IN HIS KEEPING: CLAIMED
: Chapter 7

Sylvie convulsed with each new jolt. He pressed the prongs against her skin and her body began to jerk and twitch. ‘Dance for me Sylvie,’ he said, putting a stun gun to each thigh and sending electrical shocks coursing through her limp body. ‘Playing dead, bitch? I don’t think so. It’s play time. We are going to have so much fun. Well, at least I’ll be having fun. You, on the other hand, might not like the games I play.’ He stared at her in irritation. This wasn’t going the way he intended. ‘Come on damn it…wake up!’ He kicked her in the side for emphasis. Her pale, naked body was already covered with bruises. He’d been a mite harsh, but the cunt deserved it. She’d had the temerity, the audacity, to throw his things in the woodstove! His cross, his tape, his blades, everything. She’d pay for that! Putting together his ‘kit,’ as he called it, had taken a long time and in just a few minutes she’d destroyed his work. The scalpels might be salvageable and some of the wholly metal tools, but he wouldn’t know until the fire died back in the woodstove. She’d added some kind of accelerant and it was like a blast furnace. You couldn’t see what was in there for all the flames. The cast iron was so hot you could smell the paint burning off it. You had to keep your distance, the heat was so intense. He’d tried to pull the cross out, but she’d wedged it in the stove somehow and it wouldn’t budge. She liked fire so much, well then, he’d just have to burn her alive. But first… He sighed huskily, thinking about the things he was going to do to her.

Was she really unconscious? He couldn’t tell. She should be screaming. He liked it when they screamed. She should be writhing on the floor in agony, but she wasn’t. She was oblivious. Maybe he’d hit her too hard with the poker. Now that would be a real shame! She was breathing; but she looked really gray and her skin was ice cold. Was she slipping away from him? That wouldn’t do! He’d gone to a lot of trouble for her. He looked at the collapsible gallon jug filled with water he always kept nearby during a ‘session’ to revive his playthings. Thank God she hadn’t burned that too. He poured the water over her, expecting a reaction, but nothing. She didn’t move a muscle. This was getting tedious. He needed her to be alive; otherwise, this wasn’t going to be any fun.

‘Come on Sylvie, I know you’re in there. You can’t hide. Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ He stared down at her and shook his head. ‘Perhaps you require a little incentive.’

He pulled a cigar out of the bag, but before lighting it, he knelt down to make sure the mask was securely glued over her eyes. He so enjoyed doing that. It put them completely in the dark. Like locking them away in a deep, dark hole, but without the bother. They couldn’t see him, but he could see them. It was delightful watching the terror on their faces when they awoke and found they couldn’t see. That they were in total darkness. He thought it sharpened their senses. They might not be able see him, but they always seemed to sense his presence even if he was sitting quietly watching their suffering. Their heads turned to him, almost instinctively, as though acknowledging his mastery.

He had one regret about using the masks though: he couldn’t see their tears or the pain and fear in their eyes. He would have liked to have seen evidence of the agony, terror, desperation, and finally acceptance reflected there. But it was too chancy! If one of them got away and was able to identify him, it would be disastrous. Seeing the grimacing, flinching, jerking, and thrashing, all the contortions a body exhibited in the throes of pain, were just not the same. He needed to see the torment in their eyes. He needed that validation; but for now, he’d have to content himself with imagining tears.

Certain there was no way she could see him, he unzipped the mouth on his mask and lit the Cuban. He puffed on it till the tip glowed. Nothing like a Montecristo to ease the stresses of the day. He only wished he had a nice glass of Glenmorangie single malt to accompany it. ‘Let’s see if this will wake you up, shall we?’ He placed the glowing end to her left nipple. He could see the pink skin blacken and smell the burning flesh. ‘I’ll put one on this side too, shall I? Give you a matching set.’ He smiled as he scorched her other nipple. He liked symmetry. Symmetry was important. Her arms and legs were covered with lines of tiny electrical burns from the stun guns. He was very exacting, trying to keep the lines straight and the spacing just so. He liked to be artistic in all his endeavors. He wasn’t a butcher; he was creating a masterpiece. Normally, he would be engraving her right now; but she’d burned his blades and the knife he’d found in her purse was much too large and ungainly, totally unsuitable for the delicate work he intended. He puffed on the cigar then reached for the knife. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers he reminded himself. He poised the knife above her belly button and began cutting. Not very deep, just enough to carve the design. What should he draw today? Mars and Venus. Male and female. He carefully drew the circles. One with an arrow, the male. One with a cross, the female. He dug another cross between her breasts. That was the symbol of death. Her death. He toyed with the idea of putting an infinity symbol below it. But no, she’d been uncooperative. She’d shot him six times for God’s sake! And even with the vest, it had hurt like hell. Knocked the wind right out of him. He’d probably have bruises! No, she definitely didn’t deserve infinity, just death. The lines weren’t as crisp and clear as he’d like. If he botched it, it was on her head. He really needed a smaller knife or a razor blade, but didn’t feel like searching the house for a more suitable implement. There was only so much time he was prepared to devote to this. He stared at the blood oozing out of her wounds. His cock was growing hard. He’d really like to dip it into the little slut, but that would be stupid. He prided himself on leaving not one shred of evidence for the authorities to replace. No hairs, no saliva, no fingerprints, and definitely no semen. He’d take some pictures of her and pleasure himself later at his leisure. But still he’d like to see what it felt like to lay on top of her. Rub his cock against her soft belly. What was the harm? He grabbed a bowl that resembled a giant crotch and laid the smoking cigar in it. He looked around at the pottery. This stuff was sick! Just as he’d suspected, all that wide-eyed innocence, the down-home, just-off-the-farm naiveté, was all an act. Little Sylvie was quite the pervert it seemed.

The darkness began to recede. Her head was pounding; there was god-awful pressure, as though her skull was being squeezed in a vise. She felt dizzy. She was spinning wildly through the blackness. White sparkles and zigzags of light flashed in her head. Her mouth, bone dry a second ago, began to salivate uncontrollably. She was suddenly nauseous, tasting bile at the back of her throat. Where was she? At first everything seemed foggy. She was only conscious of the freezing cold. Then she felt it. Excruciating pain! So intense, it cut through the darkness, dragging her back to consciousness, back to awareness, at warp speed. Every part of her seemed to be throbbing at once. Her muscles felt cramped and twisted. They twitched as though she’d been running, exercising for hours. Her limbs were weak, paralyzed, unable to move. Her skin came alive. It stung and burned like a blowtorch had seared it. Her nipples were on fire. Oh God! The pain! The pain! It was unrelenting, agonizing. It consumed her, sucking the breath from her lungs, suffocating her.

For a moment she thought she would slip back into the blessed darkness; but she didn’t. Instead, she felt hot breath on her neck.

He crawled on top of her, positioning himself between her legs. He rocked and rubbed against her. Sylvie could feel a hard bulge poking her mound and lower belly. Even through the leather she could smell him. Smell his scent: the spicy aroma of his cologne, the pungent odor of his expensive cigar. So familiar! Tears prickled her eyes. She didn’t want to believe it. But it was him! It was Connor! He rubbed hard against her. Driving her into the cold, wet tile. The floor was freezing; she couldn’t feel the skin on her back, bottom, or the back of her legs. They were numb. His body, at least his torso, was hard, as though he was encased in armor. Sylvie lay there unmoving, clenching her teeth tightly to keep herself from screaming as taut, unyielding leather pressed and rubbed against her singed nipples and the sliced flesh of her wounded belly. What had he done to her? The voice inside her told her to keep silent. ‘Don’t cry! Don’t move! Whatever he does. Don’t react!’

‘You’re mine Sylvie. I won’t be deterred. All this play-acting is futile. I’m on to you. I know you’re in there somewhere, trying to hide from me. But it won’t work! You have to come out, have to wake up sometime, and then I’ll have you. Won’t that be pleasant? Just you and I here all alone? Don’t worry Sylvie; I’m not going to let you die. Not yet. You see, I have big plans for you; though I know you’ve tried to thwart them. But it didn’t work did it? All your best efforts have come to naught. I must say though that you did give it the old college try. Under different circumstances, I might have been impressed, admired your pluck. But I’m on a tight schedule here and I really don’t have time for your nonsense. Let me make this perfectly clear so there are no future misunderstandings. You can’t get away from me. And you can’t stop what’s going to happen. You’re going to die. It’s just that simple! So you best go with the flow and get with the program. You can scream. You can cry. You can beg. You can pee or shit yourself for that matter. But it won’t make one iota of difference. It is what it is! Oh and don’t bother screaming your safe word. It won’t do you any good. I had one girl repeat hers over and over again, ad infinitum. Utterly ridiculous! As though one word uttered by that slovenly sow, that repugnant, fat cow, would put me off? Now really? How stupid is that? I had to slit her throat to shut her up!’

Did he say safe word? Sylvie never had a safe word. Connor wouldn’t allow it. He told her she didn’t need one. That he never intended to hurt her. Connor would know that! Or was this just a ruse to fool her. But if it wasn’t Connor, then who? His clone? Everything about him seemed the same: his size, his shape, even the weight of his body, the way it crushed her beneath him. The voice was electronic; but his vocabulary, the cadence of his speech…he was obviously cultured. And he smelled the same: of expensive cologne and fancy cigars. And Bolero. That couldn’t be coincidence could it? Nevertheless, there was something slightly different about her tormentor. She couldn’t put her finger on it precisely, but it was there. This wasn’t Connor. That realization caused a lump to grow in her throat. This man was a fiend, a monster. How could she have thought it was Connor?

The silence was breached by the screeching, ear-splitting sound of the smoke alarm going off in the kitchen. Clouds of acrid-smelling smoke drifted into the room. The stove was on fire! He quickly got off her and, rising to his feet, ran from the room. Sylvie could hear the clink of metal. Then the grating squeal of the tight-fitting back door being opened. And finally, continual creaking, as though he was moving the door back and forth like a fan. She had only a minute to act. She pulled at her blindfold and was shocked to realize it was glued to her face. It wouldn’t come off. Not without ripping her skin off with it. She felt herself begin to panic. How could she get away from him if she couldn’t see?

She sniffed the air. Cigar smoke was wafting toward her from the right. It was close. She ran her fingers over the floor until they bumped into a piece of ceramic. It was warm. She felt around the edge until she located the cigar. Picking it up, she transferred it to her other hand. Sylvie tried to orient herself. There was heat coming from the stove almost directly behind her head. She moved her left leg, stretching it out to the side, sending a sharp jabbing pain all the way up her spine. She choked back a groan. Sylvie bit down on her cheek to stifle a scream as she extended her leg further still. Her toes encountered what she thought was a wooden leg some three feet away. She slid her toes up the wood. The leg was at least a foot tall, probably more, but she couldn’t stretch any further. The movement had resulted in agonizing spasms throughout her body. It had to be the coffee table. She gave it a little shove. It moved a few inches then stopped, hitting what she thought was the chair. She remembered throwing the firecracker tin at him and the firecrackers scattering on the floor near the wall. She’d seen them rolling under the chairs and electric baseboard heater. If she could get the cigar close enough, they might go off; creating a diversion and buying her time. She threw the cigar as hard as she could to her left and prayed for a miracle.

Her other hand swept the floor to the right of her shoulder. It felt oily. Something sharp sliced into her thumb. She could feel blood pulsing from her finger. She cautiously touched it again. It was a very thin, very sharp shard of glass. It must have come from the shattered chimney of an oil lamp. It was small and slightly bowed. No more than five inches long and less than an inch wide. She gingerly wrapped her fingers around it till it was concealed in her hand.

Her left hand searched above her head, scorching her fingers on the woodstove. Sylvie quickly pulled them back, touching a long, thick object in the process. A linga. She wasn’t sure how big it was. It was too hot to examine or pick up. Tapping at it with her fingers, so she wouldn’t get burned again, she managed to roll it down to her thighs. She tried to position it so she could easily grab it. But leaving it there was a bad idea. He’d see it. Frigid air was blowing across the floor from the kitchen. She gingerly put her fingers on the linga. It was still quite hot, but she had to hide it before he came back. She arched her back and placed it under her lengthwise. Most of its eight inch length was concealed in the cleft of her bottom, but the head rested in the curve of her lower spine. It burned her skin, but she bore the pain without flinching. She could use it as a weapon. It might mean the difference between her living and dying. Sylvie could hear water running and a cabinet opening and closing. What was he doing? Trying to put out the fire? She listened intently. He turned off the water. She heard a splash, then the hissing, sizzling sound that occurs when water touches burning embers. He’d extinguished the fire. The water turned on and off again. A minute later she heard footsteps coming toward her.

‘Wake up bitch! I’ve had it with you! You’re more trouble than you’re worth!’

Ice cold water poured down on her. Her body jerked. That was all he needed to see. He knew she was awake and started viciously kicking at her. ‘Thought you’d fool me did you?’ He was standing to her right and aiming for her ribs, her belly, and her hips. A sharp pain like a stab to the chest sent her reeling. She gurgled and choked as bile and blood filled her mouth. The pain was unbearable! She gulped, trying to get enough air. Her lungs felt compressed! He was merciless: his heavy boots slamming into her kidneys again and again; then stomping her ankle and knee. Her agonized screams filled the room. He was going to kill her! It was now or never! She released her grip on the shard for a second, grabbing it at its widest part and stabbed at him. She caught his boot. He kicked her hand away. The glass slipped through her fingers, causing a deep, bloody gash in her palm. He leapt on her like a wild animal seizing its prey. He began to pummel her, punching her in the face and slamming her head into the floor. Trickles of blood dripped from her nose and one of her ears. Bubbles of bloody foam appeared on her lips. Mercifully, everything went black.

‘Did you really think you could escape me? Stupid girl! You won’t get away. You’re mine!’ Sylvie wasn’t moving. ‘Not this again. I’m a little tired of your playing dead. You’re behaving like a corpse and I won’t have it! Actually, I fully intend to help you with the dead corpse thing. But not yet. First we have to take some pictures.’

He roughly pried her legs apart. There was a puddle of blood under her. It was oozing out her vagina and anus. ‘Now what do you suppose caused that?’ he asked, chortling to himself. As if he didn’t know! She wouldn’t last much longer. Pity! He best get on with it then. He had a dinner engagement in the city at eight. He picked up one of the ceramic dicks scattered on the floor and impaled her on it. ‘Nine inches should do nicely. Don’t you think?’ he taunted, pulling it out and ramming it in again. She screamed, spittle and blood spraying from her mouth. Perfect!

Retrieving his cell phone from the coffee table, he took a picture of her. ‘Smile pretty for the camera Sylvie.’ He adjusted the zoom. He wanted to make sure the blood and bruises were clearly visible. He kicked her legs further apart and took a picture of her violation. He liked that. It made a great picture. He took several more from different angles. He had to admit she looked quite fetching splayed out like that. Maybe he should put another one up her ass and see…

He dropped the phone and dove for cover when he heard the first series of small explosions go off, sending pieces of pottery spiraling through the air in all directions. A large piece of ceramic whizzed by his head, nearly clipping his ear. A moment later he watched in alarm as the metal baseboard heater exploded and flew off the wall, piercing a closed closet door several feet away. He tucked his head and tried to shield himself as the explosions continued.

Sylvie’s chest heaved, but she couldn’t breathe. It was too painful. Shallow little puffs were all she could manage. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she was pretty sure she was dying. But there was no way she was going to let this monster win! If she was going to die, Sylvie intended to take this sick, sadistic motherfucker with her! She needed to summon what little strength she had and try to kill the son of a bitch before he got away. She could feel him sprawled on the floor between her legs. With the explosions continuing, Sylvie tried to take in a deep breath, but the pain was so intense she feared she’d black out again. Through the fog she could hear a voice calling to her. ‘Do it Sylvie! Kill him!‘ She forced herself to roll to her left while her battered right arm removed the linga she’d been hiding under her back. She screamed as she tried to raise her upper body off the floor. She could feel a cold, hard object tearing at her insides. Every movement pushed it deeper in. The pain was fierce, blinding. But she refused to let him win! Sylvie screeched like a banshee, the force of her rage lifting her back from the floor. Without warning, she began reigning blows on what she thought was his head. She heard a loud crack, but it didn’t sound like bone. It was something else. Plastic. The electronic voice disappeared. It was a human groan she heard as the firecrackers suddenly fell silent. He was trying to grab her hand, but she didn’t give him the chance. She flailed her arm wildly, striking him again and again. All at once there were sounds coming from outside: crunching gravel, the roar of an engine, the squeak of brakes. A car was pulling in! Her hand paused in midair, ears straining to hear. Had she imagined it? Was there really someone out there? That gave him just enough time to get away from her. She could hear him scuttling backward, then dragging something to him. He was making noises, but the sounds weren’t human any more.

‘What did you do bitch?’ the crackling, snapping electronic voice demanded. He jumped up and kicked the terracotta phallus from her hand. Then cruelly stomped her fingers. Forcing Aunt Tizzy’s rings to bend and buckle, slicing through the soft flesh, all the way to the bone. Sylvie let out a shriek. It felt like he’d severed it. ‘You vicious cunt! You called the cops?’ he spat at her. ‘He’s a dead man and you’re responsible, bitch! You killed him!’

She heard a rifle cock and boots rushing toward the front door as the car door slammed shut. He was going to ambush the officer who’d come to rescue her. No! She couldn’t let that happen. She used her feet to slowly drag her body closer to the wall and the picture window. She shoved the table out of the way with her foot. Her bloody left hand searched for a piece of pottery to throw, but could replace nothing. She needed to warn the officer. Her toe bumped into hard, cold metal. The firecracker tin! Her foot slipped inside it. She had very little strength left, but she might be able to get it airborne. She had only one shot at this. One chance to save him. Sylvie had always been a nerd not an athlete. Always the last one chosen to be on a team, from grade school all the way through junior high and high school. She thought of all the times she’d played soccer in gym class and never once scored a goal. But it didn’t matter what she’d been before. All that mattered was what she was now!

Sylvie lifted her leg. The window was at least three and a half feet off the floor. She shifted herself slightly. Kick left, angle up. She told herself. Kick left, angle up. She gulped in a bit of air and kicked as hard as she could. The tin flew from her foot. There was a loud crash and the sound of shattering glass. Exhausted, her leg dropped to the floor. She winced as the corner of something hard bit into the back of her knee. A second later she heard the front door open, then gunshots.

‘Look what you made me do!’ he screeched at her. ‘You made me shoot a cop! What am I going to do now? Do you know what they do to cop killers? I didn’t want to hurt him! This is all your fault! You’re going to pay for this bitch! You’re going to burn!’

He set the gun down and began lighting matches one after another. She could smell the sulphur. Sylvie heard a whoosh as the lamp oil to her right ignited. She recognized the smell of its distinctive, sooty smoke. All around her things were moving. Being dragged across the floor and scraping the tile. He was shifting furniture around. Why? There were crashes and bumps, as he shoved stuff against the various walls. He lit more matches. She shuddered every time she heard the scratching. It meant he was dragging another one across the striker. A second after each ignited there was a barely audible thump, like a small sliver of wood had hit the wall or the floor. He was throwing the matches around the room.

‘Good bye Sylvie. Have a nice life!’ he sneered.

She could hear his footsteps leave the room, pause a moment in the kitchen, then recede.

The music started blaring again. She was going to die to O Fortuna. Nothing like a little Carmina Burana playing in the background while flames singed your feet. He was choreographing her death…her murder. He was nothing if not artistic. He smiled to himself. If Connor wanted Sylvie, he could have her. Unfortunately for him, she’d be a charred corpse. That would take the incentive out of screwing her! It was a shame he couldn’t stay till the end, her end, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to go!

Sylvie tried to drag herself closer to the broken window. She needed air, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. The smoke was getting thicker. It was more than lamp oil burning now. She tried again to move, using her right leg to pull her forward, but it was no use. Her muscles cramped and twitched from her toes all the way to the base of her skull. She was going nowhere. Sylvie would perish in the flames, while the frenetic rhythm pulsated and pounded in the background, drowning out her screams and heralding her demise. Her leg trembled, then sank to the floor. She yelped with pain. The back of her thigh must have a piece of glass lodged in it, because the instant her leg hit the hard corner again, she nearly blacked out. Sylvie reached down and tried to push it out of the way with her injured hand. It was a rectangle. The back and sides felt rubbery; the corners were hard plastic. She flipped it over in her hand and felt the smooth, flat screen. It was his phone! It had to be! In his haste to leave, he’d left it. Sylvie’s breath grew shallow. It hurt too much to breath. She brought it to her breast and covered it with both hands to protect it. When they found her body, they’d replace the phone, and maybe then they’d catch him. She’d botched it. She hadn’t planned to die. Yet here she was. She wasn’t going to second-guess her actions. Though in retrospect, they seemed pretty stupid. She’d played the hand she was dealt. Unfortunately, she’d played it badly. She thought of her family. Of Tiz. But most of all, she thought of Connor. That brought her some measure of comfort. It was no use fighting it anymore. She didn’t have the strength. As the chorus sang what would be her funeral dirge, Sylvie let go and allowed herself to slip away.

Morretti’s face was ashen. ‘Yes, I understand. Shots fired. Officer down. We’re almost there.

Connor took the curve at nearly 80. They were less than a mile away. The GPS said it was just ahead. He slammed on the brakes when a disembodied voice announced they were arriving at their destination; and took the turn into the long driveway on two wheels. For a second he thought the SUV was going to tip over. Connor skidded to a stop when he saw the police car and the officer sprawled beside it. His eyes froze, focused on the smoke billowing out the broken picture window.

‘See to the officer,’ Connor yelled to Morretti as he jumped out of the car and went running toward the house. He could hear cars pulling in behind him. He took the porch stairs two at a time and twisting the knob, smashed his body into the front door. ‘Sylvie! Sylvie!’ he yelled, ramming his shoulder into it again and again. It wouldn’t open! He looked around and spied a large metal container with a big bear paw on it off to the side. Connor half-dragged, half-rolled it over. His muscles strained as he tilted it, so the full weight of it rested on its back wheels. Before the others could reach him and help, he crashed it into the door like a battering ram. The lock snapped and the frame splintered as it finally gave way. He rushed into the black cloud calling out her name. ‘Sylvie? Sylvie? Where are you? The smoke was so thick he couldn’t see.

‘Fucking lunatic,’ Brady said. It wasn’t a criticism, just a statement of fact. ‘See if that hose is working. Let’s get some water in there,’ he shouted over his shoulder to the others before following his boss into the fire.

They stopped a few feet inside the door. The worst of the fire was burning about 12 feet away. A wall was fully engulfed and it appeared the ceiling was starting to burn too. For now it seemed to be contained to that side of the room or that end of the house. The fire wasn’t the problem. It was the smoke. It was blinding.

He could hear voices from the other side of the house and then the sound of faucets being turned on. A moment later, water began splashing into the house. They were hosing down the far side of the burning wall. Someone was barking orders behind him. Soon a steady stream of water began dousing the flames from this side too. ‘Do you see her?’ he yelled to Brady. His voice sounded anguished.

‘No boss. I can’t see a thing in here!’

Connor dropped to his knees and felt around the floor. There was broken glass and what felt like cracked pottery everywhere. ‘Sylvie!’ he called, his heart sinking. Where the hell was she? What had that bastard done with her? His right arm swept wide to the side and collided with the cold flesh of what he thought was a leg. Oh dear God, don’t let her be dead! Don’t let her be dead! ‘I found her!’ Connor shouted as he gathered her up in his arms and rushed her outside.

Connor gasped in horror when he saw her in the light of day. Her face was purple. Her nose appeared to be broken and her lips were split open and bleeding. There were huge bumps all over her head. She was completely naked and covered in cuts and bruises. She was drenched in blood.

‘Put her down!’ Yannick ordered. ‘She’s hemorrhaging. There’s something stuck inside her.’

Connor didn’t move. His eyes fixated on the droplets of blood puddling on the ground.

Brady grabbed his arm. ‘Boss, she’s hurt. You have to put her down. Yannick was a medic. Let him help her.’

Yannick laid down the solar blanket he’d pulled from the patrol car’s first aid kit. The other was being wrapped around the shivering deputy. He was injured, but thankfully, alive. Yannick looked at Connor and motioned for him to lay her on the blanket.

He looked devastated and dazed as he gently put her broken body down. He let out a strangled sob when her legs fell open and he saw her bloodied thighs and the object protruding from her body. ‘Is she alive?’ he asked. She wasn’t moving and didn’t appear to be breathing.

Yannick put his fingers to the side of her throat. ‘Barely. Her heart’s beating.’ He put his hand to her lips. ‘But her breathing is shallow. She’s in some kind of respiratory distress.’ He lifted her hands so he could examine her chest and discovered the bloody cell phone. He picked it up and was about to toss it on the ground when Costano stopped him.

‘Be careful with that,’ the detective demanded. We need to bag it. This is a crime scene. That’s evidence. We can’t have it contaminated.’

Yannick nodded and handed it to him. He felt over Sylvie’s chest ready to start compressions, but could tell immediately that she had suffered several broken ribs and possibly a punctured lung. He parted her lips. There was blood in her mouth. ‘She needs oxygen! Check the patrol car!’ Yannick wiped away the blood, brought his mouth down on hers and started breathing for her.

Connor removed his coat and gently laid it over Sylvie.

‘Looks like she’s suffered severe head trauma,’ O’Brien said as he knelt down beside Yannick. ‘Maybe you should check her pupils?’

Yannick stared at the hematomas covering her head. Especially the golf ball-sized one on her temple. O’Brien was right. ‘Get the mask off so we can get a look at her eyes.’

O’Brien tried to pull the mask off her face, but was horrified when he realized it wouldn’t come off. ‘It’s glued on,’ he said in disbelief.

Yannick resumed forcing air into her lungs He hoped to hell her pupils weren’t fixed and dilated. But until he knew different, he was going to do everything possible to keep her alive. She was such a tiny little thing. What kind of degenerate, sadistic freak would do something like this to her?

Brady pulled a hovering Connor back. ‘Give him room to work. There’s nothing you can do.’ When he looked over at his boss, he could see tears forming in his eyes.

For the first time since he was a kid, rich and powerful Connor Hudson: billionaire tycoon, media mogul, fearsome titan of industry, was crying. Helpless! Defeated! All his money, all his power, were useless right now. He couldn’t keep her from dying!

Brady put a consoling arm on Connor’s shoulder.

In the distance they could hear the wail of police and ambulance sirens. Connor could only hope they’d arrive in time to save her.