you know,” he began, walking slowly toward her, making her mentally file through all the possibilities of how he could have known her. Was he an acquaintance of the family? Had he gone to school with her? It just wasn’t coming. Her head still felt a little muddled from whatever he’d used to put her under, and it hurt. “For years I’ve watched you on the stage welcoming audiences to your plays. I’ve always thought you should be acting, not just directing. You would make such an enticing leading lady.”
Oh Lord! That was it. He was one of her regular play-goers, one of the many who called her by her first name every summer as if they were old friends. Why, he had spoken to her only a week ago, on opening night. She had shaken his hand.
He reached down and tugged the gag down from her mouth to around her neck. “Now, remember the rules.” He put a finger to his lips. “No screaming. We’re a long way from anywhere, and it’s not likely that anybody could hear you, but I just hate screaming. Understand?”
“Yes.” The word felt like paper leaving her mouth. She couldn’t have screamed if she’d tried.
“You would have made such a lovely Rosalind, or perhaps Titania.” He reached the bed. “Why didn’t you act?”
She didn’t know what to say. She thought about spitting at him, but it didn’t seem wise to tick this guy off. She swallowed dryly. “I was never a very good actor.” Then it occurred to her to keep him talking…appeal to his vanity. “I remember you. You were at opening night for Macbeth. You’ve come to almost every play, haven’t you?”
“Since you did your first direction, years ago. It was As You Like It, wasn’t it?
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know until just a few days ago that you had other talents.”
He was caressing her arm now with the back of his hand and she wanted to recoil, but it was important to get into his good graces, make him feel that she liked him. If she was going to get out of here, then she had to be smart and put aside her personal feelings. “What other talents?”
“Now, now…you know very well what I was referring to.”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Alright then, we have time. I’ll play along. I’m talking about your ability to see into the future. How do you manage it? Do you use a scrying bowl, or tea leaves, what?”
He obviously knew what had been on the news, but it was doubtful that he knew much more than that. She decided to minimize her explanation of her abilities. “I don’t really see the future,” she told him. “I have dreams sometimes that come true. But not usually.”
“But you saw me.” His voice had taken on a grating edge.
“No, I saw the murders, but I never saw you…until now.” Her throat was still quite dry and she began to cough.
He walked over to the sink, picked up a cup and filled it with water. Then, using the sheet, lifted her head and held the cup to her lips. “Drink.”
She was so thirsty that she didn’t argue. It never crossed her mind until after she swallowed that he had used poison in the past. Her thoughts must have shown on her face because he lowered her head to the pillow and said, “Don’t worry. I plan for your death to be like Desdemona’s, the sweet innocent strangled by a jealous husband, or in your case, a jealous fiancé.”
Dorsey! He was going to pin this on Dorsey! “What do you mean? Dorsey wouldn’t hurt me.”
“He’s already written a note on the computer saying that he couldn’t handle your affair with Detective Gearhart anymore. He’s going to assault you, then strangle you, then kill himself. Poor jealous guy.”
“Have you hurt him?”
“Do you care?”
Of course she cared, but her real thought was that if Dorsey was still alive and somewhere in this house, then they might be able to overpower this crazy man. She had to keep him talking. “Is he alive?”
“He’s sleeping off a powerful drunk in the next room. Of course I helped him along with that a bit. With the little extra help I gave him he’ll be out long enough for me to handle you and get back to him.”
She needed to use the bathroom. That was the truth. But she didn’t see why she couldn’t use that to her advantage. This guy liked to brag. She was going to let him. “Why did you kill the others? Is it really like your letters implied? Did you do it because of their…their sins?”
He laughed at that. “Their sins were numerous…but no. That’s what I wanted the police to think. I had my own reasons for killing them.”
“Why?” She started squirming intentionally, conveying her discomfort. “Why did you kill them and use the death scenes from Shakespeare? Why write those letters? I…I don’t understand.”
“Do you need to use the bathroom dear?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, especially since I have such a wonderful evening planned.”
That made her cold all over. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. “You do understand that it would be a very bad idea for you to try to get away, right?”
“I understand.”
He untied her bonds and she began to rub the circulation back into her arms and legs, knowing that it would take her longer than the average person to stand and walk after being in one position for so long. He backed away only enough to allow her to swing her legs over the side. She stood and waited for a moment in order to establish her balance. Her legs were stiff but they’d loosen up if she could only walk around for a minute or two.
Still holding the point of the knife below her throat, he grabbed her elbow and guided her to the bathroom. “There are no windows in there,” he told her after closing the door, “and no mirrors to break, so just pee and get it over with.” She did what he said, hoping that she could find a way to set him off balance or steal his knife when she came out of the bathroom. She took as long as she dared, stretching her legs, moving them to get the feeling restored as much as possible. She wouldn’t be able to run from the guy, but she’d move as fast as possible if she got a break. Finally, when she heard impatient noises coming from outside the bathroom door, she washed her hands, turned the knob and stepped out.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, surprising her with a tight grip on her upper arm. “I’d like for you to see my collection.”
Glynnis chilled to think what kind of collection this maniac might have, but if it meant being free from her bonds long enough to buy her time, to reason through what was happening, then she would view the collection.
She had to keep him talking. The topic was vile and she didn’t want to hear it, but it would serve her purpose and might give her some insight into this man who held her captive. “Did our production of Macbeth really inspire the Itzen murder like you said in the letter?”
“Oh Glynnis, you are an inspiration in so many ways, but I’m afraid that was just a way to get the press involved. Itzen inspired his own murder.”
In her mind, Glynnis had called him a maniac, but he had been completely lucid, completely sane, while he’d been with her. How could he discuss this so calmly? He had committed at least four murders, possibly five, and he was talking about them as if he had been discussing Sunday lunch. There was none of the frantic, irrational behavior one expected in someone who had killed so many people. It was as if those murders were simply bridges that had to be crossed to get to the other side…wherever that was.
“You see,” he began, leading her forward, still holding the knife. “Itzen deserved to die. He was just plain evil. He stood in my way and treated me like yesterday’s garbage. He had to die.” This was spoken with anger and bitterness, the first she’d seen from him. And Glynnis recalled the rage she’d felt associated with Itzen’s murder, unlike all the others. “The Macbeth thing…that was only window dressing, a nice way to convince the police that The Bard was killing via Shakespeare. They had to believe there was a theme here.”
“There wasn’t?”
“I see you bought into it too.” He gave a disappointed lift of the eyebrow. “I had higher aspirations for you Glynnis.”
“You mean the Shakespeare deaths were all planned that way, just to make you look crazy?”
“Glynnis, surely by now you know I’m no psychopath; a sociopath perhaps, but that’s not important here. The others had to die to convince the police and the press that there was a serial killer stalking Clearview.” He opened the door at the end of the hallway. “Please come in.”
The darkened room was filled with pedestals of different heights. Many held display cases. On the opposite end of the room, a cot had been placed. On the cot, lay a body. Dorsey.
Chapter 28
Brice and Addy had already searched the most obvious spots with no luck. It was dark now, and this was beginning to look like the worst possible scenario. If he had Glynnis, and Brice believed he did, then there couldn’t be much time left. He would kill her just like the others. They had to find the one person who might be able to tell them where he’d gone.
*****
She tried to go to him but was stopped by the threat of the knife. “No, no, no,” her captor said. “Let him sleep. He’s had a rough day, raping and killing you and all.” He laughed and Glynnis wanted to throw up. Dorsey was breathing shallowly. She could hear him and relaxed a bit. He was alive. She had to wake him up, somehow but she didn’t dare to call him or make a lot of noise. She would have to find a way to do it with some discretion. “Did you drug him?”
“Nothing he couldn’t sleep off if he had the opportunity,” he whispered. “Dorsey loves his bottle.”
She nodded, knowing it was true.
“The wonderful thing about using chloroform,” he said, “is that it dissipates in the blood stream after a while. The police won’t find any trace of it. Don’t worry about him,” he said, guiding her toward a display. He’ll be alive after you’re gone, for a while anyway.”
She looked away from Dorsey who, it seemed, wouldn’t be a whole lot of help. Maybe if she could drag this out long enough, he would waken. He could help her. “What do you collect?”
“Weapons.” He seemed pleased that she’d asked. He flipped a light switch and the whole room brightened. There was no natural light coming in at all. On each pedestal sat a sword, gun, knife, mace or killing instrument of one kind or another. All lethal, and from what Glynnis could tell, many were ancient. “I call this the trophy room. I started this collection years ago, when I first became interested in warfare. Kept it to myself though. People don’t understand when a person collects weapons. Collect stamps, or coins, or music boxes; that’s fine. But God forbid you should collect something used to kill or maim. Then you’re psychotic. Nobody knows it’s here. As a matter of fact, you’re the only person I’ve shown. You should feel honored, Glynnis.”
He walked her to the closest display. It was a sword, engraved with the likeness of a dragon, its wings forming the guard, its tail, the handle. Glynnis took in a sudden breath. “I see you recognize this one,” he told her, touching the blade with a lover’s caress. “It’s a sixteenth century long sword, not a recreation. It’s the real McCoy.” He whispered as if bringing her in on a secret. “I had to wrap the handle in a towel to protect it and use a hammer to drive it all the way through. I’m not sure how they managed it in the old days.”
“You used it to kill Claude Danning.” She felt revulsion growing in her but refused to let it show. She tried for mild admiration instead. If he felt she admired him she’d have a chance, not a big one, but a chance. “I can see why you didn’t let it stay at the scene. It must be valuable.”
“Extremely. I could have used a modern day fake, but I was going for authenticity.” He looked at her with curiosity. “This doesn’t upset you?”
