Evan turned and walked over to the window and looked out. He hated the way the logic flowed, the way sick bastards segued so easily into Gina’s compliance. The thought of the fat guy in the photos torturing her made him want to be sick. She wouldn’t be a pushover. Things wouldn’t go easy for her—not least because she didn’t know any details to tell them even if she wanted to.
‘You’re right. It might even be too late already.’
The words hung in the air. They were both quiet as they thought about Gina’s prospects once she’d given up the information they wanted.
‘That’s why we need to do this tonight. The quicker we nail these bastards, the quicker we get her back. There’s just one other thing.’
Evan caught something in his voice, the leaving the worst part to the end tone.
‘I haven’t got enough people available to put anyone inside the club tonight. The two guys you met earlier are already allocated. Sorry. You’ll be on your own.’
A look passed between them.
If you’d told me about Gina earlier, we might have avoided all this. You’ve only got yourself to blame.
‘Apart from Destiny, of course,’ Angel said. ‘Let’s hope she’s up to the job.’ He gave a short, dry laugh.
‘What?’
‘I feel like I’m really out on a limb here. We’re putting a whole lot of faith in Gina’s gut feel about her friend. A friend who was previously involved. Once this is over, the club gets shut down. Destiny’s out of a job. Bye-bye fancy car and all the rest of it. Let’s hope for Gina’s sake she’s really on our side.’
***
EVAN WAS A SUCKER for punishment. Something had made him hold back, not tell Angel about the emails. Most likely he didn’t want Angel to see him for what he was—a desperate man clutching at straws—right before they tried to nail the bastards holding Gina. But telling him the rest of it, saying the words out loud, meant there wasn’t a chance in hell of him leaving his laptop alone the minute Angel was out the door.
He grabbed it and opened his email, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips as he saw the third message sitting there, just as he knew it would be. He had a good idea what it would say too.
At least with each one the adrenal spike of fear and panic lessened, more so because he knew now what he was up against. He opened it, ready for the words so carefully crafted to maximize his pain.
Shame Faulkner burned down the barns. Now you’ll never know.
A short sharp cry slipped through his teeth. He was right, it was what he’d have written if the roles were reversed.
But this email was different, there was an attachment this time, an image. The file name was a meaningless string of numbers, but he knew what it would be nonetheless. He clicked it, stared at an image of the charred remains of Hendricks’ barns. His eyes dropped to the bottom right-hand corner, the date and time stamp. The photograph had been taken less than twenty-four hours previously.
And now he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt who was doing this to him, who was playing with him. It couldn’t have been any clearer if the emails had been signed Best wishes, Carl Hendricks.
It also proved Hendricks wasn’t sending them directly. Emails sent by prisoners would be monitored, anything inappropriate rejected. And he wouldn’t have access to a photograph taken the previous day. Which meant he was working with somebody on the outside. The big question was whether that person drew the line at sending a few antagonistic emails, or whether they were prepared to participate in more active forms of revenge.
***
‘HOW’S IT GOING WITH Angel?’ Kate Guillory said when she picked up. ‘He hasn’t eighty-sixed you for causing too much mayhem yet?’
‘I’m working on it.’ The words rode out on the back of a chuckle, and Evan brought her up to speed. ‘It’ll probably all kick off tonight.’
‘Yeah, I reckon that’s what Angel’s afraid of. Anyway, sounds like you’ve got it all under control down there—what do you want from me?’
Evan stared at the email still on the screen, weighing up how much to say. It felt different talking to her now, after what Angel had said about her being fond of him. Made him wonder exactly what he felt about her. The guy should’ve kept his opinions to himself, he had enough complications in his life. But he couldn’t deny it was good to hear her voice.
‘I think Hendricks is starting a hate campaign against me.’
‘What? You can’t be serious.’
He told her about the emails but didn’t say what was in them, hoped she didn’t ask him to read them out. Made no mention of the image either. He wanted to keep all reference to a possible lower basement level to himself for the time being.
‘He’s taunting me. And I’m sure there’ll be more.’
‘What makes you think they’re from him? Whoever it is, they did a hell of a lot of digging.’
‘Who else? He’s got the time.’
There was a short bark of a laugh from Guillory’s end of the line. ‘You mean how many other people have got it in for you? After what you used to do? How many do you need? What about that guy McIntyre, the one who chewed your ear? Or—’
Her words were like a slap around the face, far too close to the bone. Until Charlotte had forced him to renege on his promise to himself, to Guillory, to the world, he could’ve laughed it off. But not now.
‘You remember Hendricks did time for statutory rape with two army buddies?’
She paused a few beats, taken aback by his curt interruption. ‘Uh-huh. One of them is still in a coma, kept alive at the taxpayers’ expense, the last time I looked.’
‘So that leaves the third guy unaccounted for.’
‘You think he’s the one sending the messages for Hendricks.’
Hearing her say it made him even more convinced it was true. It felt right—or wrong—depending on which end of it you were on.
‘And you’d like me to look into this guy for you. As in, right now.’
Evan smiled to himself. He’d trained her well.
‘I’d do it myself, but I’m a bit tied up down here.’
‘Let’s hope that doesn’t turn out to be literally true. It’s probably better that you’re down there for the moment, out of harm’s way.’
Before Angel’s observation, his mind would have done the translation without any conscious thought: out of harm’s way becomes out of my hair. Now he didn’t know what to think.
‘I’ll get fat, you know, what with all the dinners you’re going to owe me. Leave it with me.’
‘I appreciate it. The last thing I need right now is some ex-army crazy with an assault rifle hunting me down, re-living his glory days like it’s Saigon circa nineteen seventy-five.’
Chapter 48
JESSE HAD BEEN STEWING for two days, ever since his argument with Evan. He’d got home from Louisville to find a note from Diane on the kitchen table saying she’d gone to stay with her sister, Julia, for a couple of days.
He loathed Diane’s sister. She was a real man-hater, or, to be more precise, a real Jesse-hater. All because he’d goosed her at Diane’s family Christmas gathering one year. The fuss she made about it, anyone would have thought he’d bent her over the kitchen table, ripped her panties off and screwed her senseless.
Julia was the last person on earth he wanted Diane to talk to. He imagined her pinched, disapproving little mouth saying Leave him, leave the bastard in that horrible, whiny voice she had. Even if Diane didn’t want a divorce by the time she got back he’d have to put up with Julia’s smug face for the rest of his life.
He’d bought himself a new phone—he didn’t believe they’d send his old one back—and tried calling Diane a couple of times but it had gone straight to voicemail. He hadn’t left a message. What was he going to say? Just wondering what the hell you’re up to? He didn’t want to phone the house because he didn’t want to speak to her sister or her idiot husband, Norman.
He prowled the house for two days getting more and more wound up. He co
uldn’t concentrate at work. And memories are short. Now he was safely back home the horrors of his trip to Louisville were rapidly receding into the past. Whereas the due date for his credit card bill was approaching equally fast. The blind panic that had sent him scuttling home with his tail between his legs was long gone. It was almost like a bad dream, it was all so unreal. Thirty grand to be paid in the next week or so was a lot more real.
Long story short, he was wound up tight enough to snap by the time Diane came home. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a bottle of beer and drawing patterns with his finger in the water ring from the condensation that had run down the sides of the bottle. He jumped when she came through the front door.
She glanced briefly at his face and didn’t seem fond of what she saw. ‘We need to talk.’
Not even a hello, certainly not a how are you? and as for I’ve missed you—forget it.
His heart sank.
Talk.
He knew from bitter experience that when Diane said talk, he was looking down a one-way street. He wouldn’t get to say anything at all and she would feel free to list every fault, every transgression, every character defect, relevant or not, that came to mind. Whenever they talked he found himself apologizing for things he hadn’t even done, hadn’t even thought of doing. He found himself apologizing for not doing them, for not thinking of not doing them. It hurt his head.
He looked up at her. Her eyes were bright and liquid, a sure sign that trouble was on the way. He swallowed and tried to breathe normally. He put the beer bottle down on the table so that he didn’t slop it all over the place. Not only that, but he knew she wouldn’t take kindly to him casually swilling beer while she ripped into him.
‘Uh huh.’
Grunts seemed safer than proper words at this point. Certainly safer than: Let’s hear the speech that cow Julia helped you prepare.
‘About this.’
She took the missing photo out of the canvas tote bag in her hand, put it on the table in front of him. Jesse looked down at it. Not because he needed to look at it to know what it was, but just so that he didn’t have to look her in the eye. He was relieved to see it hadn’t been mutilated in any way, but, then again, he didn’t know what was worse—mad, uncontrollable rage or a careful, calm deadliness. He held his breath.
She leaned forward and pushed the bottle of beer into his lap. He jumped backwards in the chair almost sending it flying across the room. He stood up—safer that way, easier to run—and looked down at the floor. He knew she was waiting for him to look at her. She hefted the canvas tote bag in her hand and swung it at him. It caught him on the side of the head. He jumped sideways.
Damn, that hurt. What the hell have you got in there?
‘Look at me.’
It was cold and calm, not the hot rage option. Much worse. He did as he was told, lifting his head slowly, his insides shrivelling under her venomous gaze.
‘Like to explain that to me?’
She pointed at the photo, her finger steady as a rock, rigid enough to poke his eye out. He opened his mouth to speak but she hadn’t finished.
‘Or this?’
She fished in the tote bag again and pulled some papers out, threw them on the table. He picked them up. It was his credit card statement. His mouth dropped open. She’d never opened his mail before but then she’d never found a photo of him with his johnson in another woman’s mouth before. Not to his knowledge, anyway.
‘Thirty thousand dollars.’
It was a full-blown scream this time. Thank God. It was definitely preferable to the icy calm.
‘Are you completely mad?’
He let the credit card statement drop from his fingers onto the table.
‘Say something,’ she screamed. ‘Anything.’
He shrugged. Now that she was screaming, he was strangely calm himself. Maybe resigned was a better description, as if someone had just told him something he’d never wanted to hear but had always expected to.
‘Would you believe me? You’ve had the lovely Julia poisoning your mind for two solid days. What does it matter what I say?’
She wound her arm back and swung the bag at him again. He got his forearm up just in time to stop it hitting his head again but it still hurt. She swung a third time and he caught it mid swing and wrenched it out of her hands. He threw it in the corner. It landed with a heavy thud. He reckoned she’d put some bricks in it because she knew she’d be using it to hit him. He was grateful she hadn’t added a broken bottle or two.
She stood limply, her shoulders slumped, with her hands hanging down at her sides. He wanted to go to her and hold her and comfort her but he knew it would be like feeding zoo animals with fresh cuts on your hand.
‘I was drugged.’
She sat down at the table and rested her head in her hands. ‘Drugged,’ she repeated woodenly, her voice flat and devoid of all emotion.
‘We went to a strip club. It’s no big deal—’
She snorted. ‘Maybe not to you.’
‘—except that I don’t remember a thing.’
‘How convenient.’
‘It’s true for Christ’s sake.’ He heard his voice rising and took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I woke up next morning in my hotel room—’
‘With your new friends, no doubt.’
He ignored her even though he wanted to grab her arms and shake her and ask her how he was supposed to say something when she interrupted every two seconds.
‘—and couldn’t remember a thing.’
He sat down at the table opposite her. She didn’t bother looking up. She was chewing the edge of her thumb and he knew that meant her eyes would be moist too.
‘Next thing I know the photos arrive and I get a text telling me not to complain about my credit card bill.’ He dropped his head and tried to look under her hair into her eyes. ‘It’s a scam.’
‘You should have told me,’ she said to the table top.
Without thinking he put his hand out to pick up the photo, then caught himself and pulled it back sharply.
‘I panicked. It was the day of our anniversary—’
That made her look up. He was right—her eyes were moist. Despite that, he saw things click into place in them.
‘—the photos arrived and I panicked. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I’m standing in the kitchen with the photos in my hand, feeling like I’ve just been hit by a freight train, and you’re coming down the stairs—jumping down them for Christ’s sake—in your bra and panties, shouting: Look what I’ve got for you.’
The memory almost made her smile at him. He reckoned she was chewing on the inside of her mouth to keep a proper smile from breaking out.
‘So you made up some bullshit story about going to the office.’
He nodded. ‘I just had to get out. I needed time to think. And you grabbed my phone and saw there wasn’t any call from work.’
‘I can’t think of when I’ve been so pissed off.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘I knew you were lying. I got drunk while you were out.’
‘But you found the photo I dropped.’
She dipped her finger in the wet ring left by the beer bottle she’d knocked into his lap and drew a smiley face. She suddenly realized what she’d drawn and scrubbed it out. ‘I was sitting right here drinking wine when I saw it poking out from under the cabinet.’
‘You didn’t say anything when I got back.’
She gave a small shrug. ‘I thought it was a joke. I thought some sick friend of yours had photoshopped your head onto it. Their idea of an anniversary surprise. By the time you got back I was nearly shit-faced anyway.’
He thought he’d leave it at that. He’d seen the scar that proved it was his body—as well as his head—immediately. She must have missed it. Probably hadn’t paid too much attention thinking it was just some stupid, schoolboy joke. It wouldn’t achieve anything to point out now why it was definitely all him.
‘I thought maybe y
ou’d gone into the office after all to find out who sent it. I didn’t give it any more thought.’
She gave him the withering look that he knew so well. ‘Grown men behaving like little boys as usual. Nothing new in that.’
He relaxed slightly. It was a relief that her first reaction wasn’t to think he was cheating on her. He was ashamed he’d had so little faith in their relationship. Would he have jumped to the conclusion that he’d assumed she had?
‘That all changed when I opened your credit card statement by mistake,’ she said.
He saw the hurt in her eyes as she thought back to it. He imagined the disbelief as she saw the total amount due, the horror as she scanned through it to see why it was so high and found the massive entry. Then the sick feeling in her stomach that made her want to curl up and die when she made the connection to the photo.
‘I didn’t look at the envelope. I thought it was mine.’
He put his hand out and laid it on her arm. She didn’t pull her arm away, didn’t even flinch, which was a step in the right direction, but she didn’t reciprocate either.
‘Is that why you went back down there? To sort it out?’
He nodded again and she saw something in his face, something tucked just behind the corner of him that he didn’t want to let slip past.
‘What? Tell me.’
Now she put her hand on his and squeezed.
‘Tell me.’
Jesse sighed and took her through his disastrous visit to the club and subsequent interrogation—or whatever else you might call it—by the fat mobster. She actually laughed as he told her about being locked in the dumpster full of rotting fish and then being hosed down. But her eyes grew wide when he told her about the chair he’d been tied to and the bolt cutters, although he left out the bit about the young stripper trying to get a rise out of him. He was sweating by the time he finished, so he got up and fetched another beer and one for her too.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Just like in the James Bond movie,’ he said, taking a pull on the beer. ‘Except they were only threatening me—this time.’
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 43