He was going to kill Mac and let Gianna drown.
Mac yanked on the handcuffs. He searched the gurney but couldn’t find the hairpin.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Josh had the Taser. Mac stretched out an arm, snatched the knife from the rolling tray, and threw it at Josh. The point struck him in the bicep. The Taser fell from his hand and hit the water with a splash.
Mac grabbed the handrail of the gurney. Dragging it behind him, he plowed toward Josh. The doctor turned and fled toward a rear doorway.
The water rose above Mac’s knees. How deep was the flood in Gianna’s cell? He didn’t have much time. He couldn’t let her drown, trapped. He pictured her tilting her head to the ceiling for a last breath of air, imagined the panic whirling in her chest as water closed over her head, her eyes shining with terror.
No!
He plunged his free hand into the water, the futility of finding a hairpin in two feet of water sent fear surging cold into his throat.
Leaning on the door, Gianna shivered. Her hands ached from banging on the wood, and she could feel the bruises forming all over her body. He hadn’t touched her since bringing her here and locking her in. He hadn’t had to. Zapping her with that Taser had pretty much tapped her strength.
“Let me out of here you sick son-of-a-bitch.” She pounded on the door, her face turned toward the ceiling-mounted camera.
He was watching.
Watching the water rise.
Letting her drown.
Nausea rose in her throat. Dena and Missy had both been murdered, and she was the next victim. If the water kept rising at this rate, her cell would be full in minutes.
Frustration burned in her chest. It wasn’t fair. Not after all she’d been through. Two years ago she hadn’t cared if she lived or died. Now that she actually had a will to live, some bastard wanted to kill her.
She drew her hands back and threw them at the door again, then collapsed against the rough, wet wood. It was no use. No one was coming to save her.
Why did she care?
Her life was miserable. She had no money. No family. Her mother was in prison. Her father was dead. She was too sick to work. Her days revolved around her high-maintenance medical schedule. But being near death once before had taught her a valuable lesson.
She didn’t want to die.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Water ran off the windshield of Stella’s car in a solid wall. A deep puddle ran across the road. Water parted and the car hydroplaned as she pushed on the gas pedal. The tires slid sideways.
Grant held the hand strap and slid his hand toward the windshield. “Hold steady!”
Stella held the wheel steady and prayed. She felt the tires gain purchase and accelerated out of the floodwater.
Two patrol cars followed in her wake. Minutes later, she turned off her headlights and parked just shy of the driveway that led to Josh’s house. Two patrol cars parked behind her. They’d gone in dark and quiet. They gathered in the downpour. Rain waterfalled off the brim of her hat, but she slid out of her rain jacket. The nylon was too hot, too noisy, and hindered her movements. She’d rather be wet. Carl shucked his rain gear, too. Grant and Hannah seemed immune to the weather.
The chief checked his radio. He grimaced and gestured to Grant and Hannah. “You two stay with me. The rest of you know what to do.”
Stella and Carl led two patrol officers through the rain. Carl carried the battering ram as if he couldn’t wait to use it. Josh’s house should have stood above the lake, but the water had risen to swirl around the stone foundation. She sloshed through a shin-deep puddle to the rear of the house. Where would they be?
The upper floors had floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the forest. He wouldn’t keep prisoners there. The first floor was a stone foundation. Basement?
Stella chose a side door and gestured to Carl. Two swings of the heavy battering ram and the door burst inward. Stella and her men surged into the house. “Look for a door to the basement,” she shouted over the roar of the storm.
With Carl at her side, they cleared room after room.
Stella turned into a home office and drew up short. “Oh my God.”
Pictures were tacked on a corkboard: Full color glossies of Missy and Dena. In the first row, they were alive, going about their daily business, and obviously had no idea they were being photographed. In the bottom row, they were carefully posed in death.
He’d stalked them, planned their abductions, and murdered them.
Carl pointed to papers strewn across the desk. “He detailed their torture like professional counseling sessions.”
“Here,” an officer called. Stella went into a small room. Monitors covered a U-shaped desk. On one, she could see a small body thumping on the door, waist deep in water.
Gianna.