Ruff Trouble

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  Spreading out the second blanket on the ground, Chantelle settled. Though she tried not to, she let out a quiet groan as her head nestled into the pillow. Such bliss.

  The one thing better would be her bed. Warm duvet. Bobby snug at her side.

  A lump rose in her throat and she did her best to swallow it down. Thoughts of Bobby were as likely to weaken her as to give her strength. Depended on her state of mind and, just then, thinking of him and Sam did little more than to make her ache. When she was stronger, then…Then she would plan her escape and getting back to her men. Such notions helped her focus, made her determined. She would use that after she rested…

  She didn’t have time to sleep. From somewhere off she heard what sounded like a gate opening. Her eyes snapped open, but the noise didn’t come from the door of her cage. The sound came from further along the corridor. So…a second gate or door barring her chance of escape?

  The young woman appeared again, this time carrying a tray. Chantelle tried to narrow in on the man who accompanied her but remained in the shadows, but her nose twitched at the smell of hot rich gravy, instead. Stew. The woman pushed the tray through under the bars where a gap allowed food to pass.

  The gap. Might she in husky form scramble beneath? No, but maybe…if she dug deep enough…

  Her stomach grumbled even as her bladder clenched. Hell, what was she going to do when she needed to use the toilet? Not that she was ashamed of her body’s needs, but she didn’t want to foul the floor of her cage. Even though she detested confinement, if she must be here, the least they could do was to let her ‘accommodations’ remain clean. Despite the longing, neither did she want to pee in a bucket or do worse—have to urinate in view of others for someone’s entertainment. Again, the natural requirement wasn’t her concern. Being someone’s amusement angered her. Which brought her back to questioning what the man wanted of her.

  As the woman turned away, Chantelle called out, “Thank you.” The woman stopped. Her back stiffened before she went on her way. As soon as she was sure she was alone, Chantelle moved forward on her hands and knees and grabbed the tray.

  She hesitated—the food might be poisoned or drugged—but if so, she’d only hold out so long, anyway. Decision made, she ate.

  Chapter 7

  Sam jolted away as Bobby slapped his arse. After the incredible sex, they’d fallen asleep glued together with satisfaction as much as semen. Proved to be what they needed. Despite the rude awakening, Sam was instantly alert. He at once rolled off the bed, grabbing his clothes. “What is it? What do we have?”

  “The van. Took Atkins a long time, but he traced it back via CCTV and van hire companies.”

  “The van was a hire?”

  “Yes, and Atkins followed through on the lead.”

  The rumble in Bobby’s voice spoke for him. Why hadn’t Atkins called them at the first sign of a clue?

  As if he’d spoken aloud, Bobby said, “It’s as well he didn’t bother us until he had more to go on. Nothing we might have traced our end but…many coppers have contacts. Picked up the bloke who got the van.”

  “So, we have him?”

  “He’s not our man, but he told Atkins who is. Atkins took a couple of cars there, but he’s not home. He wants to get a warrant, but there’s no cause.”

  “So he let us know.”

  Bobby nodded. “We’ve got to break into the home of one Phillip Driffield.”

  “Driffield?” Sam tugged on a shoe not allowing even this startling news to slow his movements. “Wait. Wasn’t he…?”

  “Worked in our office for a year.”

  Sam met Bobby’s gaze. “So…he knows us?”

  “Would explain why Chantelle might be off her guard if he approached her on the street.”

  * * * *

  Though she grimaced over porridge for breakfast, Chantelle scraped the bowl clean. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of coffee to wash it down though. God, if…When she got out of here, she’d strangle her kidnapper for keeping her caffeine free for however many days she was here. The minutes ticked by. Chantelle dozed.

  Jolted awake.

  How long? With no clock or view of the outside world she had only instinct to go on. Something told her the morning bled away into midday but the man had said he’d see her in the morning. If he didn’t hurry, she was sure it would soon be afternoon.

  Maybe he wouldn’t arrive at all. She might see no one for hours. There might be no lunch or even another dinner. Her supe nature meant she needed more nourishment than most. So far, she’d received human portions and not large ones of those. If they didn’t keep the food coming, or give her more…she’d have to consider escape sooner rather than later. She’d weaken again and be unable to protect herself eventually.

  Stop it.

  Whoever jailed her played mind games. She’d left enough criminals stewing before questioning them to recognise the system. They wanted something from her or something from someone else using her as leverage. No doubt the man might try to befriend her. Whatever ploy he used, Chantelle wouldn’t be fooled.

  Phillip Driffield. The name came to her unbidden. She didn’t know the older guy or whether the one who hid in the shadows had been there when she was abducted, but she had gone along with the man in the street because he was Phillip Driffield—an officer she’d once known on the force. Worked with a few times. While she felt stupid, she’d had no reason to believe the man meant her harm. Why would he? Had someone paid him? Blackmailed him? Though she hoped in time to prove him innocent in all this, she would struggle to forgive him, unless they had a noose around the neck of someone he loved.

  A thin growl trickled out of her throat. One she couldn’t afford. Her animal rose, and she battened it down just in time as there came sounds of the door along the corridor opening. On this occasion the man did not need to bring his chair as he’d left it there the previous night.

  Chantelle stayed where she was, back pressed into the wall, head lowered, and glowering out from under her brow.

  The man glanced to the side of the cage where she’d at last had to relieve herself. The top soil was dark and wet and liquid puddled on some rock where she’d urinated.

  “I’m so sorry. I must do something about that.”

  About what? Her need to pee? The lack of a toilet? She pictured Bobby in dog form peeing up this man’s leg and fought not to laugh.

  “I’ll address your…needs in due course. If I give you a chair will you sit closer, so we can have a real conversation?”

  Though she considered it, Chantelle shook her head. “Not right now.”

  The older gent brushed what had to be imaginary fluff from his trousers. “Fair enough.” He said nothing more. Seconds ticked on.

  He’s trying to rattle me. Chantelle drew in cool air determined his ploy would not work.

  “No questions?” His trying to sound friendly was laughable, coming from a kidnapper.

  “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk.”

  The man laughed, the sound reverberating off the walls, the hateful sound stinging her skin. She was under assault.

  “What if I told you lunch will not arrive until we finish here and not before I’m satisfied?”

  She clenched her jaw, stubborn to the last, but her mind drifted, reminding her if she didn’t eat, she’d weaken faster. If she wanted to eat, this man intended she earned her meals.

  “What do you want?” Each word spilled from her lips like bile.

  “Now or in general?”

  “Well, I’d say you want me to ask why I’m here.”

  His gaze speared her, steely glances of iron grey. “Blankets warm enough?”

  The change of topic disoriented her, made her blink. No doubt that was his intention.

  “Not as good as a bed, but warm enough.”

  “Good. I came up with the idea to give you a pillow.” When she didn’t reply a hint of impatience crept into his voice—projected by him, false. “Come now, Chantelle
. I was nice to you. The least you can do is to say thank you.”

  “Thank. You.” Though the words hurt to say she put enough acid into them. He could bloody well stop using her name. She’d see to it at some point if the chance allowed. Smash a few of his teeth in. Rip out his tongue. The hound in her rolled over, but it both growled and whimpered. This wasn’t her doing. He’d forced her to such behaviour.

  “Less sarcasm next time.”

  More silence spun out until Chantelle knew he wouldn’t make a move before she did. “Why am I here? What is it you want?”

  “Thank you for asking, my dear. As you see, common courtesy doesn’t have to be ignored. What do I want from you? What do I want?” He spoke as if he pondered a larger, more universal concern. “My dear, what I would like is for you to show me your true nature.”

  Although sure he couldn’t mean what she thought he meant, Chantelle’s blood iced over. She frowned, shook her head, gave him every sign she didn’t know what he meant.

  “I’d like you to change. To…transform. Whatever it is you call it. I want you to reshape yourself and show me what you are.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do, my dear.”

  She longed to tell him she wasn’t his dear. She wasn’t his anything. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

  “Then let me save time and elaborate.” He played with a ring on one of his fingers, twisting it, studying it, before meeting her gaze. “You are a supernatural being. A shape-shifter. I’m unsure what type you are but you can transform into another creature.”

  The fight to keep her shock from her face was real, but she kept it together and barked out a laugh. “You’re out of your cotton-picking mind.”

  “My dear—”

  “Mad.” She didn’t let him finish, having no inclination to hear him call her dear even one more time. “You’re out of your fucking head.”

  “Language.”

  “You’re the one who belongs behind bars of, if not a jail, a mental asylum. You’re a banana short of a bunch.” She wasn’t sure what the phrase meant, but it sounded good. Felt good to say it, too. “Fucking bat shit out of this world crazy. Bonkers. Certifiable. Crazier than a shit-house rat. Your screws are loose.”

  She was sure she heard a chuckle from the guy further along the corridor but she ignored it. Her kidnapper didn’t. He flinched, and she sensed someone would pay for the sound later. Didn’t stop her.

  “Cracked. Wigging out. Psycho. A headcase. Fruit cake. Moonstruck. Daffy. More cuckoo than a clock. A proverbial hatter. Positively postal. Barking.” She failed to resist slipping that one in. “Apeshit. Barmy. Deranged. Unglued.”

  “Are you going to keep this up?” Anger hardened his voice.

  “Nuts. Off your rocker. Fucked up.”

  He stood. “No, my dear. You are the one who is fucked.” He pointed to where she’d had to urinate. “Your treatment depends on your level of cooperation.” His gaze shifted to the three water bottles she had left. “Right now, I can feed and water you the same way any human would an animal, and, like an animal, I can leave you to do your business where you can. Or I can provide you with a bucket…or let you starve. If you behave, I can have you moved to better accommodations in time. Or, if you choose to be awkward, maybe we start with you going thirsty. If you ration the water it may help you last out an extra day, if your will is strong enough, but when you’re dehydrated, we’ll see who wins this war. I’ll give you time to think it over.”

  “You’re mad.” Chantelle continued to protest, letting real panic enter her voice, though she could have suppressed it. “I can’t do the impossible.”

  He had already turned away, sent back a passing shot. “We shall see.”

  * * * *

  Bobby changed form in the car so, when Sam parked, he opened the door and Bobby slipped out, someone’s pet, going for a walk. Though those eyes—one brown, one blue—bore a hole in Sam’s brain with disapproval, they’d talked it over and both agreed Bobby would be safer on a leash. Not the first time they’d used the ruse. They frowned upon untethered dogs in many areas and, though Bobby expressed a dislike of the idea, the disguise had proven useful. He never let Sam forget who the one was out in front and, if Sam pulled him back, he tugged harder.

  At an opportune moment Bobby gave a lurch, pulled the lead out of Sam’s hand, and ducked along an alley running between the buildings. Sam swore, called for Bobby, and gave chase. The act was a ruse in case anyone watched. A dog chasing a squirrel. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

  Sam caught up to Bobby at the end and they circled round to the garden at the rear of Driffield’s property. “We’re in luck.” Sam pointed. Driffield had a short fence and several large trees in back and had left part of the garden to become overgrown. They had cover. This time of the morning many had left for work, but a neighbour might be watching. Driffield was in the office—though now in another department; Atkins had discreetly checked. No sign of the van though, and Driffield hadn’t been at work the day of Chantelle’s disappearance. Interesting.

  Bobby jumped the fence in one bound and Sam scrambled after with ease. Bobby stayed a few paces in front. If caught by a neighbour Sam could still pretend to be trying to catch his dog.

  Even better for their cause, as they neared the house, a large pergola with an out-of-control climber led almost to the back door. Small wonder the man hadn’t been robbed.

  Bobby barked while Sam broke a small pane of glass. Driffield would notice and know something was wrong the moment he returned in the evening, but if they didn’t have a lead by then things would be desperate. If this became an official police matter…well, they needed reason to investigate Driffield, let alone enter his home, and, if they found one, a broken glass panel in a door might have happened any time.

  As soon as they were in, Bobby returned to human form.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam took one look and snorted. Bobby’s startled gaze made him laugh more. Took a moment but Bobby at last glanced down at his naked self. Realisation set in as he fingered the lead fastened to the collar around his throat.

  “Maybe we should find another use for that.” Sam smiled.

  “Once we’re out of this mess, maybe I’ll let you.”

  Sam widened his eyes.

  Bobby grinned back and winked. “I’ll be in that good a mood.”

  Though the idea did strange things to Sam’s libido, they had a job to perform. Sam already wore gloves and started to search.

  “There’s no hint of her.”

  Bobby wasn’t wrong. Sam had used his own sense of smell, now enhanced, to tell whether he caught a trace of Chantelle. He agreed with Bobby. Whatever Driffield had planned, he hadn’t brought her here. They’d already decided if someone took her, even if she knew them and went willingly at first, they have incapacitated her. There was the ether smell in the road where she’d disappeared, and the conclusion she’d been drugged if not injured, made sense. No such smell pervaded the house.

  “We need contacts. Addresses. You carry on here. I’ll go upstairs.”

  Sam bit his tongue—literally—to avoid telling Bobby off for stating the obvious. He wasn’t giving orders, merely talking aloud.

  “Leave no evidence.” Sam gave Bobby a pointed look up and down. The man wore nothing but a collar and leash. Even a stray hair—Sam avoided staring at Bobby’s crotch—would leave behind DNA.

  “I’ll try not to shed.” Bobby left the room.

  Took Sam another five minutes but at last located Driffield’s address book. He flipped through studying each page, not giving in to his desire to rush. He was almost at the end when Bobby returned.

  “There’s soil on a pair of shoes.”

  “From the garden?”

  “No. Different smell.”

  Sam opened his mouth to ask whether Bobby was sure, but didn’t. He knew the truth of how to tell…textures, almost, with his nose these day
s, especially if he changed.

  “He threw a few clothes, recently worn, into a hamper but a sock fell on the floor. There’s something…but I’m not sure what.”

  “Foot odour?” Sam shrugged in apology when Bobby raised his eyebrows.

  “I’d say he’s been outside London recently. Spores maybe. Makes me think of running in the woods.”

  “So, by recent, you mean…”

  “Maybe yesterday. You had any luck?” Bobby gestured to the book.

  “Nothing out of place. See if you know anyone.” He tossed Bobby the book and carried on riffling through the desk, taking care to put things back where they belonged. He finished there, and then shuffled through the contents of the bin. A pile of books and magazines stood to one side. He’d already flipped through those. Where to search next?

  “I know this guy.” Bobby tapped the address book. Sam swivelled where he crouched. “Benedict MaCaw. He was friendly with Driffield.” Bobby snorted. “Unsurprising he’s in his address list. Doesn’t mean he’s involved. Doesn’t mean he isn’t.”

  “This is a lost cause.” The thought closed Sam’s throat. He caught Bobby’s stare, imprisoned by it, Bobby’s expression stricken.

  “Hate to say it, but you may be right.” Acceptance made them both miserable, salted the air. As he stood, Sam swallowed his tears. He refused to fall apart. They headed for the back door.

  “What do you know about him?” Sam asked.

  “Who?”

  “Benedict.”

  “Not much. MaCaw used to commute in to work.”

  Sam paused by the back door, gazing down. “Do we leave this?”

  Glass peppered the floor. “No. Let’s sweep it up. Take the fragments with us. If they investigate, let’s make it look like this might have happened any time.”

  “Pretty much what I was thinking.” Sam searched in the most likely spot for a pan and brush, under the kitchen sink. He pulled a plastic bin bag from a roll, then collected the glass and put it all in the bag. He put the dustpan back where he’d found it. “Do we leave the way we came in?”