She parked the Impala two doors down and trotted back to the house, checking the street as she turned into the driveway, and walked quickly towards the house.
As she approached the Roadster, she hit the key in her pocket. The lights flashed and the alarm let out two low bleeps as the locks thunked. She pulled the door open, slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed while she inspected the dash. Everything just the way she remembered.
Black leather interior. The smell took her straight back to Jesse’s shop. She wondered briefly if the blood would stain the upholstery. Not that there was anything she could do about it. Next to her on the passenger’s seat was a thick envelope with a wad of papers folded inside. She ignored them and checked her phone. Nothing. She thought Matt might have called by now. Her plan had been to talk to him, try and figure out where he was. Now her only option was to go back to the house they’d stayed in the previous night. It was doubtful they’d left any clues, but it’s all she had.
The instant she hit the starter, the car rumbled into life. She did a snap review of the dash and controls, put it into gear, and reversed out. On the street, she put it in drive and eased her foot down on the accelerator. The bucket seat picked her up and hugged her while the computers checked settings, adjusted seats, and activated the airconditioning. She drove to the end of the street, trying to imagine what Matt would do. Last night’s safe house was at least twenty minutes away, maybe more in this traffic. Just as she turned into Remington, a metallic voice from the GPS said, “Good afternoon, Richard. You are now leaving …” at which point a man’s recorded voice interjected with, “Home,” and the automated voice continued with, “at 243 Belle Vue Drive, Bay Village. Where would you like to go today, Richard?”
Kelsey almost ran off the road. Either the guy that owned the car had somehow personalized the thing to death, or he’d removed the standard system and replaced it with this thing because there was no way the last car sounded like this. “Ah, nowhere—forget it,” she told the system as she searched for the off switch.
“I’m sorry, Richard, please repeat your destination.”
She turned out of Remington flicking switches and pressing buttons. She pulled to a stop at the lights and the system repeated the message.
“Shut the hell up and let me think,” she said. The voice was breaking her concentration and pissing her off. The obvious route was straight down East Erie to Lake Road.
Simple, wouldn’t you think?
But when the voice began repeating the same line over and over, she pounded buttons and stabbed switches and twisted stalks—anything to find the off switch. She was so focused searching the dash to turn off the GPS that when the light turned green, a gray Micra cut in ahead of her and when she swerved to avoid it, a cascade of papers slid from the folder onto the floor. Now she’d missed the turn.
“And screw you, too!” she yelled after the car as it veered off down the road. She was about to take off, when the GPS started up again. Then she had a thought.
She pulled to the shoulder of the road and studied the controls. When she hit a button marked “My Maps,” she scrolled through and found a list of street addresses. The Belle Vue address was the last one, the one before, an address in Bay Village. It was the next one that sparked something in her memory—an address out in Painesville. That’s when she spotted the words, “East Flight Airport and Control Tower” on one of the pages. As she reached down and picked it up, the driver behind her leaned on his horn. She ignored him.
Matt’s last job was laying foundations for the runway of a new airport out Painesville way. Then he’d been laid off. That was the East Flight Airport construction site. The guy behind her was pounding the horn and yelling out the window.
“Try driving around me, asshole,” she called over her shoulder. At the bottom of the plans and schedules and schematics, she came to a series of drawings of the control tower. “Oh no, oh God no.” Panic gripped her chest.
But all she could see ahead of her was a bank of traffic. Her only alternative was to turn off and go back in the direction she’d come from. That meant even more time she didn’t have. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and her thigh burned like a torch. Her first instinct was to swerve up onto the sidewalk and hit the gas. But the last thing she needed was an accident or a cop pulling her over, so she clenched her teeth and followed the traffic at a sedate twenty miles per hour to the next on-ramp. The second she hit the freeway north, she put her foot down.
All around her, the leather seat gathered her up and catapulted her through space like a rocket. The pain of her broken nose diminished; the white-hot iron in her thigh faded and all she could see in her mind’s eye was Holly. She blinked sweat away and slalomed through traffic like it wasn’t there. Horns tooted behind her; the road stretched out in front. She took the car up to a hundred and held her course while cars parted around her like the Red Sea. At one point she looked down to find she’d cranked it up to a hundred and forty. She looked up to find the traffic ahead had slowed at the northbound exit, so she maneuvered in and out for some way, and eventually, everything came to a halt. She searched for an opening, looking front and back, then realized she was stuck behind the same shitty little Micra that had cut her off earlier. Well, the damn thing wasn’t going to cut her off again, so she inched up the exit with the front bumper almost touching the Micra, determined to swerve around it the first chance she got. Sitting right there behind the car, she could clearly see the driver—a woman—peering at her in the rearview mirror. Then she turned and waved at her. Kelsey didn’t know anyone who would drive a car like that. But the woman waved again, this time signaling Kelsey to pull over.
“Yeah, lady, because this would be the perfect place for it,” she said and leaned on the horn, hoping the stupid woman would drive the friggin’ car instead of sitting there holding up traffic. When the woman inched forward, Kelsey pulled out and swung past her, showing the woman her middle finger and yelling, “Learn to drive, lady,” despite the deeply tinted windows in the Mercedes that would prevent it from being seen. She hit the gas and shot across two lanes on the northbound freeway with her teeth in her lip to ward off the pain.
That’s when, she heard the first siren.
*****
Richard had told Elizabeth he’d call Delaney immediately. His advice to Elizabeth was to leave everything to the police.
She’d replied, “Screw that. I’m bringing my daughter home or I’ll die trying.” She also told him that leaving it to the police was exactly what they’d done since the moment Holly had been kidnapped, and if it weren’t for her own efforts, they’d be burying her regardless of what the police did. Now that she knew where these bastards had her child, there was no way she was sitting back and doing nothing.
She’d been heading to Beachwood along the Clark Freeway when the traffic had come to a standstill and a Roadster had barreled up behind her. Dark-tinted windows obscured her view of the driver, but she would have bet anything it was Richard’s car. Turning in her seat, she’d waved and tooted, but the driver ignored her. At the first opportunity, the Roadster swerved around her and hurtled up the exit onto I-90 leaving her on 490. The plates confirmed it was Richard’s car.
Frustrated, Elizabeth picked up her phone, hit Richard’s speed-dial and the moment he picked up she said, “Richard, it’s me. What the hell are you doing? I was right in front of you in the gray Micra.”
“What …?”
She hesitated, then said, “Where are you?”
“I’m in my office, waiting for Alice. Soon as she gets here I’m headed over to Beachwood. Why?”
“Dammit. I think your car was right behind me. I only got a glimpse of the plate, but I’m sure it was yours.”
“My car? My Roadster? Who’s driving it?”
“With those windows? You are kidding, aren’t you? Call Delaney. Have the police follow it. Tell him to use the internal GPS tracking system.”
“I’m on it.” There
was a moment’s hesitation, then he asked, “Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice caught her by surprise. “I’m fine. I’m headed out to Beachwood. Soon as Alice picks you up, meet me out there.” She waited a beat, then said, “Your father told me you called him.”
“I asked him not to. I should have called him sooner. I’m sorry—”
“It doesn’t matter now. We’ll get her back, Richard. We have to.”
“Please be careful,” he said. “These people are dangerous. I can’t lose either of you.”
“You won’t,” she said and hung up. Almost at once, the phone rang again. She picked it up, glanced at the screen, hit the answer key. “Caulder, how did you get this number?”
“I’m a private detective, Elizabeth.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should be.”
“You have something for me?” she asked. The phone bleeped. She checked the screen to find the battery indicator flashing low.
“I did some digging, came up with some information.”
“Give it to me.”
“The two that have Holly are Matthew Subritzski, and his brother Lionel.”
“I told you that.”
“Lionel Subritzski came out of prison six weeks ago.”
The phone bleeped again. “… something I don’t know, Caulder …”
“Don’t screw around with these people, Elizabeth. Leave them to the police. They’re unpredictable and dangerous. They’ll manipulate any situation for their own means.”
“Thanks for the concern. Is that all?”
“No. Lionel’s been doing some deals since he’s been out. He’s setting up a drug network with two local gangs. But Lionel’s got a big mouth.”
“So what does that mean?”
“At least two local gangs know that Holly is now worth ten million. We’re not the only ones looking for her.”
“Oh my God. Did you find out where they’re holding her?” The phone bleeped another warning. “My phone’s low, Caulder …!”
“Matthew Subritzski was last known to be working on a construction site. He was laying cement.”
“Yes, yes, out at Beachwood,” she said, wondering why he was giving her information she already had when her phone was just about to die.
“No. He wasn’t employed at Beachwood. He was working at an airport.”
The words hit her like a fist. The construction site at Painesville—the East Flight airport. “We’ve got the wrong …” she began, but the line went dead. “Caulder! Are you there …?” She looked at the blank screen, then cast it aside.
The fastest way to Painesville was on I-271 North, then jump onto 2 going east. It was at least another half-hour’s drive. She swung northbound at the next turn and put her foot down. And prayed she’d make it in time.
*****
Kelsey had four cop cars behind her, each weaving in and out of traffic, trying to come up alongside her. If she slowed, they’d barricade her in and bring her to a rolling stop. They had to catch her first. And if they wanted to chase her, let them. The more the better. When she turned up to the construction site with a million cops right behind her, Matt wouldn’t do anything stupid … well, that’s what she hoped.
She checked the rearview mirror then checked her speed. She was going at 120 … 130 … 140 … with cops weaving in and out, trying to keep up with her; commuters up ahead pulling over at the sound of sirens so the cops could cut through. Kelsey slowed a little, let the patrol cars catch up, then took off again; slowed, took off. It was working …
Until the chopper banked overhead.
Man, what a day. She had eighteen minutes to get to Painesville—eighteen minutes to find Matt and somehow convince him to hand Holly over. She could just see the look on his face when she turned up with half the cops in the state right behind her. She couldn’t wait to see Holly, to see her safe. Seventeen minutes. At this speed she knew she’d do it easily.
Until she glanced in the rearview mirror.
The cop directly behind her slowed, then veered across two lanes to peel off heading south. She slowed to see a second cop follow, then a third and fourth.
She pulled to the shoulder and turned in her seat to watch them. “What the f…? Where are you going? What are you doing?”
Then, the chopper banked and soared off ahead of them.
She leaned forward over the steering wheel to watch it angle and roar off to the south while the patrol cars screamed off down the adjacent exit, lights flashing, sirens wailing. “You’re supposed to be following me, you morons,” she yelled, but all she could do was watch them go.
Now she was alone. The clock on the dash told her she had sixteen minutes to get to Painesville, and she’d be turning up on her own. She had no weapon and no one watching her back. But she did have the car, and that gave her something to negotiate with. The situation wasn’t what she’d have asked for, but it’s what she had. So she pulled out and hit the road again.
Weaving in and out of traffic now, she kept checking the rearview mirror, searching for someone—anyone that might still be pursuing her. All she could see was a bunch of pissed-off motorists that she’d left behind who were now catching up. Wondering if there was something she’d missed, something she should have known that could explain the cops’ departure, she searched the dash and switched on the radio. It was tuned to a news station on which a woman was saying:
“… full story. Holly McClaine, daughter of Senate candidate, Richard McClaine, was abducted by an armed woman yesterday afternoon, and is now being held hostage at a Beachwood construction site. Police are closing in…”
“No! It’s not Beachwood, you dummies. Where the hell did you get Beachwood from? It’s …” She shook her head. No point in yelling at the radio. There was only one other hope. She pulled out her phone, hit Matt’s number. It rang four times while she held her breath. She was sure he’d ignore it, sure she was wasting her time. Then the line opened.
“Matt? Listen to me. You don’t want to do this. She’s a little kid. You wanna end up on death row? And for what? Let me take her, Matt. Let me take her home. Please.” She waited. Silence. She clenched her teeth and said, “I know you can hear me. Talk to me, Matt.” Then she heard the soft snort of laughter and her hatred flared. “Where is he?”
“Matt’s kind’a busy,” said Lionel. “Told me he can’t be disturbed.”
“Please don’t hurt her. Take the money. Take anything you want, just don’t hurt her.”
“‘Take the money’? You’re telling us what we can do now?”
“Just let me have the child. Just give her to me, and I’ll take her home.”
“No problem. You can have her.” For a second Kelsey’s heart leapt, then he said, “Just make sure you bring a shovel. Oh, and a big plastic bag.”
And the line went dead.
Keeping one eye on the road, one eye on the phone, she hit the keypad again. This time she dialed 911.
The second the operator picked up she said, “I just heard a news report on the radio. I need to talk to someone.”
“Ma’am, can you tell me which service you require?” the operator said.
One hand on the wheel, checking the road, the mirrors while she ducked and dived through traffic. “Police. It’s about the kid—the McClaine kid.”
She waited a moment, then a voice said, “Ma’am, do you have information regarding the missing child?”
“It said on the radio she’s at Beachwood. She’s not at Beachwood.”
“May I ask your name, caller?”
“Who gives a shit who I am!” she yelled into the phone. “I’m giving you information here, so shut up and listen …” She looked up just in time to see brake lights. A truck and trailer unit was drifting sideways across lanes and the Dodge truck in front of her came to a screeching halt so she slammed her foot on the brake. Tires squealed, her head snapped forward and she lost the phone. She jerked the wheel and nicked the rear of the t
ruck as the momentum swung her around like a fairground ride. There was a thump, and something impacted to her left. She heard the crash of glass, felt metal compacting into metal … and finally she came to a halt …
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
2:47 PM
Kelsey opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred, her head swam and the airbag was hard against her chest. Some guy appeared at her window, tapping on the glass and yelling, “Are you okay?”
“I’m …” She cast a quick look around. “I’m fine.” The seat belt was tight across her chest so she hit the release, pushed the seat back and sucked in a breath. Metal screeched as Kelsey pushed her door open. A white-hot flash of pain went down her side as she swung out of the car seat and her thigh throbbed as she limped around to assess the damage. The front of the Mercedes was a little bent, but the left front corner was crushed, the headlight smashed and the front bumper skewed. It was undrivable.
All around her cars were pointing this way and that in one big crush of metal while bewildered people wandered through the stink of gasoline and burnt rubber and drivers barked out demands and orders, searching for sense in the chaos and noise. Somewhere to the rear, a horn sounded one long, continuous note. People walked around the wreckage they’d just stepped out of, checking with others and using phones to call for help while up ahead the truck that had jackknifed and caused all this sat bent in half with its cab folded around to meet its trailer. Somewhere a woman was crying and men’s voices were urging her to stay calm. And behind all this, the gridlock of cars was building as more traffic slowed and came to a stop.
To the south, the freeway looked like an apocalypse had taken place, as though something had picked up all the cars and dropped them in a heap all around her. Up ahead to the north, past the folded-up rig and a pileup of smashed cars, lay four vast and empty lanes of freeway.
She limped around, squeezed past the truck to inspect the front of the Mercedes and spotted a little silver Camaro convertible sitting off to the right. It had spun maybe ninety degrees and was now wedged between a Honda Civic and the Dodge truck in front, with a Nissan angled in behind. The Camaro had a few dents and the passenger’s door was crumpled. Otherwise, it looked okay. Better yet, the airbags hadn’t deployed, and the keys were dangling from the ignition.
The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set Page 27