Cold as Ice

by Adrian Stark

  Rule three—observe as much of your environment as you can.

  No one had found her yet. According to Michael, there wasn’t even a whisper and, given the spring in his step and the cockiness in his voice, he was happy about that. He was confident. He was cocky.

  He had left the curtains open.

  Chapter Seven: Chapter 7 Title

  MaryAnn, as it turned out, had a lot of use for a private detective. Apparently, being a famous heiress attracted many gold diggers, and Mr. Dyer was particularly good at finding out which ones were worth the time. I’d never seen MaryAnn so focused. We watched in silence as she spoke, pacing back and forth across the room, stopping after a moment to look at Charlie expectantly.

  “What was his name?” She asked, handing over the receiver. Charlie’s eyes widened momentarily in panic.

  “Oh god, it was uh-Michael something? Michael…” I watched her with bated breath as she flapped her hands. If Charlie didn’t know, we were back at square one. That was something I couldn’t bear to think about right now. Thankfully, her expression cleared. “Sullivan!” she shouted. “It was Michael Sullivan.”

  MaryAnn smiled at her and took her hand off the receiver.

  “Michael Sullivan. Jordan, did you get that?” She listened for a second and then hung up without a word, leaning forward to down the rest of her vodka. “He’ll meet us tomorrow at lunchtime in the Barrel Cafe.”

  Interlaken was one of the places I’d always wanted to visit when I was younger. Having grown up in New York with my father, I felt far more at home in a big city than surrounded by green. Switzerland’s mountains and crystal-clear waters seemed like another world. Josie had laughed when I told her, promising to show me all the most magical spots when we arrived.

  Anxiety twisted in my chest. I hope she’d still get to show me.

  Jordan Dyer was precisely who you’d think of if someone asked you to describe a private detective, deep-set eyes and a broody expression. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and I fully expected him to take out an old pipe or a cigar to puff on. Instead, he pulled out a small yellow paged notebook and a bitten topped ballpoint pen. He set both down slowly on the coffee stained table in front of him and irritation itched at my skin. Three days Josie had been gone. Three days of sleeping in her cabin at night and pacing around the docks, not able to do a goddamn thing, and I seemed to be the only person feeling any urgency.

  Jordan bit on the end of the well-worn pen and finally looked up.

  “Okay, so I had a look through the local records in New York for a Michael Sullivan.” He spoke casually, but his words were deliberate like he considered each one before he said it. “From there, I managed to find out what happened between him and Miss Miller.” Over Jordan’s shoulder, I could see Chrissie was ordering drinks—her tall frame leaning against the countertop while the barista messed with the machines. She was tapping her foot impatiently, and the familiar nervous habit soothed me a little. “They dated for a little over ten months over two years ago, and, as far as I can tell, she called things off after they got back from traveling and tried to settle down in New York.”

  So, he was an ex.

  There had been something territorial about him from what I’d heard on the phone. Thinking about it now made my skin crawl.

  “There were several police reports saying Michael was violent. That he would wait outside her house and harass her daily. She applied for a restraining order on eight separate occasions, but the police could never press any charges.”

  “Why the fuck wouldn’t they do anything?” MaryAnn spoke up from where she sat next to Jordan.

  “They probably didn’t believe her,” Chrissie said quietly. She put a black coffee down in front of me; I barely looked at it.

  “They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest anyone. Bear in mind, they were together for a long time backpacking across the states just before she started making these claims. She didn’t tell anyone else this was going on—there was no one to back up any of her reports.”

  Eight separate files for a restraining order. All I could think of was that day in London, just after I’d freaked out and fired her. She always said there were many reasons this job was right for her. I’d always thought it was just about the money, about getting her father’s house back, but I’d almost sent her back to him. That day, if I hadn't realized I was being an asshole, she would have ended up straight back in his clutches. And that day in the market. God, she must have been terrified when she saw him. After going through so much trying to get away from him, just to run straight into him halfway around the world.

  “Do you know where he is now?” My voice was hardly more than a choked off whisper. Jordan nodded.

  “A week ago he’d gotten a plane to Switzerland. He rented a room at the Hotel Chalet Swiss and, as far as I know, he hasn’t left yet.” Jordan put down his notebook and leaned forward. “That’s where he’s keeping her.”

  I shot up, heart beating fast. She was here in Interlaken. Chrissie put her hand on my arm.

  “You’re sure?” She asked, voice hard with determination. Jordan nodded, looking almost offended.

  “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you so soon. He’s an idiot. He tried to buy a new passport for his ‘wife’ without bringing her with him. Might as well have phoned me up and told me he kidnapped a woman and wanted to flee the country.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Chrissie asked.

  “You do nothing. I am going to pull on as many strings as I can at the police station and get an APB out on Michael and then, tonight I’m going to check out the hotel and see if they’re still there.”

  “So we just sit on the boat and do nothing.” It wasn’t a question, but Jordan answered anyway, hand clasping my shoulder briefly.

  “I know you’re worried about her, but you’ve done all you can. I promise I will get her back.”

  The four of us watched him go, drinks long since cold littering the tabletop between us. We’re coming Josie. Just hang on a little longer.

  Chapter Eight: Chapter 8 Title

  Someone was stroking my hair. I hadn’t been able to sleep for a while now, unable to stop thinking. I’d never left Switzerland. The thought sent spirals of hope looping through my brain. Michael was smug. I could see it oozing out of him ever since he showed me my new passport, but he’d made a mistake.

  I opened my eyes, careful not to jostle the hand in my hair, and stared out over Interlaken. Andrew had been so excited to see it. We’d stood on deck together and watched as the coast appeared over the horizon, shining and lush. It looked a little bit like paradise. Now, as the light of the moon shone off the surface of the North Sea, it was Utopia. The dock shouldn’t be too far. Andrew must be getting close.

  Michael was still stroking my hair, fingernails catching on my scalp as they dragged through. My hair was tangled and greasy, one particularly hard pull resulting in a pained gasp from my throat. The hand stilled.

  “Morning, baby.” His voice was tender, his usual growl hidden under a twisted layer of fondness that made my stomach churn. I turned my head, wrenching the fingers away, and Michael laughed. He sat right next to me, barely an inch of space between us.

  “Grumpy this morning, sweetheart?” He ran a hand across my cheek, petting it like you would a little kid. “Well, not morning—it’s not sunrise yet, but we’re getting pretty close!” He looked out of the window wistfully, still not seeming to register the open curtains. “Everything’s all set, baby. We leave in the morning—first light.” Fear gripped my insides, a violent chill racked through me. Buy yourself some time Josie. Andrew is coming—I know he is. Just buy yourself some time until he can get to you. “Now, I know what you’re thinking and don’t worry, I’ve got it covered!” He swept one hand dramatically to the rest of the room. Every surface was draped with new clothes in every color, every pattern imaginable. It was like a bomb had gone off in a clothing store. All I could see was the gun on the
bedside table, facing away from me. “There’s jewelry too!” He scrambled off the bed, almost tripping on something purple and silky and returned, clutching a fistful of glittering costume jewelry. “It won’t be like last time, you see? My baby will sparkle like the little jewel she is.”

  I stared at him, at the jewels and clothes, and my heart gave a stutter of fear. He really thought this was going to work. He was clinging to those memories, desperate to repeat them, and I wondered for a moment what the rest of his life might have been like in different circumstances.

  Michael’s face fell, manic smile setting into a grim line. The jewelry clattered to the floor as he climbed back onto the bed, straddling my waist.

  “What are you doing?” My voice was raw, little more than a whisper. I tugged hard on my restraints, praying that they’d miraculously come undone — no such luck.

  “Four days.” Michael’s voice was quiet and dangerous, and I recoiled from it like I’d been slapped. “Four days I’ve sat here. Fed you, looked after you. I bought you everything you could ever want, so many beautiful presents, and you don’t even look at them!” His face got redder as he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. I could feel his whole body shaking with rage. “What more could you want, Josie?”

  “Don’t call me that.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think. I could handle any number of romantic nicknames, but that one? The one he used, it tugged me sharply back into focus. It made my heart ache.

  “Why won’t you love me?”

  “Because I love Andrew! I loved you once, yes. But you ruined that Michael—you ruined the love we had, and that fucked me up for a very, very long time. Andrew looks after me; he deals with my bullshit, and he makes me happy. He would never hurt me.”

  Michael paused, hands poised on either side of my head, eyes boring into mine. Then he laughed, low and hollow.

  “You stupid little bitch. You think he cares about you?” I opened my mouth to respond, to protest that there was no doubt in my mind he loves me, but, as I did, Michael pressed his lips against mine. I spluttered, trying to duck my head, but hands clamped around the sides of my head to hold me in place.

  When he pulled back, I was gasping for breath, chest heaving. Droplets of blood dripped down Michael’s mouth, and I realized distantly that my bottom lip was throbbing. Michael’s smile was a baring of teeth; my blood staining his gums. He looked more monster than man. "Andrew Wright doesn't give a shit about you! You know why your dad got ill Josie? You know how he got cancer? Andrew-fucking-Wright, that’s how!”

  “What-what do you mean?” Keep him talking; just keep him talking. God, Andrew hurry. Blood began to trickle down my throat, making it harder and harder for me to breathe. I was losing strength, Michael's weight pressing me further down into the bed. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to fight back at all.

  “ProviderLives gets all their funding from Andrew, sweetcheeks.” Why is he bringing up ProviderLives? What did my dad’s company have to do with any of this? “When they found out their workers were getting sick from the chemicals they used, he did nothing.” No that’s not true. I don’t believe you. I tried to block out the words; I knew this was just a way to trick me, make me give up hope. I closed my eyes, but all I could feel was Michael’s weight on top of me, the smell of him filling the air around me. “He killed your father, Josephine!”

  “You’re lying.” Bile was rising into my throat. I was going to be sick. Andrew couldn’t, this was a lie. It had to be. But doubt was already clawing at my brain. It wasn’t just dad that got ill. How many other people from his company got sick again? And all from PrividerLives, all dads’ colleagues…I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

  “Not so perfect anymore, huh?” Michael sneered. He hadn’t moved from on top of me, his weight pressing in on me from all sides. It was getting hard to breathe.

  Andrew had essentially killed my father. Not to mention, countless other people...“So, are you gonna be my good little girl now, baby? I think I deserve something for my troubles, don’t you?”

  “What are you doing?” My voice sounded pathetic, even to my ears, small and defeated. Michael ignored me, hands moving from beside my head to trail down the backs of my arms. Cold dread flooded my body as they reached the buttons on my blouse, and I bucked wildly, trying to throw him off.

  “Stop it.” The button came free, and I kept thrashing, adrenaline coursing through me, lending me strength. “Fucking stop!” I flinched but kept moving, using every ounce of energy I had left in me. I heard the sound of fabric tearing and watched in horror as Michael pulled the ruined blouse from my body. Cool air touched my bare skin, and I shivered. “That’s a good girl.” His hands moved lower, playing at the hem of my jeans. I whimpered.

  “Please.”

  “Can’t wait to be inside you again, baby.” His hand dug its way beneath the top of my jeans, fingers pressing hard and insistent against me through my panties. “Always so desperate for it weren’t you? Did you miss me baby? Miss my cock inside you?” I tried to scream, but a hand clamped over my mouth, tried to thrash but I couldn’t move—pinned in place as Michael eased my jeans down to my knees.

  I wasn’t going to be able to stop him. Tears rolled hot and wet down my cheeks. Michael reached towards his fly, pulling out his cock, and I screwed my eyes shut, trying and failing to prepare myself for what I knew was coming next. Too hot fingers brushed my pussy, moving my panties to one side, and I screamed into the hand over my mouth.

  Then I heard the sound of a door slamming followed by a curse, and I felt Michael’s weight lift off me. I lay shaking on the bed, unable to do anything but hyperventilate.

  There were sounds of fighting. Look up. Something hit the wall beside the bed, making it shake. Look up now! I craned my head, watching a man I didn’t know as he stood over Michael, who looked passed out on the floor, a red gash across his forehead.

  “Miss?” It took me a second to register that he was talking to me. He knelt gently next to me on the bed, and I flinched when he reached for me, heart racing. The man didn’t react, just slowed his movements, reaching for the handcuffs around my wrists. “It’s okay. I’m just going to uncuff you, okay?” I hesitated a moment, watching his face for signs that he was lying. He stayed still, hands hovering over my wrist. The adrenaline was already beginning to fade, and I could feel the pain of the handcuffs once again digging into my skin. I nodded. The man smiled and started fiddling with the restraints.

  Beside us, Michael groaned. I heard the faint clunk of metal, and my blood ran cold.

  “He has a gun,” I croaked out. The man stiffened.

  “Get up you piece of shit!” Michael was screaming chest heaving as he leveled the gun at the man’s chest. The man dropped his hands and stood up slowly. He’d managed to free one of my arms, and I looked at the cuffs. They were the cheap kind, with a clasp rather than a key.

  “Mr. Sullivan, put down the gun.” The man’s voice was calm and soft. I watched the muscles in his back shift and tense as he casually dropped into a fighter’s stance—feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders squared.

  “No! I don’t care who the fuck you are; Andrew Wright can’t fucking have her. She’s mine!” The man took a careful step towards him, and Michael cocked the gun. “Don’t you dare fucking move!”

  “Give up Michael! You don’t need to do this!” Angry eyes whipped to me, and the man took advantage, taking another step forward.

  “Please, just put the gun down.”

  “Shut up you little bitch.” He was getting angrier, the gun wavering in his hands. Keep going; keep distracting him.

  “Michael I’m begging you just think for a seco-”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Michael lowered the gun a fraction, and the man sprang forward, twisting his arm until the gun was pointed away from us and back on Michael. He pulled Michael to him and flipped him to the ground, Michael’s head cracking against the floor as he went.

  Suddenly it was very quie
t. I couldn’t hear anything other than mine and the man’s labored breathing. I remembered my left hand was still cuffed and reached up to find the clasp, my palms slick with sweat.

  “Here, let me.” I startled. The man undid the cuff and helped me stand on shaky legs, crouching down to help pull my jeans back up. I crossed my arms awkwardly over my chest—very conscious of the fact that my shirt was now unwearable. “Can you walk?” I tested it out. Four days of lying down had the muscles in my legs groaning in protest.

  “I-I think so,” I whispered. The man gave me a small smile.

  “Okay then. Let me take care of him and I’ll get you out of here, okay?” I nodded, too tired to speak. He looked at me for a moment before shrugging off his coat and draping it over my shoulders.

  He moved quickly around the room, with all the confidence of someone that did this sort of thing every day. He hefted Michael up and onto the bed, securing the handcuffs around both wrists before putting a gentle arm around my shoulders and leading me from the room, phone to his ear.

  “Hello, my name is Jordan Dyre—I have a crime to report…”

  Chapter Nine: Chapter 9 Title

  The Silver Cloud rocked and bobbed on the water like it was trying to soothe me to sleep. But how could I sleep? It’d been only a few hours since we’d last heard from Jordan, and every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Josie, beaten and bruised.

  I’d read the file on Michael Sullivan over and over again. There hadn’t been much information. Apparently, he was quite good at flying under the radar when Josie wasn’t directly involved, but, if anything, that just scared me more. If this guy was usually calm and collected, then how crazy about Josie did he have to be to throw all that careful planning out of the window?