The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  When she opened her eyes, Clay Farrant, Amy’s room, and everything around her blurred, and swirled.

  Her arms relaxed, her body gave out, and she felt herself swept away into a sea of nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  DAY THREE 5:22 AM—STACY

  Stacy figured it must have been close to dawn when she woke. She could see the line of pale light around the door. She had no idea of the time—just a vague memory of walking out of the elevator in the parking garage on Jell-O legs, her arm clamped under Clay Farrant’s; him telling a security guy she’d had too much to drink; her looking back in desperation, but the guy just chuckling and walking on. Then flashes of a car trunk, the smell of leather and new carpet; Kathy Reynolds peering into the car at her, then seeing Mrs. McClaine, but she couldn’t remember the context, or the correct sequence of events.

  She sat up and swiveled her back to the wall, waiting for her head to stop spinning. Then she checked herself over.

  No damage. Apart from a screaming headache. Could have been worse.

  But she was locked in a closet. So it could have been better as well.

  She rolled onto her knees, gave it a second, then used a shelf to pull herself to her feet, swaying for a moment while she got her balance.

  What the hell did he put in her drink? Her tongue felt like it had been scrubbed with Drano. This shitty closet wasn’t helping. Dust hung thick in the air along with the smell of something dead. A rat, maybe.

  First thing, she checked her pockets—pulled out the toy car. Tyler! He was in more danger than ever. She had to find him, keep him safe. But first, she had to get out. Running her fingertips down each side of the doorframe, she finally came to a switch. She flicked it and light flooded the space around her and drove a lance of pain through her temples. She turned away with her eyes closed, stomach rolling until she felt herself stabilize. Not Clay’s office. He wouldn’t leave her there. This would be somewhere out of the way, somewhere no one would find her.

  That bastard. Now the pieces were all falling together. Now she could see the whole picture. And she knew why. The memory of him speaking to Mrs. McClaine shimmered back, asking her to meet him. What if she’d agreed? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Of course the door was locked. No matter how many times she jerked the handle. Pounding her shoulder into it didn’t do any good, either. So she pulled out the phone she’d gotten from Caitlin and switched it on.

  Full battery. “Thank you, thank you,” she muttered over and over as she dug the card from her pocket. She tapped in Elizabeth McClaine’s cell phone number and held it to her ear. Instead of the blips and bloops of the phone dialing, an automated message said, “You have zero dollars credit.” And hung up.

  “Oh, you are shitting me. Thanks a bunch, Caitlin.”

  No way to get help. That meant she had to find a way out. So she stuck the phone back in her pocket and searched the closet. The space was around eight feet by three. No air-conditioning vents, no windows.

  Behind her the shelves ran floor to ceiling, all the way along, stacked with old stationery. If she’d learned to pick a lock, maybe she could have used a paper clip. Might have been useful. Hell, she’d been inside with twenty women who could have done it in their sleep. Stacy never even bothered to ask.

  Shaking her head at the irony, she went from shelf to shelf, searching—staplers and stacks of yellowed paper and files and dusty office shit everywhere. Nothing useful … until her eyes dropped to a paper knife in a small satin-lined box. Beneath it was a collection of them, all with damaged boxes, all with the Beta Farrant corporate logo on the front of the boxes and engraved into the handles. Client gifts, maybe. Probably the rejects.

  She shook one from the molded case and returned to the door. The doorknob was one of those old ones. Like they’d had back home. Dropping to one knee, she inserted the tip into slot on the handle shaft and pulled, just like Wayne showed her the time she got locked in the bathroom. Sure enough, the handle popped off. So far, so good. Next, she pressed the tip of the knife into the tiny gap in the side of the plate.

  The plate also popped off.

  She slotted the tip of the knife into the upper screw holding the door handle mechanism on. The screw was in tight and the blade snapped. So she grabbed another knife. Same thing happened, so she got a third and a fourth. By the fifth, the screw turned a fraction and this time the blade didn’t break. With the tip pressed firmly into the slot, and her shoulder to the door, she twisted the knife until the screw came loose. She spun it several times until it wobbled out and fell at her feet. She rattled the handle but still it held fast.

  The lower screw was easier. It twisted almost at once. She spun it out, then levered the inside plate off.

  Now she had a hole in the door with the spindle of the handle sticking out. But the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Goddammit!” she yelled, and thumped the door with the side of her fist.

  There had to be something on the shelves she could use. Moving from one to the next, tossing stationery and crap aside, she searched every inch until frustration tightened the muscles in her jaw and left her wanting to punch something. Or kick something.

  She grabbed a hardback day planner for the previous year and whacked the end of the spindle.

  Still nothing.

  Infuriated, she whacked it over and over until the spindle went through the cover of the diary and the diary hung impaled on the shaft. She stood back and kicked it with the flat of her foot once, then twice, and the door flew open with the guts of the handle dangling from the other side.

  Now she had to get to Mrs. McClaine. On a desk in the corner sat an ancient computer, a big boxy monitor, dirty keyboard. When she moved the mouse, the screen burst into life requesting a password.

  She entered 1111.

  Nothing. She tried 0000.

  Still no dice.

  Then she entered 1234, and the image changed to a Microsoft screensaver. Pulling out the single wooden chair she slipped behind the keyboard.

  “Find my phone,” she muttered, as she tapped the words into the Google search bar. It was a trick she’d learned in Carringway to find a missing cell phone.

  The computer was slow as a wet week. The cursor went around and around, but finally the page popped up requesting a password. What the hell would it be? Mrs. McClaine wouldn’t be stupid enough to use something simple on her Google account. It’d be something personal.

  But what?

  She typed in Elizabeth.

  Incorrect password. Two more attempts.

  Elizabeth McClaine.

  Wrong again.

  “Oh, God, what do people use?”

  One more attempt. Then it would lock her out.

  Stacy tipped her head right back with her eyes shut tight. What would she use? What would Stacy use if it were her? Her eyes flashed open and she typed in:

  Holly.

  The screen snapped to a map. Stacy leaned in, studying it.

  “Holy shit. What’s she doing way out there?”

  She kicked back the chair and went for the door. At least she knew where Mrs. McClaine was. With no car, no phone, no time, she’d never make it. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  DAY THREE: 5:55 AM —ELIZABETH

  The distant ringing of a phone and the clatter of stones just below Elizabeth’s head woke her. She was curled up on her side, hands and feet bound, a strip of duct tape stretched across her mouth to her cheeks on either side. Beneath her was a layer of thick plastic. It crackled and slipped against the carpeting under her. Darkness all around. The smell of leather upholstery and car fumes laced the air with a hint of Chanel. She was in the trunk of a car—her car. Her center of gravity moved with the motion, sliding back and forth on the plastic with each turn, the hum of the engine reverberating.

  From up ahead in the cabin of the car, a phone rang—her phone; she knew because it was the ringtone she’d designated for Delaney. I
t rang several times, then stopped. Almost at once, the car turned hard left and the rattling of stones intensified, as though the road had gotten worse. The throb in her head and the fumes in the confined space turned her stomach. If she vomited, she’d choke. So she swallowed back, forced herself to relax.

  After a few moments, the engine slowed, along with the clattering. They were drawing to a halt.

  Fear surged in her gut. She twisted her wrists, writhing against the bindings, desperate to free her hands, but the plastic ties bit into her flesh without giving. She had to get out, had to get away. Farrant had everything to lose. He’d murdered to keep the charade going; he’d murder again. Now she was at his mercy and there was no way he’d let her go. She had to do something.

  But what? She was bound hand and foot. No way to open the trunk. No way to escape. By the time they’d reached whatever destination they were bound for, she’d be back in his control again. She’d never felt so helpless.

  She wanted to cry. Tears welled in her eyes. A sob rose in her chest and burst from her mouth, followed by a second.

  Then the image of Holly flashed into her mind. She could not leave her. She could not die—not here, not at the hands of a madman. Holly needed her mother, needed her at home. Almost at once, a second image flooded in—of Stacy May Charms, a mother whose son needed her.

  Stacy was a fighter. She’d fought tooth and nail to get out of that prison, to save her child. She’d turned her back on the inmate hierarchy system, put herself in the firing line, allowed herself to be bullied and beaten. But she didn’t give up. She’d stood tall and believed in herself; she’d backed herself and followed through. Gut determination.

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn.

  By the time the car came to a stop, her heart was pumping, her resolve fierce.

  The engine died and she heard the car door open, then the thud as it closed. Gravel crunched as footsteps moved down the side of the car and the trunk opened. Blinding white light knifed into the tiny space. Elizabeth closed her eyes against it, then turned her head, cracked her eyes to look up.

  Clay Farrant stood over her, shirtsleeves rolled up.

  “Guess what, honey, we’re home.”

  Right there, right then, she couldn’t have hated him more.

  I will not give in to you, you bastard.

  He tucked the keys in his pocket, ducking his head as he bent into the car trunk, and slipped his arms under her shoulders and knees. Then he drew her up into his embrace. Like a lover, a newlywed. The initial strength of his grasp shocked her, but her resolve and hatred doubled.

  He carried her, regarding her every now and then as he spoke. “Do you know what I found?” he asked in an amiable tone, as if they were friends in a conversation over drinks. “A sinkhole. Do you know what that is?”

  He staggered a little, then bent, partially dropping her unceremoniously onto the stony ground. She could see him standing over her, arching his back, as though he might have strained it, while he scanned the area.

  “All the times I’ve been out to Millcreek, I had no idea. Funny the things you find out. Kathy Reynolds told me about it. She asked me what I did with Trish. I said, ‘Trash, what else?’ You know what she said? She said, ‘Why didn’t you just throw her down the sinkhole?’ I’m like, ‘What? You’re kidding me, right?’” He shook his head in amusement.

  “Only wish I could have seen Trish’s car go down there. Kathy told me it slid down the side there, then got stuck. She’s thinking, ‘Holy shit, it’s not gonna go.’ But then all of a sudden, the nose tipped and down it went. Whooo,” he said, planing his hand like a kid mimicking the downward path of an airplane. “Shame I missed it. But that’s okay. I’ll get to see yours go over.”

  Elizabeth glared up at him. Anger flared, heating her cheeks. Again, she struggled against the restraints.

  “Oh, Elizabeth, you’re never going to break those. They’re cable ties. They’re made like that for a reason.”

  He took a few steps away. Fifty yards or so beyond him, she could see the bridge—the one the GPS had led them to on the first trip out here. Silhouetted against the red of the sun just spilling over the horizon, Clay stood against the dismal landscape with his back to her, fists on his hips, looking out over the immediate area as though he was there to value the place.

  “You know, the first time I came out here, this is where my GPS brought me. Apparently, this road used to be the main thoroughfare to the quarry out here. Then one day, the ground opened up and swallowed half the bridge.” He turned a bemused look on her. “Imagine the surprise on the face of the guy driving over it. Wish I’d seen it.”

  The distant sound of a car engine made him turn around, casting a suspicious eye back down the road they’d just driven in on. Elizabeth tried to turn but the restraints would only let her get halfway. Not enough to see.

  “Well, there’s a surprise. I see we have company.” The joviality in his voice was gone. He hiked his pants up, then stood square on, feet slightly spread, waiting.

  Behind her, the car was approaching. She could hear the stones rattling on the underside. It rumbled to a point a few yards from where Elizabeth lay, then skidded to a stop.

  The door immediately opened, then slammed, followed by the sound of footsteps in the gravel.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Farrant?” Nancy’s voice.

  A tiny fist of hope bloomed in Elizabeth’s chest. She let out a relieved breath and let herself relax. She wanted to cry out Nancy’s name. She wanted to hug her.

  Clay gave out a brief snort of laughter and dropped his head. “Parole Officer Pattrenko. Wow. You got me cold. How on earth did you find me?”

  Nancy came to a halt no more than a few yards behind Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth twisted around, desperate to see her.

  Nancy made a derisive noise. “You’re an idiot, that’s how. When you started Trish’s car up again, the tracking system reset itself. Pointed all the way out here.”

  “Oh, that pesky tracking system.”

  A hollow silence hung between them. In that silence, Clay’s grin widened, and Nancy’s bravado seemed to falter. Somehow, that fine balance of power that had emerged with her arrival had now swung back into Clay’s court.

  When Nancy spoke this time, the bluster was gone. Her voice lacked its initial authority. “Untie her.”

  Clay looked all around. “Why should I untie her? How about you untie her?”

  Another tense silence. Elizabeth twisted around again. Nancy stood just within her peripheral vision.

  She jerked her chin in her direction. “You okay, Mrs. McClaine?”

  Elizabeth grunted beneath the tape and nodded.

  Nancy shuffled a second, then slowly moved forward, eyes locked on Clay while she dug in her pocket and produced her little knife. Clay moved back, both hands up.

  “She’s all yours.”

  Nancy said nothing. Placing the tiny knife between Elizabeth’s wrists, and began sawing rapidly at the cable tie. All the while, Elizabeth murmured against the tape over her mouth, begging her to hurry.

  “I hear you. Just hold on till I got your hands free,” Nancy told her.

  Just behind her, Clay was moving closer. Elizabeth squealed, eyes wide on Clay.

  Clay grabbed Nancy by the collar and yanked her back. Nancy rolled once, then leapt to her feet. “What are you gonna do, Farrant? Scare me to death?”

  Clay’s lip twitched. With lightning speed, he lunged at her, his hands going straight for her throat, but Nancy twisted away and swung the knife at him, gouging into his arm and knocking him off balance.

  He staggered a second, chuckling and checking his arm where she’d hit him. “Oh, so that’s the way you want it.” He grinned and tucked his shirt in. “Trish told me you wouldn’t go without a fight. But then, she was easy. She just lay there—”

  Nancy’s face flashed scarlet with rage. She flew at him, fist clenched, knife going for his throat, and screamed,
“You asshole!”

  This time Clay was ready. He grabbed her wrist, took the hit in the stomach while he pried the knife from her hand and shoved her back. She ran at him again, caught him off guard, but he grabbed her by the shirtfronts, and the knife dropped from his hand. Ignoring it, and gripping her tightly, he drew her straight up and slammed her down on the rocky ground. Without missing a beat, she rolled to her side, shifting her weight to get up, but his foot came up, kicking her hard in the chest, knocking her backwards with the wind punched out of her.

  “Nancy! Oh, no, please don’t,” Elizabeth begged into the tape.

  Just a few yards from her, Nancy lay gulping for air. She lifted herself on one elbow, but this time Clay dropped onto her, straddling her, face turned from her as she hammered at him, but his reach was longer, and his hands were already around her throat, her face swelling. She clawed at him, frantic now, pounding on his chest, at his arms, trying to loosen his grip, but he kept his head turned and his hands tight on her throat for what felt like a lifetime. Finally Nancy’s movements slowed, and died to nothing.

  “No, no, no,” Elizabeth mewed over and over.

  Breathing hard now, Clay got up, his attention back on Elizabeth.

  “You bastard,” she yelled against the tape while she fought against the bonds.

  He raked a hand through his hair and tucked his shirt in again, before bending down and scooping Elizabeth up in his arms, hoisting her briefly to reposition her. When she writhed against him, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing painfully into her flesh. He carried her around to the driver’s door of her car, lowering her weight onto his knee while he opened the door, then angled himself around and slid her into the driver’s seat, lifting her feet into the footwell.